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head against her heart. It would be easy, so,
so
easy to throw caution to the wind and marry Tristan. Everything in her heart told her to do just that . . . but then she remembered the words of her aunt, of how she had spent her life haunted by the memory of the man she had loved, who had died for loving her. Harriet knew she would rather spend four lifetimes without Tristan than endure one waiting every day for some peril to befall them. She could only hope that someday he would realize the sacrifice she made for him.
    When they arrived at the Rascarrel town house on Charlotte Square, no one was more surprised to see the children of Baron Rascarrel standing on the doorstep than Baron Rascarrel himself.
    As a young man in his twenties, Hugh Drynan Baron Rascarrel had been a gent of the city, an artist struggling to pay the rent painting portraits of wealthy patrons while dreaming of the day when his true heart’s work, landscapes of his native Galloway, might find their own niche among the exhibitions at the renowned galleries.
    It had been a bright spring day much like the present one when he’d gone to a local bookshop seeking inspiration nearly three decades before. Turning a corner, he’d collided, literally, with a woman he thought must surely be a fairy nymph. All fiery red locks and sparkling green eyes, she had cast a spell about him with her smile. Like a dream come true, this vision with the name Viola Macquair Maxwell had asked him if he’d like to take a walk with her around the park.
    A fortnight later they were wed. It made no matter to Sir Hugh if Viola had chosen him for his age or the color of his breeches. He’d been utterly captivated.
    Now in his early fifties, his graying hair brushed forward in the style of the day, Hugh Drynan’s interests in art had turned from that of creating to collecting. His was said to be one of the finest collections in the kingdom, so fine, in fact, he’d recently received a request from the Prince Regent to view it.
    “Harriet?” the baron asked upon seeing his only daughter standing smiling on his doorstep when he’d only just left her a few days earlier in Galloway. “Has something happened?”
    And then he recognized the grin of his long-absent son behind her. “Geoffrey! Lad, you’ve come back!” He threw out his arms to them both.
    “This is a surprise,” he said as he ushered the party of them inside. They withdrew to the parlor where the baron immediately began to quiz Geoffrey about the wars, the Continent, Napoleon, anything to fill the gap of the past years apart while Harriet went off to the kitchen to brew them all some tea.
    “... and there I was in Brussels,” Geoffrey was saying as she brought in the pot and set it on the table, “enjoying a nice bit of French brandy at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball when I looked across the room and spotted Tristan of all people dancing with the duchess’s daughter. We spent the rest of the night catching up. It was like he’d never been away. And then, suddenly, within hours we were marching to battle, fighting side by side. It was all over nearly as quickly as it had begun, and we were coming home.”
    The baron nodded. “Good lad, Tristan Carmichael. Glad to hear he’s made a life for himself after the tragedy of his parents’ accident. Where is he now?”
    “He’s here in Edinburgh actually. Come to see his godfather. He’s planning to reside in Galloway eventually, once things there have been settled.”
    “Settled?” questioned Sir Hugh. “Is something the matter?”
    Geoffrey glanced quickly at Harriet, who was setting out the cup of tea she’d just poured. She frowned at him. “You might as well know, Father, for you’ll no doubt hear about it later. Tristan has asked me to marry him.”
    “Splendid!” The baron beamed. “I hope you said yes.”
    “Actually, no. I refused him.”
    “What? Why . . . ?” And then he realized. “Oh, yes, the prophecy.” He knew the story well, but