Shaking all the more, fear adding an extra intensity to her trembling, Myrtle made a straightaway for the windows. Tripping over her skirts in her haste and then swiftly righting herself, she continued crashing ahead and grabbed the curtains and tossed them open.

Instantly, the nearly full moon’s bright glow sent light streaming into the previously black chambers, and she drew in a slow, quiet, relieved breath.

All but a sliver remained from that otherwise perfect orb, allowing for a full illumination of the rooms and also casting light out over the household directly across the street.

Unbidden, her eyes crept over to the Duke of Aragon’s property.

The moon played off his townhouse, too, revealing gleaming crystal windows and heavy curtains all perfectly drawn to keep out light . . .

Or strangers? a voice whispered.

Even as she silently urged herself to not give in to the fantastical, to not feed the irrational thoughts that at night, when the world slept, took on an even greater life and vividness.

Alas, she was helpless to stop the thoughts from rolling through her head: her family’s whispered warnings about the duke.

“He went mad . . .”

“They say he collects one log for each of his victims . . .”

“Why, he practices his swing . . .”

Just then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of movement. Her heart racing, Myrtle followed that flicker, and she froze.

Tall and attired in the same midnight shades as when they’d met that morn, there could be no mistaking the bear of a figure strolling through his courtyard. He strode with a brisk purpose; against his shoulder rested . . .

Myrtle gasped. “Surely not,” she said, her voice shaking slightly from cold but mostly from fear. She pressed the tip of her nose to the frosted windowpanes. Still unable to catch a clear glimpse of him, she rubbed her palm frantically over the glass, scraping away the ice fragments so she might see clearly.

Because then she’d have confirmation that her mind had run amok with fear this night, and irrationality had shoved out all the grand logic and reason she’d worked on honing these past years.

She froze.

Only, her eyes did not deceive.

Her gaze homed in on the gleaming metal propped against that enormous shoulder.

An axe.

“He’s killed servant after servant . . .”

Stop it.

He was absolutely not a killer.

He had a dog.

Of all the uncertainties in the world, the one thing one could always rely on were those people who loved pups.

And the Duke of Aragon was a man who clearly loved his dog.

Albeit a wolflike dog certainly capable of tearing a person’s limbs off if it so wished, and his master so commanded. But that was neither here nor there.

She’d already gone over all this in her mind.

He was a lonely fellow. Surly and brooding and angry.