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Felicity was up before the servants. Her sleep had been disturbed by dreams and visions, though now that she was awake she couldn’t recall them. She knew only that she’d been unsettled by the images that flitted through her mind.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the strange events of the previous night. The only explanation she could accept was the fact that she had been completely exhausted.

Ghosts, indeed! She was an educated, intelligent woman and, as her father had often said, too sensible for her own good. Hardly the type to indulge in flights of fancy.

A good strong cup of tea, she thought, would clear her head and put a shine on the day.

Still, she glanced carefully around the room before removing her nightshift.

Annoyed at her thoughts, she buttoned the simple white blouse and dark skirt that skimmed the tops of her kid boots, then ran a brush through her hair and secured it with combs.

She crossed the room and drew open the draperies, allowing shimmering morning sunbeams to filter into the room.

For long minutes she stood at the window, transfixed by her first glimpse of Falcon’s Lair by daylight.

The land below seemed to roll and fold into itself like a well-kept secret.

Heavily wooded valleys opened unexpectedly into gorse-covered stretches of moor that climbed steeply toward the clouds.

Perhaps a mile away to the east lay a village, with a row of shops and houses, and a church steeple catching the first rays of morning sunlight.

Her heartbeat quickened. How she would love to paint the scene in just this light. Tomorrow, if she awakened early enough, she would carry her sketchbook to the moors and try to capture it.

“Lovely, isn’t it?”

At the deep voice she whirled. “You again. But how—What—“

He was standing directly behind her, and though he didn’t touch her, she felt the tingling warmth radiate through her veins.

“I thought…” She moistened her lips and forced herself to go on. “I thought I’d dreamed you.”

It was she who looked like a dream. So fresh, so lovely in the light of morning, she nearly took his breath away. “Oh, I’m real enough,” he said. “To those who believe.”

She took a step back until she felt the cold window at her back.

“Last night I thought you were a…” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word.

Besides, this was no ghostly specter. This was a man.

Tall, menacing, and very much alive. He was toying with her.

Trying to make her believe the impossible.

She would not be coerced into playing his game.

“How did you do that trick?”

“Trick?”

“Appearing. Disappearing. Is it a parlor game?”

He didn’t want to answer. Not yet. So he simply changed the subject. “You never told me your name.”

“Felicity Andrews.”

“Andrews. But you were supposed to be…” He paused, unwilling to reveal more. Changing tactics, he muttered, “Felicity. That is Latin for happiness. It suits you. You have a happy face.” He bowed slightly. “My name is Gareth, First Lord of Falcon’s Lair.”

“Gareth. My father never mentioned you.” She searched her mind but could not recall having heard the name before. “You’re not one of Lord Falcon’s sons.”

“Nay.” He studied her lips, pursed into a little pout.

The desire to crush those lips with his own was so tempting that he had to clench his hands at his sides to keep from pulling her to him.

He cautioned himself to tread carefully with this prim little American.

Instead of touching her, he pressed a hand to the window casing above her head and leaned close to her, inhaling the delicate woman scent.

“There are things you should know about Falcon’s Lair. ”

“What things?”

He shook his head. “It is not in my power to reveal them. You must learn these things on your own. But be warned. You will be in grave peril while you are here.”

“From you?”

“I will not bring you harm.”

There was absolutely no reason to believe this madman. And yet, for some unknown reason, she did. Another lapse of intelligence. With a sigh she muttered, “I just don’t understand.”

If he couldn’t touch her, he would at least allow himself to skim her hair.

He caught a strand and watched it sift through his fingers.

The heat surrounding him grew until it was an inferno.

His voice was little more than a whisper.

“Understand this, little happy face. Since you have been sent to us, you must hold the key.”

“The key to what?”

When he didn’t respond, she turned away and pressed her forehead to the cool windowpane, eager to escape the heat that seemed to envelop her whenever he was near. “Why must you speak in riddles?”

Again he didn’t reply, and she turned. The room was empty. The heat had died as quickly as it had begun.

For long minutes she stood at the window, her mind brimming with all the questions she needed answered.

Who was this Gareth? Why had he singled her out?

What had he meant by the key? She shrugged and touched a hand to her throbbing temple.

Perhaps she wasn’t nearly as rested as she’d thought.

Her mind, which had always been so keen, now betrayed her.

She was seeing people who weren’t here and hearing words that made no sense.

Needing to escape, she slipped out the door and hurried down the stairs in search of the kitchen.

The hallways were steeped in gloom, the candles having long ago burned out. A few still sputtered in pools of melted wax, but their light was barely enough to show the way. Felicity took her time, peering into darkened rooms, hearing the echo of her footsteps along the stone floors.

Like all castles, this one was cold and drafty, with large, cheerless rooms that begged for fires to be stoked and people to fill the empty spaces. Instead there was only darkness and a chill dampness that added to its somber atmosphere.

There was no mistaking the kitchen. Though the rest of the household lay abed, a roaring fire already burned on the hearth. A pig roasted on a spit. The air was perfumed with the fragrance of freshly baked biscuits.

At a long trestle table sat a row of servants spooning gruel into their mouths while struggling to dispel the last vestiges of sleep.

They looked up, curious at the presence of this stranger, and began a low murmur among themselves.

Most of them could never recall having seen a family member or a guest of Lord Falcon set foot in this room.

At a furious command from the cook, they lowered their heads and continued to eat.

All except young Bean, who shot a quick smile at Felicity before returning her attention to her meal.

Across the room Maud Atherton was engaged in a whispered conversation with a tall man in a spotless dark suit. Seeing Felicity, they fell silent. The man set something on a silver tray and hurried forward.

“Miss Felicity.” He bowed stiffly. “I am Simmons, butler to Lord Falcon. I bid you welcome.”

“Thank you, Simmons. Does Lord Falcon know I’m here?”

At her eager question he shook his head.

“I shall deliver the news at once.” He gave a glance toward the staff, who were studying her with keen interest. “It is rare for anyone except the servants to be about this early. Mrs. Atherton assures me that a morning meal can be prepared for you in short order and will be served in the dining room. Perhaps, in the meantime, you would like a walk in the gardens. Though they are not yet in bloom, there are some lovely fountains and stone benches for your comfort.”

“Will Lord Falcon be joining me?”

The butler shook his head. “These days the old lord rarely leaves his bed.”

“Then perhaps I could join Lord Falcon in his room for a morning meal.”

Though his expression never altered, Simmons stood even straighter. His tone was stern, revealing his outrage. “I’m afraid that would be highly improper. Lord Falcon does not entertain guests in his private chambers.”

Felicity blushed clear to her toes, knowing that she must appear bold indeed. “There was a time when Lord Falcon was my father’s oldest and dearest friend. Though I’ve never met him, I feel as though I’ve known him for a lifetime. I’m eager to see if the impressions I have of him are correct.”

Simmons seemed to consider for a moment, his frown deepening. “It is an unusual request, one I feel certain Lord Falcon will deny. But I shall ask him at once. If he gives his approval, what shall I fetch you to eat, Miss Felicity?”

“Tea and a biscuit will be fine.”

If he was surprised at the simplicity of her needs, he gave no indication. He strode away and returned a few minutes later carrying a silver tray covered with a linen cloth. “Follow me,” he said as he led the way from the kitchen.

Felicity followed him up the wide, curving staircase and along the upper hallway to a set of double doors.

Except for a few candles in sconces, the sitting room was in darkness.

They crossed the room, and he signaled her to wait in the doorway as he entered an even larger room, where a fire blazed on the hearth.

By the light of the fire Felicity could make out the figure in the bed.

“Good morning, my lord,” the butler said softly.

“Simmons.” The voice was rough and scratchy but still carried the roar of an old lion. “Who is that in the shadows?”

“Miss Felicity Andrews, from America.” The butler set the tray on a table and hurried toward the bed. “She wishes to take her morning meal with you here in your room.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then the figure struggled to a sitting position. At once Simmons was beside him, propping mounds of pillows around him, smoothing the coverlet until not a wrinkle remained.

“Open the drapes,” the old lord commanded.