Prologue Yorkshire Winter 1844 They were running for their lives. At fourteen, Tristan Easton was well aware of that fact as he scampered behind his twin brother along the creaking docks. They wouldn’t be together much longer. It was far too dangerous. They were matching bookends with pale blue eyes—“Ghost Eyes” the gypsies called them—that made them easily identifiable as the lords belonging to Pembrook. And when they were within each other’s shadow, they became an easy target for the one who wished them harm. Through the midnight haze, barely illuminated by the occasional lantern or torch, Sebastian led the way because he was the older by twenty-two minutes. As such he was the eighth Duke of Keswick, now that their father was dead—murdered, no doubt, by their vile uncle who yearned to gain the titles and properties. But three lads stood in his way. Tristan was of a mind to see that it remained that way. Even though his heart was galloping madly at the sight of the monstrous ship looming ahead of them, rocking on the water, fog swirling ominously around it. Bitter bile rose in his throat as the stench of brine mingled with decaying fish assaulted his nostrils. Sebastian staggered to a stop, swung around—his black hair flopping into his eyes—and grabbed Tristan’s shoulders. “You understand that I have no choice.