Son of a rogue and a gypsy, Hero Fiennes Tiffin was a notorious rake until a shattering betrayal left him alone and embittered in the Welsh countryside. Desperation drives quiet schoolteacher Josephine Langford to ask Hero Fiennes Tiffin to help sav...
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Since a covered pianoforte stood in the shadows, Josephine assumed that she had found the music room, but it was Hero who drew her fascinated gaze. He sat on a chair by the flickering fire, his face dreamy and a small harp resting against his left shoulder. In contrast to the stillness of his expression, his fingers danced across the metal strings, calling forth a melody that rang like singing bells.
Though she would have recognized him anywhere, his expression made him seem like a stranger. He was no longer the flippant aristocrat or the menacing rake, but the embodiment of a legendary Celtic bard—a man with gifts and griefs beyond those of the common man.
The vulnerability in his face called to Josephine, whispering that perhaps she and Hero were not so different after all. And such thoughts were dangerous.
He began singing in Welsh, his low voice filling the room with a baritone as sweet and rich as dusky honey.
Maytime, fairest season, Sweet are the birds, green are the groves.
After two more lines, the music shifted from joyous spring to a minor key lament.
When cuckoos sing in the high tree tops, Greater grows my grief. Smoke stings, sorrow cannot be hidden,
For my kinsmen have passed away.
Softly he repeated the last line, all the world's anguish in his voice.
Though the tune was unfamiliar to her, Josephine recognized the words as a poem from the medieval Black Book of Caermarthen, one of the most ancient Welsh texts. Tears stung her eyes, for the familiar words had never touched her so deeply.
When the last notes had faded away she sighed, mourning all that she had lost, and all that she would never have.
Hearing the sound, Hero's head whipped up, his fingers clashing the strings in a harsh chord as vulnerability instantly transformed into hostility. "You should be asleep, Josette."
"So should you." She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. "Why do you call me that?"
His expression eased. "Josette means Josephine in French. Giuseppina would be the superlative form in Italian. It suits you."
She came forward and perched on the edge of a chair near him. "I didn't know you were so musically accomplished."
"It's not a widely known fact," he said dryly. "In ancient times, a Welsh gentleman had to be skilled in the harp to be considered worthy of his rank, but that has changed in these uncivilized days. Behold my secret vice."
"Music is not a vice—it's one of life's great joys," she said lightly. "If this is a sample of your wild and wicked ways, I have to wonder if you're the rakehell that the world thinks."
