Prologue
Stirling, Scotland
April 9, 1807
Carlisle Cullen died as he had lived: awash in a haze of fine bourbon, his perfectly tailored coat pockets
stuffed with his winnings from a night of wild gaming, and reeking faintly of the perfume of another man's
wife.
Carlisle had whiled away this particular evening at a grand house outside Stirling, lured from London by the
charms of the lovely Lady Lucinda Featherington. Lord Featherington, ambassador to a distant foreign
clime, was due home any day. Carlisle had overcome the lady's qualms at his presence with a heated kiss
and a murmured suggestion that had sent a delighted flush through that not-easily-shocked woman.
"Black Carlisle" lived lustily, and many were the hearts tossed his way only to be smashed upon the hard
rocks of his heart. Women were always guaranteed a good time in his bed, though.
Hours later, the sound of a carriage rumbling up the drive had caused the lady to gasp, throw back the
covers and scramble from Carlisle's arms. Carlisle just laughed. He didn't fear Lord Featherington; the man
was a pitiful shot and had never hit his man. Carlisle never missed.
Hours later, the sound of a carriage rumbling up the drive had caused the lady to gasp, throw back the
covers and scramble from Carlisle's arms. Carlisle just laughed. He didn't fear Lord Featherington; the man
was a pitiful shot and had never hit his man. Carlisle never missed.
Amused and a mite tipsy from sampling her husband's excellent cellars, Carlisle allowed himself to be
coaxed into climbing out the window. Just as the doorknob of the master bedchamber turned, Carlisle leapt
from the trellis to the garden below.
Whistling to himself, he sauntered through the gardens to the stable, where he gathered his horse from a
surprised groom. Then he was off, flying back to the amusements to be had in London. If he changed
horses along the way, he would arrive in two days, in plenty of time for Lord Mooreland's private card
party. Mooreland was a fool, but he entertained with a lushness that was unparalleled.
A more prudent gentleman would have taken the York Road, with its wide avenue and frequent inns.
Carlisle took the stage road to Ayr, a dark and lonely road notorious for its highwaymen. The Ayr Road
was doubly dangerous for a lone man on horse, especially one dressed in London finery, a ruby flashing
on one hand, his head muddled by Lord Featherington's best bourbon.
Carlisle urged his spirited horse to a gallop, heedless of the darkness and highwaymen alike.
As he turned a corner, the calm, balmy weather changed with an abruptness that stunned him. The skies
suddenly opened with a clap of thunder, and a heavy, drenching rain slashed down. Cold and sharp, it
soaked him in a second, and the thunder caused his horse to rear. Carlisle's hands slipped from the wet
reins, and he fell. As the ground rushed up to greet him, the faint scent of lilacs tickled his nose, then the
fall stole both his breath and his consciousness.
Sometime later, he awoke to the stinging slap of rain on his face. He lay in a deep puddle of mud, its
thick ooze gluing him in place. His hair stuck to his forehead and clung to his neck, rain running over him
in rivulets. The warm mud that held him to the ground was in striking contrast to the cold rain sluicing
down upon him. Rain that smelled like lilacs…
Bella Swan.
But surely not. He hadn't spoken to her in fifteen years, though he could still picture her exactly as he'd
seen her last: rich brown hair falling about her face, her tears hidden by the rain—
His heart tightened. There was no sense in remembering that. And to think that this accident involved
Bella merely because of the scent of lilacs was ridiculous. He must have hit his head harder than he
thought. Indeed, it was difficult to think at all, his temples ached so much.
Bloody hell, he didn't have time for this. There were women to be bedded, wagers to be won, bourbon
to be tasted.
But as with all things in Carlisle Cullen's badly lived life, it was too late.
Far too late.
Groaning, he rolled to his elbow, the mud sucking at him, his head protesting with a burst of colors and pain as he moved. Suddenly, he knew this was the end. He wasn't going to make is death. And
here I am; cold, sodden, and alone. He'd never meant to die like this. He'd never meant to die at all. His
eyes slid closed as a wave of blackness descended upon him, and he fell backward into the mud.
pain as he moved. Suddenly, he knew this was the end. He wasn't going to make is death. And
here I am; cold, sodden, and alone. He'd never meant to die like this. He'd never meant to die at all. His
eyes slid closed as a wave of blackness descended upon him, and he fell backward into the mud.
worth, fer it makes 'em difficult to bargain with. Shrewd they are; 'tis rare they come out on the bottom
side of any bargain. Yer own pa says he'd rather be bit by a sheep than dicker with a Swan.