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  They’d remained friends at Cambridge, even after Justin began living the reckless life of a young lord. He’d been the only one who could coax Evan from his books for a foray into London’s gaming hells or a night of wenching, the only one who could make Evan forget for a while who he was and where he’d come from. And when Evan’s engagement to a wealthy merchant’s daughter had ended in disaster, it had been Justin who’d forced Evan to stop brooding.

  How could the carefree devil be dead? It was unfathomable. Yet he was, and his senseless death left Evan with an unquenchable anger. “His death is why I’ve come in search of the Lady of the Mists.” When they regarded him oddly, he added, “I believe she was the last person to see Justin.”

  As he ate some mutton, Rhys and Juliana exchanged glances.

  “Why do you believe that?” Juliana asked.

  “Because he met with her the night he was killed.”

  “And you think she had something to do with it?” Juliana asked in alarm.

  He considered confiding his suspicions, but he wanted to know more of what had occurred first. “Not necessarily. But there’s been little progress in finding his killers. I’m hoping she saw something that will help.”

  Juliana’s face cleared. “I see. That’s all right, then.”

  “I’m so glad you approve.” He couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. She was behaving strangely. “Tell me what you know about her.”

  “She’s a widow,” Rhys said. “It’s a tragic story. Her husband, Willie Price, was killed on their wedding day in a freak accident.”

  Despite himself, Evan felt a twinge of sympathy. “That’s awful.”

  “Yes,” Juliana agreed. “But she has risen above it to make a place for herself in the world.”

  “We met her once when she visited Carmarthen,” Rhys said. Suddenly he grunted for no apparent reason and shot his wife a sharp glance.

  Evan dipped his bread in gravy. “What was she like?”

  Before Rhys could answer, Juliana cut in. “She was as wonderful as the legends make her out to be.”

  “Of course, you probably already know she’s the daughter of a knight and fairly well-off,” Rhys said.

  Evan blinked. He’d always thought of the old woman as classless, one of those unusual creatures on the fringes of society who in past times would have been termed witches. Why would a woman of such standing murder a nobleman?

  “She’s a bit of an odd one,” Rhys added, ignoring his wife’s scowl. “Despite her rank, she dabbles in all sorts of peculiar things.”

  “You mean, aside from the harp playing and shooting?” Evan quipped.

  Rhys flashed him an enigmatic smile. “Yes. She writes, you know. You might have read her work. She studies the folklore and superstitions of the Welsh. Morgan and I have offered to publish her essays in one of our collections.” He glanced at Juliana. “I think you’ll like her a great deal more than you expect.”

  “Whether I like her is immaterial. I’d settle for knowing her actual name and how to find her.”

  “Oh, that!” Juliana brightened. “Her name is Catrin Price, and she lives outside of Llanddeusant. I can tell you how to get to the village, and the villagers can direct you to her home. Her estate is called Plas Niwl, the Mansion of Mist. It’s near Llyn y Fan Fach, the lake with the legend about the fairy who married a mortal. Their descendants are supposed to be the great doctors of Merthyr Tydfil.”

  He’d heard the tale. A merchant had fallen in love with the fairy after seeing her at the lake. She’d agreed to become his wife, bringing him cattle and gold as her dowry, but had promised to remain his wife only until the day he’d struck her three times. After years of marriage and four children, he’d done so, and she’d vanished, taking the cattle and gold with her.

  Wise woman. Too bad Mother couldn’t have vanished.

  “You should see Llyn y Fan Fach while you’re there,” ­Juliana went on. “It’s beautiful.”

  The wistful remark made him smile. Juliana held romantic notions about Wales. An estate named the Mansion of Mist near a renowned site of legend probably fired her imagination to new heights.

  “I shall certainly try,” he said. “But I won’t have a lot of time.”

  “Does this mean you’re not staying here long?” Juliana asked.

  “I’m afraid so.” He suspected that gleaning the truth from a wily old woman like Catrin Price might take patience . . . and a devious mind. He must approach this cautiously to avoid spooking her before he got what he wanted.

  Juliana sighed. “While you’re there, stay at the Red Dragon. But you will pass through here on your way back to the coast, won’t you?”

  “Of course.” Evan smiled. “And this time I’ll give you fair warning.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You know we always love to have you.” A sly look crossed Juliana’s face. “Although I wonder if the day will ever come when I welcome you and a wife to our estate.”

  With a groan, he pushed his plate away. “Don’t start that again. I’ve already told you—no sane woman wants a tedious scholar for a husband.”

  “You are not a tedious scholar. You’re a strong, handsome young man. Any woman would be proud to marry you.”

  Evan didn’t bother to disguise his bitterness. “I know several women who’d disagree. My humble bloodlines disgust the gentry, and my education intimidates those of my class. I’m too Welsh for an Englishwoman, and too English for a Welshwoman. I’m cantankerous and stubborn and lacking in the charm that sweeps women off their feet.” I’m blood of his blood, flesh of his flesh.

  He forced back that thought. “In short, I don’t suit anyone, and it’s unlikely I’d find someone to suit me. And that’s the last I shall say on the subject.”

  “Good,” Juliana retorted, “because it’s all nonsense. You’re considered a genius for your linguistic abilities, your translations garner large subscriptions, and young men flock to your lectures at Cambridge. Humble bloodlines, indeed! Any woman worth her salt won’t care about that. I didn’t care a whit about Rhys’s when he came courting.” At Rhys’s scowl, she added hastily, “Not that his bloodlines weren’t perfectly respectable. But my father was hoping for a duke.”

  “Which would never have worked,” Rhys confided to Evan. “Juliana is far too strong-minded. She would have made a duke miserable.”

  “Rhys Vaughan!” Juliana protested.

  Rhys grinned. “But you make me perfectly happy, darling.”

  When Juliana gave Rhys an adoring smile, Evan felt a twinge of envy. “At least Rhys owned land. I haven’t an acre to my name. No matter where I go or what I do, I’m still a tenant farmer’s son of modest means. No woman will forget that simply because I’ve achieved success in certain circles.”

  “The right woman will,” Juliana persisted. “You just haven’t found her yet.”

  He didn’t feel like arguing with her. “Perhaps you’re right. But until that woman comes along, I’m happy to have friends like you and Rhys.” He rose. “And if I’m to stay with you tonight, I’d best move my things.”

  Rhys flashed him a sympathetic smile, obviously aware of why Evan was hurrying off. “We’ll meet you there with the carriage as soon as we’re finished.”

  Evan nodded and walked out of the inn.

  Juliana watched him leave, her heart tight with sympathy. She loved Evan as dearly as she loved her own children, and his unhappiness tormented her.

  “He’ll be all right.” Rhys leaned over to take her hand. “Evan has survived many things, and he’ll survive this.”

  “He needs someone. You know he does.”

  “Yes, but he’ll have to find her himself.”

  “I swear I could kill the chit who broke his heart. He was even prepared to leave the university for her. How dare she make Evan fall in love with her, only to end the engagement for no apparent reason!”

  “She must have had some reason.”

  “Don’t defend her. I can’t believe an
y woman would refuse Evan.”

  “And you’re biased. Anyway, they obviously weren’t well-suited, so aren’t you glad he was saved from marrying her?”

  “Yes, but now he’s become a complete cynic about women. It isn’t right.”

  “And you think that fooling him about the Lady of the Mists will help.”

  A startled expression crossed her face. “What do you mean?”

  Rhys grinned. “You know what I mean, you little meddler. Why else wouldn’t you reveal that the Lady of the Mists he heard about in childhood died two years ago, and that her granddaughter now holds that name? That this Lady of the Mists is a shy, bewitching miss liable to steal his heart?”

  She sniffed. “If I’d told him that, he wouldn’t have gone. He steers clear of bewitching misses these days. And it’ll be even worse now that Justin is dead. At least Justin forced him to go out in society.”

  “So you’re forcing him to meet Catrin Price.”

  Juliana scowled. “She’s perfect for him—a scholar who’s bright and kind and—”

  “I thought you said she had turned aside every suitor who’s come near her since Mr. Price’s death?”

  Juliana shot him a defensive glance. “She won’t turn Evan aside.”

  Rhys laughed. “How can you be so damned sure?”

  “A woman’s intuition.”

  “And how can you be sure he’ll like her?”

  “Of course he’ll like her. She’s ‘bewitching,’ isn’t she?”

  At her peevish tone, Rhys smiled, then leaned over to give her a quick kiss. “Not as bewitching as you, cariad.”

  She melted, as always. In truth, it was a good sign that Rhys found sweet little Mrs. Price “bewitching.” She only hoped Evan did, too. Because it would take a witch to storm his walled-up heart.

  2

  Catrin drew a deep breath, then dove into Llyn y Fan Fach. She came up sputtering, the water stippling her skin with goose bumps. She didn’t mind. The cold revived her aching muscles after a morning of making candles.

  With easy strokes, she struck out across the lake, enjoying the hush broken only by the faint swish of her movements. She swam enough to exercise her cramped arms, then stopped to tread water. Flinging her wet hair out of her face with one hand, she looked about her.

  The mist clung to the surface of the water, shifting from one fantastical shape into another. Some days it made her think she saw the Tylwyth Teg in their fairy enchantment, playing harps and dancing. Or even the Lady of the Lake herself. Strange how it took only a heavy mist to make one’s imagination run wild.

  Unfortunately, the shapes she saw today were menacing, reminding her of her disastrous trip to London a week ago and her mad flight back to Wales. She muttered a Welsh oath. Coming to the lake hadn’t been a good idea if it only fed her fears and frightening memories. She struck out for shore, headed to where she’d left her clothes.

  She was so caught up in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the man on shore until she rose out of the water far enough to expose herself to the waist. By heaven, who was he?

  Tall and broad of shoulder, the man had one booted foot propped on a rock as he stared right at her, apparently as surprised to see her as she was to see him. His dark eyes moved inexorably down her face to her throat and then her breasts.

  Oh Lord, she was wearing only her shift. Blushing furiously, she sank down to her neck. What was this stranger doing here? No one else ever came here this early.

  Panic swept her. Should she swim to another bank? But then she couldn’t get her clothes. Besides, he could still see her leave the water.

  When he moved forward as if to catch a closer look, she cried, “Who are you, sir, to be spying on me?”

  Shock made him halt. “You’re real.”

  “Of course I’m real. What did you think?”

  He shook his head as if to clear it. “For a moment . . . well . . . I thought I was seeing the fairy of Llyn y Fan Fach.” A rueful grin transformed his serious expression. “But it’s clear you’re flesh and blood.”

  His accented Welsh, low and earthy, roused something unfamiliar deep in her belly.

  “Normally I know better than to put stock in such tales,” he continued, “but when you rose out of the water through the mist as if by magic . . .”

  “It’s all r-right,” she stammered, unable to look at him.

  Strangers rarely came to this remote place. And there wasn’t a soul to hear her cry out if the man hauled her out of the water and threw her down on the bank.

  She stole a glance at him. He didn’t look like the kind of man to do that. But neither did he look like the naturalists who trekked through the wilds with their expensive walking sticks and tour books.

  His well-built body seemed made for hefting beams, but his face was that of an ascetic, dark and stern with the knowledge of years. His thick, wavy chestnut hair and lovely long eyelashes made him quite attractive, although his sober clothing marked him as unaware of it.

  He’d been assessing her, too, but when she shifted her position, he averted his gaze. “I should apologize for intruding on your privacy. A friend of mine told me of this place, so I thought I’d take a look.”

  She wasn’t sure she should converse with this giant, whose formal speech and bearing bespoke a learned man even while his mournful eyes hinted at knowledge beyond books. Still, she had little choice. Essentially, she was trapped.

  “Do you live close by?” he asked.

  Alarm skittered through her. “Why do you ask?”

  He ventured a smile. “I’m not going to eat you, I promise. It’s just that I’m looking for a place near here, and I thought you might direct me. The directions they gave in Llanddeusant weren’t helpful.”

  His request was so innocuous and his voice so gentle that she relaxed. “If you’ll let me dress, I can show you the way. I know the roads well.”

  “I’d appreciate that, actually.”

  When he stood there waiting, she blurted out, “Could you turn your back, please? My clothes are on the bank.”

  “Oh, of course,” he muttered, pivoting away. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Her eyes never leaving his back, she slid out of the water to snatch her clothes. Any minute, she expected him to whirl around and grab her. Fortunately, he was as courteous as he seemed, for he didn’t so much as move.

  She removed her wet shift and donned the dry one. Only then did she realize how transparent her wet shift was. What kind of woman must he think her? But then, she hadn’t ­expected anyone to see her or she’d never have risked it.

  As the silence stretched out, he cleared his throat. “I do hope it’s not too far. Everyone in town had differing opinions about the distance.”

  “They’re unaccustomed to strangers, and are likely to say things like ‘go past the field with the cow in it, then turn left at the place where the trees grow thick.’ ”

  “Or ‘at the big rock.’ When I asked how big the rock was, they told me, ‘Oh, fairly big. You’re not likely to miss it.’ ”

  She smiled. “Did you find the big rock?” She put on her wrapping gown, then fastened it in front and picked up her stockings.

  “I’ve passed seven ‘big rocks’ since I left Llanddeusant, each one bigger than the last. And not a one of them near an oak with a split trunk.”

  She froze. “Where is it you’re going?”

  “Plas Niwl. The estate of a widow named Catrin Price.”

  By heaven. He was looking for her. But why? And did it have anything to do with her disastrous trip to London?

  As she drew on her stockings, she tried to make her voice casual. “I do hope you’ve informed Mrs. Price of your arrival. She’s something of a recluse. If you haven’t arranged a meeting ahead of time, she might not see you.”

  “I’ve heard about the Lady of the Mists riding, shooting, and playing the harp. But I hadn’t heard she was a recluse.”

  The very mention of “the Lady of the Mist
s” struck her with dread. Few people outside Llanddeusant called ­Catrin that, and she’d only used the appellation once, when writing to Lord Mansfield.

  But if this man knew what she was called, why was he spouting all this about riding and shooting? Everyone knew Catrin only rode the gentlest pony and was terrified at the thought of shooting anything. “Who’s been telling you stories about . . . er . . . the Lady of the Mists?”

  She slid on her slippers, then circled to stand in front of him. He wore a shuttered expression, and the full mouth that had seemed so friendly when he’d smiled at her now looked wary.

  He clapped his hat on his head. “I’ve heard such tales ever since I was a boy in Carmarthen. She was spoken of with awe among the people there.”

  Oh, of course. He’d confused her with Grandmother, who’d worn the title like a regal cloak. And who’d filled out the cloak far better than Catrin ever could.

  This could be fortuitous. If he was searching for an older woman of stalwart reputation and not a shy pedant like her, then he would never guess she was Catrin Price. Still, he would no doubt persist in his search until he learned the truth. Much as he intimidated her, she’d best find out why he was looking for her.

  “I hadn’t realized our local legend’s fame was so widespread.” Pasting a smile on her face, she gestured to a path up the hill. “This way. I assume your horse is up by the road?”

  “Yes.”

  He followed her as she started up. They climbed in ­silence, the steep ascent making it difficult to talk. When they reached the top, she said in what she hoped was a conversational tone, “So you’ve come from Carmarthen?”

  “Not exactly.” He headed to where his horse grazed. “I haven’t lived there in years. But the ship from London docks there, so I stopped to visit friends.”

  As he led his horse to the road, she froze. He’d come from London. Why was he here, asking after her? She tamped down her alarm. He could have a perfectly innocuous reason for wanting to see the Lady of the Mists.

  Though she couldn’t think of one.