CHAPTER 1
Late July， 1835.
Near Glossup Hall， by Ashmore， Dorset.
Hell and the devil!\" Simon Cynster reined in his
bays， his eyes narrowing on the ridge high above
Ashmore village. The village proper lay just
behind him; he was headed for Glossup Hall， a
mile farther along the leafy country lane.
At the rear of the village cottages， the land rose
steeply; a woman was following the path winding
up the berm of what Simon knew to be ancient
earthworks. The views from the top reached as far
as the Solent， and on clear days even to the Isle of
Wight.
It was hardly a surprise to see someone heading
up there.
\"No surprise she hasn t anyone with her， either.\"
Irritation mounting， he watched the dark-haired，
willowy， ineffably graceful figure steadily ascend
the rise， a long-legged figure that inevitably drew
the eye of any man with blood in his veins. He d
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