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“Comfort?” Her voice was low, a note of sadness in it that didn’t bode well for his chances of success. Her lashes feathered across her cheeks as she watched him rub, without conscious thought, his left thigh and the old wound there.

“Or reward,” he suggested. “For my defending you so gallantly against those villains.”

“I owe you much.” She stood, and the air turned cold against his skin. “More than you know.”

A confession? But of what? He waited, watching her face. Her throat worked as if she struggled to say something, but then she turned away, touching a hand to her brow as if in pain. “Rest,” she said. “Call if you need me. I?—”

But she didn’t finish that thought, merely took his clothes and left him with the compress, his throbbing face, his other aches. His hollowness that couldn’t be filled with anything other than her.

He threw himself back on the bed, deflated. He’d been this low before, he told himself, and had come out of it. If only he could remember how. He cast his mind back to the castle, the painting, the house. If only he could remember the house.

He remembered the beach.

Admiral Jervis and his fleet had been savaged in their attack on Cádiz, so Jervis moved his attention to the harbor of Santa Cruz at Tenerife.

If the British could capture the Spanish ships ferrying gold and treasure from the Americas, they could cut off Spanish aid to the French, Britain’s enemies.

This was the gist of their orders. The Canary Islands were plums ripe for the picking.

It would be almost as much fun as sacking Spanish frigates in the West Indies.

The assembled force had been magnificent: Nelson leading with his flagship Theseus, Troubridge with Culloden and Hood sailing the Zealous, flanked by half a dozen frigates, hired cutters, and mortar boats.

Pen had been assigned to his old friend Bowen on the Terpsichore.

They were guaranteed success, and Spanish gold to divide between them.

The first attack was a disaster. They failed to take Valleseco, couldn’t raise the guns high enough to fire on the Spanish fort. Nelson called back the gunboats and moved them down the coast. Pride was at stake, now that the Spanish had been warned.

They’d said the guns at San Cristóbal wouldn’t reach that far.

Or Troubridge and Hood, leading the land assault, would take the fort before they landed.

They covered the oars in cloth and approached by night.

It didn’t help. They had no covering fire; he learned later the British gunpowder had been ruined with damp.

Mortar fire from the fort lit up the sky, falling on the boats at the shore in brilliant rockets of flame.

As the men poured onto the beach, the guns turned on them.

And hell exploded. With the dazzling bursts of flame and spark it was hard to see what was happening, but Pen heard screams as men were hit, ripped apart.

It was like the fireworks at Vauxhall, he’d thought stupidly, watching the mortars cartwheel through the sky and rain down on them.

Bodies fell about him as they rushed up the beach.

These were his men, his friends, his comrades.

Blood, bone, and gore erupted around him like carnival confetti.

The air reeked of iron and powder and smoke.

He felt the thud in his leg and kept running.

Bowen’s men had been ordered to rush the battery and spike the guns.

How had the Spanish known they were coming?

Someone shouted that they were firing from the town, grapeshot pouring from houses and windows as the citizens took up their guns.

Pen dropped his weapon as a huge claw sank into his chest and shoulder.

A second claw followed, digging deep into his ribs, spinning him as he fell.

The sand was cold and damp against his cheek. Wet. He knew it was his blood.

He couldn’t cry out. The battle rage was upon him and he wanted to run, to fight, to move.

But something heavy lay across his lower body, and his legs wouldn’t work.

His arms were useless. His mouth filled with the iron taste of blood.

He lay on the beach and watched the fireworks wheel through the night sky as he grew weaker, lighter, and the sounds faded into the distance.

He closed his eyes and waited for what came next.

“Pen.”

There was light, a tiny candle, but light, pure and steady. “Pen?”

A woman’s voice. Something damp on his brow, cool—not blood. A cloth. He clutched the hand. A woman’s hand, fine-boned, delicate, the skin as soft as cream.

Bluebells. The beach smelled of bluebells. He was dead.

God, that was a relief. He wouldn’t have to face the failure. To learn who had died, who had been torn apart, how many good men had been lost in the bloody hunt for treasure and glory.

“Wake up. It’s another hunllef . A nightmare.”

“I’m alive?”

He felt alive. Blood rushed through his body. His arms worked. So did his legs. A woman’s form hovered above him—exposed to the guns and flames. She’d be shot and killed.

“Cover!” he shouted and pulled her down, rolling her under his body. She was warm and soft and yet at the same time delightfully firm, her body lithe and strong. And very shapely. He felt every line of it against his body. His alive, not bleeding, not maimed body.

“Pen!” Her muffled shout was a half-cry, half-laugh. One hand slapped his cheek, but gently. Her other arm snaked around him, her hand sliding over his back from waist to shoulder. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and her soft, hot hand blazed a trail over his bare skin.

“You’re at St. Sefin’s.”

Not Tenerife. He dropped his head into the crook of her shoulder, burying his face in her soft, warm, scented skin. He wasn’t dead.

Bowen was dead. Nelson lost his arm, removed mid-battle so he didn’t bleed out from his injury. Jervis had been made Earl of St. Vincent.

And he, Lieutenant Rhydian Price, had been recovering in a naval hospital when the black-edged letter came.

His brother had caught pneumonia on a hunting trip to Scotland, some foolish dare to swim an icy Scottish loch.

Not something the sensible Viscount Penrydd would do.

So Rhydian was discharged to the house in London, limping, still swathed in bandages, his pain bone-deep and constant.

His sister Arwen was dead, too. The consumption had killed her in that awful sanitorium while he’d been playing buccaneer in the West Indies.

His mother was long dead, buried in the lovely estate in Essex that she had brought to her marriage.

His cold-eyed stepmother and his brother’s helpless wife had been at the London townhouse to receive him.

Edwin hadn’t sired an heir, so Rhydian was now the Viscount Penrydd, fourth of that title.

He owned the London townhouse, the estates in Essex and Cumbria, a hunting box in Scotland, a house and assorted properties in Wales.

And all the obligations and duties of his grandfather, and his father, and now his brother had devolved upon him. Along with their debts.

There was a lot of debt. Something else the otherwise sensible 3rd Viscount Penrydd should never have dived into.

Edwin was the heir, the sportsman, solid marks on his university exams, a pedigreed wife.

Rhydian had always been knocked about by his father, his brother, his cousins, his own heedless exploits.

He was the second son, an annoyance to his solid, competent, respectable brother.

He was perpetually in a scrape, in a temper, or in trouble of some sort, living from one spree to another.

Until he inherited the title, two viscountesses to support, the houses and estates. And Edwin’s mistakes.

He’d come to Wales for something to do about that.

Recent events were still hazy. He held still, breathing in the woman below him who lay supple but alert, waiting for him to collect himself.

He’d needed to sell properties to pay money his brother owed.

He’d never seen the Welsh holdings, so they could go.

He’d met up with a friend from his Eton days, Turbeville, a worthless sot but a great deal of fun.

There’d been another man he’d agreed to see, a knight’s son who’d been sniffing around his brother’s widow back in London.

Prunella wouldn’t wed again unless she could improve her station, but the knight had some property in Wales, so Pen thought to approach him as a buyer.

And then—something happened. He’d been hit over the head by bluebells.

“You’re back?” Gwen whispered.

“I’m awake.” He drew his nose along the line of her neck, then trailed kisses along her collarbone. She shivered. She was in her shift and wrap, hair in a loose braid. She smelled of night air and everything in the world that was pure and clean and lovely.

He couldn’t remember why she had come to him. He didn’t know why she hadn’t told him who he was. He couldn’t remember what he wanted in Wales, but he wanted Gwenllian ap Ewyas. More than he’d ever wanted anything in his life.

When she shifted, her legs parted slightly, and he slid his knee between hers. Her breath hitched.

“How do you feel?”

“I need something,” he murmured. The skin of her shoulder tasted oh so faintly of rosemary.

Soft. Delicious. Her hand moved over his back again, inching downward this time, fingers trailing soft fire along his shoulder blade, ribs, then down to the waistband of his breeches. He’d fallen asleep wearing them.

When was the last time a woman had caressed him? He couldn’t remember that, either.

“Tea?” she whispered. “Another compress?”

He lifted his head to look in her face. Her eyes were enormous, shadowy pools. He didn’t care that he was falling into them.

“You.”

Her lips parted, and he swooped in and kissed her. She slid her other hand into his hair and held his head, kissing him back with a matching hunger. He dragged his hand from her shoulder down the side of her body and felt her hard nipple graze his palm. She was responding. She wanted him.

He groaned and kissed her more deeply, shifting his weight to the side so he didn’t crush her, slipping his hand beneath her bottom to cradle her against him.

He dipped his tongue into her mouth and she caught him, meeting his passion, his need.

He drew from her mouth as if he could draw out the essence of what she was. The truth of what lay between them.

“Stay with me tonight.” He nipped her earlobe, kissed down her neck and then back up her chin, pulling her lip between his teeth.

His arousal rose between them and he barely restrained himself from pressing into her, urging her, begging.

He wanted her to choose him. To come to him gladly, without artifice, without regret.

“What is this, Pen?” Her voice was throaty with desire.

“Whatever you want it to be,” he said.

She’d lied to him. He was deceiving her, wanting to retain the upper hand for a moment when she’d had the advantage of him for so long.

They were on equal ground, both liars. Both desirous.

Both adults with no promises to another.

There need be nothing more beyond this room, this night.

He’d lived in a blank for weeks; he wanted that blank filled with Gwen.

Whatever she offered, he would take it. Even if she was simply bartering her body for his goodwill. Even if loving her made him a fool.

“Let me up,” she whispered.

He stifled a groan and closed his eyes, holding himself in as he rolled to his side and eased away from her. He wanted to shout, to rage. He was a viscount, for God’s sake! He was rich—somewhat rich—and could have anything—most anything—he wanted. What would make her want him?

He watched in despair and hunger as she moved to the door, the wrapper clinging to her delicious shape, the candlelight gleaming on her skin. She closed the door and turned to him.

Her gaze met his, steady. She was uncertain, but she wanted him. She wasn’t afraid, and she wasn’t ashamed.

He held out his hand, letting his hunger, his need, and a promise show in his eyes.

She came back to the bed and finally, finally, into his arms.