When he'd been abandoned on his father's doorstep, Helena, Devil's mother, had stunned everyone by claiming him as her own. In doing so, she'd given him his place in the ton-no one, even now, would risk her displeasure, or that of the entire Cynster clan, by so much as hinting he was not who she claimed he was. His father's legitimate son. Instinctively shrewd, ebulliently generous, Helena had secured for him his position in society's elite, for which, in his heart, he had never ceased to thank her.

The woman whose bones lay beneath this cold stone had, however, given him life-and he could do nothing to thank her.

Except, perhaps, to live life fully.

His only knowledge of his mother had come from his father, when, in all innocence, he'd asked if his father had loved his mother, Sebastian had ruffled his hair and said: "She was very lovely and very lonely-she deserved more than she got from her marriage." He'd paused, then added: "I felt sorry for her." He'd looked at him, and his slow smile had creased his face "But I love you. I regret her death, but I can't regret your birth."

He could understand how his father had felt-he was, after all, a Cynster to the bone. Family, children, home, and hearth-those were what mattered to Cynsters. Those were their quintessential warrior goals, for them the ultimate victories of life.

For long, silent minutes, he stood before the grave, until the cold finally penetrated his boots. With a sigh, he shifted, then straightened and, after one last, long look, turned and retraced his steps.

What was it his mother had left him? And why, having concealed her bequest all these years, had Seamus summoned him back now, after his own death? Richard rounded the kirk, his stride slow, the sound of his footfalls subsumed by the breeze softly whistling through snow-laden branches. He reached the main path and stepped onto it-and heard crisp, determined footsteps approaching horn beyond the kirk. Halting, he turned and beheld…