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clothing, to show that she was no country fool and to question why a man who could afford Savile Row suits would know a boy who had to go peddling to make his living. She’d ended up taking in the breadth of his shoulders and the strong line of his jaw, and she’d sworn inwardly at the tightening sensation low in her body.
    Then, in those moments when they’d stood facing each other, she’d been damnably aware of his presence, his size, his masculinity. She’d felt it in her blood like wine. She’d wanted to pull him toward her, to taste his mouth and feel the muscles in his back beneath her gripping fingers, to hear the catch of his breath as she took him to the floor.
    When she’d been younger, she might have done it. Even knowing as little as she did about him, even with as much as he shouldn’t know about her, she might have—probably would have—either leaped on the man or at least made him a proposition in no uncertain terms. Back then, pleasure had always been worth the risk.
    Youth was very stupid. Age—she didn’t know what age was except tired and unsettled and beholden to too many talkative people.
    She’d taken care of her body’s immediate urges easily enough. Now, as she stood and leaned her head against the windowpane, she pictured Arundell’s face and felt her excitement return, not as strong as it had been that afternoon, but strong enough.
    A trip to the city wouldn’t help, then. It was like having a bad song in her head. The only way to get it out was to wait or find a worse one.
    Damn.
    At least lusting after Arundell kept her mind off the dreams, now that she was awake.
    It wasn’t the end of the world. She’d desired men before, some of whom it would have been impossible or unwise to bed. Waiting did work. If nothing else, Mr. Arundell was temporary. He’d stay as long as he felt he needed to, or as long as he’d promised his friend he would. Then he’d go back to London: out of sight, out of mind.
    If nothing else, they were all temporary.
    The chill of the floor was no longer comforting, only cold. The half-shaped figures from her dreams had retreated. It generally took them a few months to regroup. Judith crawled back into bed and stretched out, staring up at the canopy overhead.
    The dreams didn’t return. But she still took a long time to get back to sleep.
    * * *
    Morning was easier. It always was. Judith knew the night well and loved it most of the time, but daytime was like the stone walls and the emerald ring—an anchor to solid things, to the present, to the world of men. Human hands hadn’t created the daytime, but human movement and voice shaped it, at least for Judith. As long as she was in the castle, she could almost always hear the sounds of working or talking a short distance away—reminders that life went on and the living were all around her.
    By the time she got through with her morning’s tasks, she didn’t need much more reminding.
    Rain fell outside with a raw edge to it that reminded Judith how close winter really was. She’d have to check that afternoon and see how soon the cold was likely to set in. But that meant two hours in the north wing, which was almost always chilly, and even such a limited vision of the future as the weather left her wrung out. She’d do it in the afternoon, she decided. Meanwhile, she’d put her mind at rest by checking the castle’s stores of food when she gave Mrs. Frasier the day’s menus.
    One of the reasons Judith never felt truly alone during the day was that she could hear voices through fairly thick wood and across a considerable distance. Even before she opened the kitchen door, she knew there was a man in the kitchen, and that while his voice was not entirely English, it was too close to be that of any of the castle staff or most of the villagers. She pushed the door open and, without surprise, saw Ross MacDougal