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wanted to do. A big, deep and miserable sigh.
    The last week had been spent looking for a cleancut solution to her question: Were the characters in the painting real people? But she had found zip. Nada. Rien . Not even the shadow of a clue.
    The high stone walls surrounding New College Lane now threatened her, their few windows offering limited escape to her entrapped mind. Even if she identified the love triangle in The Wounded Cavalier , she didn’t know yet what she was supposed to do about it. Pay them respect?
    She wanted to find their graves, lay flowers upon them and be done with it.
    But she wasn’t sure it would be enough for the Puritan maiden, Sarah, and her Cavalier. Madison had no desire to go on a crusade and seek revenge for them. If what Sarah said was true, and Peter had really killed her, the crime was three hundred years old. Surely, there was an expiration date on vengeance, even for ghosts.
    At the junction with the High Street, she cycled down the busy thoroughfare. Within seconds she regretted leaving her leather gloves behind, forgotten in her room that morning.
    Her hands clutched the handlebars in a frozen grip. She accelerated.
    The weather wasn’t perfect for an excursion to an English country estate. The thought of spending an entire day in Rupert Vance’s company put her on edge. Thank God, Ollie would be with her as well. He had begged her to take him with her to the manor. She had asked Rupert, and he had accepted.
    Brushing away any thought of the coming weekend, she negotiated the buzzing Carfax Tower’s roundabout.
    She entered St. Aldate’s and saw the Puritan.
    She recognized him at once, with his black clothes, tall hat and short, white collar. He stood tall in the middle of the street.
    He looked straight into Madison’s eyes, his unwavering gaze piercing deep into her soul. In slow motion, he moved his right arm forward to bring her to a halt.
    She wrenched the bike aside to avoid colliding with him.
    Her front wheel hit the pavement, and she flew head first over the handlebars. She threw her arms forward to soften her fall, but the burning pain in her elbow knocked the breath out of her.
    A few passersby came to her aid. Madison checked and found that her limbs were still in one piece. Relieved, she turned her head toward where Peter had been standing.
    She didn’t know what was scarier—that he had vanished, or that she knew him by his first name. For she was certain that the man Sarah had warned her against, Peter, was the man in the painting. The one who reeked of jealousy.
    And Sarah was right. Peter wanted Madison harmed, hurt, maybe dead.

Chapter 8
    SHE LAY ON HER bed in a tiny whitewashed room in Pierre Part, at home in Assumption Parish.
    The mosquito net hung over her like a bride’s veil. The thin silk of her nightgown clung to the shape of her body, to the stickiness of her skin. The mucky Louisiana night air wrapped her without escape within its humid blanket.
    A mockingbird, hidden in the oak tree outside her window, sang an enticing melody, hoping the full moon would lead him to his possible mate.
    The man who lay next to her breathed down her neck, and heat radiated along his body and hers. He touched her flesh through her flimsy garment, his chest steel against her back, their legs entwined. His long fingers teased her.
    Her awareness, his proximity, his brushing hypnotized her, as if she were a deer spellbound under the stare of a rattlesnake. Unable to breathe, she didn’t want to move, to startle him. His hand had now slid beneath the material of her gown, caressing her thigh. He owned her.
    His lips titillated the tip of her ear. He groaned. She wanted to scream, not out of fear, but anticipation. He murmured reassuring words, the familiar velvet of his voice barely recognizable. He had always been so protective of her, but she sensed danger now.
    He pulled her onto her back and climbed on top of her. She had kept her eyes closed, but the knowledge of his