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chilly wine cellar below the butler's pantry. She paid no mind to the dusty rows of bottles, hurrying past them until she found what she sought—a door half hidden in the corner, tucked behind stacks of barrels.
    She knocked on it, two short raps, a pause, then three more. For a moment, she heard nothing, and her heart pounded with apprehension. The house seemed peaceful and secure, but what if something had happened in her absence?
    What if Will Denton really did know?
    At last, she heard the metallic scrape of the lock, and the heavy door swung open. A man stood there, outlined by the glow from the lamps set amid the jumbled books and papers on a table. He wore a loose banyan coat over his shirt and breeches, his brown hair tumbled as if from sleep. But his smile was full of relief.
    "Mr. O'Connor," Eliza said. She slipped into the room, closing the door behind her. 'Tm sorry to interrupt your rest I know you need it after such a long journey."
    "Not at all, Lady Mount Clare," he answered. "I've been waiting for what feels like ages! Tell me, what news from the outside? What is happening?"
    Eliza sighed. How could she tell him, poor man, that she bore no good tidings as of yet? That Major Denton and his regiment had come to Ireland.
     
    Chapter 2
    Blast all women! Will pounded his fist on the cold, unyielding stone of the balustrade, frustration and anger and unwelcome lust all tangled up inside of him.
    Blast Elizabeth Blacknall above all.
    He braced his hands on the balustrade, closing his eyes against the force of his emotions. Emotions were useless; they only got in the way when there was a job to be done. Just as women with flashing dark eyes and deep secrets were a fatal distraction.
    He opened his eyes, staring down at the street below. Yet, he did not see the few passing carriages, didn't hear the music and laughter from the bright ballroom behind him. He could see only Eliza.
    She had been a pretty girl. Now she was a beautiful woman, far beyond any vision of her he had cherished over the years. Oh, she was not beautiful like the society misses his mother kept pressing him to wed. Not soft and pale and sweet, with blond ringlets and pink cheeks. Eliza was dark, with glossy hair and those eyes—those eyes so black and unreadable, hiding and promising so much. She was as slim as a reed in her fine gown, almost delicate-seeming, yet he well remembered how she could ride and run faster and farther than anyone.
    That spirit that drew him to her, even as he knew well he should stay away, still burned within her. That daring and quickness, and that independence. Marriage had not doused her flame. But did she use all that spirit now for treason?
    "Damn it, Eliza," he muttered. "Why will you not listen to me?" She had never listened to him when they were young, never wanted to hear his reasons for going into the army. Not so much had changed over the years after all.
    He frowned, thinking back to those long-ago days. Eliza had been enthralled by the idea of "Ireland" back then, had avidly read books on Celtic history and culture, even corresponded with members of the Dublin Society. Now he heard tell she belonged to the Society herself, read the Hibernian Journal and received a most strange assortment of visitors at her grand Henrietta Street house. Radicals, artists, Catholics. Rebels?
    So much had changed in Dublin since he left. He felt it everywhere he went, in the very air he breathed. People stared at his uniform in either barely concealed distaste or in awe, as if he was a savior. A protector from the howling masses. Everywhere there was an atmosphere of hectic gaiety, a sense that a conflagration was about to burst out and burn them all to ashes.
    Broadsheets and green streamers were torn down from walls only to appear again. Bodies were fished from the river. Terrified landowners barricaded themselves in their houses. Rumors raced of French invasions and innocents killed in their beds.
    His home, whose cool green