Phoebe wended through the crowded spring festival beside her brother, searching for a spot close to the parade ground. The military processionals were her favorite event and she was late by near an hour. She spotted her best friend, Sarah Hardy, waving from along the fence.

“There is Sarah. Would you mind if I joined her?” Phoebe asked.

“Not at all,” Edward replied, nodding to their childhood friend. “Don’t stay out too long. We have to be ready to greet the guests this evening.”

“I won’t,” Phoebe promised. Tossing her brother a quick smile, she joined her friend. Sarah stood with Lieutenant Collins, a young cavalry officer, originally from Corsair.

“What have I missed?” Phoebe asked, turning her attention to the field. A uniformed soldier straddled a sleek chestnut gelding, preparing to maneuver through a difficult obstacle course.

“Nothing much,” Sarah replied. “Only the militia drills.”

“Oh, good. The cavalry display is my favorite.”

The rider positioned his mount at the far end of the field, holding perfectly still for several seconds. The crowd hushed, waiting with bated breath for the exhibition to begin. Without warning the horse sprang forward in a rolling canter, striding swiftly toward the first obstacle—a fence style jump. As one, the horse and rider sailed over the hurdle, a perfect picture of fluidity. Phoebe gazed upon the beautiful spectacle with rapt attention. The officer guided his mount through the course with effortless grace, a stunning example of partnership as opposed to master and beast. The pair swept past the rail and Phoebe grabbed the upper rung in shock.

It’s Jamie! The roguish soldier from the beachfront two days ago. Heat flamed in her cheeks. Needless to say Phoebe had refrained from taking any more clandestine walks along the beach. She bit her lip, gaze drawn with magnetic force to the striking officer cantering across the parade ground. He certainly cut a different figure from the disheveled—if handsome—rogue she’d seen the other day. For two days his rakish smile and warm brown eyes had stuck firmly in her mind. Inadvertently she shivered, even now her skin prickled with memory of his close perusal

But it was more than his bold flirtation.

His haggard appearance had contrasted so vividly with his wicked banter, and he’d gazed upon her as though he needed rescuing, and she was his dream come true. Phoebe couldn’t help but wonder from what did he need rescue?

“I daresay that is impressive riding,” Sarah said, standing on tip toe, she craned her neck around to stare after the rider. Her brimmed hat blew off her head, catching on the ribbons tied beneath her chin, momentarily blocking Phoebe’s view.

“We call him the wolf in battle,” Lieutenant Collins stated proudly. “He is a hell-raiser of the first order on and off the battlefield, but when it comes to rallying troops…” Awe touched Collins’s voice, “he has no equal.”

“It sounds as though you admire him very much,” Sarah said.

“I’d follow him into Purgatory and wage war upon the damned,” Lieutenant Collins affirmed.

Phoebe’s heart skipped as her ears strained, hoping to catch a full name. She could well imagine Jamie enticing men to follow him into the fray of battle. He was charming to say the least, with an intoxicating aura that affected her even now. Perhaps she’d see him at the ball tonight. Maybe he’d ask her to dance.

The exhibition drew to a close.

“Sarah,” Phoebe said, flashing her friend a quick smile. “I think I’ll just go down by the castle ruins. There is a lady selling some lovely ribbons.”

“I’ll come with you,” Sarah said.

“No, you stay and watch.” Phoebe winked, knowing her friend wished to stay with Lieutenant Collins. “I will see you at the ball tonight.”

Sarah chewed her lip, obviously torn. “All right,” she agreed with a small smile and turned her attention back to the officer at her elbow.

Phoebe waved and hurried back down the hill, flooded by thoughts of Jamie and the extraordinary display of horsemanship she’d just witnessed. Absently she wandered the grassy fairgrounds, keeping a weather eye out for her wayward officer, mind aflutter with the prospect of seeing him again. She approached the table with the ribbons displayed and absently ran the back of her hand across a buttery lavender ribbon.

“That color will flatter your eyes beautifully, my lady.”

Phoebe startled and then smiled at the woman sitting on a wooden stool beside the table. “Thank you.” Phoebe lifted the ribbon and paid the woman with an extra coin. She turned from the stand and stopped short.

Not ten feet from her, stood Jamie’s impressive figure. Colonel Jamie according to the insignia on his uniform. He smiled down at a pretty young woman garbed in mourning attire and had a boy of perhaps seven perched on his shoulders.

Phoebe gulped, tempted to bolt, but curiosity got the better of her.

The pretty woman tossed her head back and laughed, an adoring gleam in her eye as she gazed up at the colonel. A nasty sprig of jealousy mounted in Phoebe’s middle, but she quickly quashed it. She had no business growing envious, she’d scarcely met the man, and he was obviously married. Her anger flashed, what a scoundrel to have carried on with her while he had a wife and son at home!

Smiling, Jamie turned his head and caught her close perusal. Recognition glinted immediately in his eyes.

Phoebe flushed and backed away.

Jamie swung the boy from his shoulders, and ruffled his tawny hair. He quickly excused himself from his companion, and strode after Phoebe.

Phoebe spun, rushing back toward the parade ground.

“Siren,” he called.

Phoebe cringed at the sound of the pet name and quickened her pace.

“Siren,” he persisted, catching up and falling into stride beside her. “Your song led me to you once again.”

“Don’t be silly, Colonel.” She plunged forward, embarrassed and desperate to escape.

“Whatever happened to Jamie?” His fingers gently caught her elbow, forcing her to slow and face him. “I give you leave to use my name. I, however, am still at a disadvantage as I do not know yours, Siren.”

Phoebe arched a brow, pinning him with a jaded glare. “Would your wife take kindly to your begging an introduction?”

Confusion clouded his brow. “My wife? You mean… Oh!” He barked with laughter. “Judith is not my wife. She is my sister-in-law. The boy is my nephew.”

“Oh…” Relief fused Phoebe a bit too rapidly for comfort. “I see.” Disconcerted, she cleared her throat, searching for something else to say. “Your performance on the parade ground was most impressive.”

Jamie simply nodded. He released her arm and rocked back on the heels of his neatly polished boots. He passed an appreciative gaze over her.

Phoebe licked her lips, flustered by the open perusal, and once again inundated by the intense connection she felt with this man. Something base… instinctive… that kept her rooted to the spot. The colonel intrigued her.

Wildly handsome, he exuded an air of rugged nonchalance that contrasted vividly with the dangerous cut of his uniform. His amber brown eyes bathed her in a pool of interested warmth, and her skin prickled in response.

“A name? Or shall I simply call you Siren?”

Phoebe hesitated. Unsure if she should reveal her identity.

“Allow me to offer a more formal introduction.” He bowed in courtly fashion. “I am Colonel Witherspoon.”

Phoebe’s heart clenched, pumping pure ice into her veins. Jamie… Colonel Witherspoon… The words collided with devastating reality. “J-James Witherspoon?”

Disappointment coiled like smoke in her belly. Patrick. She’d been but six years old when her eldest brother’s body had been dumped in the circle drive outside of the Corsair Estate. Shot square in the chest. Everyone in Corsair knew James Witherspoon had killed him.

“That’s correct.” His brow furrowed with concern. “Is everything all right?”

“I—I…” Phoebe shook her head, unsure what to say or do. Bad blood boiled between the Witherspoons and Landons dating back decades before Patrick’s death. Phoebe didn’t know all the specifics, but the feud had begun over an Egyptian amulet known as the Heart of the Nile. She’d been restricted from the neighboring Witherspoon estate her entire life. She glanced up into his eyes. The handsome, carefree rogue before her hardly fit the mental picture she’d created based upon gossip and family hatred. The name James Witherspoon was synonymous with trouble, and the scandal papers painted him as one of the most unsuitable men in all Britain. A famed drunkard and womanizer, he was known for his devilish grin and total lack of military decorum.

“Are you well,” he pressed, reaching for her elbow once more.

“Perfectly fine,” she said curtly, jerking her elbow away. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize…” She stopped short, mentally collecting herself, and looked him in the eye. “My name is Lady Phoebe Landon,” she supplied finally.

The fire in his gaze sobered instantly. He clasped his hands behind his back. “Ah, yes, the legendary beauty. I’ve heard of you. Nose so high in the air you pay no mind to the scores of suitors chasing in your wake.”

Phoebe narrowed her eyes. Ire prickling beneath the insult. She’d heard that line over and again since her debut season three years before. “I’ve heard of you as well, Colonel.”

His golden hued eyes chilled. “That I killed your brother no doubt.”

Phoebe lifted her chin. “Did you?”

“No.”

“I’ve heard conflicting stories about you, Colonel.” Her gaze never wavered from his. “There is the drivel written in the scandal papers, of course, but I’ve recently heard reports that you’re a hero, a wolf in battle, and a master horseman.”

Surprise melted his expression from one of wariness to surprise. His eyes, the smooth color of whiskey, melded with hers. “Is that so?” He stepped closer, so close she could smell the keen scent of his shaving soap and see the mischievous dimple winking from the corner of his mouth. “Do you know what else they say about me?”

She tilted her head in silent question.

“That I’m an amazing lover.”

She snapped backward, mouth agape. How dare he? She pierced him with her haughtiest glare. “A true master should hardly need to sing his own praises.

*         *          *

James didn’t know what had possessed him. Madness perhaps? Ladies perfume most definitely. And the overwhelming desire to sample Lady Phoebe’s tart little mouth.

The massive Corsair keep loomed in the darkness, a combined beacon of formidable shadow and golden lantern light. Carriages rolled steadily up the cobbled drive and couples on foot wove through the newly budding gardens. Music floated out over the countryside, beckoning all to come, join the merriment, and dance. The Corsair’s grand ball officially ended the annual spring festival. James hadn’t attended the affair since he was a boy, but Toby, his young nephew, had needed a bit of fun after the general’s funeral.

James steadily made his way toward the ancient castle. He shouldn’t be there. He’d be lucky if Corsair let him into the party at all, and there was the respectable mourning period for his uncle to consider. Of course, James never had been the respectable type, and moreover he was compelled by a strange need to see Lady Phoebe again. His siren. She was hardly the type of woman he’d normally pursue. A refined lady. Even if he was of a marrying mind, she was far beyond his grasp, but soon enough, he’d be headed back to Brussels and the war with Napoleon. Before he died in a bloody cavalry charge—and he would, of that he had little doubt—he wanted to learn more of the intriguing Lady Phoebe. She was the first woman he’d ever met who claimed him a war hero and not a wastrel.

*          *          *

Phoebe smoothed a hand over the ivory silk of her skirt and sipped the cool, refreshing punch. She smiled as Sarah threw her a quick wave from the dance floor. Her friend looked radiant in a soft rose ensemble that offset her raven hair and pale skin brilliantly. Sarah was in her element dancing with the handsome Lieutenant Collins. The young officer, like several other soldiers in attendance tonight,was in town for the late General Witherspoon’s funeral. Sarah had set her cap for him years ago. Her family had no funds for a grand London debut and she had high hopes that he’d offer for her before leaving the country again.

Phoebe sighed. Every red coat in the room reminded her of James Witherspoon who stubbornly refused to leave her thoughts. I am an amazing lover, blazed through her head for the hundredth time that day. The gall of the man to whisper such to her. She was a proper lady. Had he wanted to shock her? Frighten her away?

“Could I entice you to dance with a wayward soldier tonight, Siren.”

Phoebe gasped. Colonel Witherspoon’s deep voice rumbled directly behind her. She whirled. A combination of surprise and excitement brimmed in her chest. “How did you get in here?”

Amusement tugged at his lips and twinkled in his eyes. Her heart performed an inadvertent little twirl. “Hopped the garden fence and came in through the terrace doors.”

She cast a nervous glance toward the ballroom doors. Edward was no longer at his post greeting guests.

James winked at her. “What’s the matter, Siren? Afraid your brother will call me out for daring to speak with you.”

Phoebe cast him a baleful look. “Come, Colonel, I hardly need to remind you of the history between our families.”

He regarded her with cautious, unreadable eyes. “And yet I sense no hatred in you, Lady Phoebe.” He leaned forward slightly. “What do you believe?”

“Now is hardly the place to discuss this,” Phoebe replied, nerves slicking her palms. She did not want a fight to ensue between the colonel and her brother. Not at the party. The festival and the final ball had been her mother’s pride and joy, bringing together people from the entire countryside, from the villagers to the aristocracy. “You should go, Colonel.”

Once again mischief played over the lines of his face. “I’ll leave on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“You’ll meet me in the garden in five minutes time.”

Phoebe’s eyes widened.

James backed away before she could form a reply. “Five minutes,” he mouthed, splaying the fingers of his left hand before turning on a heel, quaffing the champagne in one gulp and setting the empty glass on a footman’s tray.

Phoebe gulped, casting a nervous gaze about the ballroom before her gaze rested upon the broad expanse of his retreating shoulders. She shouldn’t, and yet… she wanted to meet him for so many reasons. So many unanswered questions lived in her mind. Questions about Patrick… the Heart of the Nile…And there was the business of her heart flopping whenever he smiled at her. Decision made, she set the punch glass on the table and headed for the terrace doors.

She slipped quickly into the shadows leading away from the house, nibbling at her bottom lip. If she were caught with Colonel Witherspoon she could be ruined, but this wasn’t London, it was Corsair. Her family had owned these lands for generations. No one would make trouble for her. She wended along the path, wondering where exactly Jamie had gone. She was fewer than five minutes behind him. She gulped. Perhaps this was a trick. She scarcely knew the man. She slowed. Ready to go back to the house.

A burly arm snaked around her waist. “How about that dance, Siren?”

Phoebe gasped and then sagged with relief, tilting her head back to look up into his eyes. “Colonel! You frightened me.”

He grinned devilishly, linking one strong arm around her waist and capturing a ringlet of her hair with the other. “My apologies.”

Wicked tremors thrilled through Phoebe as he held her against the toned expanse of his chest. She quickly tugged out of his hold, regarding him nervously. The heat of his chest lingered. “Are you always this forward with women you’ve just met?”

He shrugged noncommittally. “That depends.”

“Upon what?”

His golden brow waggled playfully. “A gentleman could hardly say.”

Phoebe scoffed. “You hardly seem a proper gentleman.”

“Touché, Siren.” He stepped forward, leaning down until his lips nearly grazed her ear. Her stomach flipped. “Though you’re not the picture of a perfect lady either. Certainly not the haughty ice princess I’ve heard rumors of.”

The words set Phoebe on edge. She crossed her arms, scooting away from him. “Why did you invite me out here, Colonel?”

“To dance, Siren. Did I not make that clear?”

Phoebe shook her head. “I think that may be unwise.”

James held out a hand, amber eyes twinkling with teasing and desire. He presented her with a courtly bow, beginning the steps to the quadrille.

“Are you drunk, Colonel Witherspoon?”

“Sadly, no. I am perfectly sober.” He continued the steps as though she danced with him instead of standing still as a fence post. “Why do you ask? Hoping spirits will dull the pain when you step on my toes?”

Phoebe laughed in spite of herself. “Step on your toes? I should hardly think your feet will suffer in those sturdy boots.”

“So you admit you’re likely to step on my toes.” He grinned at her again, his amber eyes making firm eye contact.

Totally disarmed, Phoebe melted beneath his gaze, and joined him in the quadrille despite her better judgment. “I am not a very good dancer,” she admitted, narrowly avoiding his feet. “There is not an ounce of grace in my form. My dancing instructor insisted I have two left feet.” She sobered slightly. “My reputation as the ice princess came about because of my reluctance to dance at the balls in London.”

James fixed her with another disarming smile, this one compassionate and without even a hint of teasing. “Miserable place, London.” Then he winked. “Fortunately for you, I have enough elegance for both of us.”

Laughter bubbled from Phoebe once more, and when the music drew to a close both of them were laughing. He bowed and she curtsied.

Phoebe glanced back toward the house. “I should probably head back before someone notices I’ve gone.”

James quickly stepped forward. Intensity brimming in his whisky eyes. “Before you go, Siren, there is one other reason I asked you out here.”

Phoebe’s heart skipped, and this time she did not back away. “Oh? What is that?”

“This.” Without warning his broad, calloused palm slid across her cheek, burying his long fingers in her hair and slipping around the back of her head. Before she could mount any protest he gently tilted her head back, taking her lips in a firm, delicious, whisper of a kiss.

Phoebe’s pulse thumped madly. She’d been kissed a time or two, a pretty girl didn’t grow up in the country without her share of suitors, but she’d never been kissed like this. She felt his lips in every crevice of her being. She trembled. She tingled. She craved. He pulled back, breaking the bond of their lips, and she swayed forward, gazing up at him through a sultry haze.

His thumb caressed her cheek. “Forgive me, Siren, but I had to know how a mouth with such quick, tart wit would taste.” He slipped away then, disappearing into the night.

           Stunned and aflutter, Phoebe lifted a hand to her mouth. She understood now why men purportedly followed him blindly into battle. James Witherspoon could charm the fins off a fish.