She nodded. “Many came via the cliffs.”

“Hmm.” He set off in that direction, but listened intently; after a fractional hesitation, she followed. “We might have to open up some of the older gates-we usually only have the main one open, but with lots of people streaming in, the forecourt entry arch might get too crowded.”

“If you do”-he’d slowed enough for her to come up beside him-“you’ll need to put men-burly ones-on watch at each gate.” She grimaced and glanced at him. “After the first year here, we realized that multiple entries also meant multiple exits, and although most of those who attend are law-abiding, the festival is well known and attracts a small coterie of…”

“Poachers, scavengers and outright rogues?”

She grinned fleetingly. “Thieves and pickpockets mostly. We found that the best method to discourage them was to have men on watch visible at each entry. That was enough to deter them.”

He nodded. “We’ll do that.”

They reached the edge of the trees; a wide expanse of clifftop, verdant and green, opened up before them with the sea an encircling mantle of blue slate that stretched to the horizon. Just out from shore, a light breeze kicked up small white horses, sending them rollicking over the waves.

He slowed to an amble, but continued walking; she went with him, reluctantly perhaps but, like him, drawn to the view. To the incomparable sensation of standing just back from the cliff edge and feeling, experiencing, the raw, primal power of the windswept cliffs, the ever-churning sea and the sky, huge and impossibly wide, careening above.

It was an elemental magic any Cornishman responded to. Any Cornishwoman.

They halted, stood and looked. Drank in the sheer, incredible beauty, harsh, bleak, yet always so alive. To their left, Black Head rose, a dark mass marking the end of the wide bay. Far to their right, almost directly opposite where they stood, the castle sat above the western shore, keeping watch for invaders as it had for centuries.

Even as late as the early half of the previous year, there’d been a watch kept from the towers.

Unbidden, unexpected, Gervase felt a visceral tug, a grasping that went to the bone. A recognition. This was the first time since he’d returned to England that he’d stood on the cliffs like this.

And, for the first time, he truly felt he’d come home.

He knew she stood beside him, but he didn’t look at her, simply stood and gazed out at the waves, and let the sensation of home, the place of his ancestors, claim him.

Madeline glanced at him. He stood to her right, between her and the castle; when she looked his way, she saw him with the distant battlements and towers as a backdrop.

An appropriate setting.

She would have wondered at his absorption, but she knew what had caught him, could sympathize. She came to the cliffs often herself, to the places like this where cliff, wind, sea and sky met, and melded.

It was in the blood, his as much as hers. She’d forgotten that, for not every soul was attuned to the magic, to the wild song the elements wrought.

She followed his gaze, and was content, in that moment, to simply stand and know. And, unexpectedly, share the knowing.

Eventually he stirred, and faced her. His eyes searched hers, and she realized he, too, had sensed the mutual connection, but didn’t know how to speak of it.

“It’s powerful.” She gestured all-encompassingly. “The essence of nature’s wildness.”

His lips quirked; he glanced out again. “Yes. That it is.”

And it lived in each of them.

Feeling the tug of the breeze, she raised her hands to her hair, verifying that it was a tangled mess. She gave a disgusted sound that had his head turning her way. “We’d better get back.”

He grinned, but swung to follow as she retreated toward the path.

“I tell you there has to be something. It stands to reason.”

Both she and Gervase halted and turned back to the cliff edge. The breeze rushed off the sea and up the cliff face, carrying voices-familiar voices-in its current.

“We’ll have to search further afield.”

“Lots of caves, after all.”

The last comment came in a light, piping voice.

Frowning, Madeline started back.

Gervase’s hand closed over her arm, staying her.

When she looked at him, he shook his head. “You don’t want to startle them.”

She looked back at the cliff edge, and bit her lip. He’d spoken softly; when he tugged, she let him draw her further back so her brothers, climbing the narrow, dangerous cliff path, wouldn’t see them until they’d stepped safely onto the clifftop.

First one bright head, then a second, and eventually a third-Harry, bringing up the rear-appeared. Madeline breathed a little sigh of relief; Gervase’s restraining hand fell away and she walked forward.

“Oh!” Edmond was the first to see her. Guilt-she was expert at detecting it-flashed across his face, but then he saw Gervase. Edmond brightened. “Hello.” He bobbed politely.

The greeting was echoed by Ben, who had all but jumped when he’d seen her. Harry, rather more controlled, nodded and said, “Good morning.”

Gervase acknowledged the three with an easy smile. “Hunting for something?” he asked, before she could demand.

The younger boys looked to Harry.

“Ah…birds’ nests,” he offered.

Gervase raised his brows. He believed that no more than Madeline. “A bit late in the season.”

“Well, yes,” Edmond said, “but we’ve only just got back from school so we thought it was worth checking.”

Three angelic faces smiled at him, looking from him to Madeline.

Gervase glanced at Madeline. Her expression was severe, but…although she knew she was being lied to, she was suppressing her reaction.

“It’s tea time,” Ben stated. “We were going in for scones.”

Lips compressing, Madeline nodded; stepping out of their way, she waved them on. “Off you go, then.”

They went, with telltale alacrity.

She watched, then sighed. “They’re up to something-I know it.”

Gervase fell in beside her as she started back more slowly along the path. “Of course they are-they’re boys.”

“Indeed.” She cast him a sharp glance. “You probably understand better than I do.”

His lips quirked. “Very likely.” After a moment, he added, “You didn’t call their bluff.”

They walked through the clearing; he thought she wasn’t going to respond, but then she said, “If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s never to force a confession or an accounting. They’ll either tell me the truth of their own accord…or whatever they tell me won’t be worth a damn.”

Truer words were never spoken. Gervase inclined his head. They trailed the boys back to the house; he had a strong suspicion about what they were up to, and it had nothing whatever to do with birds.

He’d spoken a little with Harry at the castle two nights before; the lad had reminded him of his cousin Christopher, he who had died of consumption unexpectedly, leaving Gervase as his uncle’s heir. Gervase had been a few years older, and like him Christopher had been a child of this coast. He’d been as adventurous as Gervase, yet underneath there’d been a quiet seriousness, as if he’d always known that at some point the responsibility of the earldom would fall on his shoulders.

Gervase had seen the same combination of traits in Harry, adventurousness running hand-in-hand with an acceptance of fate. He couldn’t see Harry leading his brothers into any truly dangerous enterprise.

Sometimes, however, danger wore a disguise.

They reached the house; he held the door open for Madeline, then followed her in. She led him into the front hall, then turned to give him her hand. “If you have any further questions about the festival, I’ll be happy to answer as best I can.”

Closing his fingers about her hand-not shaking it as she’d expected-he smiled. “I’ll bear that in mind.” Lowering his voice, he said, “I suspect your brothers are hunting for the smugglers’ caves.”

Her lips tightened. “I think so, too.”

“If you like…I still have excellent contacts with the local fraternity. I can mention the boys’ interest-they’re unlikely to come to any harm if the locals know they might stumble on them.”

The local smuggling gangs were one arena of male activity to which she would never, ever gain admittance; she would never know who was involved, let alone be invited to join, as every male in the locality, especially those of the major houses, usually were.

Her eyes narrowed as she searched his. “It must be some time since you sailed with any of them.”

“On a run? More than a decade.” He hesitated, then admitted, “But I had other, more recent reasons for keeping those contacts alive. I know all the leaders along this stretch of coast, and they will all talk, and listen, to me.”

He watched her put two and two together, and come up with a revealing answer. Over the years he’d been away “fighting Boney,” he’d reappeared now and then, when his father had died, and Christopher, and later his uncle, and then again to install Sybil and his sisters at the castle, and put his agents and stewards in charge of the estate.

Her eyes widened; her lips formed a soundless “Oh.” Refocusing on his face, she hesitated for an instant more, then nodded. “If it’s no trouble…I would like to know that they don’t need to fear anything from that direction.” Meeting his eyes, she grimaced. “While I would much rather they didn’t get involved in such exploits, I might as well try to hold back the waves.”

“Indeed.” He hadn’t released her fingers. Now he raised them; closing his other palm gently over her hand, he lifted the slender digits to his lips and pressed a light kiss to their backs.

Her eyes went wide; her breathing suspended.