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  WHEN SOMEONE SEIZED MERRY’S arm, she didn’t take immediate offense. Tudor swains were known to be bolder than they were wise. She knew none dared maul her in the presence of the queen. She tossed her head in a coquettish fashion and whirled to face her assailant.

  “Fie, sir, have a care. Perchance you will crush my wrist,” Merry simpered in her customary manner. The man’s icy dark eyes froze further words in her throat. His gaze scoured her, head to toe, reflecting neither admiration nor base lust.

  Merry shivered. There was no emotion at all in those coal-colored eyes behind the mask. No mercy, no passion, nothing save a hardened resolve which set her heart to pounding. S’blood, the rogue was uncommonly tall, too. He gripped her wrist tightly, without regard for her female frailty. Something in his manner frightened Merry to the core.

  She squeaked in protest. His laughter was harsh and brief.

  “Come, Mistress Tanner. You play the mouse now, yet a moment ago you were only too eager to launch yourself into the arms of any willing knave.”

  Outraged, Merry gasped. How dare he assail her morals? Who was this cad? Surely she would not forget a courtier so tall and grimly disposed, one with breeding every bit as boorish as his costume.

  Merry straightened and adopted an arrogant attitude. She reminded herself that was not easy for one of a naturally loving disposition like she.

  “May I assume I offend you in some manner, sir?” she coldly inquired, imagining what her forthright Kat might say in similar circumstances.

  “Aye. Other than the fact you have already proven yourself to be a scatter-brained and most irascible female, I do, indeed, take exception to your wanton behavior this night. ’Tis apparently not enough to prance around half-naked among such pitiful male specimens, but you must needs encourage them, too.”

  Merry scowled. The nerve of the boor! How dare he insult her thus? She would inform Bess of his audacity. Marry, where was Adrien when she needed him? Her dear count’s blade would make short work of this rude fellow, she vowed.

  She tossed her head again, provoking the man’s eyes to narrow. “La, sir, what possible concern is it of yours whom I consort with? Much less choose to wear.”

  At her challenge, Merry saw the set of his jaw harden beneath his silk mask. In a single rude yank he pulled her closer, dislodging several carefully placed leaves from her hair. She released a furious squeal. Her “Autumn” costume was ruined!

  “Mistress Tanner, you will be biddable and come to the church as agreed, or by all the saints, I swear I’ll not hesitate to bind and gag you.”

  Merry’s thoughts were a tumble of confusion. Then realization dawned. Sweet Jesu, he thought she was Maggie! Her mind bloomed with sudden recognition, but she couldn’t force her mouth to work as quickly. Heavens! ’Tis Lord Trelane. Her cousin’s bridegroom was livid, too, as evidenced by the reddening of his neck and the brutal grip he maintained on her wrist.

  Before she might inform Trelane of his grievous mistake, another man arrived on the scene.

  “Is there a problem, monsieur?” Captain Navarre inquired in the silky voice he normally reserved for new recruits. Despite the softness of the query, Merry was aware of the danger lurking beneath Navarre’s innocuous question.

  Morgan did not release her, but merely shifted his cool gaze to the golden-haired man with the French accent. “There is no problem here which concerns you,” he pointedly said.

  Another intervened. Morgan turned and saw the words issued from a young stripling of a lad gripping the hilt of his sword. He was further stunned when she addressed him boldly as any man, in a voice he knew only too well.

  “Kindly unhand my sister at once, sirrah. Or I trow you shall live to regret it.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE STRANGER IN BLACK did not reply. Kat saw her sister pale.

  “Merry? Is aught amiss?” she demanded.

  Kat glanced at the stranger again. A second later, she gasped and pressed a hand to her throat. Her eyes widened in disbelief.

  “Morgan,” she whispered. Yet how could it be? He was in distant Wales. No doubt remained when the man holding Merry’s wrist released his prisoner and pivoted full around to stare at her instead. That soft Welsh burr sounded hauntingly familiar; now she knew why.

  Recognition impacted Kat. She felt dizzy, shocked to the bone. She feared she might faint, and she yanked her mask off for air. Never for a moment had she doubted the image her mind had already formed of Morgan. How ironic she should be proven right. He was tall, exactly as she imagined, with a square-cut jaw not fully concealed by the mask he wore.

  Morgan’s hair, though deepest ebony, gleamed with mahogany highlights where the ends touched his shoulders, and a single wayward curl brushed the padded roll of his falling band. The reddish hue was testament to his Spanish ancestry, she thought. He was a fine figure of a man; the elegant if stark cut of his black velvet attire only emphasized his narrow waist and broad shoulders.

  Morgan’s eyes were the only part Kat had not imagined correctly. In her fantasies, they were warm and dark. Not this hard, glittering jet. His accusing gaze threatened to pierce her to the core.

  Morgan stared in turn at the woman he had simultaneously loathed and loved over the past months. Kat. How many nights had he cursed her face, her name? Shouted her name in the midst of a raging thunderstorm, as if heaven’s fury might purge her from his heart.

  He saw Kat move closer to the handsome Frenchman who had first intervened on the behalf of the redhead, as if she sought his protection. This golden-haired knave, then, must be the lover Gwynneth had told him about. Something fierce and hot stabbed his heart, something too akin to jealousy for Morgan’s comfort.

  Silence reigned whilst Kat gathered her wits, and Merry rubbed her throbbing wrist back to life. The redhead gave a nervous little laugh and tried to clear the air.

  “By the rood, I vow there has been a rather amusing mistake,” Merry said, drawing the weight of three pairs of eyes upon her. Everyone looked desperately to her for answers. Merry proceeded with what little she knew.

  Turning to Morgan, she said, “I suspect you seek my Cousin Margaret, milord. In truth, I well understand your mistake and your misplaced anger, too, but ’tis still no excuse to mishandle a lady.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Morgan abruptly demanded, not feeling the least bit inclined to apologize for his rudeness. Kat’s unexpected presence at the masque shocked and wounded him more than he cared to admit. The added discomfort of her gaze affixed to his face, the sight of her hand resting with obvious familiarity on the other man’s arm, worsened his mood.

  “My name is Meredith Tanner, milord. I am Mistress Margaret Tanner’s first cousin. ’Tis said we closely resemble each other; now I know it must be true. You, of course, are Maggie’s outraged betrothed.”

  Kat inwardly reeled from each slap of her sister’s words.

  She could not believe it. Morgan here, to claim a bride! At Court, of all places, in the presence of those whom he obviously disdained and despised. Here stood the man she loved, cool as night and twice as wicked, with every intention of taking another to wife. Worse yet, her own cousin.

  How much bitter light was cast upon her lot. Kat saw now, with aching clarity, the truth of what had really happened at Falcon’s Lair; she was hurt and angry, yet curiously desperate to hear the how and why of things from Morgan himself.

  “Aye,” Morgan said to Merry’s statement, shifting his intense gaze from Kat back to her sister, “I am indeed Lord Trelane. And I doubt not there has been a grave mistake.”

  Lucien interrupted with a snort of disgust. “Some manner of mistake indeed, milord! You owe Mistress Tanner an apology, one I fully intend to hear from your lips before you leave.”

  Morgan turned on the Frenchman, bitterly aware of the perfect features lurking beneath the half-mask the other wore. “I repeat, sir, this is no business of yours.”

  The Frenchman drew himself up, for all he was a hand shorter tha
n Morgan. “I fear I must make it my business whenever the fair sex is insulted, milord.”

  “Please.” Kat intervened, unable to bear the dangerous undercurrents between the two men. Knowledge of what had happened to her English grandmother — the original Merry Tanner — rang through her mind as she stepped between them. “This is neither the time nor place for outraged chivalry.”

  She stiffened when she felt Morgan’s eyes score her like a gyrfalcon marking its prey. She knew he was furious; she sensed fury emanating from each hard angle and plane of his rigid figure. How dare he act so maligned? She had far more right to be the more outraged of the two of them.

  “I believe ’twould be best if I sought to settle this matter with Lord Trelane in private.”

  Her announcement startled the others. Kat heard Merry’s gasp and Lucien’s sharp intake of breath. Where her hand rested on Lucien’s arm, she felt him tense with protest. She said to them both in a low voice, “I know the baron. I can explain matters to him more easily.”

  “I like it not,” Lucien growled under his breath, his sky-blue eyes never leaving Morgan’s masked face.

  Kat turned to her sister, instead. “Please, Merry. Mayhap I might help smooth things over for Maggie, as well.” She begged Merry to accept Lucien as a temporary escort.

  With a worried sigh, Merry agreed. She wanted to demand what was going on, the emotions swirling about the other couple were so intense, yet she was more anxious at the moment to escape and repair her costume before she was summoned by the queen.

  With a preoccupied air, Captain Navarre offered Merry his arm instead. The two of them disappeared into the crowd between songs.

  “There are no words I wish to hear from your lips,” Morgan said to Kat when the others left. “Doubtless ’twould only be lies.”

  His harsh statement stabbed at Kat’s heart. She tilted her head back in order to glare at Morgan more effectively — he was so tall — but his mask disconcerted her. She found herself at a loss.

  A painful silence erupted between them. Morgan made an angry sound and turned to leave.

  “Wait, please.” Kat blurted the entreaty, and reached out to still his retreat with a quick hand upon his sleeve.

  Morgan stiffened, as if her touch soiled him. But he made no further move to escape.

  “We cannot talk here,” Kat said, with a glance at the crowd hemming them in on all sides.

  She saw a faint tic of a smile tug at Morgan’s lips. She was heartened by the sign until he sarcastically observed, “’Twould appear we have little choice, madam.”

  He nodded towards the musicians on a nearby dais, who, on cue, began strumming on a variety of instruments. Kat saw Elizabeth regally accept her pair of virginals from one of her ladies, and realized they dared not risk offending the temperamental monarch by slipping away now. A moment later Merry appeared at the queen’s side and presented the royal sheet music with a curtsey. She remained to turn the pages, as well.

  Morgan extended his hand to Kat, palm-down at an angle. “Escape is impossible now. We may as well have benefit of one dance. ’Twill be the last time I ever visit Court.”

  Hesitantly, Kat untied her mask, leaving it on a nearby table. Now that her identity was exposed, there was no need for the ruse any longer. She left her cap there too, freeing the dark braid to fall over her shoulder. She waited for Morgan to do the same, remove his cloak or mask, but he demurred.

  With a shrug, she placed her hand upon his, and they moved into place in the line of dancers. When the music started, she almost smiled. It was a Basse Dance, a slow and stately procession designed to permit talking between partners, unlike the breathtaking galliard or the leaping lavolta. This particular song was known as “Die Katze,” the Dance of the Cats.

  Morgan apparently recognized it, too. “Curse your cat-eyes,” he whispered when Kat glanced at him. Surely she imagined the raw mixture of anger and pain in his voice.

  She and Morgan circled the room together in formal fashion, a handspan from the couples on either side. Fortunately, their low conversation was concealed by the dramatic music and the hum of chatter coming from the other dancers.

  “I never imagined seeing you in London, milord,” Kat said. She could think of nothing else to say to the man who still occupied her dreams. She steadied herself for his reply, vowing to remain calm and reasonable, come what may.

  “Likewise I never anticipated finding you here. I confess, ’twas a most disconcerting moment.”

  Kat felt warmth suffuse her cheeks and suspected it came not from the closed chamber, or the bodies pressing about them, but the simple presence of Morgan at her side. Disconcerting was not the word, she decided. Not when she dreamed of Morgan every night.

  For some reason, Morgan did not seem surprised she saw him. Of course, Winnie must have told him of the miracle of regaining her sight. What had Morgan’s reaction been? Doubt? Delight? She desperately wished to know.

  “Milord,” she said, faltering again. She was unused to formalities where Morgan was concerned. After all, he had nursed her back to health for nigh two months and made love to her on a glorious night she would never forget. Feeling her cheeks burn, Kat rushed on. “I fear I never thanked you properly for your kind hospitality.”

  Morgan looked at her. She felt his gaze resting upon her with the weight of a hundred millstones.

  “Must you continue playing these games, Kat?” he coldly inquired. “If Kat is your true name.”

  She forgot her vow to remain calm and reasonable. “Aye, it truly is. It so happens I have found out who I am, Lord Trelane, no thanks to you. Though I may come from a humble family by Tudor standards, ’tis not altogether a worthless one, and ’tis apparently fine enough for you to marry into.”

  At her pert words, Morgan paused in the dance processional to stare at her. “What is your full name?” he demanded.

  “Katherine Alanna Shanahan.” She hurled it in his face like an insult, pleased to see him stiffen.

  “What relation is Mistress Margaret to you?”

  “She is my first cousin on my father’s side.”

  “Yet Mistress Margaret is a Tanner.”

  “Aye.” Kat refused to satisfy Morgan’s curiosity or confirm his suspicions. In truth, she was not ready to discuss Rory yet, and Morgan’s behavior this night was thus far quite undeserving of reward.

  “Then you and the other redheaded vixen — ” he began.

  “Are sisters.” Kat nodded. “And twins.” At his disbelieving look, she added coolly, “It sounds fantastic, milord. But true, I assure you. Though I have learned only a little more of how I came to be in Wales, I know that I captained my own ship on that fateful day.”

  Morgan didn’t question this part of her story. Instead he asked her, “How did you come to remember your past?”

  “I didn’t. ’Twas bits and pieces Merry helped me to put together. For example, seeing the Tanner estate.” Kat realized she sounded defensive, and was angry she had allowed her emotions to push aside her common sense. “Anyhow, I find it difficult to believe this interests you in the slightest, milord. After all, you never questioned my disappearance from Falcon’s Lair.”

  “There was no need to question the obvious.” The bitter tone in Morgan’s voice surprised her. She felt the hand beneath hers suddenly ball into a fist.

  Before Kat might demand what he meant by such a remark, the dance ended. The line of dancers sank into deep curtsies or bows, as befitted their sex and rank. As she rose beside Morgan, Kat sought in vain for any clues swirling in his impenetrable onyx eyes. The mask concealed his emotions, frustrating her attempts to see the man behind the facade.

  “Now is our chance to escape,” she said, quickly and quietly, “whilst Her Majesty is looking the other way.”

  “Careful, Kat. Why, it sounds as if you plan a tryst,” Morgan retorted. Despite his attitude, he did not protest when she drew him down a long corridor leading to the garden.

  THE EVENING AIR WAS c
ool and crisp, heady with the scents of night stock and clove gillyflower. Kat turned to face Morgan in the moonlight, aware of every movement he made. She knew now might be the only chance for answers she would ever have. If he refused to hear her out, any chance they had was forever lost.

  “Please, Morgan,” she said once more, raising her gaze to meet his, no matter how painful or difficult she found it to meet his impenetrable stare. “I must know what happened. Why you did not come for me?”

  Morgan’s dark eyes narrowed through his mask. “D’you truly expect me to pursue a woman who left with her lover of her own free will?”

  Kat gasped. “You thought such a thing of me?”

  “There was little evidence to the contrary. Gwynneth bore witness to the fact you greeted your lover at Falcon’s Lair before her eyes. Several others confirmed the tale of several horses leaving the stables just before I returned that night. Having suddenly and miraculously gained your eyesight as well, ’tis understandable you were eager to quit my company and return to your lover.”

  “And you … you believed it of me.”

  “I believe you are a clever opportunist, aye.”

  With a cry of frustration, Kat spun around and stared in vain into the depths of the garden. Her fists clenched at her sides. The pain was intense, shattering. Sweet Mother and Mary, Morgan believed such lies. He believed Gwynneth, over her.

  “I took no lover in all my life,” she whispered, “save one, and ’twas you.”

  “As you say.”

  Morgan sounded wary, unconvinced. Without looking at him, Kat continued her tale in a low, choked voice, gazing instead upon leagues of moonlit summer blossoms.

  “Nor have I known but two men at all, and the first was lost to me long before my ship sank in the Irish Sea.” She was silent until she regained her composure. “I have since learned I am widowed, Morgan. My husband, Rory, died along with our crew.”