You’re the one, Julia.

The masculine whisper rippled through Julia Fairfield, tingling her skin as though she had been touched by a warm breath. She glanced over her shoulder, her heart hammering. From the edge of the cliff where she sat the ground sloped down to a wide expanse of open field before reaching a dark expanse of woodlands. To the west the rugged slopes of Ben Cuimhne rose like a great beast awakening in the moonlight. No one was in sight. Nothing stood near, except an ancient oak stationed like a lone sentinel on the edge of the cliffs.

“Jet lag,” she whispered, shaking her head. She stood and stretched, easing the tension from her shoulders.

Mist swirled in from the sea, climbing the rocky cliffs until it curled around her feet like an affectionate feline. Filmy strands of mist entwined the branches of the oak, silken veils abandoned to the breeze. In the distance to the southeast, gray stones rose, forming a rugged structure at the edge of the cliffs. Countless spires, turrets, and towers reached upward toward the face of the full moon. Mist swirled in from the sea, curling around the base of the castle, severing its ties to earth.

Dunmore Castle didn’t merely look like something from another century. It looked as though it came from another world, where magic ruled the realm. The story of Brigadoon came to mind. Julia could easily believe Dunmore appeared for only one day every hundred years. Why did it seem so familiar?

Although she had accompanied her grandmother on trips to visit her friend Helen Bainbridge in the past, they had always stayed at Helen’s estate in Devonshire. This year, Helen had invited Julia, her grandmother, and Julia’s niece to spend the summer with her at Dunmore. From the first moment Julia had glimpsed the castle, an odd sense of déjà vu had gripped her.

She frowned, taking note of how far she had walked from the castle. The mist had already started swirling over the path she had taken along the cliff top. Even though the path was rough, littered with stones and clumps of grass, the hike had been lovely—golden light from the setting sun glinting on the rippling dark waves, cool air kissed with salt brushing her face—a treat from the summer heat of Illinois. The hike was exactly what she had needed to ease the tension in limbs that had spent too much time confined in an airplane, a train, a taxi, and, finally, a boat. Getting to the Isle of Mist off the coast of Scotland had required nearly every form of transportation available to man.

She hadn’t really intended to stay on the cliff quite this long. Her gaze plunged two hundred feet to the shoreline, where rugged masses of rock peeked through a thickening field of vapor. The crash of water pounding the rocks carried on the mist, bringing the sound of waves so close they seemed to crash against her.

Her throat tightened when she thought of the hike back. More than once she had nearly tripped on a clump of grass, and that was when she could see the ground beneath her feet. She should have paid closer attention to the incoming fog. She shouldn’t have lingered so long.

“You cannot go back that way. It’s too treacherous.”

Julia gasped and pivoted in the direction of that deep, masculine voice. At first, she thought her mind was playing tricks with her again. No one was there. Moonlight shimmered on the mist, a glimmering column piercing the filmy veil. Then the gossamer strands swirled, as though caught in a slow exhalation of breath. Moonlight shifted with the mist, a shimmering spotlight on a darkened stage. Pale vapor parted, filmy curtains drawing away as a man materialized from the mist.

Julia stared transfixed, unable to move in spite of a small voice shouting in her brain Run! She was not a child. She was not frightened, she told herself, though the gooseflesh rising on her arms disputed that fact.

He moved closer, the moonlight revealing his features. Dark hair fell in undisciplined waves to the white fabric covering his broad shoulders. Dark brown eyes regarded her with a hint of mischief, a blatantly male look that kicked her blood into a mad dash through her veins. He wasn’t merely handsome. The word was far too simple for the complexity of his appeal.

An artist had sculpted the high blades of his cheekbones, the slim straight line of his nose, the full curve of his lips, the intriguing cleft in his chin. The mist glowed around him, as if radiating the power of this man. A soft scent of leather and sandalwood teased her senses as he paused before her, so close she could have touched his cheek. She didn’t, even though she wanted so very much to touch him. She certainly did not go around caressing the faces of strangers. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew this man. She felt that truth reach deep into her soul. Yet reason told her she had never in her life met him before. No one would meet this man and forget him.

“You will get yourself killed if you’re not careful.”

His words were colored with a deep Scottish burr. Not so thick and slurred that she had trouble understanding, as she had with several people at the train station, but a soft lilt that could make a recitation of dictionary entries as fascinating as Shakespeare. Recollection nibbled at the corner of her mind, like a distant, half remembered memory trying to work its way out of the shadows. Why did he seem so familiar?

He tilted his head, black brows lifting over his stunning eyes. “Did you fall, lass? Bump your head?”

It was then she realized she was staring. With her mouth open. She snapped her mouth closed, then realized she needed to reply. “No. I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”

He frowned. “You’ll be perfectly dead if you keep running about like a goose without a head. One misstep and you’ll be explaining to St. Pete why he should be allowing hen- witted females to be entering the pearly gates.”

Julia stiffened. “Hen-witted females?”

“That’s fair enough, considering where you’re standing.”

He grinned, and she nearly forgot her indignation. Nearly. “I didn’t realize the fog was coming in.”

“At this time of night the cliff walk isn’t safe. Even without the fog.”

“I needed to stretch my legs. I didn’t realize the fog would be coming in. I was just thinking I might…” She paused, angry at her own ridiculous need to explain herself to this arrogant stranger. He might be one of the most beautiful men she had ever met, but she didn’t need to explain her behavior to this man, to any man, hadn’t needed to for a long time. “This really isn’t any of your concern.”

He shrugged, white cloth crinkling over broad shoulders. “It appears as though it is. Someone has to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

“I can take care of myself.” Julia pivoted and started back the way she had come, only to halt a few feet away when the path disappeared beneath a carpet of mist. Filmy strands of vapor curled around her and stretched out toward the ocean, the crashing waves hidden beneath a blanket of fog drenched moonlight.

“Does your stubborn streak often get you into trouble?”

Julia could hear the roguish, all too self-assured grin in his deep baritone. She closed her eyes and counted to ten before turning to face the rogue. He stood leaning his shoulder against the oak, twirling a sprig of clover in his fingers, mist curling around his close fitting knee-high black boots. She shouldn’t have noticed the way his buff colored breeches molded the powerful lines of his legs, but she did. The breeze ruffled the sleeves of his white shirt. The garment looked like something out of a movie, a shirt for a Regency rake—loose-fitting, falling open at the neck, revealing a dark wedge of skin and hair. Once again a slow simmer started low in her belly and spiraled outward, heating every inch of her skin. “Does your arrogance often get you into arguments?”

He laughed, a dark rumble that tempted her lips into a smile. “I do apologize for teasing you. But it really is not safe to be here at this time of night. There is a path through the woodlands that leads right to the front drive of Dunmore another that leads to the gardens. You choose the path and I will see you home safely.”

She glanced toward the thick stand of trees spreading out from the border of the field. Fingers of fog were already spreading outward across the clover. Her chances of finding her way through that small forest without him were slim at best. She could risk spending a cold, damp, thoroughly miserable night lost in the woods, which would also cause anguish for Gram, or follow this inexplicably familiar stranger.

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and headed toward the woods. “Come along. If we hurry, we can get you back to Dunmore before the island is lost to the mist.”

She stared at his broad back, good sense warring with her desire to show the rogue she could do fine without him. Apparently he thought she would just trail after him, like some grateful puppy. From the looks of him, she suspected more than a few women trailed after this man. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks below shivered through her.

He paused and turned back to fix her in a steady gaze. “If you are frightened to be alone with me—”

“I’m not frightened of you.”

“I’m glad. I promise I will see you back to Dunmore safe and sound, Miss Fairfield.”

“How do you know my name?”

“The Isle of Mist isn’t a big place. The entire village of Dunmore knows three Americans arrived late this afternoon to spend the summer with Miss Bainbridge at Dunmore.”

“You’re from the village?”

“As much as I would enjoy continuing this delightful conversation, I think it best if we get started. I for one don’t plan to be sleeping in the woods tonight.” He turned and strolled down a gentle slope, leading to a wide field that skirted the woodlands, leaving Julia with a choice.

She cast one last glance along the foggy cliffs, and then hurried to catch up with her intriguing guide. She fell into step beside him, matching his long-limbed stride. He didn’t spare her a glance. Using her own five-feet-eight- and-a -quarter inches as a guide, she judged he was one or two inches over six feet tall. Not extraordinarily tall. Still, he gave subtle subtext to the simple word commanding. “If the cliff walk is so dangerous at this hour, what were you doing on it?”

He grinned. “I saw you and thought someone needed to rescue you.”

Julia shoved a damp lock of hair back from her face. She didn’t need a mirror to know the long, thick strands were curling into a frizzy mess. It shouldn’t bother her to know she looked dreadful, but it did. The fact she cared added more fuel to her anger. “I really didn’t intend to walk back along the cliffs in the fog.”

He looked at her, his dark brows sliding upward. “Didn’t you?”

“I was going to head off in this direction, before you showed up and made me so angry I couldn’t see straight.”

Moonlight caught the humor in his eyes. “Is that what I did? And here I thought I was only offering to keep you safe.”

In spite of her anger, and her humiliation at being caught in such a foolish and possibly dangerous situation, she managed a smile. “I assure you, I’m quite capable of taking care of—” Her words ended in a gasp as she tripped over a stone hidden beneath the swirling carpet of mist. Even with her hiking boots, her toes stung from the impact. She caught herself before she fell, staggering a step before gaining control of her balance.

He stood a few feet in front of her, grinning. “Be careful. The field is littered with stones.”

She shot him a sarcastic smile, gritting her teeth against the sting in her battered toes. “Thank you for the warning.”

He inclined his head in a small bow. “At your service, milady.”

She fell in behind him, deciding it was safer to use him as a guide across the minefield than try to walk beside him. The scent of crushed clover drifted on the mist swirling around them. The pale vapor glimmered in the moonlight, lending an odd preternatural glow to everything it touched, including the man walking ahead of her.

Larger than life. It was a term often attributed to fictional characters, but in his case it fit. He was tall and broad shouldered, each movement filled with a patently male brand of confidence, the kind that led men into battle and women into reckless choices. He moved at a steady pace, as though he knew where every stone lay hidden. She suspected he would be just as sure of himself in a boardroom on Madison Avenue as he would in a field in Scotland.

There was something about him, something aside from the obvious male magnetism and her unfortunate female response. For some reason she could not banish the strange sense of familiarity. Why did she feel as though she knew him? She was certain she had never met him before. She would not have forgotten him. She defied any female to meet this man and forget him.

They hiked for more than a mile in silence across the field before turning into the woodlands. Wood chips muffled their footsteps here. The path had been carved out of the wilderness by the Dunmore gardeners. Moonlight filtered through the leaves overhead, illuminating their way. They came upon a clearing where a small lake shimmered in the moonlight, before taking one of the paths leading into another section of woods. “Do you often hike on Dunmore property?” she asked, resuming a place beside him.

“Aye. It brings me peace to walk the land.”

Moonlight pierced the darkness, a shimmering column of silver spilling over his face. The wistful look in his eyes made her wonder why this place should be so special to him. Perhaps he was one of the servants. It wasn’t unusual for the servants of large estates to have worked on the same one for generations. Still, there was something regal in his carriage, an overwhelming air of command that made her doubt he had ever served anyone. “It’s a long way from the village. Did you drive?”

“No. I didn’t.” He grinned in a way that made her think he was enjoying a private joke. “Tell me, why are no gentlemen accompanying three ladies from America?”

“My grandfather died several years ago. My niece lost her parents five years ago.” On the same night and in the same accident that had taken the lives of Julia’s parents.