Caithness, Rosslyn's son, died on the eve of his thirtieth birthday, and then the third and the fourth dukes suffered similar untimely deaths ... people started paying attention. Dukes and their minions began madly searching for the shards of the cross.

No one had ever found it. Not so much as a sliver.

A logical man didn't believe in curses and, indeed, Lachlan had scoffed at the notion most of his life. Living in London, far removed from the dreary reminders of the past, steeped in decadent youthful pursuits, it had been easy.

Until the visitations had begun. There was something about a voice from beyond the grave that made one perk up and listen.

Now his thirtieth birthday approached, and with each successive day Lachlan could feel the walls closing inon him. Each day was a count of hours, the constant tick in his head, the ceaseless refrain of so little time and so much to do. With a relentless advance, his options steadily shrank and with them, his world, his universe, and his lung capacity. He didn't know why, but when he thought about it, sometimes it was difficult to breathe. As though the weight of his eternal soul and all those who came before him were sitting on his chest.

Thankfully, there were no souls following him. Thankfully the Caithness-Sinclair line ended with him. He couldn't bear any more obligation. He would shatter and collapse beneath any additional burden.

Lachlan pulled an old dusty chair before the painting of the man who had damned him to an early