“But it’s early!” Brandy said, her young voice lifting up over the others.

  “You can read for a while, or watching something on your laptop,” Sabrina said. “It sounds as though you need some quiet time after this afternoon’s adventure.” Her voice was firm. “Go on up now, honey.”

  Brandy came through the kitchen door and grimaced at Nick. “I’m being sent packing. It’s not fair.”

  Nick held himself to a smile. Laughing at the girl wouldn’t help her feel any less indignant. “At least you’re allowed to read. It could be worse.”

  She scowled at him, her pert nose wrinkling and stalked toward the stairs.

  Nick went into the kitchen.

  All four of them—Sabrina, Ny, Jake and Damien—were sitting at the big oak table. The remains of Brandy’s supper were pushed to the other end.

  Nick dropped into the chair Damien pulled out for him.

  “Start again, Sabrina,” Damien told her.

  Sabrina looked at Nick. “I was just telling them about the man we saw this afternoon, at the Victorian Market. It was kind of creepy, actually.”

  “What man?”

  “Well, for about three minutes, both Riley and I would have sworn blind that the man was Damien. Riley even walked up to him and grabbed his arm to find out what the hell he was doing in Inverness when she had left him home in Aviemore looking after Chloe.”

  “He really looked that much like me?” Damien asked.

  “He really did,” Sabrina said. “As I said, it was a bit creepy. He’s got slightly shorter and neater hair than you, Damien. I noticed it straight away and figured you’d got a haircut while you were out. It’s what we both thought…that you’d come into Inverness for it. His eyes, his face, even his hands, were exactly you.” Sabrina licked her lips. “Then he started talking.”

  “Scottish accent,” Ny said, his voice rumbling.

  “Worse. He used Gaelic and he seemed really pissed at us.” Sabrina frowned. “Then he dropped into thick English and said he didn’t know us from a bar of soap—that’s what he said. Riley apologized and explained he looked like her husband, so sorry. Then we got the hell out of there. I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite so stupid.”

  Riley’s hand fell on Nick’s shoulder and squeezed. He got to his feet and pushed her gently into his chair.

  “That’s it?” Jake asked, frowning. “Someone who looks a bit like Damien?”

  Nick cleared away the dishes at the end of the table and put them on the stone sink, then sat in the only remaining chair.

  “No, really. It wasn’t just a passing resemblance,” Riley said. “If I didn’t know they were one of the few myths that don’t really exist, I would have said he was a Doppelganger.”

  Damien glanced at Nick and Nick could guess his thoughts. “It might be possible,” he told him. “Hamish was close enough to you in appearance that I thought he was you.”

  “Who is Hamish?” Riley asked. “I’ve never heard you talk about him before.”

  “Are you saying Doppelgangers are real, after all?” Jake said.

  “Doppelgangers are a modern myth the Germans invented,” Nyanther said dismissively. He looked from Damien to Nick. “Has your past swung around to bite your ass?”

  “Something like that,” Nick said.

  “That’s right, you both lived up here for a while in the thirteenth century,” Jake said slowly.

  Nick looked at him in surprise and Jake pointed at Nyanther. “He told me.”

  “How did you know?” Nick directed his question at Nyanther. “You were sleeping in Galloway at the time.”

  “Damien mentioned it,” Nyanther said and shrugged. “I remembered when we moved back up here. Garten is just up the road a bit from here.”

  “So it seems Sabrina and I are the only ones who don’t know the story,” Riley said. “Time to talk,” she added, looking at Damien.

  Damien cleared his throat, his gaze flickering away from her. Nick knew from the way he was holding his shoulders that he was feeling awkward and cornered.

  Sabrina shook her head. “No, don’t tell us it’s in the past and should stay there. If it’s personal, yucky stuff, you can glide over the intimate details. You don’t get to toe the sand this time and make excuses.”

  Riley was staring at him. Nick began to clear his throat and stopped. Damien had done that and if he repeated it, it would tell Riley far too much about his uneasy internal state.

  “We can always change the subject,” Riley said, her voice even and her gaze relentless. “We could talk about how Brandy and Chloe disappeared for over an hour and none of you could find them. Or we could talk about how they slipped away from you in the first place.”

  Nyanther’s gaze fell to the table and stayed there.

  Jake grinned at Nick. “Do us all a favor,” he said. “Tell the story.”

  “Damien is a better story-teller,” Nick pointed out.

  Damien wouldn’t meet his gaze.

  “Coward,” Nick told him softly.

  “Absolutely,” Damien said, with a nod.

  Chapter Two

  In the Year of Our Lord 1212, Richard the Lionhearted’s little brother John had been King of England for just over twelve years and failing miserably in the role. In the eyes of the nobles, John was a self-centered ruler concerned only with filling his purse and enjoying life in a way he had never been able to while under the dominion of his powerful mother, Eleanor, and the shadow of his glorious brother Richard.

  In order to shore up his allies and defenses against the grumbling lords, John met with the Scottish king, William, at Norham Castle, to renew their agreement with some added interest, including the hand of John’s daughter for William’s son.

  Nicolas had been living on the outskirts of Edinburgh for nearly a year. Norham was only just south of the Scottish border and far too close to Edinburgh for his comfort. John’s men, lolling about the castle waiting for an agreement to be reached between the two kings, could easily take it upon themselves to travel to the Scottish city and the delights it offered. Nick couldn’t risk being seen, for John and all his loyal knights believed Nick had died, twenty-five years before.

  Nick decamped and wandered, always heading vaguely north, away from John and the danger of discovery, with no destination in mind. He’d lacked direction for over a year and barely noticed the aimlessness now. Eventually, he arrived in Inverness, to find the town in turmoil, for the Scottish king had arrived only the day before and had settled into the keep for Christmas. While Nick had taken his sweet, wandering time heading north, the King had hurried back to the highlands at full speed as soon as negotiations had been concluded and had by-passed Nick.

  There were too many sharp-eyed soldiers and officers here, too. Nick reluctantly decided the rich hunting in the thriving town would have to be left alone. He needed to move on. Again.

  The day was cool and crisp but sunny, with open blue skies, that made it pleasant to sit upon the bench outside one of the two inns on the west side of the Ness while he considered his immediate future.

  The main road into and out of the city flowed past the inn’s door and helped build its business. It also let Nick monitor new arrivals. Until he was quit of the city, he would stay wary.

  He spotted a familiar face among those he was scanning and straightened up on his bench, the beginnings of a cool anger curling through him. “Hamish!” he called loudly.

  Hamish did not look toward him, although several startled passers-by did.

  Nick got to his feet as Hamish strode past, ignoring him. Indignation built. Hamish had been insistent that he was going home for Christmas, to spend time with his wife and children.

  “No more carousing with foot soldiers and gamblers!” Hamish had declared, tucking his release from the King’s army back under his shirt. “I’m going back to the simple life. The river and the glen, the forest and the mountain air…ah, I long to see my beloved. My young’un be seven years old and I’ve not seen him for naught but a day or two of those years.”

  That conversation had taken place inside another inn, in Edinburgh, three months ago.

  Now the man was strolling along the busiest street of Inverness, wearing fine clothes and a superior air that denied any desire for home and hearth. Had he lied to Nick? Had he been trying to avoid inviting him to travel back to the highlands with him? It would have been natural and polite to extend such an invitation, as they had been friends for nearly a year.

  “Hamish!” Nick called again and turned to follow him. It was easy to keep him in sight, for Hamish was a tall man, with dark hair that curled and gleamed in the sun and showed above the heads of all others, despite hats and helmets, hoods and more bobbing along the well-trafficked street.

  Nick caught up with him and grabbed his shoulder. “I thought you were going home to your river and glen?” he demanded, turning him.

  Hamish stared at him, showing genuine surprise. “What did you say?” He had a stranger’s accent. It wasn’t even the mangled vowels of an Englishman.

  Nick dropped his hand, his wariness rising higher. Had he stumbled into someone else’s deception, one quite separate from the great sham he lived every day? Would he ruin others’ plans if he insisted upon being acknowledged?

  He took a step back. “My apologies, my good sir. You resemble a friend of mine. Now I see I am mistaken.” He said it loudly, for the benefit of anyone who might be watching.

  It would leave things up to Hamish. If he could acknowledge Nick, he would. If he could not, he could agree that Nick was a fool, turn and leave with little harm done.

  Hamish frowned. His forehead, tanned from years of living the outdoor life of a foot soldier in William’s army, furrowed. His black eyes examined Nick closely.

  Nick gave him a short bow, merely a nod of the head. “I will leave you in peace.”

  As he moved away, Hamish grabbed his wrist to halt him.

  Nick did stop and look back.

  Hamish was staring down at his wrist, though. He brought it up between them. “You are cool to the touch,” he said softly.

  A normal man wouldn’t have heard it above the noisy passers-by. Nick did, though. His heart gave a little jump in startled recognition.

  Hamish’s frown deepened and he let Nick’s wrist go. “Is there somewhere where we can talk in private?” The accent remained in place, without a hint of brogue in it. “I am a stranger to this place,” he added.

  “As am I,” Nick said. “The inn behind us is busy, although a table in the corner, if we speak quietly, will be just as private as a seat by a hearth.”

  “The hearth sounds more inviting,” Hamish said and shivered. “This place is cold…and I thought England was wretchedly chilly.”

  For the first time, Nick wondered if this was Hamish, after all.

  “If it is an inn, then it will have accommodations,” the man said. “We can take a room and speak with complete security.” He touched Nick’s shoulder. “Come.”

  Nick wanted to protest. The supply of coins Israfel had left behind was dwindling. A room in an inn would eat into the supply more thoroughly than he cared for.

  Hamish’s eyes narrowed and once more, his gaze flickered from Nick’s toes back to his face. “I will pay for the room,” he added.

  Relief touched Nick and the relaxation of tension in his belly and chest annoyed him. He was the son of a duke. By rights, no man could judge him as this one had.

  It didn’t take away the man’s offering of warmth and shelter from the rain. It would also answer the mystery of who he was. Grudgingly, Nick followed the taller man back through the pedestrians to the door of the inn.

  * * * * *

  The innkeeper brought a steaming pot of mulled wine and an aged cheese, which he placed on the stool between them. The smell of the wine was delicious, making Nick’s throat close over. He regretted, as he still often did, that he could not partake of it.

  Hamish—the man whom Nick had thought was Hamish—paid the innkeeper and shut the door on him, then came back to the fire. He looked down at the wine and cheese and shook his head. “We will have to find a way to dispose of both before we leave.”

  “You will not drink with me, then?” Nick asked. It wasn’t the first time his company had been met with such caution and it would not be the last. He tightened his internal defenses against the insult, least it fester inside him.

  “I can no more drink the wine than you can.” The man turned the leather chair to face Nick rather than the fire and sat in it. He considered Nick for a moment, then raised his upper lip, just enough for Nick to see the fangs descend. Then he retracted them and gave Nick a small smile. “There are so many more of us in this northern land, yet you are the first I have seen in such…dire circumstances.”

  Shame made Nick’s cheeks burn and him to forget his astonishment. He swallowed the shame. He accepted it. His life, in truth, was dire and had been so a long while. “You speak frankly,” he said, his voice strained.

  “We are of the blood,” the man said. “Speaking plain truth is a luxury we can only afford among our own.”

  Nick let his gaze drift over the man, taking in the rich details, the good linen, the gold pin at the man’s shoulder, holding his cloak in place. The heavy purse at his hip. The fine blade on the other and the knife hanging from the belt. The knife was oddly crafted. It had a hand guard that was split in the middle, giving space for the hand to slide under it. It was longer than a normal table knife, too.

  The man’s fine appointments made Nick want to smooth out and disguise the rough fabric of his own robe and shift his feet to hide the wear on his boots.

  Hamish had been a simple foot soldier. None of these fineries would have been within his reach, either.

  “Who are you?” Nick demanded.

  The man smiled. “I am not your friend Hamish. I’m sure you have arrived at that conclusion already.”

  “I have.”

  “Do I really look so similar?” he asked curiously.

  Nick considered him again. The clear, dark eyes, the fine flesh, the firm chin. “Yes,” he said flatly. “You are closer in looks than twin brothers could be.”

  “I believe you may have solved a dilemma for me. My name is Damien.”

  “Nicholas of Bradford,” Nick said shortly.

  Damien considered him again. “Your accent says you are high born and not a son of the Scots, either.”

  Nick could feel his cheeks heating again. “I was,” he made himself say.

  “So when you say Bradford...?”

  “My father was the Duke of Bradford.”

  Damien stared. “A duke….” He shook his head. “What was your maker thinking? The child of a lord of the realm….”

  Nick’s heart slipped his control. It was beating hard enough to hurt. “Israfel didn’t know who I was.”

  “Israfel?” Damien sighed. “That’s explains much. He always has been selfish and reckless.”

  Nick wanted to protest, to defend Israfel’s actions, but the last hard year had burned out any kindly thoughts he’d once had about his maker. Now, he could see his turning the way Damien had instantly judged it.

  Damien leaned forward, his hands linked between his knees, his elbows resting on the fine linen robe. “Israfel quite likely knew exactly who you were, Nicholas. It would have made it more satisfying for him to take the son of a powerful man like that.” He grimaced. “Do not judge all of us to be like Israfel. He was born a rebel and has not stopped fighting imaginary foe.”

  “What were you born as, then?”

  “Me? As all the men in my time were, I was a warrior.”

  “A soldier?”

  Damien smiled. “A knight, in your terms. You were educated, Nicholas? You can read and write?”

  “The monks taught me.”

  “Then, do you know of a land called Sparta, in ancient Greece?”

  “Yes!” Nick was almost jolted back to long, hot days in his childhood, bent over thick leather volumes he was forbidden from touching directly, following the finger of the monk, slowly reading the Latin phrases. “I do know of that history….” He heard the words repeat in his head. “History,” he said again. “You are that old?”

  Damien smiled. “I suspect I am younger than you, Nicholas of Bradford. Yet I have wandered a great many lands and times while remaining this young. I have come here in search of my descendants, who made the crossing a century ago.”

  “You had children…” Nicholas tried to rid himself of the useless resentment that rose.

  “A single child.” Damien’s smile faded. “I never saw him. He was born while I was at war and that was the battle I died in. I suppose I have been following his seed since then, to apologize for my failure.” Then his mouth curled up again. “Besides, it gives a man something to do.”

  The observation jolted Nick. Something to do had long been missing from his days.

  Damien spotted his reaction, for he frowned again. “Israfel did you no favors, the cur. Did he not explain to you the way of taking on another life, of passing among humans properly?”

  Nick realized he was frowning as heavily as Damien. “Taking a life? You mean…murder? Is what we are forced to do to humans not bad enough?”

  Damien sighed. “Then he ill-equipped you for the life he made you take. One day, I will make him pay for his thoughtlessness.”

  “I would rather return that favor myself,” Nick said shortly.

  Damien laughed. “It would be more appropriate, wouldn’t it? Very well. One day, we will find Israfel and have a conversation with him. That is for the future, though. For now, we have work to do. Do you even have a name you are using to pass among humans in this time?”

  Nick shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He felt ignorant and foolish. “What is wrong with my own name?”

  “It is a name that humans would still remember,” Damien said sharply. “What year were you made?”

  “Eleven eighty-seven,” Nick said shortly.

  “Not enough time has passed yet for you to return to being yourself.” Damien shook his head. “Damn the man. He denied you even the most basic knowledge to survive.”