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imagine how Grant Dunmore, whose
     palatial town house had been the envy of all Society, had lived so long in a crumbling, damp castle on an island in the middle
     of the sea. The glitter and gossip, the battle for power and wealth, the life of the city had been such a part of him. Yet
     here he lived like a hermit, or a demon locked up in an enchanted cell.
    “Oh, don’t be silly,” Caroline whispered to herself. She was a somber widow, a bluestocking who everyone said must be immune
     to fanciful romance. Grant had come here to nurse his wounds, and if he found he preferred solitary study to the clamor of
     city life—well, she could understand that. She just wouldn’t have thought it of Grant Dunmore.
    And the tragic tale of Bessie the housemaid—it was just a sad accident. Wasn’t it?
    A loud bang of thunder rattled the windows, and Caroline jumped at the sudden boom.
    “Surely anyone would become a little strange living in such a place,” Caroline said. She would just have to leave before it
     affected her any more than it already had. She had to get away from Grant before
he
affected her any more. She was already talking to herself.
    She stared at the row of books in front of her, but she could only see his face, gilded by the candlelight as he laid her
     on the bed. She again felt his hands on her skin, so warm and strong. He had always been so handsome, almost otherworldly,
     but the scars made him more human. They also reminded her of how ruthless he could be—how she always had to be careful of
     him.
    Caroline pushed away the thought of Grant, yet she couldn’t entirely push away the strange, almost frightening hold he had
     over her still. She should not have come here. She came seeking
The Chronicle,
which she needed so much. But was it the only thing she sought on Muirin Inish?
    “Of course it is,” she said firmly. She drew several thick volumes of Celtic mythology from the shelf and took them to the
     table set up by the fire. She didn’t want to sit at the desk near the windows, which was surely Grant’s own. She wanted distance
     from him, even when he was not there in person.
    She managed to lose herself in the old, familiar tales of the Tuatha dé Dananns for a few hours, only pausing when Maeve brought
     her tea and later a tray of sandwiches. The maid seemed embarrassed by her earlier confidences and scurried away as fast as
     she could.
    Caroline was still reading when the clock on the mantel struck the hour. She looked up, startled, and realized how much time
     had passed. And Grant had not returned.
    She stood and stretched her shoulders, stiff from bending over the books so long. The rain still poured down outside the windows,
     and the sky looked even darker past the wavy old glass. What could he be doing out in such weather all day? Perhaps he was
     as eager to avoid Caroline as she was to avoid him. But that didn’t mean he needed to catch a chill. The castle was so vast
     surely they didn’t have to see each other at all.
    But Caroline knew that if Grant was in the house somewhere, she would be drawn to see what he was doing. To see that he was
     really and truly there after all these years.
    She drifted to the window to stare out at the rain. The library didn’t face the sea as her chamber did. It looked out over
     a tangled, windswept garden. Gnarled vines were twisted over narrow pathways, and flower beds spilled out from their borders
     in sodden profusion. In the distance, through the mist, she glimpsed a little stone cottage. Pale light glowed from one of
     the windows like a beacon.
    Who was out there? Caroline determined that once the storm eased she would go find out. The island seemed full of mysteries
     both great and small, just waiting to be discovered. The cottage, the tower, the ancient monastic ruins that she longed to
     see…
    Well, maybe she would not go up in that tower. It seemed too frightening even for her.
    Caroline turned away from the window and went