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“Aunt…” Mr. McTavish looked embarrassed.

“It’s painful to lose a mother so young,” Clara said.

“Aye,” Mrs. Tuffington said. “But ye have yer mother, Miss Martingale—something to be thankful for. It’s a loss ye cannot imagine unless ye have lived it. Barely out of the crib, my nephew was, when his mother passed.”

Mama took Clara’s hand. “My daughter and I were separated for many years,” she said. “She has known loss.”

“I didn’t know. Forgive me,” Mrs. Tuffington said. “How did ye come to be separated? I cannot imagine a mother not being with her child. Families should be together.”

Clara’s gut twisted with horror, and she glanced at her mother, fighting the onset of panic.

“It matters not, Aunt,” Mr. McTavish said, meeting Clara’s gaze. “What matters is that Miss Martingale is with her mother now—and that she is loved.”

His emerald eyes focused on Clara for a heartbeat, and she tempered the nugget of hope.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” Mrs. Tuffington said. “Forgive me, Yer Grace, Miss Martingale. I only meant that it must have been very hard to be separated.”

“It was,” Mama said. “My daughter and I were reunited only recently. So you see, I have no wish to part with her unless I’m assured that she will be happier, wherever she goes, than she is here.”

“Which will prove something of a challenge, Yer Grace,” Mr. McTavish said.

Clara’s hope died. Was he saying that he couldn’t make her happy, or that he didn’t wish to court her?

Her mother set her teacup aside. “Nothing in life is worth having if it’s not achieved by overcoming challenges, Mr. McTavish.”

“Ye mistake my meaning, Duchess—I was paying a compliment to yer home. I fear my ineptitude at polite conversation led ye to believe I was being ungallant toward yer daughter. I assure ye, it’s the last thing I wish to do.”

He gestured toward the window, through which the moors were visible, bathed in the sunlight. “How could anyone fail to be happy living here? Next to the Highlands, it seems the most beautiful place in the land. Were ye not telling me as much, Miss Martingale?”

“Yes,” Clara said. “It’s beautiful here. And our gardens are filled with color now the roses are in bloom.”

“Perhaps ye might show me, Miss Martingale.”

His eyes flared with desire, and Clara’s heart fluttered at their expression.

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible,” Papa Harcourt said. “I couldn’t have my daughter wandering about unchaperoned.”

“ We’ll chaperone her,” Cornelius said. “Won’t we, Nate?”

Nathaniel, his mouth full of cake, nodded.

“Perhaps we could all take a turn about the garden?” Mama suggested. “If you’ve finished your tea, that is, Mrs. Tuffington?”

Their guest glanced first at Clara, then at her nephew, and shook her head.

“I’m not a good walker,” she said. “But don’t let me stop ye , Murdo, lad.”

Aunt and nephew exchanged a smile. Then he rose and approached Clara, offering his arm.

“Shall we?”

“Don’t forget your shawl,” Mama said, as Clara stood. “It may be warm outside, but there’s a chill in the air, particularly if you’re intending to explore the wall.”

“Do not fear, Duchess,” Mr. McTavish replied, as he took Clara’s arm and steered her to the door while her brothers leaped to their feet and followed.

Then he lowered his voice to a growl. “I’ll ensure ye’re kept warm, lass.”

“Thank you, Mr. McTavish,” Clara whispered.

“I think ye can call me Murdo, lass,” he replied. “After all, we’re courting.”

“Murdo…”

A secret thrill coursed through her as she uttered his name, and his nostrils flared as he nodded his approval.

“I like that very much,” he said, “hearing my name on yer lips. I hope to hear it again—many times—whispered in my ear, spoken with pleasure, and cried out in ecstasy.”

A fizz of need warmed her blood as she let him lead her outside.

What might it be like to have him cry out her name with pleasure?

The gardens at Pittchester Castle had been a source of wonder to Clara from the moment she arrived there.

They provided a constant source of vibrant colors—in sharp contrast to the dull, damp grays of London’s slums, where she’d grown up.

In the summer, the rose garden was at its finest, with every shade of red and pink, tended to by Mr. Grainger, who scolded Clara mercilessly if she trampled on his borders, but always presented her with a posy for her bedchamber, which filled the air with their sweet scent.

In autumn, the colors were replaced by a riot of fiery reds and oranges in the trees.

Even in the winter, when the sharp frosts blanketed the land in white, the vibrant berries on the glossy dark-green bushes provided jewels of color.

Then, as winter faded, new bright-green shoots pushed through the hard ground.

How she loved the country! It was all she could do to prevent herself from skipping with joy as she wandered through the garden, her hand engulfed in Mr. McTavish’s— Murdo’s —great paw.

Ahead, her brothers walked side by side, casting the occasional glance over their shoulders.

“Yer garden’s very impressive, Clara,” Murdo said. “The roses, particularly.”

“Do you grow roses in your home?”

He shook his head. “No, lass. I believe my ma tried to grow roses, but after she passed…”

His voice trailed away, and she saw a flicker of sorrow in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You must miss her.”

“I barely remember her.”

“What do you remember?” Clara asked, then she checked herself. “Forgive me, I oughtn’t have asked. My stepfather’s always admonishing me for speaking out of turn. He says people don’t like to speak of their sorrows, of loved ones lost.”

“But if we don’t speak of them, they’ll fade from our hearts,” he replied. “I’ve no wish for my ma to fade from my thoughts. My da speaks little of her. But my aunt…” He let out a sigh.

“She said she took care of you after your mother passed.”

“Aye, she did. She spoke of Ma so often, it was as if she were alive. But when Aunt Fiona married…”

He turned to face her and smiled. “So you see, lass, it can only give me joy if ye speak of my mother. In answer to yer question, I remember a beautiful woman with flame-red hair and eyes the color of whisky, a soft voice singing me to sleep at night and holding me to her breast. When I’m alone, she visits my dreams and tells me all will be well. ”

“She’s an angel,” Clara whispered.

“Aye, lass, an angel. She’s the strength of the mountains, the color of the heather, and the cry of the stags in the autumn. She’s…”

He drew in a sharp breath and caught her hand.

“Heavens, lass! Can ye see that?”

Ahead was the figure of an angel—pale in the light of the afternoon sun. Her hands clasped together, she gazed at the ground, an expression of serenity in her eyes. Soft, feathered wings framed her body.

Clara’s brothers veered off the path toward the angel, then Murdo exhaled.

“It’s a statue !” he said. “For a moment, I thought…”

“Come and see,” Clara said, steering him toward the statue. “My stepfather placed her in the best part of the garden, and the view from there is magnificent.”

Murdo placed his hand on the statue and ran his hand along the marble, the carved folds of the angel’s gown. He touched the tip of one wing where a piece had broken off, running his fingers over the jagged edge.

“Beautiful,” he breathed. “Such exquisite craftmanship. The detail on the feathers—a man could be forgiven for expecting them to move with the breeze.”

“Can you see the likeness?” Cornelius asked.

Murdo lifted his hand to the angel’s face and traced the outline with his fingertip, following a line along the nose, until he reached the lips. Clara’s heart fluttered, as if he were caressing her, and she parted her own lips in anticipation.

“It’s Clarry,” Nathaniel said. “You’ve just been running your hands over our sister.”

Murdo glanced at Clara. “It’s ye ?”

“She looks nothing like me, of course,” Clara said. “Her nose is smaller than mine.”

“I don’t like her nose, Miss Martingale,” Murdo said.

“And her arms are longer,” Nathaniel added.

“I don’t like her arms, either.”

“But her face is prettier than Clara’s,” Cornelius said.

“Corn!” Nathaniel gave his brother a push.

“As statues go, her face is pretty, Lord Cornelius,” Murdo said. “But as to thinking her prettier than yer sister, ye’re either blind, or a fool.”

He smiled at Clara. “Ye said the duke placed the statue here. Was it a gift from him?”

She shook her head. “The statue belongs to my mother. My stepfather had it brought here after they married. It was originally in the gardens at Pascombe Hall.”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s where my mother lived before, when she was”—Clara hesitated—“married to Lord Grey.”

“Ah, so Lord Grey’s yer father?”

Clara opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again, engulfed by shame.

Cornelius came to her aid. “Mama Betty had the statue made so Clara would be with her for always,” he said.

“Is that so?”

Clara nodded. “We were separated when I was a baby. She spent many years looking for me, then, when she gave me up for dead, she had the statue made, as a memorial.”

“She gave ye up?” His eyes glowed with anger. “How can a mother do such a thing?”

“It wasn’t her fault!” Clara said. “She tried to find me, but was tricked into believing I’d died.

” She wiped away a tear. “I grew up not knowing my mother—until Papa Harcourt found me and brought me here. I hated her at first, because I thought she’d abandoned me.

But she never stopped thinking of me, or blaming herself for what happened. You see, she was—”

“Clarry,” Cornelius interrupted. “We should get back. We promised Papa we wouldn’t go far. He’ll be wondering where we are.”

“And wondering whether you’ve run off again,” Nathaniel said.

“Nate!” Clara said. “I don’t run off.”

“You did, when—”