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know he did not die as everyone believes."
    "And you expect me to believe this?"
    The icy disbelief in his tone chilled her. "I understand your doubts. That which cannot be explained scientifically is easy to dismiss as fiction. I can only assure you that what I am telling you is true."
    "What did this man you claim was my brother look like?"
    Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, forcing her mind to empty then focus on what she'd seen. "Tall. Broad shouldered. Dark hair."
    "How convenient. You've just described half the men in England, including the Regent himself, who, as I'm sure you know, is very much alive. And it would not be difficult to describe my brother when there is a large portrait of him hanging in the gallery."
    Opening her eyes, she said "I have not seen a portrait. The man I saw looked like you, and he had a scar."
    He stilled and she sensed his sudden tension. 'Scar? Where?"
    "On his upper right arm."
    "Many men bear scars." A muscle in his jaw ticked. "If you think to convince me that you possess some sort of magical powers, you've picked the wrong man to ply with your schemes. Gypsy thieves have roamed Europe for centuries, claiming such powers, lying, hoping to trick foolish people into parting with their gold, and stealing it if they failed."
    Anger shot through her. "I am not a gypsy, a schemer, a thief, or a liar."
    "Indeed? I suppose next you'll tell me you can read minds."
    "Only occasionally." Her gaze dropped to his mouth, which was set in a disdainful line. "I read your thoughts when you touched my hand."
    "Did you? And what was I thinking?"
    "You . . . wished to kiss me."
    He merely raised his brows. "It would not require any special powers to hazard such a guess. My attention was momentarily fixed on your mouth."
    In spite of his casual reply, however, she could feel his tension, his wariness and suspicion—feelings she was well used to discerning. But underneath those, she felt something else that, in spite of her anger, called out to her.
    Loneliness.
    Sadness.
    Guilt.
    They surrounded him like a dark cloak and her heart pinched in sympathy. She knew those feelings all too well, how much they hurt the spirit, ate at the soul.
    She, too, had regrets she wished to atone for. Could she, perhaps, help him? Would that ease her own guilt?
    Determined to convince him she wasn't crazy and that he had truly desired her for a moment, she whispered "You wanted to kiss me. You wondered what I would taste like. You imagined leaning forward, brushing your lips over mine, once, twice. Then you deepened the kiss . . ."
    His eyes flickered, his gaze darkening then dropping to her mouth. "Go on."
    Heat curled through her when she imagined what he'd thought next. . .
    his tongue caressing hers. "I believe I've proven my point."
    "Do you?" Austin regarded her through narrowed eyes. It was one thing to hazard a guess that he'd thought about kissing her, but it was damned odd that her words had so exactly mirrored his thoughts.
    Jesus, what if she were right? What if William was alive? Impossible, illogical hope rushed forward with such force he nearly staggered, but sanity quickly returned. Several soldiers had witnessed William going down in battle. Even though the gunshot wound had destroyed his face, he'd been positively identified by the engraved timepiece found under his body.
    There was no mistake. William was dead. If he wasn't, he would have contacted his family and come home.
    Unless he were a traitor to the crown.
    His mind reeled. It was damned suspicious that Miss Matthews made this claim on the heels of the disturbing note he'd received a fortnight ago, a note that confirmed his worst fears regarding William's loyalty to the crown. Could she know something about that letter or William's war activities? Might she know something about the Frenchman he'd seen with William?
    How had she known about the scar? William had a small scar on his upper right arm, a trophy from a childhood riding mishap. Could