THE WICKED ONE

By

Danelle Harmon

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Danelle Harmon

The Wicked One

Copyright © 2012 by Danelle Harmon

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~~~~

THE
WICKED ONE

By
Danelle Harmon

Book
4 of the de Montforte Brothers Series

~~~~

Blackheath
Castle, Berkshire, England

Winter, 1777

Chapter
1

He was coming.

The darkened
bedchamber was still.  Eerily so.  Outside, faint through the ancient walls,
she could hear the night wind howling around the castle turrets.  The solitary
candle flame twisted and writhed against the winter drafts that managed to
creep, unseen, through the leaded casement windows.  But somehow, with some
deep, primal part of herself, she sensed his presence.  Knew that he had
finally arrived . . . was now approaching.  Then, faintly discernible over the
wind, the rising tattoo of her heart, she heard them.

Footsteps.

His
footsteps.

Coming, now, up
the spiralling stone stairs of this ancient tower.

Her senses heightened.
Her heartbeat quickened.  Sitting cross-legged on the huge medieval bed in the
near darkness, her heavy skirts fanning about her hips, she became keenly aware
of every sensation; the icy air against her skin . . . the way his fine linen
sheets felt against her calves, her feet, naked beneath her petticoats . . .  the
way the lone bedside candle seemed to shrink back in nervous anticipation.  She
caressed the butt of the pistol, savoring the comforting weight of it in her
hand.  Her breath, hanging thick as fog in her lungs, stirred in small, silent
exhalations.  She tensed like a cat poised to strike down her prey.

Any moment
now . . .

And yes, there
it was, the sound of his tread coming up those last few stairs as he made his
way, unsuspecting, to his apartments, the footfalls louder now than the wind
outside that had been her companion since she'd scaled, by way of a rope and
her own wits, the parapets, the window ledge, the very walls that had been able
to hold at bay cannon balls during the civil war, besiegers from the Middle
Ages — but had been unable to keep her, one furious, determined woman, out.

But she was
driven by purpose.  She had come for one thing, and she would not leave without
it.  He had fooled her once, this man, his diabolical machinations nearly
costing her her position at the French court and jeopardizing her standing
amongst the American contingent in Paris — all of whom were working to secure France's
aid in the fight for American independence.  She had worked hard to gain respect
and prominence in a political arena dominated by men, but he had threatened
that — and now she would threaten him.

Her adversary
was a worthy one, a dangerous one, a man purported to be one of the deadliest
duelists in England.  He had a reputation for cunning.  He had secured a
formidable backing among his peers at a young age, had steered older men to
attain his goals when his own youth should have hampered him, had been a
subtle, sinister presence who was quite likely behind or at least involved with
the British spy ring in France — a spy ring that had always been one step ahead
of the Americans' own cleverly laid plans.  No sane person would make an enemy
of the Duke of Blackheath.  Especially now that he was in the true height of
his power . . .

She squeezed the
pistol lovingly.  He would not emerge victorious this time.  Oh, no.
She had the element of surprise.

And, she — a
slow, feline smile curved her lips — had the cunning superiority of her gender.

And now he
stopped just outside the closed door.  Her eyes narrowed.  She steadied the
small weapon.  The door latch was lifting.  She passed her tongue once, twice
over her lips, her blood beginning to hum, her smile becoming one of
anticipation.  She fixedly watched that slim piece of metal rising.  Never
taking her eyes off it, she reached out with her free hand and gripped the
bottle she had stolen.  Then she brought the gun up, sighted down her arm, and
trained the weapon right where his heart would be when he came through the
door.

It opened on a
well-oiled sigh, spilling faint light into the cold, gloomy chamber; outside,
the moan and whistle of the wind was suddenly louder.  A sense of danger
pervaded her bones.  Screamed through every nerve.  And there he was, a taper
in his hand, his tall form backlit by a torch set into the stone wall behind
him.

Her finger froze
on the trigger, and her breath stuck in her lungs at the sheer magnificence of
him.

There was that
same unsmiling face, glowing like Satan's in the candle's flickering light, its
orange flame picking out the lofty cheekbones, the chiseled mouth with those
hard, sculpted lips, the compelling profile with its noble brow and
razor-straight nose.  His hair was as one with the darkness around him, no
powder, no pomade, just thick black waves swept back off his brow and caught at
the nape with a bit of velvet.

He was watching
her.

Watching her
with eyes as still and deadly as a cobra preparing to strike.

The candle in
his hand flickered.  In vain, the meager flame tried to find softness in a face
that was as severe and unforgiving as the stone walls she had scaled, the
little tongue of fire finally giving up and shrinking down in cringing terror,
the wax running like a tear down the long taper.

Her smile became
malevolent.

"Ah, Your
Grace.  I have been waiting for you.  You see" — she held up the
aphrodisiac, her voice preternaturally calm — "I found a little bottle in
your safe there, and since I cannot afford another error, you — like it
or not — are going to sample it prior to my departure."

For a long
moment, he remained perfectly still, his expression betraying nothing of what
was going on behind that inscrutable black stare.  And then his lips curved in
the faintest of smiles as, putting down the candle, he began to move toward the
bed.

Toward her.

Of its own
accord, the door swung slowly shut behind him.  She steadied the pistol and
pulled the hammer back to full-cock.  Even the ominous click failed to check
his approach, or put a glint of apprehension in eyes as black as nightshade.  His
cravat was the only light on his form, bubbling up like a frothy white fountain
beneath his chin, emphasizing its dark perfection, its haughty arrogance, the
faint smudge of inky bristle that shadowed his jaw.  His waistcoat fitted a
torso of classic form, and long, straight legs, the thighs hardened by years in
the saddle, the calves enclosed in riding boots spattered with mud, gave him
the commanding presence and height of a born ruler.

And now she saw
his fingers moving down the buttons of that waistcoat, freeing them, one by
one, as he approached.

The pistol had
gone sweaty in her hand.  He was eight feet away now . . . six . . .

Her eyes
narrowed.  She itched to squeeze the trigger, to send a ball ripping through
the fabric of his body as his cleverness and deceit had ripped through the
fabric of her life.  But he ignored the gun, pausing just short of the bed,
pulling the waistcoat off, and carefully laying it across the back of a chair.

"Eva de la
Mouriére," he said at last, his voice like cognac, like black velvet, like
the night that pressed in from outside.  "I had hoped I had not seen the
last of you."

"I can
assure you, Blackheath, that you have not seen the last of me."

"And now I
shall see all of you, I think.  Every bit of you.  Ah, what delights the
night promises . . ."

Her smile
faded.  Her lashes lowered over dangerously glittering eyes, for he was
deliberately baiting her, and she did not like being baited.  But he only
turned his back on her and moved to stand before a full-length mirror, watching
her in its reflection, gauging her reaction from over his shoulder as he slowly
began to undo his stock.

Eva looked into
the mirror and met that unflinching gaze.  "So, Blackheath," she
purred, "will you make this difficult, or will you concede?  The choice is
yours."

He lifted his
head to undo the final knot beneath his chin.  "My dear lady, I should
think my choice is obvious."  The mirrored black gaze moved briefly over
her breasts . . . down the length of her torso . . . took in her seductively
curving hips, until an answering, unwanted response fired her own blood.
"Especially when one considers what life is apparently offering."

"What life
is offering is a choice between this" — she raised the bottle — "and
this" — she tipped the gun, never changing its aim.  "If it would not
deny me the chance to prove that this is the real aphrodisiac, my choice
would be to put a ball through that conniving black heart of yours."

"Ah, but
you do not have a choice.  May I remind you, madam, that you just relinquished
that advantage to me?"

"Don't play
games with me, Blackheath.  Your deviousness has cost me dearly, and I'm here
to take my revenge."  As he merely raised a brow in amusement, it was all
she could do not to squeeze the trigger and kill him where he stood.  She met
his reflected gaze, glare for glare.  "That wasn't the real
aphrodisiac your brothers were carrying in that bottle the night I ambushed
them on the road near Maidenhead, was it?  Oh, no.  It was a substitute.  You
gave them a clever substitute, and caused me to steal something that sickened
and nearly killed the king of France."  She swallowed hard, trying to get
a rein on her fury.  "You damn near destroyed my life."

He pulled the
long white strip of silk from his neck and dangled it between thumb and
forefinger, watching her with a faintly amused smile.  "Caused you
to steal something?  Do you not enjoy free will like the rest of us,
madam?"

Green eyes
narrowed to dangerous slits.  "You made a fool of me, Blackheath, and I
will see that you pay for it."

He shrugged.
"Ah, then, let that be a lesson to you.  Highway robbery is, after all, a
hanging offense."

"So is
murdering an English peer, but I can assure you that I find it no deterrent.
Now get on with it and undress.  Better yet, I think I'll have you simply
unfasten your breeches, as I doubt this will take but a moment."

His eyebrows
rose.  "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard
me."

"My dear
lady."  His reflection smiled at her, but it was a patronizing, faintly
indulgent gesture that made her want to sharpen her claws on his face.  "I
can assure you that haste and pleasure do not make appropriate bedmates" —
his eyes were gleaming now above that slow, deliberate smile — "if you'll
pardon the expression."

"I am not
here to take or give pleasure, and I can assure you, I do not couple with dead
bodies, as that is what yours will be if you so much as attempt to take
liberties with me.  Oh, no, Blackheath.  I am here only to make sure that this
time, I have possession of the real aphrodisiac, and that it does everything it
is supposed to do."

He was still
watching her in the mirror, dark eyes hypnotizing, fascinating, magnetic above
that sarcastic little smile.  "And what, my dear, is it supposed to
do?"

"Seduce
you."

The smile
broadened.  He stretched out his arm, and the stock, a white ribbon in the
darkness, floated lazily down to join his waistcoat, still draped over the back
of the chair.  "Ah, of course.  Seduce me."

The way he said
the words — caressingly, almost invitingly, a velvet command — sent an
unexpected arrow of heat through her blood that found its mark at the junction
of her thighs.  Her mouth went dry.  Her pulse quickened.  She had come here
steal the aphrodisiac, to humiliate this man . . . but the idea of seducing
him, and best of all, mastering him, was a heady thought indeed.  For a moment,
her calculating eyes settled on the bare oval of skin at his throat, then roved
down his torso, assessing him as men had assessed women throughout the ages and
finding him blessed in form as well as face.  But no.  She would not respond to
her body's carnal demands.  She would not give Blackheath the satisfaction; let
him want her, let him covet her, let him hate her, even — but he would never
have her . . . not on his terms.

It was obvious
he had other ideas.  In the mirror, she could see his hands at his throat now,
unbuttoning the collar of his shirt, chin raised and his eyes — black,
compelling, heavy-lidded eyes — still watching her.  There were promises in
those eyes.  A dangerous heat that made her own body respond in kind.  And now,
as casually as if he were undressing before a wife instead of the one person in
the world poised and more than willing to shoot him, he pulled his shirt free
of his waistband, bunched its tails in his fists, and dragged the garment up
and over his head.

Muscles in his
back rippled, glowing tawny in the faint candlelight, skating over powerful
shoulders.  Lord, he was gorgeous.

He stood
watching her in the mirror, the shirt hooked over his forefinger.

"And now,
my dear?"

"Face me
and drop the breeches," she snapped, wanting to humiliate him.
"Let's see if the rest of you measures up to what you've already
bared."

He merely
smiled.

She shifted
forward on the bed.  "I said, drop the breeches.  Like it or not,
Blackheath, you will imbibe this potion, and your body will prove whether or
not it is the real aphrodisiac before I try it on someone far more
important than you."

He gave an
overly dramatic sigh.  "In that case, I fear I don't quite see the point
of this little . . . exercise," he murmured, releasing the shirt.  It
whispered down over the chair, hung there a moment, and then slid to the floor
in a pool of fine white lawn.  Blackheath did not stoop to retrieve it.  Nor
did he bother to turn around, as though he did not respect the danger she
presented.  His studied nonchalance stoked Eva's fury — even as it filled her
with desire.  What infuriating arrogance!  What unbelievable egotism!  What . .
. beautiful arms, hard and strong and slightly bulging where they met those
handsome shoulders —

"For you
see," he continued, with maddening logic, "arriving home to find a
strange and beautiful woman waiting in his bed is fantasy incarnate for any
man.  The mere sight of you, madam, and the knowledge that I will soon have
you, is more than enough to arouse me.  I ask you, what good is a love potion,
and what does taking it prove, when a man already wants a woman?"  At her
look of stony wrath, he merely gave a chiding smile.  "Really, if it's a
reaction you're looking for, I daresay you would be far better advised giving
it to one of the statues downstairs."

Eva's smile
faded.  Her face went flat and hard.  She began to swing her legs off the bed.

"Or,"
continued Blackheath, in that same calculatedly mocking tone, "taking a
dose of it yourself.  After all, you seem far less willing than I to indulge in
a night of bedplay . . . though I can certainly remedy that particular
reluctance — without benefit of an aphrodisiac."

That did it.
Eva slid off the bed, came up behind him, and put the pistol to the base of his
skull, her mouth two inches from the warm, deadly metal as she raised herself
on tiptoe to hiss into his ear, "Are you ready to get down to
business?"

"I am more
than ready.  It is your readiness, madam, that is in question."

Snarling, Eva
shoved the pistol hard against his head.  In the next instant, she found
herself flat on her back and gasping for breath as she stared up at the
hangings of his bed, her body crushed beneath the splendid weight of his, her
arms pinned flat to the mattress over which he'd shoved her in that one
lightning-fast movement that had knocked the wind from her lungs.

Stunned, she
glared up at him, her heart pounding.  He had bested her.

Imagine!

He smiled down
at her, but his eyes were not amused; they were glittering now, cold, deadly .
. . and reflecting the desire she, too, felt — but refused to fully acknowledge.
His mouth lowered, and she flung her head to one side to avoid the sudden,
seductive whisper of his lips against her cheek.

"You know
what they say about women who play with fire," he murmured.

"I am not
playing."

"How
unfortunate.  I am."

"This is not
a game, Blackheath," she gritted from between clenched teeth, glaring
toward the window where her canvas bag sat ready by her escape route.  Escape.
She quivered as his lips, so warm, so demanding, brushed over the curve of her
jaw, igniting unwelcome fires, threatening her resolve.

"Ah, but it
is . . . and I can assure you, my dear, that I will win it.  As the outcome is
inevitable, why don't you relax and enjoy yourself?"

"I cannot
enjoy the attentions of a scoundrel who nearly ruined my life.  Why don't you
just admit you switched that potion, Blackheath?"

"Ah, but
with pleasure.  It was necessary to keep it safe, you see.  My brother Andrew
is a bit of a . . . hotspur.  I could not entrust something as valuable as the
world's first proven aphrodisiac into his keeping — even if he did
invent it.  My intentions were only to fool him into thinking he was carrying
home the genuine article.  The fact that you were fooled as well, and your own
no doubt treasonous plans sabotaged by my actions, was merely an unforseen
boon."

"I am an
American," Eva hissed.  "Though you pompous Englishmen may consider
my intentions treasonous, my countrymen would call them patriotic."

"My dear
girl.  When are you Yankees ever going to acknowledge that America is not a country,
but a series of colonies?"

Eva trembled
with fury.  But he was crushing her, pinning her helplessly to the sheets, the
mattress.  She felt him pull the bottle from her fingers and place it on the
bedside stand — out of reach, out of harm's way.  She could not move.  Could
not even get her knee up to crush his groin and destroy any and all chances of
his ever siring the sixth duke.  And now he had pulled back to gaze down at
her, triumphant, the hunter admiring his kill before devouring it, one palm
cupping the side of her face and forcing her to look up and into those magnetic
black eyes.

Her breasts
fired in response.  She could feel the nipples, tight and hard, against her
chemise, her stays, her gown.  And she could feel his arousal pressing against
her pelvis, even though breeches and skirts separated them.

Think, Eva .
. . fast!

The pistol.

She tried to
raise her arm, but no, he was still one step ahead of her and had anticipated
her movement.  His fingers closed over her hand, gently forcing it back down to
the sheets, the thumb teasing the sensitive inside of her wrist, rubbing
gently, stroking, drawing little circles there until she was no longer trying
to turn away, until the pistol, and her desire to empty it into him, were the
furthest things from her mind.

Her fingers
relaxed.  The pistol slid from her grasp.

"So,
madam," he murmured, dragging her hand up to his mouth and kissing each
knuckle, one by one, as his dark gaze held hers from over the top of each.
"Shall we get on with this . . . seduction, or shall I send you home like
a good little girl and leave us both wondering what might have been?"

He was dipping
his tongue between the base of each finger now, causing involuntary tremors to
rake her body, causing her nipples to pucker and ache for wanting him . . .
causing her senses to grow thick, vitreous, and dulled.  Eva desperately sought
the fury that would protect her — and found only helplessness.

Panic.

She glared up at
him.  Up into those black, black eyes.  It was said that the eyes were the
mirror of the soul, but Blackheath's soul was a well whose bottom was miles
down.  She could read nothing in those eyes.  Nothing.  And then he brought her
hand to his lips, pressed his mouth to her palm, and touched the point of his
tongue to it.

Eva caught her
breath.  And what remained of her resolve.  Don't break eye contact with
him!  Don't let him know how your body is responding, and for God's sake, don't
let him know how frightened that response is making you!

But he knew.
And she knew he knew, because now he was smiling in triumph, touching his
fingers to the curve of her bottom lip, rubbing it, massaging it, and coaxing
the response he wanted from her with a skill that had her very skin burning the
clothes that lay, damply now, against it.  He was the master.  He was the
wolf.  And this was a game of seduction, all right, but she was the one
being seduced.  The one who had been rendered helpless.  She fought for
control, but it fled her as he touched two fingertips to his tongue and brought
them, wet now, back to her mouth, tracing the proud bow of her upper lip until
Eva's gaze went glassy with desire.

His lashes lowered,
and bending his head, he kissed her.

There was no
help for it.  No help for her.  Her arms wound around his neck, her mouth
parting beneath the insistent pressure of his in sweet defeat.  And sweet, it
was.  Sweet, the feel of his tongue tracing her lips, teasing them more fully
apart, now slipping between them to taste the inside of her mouth.  Sweet, the
sensation of melting straight down into the bed while her body evaporated into
steam.  Sweet, the languid heat that consumed her, until her hips tilted up,
pressing against his arousal, and her legs drifted apart in unspoken
invitation.

Take me.

He dragged his
mouth from hers, began kissing a trail down her neck.  His hand was on her
breast, cupping it, smoothing it, the thumb grazing the nipple through fabric
that stood no chance against his attentions.  She felt his fingers slip beneath
the bodice, beneath the chemise, popping the hardening nipple free to caress
and tease it.  Long, masterful fingers that knew exactly what they were doing.
Oh, dear God.  Oh, Lord, help her!  No man should have this sort of control
over her!  Fear mingled with desire.  She twisted away, her breath coming hard.

"I've
changed my mind.  Let me up now, Blackheath, or you will regret it."

"If I let
you up now, we will both regret it."

"I'm
warning you, Blackheath."

"Of course
you are, my dear."  But he ignored the narrowing of her eyes, the mixture
of fear and desperation that lent them a cold emerald glitter in the faint
light.  He was too focused on conquest.  On mastery.  And on her nipple, around
which he was tracing little circles of fire with his finger.

"Blackheath
—"

He lifted his
head then and smiled.  "But since we are on the subject of warnings, I
think it's time I issued one of my own."

"What,"
she scoffed, reclaiming some of her bravado, "to stay out of the
bedchamber of the big, bad ducal wolf?"

His eyes were
the cobra's again, black, dangerous, ruthless — and without soul.  "If you
ever again lay a hand against any member of my family, I will find you — and I will
ruin you more thoroughly than you can even begin to imagine."

His words iced
her spine.  She stared at him, her pulse thudding in her ears as she tried to
find something to say.

"While I
admire ingenuity, I despise the means by which you carried out your little
robbery of the aphrodisiac," he continued.  "You may think highly of
your own cleverness, your ruse of a disabled carriage to lure my brothers into
stopping to help you, but how did you repay their kindness?  By striking
Charles down and leaving him unconscious in the road in the manner of the
crudest highwayman.  You might have killed him."  The black eyes grew
savage.  "You might have killed Andrew as well, had he not acted with such
a cool head.  Perhaps you do not know me very well, madam, but I can assure you
that I do not take kindly to anyone who threatens or inflicts harm upon my
family."

She seized his
hand, shoving it away from her breast and gripping it ruthlessly hard.
"If your family lacks the good sense to be off the roads after dark, then
they got what they deserved."

"And if
you, my dear, lack the good sense to stay out of a man's bedchamber, then you
will get what you deserve . . ." — his gaze flickered to her
nipples, which were standing tautly beneath the fabric of her gown — "and,
I might add, now seem to want."

Incensed, Eva
reached blindly for the pistol, but it was gone, swallowed in a tangle of
sheets, a hard lump separated from her questing fingers by soft linen and too
many bunches and folds.

"Now shall
we dispense with words and carry on with . . . physical contact?"

She smiled.
"What a divine idea."

And managed to
get her knee up.

It did not catch
him in the groin as she had intended, but at the V of his ribs in a solid blow
that doubled him up and punched the breath from his lungs in pained surprise.
It was all Eva needed.  She shot out from under him, shoved him mightily onto
his back, and, straddling him with her body, pressed her thumbs down hard into
the base of his windpipe.

He blinked up at
her in disbelieving astonishment.

"I can turn
the tables as easily as that," she snarled, glaring triumphantly down into
his eyes.  "And don't you forget it."

He swallowed —
or tried to.

"My late
husband le Comte spent two years in the Orient as governor of a French
outpost," she added in a low, menacing voice.  "When I wasn't
covering for his incompetence by performing his political duties for him, I was
learning all I could from the natives — including the best ways to disable a
man and defend myself if the need ever arose.  Cross me again and I'll kill
you."

"My dear
lady, if that is your intention, I implore you to use the pistol," he
managed with rueful sarcasm.  "Strangulation is a most . . . ignoble . . .
way to die."

She did not
remove her hand.  He did not move his body.  For a long, charged moment they
simply stared at each other, she on top, he on the bottom, neither willing to
break eye contact first, neither willing to back down.

And then,
despite herself, Eva's gaze flickered to that handsome, chiseled mouth still
wearing its faint smile.  To her thumb, pressing into his throat.  How could
she not admire him?  He would let her kill him before giving her the
satisfaction of coughing, choking, or even letting his eyes water.

She was done
here.  They had each won a round in this dangerous game of cat and mouse, but
in the end the game would go to her.  She would have the last laugh.  Eva
loosened her hold on him, but let her fingers remain on his throat, lightly
stroking the angry red mark her thumb had left in lingering warning.

He lay half atop
the pillow, his face mostly consumed by shadow — but she could see those
devilish black eyes, glittering, watchful, appreciative . . .

Triumphant.

"Really,
madam . . . had I known that being on top would convince you to stay, I would
have suggested it far sooner."

Eva lost control
of her temper.  Snarling, she tried to leap off the bed, but her foot tangled
in the sheets and she crashed to the floor, arms flailing, one hand trying to
break her fall.  The sheets went with her, and there — oh, thank God! — was her
pistol, skittering across the cold, cold floor.

She snatched it
up just as Blackheath leaped off the bed in pursuit, then she turned and fired.

The report
cracked through the room.  She saw the aphrodisiac explode like a bottle of
blood, and then real blood, the duke's blood, running down his leg as he
staggered, took two desperate steps toward her, and fell, still pulling himself
after her.

"Eva-a-a-a!
he roared.

The game was
over; there was no reason to remain.  Grabbing her canvas sack, Eva leaped to
the window, shoved it wide —

And vanished.

Chapter
2

He gained his
feet.

Lunged to the
open window and leaned out, gripping the sill, the drapes blowing back past his
thunderous face.

Nothing, except
for a swinging rope and there, far below on the grass, movement; a moment
later, he heard hoofbeats and she was gone.

The door burst
open behind him.

"Your
Grace!  I beg your pardon for disturbing you, but I could swear I just heard
gunfire!  Are you all —"

Lucien turned
from the window.

Phelps, his
valet, took one look at the duke's leg — and, paling, leaned against the
doorframe for support.  At a curt look from his master, he left the room and
pounded down the stairs.

Wordlessly,
Lucien moved to a chair, sat, and, reaching into a nearby drawer for a knife,
proceeded to slice open the side of his breeches just above the knee.  A jagged
shard of glass the length of his forefinger was deeply embedded in his outer
thigh, protruding from the fabric.  Blood ran everywhere, pulsing down the leg
of his breeches, overrunning the purplish blotches of the aphrodisiac like a
rising flood.  Extracting his handkerchief, he gripped the wicked fragment and
slowly began to pull, never flinching as the glass tore through muscle and skin
on its way out, the tissue closing back around the shard as he gradually worked
it free.

Blood welled
more quickly now.  Red-hot pain blazed up his leg.  But it was his loins that
were on fire.

Unquenchable,
agonizing, fire.

He bent to
retrieve his stock and was just tying it around his thigh over the wadded
handkerchief when Phelps returned, one of the upstairs chambermaids in tow.

"Your
Grace, I've sent a footman for the doctor.  The butler is on his way up,
now."

But the maid was
staring in horror at the duke's leg.  "Your Grace!  Lord save us, what
'appened to ye?"

"There was
an intruder," Lucien murmured, gazing into the black rectangle of darkness
into which the Comtesse de la Mouriére had disappeared.  Out of the corner of
his eye, he saw Phelps gesture to the girl to get started on the broken glass
and spilled liquid that littered the floor.  "Leave this," he added,
"and go back to bed, both of you."

"An intruder?"
the servants repeated, in surprise.

"But how on
earth did he scale —" Phelps started, before another look from his master
cut him short.

The duke got to
his feet.  "Saddle Armageddon."

"But Your
Grace, you — you're injured!"

"And call
out the hounds.  Now."

Phelps looked
about to protest; but he knew better than to question his master's orders,
especially when the duke was in the sort of cold fury his set, hardened
features currently proclaimed.  Bowing, he headed back downstairs to convey the
orders, the frightened maid just behind him.  Lucien waited until they were
gone, then he staggered out of the room and began his own painful journey down
the tower's spiraling stone stairs.  He was halfway down when his sister, Lady
Nerissa de Montforte, came charging up at the head of a column of alarmed
servants, a hastily donned dressing gown around her willowy frame.

She saw his
bloody leg and stifled a scream.  "Lucien!"

"Go back to
bed, Nerissa."

"What has
happened?"

"I said, go
back to bed."

She tried to
block his way, to no avail.  Servants milled about, some running forward to
assist him.  He waved them away, ordering them to search the grounds and
calling for his hat and greatcoat.  He heard his orders being relayed, heard
Phelps pleading with him to wait for the doctor, heard others vowing to rout
and destroy the intruder:  "What did he look like?"  "Where did
he go?"  "What should we do, Your Grace?"  But Lucien paid them
no heed, gripping the stair rail with a clenched white hand as he staggered
down the last few stairs, ignoring the confusion, ignoring his pain, ignoring,
even, his sister as she flew after him and gripped his arm.

"You are not
riding that beastly horse," she declared, as he shook her off and found
his pace despite the pain biting at his thigh.

"I told
you, go back to bed, Nerissa."

"You need a
doctor!  You need stitches!  You need rest!"

They were
downstairs now, moving at considerable speed across the Great Hall, where
ancient suits of armor with slitted, visored eyes stared out across the
torchlit gloom in silent disapproval.  Nerissa hurried after her brother.  An
army of servants swarmed after both of them, desperate to keep their master
from bringing more harm upon himself.  But Lucien only continued toward the
great medieval door, leaving a trail of blood on the polished marbled floor.

He pulled it
open and was gone.

~~~~

Eva de la Mouriére
gave the hired horse her head, sending the grey mare flying across the downs.
It was starting to rain; she felt it stinging her face, dampening the mare's
hide and bringing the mingled scents of horse sweat and wet leather up from the
racing animal.  She knew Blackheath would not be far behind her.  He would
never let her escape so easily, and indeed, she would be disappointed in him if
he let her go without a fight.  Bunching the reins in one hand, she loosened
her hair, reveling in the thought that he might chase her, but would never
catch her.

She had won.

Won!

She laughed,
letting the rainy wind catch her flying tresses, exhilarating in the power of
the horse beneath her, the knowledge that she had bested the man who, according
to popular opinion, could not be outfoxed.  Ah, revenge was sweet!  Never mind
the sharpness of the stirrup irons against her bare and freezing feet; never
mind the scraped knees and broken fingernails.  And never mind the loss of her
boots, abandoned upon her hasty escape at the base of the tower where she'd
left them earlier in order to scale the walls.

The prize was
worth it.

And right now,
that prize was safely tucked in her saddlebags.

Another peal of
laughter escaped her.  How long would it take Blackheath to realize that this
time, she had tricked him?  How soon before he found that the
bottle she'd used for target practice contained no love potion at all, but the
substitute that he himself had made — a substitute that had kept poor King
Louis of France mated to a chamberpot for the better part of a day?

From far behind,
she heard the distant baying of hounds.  They would never catch her now.
Whooping with delight, Eva sent the mare flying over a low brook and
disappeared into the night.

~~~~

The search
turned up nothing, of course.  The Duke of Blackheath sent the mighty
Armageddon galloping over the downs and along the Ravenscombe road, following
hounds whose excited baying dissolved into confused yaps and whimpers when they
lost the scent near a coaching inn five miles south of Lambourn.

There, he pulled
the black desert-bred stallion up short as the dogs milled about in confusion.
The innkeeper, summoned from his bed, came running out in his nightcap, bowing
and scraping and, in response to the duke's terse queries, apologizing for his
inability to help.  Lucien set his jaw.  The clever witch must have changed
horses, he thought, allowing none of the frustrated fury that made his heart
pound with something almost like violence to mar his expression.  He turned
away and stared off into the darkness, ignoring the innkeeper's pathetic
attempts to placate his anger.  There was no scent left to follow.

She was gone.

Disappeared into
the night.

Even as he
loathed her, he admired her.  Wanted her.  Craved her with every cell in his
body.  His loins throbbed with unrequited lust.  His memory burned with the
feel of her breast in his hand, the pliancy of her lips beneath his, those
incredible, slanting green eyes, flame-red hair, and fatally beautiful smile.

His mood savage,
he turned back towards the castle.

He would find
her, by God, and when he did, he would have her.

~~~~

"I declare,
Lucien, why you don't let Dr. Highworth do that is beyond my
comprehension," scolded Nerissa as she tipped brandy into a glass and
stood waiting while her brother pulled the last stitch through his own leg.
Upon returning, her brother had sent the doctor away, trimmed away the bloody
flaps of his breeches, and proceeded to stitch the gaping flesh shut himself,
his face like stone, no wince, no hiss of pain ever escaping his hard, set
lips.  Nobody but Lucien could sew up his own flesh without fainting dead away
on the floor.  Nobody but Lucien could do it without benefit fo spirits,
laudanum, or even a grimace of pain.

"I thought
I told you to go to bed."

"Now,
Lucien, you know that there is no way I could sleep knowing you were racing
about the countryside losing gallons of blood."

"It is
hardly gallons, and now that I have returned, I think you should be in your own
rooms, not mine.  This is inappropriate."

"You're my
brother, for heaven's sake, not my betrothed."

"Ah,
yes."  He looked up, his eyes glowing with banked anger — and something
dark and calculating that immediately made her tense with wariness.
"Speaking of which, when are you and Perry going to announce your
nuptials?"

Nerissa gaped,
then hastily turned away, knowing her brother's all-seeing gaze had already
caught her evasive gesture.  "I'll announce it when he asks me for his
hand."

"I am tired
of waiting for him to make up his mind."

"Come now,
Lucien.  Surely you must know that Perry's young, and still has wild oats left
to sow —"

"His fields
were planted long ago.  He is the Earl of Brookhampton, and neither of you are
getting any younger.  I will speak to him."

"You will
not!"

"I
will."

Nerissa's eyes
flashed.  "I will not have you interfering in my life the way you did our
brothers', Lucien!  You orchestrated Gareth's and Juliet's affairs so they had
to get married.  You all but dragged Charles and Amy to the altar.  And I can't
even begin to forgive you for your cunning in trapping Andrew and Celsie into
wedlock.  Who gave you the right to play God?"  She shook her head.  "Oh,
no.  I won't have you working Perry and me like puppets.  What is between us is
our own business, not yours."

"As your
brother and head of this family, any business of yours is also business of
mine."

"And I will
thank you to stay out of it!"

Black eyes,
devoid of all expression, met angry ones of Wedgewood blue.

"Besides,"
Nerissa added, nervously fingering the lace at her elbow, "I'd sooner
remain on the shelf than suffer one of your — your manipulations."

"I only
manipulate people for their own good."

"For their
own good?"

"Yes."

Her face flamed
with anger.  "Why, that is the most arrogant remark I have ever heard!  I
know my own good, Lucien, and I won't have you moving Perry and me about like
pawns on a chessboard just to suit your own purposes!"

He only smiled
as he finally set the needle aside and reached for the glass of brandy she
still held, its stem perilously close to shattering in her clenched hand.
"Do give me that, my dear.  You are about to cut yourself."

Nerissa
relinquished it, and watched as he downed the spirits in one fluid motion.
Despite his stony expression, she sensed a roiling fury beneath his still
surface, a coiled, savage tension that boded ill.  Though she suspected it was
directed at another — the intruder, no doubt — Nerissa didn't care to be the
current focus of it when the true target was long out of reach.  Best to
extricate herself from this situation before it deteriorated any further . . .

"Since you
are in an obviously foul temper, I am going back to bed," she said with as
much calm as she could muster.  "But I'll leave you with one last warning,
Lucien.  I want you to stay out of my affairs.  Leave Perry and me alone."

He smiled, but
it was a dark smile, and there was a calculating gleam in his eyes that Nerissa
knew all too well.  "Of course, my dear.  Now go to bed.  You have had
enough excitement for one evening, I think."

He stood, bowed,
and saw her out of his chambers.

Lucien watched
her go, his gaze hooded.  She was wary, now; nervous as a rabbit.  He had no
intention of staying out of her affairs, of course.  And she was right:  He was
in one hell of a foul temper, a temper that craved action, any action — but,
having been thwarted, now growled and paced like a caged beast within him,
demanding satisfaction.

Demanding Eva.

He summoned
Phelps and silently allowed the valet to ready him for bed.  Then he deadened
the agony in his leg with another shot of brandy, slid beneath the cool, crisp
sheets, and lay there in the darkness, thinking . . .

Of red hair and
slanting green eyes . . . of breasts crowned with coral nipples . . . of
seductively flaring hips . . . of skin as white as a virgin's virtue.  Sleep
would not come early if at all tonight, but given the nightmares that awaited
him there, he was in no hurry to embrace it.

He stared up
into the darkness.

I will have
you — you may depend upon it.

Chapter
3

"I don't know
who the intruder was.  Lucien refuses to discuss it," said Nerissa,
sidling closer to her beau, Earl Brookhampton, as he expertly steered the horse
and phaeton around a chalky puddle of mud glazed with ice late the following
morning.  Low, scudding clouds were roiling up and over the downs and she could
see her breath in the damp air.  She was glad she was wrapped in wool and
ermine and a hot brick toasted her feet, for it felt cold enough to snow and
probably would, by nightfall.  "The only thing they found was the
intruder's boots, and the rope by which he scaled the tower wall.  Why, I've
never seen Lucien in such a cold rage!"

"Fellow
must've had a jolly good store of courage to even attempt such a thing,"
said Perry, looking up at the darkening sky.  "'Tis dangerous enough to
scale the tower, but to confront Lucien — Lucien, of all people! — as
well?  That intruder must have had a death wish!"

"He'll wish
he was dead when Lucien finally catches up to him!  Especially since
that troublesome aphrodisiac that Andrew invented was destroyed in the
attempt.  Lucien is furious!"

Nerissa rested
her head against Perry's shoulder.  The dampness had brought curl to his
tousled blond hair.  The wind had bitten into his cheeks, his eyes were as cool
and gray as the sky above, and he had never looked more handsome.  She sighed.
Oh, how, how she wished they were already wed, how she wished she could
experience the delights of the marriage bed under the tutelage of his warm and
capable hands!  She let her heart's wish show in her eyes, and in the next
moment he leaned close, cupped her jaw with his fingers, and pulled her head
close to his.  She closed her eyes, welcoming the familiar taste and touch of
his tongue against her own, the feel of his lips, hard where hers were soft,
demanding where hers were pliant.

But the horse
was still moving.

The kiss could
not last.

A bump in the
road broke it, and reluctantly, they both pulled away, Nerissa passing her
tongue over her lips as though to seal in the warmth of Perry's kiss.

He redirected
his attention to the road.  "If only Lucien hadn't meddled in the first
place, the aphrodisiac would still be safe."

"Yes, well,
we all know that Lucien will meddle as long as there is air to breathe.  I
suppose it's all just as well, though.  That potion was far too dangerous.  I
mean, look how much trouble it got Andrew and Celsie into!"

"I'll say
it did."  Perry glanced overhead at the incoming clouds, reached into his
pocket, and extracted two sweets, giving one to Nerissa and popping the other
into his own mouth.  "Poor Andrew would still be a free man if it weren't
for that blasted stuff."

"Uh, Perry,
I think there's something you should know."

He turned and
raised a brow.

"Lucien is
growing impatient with us.  He's threatening to take matters into his own hands
if we do not set a date, soon."

Perry's face
drained of color, and he nearly choked on the sweet.  Nerissa pounded him
across the back, and turning his head, he spat the candy out onto the muddy
ground.

"Bloody
hell," he swore.

"Perhaps we
should just set a date so he can't manipulate us like he did my brothers . . .
Wouldn't it be wonderful if I were the only one in my family he couldn't
force into marriage?"

Though her tone
was light, cajoling, Perry felt as though someone had just iced his spine.  It
wasn't that he didn't adore Nerissa, whom he had known since childhood; it
wasn't that he didn't want to marry her.

He just didn't
to marry her now.

He was only
midway through his second decade; there were too many adventures to be had, too
many seeds to be sown, for him to think about settling down and marrying!  And
now Lucien, that master manipulator, that Machiavellian monster who had
controlled so many other lives, was eyeing him and Nerissa as his next
victims?  Oh, God and the devil, help us!

He stared
straight ahead as he turned the horse toward Blackheath Castle, unable to look
into her eyes, so blue, so eager, so hopeful.  "I, uh, don't think we
should act just yet," he said lamely.  "There is nothing your brother
can do to force our hands.  Besides, I — well, I'm not yet ready to settle down
. . .  I'm not ready for the demands of being a husband, being a father . .
."

"Don't you
love me?" she asked playfully.

"Of course
I love you, Nerissa."  He leaned over and kissed her even as he flicked
the reins to get the horse to go faster; this was a conversation he was not
inclined to have, and the sooner he got her home, the better.  "But I'm
young.  You're young.  Marriage is a lifelong commitment and shouldn't be
something two people rush into."

"Young?
I'm nearly twenty, you're halfway to thirty, and you've been giving me the same
answer for the last two years."  She lifted her chin and stared off over
the downs, watching a flock of sheep grazing in the distance.  "Why, a
woman could get tired waiting for you to have your fun, Perry.  A woman could
decide that she, too, needs some fun, and start seeking it
elsewhere."

"And what
is that supposed to mean?"

Her smile was
distant.  "Exactly what you think it means."

Suddenly irritated,
he pulled the phaeton up sharply before the castle's main entrance.  What was
it with women, always pestering, always nagging, never happy until they had a
ring on their finger?  Wasn't a promise good enough?

"Listen,
Nerissa, if you simply want to show off a ring for your friends, I'll go to London
and buy you —"

"Perry, you
don't understand.  I don't want jewelry.  I want you."

"But
Nerissa, I —"

She looked down,
pretending an interest in her fur muff.  "No, no, I shall not nag you,
you've made it clear as crystal what your priorities are."

"Dearest,
you're just eager to get married because you've seen three of your four
brothers wed, and you're feeling left out."  Her face hardened, and he
heard his tone grow desperate.  "It's not that I don't love you, Nissa, I
just need time to . . . well, to have my adventures before I settle down to a
life of — of, well, boring domesticity . . .  Oh, hell —"

She stiffened,
looking straight ahead with a bleak expression in her eyes.  A footman
approached and took the horse's head.  Perry, cursing under his breath, jumped
to the ground, reached up, and helped Nerissa from the phaeton.  She merely
slew him with a hurt look, pulled her gloved hand from his, and strode angrily
toward the castle.

"Nerissa!
At least let me see you safely indoors!"

She paused only
long enough to toss over her shoulder, "Good day, Perry.  Come back when
you've had your fill of adventure."

She swept
inside, leaving him gritting his teeth in frustration.

Women!

Neither of them
noticed the slight movement of the drapes at the library window.

~~~~

"More candles,
Puddyford," murmured the Duke of Blackheath, as he stood at the window
watching Nerissa's and Perry's return with a deceptively absent stare.
"It grows dark in here."

"Yes, Your
Grace."  Obediently, the servant lit more tapers, casting a quick glance
at his silent, preoccupied master before hurrying out past Sir Roger Fox,
Esquire, who sat near the hearth contemplating a glass of port.

Fox waited until
the servant had gone, then looked up at the duke, whose broad back was
silhouetted by the gray light coming in from the window.  "So," he
said, "you want me to have our Parisian contact abandon his surveillance
of the French court and concentrate on watching the activities of this" — he
smiled —"woman, instead?"

"It is of
more importance to me at the moment."

"Yes, but
is it of more importance to Britain?  As we all know, the only reason the
Americans are even in Paris is to stir up trouble, to try and bring
French strength in on their side of this confounded war.  We must remain one
step ahead of them, otherwise we'll find ourselves fighting the damned Frogs as
well as the Yankees."

The duke did not
turn from the window.  "This woman is dangerous, at the forefront of the
Americans' activities, and I will continue to thwart her efforts as long as I
draw breath."

The duke let the
drapes fall shut and returned to the fire, a look on his face of smug triumph.

"What is
it?" Fox asked, frowning.

"Perry has
just brought Nerissa home, and all appears to be exactly as I suspected it
would be."

"Meaning?"

"Oh, just
the predictable argument between my two little birds of paradise," Lucien
drawled, reclaiming his chair and pouring himself a glass of port.  A slamming
door heralded Nerissa's entrance, and both men heard the spray of gravel
outside as Perry sent the phaeton thundering away from the castle at what
sounded like a suicidal pace.  "So, my dear Fox.  Did you carry my letter
to Lord Islington in London?"

"Yes, and I
negotiated the sale of his Spanish estate to a certain Don Eduardo Mendoza, too
— though I must confess, the whole business fills me with trepidation, Lucien.
I can't imagine what you'll do with a Spanish estate, nor why you feel the need
to invent a false identity under which to buy it."

Lucien was
gazing into his glass, smiling.  "Ah, but that Spanish estate will suit my
needs nicely, I think.  I really did have to do something about my sister's
hopeless . . . situation."

"Some
diabolical plan up your sleeve to get your last sibling married, then?"

"It is for her
own good."

"For the
love of God, Lucien, one of these days you'll go too far and your scheming
machinations will come back to haunt you."

"Oh, but I
think not," the duke murmured.  "After all, my dear Fox — I have a
perfect record."

~~~~

A week later,
Lucien was at his correspondence when Nerissa burst in.

"Lucien!"

He turned,
quickly schooling his face into bland inquiry, brotherly concern, banishing his
triumph to a place where she would never find it.  His sister was as distraught
as ever he'd seen her.  "You must do something!" she cried.
"Perry's off to Spain — Spain, of all places — and I'm afraid he'll
never come back after the way I treated him!"

Lucien felt a
savage stab of delight.  So, his instructions had been followed to the letter,
then . . .  Good.

"My dear
girl," he said, putting an arm around her shoulders and drawing her nearer
the fire.  "Sit, and take a glass of Madeira with me while you tell me
exactly what happened."

Nerissa was too
upset to sit, though she hastily accepted the glass her brother offered her and
downed it with an ease that brought a frown to his deceptively mild
countenance.  She began to pace, blinking back tears of anger and frustration.

"He got a
letter yesterday, from a Don somebody-or-other in Spain . . . a solicitor for
the estate of some client who died intestate.  Well, this client had no heirs,
and his closest living relative turned out to be Perry, of all people!  I never
knew that Perry had relatives in Spain!  What other secrets does he harbor,
what other surprises does he have in store for me?  And now this Spaniard wants
him to come at once to inspect the land and house, and determine what is to be
done with it.  Oh, Lucien, what am I to do?"

"Do?"
Lucien smiled cajolingly.  "Really, my dear, is a short trip to Spain any
great catastrophe?  You are upsetting yourself for nothing.  Why, think of the
benefits of having holdings in such a place.  Once you and Perry are married,
you can pass your winters there instead of here in cold, wet, England."

"How do I
know he'll even want to come back to England?  With me nagging him about
marriage, and that harridan of a mother who won't leave him alone, coming back
is the last thing he'll want to do!  We parted on terrible terms . . ."

"Ah,
Nerissa.  Have you never heard the old adage, 'Absence makes the heart grow
fonder?'  Think.  If Perry goes away for a while, it is only natural that he'll
start missing you.  Let him go.  Let him miss you; it is good for him.
Perhaps, when he returns, he will suddenly decide he can't live without you,
and you'll get him to commit to a wedding date."

"Oh, Lucien
. . . do you really think so?"

"I am
optimistic."

Nerissa flung
her arms around his neck, reminding him of the little girl she had once been,
running to him for comfort after falling and scraping a knee, reminding him of
all the times he'd stood at that same window behind him and watched Charles and
Gareth racing their ponies down the drive.  How he had longed to be out there
with them, enjoying a childhood that had ended the moment he'd found his father
dead on the tower stairs; how he'd resented being forced to stay indoors and
compose himself with the maturity and dignity his new role as duke had demanded
—

"Oh, Lucien
. . . sometimes I just want to strangle you  . . . other times, I love you
beyond reason because you always say the right thing at the right time."
She pulled back, hastily wiping at her tears and smiling bravely.  "I will
be patient, then.  I will wait here in England, and when he returns . . ."

"Perhaps
he'll have an offer for you," Lucien finished, with an encouraging lift of
one brow.

Nerissa left the
room in higher spirits than she had entered it, never seeing the satisfied
triumph in her brother's eyes.

Absence makes
the heart grow fonder.

"Indeed,"
he murmured — and smiled.

Chapter
4

The Duke of
Blackheath wasn't the only one tormented by what might have been.

With the real
aphrodisiac safe in her possession, Eva de la Mouriére had reached the coast of
England early the next morning, caught the packet to France, and was in Paris
by late that afternoon.

She was in
excellent spirits as she called at Dr. Benjamin Franklin's residence, only to
find the famous statesman, scientist and politician looking as old as his
years.

"What is
it?" she asked.

Franklin gave
her a bleak look.  "Twelve months I have been here, trying to convince the
French to officially ally themselves with us in our fight for freedom.  Twelve
months of negotiations, of hope, of playing one side off the other.  And still,
no change.  We cannot penetrate the British blockade of our coast.  Their spies
are everywhere, watching our every move.  None of the munitions we sent home
reached Washington's troops."  He removed his spectacles and rubbed at his
eyes.  "Without French alliance — and a colossal loan — I fear that
independence will soon be a lost cause."

He looked so
weary and hopeless that Eva couldn't resist reaching into her satchel.  "I
got the aphrodisiac," she said with sly triumph.

"The
aphrodisiac?"

Poor Franklin —
he had so much on his mind these days, it was no wonder he had forgotten all
about the elusive love potion.  His eyes brightened as Eva handed him the
bottle.

"So, this
is the magical elixir that is supposed to aid young Marie Antoinette . .
."

"It is
indeed.  The correct one, this time."  Eva watched in satisfaction
as Franklin examined the purple-garnet liquid that would set everything to
right in the royal bedchamber and, he hoped, banish all rumors that the king
was impotent.  If it succeeded in bringing about a royal heir, then surely France
would officially align herself with America and help them win the war against Britain!

He handed the
bottle back to her. "Well, Eva, let's just hope it works.  In the meantime"
— he smiled, looking much more like his old self — "well done.  Very well
done, indeed."

"Well, it
wasn't difficult," she boasted, wrapping the bottle back in its cloth as
she told him how she had procured the substance.  "The Duke of Blackheath
may think he's the most cunning person on earth, but even his wiles cannot
compare to a woman's."

Franklin's old
eyes twinkled.  "What I can't understand, Eva, is why you didn't take
advantage of the situation.  Any other woman would have, you know."

Eva started, then
gave a snort of contempt to hide her momentary loss of composure.

"I mean,
there you were, in his chambers, in his bed, the potion right there.  Any other
woman in your position would have just tapped a few drops of it into his port
to ensure it was the genuine article, and perhaps snared herself a duke as
well."

Eva forced a
careless peal of laughter.  "Now, why on earth would I have wanted to do
that?"

"I'm told
that the current duke is a very handsome — and wealthy — man."

"Yes, well,
I have sworn off men.  You know that."

"Ah,
Eva."  His eyes were kind behind the spectacles.  "You're too young
to be so jaded . . . too lovely to harbor such anger . . . too beautiful to
spend the rest of your life loathing the opposite sex."  He smiled.
"We're not all bad, you know.  One of these days, I think, you will meet
your match."

This time, Eva's
laughter was genuine.  "My match does not exist," she scoffed, and
got to her feet.

Franklin only
shook his head and saw her to the door.  Moments later, she was in a cab and on
her way home to the fashionable apartments where she had lived ever since
Jacques — may he rot in hell — had died and left her with a fortune won largely
through bribery, embezzlement, and greed.  Directing a servant to fetch her
trunk, Eva let herself in and, with a sigh, settled down on the divan, a glass
of wine in her hand, as she contemplated the events of the last two days.

"Lucien de
Montforte."

There, she'd
said it.

And he had not
materialized from out of the shadows like some phantom mist.

Another swallow
of wine gave her the courage to follow her imagination — and yes, the memory,
so fresh in her mind, of their recent encounter.  Here, in the privacy of her
apartments, she could let her mind's eye wander over that splendid body once
more, remembering how magnificent he had looked when he'd entered his
apartments — only to find her waiting in his bed like some poisonous scorpion.
Even now, a thrill seized her blood and she shuddered, wishing it away, fearing
its implications.

But it did not
go away.

Just the thought
of Blackheath was enough to make her nipples tingle, and her blood to flush
with heat.

"Damnation."
She should be able to flick Blackheath from her mind as easily as she might a
fly from her horse's neck.  What was the problem here?  Impossible that any man
could hold her thoughts, let alone her interest, when she thought so little of
the entire lot of them.

Ridiculous that
she now regretted not taking Blackheath up on his heady invitation.

His compelling
command . . .

Seduce me.

Without warning,
her skin went hot.  Her mouth, dry.  Again, she saw that ruthless face with its
watchful, magnetic eyes.  Again, she felt that hard body against hers, skin to
skin, hearts pounding against each other in a silent, angry battle of wills.
Eva shut her eyes, trying to control her sudden trembling.  Perhaps Franklin
was right.  Maybe she should have seduced Blackheath . . . after all,
when was the last time she'd had a man such as he?  The last time she'd had a
man at all?

Not since I
found Jacques in bed with my maid.

Her blood ran
cold.  Her fingers clenched and the wine went to acid in her mouth.  Men.  Why
even let herself think that Blackheath was any different from the rest?  They
were all alike, every last damned one of them.  She had learned that
lesson at her mother's knee, all those years ago . . .

Her mother, cold
and moldering in her grave.

She was stronger
than that.

She always had
been.

Her face hard,
Eva hurled the half-finished glass into the fireplace and sat back, staring out
into the darkness beyond the window.

~~~~

Lady Nerissa de
Montforte was at her desk answering her correspondence when she heard the sound
of an approaching horse.

She put the
quill down, rose, and hurried to the window.  It was a gray morning, the sky so
low she felt she could reach up and stir those heavy grey clouds with her
finger.  Sure enough, a rider was just galloping up to the castle.  She watched
as, his face grave and his boots spattered with mud, he leaped off his sturdy
black cob and strode toward the doors.

A chill pervaded
Nerissa's bones.  Shuddering, she hugged herself and went to stand before the
fire, trying to banish a sudden, inexplicable sense of dread.  Something has
happened to one of my brothers.  Her heart began to pound.  Oh, dear
God, something had happened.  Picking up her skirts, she left the salon and
made her way towards Lucien's domain, trying not to break into a dead run.

The library
doors were shut.  Behind them, she could hear voices, and then the doors opened
and a footman was showing the messenger out.

Nerissa cast a
momentary glance toward her brother.  Lucien was seated at his desk, his face
totally without expression, his eyes as black, as bleak as she had ever seen
them.  And then he shifted his gaze and saw her, and that moment of naked horror
she had glimpsed in his eyes was gone, to be replaced by his habitual mask of
unflappable calm.

She hurried
forward as he rose.

"Oh, Lucien
. . .  what is it?"

He looked at her
for a moment, and then took a deep breath.  "Sit down, my dear."

But Nerissa did
not want to sit down.  Not if something had happened to someone she loved, not
if she was about to hear news that might forever alter the course of her life.
Oh, please God, let time stop here, in this very moment, when everyone I
know and love is still alive and well; do not let time march on because I
simply cannot bear to see what the next moment will bring.

But no.  She was
a de Montforte, brave and strong.  She shook her head and met his direct stare,
noticing for the first time that his face was unnaturally pale.  Almost
haunted.

He offered her a
glass of brandy.  "It's Perry," he said quietly.

Nerissa's hand
froze in the act of accepting the glass, and it fell from her nerveless
fingers, crashing to the floor.  She stared numbly at her brother, her body
going cold all over.

"The ship
on which he took passage to Spain was attacked by an American privateer just
off the coast of France," the duke continued in an odd, toneless voice.
"The captain gave a good account of himself, but he was outgunned.  The
ship went down and what survivors remained were picked up by the Americans and
brought into a French port."

"Dear
God," Nerissa choked, her steepled hands going to her mouth.  "Perry —
is he —  is he —"

"We don't
know.  His name was not listed amongst the survivors."

Nerissa stepped
back, her knees trembling.  She looked at her brother and shook her head,
unable to speak, unable to think, unable to accept what he had just told her.

"I am
sorry, my dear.  I will do all in my power to learn his fate.  If he is alive,
rest assured that I will find him and bring him back to England for you.  If he
is not . . ."

Nerissa felt the
blood draining from her cheeks, and now a myriad of black spots danced before
her eyes as the full impact of Lucien's words slammed into her heart.  Perry.
Her dear Perry with whom she had quarrelled, cut to pieces by a cannonball,
shot to death by a musket . . . drowned —

Lucien caught
her as she collapsed.  He stood for a long moment, holding his little sister
close to his heart and staring into the flickering orange flames.  He heard the
messenger galloping off.  Heard the rain, now beginning to fleck the window
outside.

And heard Fox's
words echoing in his head:

"For the
love of God, Lucien, one of these days you'll go too far and your scheming
machinations will come back to haunt you . . ."

He took a deep
breath, unable to admit that this time, he had, indeed, gone too far.

One thing was
for certain.  Nerissa must never learn that he had engineered Perry's
departure, had bought the estate in Spain that Perry had supposedly inherited.
He shut his eyes.  God and the devil, she must never know what I have done
or she will loath me forever.

There was no
time to waste.  His sister in his arms, he strode from the room, already calling
for his servants.  "Phelps, lay out traveling clothes and send word to the
stables to prepare my coach.  I am going to Paris."

Chapter
5

"A toast,
ladies and gentleman!  To the brave General Washington!"

"To the
brave General Washington!

All around the
glittering Parisian ball room, glasses were raised.  Eva de la Mouriére,
standing beside Dr. Franklin and several of the American dignitaries, smiled,
tipped her own glass and downed the champagne.

"Now the
French will have no choice but to sit up and take notice," Franklin
predicted.  "Burgoyne's surrender, Washington's attack on the British army
at Germantown . . .  Pray God, it won't be long now before we've got France
into this war, my friends!"

He turned to
Eva.  "Here comes General Lavisson; bend his ear, if you will, about our
victory . . . he is close to the king, so turn all of your charm on him."
He watched the general approaching from across the crowded floor.  "Have
you given the potion into the queen's keeping?"

"I will see
her on Saturday."

"Good.  Now
here's Lavisson.  Every man in this room is chomping at the bit to dance with
you, my dear . . .  Go, make them all envious of our hopelessly besotted
general."

Lavisson bowed
low over Eva's hand.  "Madame," he murmured, letting his gaze
sweep her face, "you are a vision.  Will you honor a poor soldier with a
dance?"

"It would
be my pleasure," Eva purred, offering her gloved hand.

He drew her out
onto the floor.  Lavisson was a stocky man, packed with muscle, possessing a
raptor's pale blue eyes and a hooked nose.

"I must
congratulate you Americans on your capture of Burgoyne," he said
gallantly.  "Such feats are enough to warrant a second look at ze fighting
prowess of your countrymen."

"Ah, well,
we are used to dealing with the frontier, with Indians, with all sorts of
dangers," Eva said airily.  "I'm sure we can handle a few pompous
Britons."  She smiled, aware that he was trying hard to unglue his gaze
from her bosom, swelling in high, creamy glory just inches from his nose.

"I hate ze
British.  Zey are vain and arrogant, boastful and proud.  Why God put zem
across the Channel from us is a joke only He must enjoy —"

He broke off as
a low murmur swept through the room.  A sudden chill snaked up Eva's back and,
instinctively sensing danger, she stiffened and looked up, missing a step and
nearly tripping over Lavisson's shoe.  He caught her in time to keep her from
falling, but Eva, eyes narrowing, was already scanning the ballroom.  All
around, others had also gone quiet, and heads were turning toward the great
double doors of the entrance.  The music stopped.  A hushed murmur rippled like
a current through the swell as people craned their necks, trying to see who had
elicited such a widespread and universal reaction.

A man stood by
the door, exquisite in fitted indigo velvet, a good head taller than those who
surrounded him.  And then Eva saw his face.

Stark
cheekbones.  Penetrating black eyes.  A cold stare that was focused entirely on
her.

"Le Duc
de Blackheath!"

Eva's heart
stopped.  Her mouth sagged open, involuntary ripples of excitement quickened
her blood, and she stared in disbelief.  What was he doing here?  Why
was he in France?  Had he purposely sought her out, come to take his vengeance
for destroying the potion?

Had he learned
that she'd stolen the genuine one after all?

Dear God.

Her heart
started up again.  And began to beat too fast.

"Well, madame,
as I was saying, ze British are an arrogant race . . .  Why, only an Englishman
would have ze audacity to come to a ball celebrating a victory against his own
people.  Only an Englishman would dare show himself at a party given by ze
enemy.  Only an Englishman . . ."

But Eva had
forgotten Lavisson.  The room was suddenly stifling, the oppressive heat and
odors of too many bodies, too much perfume, too many candles — and now, not
enough air — suddenly making her feel faint.  And there was Blackheath, coming
through the stunned crowd, nodding to an acquaintance here, bowing to a lady
there, ignoring the stares and whispers that followed in his wake as he headed
straight across the ballroom with a single-minded, unerring purpose.

Toward her.

Eva's pulse
began to hammer against the string of emeralds that now choked her throat.  She
pulled away from Lavisson and glanced about for the most expedient means of
escape.

But there was
no escape.  She was trapped.  All she could do was raise her head, adopt the
haughtiest expression she could muster, and try to retain the upper hand she
had won the last time they had met.

"Eva de la
Mouriére," the duke murmured in that smooth-as-cognac voice she remembered
so well.  Up close, his eyes were bottomless pits of black fire.  There was no
feeling in them, just an icy, deadly heat that both chilled and burned her.  He
gave Lavisson an imperious look that made the Frenchman's nostrils quiver with
indignation, took Eva's hand, and bowing deeply over it, forced her away from
the general and back onto the dance floor.

"In case
you didn't notice, I was occupied with General Lavisson," Eva
gritted, strangely excited by Blackheath's brazen display of courage — and
infuriated by his single-minded display of possession.  She was keenly aware of
the hard, honed body against which she was pressed.  Held.  Trapped.  God help
her, what would Franklin think?  What would the other Americans think?  What
would the French think, seeing her consorting with the enemy?  "Are
all the English as rude as you?"

"On the
contrary.  I am singularly ruder than most."

"And you've
just proved it.  I do not recall granting you a dance."

"And I do
not recall asking you for one."  He smiled down at her, his gaze moving
over the white column of her neck, the burgeoning swell of her breasts, in a
seductive visual caress that left her flushed and twitchy.  "But then,
there are some things I simply take without asking."

"Oh, so you
think to take me, do you?"

"Madam, I
have just done precisely that.  Now close your mouth and stop glaring at me.
Do you want people to think you're not . . . enjoying our little dance?"

Eva's eyes
narrowed and it was all she could do not to slap that severe, perfectly
composed face as Blackheath's hand, its elegance emphasized by the expensive
lace that draped it, snugged more firmly about her waist.  There was no
escaping it.  No escaping him, as he whirled her about the dance floor
with dizzying prowess.  He held her close.  Too close.  So close she could feel
the heat of his body, feel that smoldering stare burning every inch of skin it
touched, feel the raw, barely contained lust emanating from him like fire from
the sun.  She wanted to get away from it; she wanted to get closer to it.  She
took deep breaths, devoting all her concentration to keeping up with the steps —
and resisting, with everything she had, this strange, terrible effect he had on
her.

"You are a
most elusive creature, my dear.  I spent the better part of that night
searching for you.  My compliments on such a daring escape."  His raked
her with a mocking look.  "I trust your knees aren't too bruised?"

She gave him her
most poisonous smile.  "I am sure they're in better health than your
thigh.  By the way, did you need stitches, Your Grace?"

"I am
afraid I did, though as wounds go, it was not exactly life-threatening.  Were
you deliberately trying to kill me, or merely destroy the aphrodisiac so
neither of us could have it?"

"Really
now, Blackheath.  Had I been trying to kill you, I can assure you I would have
succeeded."

"Ah.  So
you simply wanted to destroy the potion, then."

Eva's eyes
glowed.  Tell him.  Oh, tell him, if only to see his shock and fury at being
so cleverly outwitted!  And why not?  This would be her moment of triumph,
the one she would have had to otherwise only imagine after sending him a
taunting letter.  Tell him!

"On the
contrary, Your Grace.  You see, I didn't destroy the aphrodisiac at all."

"My dear
madam, I can assure you, I saw the bottle explode with my own eyes."

"And so did
I" — she grinned, buoyed by savage triumph — "but that wasn't the
real aphrodisiac."

His smile faded
abruptly.  "I beg your pardon?"

"Well, I
really did want you to know that whatever you can do, I can do better.
You were so good at fooling us all with that substitute potion, I thought it
only fitting that you become reacquainted with it.  The substitute, that is.
After all, you went through such trouble to create it, I thought you
might like to have it back."

He impaled her
with an icy stare, his eyes glittering like jet.  "Are you trying to tell
me that the bottle you shot to pieces contained my original substitute?"

"Dear me,
for a man, you certainly do show flashes of limited intelligence!  That
is exactly what I'm saying.  After I broke into your chamber — and, your safe,
I might add — I took the real article, put it in my canvas sack, and offered
you the substitute in its place.  What a pity that you refused to sample some.
It would have forged an intimate liaison between yourself and the chamberpot,
you know."  His expression went absolutely still.  Thunderously black.
"And now, if you'll excuse me, the dance is over and I have business to conduct.
Good day, Your Grace."

His hand shot
out and snared her wrist.  "I beg your pardon. I also have business to
conduct."  His eyes were black as nightshade.  "With you."

"Unhand me
this instant," she commanded, her smile fading.

"Or what?
You'll produce a pistol and shoot me through the heart?  Denounce me as a cad?
Oh, no, madam.  You look a little . . . pale."  He gave a chilling smile.
"Some fresh air, I think."

A hand beneath
her elbow, he propelled her through the crowd, still smiling at people he knew,
inclining his head to his French peers.  Everyone was staring.  Fans were
fluttering wildly, ladies twittering, mouths gaping open at the English duke's
outrageous display of possessiveness and insolence.  Rage flooded Eva, but she
would not satisfy Blackheath by making a scene.  Oh, no, she would walk civilly
beside him, this frigid smile pasted on her face while every fiber of her being
itched to do him serious bodily harm.  Itched to humiliate him in a way he
would never forget.

Itched to find
out what it would be like to bed him.

Stop it!

He was heading
straight for the doors.  Still gripping her elbow, he steered her past the
fringes of the crowd and outside.  The night was frosty.  Clear, cold moonlight
shone through a velvet sky.  He let go of her long enough to take off his coat
and place it around her shoulders, then, raising a brow, he offered his arm.

As though she
had any choice!  Trembling with fury, Eva took it.

Silently, he
escorted her past a frozen fountain, where icicles dripped from the arms of a
stone cherub.  Their shoes crunched on frozen gravel, their breaths plumed the
air.  Tension crackled between them.  Tension — and a raw, sexual awareness
that Eva was trying her best to ignore.

Trying — and
failing.

Blackheath led
her some distance from the house, then to her surprise, he released her.

"Do not
leave me until you hear me out."

Confused, Eva
stepped back to put some distance between them, drawing his heavy velvet coat
about her shoulders.  It was warm with the heat of his body.  Rich and
lusciously expensive against her skin, emanating his own uniquely male scent.
She resisted the urge to bury her nose in it.

"I'm
listening," she said warily, trying to ignore the pounding of her heart,
the feverish tingles of anticipation that were racing across her skin.
"What do you want?"

He levelled his
flat stare on her.  "Your help."

Of all the
reasons a virile, dangerous man such as himself might drag a woman out into the
night, this was the last one that Eva might have expected.  His answer threw
her totally off balance.  Brought a rush of unexpected disappointment.  For a
moment, she couldn't respond to such a bald plea, and had to quell a burst of
laughter.  Why, the idea of this arrogant, manipulative monster asking for help
of all things, was almost ludicrous.

"My
help," she scoffed, with an arch, pitying look.  "Well, Blackheath,
you've certainly found the last person on earth willing to give it to
you."

"I am sure
that for a price, you will give me anything."

"Some
things cannot be bought."

"No, some
things can only be given," he said coldly.  "I know you would have me
believe you're a hard-hearted witch, but, as tempting as the thought is, I am
not totally convinced of it."

She smiled
sweetly.  "No?  After what I did to your brothers?  After what I nearly
did to you?  How much more convincing must I be?"

"Help me
and I will consider your offenses against my family forgiven.  It is for their
sake, not mine, that I have sought you out."

Eva raised a
brow.

He moved a
little distance away, no doubt trying to rein in the natural enmity he must
certainly feel for her.  She could almost see him collecting himself.  Retreating
behind that impeccably aristocratic mask that would remain in place no matter
what emotions, what thoughts, boiled behind it.  But no.  She was mistaken.  In
the silent majesty of the night, his eyes were darker than the deepest water of
the ocean, and for a moment, just a moment, he allowed her to see the haunting
anguish in their depths, the pain she didn't think he was capable of feeling.

Something in her
softened, responding to that naked revelation; he was human, then, after all.

Imagine.

"I have a
sister," he continued, gazing out into the night.  His back was toward
her, rising in splendid magnificence from his lean torso, crowned with powerful
shoulders of a breadth that was nothing short of . . . mesmerizing.  She
feasted her eyes on that back, on those shoulders, even as she cursed herself
for taking such a liberty.  "Her name is Nerissa.  She means more to me
than anything on God's earth."

Eva said
nothing, merely watching him.

"She is
young and romantic, and hopelessly in love with a fellow who has no wish to
settle down and get on with the responsibilities of his birthright."  He
turned and, offering his arm once more, began to walk.  You must be
freezing, Eva thought.  He had only a sleeveless waistcoat to ward off the
cold.  But the Duke of Blackheath's iron control was such that he would never
shiver, let his teeth chatter, or even allow a tremor to mar his urbane voice.
"A fortnight ago, this beau of hers — the Earl of Brookhampton — was . . .
sent to Spain aboard the English ship, Sarah Rose.  Just off the coast
of France, the vessel was attacked and sunk by an American privateer."

Eva felt herself
softening, a dangerous thing.  It scared her — so she reacted as she always did
when threatened.

With sarcastic
hostility.

"Ah,
yes," she drawled.  "I do recall hearing of that particular triumph
on my country's part."

A muscle
tightened in the duke's jaw, but he would not allow himself to be goaded.
"Lord Brookhampton was amongst those feared lost when the ship went down.
My sister is inconsolable."

"Why was
Brookhampton sent to Spain?"

Blackheath's
face closed up.  "That is of no importance.  The only thing that matters
is finding him and bringing him safely back to England."

"Well, I'll
ask the fish and crabs off Calais, then, if they happen to remember eating
him."

This time, the
duke could not rein in his anger.  He turned on her, his eyes so dark and
savage that Eva involuntarily took a step back.  "That was crass and
uncalled-for.  We are talking about a human life, here."

"We are
talking about an Englishman who'd just as soon see Americans slaughtered,
starved, and beaten into submission."

"If you
believe that, then you are a fool," he said coldly.  "There are those
in Parliament, and throughout England, who are friends of America.  Men like
Pitt and Burke, who wish to see this war at an end, who oppose George's
American policy, who are willing to meet your countrymens' demands."

"And are
you one of them?" she asked, her tone poisonously sweet.

His eyes had
never seemed so black.  "Two of my sisters-in-law are American.  My
brother Charles — the one you struck down — served with the army in Boston,
where he gained both an understanding of the American people and sympathy for
their plight.  He owes his life to their benevolence.  Yes, madam, I can assure
you that I am one of them, and the sooner there's an end to this
damnable conflict, the happier I shall be."

Eva looked away,
suddenly regretting her caustic words.  Humility was a bitter pill to swallow.
"So what do you want from me?"

"Your help
in finding out what happened to Lord Brookhampton."

She shrugged.
"I don't know how much help I can be.  If the reports say he went down
with the ship, that's probably exactly what happened."

"Reports
can be falsified.  Perry might have used a different name to escape detection.
He might have been injured, taken in as a hostage . . .  Any number of things
might have occurred.  I will not be satisfied until I have the truth."

"Isn't that
something you can find yourself?"

"As you so
quickly reminded me, madam, I am English — not exactly a friend of the French,
and soon to be an enemy, if you Yankees get your way."  Inwardly Eva
winced, though she knew the English, thanks to their own spies, knew exactly
what the Americans had been up to.  "You, on the other hand, can move
quite comfortably within the higher echelons of French society.  I want you to
find out if Perry survived.  If he did, I want you to learn where he is
imprisoned."  His jaw tightened and he looked away, his voice harsh.
"I want you to help me give my sister her life back."

I want you to
help me give my sister her life back.

Nothing he might
have said could have swayed her more.  Blackheath had said she was young,
romantic, and in love.  Eva remembered what it had been like to be young,
romantic, and in love.  She remembered it with a bitter pang that still hurt
after all these years, causing the back of her throat to ache with the pain of
betrayal, the loss of innocence, the death of dreams.  She had no desire
whatsoever to help the duke, of course.  But his sister . . .

She gave a deep
sigh.  "I will do what I can, Blackheath.  But not for you.  For your
sister."

"Despite
the fact you've never met her?"

"It doesn't
matter.  She's a woman.  She hurts.  I sympathize with her pain."

"You think
men do not hurt?"

"I know
men do not hurt.  How can they?  They do not have hearts, which is why they
take such delight in breaking ours."

He studied her
for a long moment, and Eva had the uncanny sensation he could see right into
her soul and all its long-buried, deeply guarded secrets.  She shivered.  With
awe.  With nervousness.

And, with
unspoken longing.

"Are you
cold?"

"Yes,"
she lied.

"I will
remedy that," he said.

And, pulling her
into his arms, he kissed her.

Chapter
6

The night was
frigid, the air as brittle as glass, but when Blackheath's lips came down on
hers, Eva felt nothing but a searing, sweeping warmth.

His hands
slipped beneath the velvet coat and down, cupping her figure, the thumbs
grazing her silk-clad breasts, the palms following her rib cage, snugging into
the curve of her waist and out over her hips, her bottom.  He pulled her close,
right up against the unforgivably hard wall of his body, trapping her there
even as his mouth covered hers.  Eva had no desire to reclaim the space he had
stolen.  She spread her palms against his chest, feeling the taut, coiled
muscle just beneath, the steady beat of his heart.  How delicious it was to be
in such powerful arms!  How dangerously heady, this unexpected abandonment of
her senses, her convictions!  She forgot her anger; forgot regret, indignation,
outrage.  There was only his mouth against hers, demanding and impatient, cool
and hard and wonderful.

And now his
tongue, tracing the swell of her lower lip, painting it with warm, tingling
heat.  With a sigh of defeat, she opened to him.  Clung to him.  Let him touch
and taste and explore even as she returned the intimate caress.  Her blood
caught on fire, engulfing her in flames, a heretic burning at the stake.

There was no
denying it.  She wanted him.  God help her, she wanted him, and if she was any
sort of a woman she would have him — on her terms, of course, not his, never
his — and she would have him tonight.  It was a seductive thought.  A delicious
thought.  One that flared to life on the kindling of her own rising desire . .
.

His hands
pressed against the small of her back now, molding her, holding her, drawing
her right up against the rock-hard length of him, pelvis to pelvis, until her
head tipped back under the onslaught of his kiss.  Her arms came up to encircle
his neck, the heavy velvet coat now sliding from her shoulders, tumbling off
her back, and landing in a crumpled heap at her feet.  But she never felt the
cold.  There was only his lips against hers, his breath mingling with her own,
her hands roving across his shirt and tracing the fascinating interplay of
muscle, ribs, and hard, flat abdomen just beneath the fine lawn.

Eva pulled back,
resting her hot forehead against his chest and breathing hard.

"If you do
that again I shall have to kill you," she said without conviction, trying
to catch her breath as she stared somewhat dazedly down at their feet.

"And you think
that threat will deter me?"

"You know I
feel nothing for you."

"Then you
are a magnificent actress."

"I loath
you.  I've loathed you ever since I found that you were the one who was
sabotaging our spying efforts here in France . . .  The matter of the
aphrodisiac was just the frosting on the cake."

"Hmm, yes .
. ."  His hand, so warm despite the night air, stroked her nape, his thumb
caressing the sensitive skin just behind her ear.  "I wish I could make
the same denial, but I fear I've been fascinated with you from the moment I
first saw you, when your cousin brought you to my brother's wedding."

"Lust,
nothing more.  Ignore it and it will go away."

"I have
tried to ignore it.  It has not gone away."

"Find
another woman, then."

"I don't want
another woman."  His voice dropped to a husky murmur, and she felt his
breath against the side of her neck.  His lips.  The whisper of a kiss — dark,
forbidden, dangerous.  "I want you."

Hot tremors
shook her body.  He could break her heart.  Take it apart, stomp on it, and
walk away without a backward glance.  Fear almost paralyzed her — but Eva had
no use for fear.  If this was frightening her, it was all the more reason to
confront it head on.

"What do
you say, my lady?  You are an adult, a widow, no blushing innocent who's
ignorant of what she'll find in a man's bed.  And unless I'm mistaken, you're
as eager as I am to finish what we already started in mine.  But I'm not
usually mistaken, Eva.  Let me prove to you that men can be very . . . interesting,
indeed."

Her knees began
to weaken.  "I have . . . work to do at the ball."

"You have work
to do for me.  But pleasure before business, no?"

He took her
arm.  Fear and wanting warred within her.  The night pressed in around her,
icing her skin, trying to freeze her blood, but Blackheath had ignited
something that was burning her from the inside out and could only be satisfied
in one way, and one way only.

And then, a
sudden idea occurred to her.  A wicked idea, so totally perfect for the
occasion, so totally in line with her own plans, that she could barely contain
her triumph.

Her relief.

"Very well,
then, Blackheath," she murmured, looking up into his shadowy face.
"I'm no champion of the male gender, but I'm willing to give you a chance
to change my mind about it.  You and I will return to my rooms, but" — she
narrowed her eyes — "it will be on my terms."

"And they
are?"

"Complete
domination."

Up went one
black, arching brow.  "Dear me, this night promises more excitement than
I'd originally anticipated . . ."

"And I'm
telling you right now that if you disappoint me in any way, I swear I'll kill
you."

"In that
case, I promise to do all in my power to leave you completely . . ." — his
lips curved in a slow, dangerous smile  — "satisfied."

~~~~

They returned —
individually — to the ball and, pleading a headache, Eva excused herself and
left the great noisy chamber.

She had seen Franklin
eyeing her with raised brows, obviously not fooled by her excuse.  He had seen
her with Blackheath.  He was certainly wondering why she was consorting with
the enemy.  But Eva had a plan, and Blackheath would be the perfect man on whom
to carry it out.

He was waiting
for her, as promised, at the foot of the great stairway that led to the guest
rooms on the mansion's upper floors.  It was quiet here; not even a servant was
about.

"Last
chance to change your mind," he murmured, with a challenging little smile
that said he knew she would not.

Eva took his
offered arm.  "I am not such a coward as all that.  Though you'd like everyone
to think you're the devil incarnate, I am most assuredly not afraid of the big
bad wolf."

"Really,
now?  Then why, might I ask, are you trembling?"

She gave a
flippant little laugh to cover her nervousness.  "Anticipation."

He only smiled,
a thin, knowing smile that made her insides twist in a knot.  So, she'd lied.  A
bit.  She was afraid of the big bad wolf, because wolves were perfectly
capable of tearing out your heart and eating it.  And Eva was all too aware
that her heart, which had been feasted on before, was dangerously close to
finding itself on an offered platter.

Stay calm!
YOU are in control.  He has consented that you will be in control!  You have
nothing to fear, as long as you don't start imagining he's something he's not,
as long as you don't start dreaming little-girl dreams about him, as long as
you don't start deluding yourself that he's any different from the rest of his
abhorrent gender . . .

She raised her
head, haughty, flirtatious, in command once more.  Yes, she was in control.
She just had to convince herself of the fact.  They reached the top of the
stairs, and, her heart pounding, Eva led the way to her room.  The closed door
looked ominous.  And exciting.  What would lay beyond that door, tonight?

She turned then
and faced her companion with a hard stare.  "Let me remind you,
Blackheath.  This is on my terms."

"Ah,
yes."  His smile gleamed.  "Complete domination."

"And
remember, I am perfectly capable of killing you if you deceive me in any
way."

"I know you
are, my dear.  It is one of many reasons why I find myself so fascinated by
you."  He reached out and placed his palm against the door just behind her
ear, effectively trapping her between his arm and dark, ruthless face.  His
voice dropped to a seductive whisper.  "You see, I adore dangerous
women."

Eva tensed, her
heart beginning to race.  "You may not adore them so much if one decides
to kill you."

"Ah, yes.
Kill me.  That is a threat you seem to revisit quite often, madam.  Perhaps,
before this night is over, you will convince me of how . . ." — he smiled —
". . . dangerous you really are."

She gave him a
level stare.  "I would be most happy to."

He merely
laughed, and Eva felt a brief stab of fury that he would dismiss her so
lightly.  But then, he had done much the same when she'd broken into his
apartments back at the castle, blatantly turning his back on her when she held
a gun on him, as if to prove that he did not take her as seriously as she did
herself.

But then,
that's one of the reasons you're so fascinated by him isn't it?  Because
he respects but not fears you, as so many other men do.  Because he is totally
unfazed by the fact that you could so easily kill him.  You enjoy his courage.
You have met your match, Eva.

And she would
best her match.  She would.

She merely
smiled at him and glanced pointedly at his arm. It was still blocking her way.
After a deliberate pause, he finally removed it.  Eva pushed open the door.  A
fire burned in the hearth, and a candle stood on a lowboy with curved, spindly
legs in the French fashion, its light casting a warm orange glow over the
lacquered wood, across the fine Turkish carpet on the floor, and bringing out
the lights and shadows from the heavy drapes at the windows and around the bed.

"Have you
no maid?" Blackheath asked, raising a brow.

"I gave her
the night off.  It took her hours to prepare me for the evening.  She deserved
no less."

He was standing
just behind her.  She could feel his heat.  His hunger.  He was very close, and
though Eva was a tall woman, he somehow managed to make her feel quite
diminutive indeed.  She resisted the urge to shudder.  She must be mad to be
doing this.  Mad to let the Duke of Blackheath into her bedroom.  Into her
life.  But she was doing this for her country.  And there were far less
agreeable things she could do than inviting one of the deadliest men in England
into her bed.

Detachment.  It
was the only way to both enjoy Blackheath's body and keep her own heart safely
locked up where he could never reach it.  Detachment.  It was the only way that
she'd be able to keep from fantasizing that he was something he was not, to
keep from imagining things that could never be, to keep from dreaming of
something that would never happen.

Detachment.

And then he was
kissing her, and she knew she was fighting a losing battle, for there was no
way anyone could detach from this.

His hands, so
broad, skillful and warm, cradled her jaw, her cheeks, tilting her head up to
his.  She lost herself to the kiss.  Her senses began to swim, and from some
distant part of herself, she felt pressure behind her legs.  A moment later he
had swept her up in his arms, her feet dangling, as he carried her effortlessly
toward the bed.

Somewhat
breathless, Eva struggled to reclaim control.  "My terms,
Blackheath."

"But of
course."

"So put me
down."

He smiled.

"Put me
down, now."

With a sigh, he
did so, then stood eyeing her with a lazy, confident smile that made no
promises whatsoever.

And yet, made
all the promises in the world.

"Undress
me," she said.

He raised a
brow, clearly fascinated, despite himself.

"You men
are always the ones to indulge us in your sexual fantasies.  Well, tonight you
will be indulged in mine."

"I do
like the sound of that," he murmured, deeply amused.  "I daresay I
will enjoy your little . . . indulgences, Eva."

"I can
assure you, you will."

She stood quite
still, barely daring to breathe as he approached.  He came right up to her,
until he stood so close that she could feel the heat radiating from his body,
hear the breath moving through his lungs, feel it stirring the tendrils of hair
at her temples.  He let his fingers graze her cheek; unflinchingly, she met his
gaze.  He pulled a pin from her hair.  Another.  And yet another.  A thick,
powdered tress tumbled to Eva's shoulder, then down her back.

Another.

She shut her
eyes, her nerves on fire, her knees so weak she feared they would give out
beneath her.  She heard the thin tinkle of pins hitting the floor.  Shivered as
Blackheath's fingers brushed the delicate shell of her ear, the nape of her
neck . . . the line of her jaw.  More hair tumbled down.  The horsehair pads
atop which her coiffure had been piled fell out.  Eva stood before him, heavy
masses of hair, stiff with powder, spilling down her back.

He reached for
her —

But no, not yet.
She mustered a coy smile, then walked a little distance away; there, she shook
the powder from her hair until it was its natural, vibrant red once more,
glowing like claret in the light of the fire.

And then she
faced him.

Assessed him.

Made a brief
circle around him, letting her fingertips trail around his waist as moved
behind him.  He was smiling now.  Eyeing her like some lethal, barely restrained,
predator.

"Are you
hard for me yet, Blackheath?" she purred, lifting her lips to his ear.

"I have
been hard for you for the past two weeks."

"And what
if I disappoint you, Your Grace?"  Deftly, she unbuckled his dress
sword and let it drop to the carpet.  "Will you kill me?"

"I do not
think you will disappoint."

She smiled.  He
didn't move.  Her hand drifted back up, unbuttoning his velvet waistcoat,
peeling it away from his chest until she could feel the muscles just beneath
his shirt.  A blood-red ruby was pinned to his stock.  Eva removed it and
placed it on the lowboy.  She pinched one end of the silky cravat between thumb
and fingertip and pulled, slowly, until the knot collapsed and the long strip
of fabric was in her hand.

"I thought
you wanted me to undress you," he murmured, an amused smile
dancing about his lips.

"I do.  But
I am the one in control here — and right now, I prefer to undress you."

She pulled off
his waistcoat, let it fall to the floor.  He stood before her in shirt and
breeches now, the rich lace of the former tumbling over the backs of the
finest, most beautifully male hands she had ever had the pleasure of looking
upon.  There was breadth across the palms, and a lengthy elegance to the
fingers that proclaimed the finest breeding in England, generations of bluest
blood — perfection.  They were a gentleman's hands, though there was nothing soft
about them, nothing foppish, and certainly nothing benign.  Eva knew those
hands had killed; most recently, they had taken the life of her odious
stepcousin, Gerald, when Gerald had tried to kill the duke's brother, Andrew.
She was not fooled into thinking they were anything less than dangerous . . .

And she wanted
those hands on her.  All over her.  But not just yet.  For now, she wanted to
be the one doing the touching.

And so she
walked another circle around him, this time, her fingers tracing his ribs
beneath the fine shirt, trailing around his hip, and finally coming to rest in
the faint curve of his lower back, just above the waistband of his breeches.
She stood just behind him, admiring the lean, beautifully inverted triangle of
that proud, splendid back — then she grasped his shirt at the waist, pulled it
free of his waistband, and let it drop, its hem coming down, as was the
fashion, almost to his knees.

"Will you
not take it off?"

She smiled.
"I wouldn't want you to be cold.  It might have a disastrous effect on
your . . . condition."

"I can
assure you, madam, that my condition is quite a hardy one.  And I am far
from cold."

"Then step
out of your shoes."

He inclined his
head and, giving her a sidelong glance from over his shoulder, did as she
asked.

"Unbutton
your cuffs."

He did.

"And stand
still."

She came around
in front of him, never removing her hand from his body, letting it draw a slow,
seductive line from hip to the front of his hard, muscled thigh.  He gazed down
at her, a watchful predator, his eyes very, very black beneath heavy lids.  Eva
met that heated stare, letting her hand rest right where it was.  He gave a
slow smile of invitation — and moving her hand, Eva let her fingernail graze
his thigh through the thin veneer of his breeches, exulting in the control he
had granted her.  She wondered what he would ask in return.  Or better yet,
what he would give in return . . .

Her fingers
found the buttons of his drop front, and one by one, slid them through the
holes.

She looked up
into his face.  The lazy smile had faded, and in its place was something
darker, something more intense; something far, far more dangerous.

Eva undid the
last button, and the breeches slid down his thighs and around his knees.
Immediately the long hem of the shirt floated down to preserve his maleness
from her triumphant gaze; Eva looked up, stared into those black, black eyes
for a long moment, and then ran her hand over the rigid bulge beneath the
shirt.

She was
unprepared.  For the fierceness of his arousal, for the size of it, for the
shock waves that simple touch flung through her own body.  Prickly heat
suffused her.  It was all she could do not to throw him to the carpet and have
her way with him right then and there; but no, she was surely more civilized
than that.

He smiled,
noting her momentary confusion.  "If you are trying to torture me, madam,
you are doing a damned fine job of it."

Big, bad
wolf, indeed, she thought shakily — but managed to muster her most feline
smile.  "Perhaps some wine will take the edge off your impatience?"
She palmed him through the shirt, seeing his nostrils flare, his eyes growing
fixed and dark and deadly.  "After all, you still have to undress
me."

"I am
within inches of taking you right here, right now."

"Do so and
I'll —"

"Kill
me?" he murmured, lips twitching.

"Something like
that."  She let her fingers fall away from him.  Then, casting an inviting
smile over her shoulder, she went to her dressing table, where bottles of
perfume, jars of cosmetics, pots, brushes, and boxes were arranged around a
vase of flowers.  A bottle of champagne stood nearby, nestled in a bucket of
ice.  Eva uncorked it, poured two glasses, and brought them both back to the
duke.

She kicked off
one slipper and handed him a glass.  She hooked a toe around the other, kicked
it off as well, and raised her own glass to her lips.

"A
toast," she murmured, eyeing him from over the rim.  "To . . .
peace."

His dark gaze
held hers.  "To peace," he echoed, leaving her wondering whether they
drank to peace between the two of them — or to his country and hers.

She put the
glass down.  "And now you may undress me."

For answer, he
merely gave a dangerous smile, set down his half-finished champagne, and with a
skill that unnerved her, went to work on her own clothes.

She shivered as
he unclasped the choker of emeralds, his warm fingers grazing her neck,
caressing the sensitive flesh as the heavy metal setting dropped away.  It was
soon apparent — more than apparent — that he knew his way around a lady's gown
better than her own maid did, deftly unhooking en eye there, untying a tape
there, his fingers making short work of buttons, ties, and fastenings.  Off
came her beautiful gown of dark raspberry velvet, off came the stomacher of
rich rose satin, the tightly laced stays, the petticoats belling out over her
hoops, until she stood before him, her skin pocked with gooseflesh, in just her
chemise, garters and stockings.

She was burning
up inside.

Absolutely on
fire.

And then he
reached out and pulled her close, his hands molding her waist, pressing firmly
against the small of her back, holding her hard against him.  She felt his
arousal driving against her hips, her pelvis, protected by nothing more than
the flimsy lawn of his shirt . . . and the even flimsier fabric of her chemise.

Two layers of
cloth.  It was all that separated them.

Eva moaned as
his mouth slanted down atop hers.  She fought wildly for balance — between her
heart which demanded absolute abandonment, and her head, which demanded
absolute detachment so she could do what must be done.  She was quickly losing
control of this situation . . . and that frightened her.

She pulled back,
holding on to the threads of sanity.  "I — I'm nervous.  I need more
champagne.  Can I offer you more, Blackheath?"

"By all means."

He handed her
his glass.  Eva set them both down, then, regaining her poise, eyed him
speculatively.  "I think I need you to lie down on the bed."

"We'll get
there eventually."

"I need you
to get there, now."

"Ah."
He gave her that slow, spreading smile.  "Let me guess.  This is where the
. . . domination comes in?"

"How astute
you are."

"Very well,
then."  He moved to the bed and sat upon it, removing his own stockings
and revealing the handsomest, most powerful calves she had ever seen.  Dark
hair peppered his legs in a sparse mat; muscles stood out in wondrous relief,
inviting the touch of a finger.  A tongue.  Ohhhh, Lord help her!

"And now,
my dear?"

"Lie back.
I need to tie you up."

He laughed.
"Tie me up?  What, do you think I plan to go anywhere?"

"It is part
of my fantasy.  You know me to be a dominant woman.  I know you to be a
dominant man.  My fantasy demands that I master you, and master you
completely.  So therefore, I must tie you up."

"I suppose
it will be nothing short of interesting," he murmured, amused.

"Perhaps
you will even find it exciting."

"I would
very much like to touch you, Eva."

"Oh, I'll
set you free after the first round."  She smiled.  "And I wouldn't
tie you up so tightly that you couldn't have some movement."

He lay back on
the pillows, raised his arms over his head, and regarded her with dark,
watchful eyes that glowed with amusement.  Was he intrigued?  Probably.  Was he
apprehensive?  Probably not, for he was arrogant enough to assume he could
overpower her at any moment, escape no matter what binds held him.  He was
indulging her, nothing more.  Finding some sort of strange satisfaction of his
own, thinking that he was allowing a woman to be in control.  Allowing.
Oh, what a surprise she had for him!

Remembering the
champagne, she carried the glasses back to her dressing table, opened one of
her perfume bottles, and dabbed a bit of scent behind her ears.  As she
replaced the stopper, she clandestinely tapped the few drops still poised there
into one of the two glasses; then she refilled them both with champagne,
brought them back to the curtained bed, and set them down on the night table.
The duke lay on his back watching her, his knees bent; the shirt had slid down
his thighs, rumpling atop his abdomen.  She could see just the barest hint of
dark hair and male flesh beneath the hem.  It was just enough to tease.  To
tantalize.

Her mouth went
dry.

"If you're
afraid, Blackheath, we don't have to do this," she taunted, her voice a
little shaky.

"Perhaps I
am not the one who's afraid."

"You think I
am?"

"You tell
me."

She tossed her
head.  "Ha, if I was afraid, I would most assuredly not tell you.
Besides, you'll be tied up.  Perfectly harmless."

He smiled, a
slow, chilling smile that caused her insides to seize.  "Perfectly
harmless."

"Totally
incapable of doing anything I don't want you to do."

"Whatever
you say, my dear."

She handed him
the glass into which she'd tapped the few drops of perfume.  She raised her
own.  They faced each other, two wary adversaries, over the crystal rims.

Enigmatic black
eyes met glittering ones of green.

"To an
enjoyable evening, then."

"An
enjoyable evening . . ."

Chapter
7

Crystal clinked,
and she allowed him to drain his glass before picking up the cravat she had
discarded.  Loosely looping it around his wrists, she tied them in a figure
eight before securing them to the bedpost above his head.

He smiled up at
her, a chained wolf.

A chained wolf who
was very much looking forward to eating her after she was through stroking him.

Eva's stomach
was in knots.  She didn't know how long she had before the aphrodisiac took
effect.  She shuddered inside, sitting down on the edge of the bed and
affecting a satisfied, amused smile as she gazed down at her willingly helpless
captive.  God help her, she wasn't even sure she could go through with the act;
she wanted only to see how effective the potion really was, before passing it
on to Marie Antoinette, wanted only to restrain Blackheath so he couldn't leap
up and ravish her, wanted only to test it on this cunning devil while
minimizing the dangers to her own heart — and body.  How long would he suffer
before its effects finally wore off?  Or would he suffer until whatever savage
lust he experienced was finally slaked?

"You do not
drink much," he murmured, noting her half-full glass.  "Champagne not
to your liking?"

"Oh, no,
that's not it at all, Blackheath.  I want to be totally alert, totally aware,
so that I can experience whatever is about to transpire with none of my senses
dulled."

"I
see," he said, pushing himself upwards a little, so that he was more
comfortable against the stack of pillows behind him.  Furtively, Eva glanced
down.  Though the shirt preserved his modesty, she had no doubt that he was
fully aroused; but was he even more aroused?

"I also
have a family intolerance to alcohol," she added, jumping as a spark
exploded in the hearth.  "My mother died from overindulgence."

Well, that
wasn't completely true; she had died of a broken heart, and only used the
alcohol as a spiritual anesthetic on the way to killing herself with it.

"I am sorry
to hear that," he murmured, his eyes taking on a strange gleam and
fixating on her with the unwavering concentration of a predator.  She saw
muscles beginning to bulge in his arms; rigid triceps, taut biceps, strained,
defined tendons in the forearms.  "My own mother died in childbirth.  It
is difficult to lose someone you love."

"You never
forget, do you?"

His jaw was
tensing up.  She could see the very controlled way he was breathing, as though
each inhalation might shatter him.  "No.  You do not."  He had his
teeth clenched now.  "Especially when you lose two parents within the same
week."

"Then I am
sorry for you," she said.  "What happened?"

"Mother was
in childbirth with Nerissa and having a damned hard time of it. . . .  Papa
couldn't bear to hear her screams of agony . . ."  He shut his eyes, tiny
beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead now, his great chest rising and
falling laboriously.  "He ran up to the tower to get away from the sounds
. . . fell, and broke his neck."

"Dear
God," Eva said, fingertips touching her mouth.

Blackheath was
now straining against the bonds that held him.  The cravat was stretched tight;
too tight — in danger of tearing.  Fear drove through Eva — fear that it would
tear, fear that she had poisoned him.  That he was in some sort of agony, she
did not doubt.  "I was the one who . . . found him," he said
hoarsely, clenching his fists.  "As you say, you . . . never forget."

"Are you
all right, Blackheath?"

Black eyes shot
open, burning her with their intensity.  "I'm in bloody agony for wanting
you," he exploded.  "Christ, woman, have mercy."

It would be so
easy to just leave him here, tied to the bed as she had planned; so easy to
just put her clothes back on and return to the ball as though nothing had ever
happened, as though everything inside her weren't aching with a reciprocal
need.  She would have the last laugh; she would deal the final humiliation.
But though Eva prided herself on her calculated hard-heartedness where men were
concerned, even she had more compassion than that . . . and with her enemy
safely tied up and on his back, able to pleasure but never to dominate her . .
. well, was there really any harm in having her way with him?

She reached out,
running her hand down the side of his cheek.  His breath was hot and ragged
against her fingers, and then she felt his lips, his tongue, against her palm
as he turned his face into her hand and began kissing it.  Sensation exploded
between her legs.  Moaning softly, she eased herself up and onto him,
straddling his torso just above his arousal, her knees sinking into the
mattress on either side of his hips.  She drove her hands beneath the hem of
his shirt, dragged it up his chest, and allowed herself to feel the muscles, so
hard, so powerful, so beautifully, splendidly, male, bunching and
writhing beneath her small white hands.

"Lower,"
he rasped.  "Don't tease — not now."

No question
about that aphrodisiac, Eva thought in triumph.  She had definitely stolen
the right substance this time, and she — and America — would be well rewarded
for her efforts.

"I'm not
teasing, I . . . have to get ready myself," she said, trying to prolong
the inevitable.

"Move up,
then, and I'll get you ready."

"Sorry?"

"I said,
move up, damn it."  His eyes opened, impaling her with their black
ferocity.  "Near my face."

Had Eva been a
maid, she would have blushed as red as her hair.  But Blackheath was clearly
moving past restraint, past the trappings of a gentleman; he was past the point
of caring what her reaction was, wanting only relief from whatever agony
the potion had put him in.  Gingerly, Eva rose to her knees and moved her way
up his chest, her thighs spread wide to accommodate its significant breadth,
every nerve quivering, every bit of skin shivering, her heart doing a furious boom-boom-boom
against her sternum and ready to explode any minute.

"I will
hurt you," she protested, her knees beneath his armpits now, the cords in
his neck standing out in high relief and glistening with sweat in the
candlelight.

"You are
hurting me more by hesitating.  Get up, then, and balance on your knees.  I
want to taste you, Eva."  His eyes blazed into hers; any moment now, his
bonds were going to snap and he would be on her like an enraged beast of prey.
"I want to possess you.  By God, I want all of you."

Eva, washing hot
and cold, braced herself against the headboard, raised herself to her knees
once more, and thrust her pelvis forward.

Blackheath
buried his face in her moist red curls.

Found the top of
her hidden slit with his tongue.

"Higher,"
he ordered, his voice harsh.

She heard
herself whimpering in her throat as she complied, arching her back and angling
herself toward his seeking mouth — and then his face was totally buried against
her, and she felt his hot ragged breath there, his lips, and oh — oh God
— the stab of his tongue, expertly priming her before he settled into a
controlled, ruthless stroke against her wide-open cleft, her moist folds, that
sent her senses careening toward the ceiling.

"Dear
God," she gasped, her fingernails gouging into the headboard, her thighs
trembling from holding up her weakening body, "Dear God, Blackheath, I
never dreamed it could be like this —"

"Dream
harder," he snarled, and then his lips, his tongue closed around that
engorged but hidden bud, manipulating it, licking it, suckling it —

Eva let out a
scream of surprise.  Her legs gave out from beneath her as she climaxed, her
senses exploding in a million pieces.  She all but collapsed atop the very mouth
that had brought her to such a shamelessly wanton state, pushing herself back
at the last moment so that she landed on his chest.  His breath came out with a
loud oomph and he stared up at her, a man past the point of sanity, his
eyes so savage, so intense, that she knew their image would be forever branded
in her memory.

She knew what he
wanted.

Knew what he
craved.

Give it to
him.

And then that
wounded, perpetually suffering part of her that would never stop demanding
vengeance:  Dominate him.

She moved back,
raised herself, and impaled herself on his shaft, gasping as his size stretched
and filled her, stretched and filled her past the point that she could
painlessly tolerate, pleasurably bear —

She had no time
to rethink her decision.  His hips were already moving, the hard muscles of his
chest and abdomen bunching and glistening with fine sweat.  His eyes were
savage.  Harder and harder he drove, his breath coming fast and harsh now as he
drove himself farther and farther inside her with every ruthless thrust.  The
pain went away and Eva felt only swimming pleasure, a desperate need to take
and be taken, to dominate and be dominated, and yes, oh yes, that wonderful,
splinter-apart climax that she could feel rushing down on her once more —

His black gaze
impaling hers, he gave a final lunge and sent them both careening out of
control.  Eva cried out and fell, sobbing with the sweet agony of the
experience, against his damp chest, her body still convulsing all around him.

There she lay,
her lungs heaving, her hot breath dampening her hair.  She had just made love
to the Duke of Blackheath.

Had just bedded
her enemy.

And at the
moment, she damn well didn't care.

~~~~

Rap rap rap.

Eva, her lips
still buried in the hollow of Blackheath's neck, drifted lazily in her dream
state.  She was a little girl again.  Her papa was home from the sea; he had
candy for her, a box of spices from Morocco, and tales of grand adventure —

Rap rap rap,
harder this time, more persistent.

"Answer the
door."

But the voice
wasn't Papa's.  Eva, confused, moved toward wakefulness.  "Madam, answer
the door," said the voice again, and with a start, Eva realized that the
clipped command had come from just under her ear, and that her ear was resting
at the hot junction of a man's neck and collarbone.

Blackheath's.

Remembrance hit
her, hard.  Her head jerked up in alarm.  Wild-eyed, she stared toward the
door, knowing that if she were caught in this position she would never be able
to face any of her male peers ever again.

"Who is
it?"

"Henri, madame.
I have ze message for you, from Dr. Franklin."

Eva froze.

"Dear me,
but your assignations never cease, do they?" murmured the man beneath her.

"Quiet,
Blackheath!"  She leaped from the bed, grabbed her dressing gown, and,
pulling it on as she moved, stalked quickly to the door.  She opened it the
barest crack, filling it with her body.

"Je
regret, madame, but Dr. Franklin sent me to fetch you.  Said that ze Count
de Vergennes eez about to make a speech concerning your American victory, and
zat eet would be poor form if madame does not make an appearance."
The lad bowed, looking sheepish.  "Le monsieur's words, madam.
Not mine."

"Of course.
Tell Dr. Franklin I will be down in a moment."

Eva slammed the
door shut and leaned against it, breathing hard.  De Vergennes was the French
foreign minister, a man whose support for the Americans' cause was one that Franklin
had been trying to gain for months!  To stay up here would be an insult — oh,
God, now what?

Blackheath,
still securely tied and reposing on the bed, smiled insolently up at her.
"'Twould be a pity if the good doctor is forced to come up and get you,
no?"

"I don't
want to hear it."

"Tsk,
tsk, Eva.  I'm sure you can get yourself back into a presentable state
by the time the speech is oh, at least half finished.  Release me, on the other
hand, and I'll get you there in time for the whole thing."

"I can't
release you, not now!"

"Whyever
not?"

"I don't
trust you!" she all but howled, knowing, from the gleam in his eye, that
her intuition was entirely correct.  From the totally relaxed look about him,
she guessed that the effects of the aphrodisiac had worn off, but Eva wasn't
about to take any chances; she dared not leave Blackheath alone in her
bedchamber, where he would be free to search her room and, inevitably, find the
love potion.

"I'll
release you, but you have to leave," she said, frantically grabbing her
clothes.

"Au
contraire, madame.  I very much prefer to stay."

"You have
to leave, Blackheath!"

He gave an
urbane smile.  "What, and miss the rest of the evening's . . .
entertainment?  I wouldn't dream of it."  His smile turned cunning.
"Especially with the real aphrodisiac so near at hand.  Time to see
if it works as well on you as it did on me, my dear."

He knew then.  Knew
that she had drugged him.  Damn!  Eva, her blood starting to boil at
this unforseen complication, turned and glared at him.  At that magnificent
chest, most of which was still prominently displayed beneath the rucked-up
shirt.  At the broad shoulders, the upper arms that rippled with muscle.  At
the handsome neck —

The neck.

God forgive
her.  But it wouldn't hurt, and if he wouldn't leave, there was only one thing
she could do to contain him.  She had to do it.

She also had to
get downstairs, and get downstairs now.

"Very well,
then, Blackheath," she spat, hastily untying him and throwing her clothes
at him as she hopped into her hoops and tied them on, as she yanked the
petticoats over her head and let them float down over the hoops, as she turned
her back so her smug lover could obligingly lace her back into her corset.  She
glanced at the shelf clock in rising panic, resisting the urge to swear at him
for each sharp yank, resisting the urge to curse him for not being quicker,
though she could see that he was faster, even, than her own maid.

She tied on her
stomacher, grabbed and donned her gown, and crammed her hair beneath a smart
hat.  Downstairs, she could hear a rising commotion.  Applause.  Oh God, any
moment now — she had to get down there!

"Thank you,
Blackheath," she cried, turning in his arms and pretending to throw herself
at him with such gratitude that he had to step backward, his legs coming up
against the side of the bed.  "You are a godsend."

She hooked her
arms around his neck and kissed him.

Hard.

He never
suspected, of course.  That was the magic about what she was about to do.  She
let her hands slide back down, so that one fitted against the side of his
waist, and the heel of the other rested just below the base of his throat, the
thumb and first two fingers splayed in an innocuous V on either side of his
neck as she pretended to caress him.

He'll never
know.  Just do it.

It felt vile.  Treacherous.
Underhanded.

Your country
needs you.

She pretended to
lose herself in the kiss, pressing up against him, using desire as an excuse to
get closer to him and increase the pressure against the sides of his neck.  Come
on, come on! she urged, keeping the pressure steady, even though she
regretted that this kiss was going to end as quickly as it had begun.  And then
suddenly it did.

His mouth went
slack upon hers, his legs buckled, and he slumped, unconscious, only the bed
behind his legs and her arm around his waist keeping him upright.  Even so, Eva
could not hold him up; he fell against her, his chin slamming the top of her
shoulder, his dead weight nearly toppling her backward.  With all her strength,
she shoved him away from her, sending him sprawling on his back across the
bed.  She leaped up beside him, telling herself this was necessary, that it was
kinder than a blow, that she had only moment before he came back to his senses
and was on her in full fury.  She did not want to have to put him out again.

But as she
fumbled to tie his wrists together, he began to stir, and she feared she would
have to do just that.  His limbs began to spasm, and mighty shudders convulsed
his body as he fought to regain consciousness.  Hating herself, Eva reached
down and pressed her fingers to either side of his neck once more.  He opened
his eyes, dazedly impaling her with a look of stunned accusation, fighting her
with the strength of will alone; but will alone was not enough.  His eyes
rolled back and with a sigh, he passed out once more.

She kept her
fingers against him for a few more perilous seconds, biting her lip, finally
releasing him and hoping she'd bought the additional time she needed.  She flew
into action.  On all fours, she crawled to the head of the bed, seized his
newly bound wrists, and with all her strength, tried to move him.  To no avail.
Sweat broke out on her forehead.  A seam popped somewhere in her gown.  She
heaved and jerked and swore, and finally managed to slide him an inch . . .
several inches . . . several more, until his lax wrists were just shy of the
headboard.

Not close enough
—

Rap rap rap!

"I'm
coming!" she yelled frantically.

"Eva, it's
me," came Franklin's worried voice from the other side of the door.
"Are you all right?  May I come in?"

"I'm on my
way," she gasped, hauling tightly on the knot that bound the unconscious
duke and leaping back off the bed.  He would not be going anywhere anytime
soon.  She'd be back just as soon as the speech was over.

She glanced at
his still face.  Guilt and shame filled her, and she hurriedly turned away
before they could be her undoing.

Funny, but when
she had held up the coach and struck down this man's brother — who, granted,
had never done a single thing in his life to offend or hurt her — with a blow
to the back of the neck, guilt and shame had been the last thing she'd felt.

No.  Just a
contemptuous delight in her mastery over men, and the ease with which she could
overpower them.

Not this time.

She fled.

Chapter
8

Lucien came
slowly back to his senses.

He opened his
eyes to an empty room with only the flickering glow of the candle for company.
For a moment he lay there, disoriented, groggy, and dazed, trying to discern
what had happened to him.  He was tied once more to the bedpost.  His head
throbbed with pain, yet he had no idea why.  Certainly she had not struck him a
blow; the pain was not localized, but a general ache quite unlike anything he
had ever felt before.

He blinked and
lifted his head, fighting dizziness.  He supposed he ought to be furious, and
yes, humiliated, by being done in by a woman — but no.  Instead, he was
fascinated.  Totally intrigued.  He gave a disbelieving little laugh.  What the
devil had she done to him?

A dangerous
woman indeed . . .

He racked his
brain for answers.  He remembered her riding him furiously, and the splintering
climax that had claimed them both.  He remembered her falling asleep for a few
moments atop his chest, and the way her hair had felt beneath his hand as he'd
stroked it, like heavy silk.  He remembered someone at the door, her desperate
attempts to get away, her untying his wrists — and there, his memories stopped.

Yet here he was,
tied up once more.  And she — along with her clothes — was gone.  How had she
managed to get them all back on by herself?  If he'd helped her, he damn well
couldn't remember doing so . . .

He'd find out
the answers, but not now.  Tensing his arms, Lucien hauled himself upward on
his back, toward the post to which his wrists were bound.  His cravat strained
with the force.  He smiled.  As he suspected, she had left his inert body far
enough down the bed that, just by moving himself toward the headboard, he had
enough slack to work himself loose.  She must have been in one hell of a hurry
to be so careless.

It would have
been just as easy, but much less satisfying when she discovered he was gone, to
simply use his own strength to tear through his sacrificed cravat.  But that
wouldn't make for such a complete victory.  Oh, no.  Far better to simply untie
himself and leave the article folded mockingly across her pillows . . .

It was not hard
to free himself.

But it was very
hard to stand up.

He nearly fell
as his feet took his weight, and, grabbing a bedpost, he cursed his brain for
its inability to control the rest of his body.  But it was functioning quite
soundly in the one way that mattered.  Having personally witnessed the effects
of the aphrodisiac on others, Lucien was in no doubt about what Eva had put in
his champagne to get such a reaction from him.  Releasing the bedpost, he
staggered to the dressing table, remembering that she had dabbed perfume on
herself just before handing him his drink.

Ah, yes.  There
was no mistaking the aphrodisiac's seductive purple-garnet color, though she
had tried to disguise it by storing it in a perfume bottle.  Grinning wryly,
Lucien shook his head.  He couldn't help but admire her wiliness.  Well, she
might think she could outsmart him, but she had a thing or two to learn about
just whom she was dealing with.  Calmly donning the rest of his clothes, Lucien
checked himself in the mirror.  Pity about the cravat.  Otherwise . . .
perfect.  Totally unruffled.  As if nothing had even happened.

He picked up his
sword, pocketed the perfume bottle, and was just about to leave when he spied a
stack of writing paper on a nearby desk.  A dry smile twisted his lips.

Oh, he couldn't
resist.

He just couldn't.

He picked up a
quill pen, uncapped the nearby ink, and sat down, purposely waiting for the
last of his vertigo to clear so it would not show in his writing and give his
beautiful adversary something to gloat about.

His grin
spreading, he began to write:

My dearest
Eva,

The next time
you plan to tie up an unconscious prisoner, do allow me to show you the proper
way it is done.  In the meantime, my compliments on your ingenuity, my hopes
for immediate news concerning Lord Brookhampton, and my gratitude for a most
rewarding and pleasurable evening . . . as well as for the aphrodisiac, which,
I am happy to report, is back with its rightful owner.  If you have any wish to
reclaim it, do come to England.  I would dearly love to . . . have
you.

Blackheath

He underscored
that last have three times to ensure that the innuendo was clear; then,
with a triumphant smile, calmly exited the room.

Another round
played, another match won.

~~~~

A fortnight
after the Duke of Blackheath's escape, Eva awoke with a headache and a roiling
stomach that threatened to divulge itself of its contents when the smell of
toast came drifting up from the kitchens downstairs.

She pulled the
drapes and lay back down on the bed, massaging her temples, willing her jumpy
stomach to be still.  She had been furious when she'd returned to her room and
found not only Blackheath, but the aphrodisiac, gone.  Cursing, she had
collapsed on the window seat, ruefully eyed the bed where Blackheath had
brought her to such dizzying heights, and given way to moroseness.  Then,
grudging respect.  And finally, peals of laughter.  How could she be furious
with the man?  Yes, he had outsmarted her once again.  He had won the latest
battle.  But there would be another round between them.  She was sure of it.
In the meantime, she could not help but admire his ingenuity in escaping . . .
the devious way he had turned the tables on her.  Her blood ran hot, just
thinking about him.

Eva wasn't
laughing, however, when Marie Antoinette demanded the potion several days
later.  She wasn't laughing when she had to confess that she didn't have it.
The French queen's fury was such that she banished Eva from the royal
chambers.  Not long afterward, Eva was summoned to Franklin's residence, where
she was soberly informed that her presence in Paris was a threat to the
American's careful negotiations.  "I'm sorry, Eva, but you cannot stay
here.  Her Majesty is most upset with you . . . first the false aphrodisiac
that so sickened the king, and now an empty promise about the real one.  You
must leave Paris for a while . . . at least, until we have secured an alliance
with France."

Simmering with
fury, wondering if Blackheath knew to what extent he was ruining her life — let
alone her reputation — Eva retreated behind a haughty facade and left the
capital.  She would just as soon have abandoned her search for the missing Lord
Brookhampton as well, but she considered herself a woman of honor and had given
her word that she would do all in her power to find the young earl.  Besides,
her efforts on Lord Brookhampton's behalf would give her a perfect excuse to
return to England and go for another round with that devil Blackheath.

Oh, yes.  She
was very much looking forward to that.

Before leaving France,
she visited the port where Sarah Rose had been taken, and then the
prison where the survivors from the British ship were being held.  There were
no civilians amongst the lot; just the crew, still wearing their nankeen
trousers, pea coats, and checked shirts.  Eva eyed them critically; they were a
motley, hostile lot, ill-kempt, bearded, one or two wounded and in need of
medical attention.  Yet another lay all but dead in a corner, his head pillowed
on a filthy, matted tangle of blond hair encrusted with old blood.  Eva's
sympathy for their plight warred with her own delight at finding them; the very
fact that Britons were being held in a French jail was cause enough for protest
from the English government.

Her eyes
gleamed.  She studied the prisoners from beneath the brim of her broad hat, a
little smile twisting her lips.  Franklin didn't care whether France declared
war on England or England declared war on France, as long as war came about.  Hmm.
She tapped her lips with one long fingernail.  All the more reason to go to Britain
and stir up some trouble . . .

After all, it
didn't matter who fired the first broadside now, did it?

And she would
enjoy continuing her own private battle with the infuriating Duke of
Blackheath.

~~~~

That very duke's
sister-in-law, Celsiana Blake de Montforte, was in the midst of directing the
preparations for her first annual New Year's Eve ball when a footman
approached, bearing a card on a silver platter.

"My
lady?"  He bowed.  "You have a visitor in the parlor."

"Thank you,
Mulligan.  I'll be right down."  Watching a maid climb up on a chair to
hang silver tissue above the door, Celsie shoved a strand of tawny hair out of
her face and took the card.  She was just about to read it when a deafening
explosion shook Rosebriar's very foundation and the maid, shrieking, grabbed
for the door frame to keep from tumbling from her precarious perch.

But Celsie never
even blinked.  "It's all right, Freckles," she said, tucking the card
in her pocket and kneeling down to reassure the elderly gundog at her feet.
"It's only Andrew, testing that new explosive he's working on.  Shall we
go make sure he didn't blow himself up?"

The dog, with
some effort, hauled himself to his feet and on weak, age-achy legs, followed
his mistress from the ballroom.

In a far pasture
outside, Celsie found her handsome inventor-husband examining a blackened pit
in the ground and making notes on a pad of paper.  His wavy auburn hair was
pulled back in a careless queue, and he looked very distracted.  Impatient.
Hearing her approach, he raised his head — and Celsie bit back a peal of
laughter.

"Oh,
Andrew," she said, with a giggle.  "Whatever happened to your
eyebrows?"

Scowling, he
touched his fingers to what remained of them — nothing but stubby bristle
singed to the roots.  "To hell with my eyebrows; how many more attempts
must I make before I get this damned mixture correct?"

"Listen,
Andrew, don't you think it's safer to stick to inventing, um . . . less
dangerous things?"

"What, like
aphrodisiacs?"  He snorted with laughter and, straightening, brushed the
ash from his clothes and mopped his sooty face with a handkerchief.  "No,
Celsie.  This new explosive I'm working on will be far more useful to society.
If I can get it stabilized, that is.  Imagine it instead of gunpowder in a pistol!
Imagine it in a controlled environment, perhaps powering a machine, a boat, my
double-compartmented stagecoach —"

"Yes,
Andrew."  She smiled, touched her tongue to her fingertips, and smoothed
what remained of his russet brows.  "I'm sure it will be a valuable
contribution indeed, if you survive the experimentation stage."  She took
his arm.  "Do you fancy some tea?  It has just gone five o'clock."

He looked up at
the sky, thick and gray and swollen with cloud, and shivered, suddenly
realizing how cold and raw the day was.  "Tea sounds wonderful."

"And an
early bedtime?" she murmured, suggestively running her hand up his chest.

His eyes gave
her all the answer she needed.

Walking slowly
so that Freckles could keep up, they made their way back to the house.  The
smell of damp earth and vegetation hung over the heath and Freckles even
managed to flush a pheasant from a tangle of twisted brambles.  It was only as
they entered the house that Celsie remembered she had a visitor.  Horrified by
her lapse of manners, she reached into her pocket to withdraw her guest's card
. . .

Just as her
cousin came around the corner.

Both women
stopped in their tracks, Celsie in shock, Eva with a pleasant smile, as though
their last meeting had not been violent, upsetting . . . memorable in the most
unfortunate sort of way.  Beneath her fingers, Celsie felt Andrew's arm stiffen
as his greenish-amber eyes hardened and went cold.

"E-Eva!"
Celsie managed, with a nervous smile.  "It is a —"

"Pleasure
to see me?" her cousin finished with a rueful smile, gazing out at them
from beneath the brim of an oversized hat that only emphasized the
extraordinary beauty of her features, the mysteriousness of her bearing.
"No need to pretend, my dear cousin."  She glanced at Andrew, who had
turned away, refusing to look at her, refusing, even, to honor her with a bow.
"And you, my lord.  Has marriage robbed you of your civility?"

"You are
the last female on earth deserving of civility," he ground out, and then,
bowing to Celsie and not even sparing a nod for Eva, he stalked from the room.

"My,
my," breathed Eva, raising her brows.  "Not exactly the forgiving
sort, is he?"

Celsie, noting
Eva's pallor, her brittle demeanor, and the haunted shadows beneath her
slanting green eyes, decided to ignore that remark.  Something was wrong here.
"Come, Eva.  Let me offer you some refreshment.  Surely you have travelled
some distance . . ."

"From France.
I arrived just this morning and" — her voice went flat and hard — "thanks
to your diabolical brother-in-law, will not be returning."

"Oh dear,
what has Lucien done now?"

"I would
rather not discuss it in front of the servants."  Eva drew her cloak more
tightly around herself, hoping Celsie would not see beneath her casual facade,
her mask of uncaring aloofness, to the hurt and fear she was hiding just
beneath.  Andrew's reaction had made her feel awkward and uncomfortable, though
she knew it was justified.  But what was her cousin feeling?  Why, she and
Celsie had all but grown up together.  She had taught Celsie how to fence.  How
to shoot.  How to make her way in a man's world.  Celsie had idolized her.  Once.

But that was
before the robbery.

Eva doubted
Celsie idolized her now.  She doubted she even liked her.

"Come,
then.  Let us take tea in the parlor."

There, the
younger woman quickly poured hot, steaming brew for them both.  Eva lifted her
cup, her stomach roiling as Celsie offered her a plate of cheese biscuits.  She
shook her head and, paling, bit back a shudder of nausea.

"Eva,
forgive me for prying, but are you in some sort of trouble?"

Eva gave a sharp
bark of laughter.  It was a brittle sound, even to her own ears.  She set down
her cup in its saucer before she could spill it.  "Me?  Trouble?"
She was in more trouble than she knew what to do with.  "Oh, no, Celsie.
I am here to make some for the man who has all but ruined my life."

"Lucien?
He all but ruins everyone's lives, but I can assure you, everything usually
works out in the end."

"I cannot
see how my being tricked, humiliated, and banished from the French court, let
alone Paris, can be 'worked out' in the end.  But never mind.  I will have my
revenge."

"Oh,
good."

"Good?"
Eva eyed her as though she'd lost her mind.  "We're speaking about your
brother-in-law here."

"I
know."  Celsie smiled and sipped her tea.  "So what has he
done?"

Eva had not
intended to confide in her cousin, but there was something so genuine in
Celsie's silvery-green gaze, something so compassionate and forgiving in her
manner, that Eva succumbed to temptation.  Sparing only the details that would
sabotage her own pride, namely, that she'd bedded the notorious Duke of
Blackheath and had the very best lovemaking of her life, Eva told all.  She
explained why she'd held up the de Montforte coach and stolen the supposed
aphrodisiac.  She told how she'd broken into Lucien's bedchamber and stolen the
real potion upon discovering the first was a substitute.  She related how
Lucien had come to France seeking her help in locating Lord Brookhampton, and
how she had left him tied up and helpless in her room, only to find him — and
the aphrodisiac — gone upon her return.

"Tied up
and helpless?" Celsie cried, choking on her tea.  "Lucien?"

"It is not
such a difficult thing, if one knows the proper methods," Eva admitted
with a little smile.

At that, Celsie
began to laugh so hard that she had to set down her teacup so as not to spill
the hot beverage all over herself.

Eva said wryly,
"I take it the Duke of Blackheath has made his own enemies, even within
his own family."

"I'm not
sure enemies is the right word, but let me just say this — he had it
coming to him.  He thrives on control.  It is all that matters to him.  It is
good to see him taken down a peg or two.  I just wish I had been there to see
it."

Eva smiled,
rather glad that Celsie had not.

"But you
need my help, don't you?" Celsie asked, sobering.  She touched Eva's hand,
showing more kindness than Eva, given her recent behavior, felt she deserved.
"What can I do for you, Eva?"

Eva gave a
rueful smile.  "I'm not sure there is anything you can do for me, Celsie.
But I do need a place to stay, at least until things settle down in Paris."
She looked away, trying to retain her pride, her dignity.  "I hesitate to
ask, knowing the trouble I've caused you and your new husband, but would you
put me up for a short time, Celsie?"

"No."

Both women
looked up.  Lord Andrew stood in the doorway, eyeing Eva with flat dislike.

"But Andrew
—"

"No,
Celsie.  I will not have this woman under my roof."

"Andrew,
you don't understand.  She stole the aphrodisiac for a reason that was very
important to her.  A — a patriotic one."

"She
threatened to shoot me, knocked Charles senseless, and would have had no qualms
about killing any of us, yourself included."

"Oh, no, I
would never harm a woman," Eva said, smiling.  "Celsie and Lady
Charles were really quite safe."

Andrew stalked
into the room, six feet of angry male fire.  He came right up to Eva and glared
down at her.   "What is your big complaint against men, then?"

Eva eyed him
calmly.  "The way they treat women."

Getting to her
feet, Celsie laid a hand on her husband's arm.

"Andrew, my
cousin needs refuge for a few days.  I'm sure that once the two of you get to
know each other, you might even learn to be civil to one another.  Besides, she
came here for a reason that even you will approve of."  Celsie, grinning,
stood on tiptoe to loudly whisper into her husband's ear.  "To take Lucien
down a peg or two."

"What?"

"Oh, yes,
your brother has ruined my life," Eva said, picking up her teacup once
more.  "I really couldn't leave Europe without coming back for a final
round with him."

Andrew turned
away, paced toward the door, turned, and came back.  Though his jaw was still
set, the blazing coldness in his eyes was gone, to be replaced with something
speculative . . . almost cunning.

Celsie took
advantage of his momentary indecision, the lowering of his defenses.
"Andrew, in case you doubt Eva's ability to do exactly what she says, it
was she who scaled the tower of Blackheath Castle, broke into Lucien's chambers,
and stole the real aphrodisiac."

"You?"

Eva merely
smiled and shrugged.

Andrew looked at
Celsie.  Celsie returned the look with a scheming grin of her own.

"Very well,
then," the young lord finally consented.  "But, you realize I'm only
doing this for Celsie's sake.  If you cause me any grief whatsoever, you're out
of here on your ear, do you understand?"

"Perfectly,"
said Eva.  "And thank you."  She rose to her feet, determined to show
civility to her host even if he was too stubborn, and still too angry, to
reciprocate.  He merely gave her a black look and turned to go.

But Eva couldn't
resist.

"Do tell me
one thing, my lord. . . ."

He turned and
shot her a quelling glare.

"Whatever
has happened to your eyebrows?"

Chapter
9

Lady Nerissa de
Montforte had no desire to leave her bed.

She had no
desire to leave Blackheath Castle.

And she had
absolutely no desire to go to Celsie's New Year's Eve ball, but Lucien was
insistent.

"My dear
girl, I cannot bear to see you languishing in that bed another instant.  I
suggest you get up, break your fast, and prepare yourself for travel."  He
pulled open the drapes, a dark angel in immaculate burgundy velvet come to drag
her from her refuge from pain.  "The preparations have already been
made."

"I'm not
going."

"You are
going."  He yanked open another drape.  "I can think of no better way
to restore you to proper health and spirits than spending some time with your
family."

"Having
Perry back is the only thing that will restore me to proper health and
spirits."  She blinked back the tears that always lingered near the
surface.  "I cannot go to Rosebriar, Lucien.  Do not ask me."

"I'm not
asking, I'm ordering.  It will do you good."  He raised his voice and
called, "Martha?  Prepare a bath for Her Ladyship, and lay out warm
clothes suitable for travel.  We leave this afternoon for Rosebriar Park."

"I-am-NOT-going,"
Nerissa ground out, sitting up in bed.

"Really, my
dear, you should know after all these years that it is pointless to argue with
me.  I have decided that you need to get away from the castle for a while.  And
since I must go to France to follow up on a lead about Perry, I don't want you
here languishing all alone."

"France?"
she asked anxiously.  "When are you departing?"

"Immediately
after I make sure you attend tomorrow night's ball."

"I'm going
with you."

"No, you're
not."

"But Lucien
—"

"I do
believe I have made up my mind on the matter," he murmured, and bowing,
left the room.

Damn him!
Nerissa lay there in bed, seething.  How could he be so heartless?  So
insensitive?  She was fed up with his high-handedness!  She yanked the covers
over her head, shut her eyes, and stared into the close darkness.

Lucien could go
to hell.  He really could.

"I'm not
going Rosebriar," she vowed.

But in the end,
of course, she did go, because her brother always got his way — no matter what
the expense to others.  Several hours later, Nerissa was bundled into the ducal
coach and heading east toward Rosebriar Park, the duke astride Armageddon just
outside.

She blinked back
tears as they passed Perry's lands.  There was the house of mellow stone where
he had lived.  Where they both would have lived.  Raised their children.  Grown
old together.

Oh, God help
me, this hurts so very, much. . . .

She squeezed her
eyes shut, trying not to let the tears fall.  She didn't want to go to
Rosebriar and pretend to be happy.  She didn't want to mix with others, paste a
smile on her face, when all she wanted to do was cry, fend off the attentions
of men who were not Perry, and try to fool her family into thinking she was
coping just fine.  She wasn't coping just fine.  She wanted only to bury
herself in a hole, go to sleep, and let the world go by without her.

And now the
coach was carrying her farther and farther away from the Brookhampton lands.  Away
from her memories.  Away from the home of the only beau she had ever loved.

She leaned her
face against the squab and finally fell asleep, a single tear tracking down her
pale cheek.

~~~~

Eva, her stomach
heavy with nausea, was late for the evening meal.

Resplendent in
an open sacque gown of shimmering copper satin trimmed in green, she entered a
dining room aglow with candlelight.  Several of Celsie's dogs had already
claimed spots beneath the table, forcing their mistress and Andrew to contort
their legs in impossible positions in order to accommodate them.  As Eva took
her seat, Andrew pointedly ignored her, refusing, even, to rise.  He was a
surly creature, she decided, even though she knew she deserved his contempt.
Still, she was unable to forget his earlier words:  For his wife's sake, he
would allow her to stay here at Rosebriar . . . and for that, she couldn't help
but be just a little bit impressed.

Imagine, doing
something for your wife's sake.

The concept was
alien to her.

She cast a furtive
glance at the young lord as he piled Celsie's plate high, attentive to her
every need, his gaze softening whenever their eyes met.  Right, so maybe Lord
Andrew was a cut above other men.  Maybe he, unlike the rest of his kind,
actually considered and cared about a woman's feelings.  A rarity, that.  She
didn't think men like that existed in real life, only fairy tales.

Eva shook her
head and picked up her fork.  Well, that certainly wouldn't last long.

But as she
turned her attention to her meal, the sight — and smell — of the fowl drenched
in currant sauce brought on a sudden wave of nausea.  Cold sweat washed over
her and she put down her napkin, trying to decide how to leave without
appearing rude . . .

Or raising
Celsie's suspicions.

But Celsie saw
her starting to get up.  "Eva, Andrew was just telling me about his plans
to revise his new explosive," she explained, mistaking Eva's tense
expression for awkwardness about being excluded from their banter.  "He's
going to try it out again on the morrow."

"Then I
should dearly like to watch," Eva said faintly, thinking to make peace
with the sullen young lord by showing an interest in his pursuits.

"No doubt
because she hopes to see me blow myself up."

"Now,
Andrew," Celsie chastised, shaking her head.  "Why don't you tell Eva
about your explosive?"

Eva crunched her
napkin in a damp fist.  Dear Lord, I have to get out of here.

"Why should
I?  A woman as dangerous to England as she is doesn't need to know about
my new explosive."  He stabbed his fork into a potato and added
sarcastically, "Next thing you know, she'll be trying to abduct me
so she can get the formula and use it to help her beloved America."

Eva smiled
through her worsening nausea.  "Oh, no.  I couldn't bear to separate you
two lovebirds.  But really, that is the nature of men, isn't it, Celsie?  What
women build, men want only to blow up."

"That isn't
true of all men, Eva.  Why, Andrew is always building something — flying
machines, double-compartmented coaches, automatic roasting machines . . .   He's
far more interested in creating than destroying."

"Well,
imagine that," Eva drawled, trying to maintain her air of polished cool.  "A
man with brains.  Who would have thought?"

Andrew,
glowering, slammed his napkin down.

And Eva, despite
the fact she was growing perilously near to disgracing herself, turned all the
charm of her smile on him.  "Do relax, my lord.  I just gave you a
compliment, in case you didn't realize."  Her hands were beginning to
tremble.  She was sweating fiercely.  "And now I fear I must excuse myself
—"

"Eva, are
you all right?" Celsie rose to her feet.  "You look quite pale —"

"I am
fine.  Just" — she smiled at Andrew, hoping to fool him and Celsie into
believing her excuse — "finding it difficult to share a table with an
'intelligent' man.  Such a singular prospect quite overwhelms me, I fear."

She rose and
hurried from the room, leaving Andrew staring after her.

"What was
that all about?"

"I don't
know.  But she's behaving in a most peculiar manner, and I suspect there's more
here than meets the eye."  Celsie put down her napkin.  "I'll be
right back."

She ran out into
the hall, but Eva, her hand pressed to her mouth, was already rushing up the
stairs.  Celsie paused, frowning.  She was just debating whether or not to
follow her when a servant approached, bowing.

"My lady.
Their Lordships Charles and Gareth have arrived with their families and await
you in the parlor."

Celsie quickly
took control.  "Show them in and see that additional places are set at the
table."

Oh, God help
her!  Charles and Eva under the same roof?

Sure enough, her
worst fears were realized.

"She's here?"
thundered Major Lord Charles de Montforte as the newly arrived entourage filed
into the dining room and was seated.  The tall, crisply impeccable officer
lunged to his feet, his eyes glittering like aquamarine as he turned his wrath
on his brother Andrew.  "What are you, mad?  That woman is a
menace!  You'd have her here in this house after what she did to us on the road
that night?"

Celsie tried to
placate him.  "But Charles, she needs help — Lucien turned her life upside
down."  She proceeded to tell everyone about how Eva had scaled the tower
at Blackheath, broken into Lucien's bedchamber, and stolen the real
aphrodisiac.  "He went to France to get it back, and Eva overpowered him
and tied him up and then he got free and stole it back from her.  It's all
quite amusing really.  Wait until you hear the whole tale . . ."

Charles turned
away, stiff and angry.  The last time he'd seen Eva de la Mouriére, she'd been
masquerading as a peasant woman on a lonely road, her carriage disabled, her
wits at an end.  He had stopped to offer his help — only to wake up facedown in
the dirt, his family shaken up, and the aphrodisiac — not the confounded,
wretched aphrodisiac that had wreaked such havoc on so many lives, but what had
turned out to be a false substitute — stolen.

He could not
bear to face her again.  He could not bear to even look at her.

"Come, Amy,
we're leaving.  I will not allow you and our daughter to remain under the same
roof as that treacherous witch."

"Treacherous
witch?"

Everyone stilled
at the sound of the faintly amused voice.  There in the doorway, the light from
a wall sconce glowing upon thick, pinned-up hair of a red so striking, so
brilliant, it nearly pained the eye to look at it, stood Eva — as tall as a
willow, as regal as a queen.  She was smiling.

Everyone gasped
as Charles's hand went for his sword.

"Please,
Major.  There is no need for bloodshed," she murmured as Andrew and Gareth
leaped forward to stay their brother's hand.  "For the sake of your
family, and especially poor Celsie, let us forget our past grievances and at
least try to pretend a measure of civility."

Charles's pale
blue eyes chilled as they met Eva's slanting ones of cut green glass.  For a
moment he didn't move, merely surveying her with dislike, distaste, distrust;
then, seizing Amy's arm, he bowed to Celsie and Gareth's wife Juliet, and all
but dragged his protesting wife from the dining room.

Eva bit her lip.

Celsie and
Andrew exchanged glances, and Juliet glanced at Eva, frowning.

Gareth was the
first to react.  "Don't worry, he won't take his family back out on a
night like this," he said, trying to smooth the awkward silence.  "He
won't leave."

But the others
were still staring at the woman who had so unnerved the taciturn, normally
unflappable Lord Charles — and hadn't even batted an eyelash at his rude
reaction.  Now she looked around and met their gazes, her smile rueful.

"Dear me.
I had forgotten how slow male pride is to heal once it has been wounded . . . I
really should have started out by apologizing to him, shouldn't I?"

Just then, a
footman bearing a missive on a silver plate entered the room.  He paused in
front of Andrew, bowing.  "For you, my lord."

Andrew took the
folded vellum, dismissed the servant, and broke the seal.  As he read, he began
to smile.  And then to grin.  His eyes gleaming, he refolded the note.

"Well,
well.  It seems that our autocratic eldest brother has deigned to attend our
ball tomorrow night and expects to arrive with Nerissa sometime early tomorrow evening."
His gaze lifted to Eva.  "So, madam.  Here's your chance."

"Chance?"
echoed Gareth, looking from Andrew to Eva.  "Chance for what?"

But Eva, her
heart suddenly pounding, had just lost her appetite for the second time this
night.  And now, her composure.  Blackheath.  He was coming here.

God help her
nerves.

"Revenge,"
she said sweetly, and excusing herself, left the room.

Chapter
10

Sleep that night
was all but nonexistent.

She lay awake
thinking of Blackheath.  Of their last encounter together, of the heights of
passion to which he had brought her, of his threat — promise — at the end of
that infuriating note he had left for her back in France:

Do come to England.
I would dearly love to . . . have you.

Well, here she
was, in England.  He would be here tomorrow.  And she knew in her bones that he
would have her.  It was inevitable.

The clock in the
hall outside struck one.  Two.  Three.  Eva, hot and flushed, threw off the
coverlet.  Got up and went to the window.  She gazed out over the darkened
heath, at the cold stars winking down at her from behind high, scattered cloud
that veiled and unveiled the moon.

Blackheath.

He would be here
in a matter of hours.  Tomorrow night.

She poured
herself a glass of water and returned to bed.  Tried to sleep.  And finally
fell into fitful slumber . . .

Where she
dreamed of making love to the Duke of Blackheath.

~~~~

The ball started
promptly at nine and he hadn't arrived.

Eva danced with
more men than she could count, glanced toward the doors more times than she
would acknowledge, and spent the early part of the evening battling a rising
case of both nerves and anticipation.  Damn Blackheath to perdition for
unsettling her so!  Damn him for what he was doing to her!

And then, just
as the clock struck ten, something like a charged current rippled through the
room and she knew that he had arrived.

And he had.

He was glorious,
virile, dangerously masculine despite the elegant lace at throat and wrists,
the fitted waistcoat of dark gray satin, the powdered hair, the ruby pinned in
his cravat, the fancy buckled shoes.

And he had seen
her.

His hand beneath
the elbow of a stunning blonde who looked as ethereal as mist in a gown of pale
blue tissue, he moved nonchalantly through the crowd.  Women were gazing
hungrily at him; men were eyeing him with respect, with wariness.

And all three of
the younger de Montforte brothers were watching him — and Eva — most closely
indeed.

Too
closely.

Celsie, her eyes
gleaming, leaned close to Andrew and whispered something in his ear, but Eva
was still staring at the duke, trying to summon her composure.  Perdition, it
was hot in here.  She was unable to think.  Unable to breathe.  Fixated.

On him.

Who the devil
was that blonde?

"Eva.  We
meet again."  He drew the vacant-eyed beauty forward.  "Allow me to
present you to my sister, Lady Nerissa de Montforte."

His sister.
Relief — unwarranted as it was — flooded her.  She and Nerissa exchanged
greetings, and out of the corner of her eye, Eva saw Lord Gareth eyeing the
situation with high interest, subtly maneuvering himself and his wife Juliet
closer so as to be within earshot of any volleys that might soon be flying.  As
for Blackheath, if he was surprised to see her, he showed no sign of it.  Not a
flicker of emotion gave him away as his gaze moved over Eva's face and down her
gown of emerald green satin — and remained on her for a long, uncomfortable
moment.

She raised her
head and eyed him steadily.  Could he know what those penetrating black eyes,
that faint, self-contained smile, were doing to her?  Could he hear the way her
heart had fisted in her chest and was now beginning to thunder out of control?
Thank God she'd worn the brilliant emerald gown, for it set off her coloring,
her hair, her eyes, to best advantage.  Not, of course, that she wanted to
impress him.  Oh, far from that.  She just wanted to throw him off balance.
Gain the upper hand.  Distract him so she would emerge the victor in whatever
battle of wills lay before them.

That was all.

"My dear
Lady Nerissa!  Would you care for a dance?"

A young swain
was there, bowing, his brown eyes merry, his powdered hair caught in a bag wig
and tied with blue velvet.  Nerissa opened her mouth to refuse, but immediately
the duke intervened.

"She would
love a dance, Trombley.  And a glass of punch, I think."

"Lucien —"

"No, no, my
dear, go, enjoy yourself.  I wish to hear no more about it."

For the first
time, Eva saw emotion in the other woman's pale blue eyes:  anger.  And then
Trombley was drawing her away, out onto the floor.

"That was
incredibly insensitive of you," Eva snapped.  "It's plain as day that
she had no wish to dance with him!"

"I know,
but she has been languishing in bed ever since she heard news of Lord
Brookhampton, and it is high time she returned to the land of the living.
Dancing will do her good."

"You're a
monster."

"So I've
been told."  He took her hand, raising it to his lips, those fascinating
black eyes holding hers from over the tops of her knuckles.  She set her jaw
even as her pulse quickened.  "So, tell me, madam.  Did you come for the
ball" — his smile grew positively wicked —"or in response to that
little note I left for you?"

Do come to England.
I would dearly love to . . . have you.

Eva eyed him
flatly.  "I came for revenge."

"Ah.  How
delightful.  I had hoped you would, you know.  Life gets so boring, up here in
the country."

"I can
promise you, Blackheath, that I intend to make your life anything but
boring."

"Oh, I have
no doubt of that.  Why, I would be most disappointed if you had not taken me up
on my . . . invitation to come to England.  I have been waiting for you, you
know."

"Waiting
for me, or to get me back into bed?"

"Both, of
course."

"Well then,
Blackheath, you can wait until hell freezes over, because the latter is not
going to happen."

"Care to
wager on it?"

"I think
not."

He smiled, his
eyes suddenly crinkling with humor.  "Coward."

"No, just
wise."

"A dance,
then?"

"Better
that than stand here and give your siblings the satisfaction of seeing us
sparring with each other."

"My
sentiments exactly."  He guided her out onto the floor with a hand beneath
the elbow.  "So, tell me, madam, what means did you employ to render me
insensible back in Paris?"

"If you
think I'm about to tell you, you've got another think coming."

"Ah, well.
I shall find out in good time.  Though I must confess, your actions did nothing
but fuel my fascination with you all the more."  His hand fitted to her
waist, he swung her out and away from a hard-eyed Charles and his wife Amy, the
latter of whom was watching them most curiously.  "So when do you plan to
exact this revenge that I cannot wait to taste?"

"You think
I'm in jest?"

"I most
certainly hope not."  He spun her again, making her dizzy, making her
fixate on his hard mouth, those enigmatic black eyes, in order to center
herself.  "In fact, I do hope you'll start this little crusade of yours
soon, as I leave for France in about fifteen minutes."

"So
soon?" she asked, too quickly, too anxiously.

Too late.

He noted her
disappointment, try as she might to conceal it.  She saw the wicked,
self-satisfied smile that came over those same hard lips, though he was gallant
enough not to rub salt into the wound.  "Alas, I have contacts to meet in Paris
first thing in the morning.  I only came to the ball to make sure my sister
attended."

"What is so
important in Paris?"

His fingers
stroked the middle of her back as he pressed her close, too close, so close
that her body felt as though it were going up in flames.  "You are too
curious for your own good, my little spy.  But I go to France to follow up on a
piece of information about Lord Brookhampton.  As I told you earlier, I cannot
bear to see my sister so unhappy."

"Then you
should stop forcing her to do things she has no wish to do."

"It is for her
own good."

"Her own good?"

"But of
course."

"You are
truly a wicked man to interfere in others' lives so!"

He inclined his
head as the dance ended, then guided her to the refreshment table, where he pressed
a glass of punch into her hand.  "That is why I'm called the Wicked
One."

"A fitting
moniker.  No doubt you courted such a label yourself."

"On the
contrary."  His smile was positively maddening.  "The people of
Ravenscombe gave nicknames to all the de Montforte males.  Charles is the
Beloved One, Gareth is the Wild One, and Andrew, the Defiant One.  Now drink
up, my dear, as I must be on my way now.  And do use the next few days
perfecting your plans for revenge, for I look forward to whatever" — he
smiled — "punishment you have in mind."

He took her
hand, his long, elegant fingers sending tremors of excitement through her as he
pressed his thumb gently into her gloved flesh and raised the hand to his
lips.  Eva felt them even through the soft kid.  Saw the sultry promise in
those black-fire eyes as he held her gaze for a long, telling moment.  And
then, all too soon, he had released her and straightened, the elegant,
unaffected duke once more.

And just in
time, too.  Celsie was approaching, her eyes gleaming.

Blackheath made
his excuses, bowed, and melted back off through the crowd.

"Well?
What did he say?" Celsie asked eagerly.

But Eva was
still staring after that broad and tapered back, wondering why she felt such an
empty ache where she knew her heart to otherwise be.  Wondering why a lump rose
in her throat as the doors swung open and he was gone.

She smiled
faintly.  "Only that he will be back."

~~~~

Nerissa was
miserable.

As the evening
wore on, more and more coaches had pulled up outside, discharging powdered and
perfumed guests in expensive silks, satins, and velvets.  Laughter and music
filled the ballroom, made her head ache, emphasized her own anguish all the
more.  Andrew, looking perpetually annoyed — but then, he hated social
gatherings — caught her eye and ordered her to cheer up.  The Honourable George
Dartingford wanted to dance with her.  Lord Islington wanted to dance with
her.  Everyone wanted to dance with her . . .

Everyone, that
is, who wasn't lining up for a dance with the mysterious Eva de la Mouriére.

So this was the
woman who had stolen the aphrodisiac, sent Lucien into a black rage, had turned
her brother's life upside down.  Nerissa eyed her closely.  The American was
beautiful, confident, aloof.  And every man in the ballroom, with the exception
of her brothers and especially of Charles, watched her like dogs with
heatstroke, eyes glazed with fascination — and lust.  Eva de la Mouriére
appeared to be in her element, expertly handling the excessive flattery,
flirtation, and dogfights between her slavering swains — but Nerissa, unlike
the smitten men, could see that it was all an act.  The other woman was merely
enduring the attention; her comments bordered on cruel, on taunting, and it was
obvious that she just didn't like men.

Obvious that
she, like Nerissa, wanted to be anywhere but here.

Obvious that a
certain spark had gone out of her the instant Lucien had left.

And now she
looked tired as well as irritated — and painfully alone.  Maybe even
vulnerable.  The men continued to swarm around her.  Nerissa was not surprised
when Eva finally excused herself and stepped outside for a breath of fresh air.

It was at that
moment that Lord Islington, smelling strongly of spirits, approached, bowed,
and asked Nerissa for a dance.  She didn't want to dance, of course; she didn't
have the heart to make merry, but perhaps if she closed her eyes she could
pretend . . . pretend that this short, rotund man was someone else.  Someone
who was a good head taller than she was, someone with cool gray eyes, someone
with bright gold hair and a suave, inborn elegance.  Nerissa's throat closed
up.  Tears stung the back of her eyes and she bravely blinked them back.

Perry.  Oh,
Perry . . .

Taking a deep
breath, she allowed Islington to escort her out onto the floor.

"You are
very beautiful tonight, my lady."

Nerissa heard
herself making the obligatory sounds of acknowledgement, of gratitude.
Islington was either lying or blind.  She had seen herself in the mirror as her
maid had dressed her hair.  The bluish shadows under her dulled, vacant eyes,
the sad curve of her mouth, the lackluster tone to her once-shining mass of
golden hair . . . looking in that mirror had been like looking into the face of
a stranger.

". . . I
was most aggrieved to hear about the Sarah Rose," Islington was
saying.  "Please accept my condolences on the loss of Lord Brookhampton."

Nerissa looked
away.  "He has not yet been declared dead," she snapped.  "He
will be found.  Lucien will find him."

"I suppose
that if anyone can, it is the duke.  Still, I feel as though it's all my
fault.  Silly of me, perhaps, but if I hadn't sold that Spanish estate to His
Grace, you'd be sweeping around this dance floor with the one you love, not a
poor substitute —"

Nerissa stopped
in her tracks; Islington nearly went sprawling over her stalled feet.  But
if I hadn't sold that Spanish estate to His Grace —

Her blood went
cold.  "What Spanish estate?" she asked sharply.

"Dear me, I
didn't realize the very mention of it would so distress you —"

"What
estate?" Nerissa demanded once again, pure, hot color flooding back into
her cheeks.  She was suddenly sweating.  People were staring at her, beginning
to whisper.

Islington was a
bright radish-red.  "My dear lady, I — I don't wish to upset you, but your
brother bought an estate from me, a rather neglected one that I never paid much
attention to, as it was so far away —" Islington began to flush and
stammer, knowing he'd said too much, that his words were the cause of Nerissa's
speechless horror.  "I couldn't understand why His Grace would want some
Spanish estate when he has so many perfectly fine English ones, unless, of
course, he was interested in it for the grapes — I beg your pardon, my lady, I
fear I have upset you.  Please, let me get you some refreshment —"

Upset?  Upset?
Nerissa, shaking violently, was more than upset.  Suddenly everything was
clear.  She remembered the conversation she'd had with Lucien the night before
she and Perry had quarrelled.  She remembered Lucien promising to do something
drastic if Perry didn't soon propose, remembered the way she had gone to him in
tears when Perry had gone off to Spain to claim this estate, remembered
how Lucien had been so brotherly and compassionate when word had come back that
the Sarah Rose had gone down and Perry wasn't among the survivors.
Nerissa fought for breath.  Nausea rose in her gut, and for a moment she
thought she was going to black out with the realization of what her brother had
done.

"I must
have some fresh air, sir.  If you'll please excuse me . . ."

She hurried away
before he could offer to escort her outside.  The reality of the situation was
growing more horrific with every moment.  Lucien had sent Perry away in an
attempt to engineer a fast union between them.  What was it he had said to try
to calm her that night she'd received Perry's letter?

Absence makes
the heart grow fonder.

Oh, Lord help
her!  Through a blinding haze of tears, Nerissa ran through the crowd, through
the great doors, and outside.  How could her brother, who claimed to love her,
have done this to her?  To Perry?  Not only had he separated them, he'd been
responsible for the probable death of an innocent man!

Outside, the
damp winter air hit her with a shocking chill, but by now the tears were
flowing, and flowing hard.  Nerissa ran through the garden.  Rosebushes tore at
her ankles.  Mud soaked her slippers, shrubbery ripped at her gown.  Sobbing so
hard she could barely see, she kept running, wanting only to escape the rising
agony that obliterated everything else —

And collided
hard with someone heading back toward the house.

Nerissa reeled
backward, aware of only a mysteriously exotic perfume before her feet went out
from under her and she landed hard on her bottom.  Gulping back sobs, she
looked up into the face of Eva de la Mouriére.

The other woman
reached down to help her up.  "Let me guess," she said wryly,
steadying Nerissa when she would have slipped in the mud and gone down once
more.  "It was a man, wasn't it?  But of course it was, it always is.
Trust me, sweetie, they're not worth it."

The simple words
tore open the floodgate of Nerissa's anguish.

"It's all
his fault Perry's dead!" she howled, her hair tumbling from its pins and
falling about eyes gone wild with pain and rage.  "He sent Perry away!
There was never any estate in Spain, never any reason for Perry to go, he just
made that all up so he could get us separated and make Perry miss me enough to
want to marry me when he got back!  He planned it all, and now Perry's dead and
it's all his fault!  I will never forgive him for this!  I swear, I will
never forgive him for what he has done!"

Eva tried to
fold the younger woman against her and offer what comfort she could, but
Nerissa pushed away, too distraught to allow another to console her.
Protectiveness — and a cold anger — rose in Eva's breast.  Men.  They were
always the cause of a woman's pain, weren't they?

Awkwardly, she
draped her own shawl around the thin, shaking shoulders.  "Cheer up,
sweetie," she said, reverting to the flippant sarcasm she always sought
when her own heart needed protecting.  As she moved silently away, she
muttered, "At least you're not carrying some man's bastard
child."

~~~~

For a moment,
Nerissa wasn't sure she'd heard the softly spoken words.

At least you're
not carrying some man's bastard child.

Nerissa lifted
her head and watched the other woman, as haughty and dignified as a goddess,
make her way back toward the house.  Had she heard her correctly?  Was Eva just
telling her her situation could be worse, or was she telling her her own
situation was worse?

Nerissa was just
about to go after her when Celsie came hurrying out, her face grave with
concern.

"Nerissa!
Whatever is the matter?  Did Islington say something to upset you?"  Her
eyes widened as she took in Nerissa's mud-stained gown, her red-rimmed eyes and
wet cheeks.  She squeezed her sister-in-law's hands.  "Tell me what
happened!"

Nerissa took a
deep breath and met Celsie's alarmed eyes.  "Lucien.  He — he killed
Perry."

Celsie reeled
back.  And as she stared at her in horror, Nerissa told her what Lucien had
done.  She told her how he had bought a Spanish estate.  How he had apparently
sent Perry off on a false mission just to engineer yet another de Montforte
union.  How it was his fault Perry was probably dead.  Her voice broke,
and she couldn't stop the tears from flowing down her face.

Celsie pulled
her into her arms.

"And to
make this night even more wretched, Eva just said the strangest thing to me.  I
don't think I was meant to hear it, but I could swear I heard her say, 'at
least you're not carrying some man's bastard child.'"  Nerissa
looked up.  "Here I am, so wrapped up in my own misery that I failed to
notice someone else's.  She's . . . she's not in the family way, is she,
Celsie?"

But Celsie was
staring at her.  "Oh my God."

"What is
it?"

"That
explains it, then.  Good heavens, why didn't I see?  No wonder she's so
pale . . . no wonder she's been complaining of a stomach disorder . . . no
wonder she came here to me, and no wonder she's so determined to get her
revenge on your brother for ruining her life!"  She grabbed Nerissa's
shoulders.  "Dear God, Nerissa, do you know what this means?"

Nerissa just
gazed in confusion at her sister-in-law, whose face was glowing with
barely-constrained excitement.

"I'd bet everything
I own that Eva is carrying Lucien's child!"

Chapter
11

Celsie hurried
into the ballroom and, not seeing Eva amongst the crowd, dashed up to her
apartments.

"Eva?"

She knocked, then
pushed open the door.  Her cousin stood at the window, her hair glowing like
wine in the light of the candle just behind her.

"Good
evening, Celsie.  I trust your ball was a success," she murmured, without
turning around.

"Why didn't
you tell me?"

The other woman
remained staring out into the night.  "Because I can barely acknowledge
the fact even to myself."

"But — it's
a baby!"

"It is
Blackheath's baby."

"Does he
know?"

"Of course
not.  No one does — except you, now."

"And
Nerissa."

"Yes . . .
That poor child.  She has been cruelly used, I think.  I ran into her — literally
— out in the garden, sobbing her heart out."  Eva turned around then, her
eyes flat and hard.  "Over a man, of course."

"She was
sobbing because she'd just learned her own brother was the one to send
Perry away, and under false pretenses, too!  Damn him!  Damn him, Eva!  It is
bad enough that he manipulates people for what he thinks is their own good,
but the fact that he takes such a malicious delight in doing so makes it
utterly unconscionable, totally unforgivable."

Eva raised a
brow.  "Blackheath did this?"

"Yes, and
this time he has gone too far!"  Celsie stamped her foot in rage.
"Mark me, this is not the end of this.  Not by any stretch of the
imagination.  I swear, Eva, this is the last  — the last — time he'll
ever go interfering in anyone's life, ever again!"

~~~~

Celsie called a
family conference to be held in the dining room immediately after the ball.

It was late, and
everyone was tired, but they were a family, and they were there.  Charles,
still in his dress regimentals, looked coolly composed but concerned as he sat
next to Amy.  Gareth came in with his arm around Juliet, his ever-present grin
changing to a look of worry when he saw his sister already seated, a fire in
her pale blue eyes that proclaimed banked rage.  Andrew was the last to arrive,
rubbing at the bristle that remained of his singed eyebrows as he took a seat
next to the tight-lipped Nerissa.  He cast a questioning glance at Celsie,
apprehension clouding his face when he saw her look of bristling fury.  Savage
glee.  That, coupled with the explosive expression on Nerissa's otherwise
gentle face, boded ill.

Celsie waited
for everyone to be seated.  Her foot tapped impatiently as footmen served port
to the men and tea to the ladies.  She dismissed them, and began to speak.

"I know
you're all wondering why Nerissa and I have called you together tonight, and at
such a late hour besides, but what I have to say is of utmost importance.  I'd
let Nerissa tell you what your brother has done this time, but as you
can see, she's not exactly in any mood to talk."

"I can't
even bear to mention that — that bastard's name," Nerissa burst
out, her eyes flashing.

Charles nearly
choked on his port.  Gareth's eyebrows shot up.  They were not used to hearing
such coarse language from their sister.

Andrew leaned
back in his chair.  "So what has he done this time?"

Her own voice
sharpening with anger, Celsie told them what Nerissa had learned from
Islington, and what she and her sister-in-law had puzzled together in the wake
of such a damning revelation.  "Spanish estate!" she fumed.
"Obviously he was just trying to separate Perry from Nerissa so he'd miss
her so much he'd come back and propose marriage!"

"Really,
now," Charles began, shaking his head.  "I can't believe Lucien would
go to such lengths."

"Well,
believe it!  This time, his machinations have gone tragically awry,"
Celsie spat.  "This time, he has not only made another of his siblings
miserable, he's ended up killing someone as well!"

Charles, always
one to approach a situation from a variety of angles, was toying with his
glass.  "Who's to say that Perry's death isn't a fabrication, too?"

"It's
not," Gareth said.  "The son of one of my constituents was a crew
member on the ship.  It did go down."

Nerissa held
herself erect, her throat moving as she bravely held back fresh tears.

"All of us
have been manipulated by Lucien into doing his will," Celsie continued.
"We have all been unwitting puppets in his diabolical plans to get each of
his brothers — and now his sister — married off.  He truly is the Wicked One!
Look what he did to you, Gareth, and Juliet.  And Charles!  The way he schemed
to get you and Amy together was totally inexcusable."

"But he
wasn't as heavy-handed with us as he was the rest of you," Amy protested.
She was a gentle soul, and had taken a liking to Lucien when others had only
barely forgiven him his transgressions into their lives.

"Regardless,
he still schemed, and he still got what he wanted," Celsie continued.
"And he went completely over the top with how he manipulated Andrew and I
into marriage with that aphrodisiac!  Well, it's time he got a taste of his own
medicine."

Suddenly, every
eye in the room was on Celsie.

She began to
pace back and forth before the fire, her skirts whispering with her movements.
"I'm sure all of you have noticed that Eva is here to wreak some sort of
revenge on Lucien.  Did any of you ever wonder just what he really did
to ruin her life so?  Well, I have, and she is the other reason I've called you
all together.  You see, the most opportune situation has, with Eva's arrival,
fallen right into our laps.  She is how we're going to give Lucien his
long-deserved comeuppance."

"I can't
stand the woman," Charles said coldly.

Andrew tipped
his chair back on its legs.  "Neither can I, but I want to hear this one
out."

"Yes, do
tell all, Celsie," urged Gareth, raising a brow.

Celsie looked at
all of them in turn, and poor Nerissa, still sitting at the table and staring
into space.

"He got her
pregnant," she announced, folding her arms on a note of triumph.

"What?
cried Gareth, Charles, and Andrew in unison.

"He got her
pregnant," Celsie repeated.  "I have just spoken with her, and she
confirmed it."

"Good
God!"

"Pregnant?"

"Does he
even know?"

"No, he
does not.  Which is how we're going to turn the tables on him."
Celsie began to pace once more, her eyes gleaming.  "Eva came here looking
for refuge.  She told me that he'd ruined her life, but I never did catch on to
just what she really meant.  But think about it.  Andrew, you remember
last night, when she ran out of the room feeling sick?  Well, why do you think
she was feeling sick?  Why do you think she's so unnaturally pale?  At the ball
this evening, I caught her holding on to the edge of the table and taking deep
breaths.  She told me she felt a little faint from the heat and number of
people in the room, but as Juliet and Amy will tell you, that, too, is a sign
that she's in the family way."

"I can't
believe this," Charles said, shaking his head.  "Lucien would never
be so careless."

"Well, let
me tell you something else," Celsie continued.  "When Eva came here,
she told me she 'overpowered' Lucien and rendered him quite helpless.  I
suppose that if she's capable of doing that, she's capable of having her
way with him."

"Come now,
Celsie," said Gareth, not unkindly.  "We know she's some sort of spy
and a woman of extraordinary prowess, but I hardly think she's the sort to prey
on men in that sort of way."

"Yes,
especially as any fool could tell she was doing her best to get away from them all
tonight," Juliet put in.

Amy was shaking
her head.  "She may have been doing her best to get away from the men at
the ball, but that doesn't mean she was doing her best to get away from Lucien."
She looked around the room at the others.  "No matter what you all think
of Lucien, and of Eva, there's one thing that none of us here can deny:  They're
a perfect match for each other."

"Exactly!"
cried Celsie, clapping her hands once in triumph.

Charles was
staring at them.  "You don't mean to try and force Lucien to marry the
woman —"

"Oh, that's
exactly what I'm planning," Celsie returned, eyes gleaming.  "Think
about it.  For years, we've been wanting to give Lucien a taste of his own
medicine.  Well, Eva herself is the absolute best comeuppance we can give
him."

"I suppose
he did ruin her life," Gareth said, thoughtfully rubbing his chin.

Andrew added,
"He also got her thrown out of France, cost her the trust of her American
compatriots, and robbed her of her dignity."

"Charles?"

"I'm
listening."

"I think we're
all in agreement about one thing," Celsie said.  "Lucien has it
coming to him —"

"And Eva de
la Mouriére will make a matchless duchess," finished Gareth.

Juliet was
beaming.  "Oh, I do like this plan!  Go on, Celsie."

"Well, if
we want to bring them together, we'll need to resort to a bit of scheming as
diabolical as anything that Lucien has come up with regarding us.  Eva will
never consent to marry Lucien on her own, of course.  And Lucien will not be so
easily forced into matrimony.  This is what we must do."  She stopped
before the fire, tapping her chin.  "Gareth, as a member of Parliament,
you can convince your peers that Eva is dangerous and must be neutralized by
the only person capable of controlling her:  Lucien."

Gareth inclined
his head.  "My pleasure."

"Meanwhile,
Nerissa and I will petition the king to the same effect, painting Eva as a
misguided woman who deserves better than what she's received at Lucien's
hands.  If we're successful, we'll be able to convince His Majesty to order
Lucien to marry this poor woman he has ruined, not only so she can't make any
further mischief with France — but to finally beget an heir for the dukedom of
Blackheath."

She paused,
looking at each face in turn.  "So, what do you all think?"

"I think
it's a brilliant plan," said Andrew.

"Diabolically
wonderful," added Juliet, nodding.

"Yes, it's
about time Lucien gets a taste of his own medicine," said Gareth, warming
to the idea.

"Charles?"

The major
glanced at his sister.  "I detest the woman and am in no mood to forgive
her, but if Lucien truly is responsible, even indirectly, for Perry's death,
then the two damn well deserve each other."

Celsie smiled
and waited for Andrew to pass around a bottle of port.  When everyone had
filled their glass, she raised her own.  "A toast, then!" she said.  "To
Lucien's comeuppance!"

"To
Lucien's comeuppance!"

Chapter
12

Lucien returned
from France after an unsuccessful quest to locate Perry, only to find that in
his absence, his life had been totally taken over by others and was now fully
out of his control.

He was livid.

"How dare
anyone tell me what to do?" he seethed as Charles handed him the decree,
signed by the king himself, insisting upon an immediate marriage between His
Grace the Duke of Blackheath and Lady Eva de la Mouriére.

"Well,
really, Luce, the king of England isn't just anyone," Andrew said
cheerfully as Lucien, his face like a thundercloud, stared numbly down at the
decree as though it were a warrant for his own execution.  "I do think
you've got to listen to him."

"Yes, it
would be very unwise to deny His Majesty's wishes," Gareth added, idly
lounging on the library settee.

"Disastrous,"
Charles put in.

Getting up,
Gareth splashed a generous shot of whiskey into a glass.  "It appears you
don't have any choice but to marry the lady, especially since she's carrying
the Blackheath heir."  He handed the glass to Andrew.

Andrew handed
the glass to Charles.  "And we all know how seriously you take family
responsibility.  Must carry on the line, you know."

"Absolutely,"
said Charles, carrying the glass of whiskey toward his stricken brother.
"And best of all, Luce, your bride-to-be is right here at Rosebriar."

"Which is
most convenient," said Gareth.

"Yes, no
chasing after her back in France," Andrew added.

"We even
took the trouble of procuring you a special license so you can get married
right away."

Lucien lowered
the decree and stood staring into space.

Charles plucked
it from his hands and replaced it with the glass of whiskey.  "She'll make
a splendid duchess, Luce.  Absolutely magnificent."

Lucien managed
to keep his face perfectly still, though inside, it was a different story
indeed.  A towering rage such as he'd never known was rising like mercury on a
thermometer suddenly plunged into boiling oil.  For a moment, his vision was
obliterated by red haze.  For a moment, he feared his very head was going to
explode.  His fists clenched at his sides — but no.  Breeding prevailed.
Tight-lipped, his eyes murderous and the untouched whiskey still in his hand,
he turned his back on his brothers and walked a little distance away, unable to
look at those three benignly innocent faces, all of which looked just a little
too happy, a little too satisfied, a little too . . . triumphant.

Were they
somehow behind this appalling mess?  Were they scheming to manipulate his
life, as he had schemed to manipulate theirs?

They wouldn't.

They wouldn't
dare.

But he knew that
they had . . . and that he had it coming to him.

He heard Andrew
say as much from somewhere behind him.  "Really, Luce, it's not so bad.
Just think of all the underhanded things you did to get us married, when that
was the last thing any of us wanted.  But you knew best, didn't you?
Well, in this case we know best.  You need a duchess.  Blackheath needs
an heir.  Hell, with Eva, you have both, all ready and waiting for you."

Lucien set the
untouched glass down, keeping his back to his brothers as he used every ounce
of control to hold his temper in check.   He would not let them know how very,
very angry they had made him.  So angry, in fact, that he could hear his pulse
pounding in his ears.  So angry, that he dared not speak for fear of losing
control of his words and the volume of his voice.  So angry that he was ready
to do something totally crass and vulgar, such as pummel each of those smirking
faces with his fist.

Better to leave
before he could do just that.

Back stiffly
erect, his face darker than an incoming storm, he left them without another
word.

He walked
blindly out of the house and outside, into the bracingly raw winter wind.  He
welcomed the discomfort.  He needed to think.  To plan.  Revenge was the
furthest thing from his mind; he wanted only a solution.  Alternatives.
Escape.  He strode to the stables and, summoning a groom, ordered Armageddon
saddled.  The servant took one look at his thunderous face and paled, then
hurried to do his bidding.

Lucien paced
back and forth, his blood boiling as he waited for the stallion to be tacked
up.  He heard the great beast's savage kicks ringing against its stall, and
then the commotion as the jet-black Arabian, a gift from an Bedouin sheik
during one of Lucien's many travels, was brought out of the stall, shaking his
head, striking out with his lethal forelegs, and nearly yanking the two grooms
who were trying to restrain him straight off their feet.

Moments later,
Lucien was astride the foaming, fractious animal and cantering away from the
manor.

Once out of
sight of any watching eyes, he let the horse have his head.  Armageddon's body
levelled out as he thundered across a pasture, his hooves cutting up the flinty
turf, flushing a pheasant, and sending two rabbits diving for cover as he
pounded past a thicket of brambles.  The damp winter wind was exhilarating,
heavy with the scent of damp earth, but Lucien's fury was inescapable; even a
headlong gallop across the cold winter heath could not dispel it.

Suddenly
Armageddon's head went up, his ears flicked back, and Lucien knew he was no
longer alone.

He glanced over
his shoulder.  Another rider, mounted on a lathered chestnut, was coming up just
behind him, approaching fast.

It was Eva.

For a moment,
the sight of her — face flushed with wind, skirts flying, her slender, curvy
form beautifully erect in the saddle — made desire swell his loins and the breath
to catch in his lungs.  But only for a moment.  He was too angry with her to
indulge himself by admiring her superior horsemanship, her flawless seat and
balance, the picture she made — that glorious red hair swept up beneath a hat,
eyes glowing with the exhilaration of the ride — atop her mount.  He shortened
rein so she could catch up.

"You
shouldn't be pounding across the heath in your condition," he said coldly
as she drew up alongside him.

"You are
aware of it, then."

"Of course
I'm aware of it.  My gloating siblings couldn't wait to inform me."  He
turned and fixed her with his blackest glare as Armageddon, furious at being
held back, pranced forward.  "You'll be happy to know, madam, that for the
sake of both our prides I neglected to tell them the real story."

"What, that
I had my way with you?"

He directed his
cold stare forward.  "Precisely."

"Well,
Blackheath, be that as it may, if my memory serves me correctly you were as
equally determined to have me as I was to have you.  You consented.  It was a
game.  I thought you understood that, as did I.  Just because I initiated it on
my terms is no reason to put all the blame for this unfortunate consequence on
me."

"You were
careless."

"I
was careless?  May I remind you, Blackheath, it takes two to conceive a child."

"Do not
condescend to lecture me, madam.  I am not in a fit temper at the moment."

"And don't you
condescend to lecture me about fit tempers," she returned sourly.
"It's bad enough to find myself in the family way, but to know that you, of
all people, are the father causes me no end of grief."

He turned and
regarded her levelly for a moment, expertly controlling the prancing, blowing,
stallion.  "And do we know, madam, that I am indeed the father?"

Her eyes
narrowed beneath the brim of her plumed riding hat.  "I loathe men,"
she said frostily.  "You were the first since my wretched husband died and,
I can assure you, will be the last."  She turned to face straight ahead,
letting her horse keep pace with Lucien's.  "The only reason I allowed you
into my bed at all was because I needed to ensure that I had the real
aphrodisiac."

"Which, may
I remind you, is now safely out of your treacherous clutches, and shall remain
so."

"As it's
twice been my undoing, I no longer have need of it, so try not to revel in your
triumph."

"Ah, yes,
your need of it.  For what nefarious purpose was it intended, madam,
that you were willing to inflict bodily harm on my brothers and break into my
bedchamber in order to get it?"

"That is
absolutely none of your concern."

"Perhaps
not."  His smile was chilling.  "But I can assure you, I will find
out.  In the meantime, I am still waiting for you to tell me how you managed to
render me insensible back in Paris without even a blow."

"I am not
about to share my secrets."

"Ah, so you
intend to remain a woman of mystery, do you?"

"I intend
to remain a woman of independence.  Now do stop talking to me, Blackheath.  I —
I must think."

They continued
on side by side, the horses blowing great plumes of steam from their reddened nostrils,
their hooves sinking into creamy white mud as the track took them uphill
between a copse of maple and beech; overhead, leafless branches scraped against
the low pewter sky.  Lucien shot his companion a sidelong glance.  Her color
was high, her eyes bright, and there were cracks in her otherwise composed
bearing.  A thin smile stole over his lips.  He knew enough — more than enough —
about women to know what those signs met.  He had rattled her.  Shaken her.  Thrown
her off balance.

She wanted him as
much as he wanted her.

And God help
him, he certainly wanted her — despite his fury with her, with his brothers,
with fate.  And how could he not?  He let his gaze slide over her bosom,
admiring the way it filled out the rich plum velvet of her riding habit.  He
suspected the nipples beneath were taut and hard, the coral flesh aching for
his touch.  Well, they wouldn't be aching for long.  And neither would he — for
there was no pretending the pressure in his loins was anything but what it
was:  lust.  He wanted nothing more than to reach out, snare her reins, and
kiss that proud, unhappy expression from her beautiful face.

Wanted nothing
more than to slide his hand between the tightly buttoned closure of her
smart-fitting jacket and let those perfect breasts fill his hand.

Wanted nothing
more than to yank her off that horse, tumble her to the ground, and take her
right here in the wet grass, over and over again, until he'd had his fill of
her.

He tore his gaze
away.  "So here we are, neatly maneuvered into a situation that neither of
us wants.  Tell me, madam, how do you propose we settle this matter?"

"I should
let you figure that out, since it's all your fault that we're even in this
predicament."

"My
fault?"

"Yes,
yours.  If your sister hadn't found out that you — not some fictitious Spanish
relative — machinated Lord Brookhampton's departure from England, your brothers
wouldn't have gone to the lengths they did to give you a taste of your own
medicine.  They are all very upset with you, you know.  And now I'm
expected to pay the price for your diabolical schemes."

Lucien felt the
blood drain from his face at this added disclosure.  "My sister —
knows?"

"Of course
she knows!  And don't think she's going to forgive you for it anytime soon, you
monster."

Lucien took a
deep breath, trying to calm his suddenly pounding heart.  Hell and
damnation!  Nerissa knew.  She knew.  Oh, dear God . . .

He set his jaw.
"My brothers have good reason to turn the tables on me, but I can assure
you it has nothing to do with Nerissa or Lord Brookhampton."

"Ah, yes.
I've heard all about how you arranged their lives, too.  You're
despicable, Blackheath."

"Yes, so
I've been told.  But this senseless bickering about my character will not
resolve our own situation.  Let us get to the heart of the matter.  I assume it's
marriage you're after?"

"Marriage?
Ha!  Marriage, especially to an odious monster such as yourself, would be a
burden, not a blessing."  She jerked her head up, her gaze distant.
"Besides, I know far too much about men to ever regard matrimony as a
state worth repeating."

"My dear
Eva," he murmured sarcastically, "surely you must have had marriage
in mind, otherwise you never would have sought me out in England, let alone
remained here after learning of my brothers' plans for us."

"I came to England
because I was asked to leave Paris and had nowhere else to go — another
disruption to my life for which I can place all blame directly on you."

"An eye for
an eye."

"This isn't
funny, Blackheath."

"Indeed,
madam, I am not laughing.  In fact, this is a serious matter we are
discussing."

"I don't
see as if we have anything to talk about."

"A child is
something to talk about.  Regardless of the circumstances of its conception,
regardless of our feelings toward each other, regardless of our mutual aversion
to the idea of marriage, the truth is, you are in the family way.  I will not
pay you off and send you away like some unwanted baggage.  I will not allow you
to manage this complication on your own."

She gave him a
sidelong glance.  "What are you saying, Blackheath?"

"That I see
no alternative but to make you my duchess."

She paled and
abruptly reined up her mount.  "Oh, no, Blackheath, don't even think
it.  I will not — I repeat, not — even consider your proposal."

"You have no
choice."  He brought Armageddon in front of her horse and down its
opposite side so that the stallion faced the direction from which they'd come.
Eva was riding sidesaddle; her legs, hidden beneath generous folds of lush
aubergine velvet, were all but crushed beneath his own hard thigh as he pressed
his own mount close.  He snared her horse's reins and stared into Eva's defiant
green eyes.  "And neither, I might add, do I."

"Of course
you have a choice, men always do.  And you, being  a duke, have more choices
than most."

"Not when
the king himself decrees that said duke must marry."

"Your king —
not mine.  I need not abide by his wishes, and won't."

"I am not
asking you to abide by his wishes.  I am asking you to abide by the needs of
this child."

Eva stared out
over the heath for another long moment, fighting the urge to yank her mount —
and her legs — safely away from Blackheath's thigh, fighting her rising panic,
fighting the maelstrom of emotions that were making her heart spin like a top
in her chest.  God help her, if she wed him and he were to learn the real
reason she'd stolen the aphrodisiac, that same English king who wanted a
marriage between them would have her head for treason.  Eva's mouth went dry.
She felt suddenly trapped.  Scared.  Desperate —

Something in her
face must have alerted him to what she was thinking.  He leaned close — so close
that she could see straight down into the empty black well of his eyes,
straight down into the demise of her own freedom.  He reached out and grasped her
chin, forcing her to look right at him.  "I warn you, Eva, that if you
think to flee me, I will find you.  Always.  I will hunt you down as a wolf
hunts a rabbit.  And I will not give up until I find you."  He released
her.  "Do I make myself clear?"

She stared off
over the heath, head high, refusing to look at him and hoping he wouldn't see
her shaking hands or hear her suddenly pounding heart.

"Remember,
it is not your wishes we are discussing here — but the needs of an unborn
child.  I will give you until the end of the week to accept my suit, Eva.  No
more."  He moved the stallion into her line of vision, forcing her to look
at him, and into those black, black eyes that held no pity, and even less
compassion. "Good day, madam."

He sketched a
bow from the saddle, and it was only as he sent the hellish beast galloping off
that Eva allowed herself to take a great shaky breath . . . and the very real
freedom to feel exactly what she was.

Terrified.

Chapter
13

Lucien galloped
back to Rosebriar, handed Armageddon to a groom, and immediately sought out
Nerissa.  She was closeted in her apartments, unwilling to receive anyone.

He knocked on
the door.  "Nerissa," he called gently.

"Go away,
Lucien.  I have no wish to see or speak to you ever again."

If she had taken
a carving knife to his heart, Lucien could not have felt more pain.  He bent
his head and rested his brow on two fingers for a moment.  She was his sister.
His only sister, his littlest sibling, the only woman he would gladly have
given his life for, if only to see her happy.  And now he had destroyed her —
and any chance she might have had for finding that happiness.  He took a deep
breath, let his hand fall to his side, and tried again.  "Nerissa, please.
We have much to discuss."

Silence.  Then
the dull patter of feet across a floor, the latch lifting, and there — Nerissa.

The sight of her
shocked him.  She had lost weight.  Her once-sparkling blue eyes were sunken
and lifeless in cheeks that had gone hollow; her hair had lost its shine and
her mouth looked as though it would never smile again.  She looked at him
flatly, her face mirroring hurt, betrayal, and loathing.

"Why?"
she whispered.  Her lower lip began to tremble.  "Why couldn't you have
just left us alone, Lucien?"

For once in his
life, Lucien didn't know what to say.  He moved into the room and shut the door
behind him.

"You
weren't content to all but ruin our brothers' lives," she continued in
that awful, fragile whisper.  "Oh, no.  You had to play God again, didn't
you?"

"How did
you find out?" he asked hoarsely, his voice sounding distant even to his
own ears.

"Oh, one of
your friends had a bit too much to drink at Celsie's and Andrew's ball and got
rather loose of tongue.  He told me about the Spanish estate.  I guessed the
rest.  You just wanted to get Perry out of England, didn't you?"

Lucien could not
face the accusation in those tragic blue eyes.  He looked down and then away,
his jaw hard.

"I hate
you," she murmured.  "I hate you so much that it hurts to even look
at you."

The words cut
him to the marrow, but not as much as the revulsion in that once-trusting, once-loving
face.  Nothing — not even death — could strike such a blow as that.  His
stomach tightened, and pain seared his chest until it hurt just to breathe.  He
deserved this, he could not deny that; but he could not stand here and face
what had become of his little sister, could not stand here and know that he —
and he alone — had done this to her.

He did not trust
himself to speak.  He would talk to her later, when he'd had time to gather his
thoughts, time to brace himself for her disgust and revulsion.  He bowed,
turned, and somehow found himself at the door.  He had just lifted the latch
when her voice cut through his stupor of grief, a tiny, pathetic sound that was
little more than a choked whisper.

"Why?"
She paused.  "Why do you do the things you do, Lucien?

He remained
where he was, staring hopelessly down at his boot.  "Does it matter?"

"You knew
that Perry and I were as good as affianced, but you weren't content to wait, to
give him the time he needed to make it official."

Lucien went very
still.  He shut his eyes, his chest throbbing with agony.  How could he explain
such a complicated thing to her, when he barely understood it himself?  He
thought of his own childhood.  A childhood which had been sacrificed for the
dukedom and the responsibilities that went with it, to this sibling and her
brothers so that they could be young and carefree — a childhood that had ended
the moment he'd found his father lying dead on the tower stairs, his neck
broken.  Lucien had thought he was invincible, that the world would obey his
every command.  But he had been unable to keep his father from falling down
those stairs.  And he had been unable to save his mother when she'd followed
him to the grave so soon afterward.

Was it any
wonder that he'd been obsessed with control ever since?  Obsessed with ensuring
that his world and those that inhabited it all went and behaved exactly to
plan?

He turned away,
his eyes bleak with pain.  He understood why he did the things he did . . . but
his sister never would.  And the explanation, in light of the fact that he had —
in seeking to exert control once again — probably killed the man she loved,
sounded trite and pathetic, even to his own reasoning.

He had nothing
to say to her.  Absolutely nothing.

He turned and
left.

~~~~

Supper was a
grim and silent affair.  Nerissa took her meal in her room.  Eva picked at her
food, then pushed it around on her plate and stared miserably into her
untouched wine.  Juliet, Amy, and Celsie tried to get conversation going, and
eventually gave up when they saw their husbands exchanging looks of concern.
Lucien, though he ate in silence, noticed all that went on about him.  He was
keenly aware of his sister's absence.  Of Eva's despondency.  But as for his
brothers — he couldn't even bear to look at them.

He could not get
Nerissa's face out of his mind.  Those empty blue eyes, that naked revulsion in
her face, still haunted him.

Movement from
across the table disturbed his morose reverie.  He looked up; Eva had pushed
her plate away and was mumbling her apologies, her excuses.  The men rose
respectfully as she stood and left the room.

With sullen
eyes, Lucien watched her retreating back, then returned his attention to his
plate.  He ate in silence, waiting until the meal was finished and his sisters-in-law
had left before finally glaring up at his brothers.

"What ails
her?" he demanded harshly of Charles, who sat nearby, pondering his own
glass of sherry.

His brother
lifted his pale blue gaze and regarded him levelly.  "She's pregnant,
Lucien."

"Juliet
doesn't eat much when she was carrying, either," Gareth added helpfully.

Lucien said
nothing, though this reminder of Eva's condition did nothing to soothe his
mounting frustration.  Frustration that he had no choice but to make her his
duchess.  Frustration that she was determined to refuse him.  Frustration that
the entire bloody earth had fallen off its axis.  He slammed his napkin down on
the table.  By God, when had the world stopped obeying his command?

"She is
thinner than when I last saw her," he said abruptly.  "I thought
pregnancy makes women increase, not decrease."

Andrew
shrugged.  "Not in the early stages."

"How would
you know?"  Lucien impaled Andrew with his blackest look.  "You're
not a father."

"Not yet.
But I will be by summer's end."

Lucien stared at
him, momentarily taken aback.  He had thought Andrew far too immersed in his
science, and Celsie far too involved with her efforts to improve the lots of
dogs and cats, to ever hope for a niece or nephew where they were concerned.
Despite his anger with his three brothers, he rose to shake Andrew's hand.
"Congratulations.  When is the big day?"

"Late
summer," Andrew said, beaming.

Lucien stood
back as Gareth and Charles also rose and congratulated Andrew, slapping him on
the back and proposing toasts to the unborn child.  Andrew's face glowed with
pride.  Lucien smiled and looked away, fighting envy.  He thought of Eva,
carrying his own child in her womb.  The fact that she cared more for her
precious freedom than his heir's welfare burned at his insides.  It was all he
could do to adopt his normal mask of indifference as talk centered around the
newest generation of de Montfortes, all he could do to pretend a certain
aloofness from this conversation he so desperately wished he could partake in.

Presently,
though, the tall case clock in the corner struck midnight.  One by one, his
brothers, yawning, took their leave and sought their beds — and their loving
wives.

Lucien was left
alone.

He pulled his
chair up to the fire and sat there in the vast, drafty room, feet thrust out
before him as he stared sullenly into the dying flames.  He sipped his sherry.
Watched a shower of sparks tumble from the coal-red embers in a little hiss,
sending up a puff of smoke that quickly dispersed into the chilly air.  He set
the sherry down, listening to the howl and whine of the wind outside.  Thinking
. . .

All this talk
about babies brought back memories.  Of Nerissa as an infant, so tiny, deprived
of her mother — and her father — at birth.  He thought of Andrew, so small at
the time, of Charles and Gareth, brave little lads trying to accept the loss of
their mother and father and failing miserably.  Lucien had stepped into the
role of parent as naturally as he had stepped into that of new duke.  He had
taken responsibility for them all — just as he would take responsibility for
this new little one that Eva was determined to keep from him.

He leaned his
head back against the chair.  Eva.  Nerissa.  The nightmares.  The world had
spun out of his control.  Never had he felt more powerless; never had he felt
so adrift.  There was nothing more he could do for Nerissa, save for continue
his quest to find out Perry's true fate.

As for Eva . . .
And marriage . . .

He dragged a
hand down his face.  He wanted her in his bed, yes, but he didn't want her in
his house, and he certainly didn't want her in his life.  Pride had been the
catalyst for his demand that they marry.  Pride — and responsibility.  She was
carrying his child — and by God, no child of a duke of Blackheath would be born
a bastard, no matter what its mother had in mind!

Damn her!

She would marry
him, no matter how vehemently she might refuse, because that was his will, and
he would have his way.  She was going to be the next Duchess of Blackheath
whether she wanted the title or not.  He had no illusions that his would be the
sort of marriage his brothers had.  Oh, far be it from that.  His duchess would
be nothing more than a vessel meant to bear the next Duke of Blackheath.  Not a
wife.  Not a lover.  A vessel.  He would be civil to her, resist the lust she
aroused in him, and ensure that she and the child would lack for nothing after
he was gone.  Once that happened, she would be restored to the independent
lifestyle she so treasured — this time, with all the power and resources of the
duchy of Blackheath at her disposal.

After he was
gone.

Lucien took
another sip of sherry, set the glass down, and stared unblinkingly into the
dying flames.  He must see his solicitor about adding a clause in his will.  A
clause that would ensure she never took his heir out of England.  That much, at
least, was within his control.

Even from beyond
the grave.

He stretched his
feet toward the fire, leaned his head back, and let the dimming flames play
against his closed eyelids. His anger had exhausted itself.  He felt back in
control now.  Set upon a course of action.  Relaxed.  In the corner, the clock
ticked softly.  At his feet, the fire crackled and hissed as it retreated farther
into the glowing embers.  His chin fell to his chest, and from out of the
flickering orange glow against his eyelids came the cloaked figure he had come
to dread.

The dream was
the same as it had been last night, and the night before that, and every night
before that for the last two months.  There was his opponent, all in black, his
equal in skill, strength and cunning.  Ten paces, the drop of a handkerchief,
and then steel ringing against steel as Lucien battled the one, the only
opponent he knew he could never best.  It was a duel to the end . . . and then
Death came, riding the blade of his opponent's sword, riding it straight
through the wall of his chest and impaling his heart in one agonizing burst of
fire.  Lucien went down.  He was on his back, staring up at his opponent's
form, dimming now, as it stood triumphantly over him.  He could feel the blood
bubbling from his chest, his life ebbing away with the dying flow from his
mortally injured heart —

He jerked awake
with a start.

His heart was
thundering in his ears, his skin damp with sweat.  He blinked and straightened
up.  Nothing but the glowing embers, the creaking of the house as it settled
for the night, the steady ticking of the clock.

But she
was here.

He knew it as
surely as he drew breath.

Slowly, he
turned his head to the right . . . and there she was, sitting quietly in a
chair not five feet away, the firelight glowing upon her beautiful, treacherous
face.

"Bad
dream?"  She leaned forward to retrieve what remained of his sherry and
pressed it into his hand.

He said nothing,
only taking the glass and downing its contents before his still-shaky hand
could spill it.

"I gathered
as much."  She leaned back as he set the glass aside and dragged a hand
down his face, trying to banish the terrifying images.  "Shall I light
some candles?  Stoke up the fire, to chase away your demons?"

"No.  There
is no need."

Stay with me,
though.  I would like that very much indeed.

She refilled his
glass, poured one for herself, and sat beside him, saying nothing, as though
she understood his need for companionship, for the time to steady his nerves.
He was surprised, and strangely touched, by her compassion.  He hadn't thought
her to be in possession of such tender emotions.

"I have bad
dreams, too," she murmured at length, "but I suppose they're more the
product of memory than unconscious imagination."

"Do they
keep you awake at night?"

"No."
She gazed into the fire, smiling ruefully.  "They torment me so much
during the day that I suppose they need their own rest come darkness."
She leaned her head back against her chair.  Her hair was loose around her
shoulders, thick, sensual, luxurious, a dark contrast to the stark paleness of
her face, her delicately arched throat, the creamy swells of her breasts.
Lucien felt desire swell his loins, ignite his blood.  Oh, how he ached to pull
her into his arms and banish the nightmarish specter his life had become, to
bury himself in her womanly warmth and let her heal him.  A foolish thought,
that.  He knew she had her own share of demons.  Perhaps too many, to ever
completely exorcise.

"I have
been observing your family," she said at length.  "Your brothers seem
to cherish their wives."

"They
worship the ground they walk on."

"So it
appears.  I do not quite know what to make of it."

"What is
there to make of it?"

She lifted one
shoulder in a negligent gesture.  "I'm not accustomed to seeing husbands
treat their wives with such respect and affection."  As he raised his
brows, she flushed and looked away, unable to meet his penetrating gaze.
"Oh, I know men do, of course, during the courtship stage, but once that
ring is on the finger, their interest wanes, and off they go toward other
pursuits.  Neglect replaces what was once fascinated attention.  Cruelty
replaces kindness.  But your brothers" —  she shook her head — "they
perplex me.  Did you know that Andrew only allowed me to stay here because
Celsie wished it?  Because she wished it."  She gave an incredulous
little laugh.  "Why, any other man would have stomped her wishes beneath
his feet and asserted his will over hers.  I must confess, such unusual
behavior on the part of Lord Andrew quite astonishes me."

"Then I
must assume you are equally astonished by that same behavior as exhibited by
his brothers."

"Yes."
Her mysterious little smile faded, to be replaced by something hopeless.  Something
tragic.  "One can only hope that when they revert to true type, they don't
shatter their wives' hearts."

"What makes
you think that what you have witnessed is not their true type?"

She snorted and
gave a dismissive wave of her hand, then looked at him as though he lacked the
sense of a grasshopper.  "Oh, Blackheath, really.  Don't be so
idealistic.  I know they're your brothers, but they're still men, and as I told
you earlier, I know men.  Trust me, once the newness of their marriages wears
off, they'll be as vile as the rest of their gender.  It's only a matter of
time."

He smiled,
intrigued by her odd notions.  "And if they prove you wrong?"

"They
won't."

He looked at her
contemplatively.  "I suspect you were not the recipient of such devotion
during your own marriage, then."

"My husband
was a wretched excuse for a human.  A weak and disgustingly pathetic worm who,
I can assure you, did indeed run true to type."

"Why did
you marry him, then?"

She took a sip
of her sherry.  "I was young.  Naive.  Foolishly enamored of the idea of
leaving constrictive, Puritan-minded Salem and living in France with a dashing comte.
I looked forward to having adventures, to becoming a woman of power and
importance, to enjoying the love and devotion of my husband.  But he did not
love me.  He only married me because he knew he could depend on me to perform
the majority of his political duties . . . leaving him free to chase every
skirt that swished across his path."  She set the sherry down, her eyes
distant.  Hard.  "One day I caught him rutting with my maid.  I had long
since stopped allowing him into my own bed, you see, because I had discerned
his true nature shortly after we exchanged vows.  It was just as well, really.
She had my husband's babe and died of syphilis shortly thereafter.  The baby
perished with her."  Her face was white and still.  "It" — she
swallowed and briefly closed her eyes, remembering — "was born a
monster."

Lucien was
appalled.  He eyed her narrowly, certain mysteries about her behavior, her
beliefs, beginning to make sense.  No wonder she had such a cynical view of
marriage.  No wonder she despised and distrusted men.  He ached to reach out to
her, but pride was evident in the set of her chin, the glitter in her eyes, the
way she held her mouth — firm, flat, unforgiving.  Instead, he topped up her
glass and said gently, "My dear Eva, not all men are like your
husband."

"All the
men of my experience have been."

"Even your
father?"

She stiffened,
and a shadow came over her face like a cloud shutting out the sun.  "Especially
my father," she said in a low, tremulous voice.  She raised her eyes to
his, those mysterious, slanting eyes that so fascinated him, and he saw that
she was no longer contemplative, no longer amenable to conversation, but savage
and angry once more.  "Why am I telling you this, Blackheath?  There is
nothing you or anyone else can do to change my mind about your gender.  Nothing
you or anyone else can do to make me respect them, trust them, like
them."  She rose to her feet.  "I was wrong to come in here, wrong to
confide in you.  Good night."

"Eva."

She paused, her
back to him, a proud figure in glittering amber silk.

"What did
your father do to you?"

"It is in
my past, Blackheath.  Leave it there."

"Then
consider your future.  You cannot deny the child that is in your belly,"
he said softly.

She remained
where she was, unmoving.

"You cannot
deny the attraction that lies between us."

He saw her
shoulders stiffen, heard the measured intake of her breath.

"And you
cannot deny that the only sensible course of action is to accept my proposal
and become the next Duchess of Blackheath."

She turned then,
her eyes flashing green fire.  "And that is exactly the sort of
arrogance that I so detest about your gender, Your Grace."

She dropped in a
stiff, mocking curtsy, and was gone.

Chapter
14

Once Eva was
safely away, she found herself running from Blackheath.  Not just running.

Fleeing.

Her heart was
pounding by the time she reached the safety of her apartments.  Shutting the
door, she collapsed back against it, breathing hard, her eyes wild and
frightened as she stared across the dimly lit chamber.

She raked her
hands down her face, trembling.  It was happening all over again, this time
with a man so dangerous he made her dead husband seem positively benign.
"Oh, damn you, Blackheath," she whispered as she stood there shaking
and trying to ground herself in the strength of her own fortitude, the safety
of her own cynicism.  It was no use.  She let herself slide down the door until
she was sitting on the rug, legs bent to her chest, her hair spilling over her
arms and shutting out the world.  She felt cold all over, as though ice ran in
veins that had once held blood as warm as any other woman's, pumped from a
heart that had once been as capable of love, of dreams, as any other
starry-eyed female.  It was a long time before her breathing steadied, and she
could think once more.

What had
happened, tonight?

She relived the
last half hour.  So unsettled by her earlier encounter with Blackheath that
she'd been unable to sleep, she had gone down to the library intending to get a
book.  She had never reached her destination.  As she'd passed through the
apparently deserted dining room, she'd seen a chair pulled close to the fire
and, filling it, her nemesis's commanding, splendidly handsome form.

For a moment,
wild elation had chased through her — he was here.  Her heart had
leaped.  Her body had flushed with heat.  She should have bolted right then and
there, but no, she had stayed, when every instinct of survival, of
self-preservation had screamed at her to run.  She had stayed because he,
mighty duke and god of arrogance, was having a nightmare, laid low by something
that mere mortals such as the rest of the world battled all the time.  She had
stayed, because she had wanted to see the man she both feared and despised,
respected and admired, rendered as human as anyone else, instead of the unreachable,
inscrutable being she had come to know.  She had stayed — for reasons she did
not fully understand, did not want to understand . . . reasons that had
nothing to do with wanting to see him suffer, and everything to do with the
softer, more tender aspects of womanhood that sought only to comfort; softer,
more tender feelings she had long denied existed in her own empty breast.

The very thought
that those soft, tender feelings might lurk there like some encroaching cancer
was enough to start Eva trembling all over again.  They were feminine
feelings.  Protective feelings.  Dangerous feelings.

The sort of
feelings that led to broken dreams and shattered hearts.

Memories flooded
her.  She saw her mother's face, twisted, bitter, poisonous, ravaged by fifteen
years of heartbreak and betrayal . . .

"Men!
They're all alike, Eva!"

"But
Papa's different —"

"Your
father is no better than the rest!  Just because he comes home from sea with
candy and trinkets, Eva, don't think he loves you!  He wanted a boy!  He wanted
an heir!  But he got a girl, he got you, and he's never forgiven me for
it!"

"But
Mama —"

"I don't
want to hear it!  Men, they're all alike, every last damned one of them, and
don't you ever forget it!

But she had
forgotten it.  She had married Jacques.  She would not forget it again.

"I cannot
marry the duke . . . he will destroy me," she said to the darkness.  To
the ghost of her long-dead mother.

To herself.

Of its own
accord, her hand strayed to her still-flat belly, beneath which lay Blackheath's
growing child.  No, she could not marry him.  She could not sacrifice what was
left of her pride, her freedom, and yes, her heart.  She could not let her
child suffer the heartbreak she had endured, by saddling it with a father.

She gazed out
into the cold and misty English night.

Perhaps it was
time to leave.  Time to go back home to America — where she and her child
belonged.

~~~~

When Eva came
downstairs the next morning, determined to eat something despite the nausea the
sight — and smell — of breakfast lately produced, she found the de Montforte
family already gathered around the table, surrounded by begging dogs, servants,
and children running to and fro.  Laughter and chaos filled the room.  For a
moment, she hesitated just outside the door, feeling like an unwelcome intruder
and reluctant to impose upon this merry scene of domestic bliss.

Especially if it
meant confronting Blackheath.

"Oh, I
don't know, I think it's going to be a girl," Juliet was saying as she
buttered a piece of toast.  "Girls always make you more sick, don't you
think, Amy?"

Eva froze.

"Well, I
really can't say," answered Amy, whose high cheekbones, straight, dark
hair, and bronzy skin proclaimed Indian blood.  Like Juliet's, her accent
reminded Eva of home . . . that humble New England twang that always brought
back memories of Salem, shipbuilding, Yankee frugality, and good old common
sense.  "After all, I've only had Mary, so I don't know how it feels to be
carrying a boy."

"I was much
sicker with Charlotte," Juliet proclaimed, putting the toast in front of
the blonde, blue-eyed little girl who climbed up into the chair beside her.
"Now, Gabriel, on the other hand . . ."

They're
talking about me, Eva thought, horrified.  Talking about my unborn
child, making guesses about its gender.  She felt suddenly self-conscious;
as eager to leave this happily chaotic scene to which she could never belong as
she was to join it.

"Well, you
can all speculate as much as you want," Celsie said as she reached for a
large helping cold beef, "but since I haven't had one moment of sickness,
I'm going to guess it's a boy."

She happened to
glance up at the same time that Eva realized this conversation wasn't about her
unborn baby at all — but Celsie's.

Celsie was
pregnant?

"Why, Eva!
No need to stand there.  Come, have some breakfast."

"Yes,
Celsie and Andrew have some wonderful news to share!"

The three
brothers rose as Eva, feeling somewhat shamefaced for her premature judgement,
and very ill at ease, entered the room.  Gareth, as usual, was grinning; he was
as hard to dislike as he was to take seriously, and she knew his smile was
meant to make her feel comfortable.  She was grateful for his efforts.  Andrew,
on the other hand, looked resigned and uncaring; only Charles looked displeased
to see her.

Where was
Blackheath?

She felt a stab
of disappointment.  He was not here.

Eva took her
seat as conversation resumed, wondering how an aristocratic family such as this
could talk about unborn babies, of all things, in not only mixed company but
with children about.  She would have thought such a well-bred lot would have
considered the subject inappropriate, if not vulgar.  And how could Celsie
stomach the sight of food, let alone look eager to put away vast quantities of
it?  Why was her face was glowing with health, her eyes bright and her smile
quick, when Eva felt positively wretched?

Irritation
built.  And where the devil is Blackheath?

She smiled at
her cousin.  "It appears that I owe you and Andrew my
congratulations," she said, trying not to feel envious of Celsie's obvious
delight at her condition and radiant health.  "How long have you
known?"

"Oh, for
about a fortnight, now," Celsie answered, snaring another slice of toast.
"We were going to wait awhile before we announced the news, but we couldn't
— we're just too excited!"

Gareth was still
grinning.  "Everyone's trying to guess whether it will be a boy or a girl,
but I'm wondering whether it will be an inventor or a crusader for the
plight of animals!"

"Perhaps it
will be both," Amy put in, picking up her own little daughter and bouncing
her on her knee.  "Celsie and Andrew are both people of great
accomplishment."

"And how
are you feeling, Eva?" Celsie asked, crunching her toast.

"Sick,"
she replied with a wan smile.  She looked ruefully down at her plate, empty
still, despite her resolve to eat something.  "I had no wish to intrude
upon this happy scene, but I thought I'd let you all know that I'm leaving this
afternoon.  I have imposed upon your and Andrew's hospitality for long enough."

"Leaving?"
Celsie dropped her toast.  "You can't do that, you have to marry
Lucien!"

"I'm not
marrying Lucien."

Immediately
there was a buzz of voices around the table, worried frowns and hasty protests,
people getting to their feet and the women trying to change her mind.

"But you
have to marry Lucien!"

"You must
think of your unborn child, Eva!"

"The king
has decreed that the two of you marry!"

Eva shook her
head.  "As much as you all love your brother, and as much as you'd like to
see me shackled to him as punishment for my crimes against you" — her gaze
went briefly, pointedly, to Charles — "I cannot marry him.  I have no wish
to subject myself to the abhorrent fate of matrimony.  No wish to relinquish
what remains of my freedom to a man who would surely abuse it.  Yes, there is
the baby to think of, but I can assure you that it will be well provided for.
My father left me a considerable estate upon his death.  My child will have
everything it needs back home in America — the protection, the comfort, and the
love of its mother."

Nerissa, who had
been subdued and no doubt brooding over Perry, spoke up.  "But what about
the protection, the comfort, and the love of its father?"

Abruptly Eva's
smile vanished.  "Fathers do not matter," she said bitterly.
"It will have no need of its father, and neither do I."

There was a
horrified gasp from someone, probably gentle Amy, and then a hush as all eyes
went to the door.

Blackheath.
There he stood, impassive and silent, his gaze impaling Eva where she sat,
quite stunned by his sudden appearance, in her chair.  Involuntarily, her gut
tightened, and tingles of warning tracked up her spine.  He had obviously just
returned from a long walk; he was still in his country clothes, dark gray
broadcloth and mud-spattered boots, his cheeks flushed with cold.  Or anger.
His face was so still, so guarded, that it was impossible to tell which.

The room went
dead silent as everyone waited for something perfectly horrible to issue from
his lips.

"Why,
hello, Luce," Gareth said uncertainly, trying to alleviate the sudden
tension.

"Here, have
some breakfast," Charles said, motioning to the expanse of food.

But the duke
only gave an icy smile, came around the table toward Eva, and, as she
stiffened, bent to drop a kiss against her suddenly hot cheek.  His clothes
smelled like winter wind, morning air.  His lips were as cold as the outdoors
from which he'd just come.  Nevertheless, they burned her where they touched.
Made her nether regions stir.  She swallowed, hard.

"You must
forgive Eva," he said magnanimously.  "Unlike the rest of you, she
has yet to realize how . . . satisfying matrimony can be."

"Past
experiences have dictated otherwise," Eva ground out.

"Future
ones will change your mind."

"My mind is
made up, sir."

"Your mind
merely needs an . . . adjustment."

"So, my
dear duke" — she smiled poisonously — "does your arrogance."

Someone
snickered.  Blackheath just looked at her, his eyes inscrutable.

Eva gazed calmly
back, unwilling to back down.

And Blackheath
smiled.  Chillingly.  We will continue this discussion later, that smile
— those eyes — seemed to say.  She knew him well enough by now to know that he
would not give his siblings the satisfaction of seeing him argue with her.
Not, that is, when they were probably all gloating over engineering what was
surely destined to be a disastrous marriage.

His warning
sent, the duke plucked young Charlotte from her seat, perched her on his knee,
and, holding the little girl securely, whispered something in her ear.

Charlotte's tiny
hand plunged into her uncle's pocket.  "Sweets!" she squealed,
brandishing a wrapped peppermint with triumph.

"Oh,
Lucien, not before breakfast!" wailed Juliet.

Gareth started
laughing.  Tiny Mary Elizabeth and Charlotte's little brother Gabriel
immediately began screaming for their share.

The duke only
chuckled.  "See if you can't find some more where that came from, Charlotte,"
he murmured, smiling as her hand plunged back into his pocket. "Mary's too
young, but I think your little brother would quite enjoy some, don't you?"

Charlotte, two
treats clutched in her fist, jumped from her uncle's lap and raced around the
table toward Gabriel.

"Lucien!"
howled Juliet.

Even Amy looked
distressed.

But Eva noticed
that Lucien was quite enjoying the commotion he had caused.  Was this how he
behaved when the real focus of his frustration — herself — remained out of
reach?  He was still chuckling, and out of the corner of her eye, Eva could see
his lips twitching as he watched Charlotte unwrapping the sweet.  Little
Gabriel was screaming impatiently for it, Juliet was trying frantically to calm
him, and now even Amy looked as though she were about to tear her hair out when
Mary started shrieking as well.  Eva tightened her lips.  How like Blackheath
to revel in causing a stir.  She was just about to excuse herself and retreat
to the safety of her rooms when he reached back into his pocket, produced a
last piece of candy, and, quite unobtrusively, placed it on Eva's empty plate.

She gave a snort
of laughter.  "Really, Blackheath, if you cannot buy me with the offer of
making me a duchess, don't think a piece of candy will do it."

"Suck on
it," he said simply, ignoring her waspishness as a footman stepped forward
and poured coffee into his cup.  "It will calm your stomach."

"But how
did you know —"

He merely looked
at her empty plate and lifted a brow.

Slanting him a
look of distrust, she unwrapped the peppermint, placed the wadded-up paper
beside her glass, and put the candy in her mouth.  For the briefest instant,
her stomach recoiled, the nausea rising in the back of her throat.  She paled
and almost bolted — and then, just like that, the queasiness was gone — and a
ravenous hunger was in its place.

Stunned, Eva
lifted her gaze and stared suspiciously at her erstwhile tormenter.

He merely
smiled.  "Better?"

"How did
you know that would help when none of the women here knew of such a
remedy?" she hissed for his ears alone.

He took her
plate and placed two slices of lightly buttered toast on it.  "Like you,
my mother was also sick whenever she was carrying a little de Montforte,"
he said affably.  "My father would give her peppermints to make her feel
better.  They worked every time."

"It was a
remedy your father came up with?"

"He was a
very clever man.  He loved my mother, and it upset him to see her so
ill."  He smiled, but there was something significant behind that smile.  Something
meaningful.  "You see, Eva, fathers really do matter."

She flushed,
embarrassed that he would recall her earlier remark.  "Now, here, have
some toast.  And eat heartily, as I should like to go riding after breakfast
and would enjoy the pleasure of your company."

Eva gave him a
last, lingering look, and then bit into the toast.  It tasted wonderful.  Hot
and buttery and crunchy on the edges, just as she liked it.  She ate the whole
slice, then another, and then attacked a slab of cold ham.

It was the first
breakfast she'd eaten in over two weeks.

Chapter
15

For Eva, getting
through the rest of breakfast was a nearly impossible ordeal.

With the nausea
gone, her mind was free to wander, and presently, she became aware of other
things:  the satisfaction of filling her hungry belly, the joy of being amid
the cavorting children and dogs, the laughter of this extraordinary family —
and Blackheath's thigh.  Oh, yes, his thigh.  She kept glimpsing it just
beneath the edge of the tablecloth, a mere two inches from her own, close
enough to touch, close enough to rob her of the ability to think of anything
else.  She could feel the heat emanating from it, could remember the naked look
of it from their one encounter back in Paris; could even remember how it felt
beneath her fingers, the muscles like rock beneath the sparsely haired skin.

Eva tried to
concentrate on her ham and toast.  On the antics of the three children.  On
joining the conversation around her — and failed.  It wasn't long before the
world began to close in, everything fading into the background, leaving nothing
but Blackheath's presence beside her — and that thigh.  As he leaned toward her
and offered another slice of toast, it brushed her own.  As she bit into the
toast, the reality of his nearness was enough to dry out her mouth and cause
her to nearly choke on the crumbs.  And by the time she finally got the hapless
slice of bread down, she was obsessed with that tantalizing expanse of
Blackheath's leg, all but hidden beneath the tablecloth.

Prickly heat
suffused her blood.  It warmed her cheeks, changed the measure of her
breathing.  She resisted the urge to peel off her jacket.  Fan her face.  God,
it was hot in here.  Again, she glanced at Blackheath's thigh.  If they were on
better terms she might have reached out beneath the cloth and playfully run her
nails, the pads of her fingers, over it, savoring the feel of hard muscle
sheathed by butter-soft leather breeches.  She would have liked to see if she
could arouse him with just a touch, would have enjoyed the anticipation that
later they might have sought a bed together.

But they weren't
on better terms.

And they never
would be.

She pulled her leg
closer to its twin and with a somewhat shaky hand picked up her teacup.
Thoughts of going to bed with Blackheath, enjoyable as they were, would only
get her nowhere.  Still, there was no harm in fantasizing over the idea — as
long as she didn't forget that fantasy and reality were two different things.
Fantasizing over having his hands on her flesh, stroking her body to arousal as
he lay her down on that giant medieval bed, was all well and good as long as
she reminded herself that it was not going to happen.  Therefore, it was a
fairly safe activity.  Strip Blackheath of his compelling nature, his ability
to make her heart grow too hot and heavy for her chest, the glimpses he allowed
her of a compassionate man beneath that ruthless, arrogant surface — and render
him nothing more than a perfect specimen of a masculine body — and she would be
all right.  But once she started adding character, feelings, and passion . . .

Well, at that
point fantasizing started getting dangerous indeed.

Too dangerous.

Her palms were
sweating.  Furtively, she wiped them on her skirts, wishing she could calm her
thumping heart.  Wishing she hadn't started fantasizing, after all.  Really,
she ought to know better.  She glanced around the table — but what she saw, as
she allowed the present to overtake her once again, only added to her
confusion.

There was Lord
Andrew smiling into Celsie's eyes in a way that had his wife blushing; Eva
suspected that their thighs were certainly touching, if not pressed
against each other's.  Her face heated, and she jerked her gaze back to her
plate.  Right, so Andrew was devoted to Celsie, but that was only because they
were newlyweds; things would soon change.  She glanced at Lord Charles, who was
spreading marmalade on a piece of toast for Amy.  A display of love and
devotion?  No, nothing but an act, a gentleman living up to his name.  His
sweet, doe-eyed wife really shouldn't be looking at him as though he were some
earthbound god . . . but then, she was young and impressionable, and there was
no denying that Lord Charles was an unusually handsome man, in or out of
uniform.  Eva smiled thinly, satisfied with her conclusions.  But what of Lord
Gareth, making his wife laugh with the way he was making foolish faces at their
little son?  Well, his seeming affection for Juliet was easy to explain.  Men
of Gareth's temperament — men who were gregarious, fun-loving, charming — were
that way with all women, which is why they all kept mistresses.  Eva,
feeling quite smug, returned her attention to her plate.  Gareth, of course,
was no different.  She would bet money on it.

And then there
was Blackheath.  What would he be like as a husband?  She could not see him
behaving as his brothers did.  She could not see him exhibiting such softness,
could not see him cherishing her as if she were the most precious thing in the
world, could not see him displaying such love and affection.  He was different
from his brothers.  He would certainly be a monster.

No, she wasn't
missing a damned thing by refusing his offer.  She wasn't missing a thing by
deciding not to join this family, by raising her child alone, by taking it back
to America.  No, the three de Montforte wives, so happy and in love with their
handsome husbands, did not deserve her envy; only her pity.  Oh, if only they
knew what heartache lay before them.

"Uncle
Lucien!  Will you take me to see the dungeon afterward?  Will you?"

Little Charlotte
had leaped off her father's knee, raced around the table, and thrown herself
into the duke's lap.  His thigh, that damnable thigh, was shoved sideways,
bumping hard into Eva's leg.

Blackheath did
not remove it.

Eva, startled,
shot him a poisonous look of warning, but he only smiled and kept it there as
the child settled herself on his lap and, giggling, began pulling at his
stock.  Eva moved her leg away from Blackheath's, clamping her thighs together,
swinging the both of them off to the side; Blackheath's followed, its
considerable length pressing against her own, the child still giggling in his
lap as she happily began to undo his necktie.

"I'm going
to be your valet for the rest of the day," she announced importantly, then
laughed as she set to retying the once-impeccable length of silk.

"What, not
my groom?"

"Oh, no,
that was yesterday.  Today, I am your valet.  You have made quite the mess of
this cravat, Uncle Lucien!"

He chuckled, the
very picture of innocence, but only he and Eva knew that beneath the
tablecloth, quite a different drama was being played out.  His thigh still
pressed against her own.  She was almost angled in half trying to escape it.
She directed her gaze, now a glare, straight across the table into the
fireplace, determined not to let him know how much he was unsettling her.  And
unsettling her, he was.  Her stays were suddenly too tight.  Her clothes were
too warm.  Her pulse was starting to pound.

Damn him!

"All right,
Charlotte, that's enough for now," the duke finally said, grinning as he
removed the child's hands from his hopelessly spoiled stock.  "I will take
you to the dungeon this afternoon.  First, the comtesse and I are going for a
ride around the estate."

"Can I go
too, Uncle Lucien?  Can I?"

"Next time,
sweeting.  The lady and I have matters to discuss.  Now off with you!"  He
rose, tossed the little girl high, and handed her, squealing with delight, back
to her mother.  And then he extended a hand to Eva . . . who, with everyone in
the room observing her closely, had no choice but to accept it and rise.

Bowing to the
ladies, Blackheath led Eva from the dining room, hailed a groom, and called for
their horses to be saddled.

"Really,
Blackheath, I am not in the mood to go riding with you," Eva snapped,
damning her body for responding in a most carnal way to his nearness.

"Then what are
you in the mood for, hmm?"

"Don't use
that suggestive tone with me.  What happened between us in Paris is most
assuredly not going to happen again."

"What a
pity.  And here I had such high hopes . . ."

"Quell
them, then, and put yourself out of your misery."

He laughed.  "Misery?
Oh, no, madam.  I am quite enjoying the thought of future . . .
encounters."  He walked along beside her, tall, arrogant, and amused,
totally in control of the world that surrounded him.  "Surely you will
agree that anticipation of the dessert always makes it sweeter."

She could feel
that black, simmering gaze upon her.  Could feel it warming every inch of her
body from head to toe.  "Really, Blackheath, you are the most pompous man
I have ever met.  Just when I start to think that maybe I could like you, you
have to say something stupidly, totally . . . male.  Let me tell you
something.  I have no interest in going to bed with you, not now, not ever, so
you might as well put the thought right out of your mind."

"You sound
very sure of yourself, madam."

She slanted him
a look of amusement.  "Having lived with myself for nearly three decades,
I am more than sure of myself.  Besides, you're nothing but a typical man,
Blackheath, thinking of one thing, and one thing only."

"Ah, so you
would have me believe that you're not thinking of the same thing?"

"I am most
assuredly not thinking of the same thing," she scoffed, but her
color was high and she dared not meet his eyes.  She could feel that knowing
gaze of his searching her face, then moving downward, lingering on the column
of her neck, the swell of her bosom.  Her blood flushed with answering heat.
Desire tingled in her breasts, between her thighs, and she felt a sense of
rising panic at her inability to control her body's response to him.  "Oh,
no, that is the last thing on my mind."

"So what are
you thinking of, madam?"

"Leaving,"
she said abruptly.  "In fact, this is my last morning at Rosebriar.  My
maid is packing my trunk as we speak.  By this afternoon, I will be on my way
south to the coast, and then back to America."

"I will escort
you, then."

"What?"

"As far as
the coast, at least.  I assume you wish to leave from Southampton or Plymouth?"

She eyed him
suspiciously.  "Yes . . ."

"Ah, good.
I have an estate in Dorset that I would like to show you before you depart.  I
had thought to give it to you, but . . ."

"Give
it to me?"

They were almost
out to the stables.  Lucien kept his expression perfectly affable, his manner
inscrutable as he waited for her to take the bait.  "Well, yes.  You see,
I have been thinking about our . . . impasse.  You have no wish to marry for
fear of losing your freedom.  And to be quite truthful, I am not inclined to
take a wife, though circumstances now necessitate a reappraisal of our mutual
wishes.  In any case, I think the best solution to our dilemma is to marry but
live separate lives.  I thought you might like to make Gingermere your
permanent residence."

She narrowed her
eyes.  "You would give it to me?"

"Yes.  I
have been in contact with my solicitor, who went through hell and high water to
find a way to deed it to you.  It is yours, if you want it.  Yours to run as
you see fit."

She was staring
at him, blinking — but he could see the excitement building in her eyes, could
tell that he had hooked her, and hooked her soundly.

"You'll
never have to worry about your independence again," he added, reeling her
in further.  "All you'll have to do is collect and live off the rents,
which will be yours to keep, to spend, to invest.  Raise cattle, grow corn, do
whatever you wish to do with the place — it will be your nest egg for the
future, your means of independence."

"And you
would not interfere?"

I won't be
alive to interfere.  "No."

"What are
the terms, Blackheath?"

"Marriage,
of course.  As well as unlimited access to the child, a promise that you will
cease your political activities — which, after we are wed, could get you hanged
for treason — and" — he smiled — "an agreement to share a bed."

She flushed.
"Is that all?"

"Yes."

But even as he
uttered the word, he knew he owed her the full truth.  She deserved to know the
one stipulation of his will that would sour her on the idea:  that in return
for Gingermere, she could never take the child out of England, or she would
lose everything.  But surely that issue would never even come up.  After all,
why would she want to leave, once he was gone?  The condition to keep the child
here in Britain, where he could protect it even from beyond the grave, where
his family would ensure that it would never lack for anything, was a mere
formality.  He was simply protecting his heir — and the duchy.

Simply carrying
out the responsibilities of his birthright.

She looked at
him flatly.  "In exchange for marrying you, you'll give me Gingermere and
my freedom."

"Yes."

She took a deep,
bracing breath, and slowly let it out.  Her gaze was fastened on a distant
hill.  "In that case, Blackheath, I'll be your wife."

Chapter
16

They left for Dorset
several days later.

Lucien had used
that time wisely.  He had sent for Fox and ensured that his will — and the
transfer of Gingermere's ownership upon his death — was in order.  He had taken
pains to ensure that his siblings didn't learn of Eva's acceptance of his hand,
for he was not yet willing to concede that particular victory to them.

And he had sent
more queries off to France regarding Perry.

For Eva, the
days had passed in a mixture of excitement and nervousness.  Was she doing the
right thing?  She looked forward to seeing Gingermere.  To investigating its
possibilities.  How ironic it was that in marrying Blackheath, she would obtain
the very freedom she'd feared she would lose.

As for the
stipulation that she must share his bed —

No.  She would
not think about how she would deal with that.  Not yet, anyhow.

Now Rosebriar
was far behind them, the night pressing in as they headed steadily south.
Blackheath rode just outside, Armageddon's head appearing occasionally at the
window.  The coach was well sprung, its gentle rocking motion so comfortable
that Eva was having trouble keeping her eyes open.  But sleep wouldn't come.
Every so often, she parted the curtain and stared out into the frosty night,
searching the darkness until she saw the duke out there on Armageddon, his
black greatcoat and round hat making him and the stallion as one with the night
that surrounded them.  She was glad that he was out there and she was in here,
because the distance between them guaranteed a certain amount of safety.

And the way she
was feeling these days, she knew she would not refuse him when he came seeking
her bed.

Funny, what
pregnancy does to a woman, she thought.

They stopped for
supper at a coaching inn some miles from the coast, where the owner, upon
learning from the servants who had traveled ahead that the mighty Duke of
Blackheath was to be his overnight guest, fell all over himself to make them
comfortable.  When they arrived, ostlers were already stationed to take the
horses, a meal was being laid on the table in a private room, the finest port
in the cellars was being brought up for His Grace's inspection, and Eva thought
rather wryly that the king himself would not have received better treatment.
Despite all, she could not help but be impressed.  In fact, as she and the duke
settled down to a hearty meal of gammon, roast potatoes, and boiled vegetables,
she began to think that maybe traveling with him had its advantages, after all.

"Shall we
stay the night or press on?" he asked as they finished their meal.

"Press on.
I'm eager to see Gingermere."

Besides, if
we stay the night, you will seek my bed — and I have not the will nor the wish
to resist you.

He nodded.  But
her relief was cut short when he announced that he would leave Armageddon
overnight at the coaching inn in the care of one of his own grooms, who would continue
on his way with the horse on the morrow.

"So — how
will you travel, then?"  Dread and anticipation filled her, for she
already knew the answer.

"Why, I
shall join you inside the coach, my dear."  He smiled at the look on her
face.  "After all, it must get rather lonely in there, with no one to talk
to."

"Really, Blackheath,
I don't know why you must persist in irritating me so," she muttered,
trying to cover her sudden nervousness.  And excitement.  Just the idea of
being so near to him made her flushed, hot, and prickly — feelings that were
amplified as his gloved hand took hers and he handed her up into the waiting
coach.  "But I suppose I shall have to put up with it, since you take such
obvious delight in vexing me."

"On the
contrary, madam.  There are other things we could do that would bring me far
more delight than vexing you."

"I am not
in the mood to thwart your innuendoes, Blackheath.  Join me if you will, but
for your own health and well-being, you'd best keep your distance."

"Ah, but
you agreed that we would share a bed."

"After
we're married."

He merely
smiled.  It was obvious he had other ideas.

He climbed up
into the coach after her.  His presence filled it, made it seem smaller than it
really was.  Eva felt suffocated, trapped, fretful, wary.  Blackheath, of
course, seemed indifferent to the effect he was having on her.  He pulled the
shade partway down, and moments later they were on their way, Eva wrapped in a
wool blanket, a hot brick at her feet.

And now what?
Blackheath was in the opposite seat, but he was still so close she could smell
his shaving soap, the damp wool of his greatcoat, the mingled scents of leather
and horse and cold outside air.  His long, booted legs were thrust toward her.
In the gloom, she could just make out his face, the inscrutable eyes that idly
watched her.

Her skin prickled.
That scrutiny was more than idle.  She moved her feet farther away from his,
yanked the blanket up to her chin, and turned her cheek against the leather
squab so she wouldn't have to look at him.  So he could see as little of her as
possible.  So she could, with any luck, lose herself in sleep, where she
wouldn't feel the weight of that heavy-lidded stare.

"I am going
to take a nap," she announced, her voice muffled by the blanket.
"Why don't you do the same, Blackheath?"

"It is not
my bedtime."

"Surely you
must be fatigued."

"I rarely
sleep more than four hours per night, madam.  I can assure you I'd prefer to
remain awake."

"So you can
stare at me while I sleep, is that it?"

"I must
confess, you make a most delectable sight.  You will forgive me if I indulge
myself by looking."

"You are
despicable and rude, Blackheath."

He chuckled.
"So I am.  Let's not argue the point.  I want you to rest, Eva.  After
all, you're sleeping for two, now."

She merely shot
him an irritated glare and shut her eyes.  Of course, sleeping with him
only inches away would be impossible — especially since her traitorous body was
sending all sorts of thoughts to her tired brain about how the darkened privacy
of the coach would make the perfect setting for a bit of lovemaking.  Wouldn't
it be nice to just throw off all barriers for once and give in to animal
instinct?  Wouldn't it be nice to be curled up on Blackheath's lap instead of
this lonely seat, while his hand sought her breast and lazily pleasured her
until all anger, all inhibitions were pushed aside?

No!

Inwardly
cursing, Eva tried to make herself more comfortable against the squab.
Blackheath's leg was still too close to her own — he must have moved it, damn
him, probably just to annoy her.  Peeved, she drew her legs up beneath herself
and the blanket, and tried not to think about those enigmatic black eyes
silently watching her.  Tried not to hear the measured sound of his breathing,
tried not to examine the sudden, out-of-nowhere wish that he'd get up, join
her, and provide a better pillow than her own folded hands . . . and more
warmth, far more warmth, than this scratchy wool blanket . . .

She must have
fallen asleep, because only his hand prevented her from tumbling to the floor
when the coach jerked to a sudden stop.

"Stand and
deliver!"

Eva was
instantly awake and sitting up, even as Blackheath opened the shade and, with a
sigh, gazed out into the darkness.

"Highwaymen.
How damnably inconvenient," he murmured, reaching calmly into his pocket
for a small pistol.

"Yes, and
just when I finally got comfortable enough to sleep," muttered Eva as she,
too, reached calmly into her pocket for her own gun.

They both
happened to look up at the same time, each seeing the other's weapon.  Eva
raised a brow, waiting for Blackheath to do something unforgivably,
insultingly, male — such as demand that she put the pistol away so he could
deal with this nuisance himself.

But he didn't.

He only cocked
the gun and settled back, casually laying the weapon across his knee so that it
was pointed out the window.  His gaze met her own.  "So, madam.  It
appears we must make a decision."

"Shall I
deal with this, or would you prefer to?"

"Though I
would very much like to deal with it, I must confess that my curiosity is
aroused.  Therefore, I should be most intrigued to see how you deal with
it."

Nothing he could
have said might have surprised her more.  Eva narrowed her eyes.  "Are you
serious, Blackheath, or merely indulging me?"

"My dear
Eva, I am more than serious."

"Even
though I'm a woman?"

"You are a
clever, capable, dangerous woman."  He smiled.  "I have utter faith
in you.  Just mind you have a care for the child as well as yourself."

Eva, stunned by
this show of respect, could only blink in surprise.  Shaking her head, she
cleared the hair from her eyes and let a helpless smile curve her lips.  She
felt more like a partner than his enemy, and her blood was already beginning to
race at the prospect of danger — and yes, of impressing the man who sat across
from her.

"Ah,
yes," she murmured, checking her pistol.  "I'd almost forgotten.  You
love dangerous women."

Footsteps were
now approaching from out of the darkness, headed toward the open window.
"I love them as long as they manage to stay alive.  If you wish to handle
it, my dear, you are fast running out of time.  Now go to it — as long as you
do so without minding the fact that I will be, shall we say, monitoring"
— he raised his pistol — "events most closely indeed."

"Suit
yourself."

He inclined his
head.  "Then I relinquish control of this situation to you."

"Relinquish
control of it?"  Eva lifted a brow in high amusement.  "Careful,
Blackheath.  Don't go ruining things just when I'm starting to like you."

A pistol
appeared at the window; without even glancing at it, Eva yanked the shade down
on the robber.  "Right.  I'll deal with these slugs, and you can cover
me."

He put the shade
back up and, also without even looking, shoved his own pistol in the robber's
face, holding the surprised highwayman at bay as he gazed calmly at Eva.
"Consider it done."

Throwing off the
rug, Eva got up, opened the coach door, and, keeping her gun concealed in a
fold of her cloak, stepped outside.  The rutted ground was partly frozen, and
her heel sank through a crust of ice and into the mud; in the frigid night air,
her breath was white and ghostly.  She could see the first robber still
standing beside the window, too terrified of Blackheath's pistol to challenge
its owner's temper by moving; his unsuspecting partner, on the other hand, was
busy relieving the driver of his watch and coins.  Smiling, Eva walked up to
the man even as the driver, seeing her, went white as the moon above.

"I beg your
pardon," she said sweetly, as the robber whipped around only to find
himself staring into the apparently guileless face of a beautiful but harmless
noblewoman, "but I really wish you'd leave poor Roberts alone.  He has a
wife and family to support, and I"m sure they need the money more than you
do."

The robber
stared at her in amazement.

Eva smiled
prettily and jerked her head toward the stricken Roberts.  "Don't just
stand there like an imbecile, give my poor driver back his watch and
money."

The thief
grinned; and then his face seemed to change as he took in Eva's priceless
emerald choker, her rings, her emerald-tipped hairpins — and her wickedly
curvaceous body.

"The hell
with Roberts," he muttered, eyeing Eva with undisguised menace.  He
pointed the pistol at her face.  "I'll have those pretty baubles round
your neck, ma'am, as well as that pocket at your waist — and then I'll have you."

Still smiling,
Eva untied the pocket and pretended to let it drop.  She bent to retrieve it —
and came up with a savage jerk, her elbow slamming into the robber's nose.
There was a satisfying crack of bone, his pistol went flying, and he stumbled
backward with a scream of agony, his nose gushing blood.

"I am
sorry," Eva said prettily, picking up his pistol and returning Roberts'
possessions.  She eyed the thief with false pity.  "Perhaps if you stick
that ugly face of yours in a puddle, the bleeding will stop."

And then,
smiling, she sauntered back to the other robber, still held captive by
Blackheath's pistol.  Seeing her predatory approach, the man tensed with nervousness.

"You may
release him to me now, Blackheath," Eva said sweetly.

Blackheath did.
And Eva, armed with two pistols now, walked calmly up to the robber, brought
the butt of one of the weapons up hard underneath his chin, and watched in
satisfaction as he crumpled, unconscious, into the half-frozen puddle at her
feet.

Smiling, she
stepped gingerly over his inert body and got back into the coach, where she sat
down, pulled the shade, and rapped sharply on the roof.  "Drive on,
Roberts."

And then she
looked at Blackheath — who was staring at her with such raw hunger in those
black and dangerously still eyes, that the smile all but froze on Eva's face.

Unnerved, she
tossed her head.  "So, Blackheath.  What do you think?"

"Very"
— his gaze remained fixed on hers — "impressive."

But Lucien was
more than impressed.  In fact, he was so thoroughly aroused by what he'd just
witnessed that he dared not move for fear he would lose control and hurl her
straight to the floor of the coach.  He stared into those slanting green eyes,
that full, smiling mouth, and tried to slow his pounding pulse.  To quell his
escalating desire.  Never — aside from when she'd given him the aphrodisiac — had
he been this close to losing control of his restraint.  Never had he been
reduced to the mentality and potential impulses of an animal.  And never — never
— had he wanted a woman as much as he wanted this one.

His throat went
dry and he shut his eyes, concentrating on breathing in, breathing out —

"Is that
all you have to say, Blackheath?" came his companion's amused, lightly
chastising voice.  "That you're very impressed?"

Lucien raised
his gaze and impaled her with all the hunger in his stare.  "No, madam — I
have a lot more to say than that."

And then he
leaned forward, pulled her into his arms — and kissed her.

Eva had been
prepared for it; with her senses honed by the danger she'd just faced, with her
whole body thrilling to the knowledge of what she'd provoked in Blackheath, she
could even admit she'd wanted it.  She didn't fight as his lips came down on
hers, rocking her head back into the iron bar of his arm.  She made a faint
noise of token protest, but she was helpless against the onslaught, drunk with
the knowledge that she had brought him to this.  Her arms wrapped around his
neck, her hand threaded up through his hair, and the next thing she knew, she
was giving herself up to the kiss, her mouth opening to admit his tongue,
little breathy sounds coming from the back of her throat.  She felt his fingers
at the buttons of her jacket, and then his hand, plunging between the closure
and finding her breast.  Fondling it.  Squeezing, kneading, caressing it.

She was
breathing as hard as he.  Drowning in sensation.  And then his fingers found
her nipple and she arced upward — even as she realized what she was doing.

And who she was
doing it with.

Aghast, she
shoved him back, yanked her jacket shut, and snatched up one of the pistols.
With a shaking hand, she thrust it against his chest, her pulse banging like
gunshot.  "Don't," she said hoarsely.  "Just — don't."

Blackheath
stared at her.  His eyes were dangerously still.  Bottomless wells.  The
cobra's again.  He looked at her for a long, silent moment — then, very deliberately,
he reached up, pushed the gun away from his chest, and returned to the other
seat.

There he sat,
watching her.  Just watching her.

Eva didn't know
what to say, what to do, what to feel, where to go.  Her emotions were so
tangled, her nerves so shattered, that she could only revert to her customary
flippant bluster — especially in the face of that cold black stare.

She gave a shaky
little laugh and shoved her hair off her face, finally daring to put the gun
down.  "Look, Blackheath, there's no damage done, all right?  People often
lose control of themselves and do incredibly stupid things in the wake of a
scare, and certainly, seeing your precious heir in potential danger was enough
to frighten even you.  I'm sure we can both forgive and forget your temporary
lapse in restraint."

His eyes went
even blacker.  Frighteningly so.  Eva tensed, knowing he had seen beneath her
lie, for neither of them had lost control of themselves because of fear.  They
had lost control because of raw, unbridled desire, and that desire went both
ways.

"You just
don't understand, do you?" he said softly, his voice so still that it sent
shivers up her spine.

She shrugged and
drew the blanket about her.  "Oh, I understand perfectly.  You're angry
because you desperately want to ravish me, but can't do so in good conscience.
Really, Blackheath, don't be obtuse.  I know men.  I know how they think.  Of
course I understand."

He didn't say a
word.  Not one word.  And as Eva sank further down into the blanket's
protection and stared into the gloom, she could only wonder why she suddenly
felt so empty and alone.  Why her whole body felt as primed as a gun that had
never been fired.  Waiting.  Wanting.

Yes, she knew
men.

But maybe she
didn't know herself as well as she'd thought she did.

Chapter
17

Though the air
inside the coach was still and cold, Lucien had no need of a blanket.
Unrequited lust still pounded in his veins, swelled his loins; he was so damned
hot he couldn't breathe.

Not just hot,
but angry.

Not just angry,
but downright furious.

Savagely,
dangerously, furious.

He looked at the
woman curled up on the seat opposite and didn't know what he wanted more:  to
throttle her or take her like some conquering sultan.  He shut his eyes and
relived the scene that had prompted his lamentable lack of control.  Eva,
calmly confronting the highwaymen.  Eva, dispatching them with cunning and
skill.  Eva, never wavering, never unsure, brimming with rare and beautiful
courage . . . and returning to the coach as though she'd done nothing more than
step outside for a breath of fresh air, her wicked green eyes glowing with
unspoken invitation, her very words demanding the admiration he was so very
willing to give her.

She was a tease.

A heartless,
dangerous, tease.

And in that
moment he hated her almost as much as he wanted her.

The miles passed
beneath them, and he remained silent and still, imprisoned by his own torment.
Sleep was out of the question.  And there was nowhere to direct his gaze but on
her, curled up beneath the blanket, one long tendril of hair falling from the
hood she'd made of its folds and teasingly draping, lovingly curling around,
one breast.  Damn her.  She was a beautiful, treacherous creature, Salome,
Aphrodite, and Diana all wrapped in one.  And looking at her in sleep, it was
almost possible to imagine her as something she wasn't — an innocent, trusting
soul, untarnished by life and open to all the wondrous experiences it had to
offer.

If only, he
thought bitterly.

What had
happened to make her the way she was?  Was it something that could be mended?  Something
that could be overcome?  He looked at her, sleeping like the innocent child she
must once have been, and felt his anger fading . . . only to be replaced by
such fierce protectiveness, it was nearly too much for his heart to contain.
He wished she could be like this always, instead of guarded, distrustful and
sarcastic; wished the barriers that separated them when she was awake could be
banished, as they now were in sleep.

Wished he could
wake her with gentle kisses and caresses, and slake the desire that even now
made his blood pound, his nerves raw, his skin damp and hot.

Her last words came
back to him.

Really,
Blackheath, don't be obtuse.  I know men.  I know how they think.

A wry smile
twisted his lips.

You think you
know men, do you Eva?  Well, you do not know me.  You do not know the lengths
to which I will go to get what I want, the single-minded passion I give my
every pursuit, the fact that every ounce of that passion, that pursuit, is
centered on you.  I will have you, you know.  You cannot win.  You will not
win.  Try as you might, you cannot reduce me to the repugnant creature you
think me to be, will not taunt me into behaving like the unprincipled beast you
think all men really are.  Make me furious, make me insane, but there is one
thing you will never take from me — and that is my determination to have you.
You are magnificent . . . the equal of any man, the superior of any woman.  But
oh, you can never know the rage that makes my temples pound, even now . . .

Rage that she
had been hurt so badly that she refused to trust a person simply because he was
a male.  Rage that she had the courage to face a pair of highwaymen, but not to
let go of her own bitterly twisted notions about men.  Rage that she painted
all men with the same black brush . . .  when his restraint, let alone her own
observations about the way his brothers treated their wives, should have
changed her mind.

He looked at her
sleeping there, and felt cold, ruthless determination.

He would rout
her devils before that innocent babe was born, and he would do all he could to
heal her.

Not only for her
sake, not only for his own —

But for his
child's.

~~~~

Eva spent the
night dreaming about sex.

Or, more
specifically, dreaming about sex with the Duke of Blackheath.

When she awoke,
hot and empty and full of a restless longing, dawn was bright behind the pulled
shades of the still-moving coach.

She lay there
for a moment, trying not to think of the vivid dreams, trying, instead, to
concentrate on the present.  She was in Blackheath's arms.  She had no idea how
she'd ended up there, though a dim memory of being cold sometime during the
night, and seeking the heat of her companion's larger, stronger body, pervaded
her conscious thoughts and flooded her with embarrassment.  To think that she'd
sought him out after shoving him away at gunpoint!  What a hypocritical fool he
must think her.  Now his arms banded her like iron strapping a wooden cask,
making her feel snug, safe, and warm despite the fact that those were the last
feelings she sought to gain from him, banishing the chill air inside the coach
to something she felt only against her cheeks and face.

How nice it was
to just lie here.  Her head rested against his chest.  His heart beat steadily
beneath her ear.  She wished she could stay like this for a few moments longer,
wished she trusted him enough to let down her guard around him, wished she were
a different woman — one who didn't carry a legacy of pain and betrayal, one who
could enjoy men for what they were, one who would follow the path of her own
wicked desires . . .  Oh, that woman would bring this dangerously virile
creature to arousal and spend the next five or ten miles enjoying the fruits of
her efforts.  The hot throbbing between her legs returned, and her nipples
peaked with longing.  Damnation.

"Good
morning," he murmured.

"Good
morning, Blackheath."  With forced nonchalance, she moved away from him,
reestablishing the distance that kept her safe and hoping he wouldn't mention
what had transpired between them last night.  "Thank you for providing
both bed, pillow, and blanket all in one."

"My
pleasure.  I trust you were able to sleep?"

"A
little," she lied, wary of his polite formality when she had expected
chilling rage.  Already she missed the close contact with his strong, hard
body, the feel of his arms around her — being held so had almost made her feel
loved.  Cherished.  Too bad such illusions weren't for real, and never would
be.

Banishing the
fanciful longings, she opened the shade and peered out, blinking as sunlight
shone down through high clouds and impaled her face.  Outside, she could see
the knobby crests of endless green downs, valleys cloaked in frost, and, in the
distance, a thin blue line that marked the sea.

Blackheath was
watching her with a lazy but unnerving intensity.  Eva could not tell what was
going on behind that inscrutable stare, and dared not ask.  He had wanted her
last night, and she suspected he wanted her this morning.  Thank heavens he
could not know she wanted him, too.

Or could he?

Oh, God.
She redirected her gaze out the window.  Her nipples tingled against her
chemise.  Her skin was hot beneath her clothes.  And she was wet down there —
very wet.

She clamped her
arms around herself.

"So how is
your mood this morning, Blackheath?  Suitably improved over last night, I
should hope?"

"Suitably
improved.  But I daresay a meal will improve it further.  There is a coaching
inn in the next village.  We will break our fast there."

"I shan't
join you, I think.  I cannot stomach the thought of food at the moment."
Eva placed a hand on her suddenly queasy belly and watched some sheep grazing
on a distant down.

"Would you
like a peppermint, then?"

"Do you
have any?"

"I always
come prepared."  He dug into his pocket and produced one.

"You know,
Blackheath, I've been thinking."

He quirked a
brow.

"About this
estate of yours, Gingermere.  I'm looking forward to seeing it."

"I think
you will like it."

"I like the
idea of complete freedom even more.  An independent income.  You will, of
course, continue to work with American sympathizers such as Pitt and Burke,
pleading on behalf of America in Parliament?"

"I give you
my word."

"And thwart
those who would see America oppressed?"

"Most
assuredly."

Eva swallowed.
He was still eyeing her with that fixed, lazy gaze.  She had the distinct
feeling that though he was engaging in conversation, his mind was occupied with
other pursuits.  Carnal ones.  In fact, she could feel the heat of that black
stare caressing the swell of her bosom, the still-tiny curve of her waist, the
flare of her hips.

Her lower
regions ached in response.

She clamped her
legs together.

"I'm, um —
not sure about some of the other, er, conditions of our bargain, though."

"Such
as?"

"Sharing a
bed when we're together."

He smiled.
"I daresay you won't find it to be the trial you anticipate."

"Maybe not
for you."

He stretched his
legs out, his feet touching hers.  "Come, now, Eva.  Do not play games
with me.  I want you.  You — though you're loath to admit it — want me.  Why do
you fight something so natural?"

She raised her
chin and turned away.  "I have my pride.  You know that, Blackheath.  And
these . . . these feelings I have for you — and yes, I will admit, I do
have them — they come from out of nowhere.  It must be because of the
pregnancy.  It has to be.  I mean, there's no other explanation . . ."

His smile turned
into a lazy, knowing grin.  "I think you simply can't resist me."

"Can't
resist you?  Codswallop, Blackheath.  I can resist you.  Easily."

"Ah.  And
do you think you could resist me should I put my mind to seducing you?"

"I know
I could resist you."

"And I think,
that upon arrival at Gingermere, I shall put your convictions to the
test."

Eva's head
snapped up.  She stared into that smiling face, those dark and fathomless eyes,
and knew she was trapped.  That he had won.  If she refused his challenge, he
would think her a coward.  If she accepted it, he'd win the wager so quickly
she would have to clamp her hands over her ears to stop her head from
spinning.  Oh, how had she let herself be so neatly manipulated?

"Damn you,
Blackheath, you don't play fair," she snapped.

"No.  I
like to win.  Hence, I play by my own rules, fair or not."

"And when
do you intend to carry out this absurd little test?"

"When we
arrive at Gingermere.  Not before.  You see, I would like to savor the idea as
I would a good wine . . . and besides, madam" — he smiled indulgently —
"here in the coach would be most inappropriate."

"Anywhere
would be most inappropriate."

He tickled her
ankle with the toe of his boot.  "We shall see, my dear.  We shall
see."

Chapter
18

Gingermere was
beautiful.

But Eva,
thinking of the impending challenge with Blackheath, was so tense she could not
revel in her first sight of the manor house perched high atop the edge of a
distant sea cliff.

Freedom,
she told herself.  This is your ticket to freedom.  Your future.  Don't
think about what Blackheath intends to prove within its walls.

Instead, she
tried to focus on the house's stark, sea-swept beauty as the coach moved
steadily up the winding track that led to it.  On the gently sloping fields
that surrounded it, some newly planted with wheat, others dotted with sheep and
cows.  Beyond the house, she could see a sliver of blue sea.  The house was
isolated.  Windswept.

She loved it.

"What do
you think, my dear?  Will it suit?"

"It will
suit," she said simply.

But despite her calm
demeanor, Eva was in a state of near-panic.  This was reality, then.  This was
the beginning of another marriage, doomed, she was sure, to failure.  And
inside that house of weathered gray stone, she would be forced to match her
will against Blackheath's in a contest she could never win.

Not that he
seemed to have given the matter a second thought, and this after she had spent
the last hour both dreading and anticipating the idea of losing to him.  She
imagined soldiers going into battle against a vastly superior force must feel
much the same way.  All her efforts had been spent on trying to make her
behavior appear as normal as her companion's had been, though whether
Blackheath, confident of victory, had truly dismissed the impending contest
from his mind, or had such iron control over his facade that he could make her
believe anything he chose, was something Eva could not fathom.

There was no way
out of this.

No graceful,
dignified, soul-saving way at all.

As the coach
moved up the drive and finally stopped before the house, the duke roused her
from her panicky reverie.

"We will be
married this weekend," he announced, handing Eva down.  "My brothers
took the trouble to procure a special license, so we might as well put it to
immediate use."

"You don't waste
time, do you, Blackheath?"

He smiled.  "Never."

Together they
walked toward the house.  "But surely you must want your family to witness
our nuptials?" she asked, hoping her voice didn't sound as shaky as she
felt inside.

"After the
way they engineered this union, I am not inclined to give them that particular
triumph.  Besides, we can have a grand ceremony at Blackheath for the benefit
of my tenants and staff.  In the meantime, we will say our vows here so that
the child will not suffer any undue speculation as to its date of conception,
and then we will go to France and continue our search for Lord
Brookhampton."

"Perhaps
Lord Brookhampton is dead and will never be found."

"Perhaps he
isn't."

"And
perhaps you ought to think twice about going to France, especially as war
between it and Britain is imminent and you will be in danger there."

"My dear
Eva," he murmured, gazing down at her with a half smile curving his lips.
"Don't give me the mistaken impression that you actually care."

She flushed and
looked away.  "Don't be absurd, Blackheath, of course I don't care,"
she said flippantly.  "But I do care about the child, so in that respect,
I do think it best if you endeavor to keep yourself alive, at least until it's
born and, if a male, can inherit the title."

"My
survival is irrelevant.  Should I meet my demise before its birth, I can assure
you that Charles, who is heir-presumptive, will see to its welfare."

"Charles
despises me."

"But he
will not despise the child.  Now let us go inside; the wind is raw, and I won't
have you catching a chill."

A crew of
servants, all of them shivering in the raw and blustery sea wind, were waiting
to greet them on the outside stairs; their own staff, which had been sent on
ahead, were presumably inside, preparing rooms, laying out clothes, making the
house ready for their comfort.  Taking Eva's arm, the duke escorted her up the
stairs and inside, where they were greeted by an aging butler named Jackson who
bowed so deeply that Eva thought a block and tackle would be needed to haul him
back upright.

Introductions
were made, and then Blackheath was leading her down a corridor flooded with
sun.  He called for tea, and shortly thereafter Eva found herself in a parlor
hung with curtains of blue damask and papered in cobalt silk that matched the
sea just outside.

She could see it
beyond the window's salt-flecked glass, thrashing far below against the cliffs,
stretching as far as the eye could see in a marching parade of foamy whitecaps
before becoming as one with a horizon hung with cloud.

And she could
hear Blackheath, murmuring instructions to a servant who had entered the room
just behind them.

Blackheath.  Her
palms went suddenly damp.  Was this bright and sunny room to be the scene of
her seduction?  Or would he delay it all the more, winding her nerves tighter
and tighter until she felt she would snap like the strings of a viola tuned too
tight?

Blackheath
seated her on a small divan, where she pretended to be at ease while the tea
was brought.  She tried to distance herself from the present — and what she
suspected was the immediate future — by watching the silver being laid out, the
little wisp of steam rising from the teapot's spout, the servants bustling
about with trays of cakes.  From above, she could hear small bangs and thuds as
servants aired long-unused rooms and Blackheath's valet, who had traveled on
ahead, unpacked his master's clothes and readied his chamber.  Would that
be where Blackheath took her?  Or would it be here, in this sunny, thickly
carpeted parlor?

She glanced at
the maid, who was busy stoking up the fire, attempting to ward off the damp
chill that drove through the very walls and even now slid its icy fingers up
Eva's ankles, her calves.

And then she,
too, was gone — and Eva was alone with Blackheath.

He took his
seat, pushing his long legs toward the fire, his chair half angled to face
her.  Eva poured the tea, thankful for an excuse not to have to look into those
enigmatic black eyes.  Suddenly her decision to marry him seemed hasty, even
foolhardy.  Was she making the biggest mistake of her life by agreeing to
become his duchess?

She picked up
her cup with a shaky hand.

"Don't look
so troubled, my dear.  I promise not to seduce you until after we've had
tea."

"And
then?"

He merely
smiled.

Eva's hand
jerked and a few drops of the hot brew splashed into her lap.  She hastily set
the cup down, trying to summon protective fury, trying to intimidate her
tormenter into backing off — or even changing his mind.  "I just want you
to know, Blackheath, that if you think I'm going to be an easy conquest, you're
sadly mistaken."

"If you
were an easy conquest, my dear, I wouldn't even bother trying."

"And don't
think for one moment that you're in total control of this situation.  I'm in
equal control of it — maybe superior control — and I'm not above rendering you
helpless should things progress in a way that I dislike."

"My dear
Eva — I can assure you that things will progress in a way that causes you
anything but dislike."  He smiled, a man totally at ease with the
situation — and in total, indisputable control of it.  "As I have told you
countless times before, I love dangerous women.  If you were some simpering
pansy, I would not be interested in following through with this little
game."

"Is that
all it is to you, then?  A game?"

"No — it is
much more than that."  He sipped his tea and regarded her from over the
edge of the cup for a long, uncomfortable moment, a wolf sizing up its prey,
deciding upon the best angle of attack.  "And what is it to you,
madam?"

"A
mistake."

He put down the
cup.  There was no emotion in those black eyes, no expression on that severe
and uncompromising face.

"Would you
like to call it off, then?"

"Oh,
really, Blackheath, as though I could!  I'm sure I can put up with sharing your
bed in return for a far greater prize, that is, my freedom."  She saw a
flicker of something move across his face.  Annoyance?  Determination?
Regret?  "Besides, to back out now would only make me a coward in your
eyes."

"And is my
opinion of your character so very important to you?"

Eva snorted with
feigned amusement.  "Of course not."

"Then why,
I ask you, does it matter whether or not I deem you a coward?"

She gave a
flippant laugh, growing more and more uneasy with that steady, fixated stare.
"Really, Blackheath, do try using what little brains your gender has
bestowed upon you — because of pride, why do you think?"

"Eva."

She froze,
trying to muster anger and feeling hot and panicky when she could not summon
it.  She tried instead for droll amusement; anything to keep him from getting
too close, anything that maintained self-preservation.

"Yes?"

He looked at her
flatly.  "I want to know why you despise men so."

Nothing he might
have said could have caught her more off guard.  Fear drove through her; if he
learned the reasons for her contempt of his gender, he would ruthlessly address
them, not stopping until he'd stripped away the armor it had taken her all
these years to build up, armor that had, up until she'd met this dark and
omniscient being, kept her safe.

She tossed her
head and all but grabbed for her teacup.  "I've already told you,
Blackheath, my first husband was a miserable, cowardly worm who —"

"No, Eva.
I don't think this is about your first husband.  I think it goes deeper than
that.  Much deeper."  He impaled her with that stare, so still, so
black, so uncompromisingly ruthless, that fear slid up her spine and her palms
began to sweat.  "Doesn't it?"

"You have
no right to pry into my life, Blackheath."

"If you're
to be my duchess, I have every right.  And you owe it to me to confess the
truth."

"The truth
doesn't matter.  Besides, it's all in the past, and happened so long ago that I
don't care to bring it up now and relive memories I'd just as soon
forget."

He pulled his
chair up to hers and, setting down his cup, leaned forward — so close that she
found herself pressed against the back of her chair in order to maintain
distance between them.  "If you don't tell me, I can assure you I have my
ways of finding the truth.  But I would rather you tell me.  It would make it
easier on us both."

"Don't
threaten me, Blackheath, or you'll regret it."

He merely smiled
and leaned back.  It was a chilling gesture, one that made her very bones feel
cold.  Dear God, he was one man she never wanted to make an enemy of.  One man
who was able to inspire fear and respect in her when every other male had
aroused only contempt.  She'd best be careful.  She didn't like the look in his
eye, she didn't like this unfathomable, dangerous side of him that always
seemed to be one step ahead of her, didn't like this feeling of being so off balance.

"Did you
hear me, Blackheath?  I said don't threaten me."

"I heard
you, my dear."

His lack of
response was making mincemeat of her nerves, a twisted mess of her control.
Her hand shaking, she set down the tea and got to her feet.  "I find
myself exhausted from the journey and your company.  I am going to bed."

"Good.  I
shall join you."

"I prefer
to sleep alone, thank you."

"You have
no intention of sleeping, and neither do I."

She was
angry now, seriously angry, and there was no pretense about it.  "How dare
you presume to tell me what I feel!  I have had it up to my neck with you and
your arrogance, Blackheath, and I'm starting to regret ever coming here with
you.  And furthermore, our little contest is off!"

He smiled.
"That is indeed a pity," he murmured, and snaring her arm as she
whirled to leave, he yanked her back against his chest — and kissed her.

His lips came
down so hard against Eva's that she nearly tumbled backward over his elbow.  In
the next heartbeat, she knew that was his intent, for she felt his other arm go
behind her knees and a second later she was up in the air and weightless in his
arms, her legs swinging, his body all but crushing hers as his tongue swept
into her mouth and her world tilted dizzily.

She was
suffocating, starved for breath, panicked, furious.  She fought him to no
avail, making helpless noises of fury against his mouth, trying to kick legs
that were crushed against his hard abdomen, trying to free an arm so she could
land a stunning blow against the side of his head.  He only deepened the kiss.
His chin's faint stubble ground into the soft skin around her mouth, the heat
from his body seared, burned, consumed her, finally bringing the raw ache of
arousal flooding the space between her thighs — a space that had been crying
for fulfillment ever since she'd woken in his arms this morning, ever since
she'd gone to Rosebriar in search of him, ever since she'd left him back in
that bed in Paris.

She managed to
tear her head away.  "Put me down, Blackheath!"

"Gladly."

He sank to his
knees, but did not let her go — instead, he laid her out on the rug and did not
let her up.  And Eva knew then that she was lost.  That there was no going
back, no place for pride when it came to feelings such as he was stoking to
life within her.  For here he was, kissing her again, driving her head down
into the rug, one masterful hand skimming down her neck, unbuttoning her wool
riding habit, impatiently parting it . . . and finding her breast.  She moaned
as his fingers circled the sensitive dome of flesh, hefting it, caressing it,
teasing the nipple just beneath her shift until it burst into bloom like a
spring rosebud.

He broke the
kiss as his hand went to her other breast, thumbing and stroking this one, too,
through the thin fabric.  Her resistance was melting fast.  Fear and anger were
just a distant memory and she was swimming in a haze of sensation.  Eva arched
back against the rug, her breath coming hard now, her pulse fluttering in her
throat as Blackheath's mouth covered it, kissing the fragile beat before moving
lower.  Oh, yes.  Oh, yes, please kiss me —

There.  His
mouth fastened around her nipple, drawing it, and the delicate fabric that
sheathed it, up and into his mouth.  He began to suckle it, increasing the
pressure until Eva was writhing on the carpet and making whimpering noises of
assent.  She couldn't get enough air; couldn't think beyond the sensation of
his tongue sweeping the taut, aching bud, stroking it through the now-wet lawn,
suckling, sucking.  She was too close to the fire; she needed to move away from
it, needed to move closer to the source of this agonizing pleasure-pain, needed
. . . needed . . . oh, just needed.  Her arm wrapped around Blackheath's
neck, drawing him down; her fingers impatiently untied his queue and thrust
through the thick and lustrous waves of his hair even as another part of her,
long relegated to some distant background, would have used the opportunity to
hurt him . . . to free herself.

But no, she had
no desire to escape the sensation of his tongue rasping over her fabric-clad
nipple, no desire to escape the hot mouth into which the sensitive peak was
being drawn, no desire but to melt even farther down into the carpet as he
hauled up her petticoats.  His hand slid up her bare leg, higher and higher
until his fingers hooked the garter.  He pulled the silken band down her thigh,
her knee, her calf, peeling the stocking off with it, causing her to sigh at
the delicious feel of his palm moving over her skin.  She felt that same hand
stroking her calf, and drew up her leg so it could touch and warm her ankle,
her foot.

"Eva."

He had broken
the kiss; dazedly, she looked up into his face.  His eyes were like the midnight sky, velvety, black, and almost mystical, their depths continuing on into
forever.  "Eva.  Shall we stop?"

"Oh, hell,
Blackheath, you've already proved your point."

"I asked
you, shall we stop?"

"Eventually
. . . not now."

His eyelids
lowered, thick black lashes veiling any triumph he might have revealed, and he
began kissing her once more. He pulled her shirt free of the waistband tapes of
her petticoats and removed it and her jacket, then turned her onto her stomach
and unlaced her stays, parting them, peeling them away, baring her body like
some ripe, exotic fruit.  Her petticoats followed; there was only her shift
left.  He pushed it up, revealing every inch of her legs.  She was nearly naked
now, and his fingertips were running down her spine . . . his palm smoothing
the dip in her lower back and caressing the upward curve of her bottom.  The
carpet prickled her cheek; her hair lay tangled beneath her eye, her temple.
And now he gently turned her over once more, and Eva's eyes slipped shut in
defeat as his head dipped again to her breast . . . kissing, suckling, loving.
She felt his hand bracing her hip; felt his fingers searing the soft inner
flesh of her naked thigh . . . now moving toward the junction of her legs.  She
was hot for him.  Wet.  She sighed and let her legs fall open as his fingers
parted her soft, moisture-slicked curls and slowly, skillfully, slipped inside.

"Ohhhhh,"
she breathed, arching upward as he sucked and pulled at her stiffly peaked
nipple, still sheathed in soaking-wet fabric.  "Oh, Blackheath . . . I
don't know how I can allow you to do this . . . how you manage to strip me of
control, of resolve . . ."

His hand was
cupping her mound, his fingers sliding deeper within her hot folds, the thumb
stroking her nub, his fingers moving up and into her until her head was buzzing
with frenzied heat, her senses stifled in fog.  "The feeling, my dear, is
mutual."

"Thank God
. . . I could not bear the idea that our effects on each other are
one-sided."

With his free
hand, he took her hand and guided it to the front of his breeches, where his
arousal swelled so hot, so huge, that she wondered why the fabric that fought
to contain it hadn't split beneath the pressure.  "There, my dear Eva, is
your proof that we are fairly matched.  You are my undoing, as you have been
from the moment I met you.  Now be still.  Lie back and close your eyes, for I
want to make love to you . . . to taste you with my tongue, to make you realize
that sharing the bed of a duke of Blackheath is not the odious tenure you
believe it to be."

If his fingers,
buried within her warm silken cleft, hadn't sent her careening toward the edge,
his words certainly would have.  Eva, flushed with heat, lay back on the carpet
. . . or tried to.  It was hard, when Blackheath's fingers had replaced his
mouth on her nipple . . . hard, when his other hand was stroking and readying
her for his mouth, his tongue, that straining arousal that swelled against his
breeches.  Hard . . . when he lowered himself fully down alongside her, his body
heat searing her, his hand now splaying against her pelvis, covering the lowest
part of her abdomen, while his thumb parted her . . . readied her . . . stroked
her.

His mouth
brushed the underside of her breast.

The apex of her
ribs, the hollow of her belly just beneath.

The outer
fringes of her silken red curls.

Eva tensed,
relaxed, fought for control.  She felt his unshaven jaw there against the soft
white skin . . . felt his lips moving through her mound, his breath against her
flesh . . . and then the first gentle touch of his tongue, pressing warmly
against that part of her that his thumb and finger held open, held exposed.

Eva's world
began to swell and tumble upon itself, every ounce of blood in her body
gathering in that one spot of assault.  But she held herself back, determined
to hold out for as long as she could, her fingernails ripping into the carpet
beneath her, the sweat rolling down her temples as the pressure of Blackheath's
tongue became stronger, more insistent . . . more invasive.

She heard the
tormented whimpers, the agonized moans coming from her own throat as he slowly
dragged his tongue up and down that pebble-hard bud he held pinched and captive
between thumb and forefinger; heard her own keening cries as if from a distance
as he pressed the heel of his hand against the pit of her belly, spread her
even wider, and lightly licked and nibbled the quivering bud.  She felt her
womb contracting, her body going taut, all the muscles of her abdomen
constricting . . . but still she resisted, feeling only the relentless,
ruthless stroke of that tongue, the savage hunger that drove him as he pushed
her legs even further apart and with a growl of defeat, buried his face within
her honeyed warmth.

It was too
much.  Eva lost all control over her body and arched upward, crying out in
sweet agony as climax seized her in great wracking waves of intensity.  Later
she would remember how much she had resisted this idea; later she would rub at
her rug-chafed bottom; now, she could do no more than fasten her arms, and her
legs, around Blackheath's magnificent body as he unfastened his breeches and
lowered himself down atop her in the classic posture of male domination.

And Eva, for
once, did not care.

She welcomed the
sweet invasion pushing between her slick thighs, driving farther and farther
into her until the root of him pressed against her still-throbbing womanhood,
demanding more space, demanding more spread, when she had none left to give.
The sensation was exquisite.  All-consuming.  And then Blackheath, his fingers
buried in her hair and anchoring her head, began to move within her, and Eva
felt her body gathering itself for that rapid plunge into ecstacy once again.

He took her
higher and higher, never losing control, setting the pace.  And then, just when
Eva thought she would die of pleasure, he found his own release, driving into
her with a final, savage thrust and sending her own body jerking and convulsing
against the rug.

Hot, panting,
and spent, she lay on her back beneath him, all but crushed by his weight,
enjoying the lingering aftereffects of their coupling while his ragged breath
stirred the damp hair that draped the side of her neck and lay fanned out and
tangled on the rug beneath her.

It was a long
time before she spoke.

"I ought to
hate you, Blackheath."

He lifted her
just enough to slide an arm beneath her neck and draw her up against his
still-pounding heart.  "I daresay, madam, I would much prefer your
charity."

And a long time
before she realized that she had allowed a man to dominate her by being the one
on top.

She fell asleep,
still curious about this disturbing fact, too tired, too depleted, and yes, too
splendidly satisfied to lend it the examination it deserved.

Chapter
19

Exhaustion also
claimed Lucien.

For a long time
he fought it, unwilling to give up these rare and precious moments with the
woman who was damned determined to give him as few of them as she could.  He
delighted in his seduction of her, but would not gloat about it.  Triumphed in
the fact that she had not demanded to ride him in a skewed display of female domination,
though that, too, was something he wouldn't mind doing whenever the mood might
strike them.  Reveled in the sensations that engulfed him . . . the sweet,
lemon-lavender scent of her hair; the feel of her in his arms; the gloriously
curving, endlessly exciting length of her body lying alongside and beneath his
own on the thick carpet.  What more could a man want in life?

He nestled his
face deeper within her hair, pressing his lips to the side of her neck,
kissing, nibbling her skin.  He loved its creamy whiteness; loved the silken
feel of it, its slightly salty taste.  She purred with contentment.  He wrapped
his arm around her and let himself relax, feeling his body's first involuntary
twitches as sleep claimed him.  He did not fight it.

Down through the
depths he sank, like a swimmer that has run out of air and given up the fight
to stay afloat in a bottomless sea.  Images flickered through his mind along
the journey down into nothingness.  Nerissa's accusing eyes . . . his brothers
smugly informing him of the king's decree that he marry Eva de la Mouriére . .
. and Eva herself, neatly dispatching the two highwaymen, crawling into his
arms in the coach, denying her own attraction for him in a magnificent lie that
hurt no one as it much as it hurt herself.

He hit bottom.

The nightmare.

The dueling
field.  Eva was there, engulfed in morning mist, the grass wet with dew.  She
held the handkerchief as the paces were counted off.  Lucien tensed; his gut
tightened and he spun on the final count, already leaping forward with his
sword, hoping to change an ending that was as fixed as the path of the sun
across the sky.  Over and over again he rehearsed this dance of death, as he
had done every night all these weeks, knowing it was a dream, knowing the
outcome would be the same no matter what he did — terrifying, merciless, and
brutally final.

And there was
his opponent, dressed all in black, masked, hooded, dreadful.  It was an
apparition; it had to be, for no earthly being could fight with such unrivaled
skill.  No mortal man could toy with him so, drawing out the impending agony of
death.  And no human combatant could so easily get past his guard, only to send
the rapier piercing shirt and skin and bone, impaling his heart with one thrust,
and twisting it into a butchered ball of pulsing, dying flesh.

He fell to his
knees in agony, the tinny-metallic taste of blood bubbling up in his throat,
filling his mouth, leaking out between his clenched teeth.  The ground came up
to meet him.  He lay there gasping on the wet grass.  Choking.  Dying.  And as
he dragged open his eyes for the last time, he saw Death, triumphant, standing
over him — reaching up now to finally draw back the hood —

"Lucien!"

And yanking it
off that terrifying face.

Lucien's own
scream jerked him awake.  His heart was pounding.  Sweat rolled down his back.
Inches away, a pair of anxious green eyes stared into his own.

Eva.  Gingermere.
The drawing room.

He flung an arm
across his brow.  No dream.

She was there
beside him on the warm, sunlit carpet, her hair down around her shoulders, her
face white as paste.  He sat up, driving the heels of his hands into his eyes,
trying to banish the terrifying images.  There was movement beside him, and
then he felt Eva's strong, slim arms go tentatively around his shoulders.  He
dropped his hot forehead against her breast.

"My God, do
you always have such horrible nightmares?" she asked, her voice shaky.
"I've been trying to rouse you for the last several minutes.  You really
know how to scare a person, Blackheath!"

He could say
nothing; his heart was still pounding, and he was breathing too hard to gather
enough air to speak.  Instead, he just sat there, the pulse booming in his
ears, his brow resting against her chest as her arms lost their frightened
stiffness and instead wrapped comfortingly around him in a way that made him
wish this moment would never end.

"Look,
Blackheath — I'm sorry.  I didn't realize that even the big bad wolf has
nightmares, too.  It's all right.  I'm here now.  There's nothing to be afraid
of."

"Don't
leave me."

She pulled him
closer.  "I'm not going anywhere.  Relax.  Just take a few deep breaths
and everything will be fine."

He did just
that, though the nightmare was fast receding into the inky depths from which it
had come, taking the terror with it.  It would stay there until he sought sleep
again; would stay there until the death these dreams foretold finally caught up
with him.  Gradually, his body calmed, leaving him with an overwhelming sense
of exhaustion.  But he didn't want to move.  Not just yet.  He had not been
held like this, had not been so comforted, shown such tenderness, since his
long-dead mother had last held him in her own loving arms, all those years ago
. . .

It was a
sensation he wanted to drown in.  One that he could easily come to crave, if he
was foolish enough to imagine it would ever be repeated.

"Do you
want to talk about your nightmare?" she asked gently, pulling back a
little and searching his face with what appeared to be genuine concern.

"Yes, but
first . . . first I have a need to affirm life, the continuation of my own
existence."  He pulled away just enough to rest his hand atop her
abdomen.  "It comforts me, knowing our child lives."

Her face filled
with horror.  "Oh, Blackheath, surely you didn't dream that it died —"

"No.  No,
nothing like that."

She eyed him
with confusion, then leaned back on her elbows and let him rest his hand there
on her still-flat belly.  Lucien closed his eyes.  At least the baby beneath
his palm would be here when he was gone, carrying on his name, carrying on his
own flesh and blood.  The knowledge soothed him, brought a raw ache to the back
of his throat.  Slowly, he removed his hand, closing the fingers around his
palm to try to hold the sensation in.

"I will
tell you about my dream now, Eva.  But do you really care so much?"

She shrugged,
but even the negligent gesture could not mask the concern and compassion in her
slanting green eyes, and for once, she didn't try overly hard to fool him into
thinking she felt something she did not — though she did give it a token
effort.  "Care?  Of course not.  But really, Blackheath, you can't wake a
woman from a sound sleep with such frightened ramblings of the unconscious
mind, and allow her to go about her day with no explanation whatsoever."

"You do
care, then," he said with a weary smile.

"Of course
I do, you cretin.  Go ahead, then.  Tell me about your demons, and maybe, one
of these days, I'll tell you about mine."

"Let us
move closer to the fire, then.  I am cold."

The hearth was
blazing, its leaping flames banishing even the winter drafts that snaked across
the floor.  Their tea had gone chilly, so Lucien poured two glasses of wine
from a nearby decanter, pressing hers into her hand before lowering himself to
the rug once more.  She hesitated, then sat down beside him, cross-legged,
stiff-backed, farther away than he would have liked, closer than he would have
expected.

He ached to move
up next to her.

Wanted nothing
more than to lay on his back beside her, pillow his head on her thigh, and
enjoy her nearness.

But no.  He
would not take advantage of her like that.  He would not use this thread of
caring compassion she had offered him in a way that would make her feel
uncomfortable.

Instead, he drew
up his knee and draped his wrist over it, the glass dangling from his fingers
as he began to tell her about the dream.

She sat
listening, never interrupting, never commenting, never mocking, never
scoffing.  He told her everything — something he had not been able to do with
his siblings, for he was the big brother, the leader of the family, and he had
a place to uphold in the family hierarchy.  But he had no place to uphold with
Eva.  He had nothing to hide, nothing to prove, no reason to hold anything
back, because she was his equal, and he knew it.

At last he
finished and, draining the last of the wine, held the empty glass in his
fingers as he gazed unseeingly into the crackling flames before them.
"It's the same dream every night," he murmured.  "The first time
I had it, I passed it off as nothing but a meaningless but unpleasant nightmare
and promptly put it out of my mind.  But then it happened again.  And again.  I
started having it every night, and soon sleep became something I began to
dread.

"It wasn't
long before I realized the dream would likely become reality.  I could not die
knowing two of my siblings were still unmarried.  Given the love and happiness
my parents shared within their marriage, I wanted the same things for my siblings.
Yes, I did orchestrate matters so Gareth, and then Charles, ended up in
wedlock.  Then the dreams started.  Andrew had just met Celsie, and I took
advantage of the situation.  I was abominable to them.  Beastly.  But I was
desperate.  I succeeded, manipulating Andrew into wedlock as I had done with
his brothers, until only my dear Nerissa remained."  He dragged a hand
over his face.  "Everything you've heard about the whole Spanish estate
affair is true, I'm afraid.  My motives were good; my methods were
unforgivable.  I had hoped that absence would indeed make Perry's heart grow
fonder . . . fond enough that he'd come back to England with an offer for my
little sister.  I knew I was overstepping the bounds, knew that I was tempting
fate, but I had beaten fate before and was determined to do so again.  I had a
vow to fulfill; I had no choice but to get them together."

Eva felt his
pain as though it were her own.  She looked at him, the noble profile painted
in firelight, the stark face gazing unseeingly into the flames.  "A vow?
What vow?"

He turned his
head and looked at her, and she saw past the arrogant, omniscient duke, past
the Machiavellian monster, and into the man behind those silent black eyes . .
. a man who was very different from what he would have others believe he was, a
man with a soul so deep, a heart so worthy and true, she feared it was only an
illusion, for men surely didn't possess such depth of character, such naked,
vulnerable emotions as Blackheath was allowing her to see.

He turned his
head and gazed into the flames once more, his face very still.

"A long
time ago, when I was just a boy, my mother went into labor with her last
child."  He stared unblinking into the fire.  "She had safely
delivered the rest of us, but with Nerissa, something was wrong.  Her
struggles, her pain, her strength . . . they were to no avail.  The midwife
could do nothing.  My father was frantic.  He sent for the doctor, but even he
could not help her, nor in the end, could he save her."  Blackheath set the
glass down beside his knee.  "Sometimes, when I am alone and companion to
only my memories, I can still hear her screams."

Eva sat
unmoving.  The duke was still gazing into the flames.  His face showed such
raw, naked pain that Eva instinctively reached out and took his hand, cold
despite their proximity to the fire.

"You scoff
at the love a man may feel for his wife, Eva, but my brothers are not so unlike
their father.  He loved my mother more than life itself.  He loved her so much
that every cry that issued from her poor, tortured body might have been his own,
every tear that streamed down her cheeks might have been his.  He grew frantic
in his inability to help her.  Frenzied.  He tried to escape, to flee the cries
of pain that only emphasized his own helplessness, and so ran upstairs to the
ducal apartments, high in the tower . . ."

Here, Blackheath
stopped.  And Eva tensed, gripping his hand, dreading what he was about to tell
her.

"I found
him some time later."  Blackheath shut his eyes.  "Found him lying
there on the cold stone stairs that led up to what are now my own apartments,
his neck broken and the tears still wet upon his warm cheeks."

"Dear
God."

"He must
have tripped and fallen in his haste.  I knelt beside him and gathered him up
in my arms, wiping the tears from my eyes with the inside of my elbow, telling
myself that he was just sleeping — yet knowing by the angle of his neck, the
blank stare in his eyes, that he was not.  I held him until he grew cold, held
him until my nanny found me hours later, because I thought that as
heir-apparent to a duke, I had all the power in the world . . . including that
of holding the life within him.  But, of course, I could not do that."  He
shook his head.  "Just as I could not hold the life within my mother when
she, too, died, shortly after."  He gave a faint, distant smile.  "I
was ten years old."

Ten years
old.

Eva's heart
constricted, and it was all she could do not to gather him — this man who had
never finished being a little boy, this man who had been thrust into adulthood,
into a dukedom, in the cruelest way imaginable — into her arms and comfort him
like the mother that had been wrenched from him.  No wonder he was so
controlling.  As a child, he had been unable to save his beloved father.  His mother.
No wonder he had tried to address the balance by imposing his will on
everything else that surrounded him.  Dear God, could she blame him?

He was still
staring into the flames, his eyes empty of expression, empty of everything but
the memories that still haunted him.  She had not thought that he could own
such terrible demons, could feel such anguish, could bring himself to share it
with another person — let alone someone like herself.  But he had, and the
knowledge humbled her, filled her with compassion and a strange sense of
protectiveness toward him, toward what he had told her.  He was braver than
she.  He was made of a stronger substance.  Tears filled her own eyes and she
looked away, blinking, to hide them.

"Hell,
Blackheath, you're making me want to hold you and cry my heart out for the
little boy you were, the suffering you must have endured," she said
shakily, trying to find firm ground beneath her suddenly tangled emotions.

"I will not
stop you, should you wish to do so."

"You want
me to hold you?"

He looked at
her, unafraid to admit to such a humble need.  "I would like it very
much."

She moved closer
to him, closing the distance, and slowly, tentatively, put her arms around his
shoulders.  They were so wide she could not contain them within the circle of
her arms.  It broke her heart to think how small they must have been when he'd
found himself with the weight of a dukedom, and the care of four little
siblings, upon them.  She lay her cheek against his back, her heart aching in a
way she could not understand.

"We laid
them both to rest on the same day," he continued in that same flat, quiet
tone.  "And as I looked at those coffins being lowered into the vault, I
promised my father and mother that I would be the parent my siblings would never
have.  I vowed that I would see to their welfare at all costs, that I would
always take care of them, that I would put their happiness above all else —
even the dukedom, if need be, because I loved them, and they were all I had
left."

"But you
went too far."

"Yes.  I
was overzealous.  Arrogant.  I took my vow, and my responsibility, too
seriously.  I may have triumphed where my brothers were concerned, but with my
little sister . . . I failed."  He took a deep breath, let it slowly out.
"Instead of happiness, I have brought her only grief.  Instead of love, I
have brought her only agony.  I have . . . destroyed her."

Eva held him
within the circle of her arms.  "I wish I could take away your pain,
Blackheath.  I wish that the little boy you were could have had his
childhood."

"I do not
suffer so much anymore, Eva.  It was all a long time ago . . . though it is
still, after all these years, difficult to get past that spot on the stairs
where I found my father.  Old memories never die, I guess."

"No,"
she said, remembering her own.  "They don't."

For a long
moment, they sat there together, two souls that had come together in pain and
sharing, her arms around his shoulders, the fire snapping with melancholy quiet
in the hearth.

"I will
help you find the truth about Lord Brookhampton," Eva said at length.
"But please, don't go to France.  It is too dangerous for an Englishman
now."

"I
must."

"Your life
may be imperiled."

"What does
that matter, when my days are counted anyhow?  No, Eva, best that I use whatever
time I have left to undo the damage that I have wrought.  I cannot live with
the knowledge of what I have done to my sister . . . what I have done to the
man she loved."

"Oh,
Blackheath . . . do not be so noble, it will be the death of you."

"My
sister's grief will be the death of me.  I must do what I must do, Eva."

She shook her
head.  "Listen to you.  Listen to us, sitting here like . . . like
friends, instead of adversaries.  And look at me, actually grieving for the
little boy you were."

"My dear
Eva, it is not such a bad thing, to be in possession of a heart."

"Hearts are
good for nothing; they only get broken.  Yet you — you don't seem to have any
qualms about baring your own to me, when you know very well that I might
happily crush it beneath my heel.  Why do you tell me these things,
Blackheath?  I do not feel worthy of such confidences; I do not feel deserving
of your trust.  I — I am confused and beset by guilt."

He unhooked her
arms from around him just enough to turn and look at her.  His eyes were so
deep and black, she felt she would never find her way out of those fathomless
depths.  "And why is that?  Despite what you feel for mine, I have no
illusions about the nature of your gender."

"I don't
understand why you trust me so."

"I do not
need your trust in order to give you my own.  That is not how life works, Eva.
It is only when one has the courage to give, that he — or she — will be in a
position to receive.  I have given you my confidences, my trust.  I have
received your compassion in return, perhaps even sown the seeds of friendship.
I ask nothing from you, save that you do not judge me based on your
ill-conceived notions about my gender.  I ask nothing, except that you see me
as an individual, and not just another male who deserves only your distrust,
loathing, and contempt."  He smiled, and ran his finger down her chin.
"Despite all, I am not really the monster I would sometimes have others
believe."

She looked away,
tormented.

Oh,
Blackheath . . . I so desperately want to trust you.  I want the same
relationship with you as your sisters-in-law have with their husbands . . . I
want your love, your admiration, your devotion — and the certainty that you
will never betray me with another woman, tire of me when someone else catches
your eye, cast me aside when I no longer amuse you.  But please — don't expect
something I cannot yet give you.  And please . . . prove me wrong when it comes
to men.

A lump rose in
her throat, and she hugged him fiercely.

I beg of you,
Blackheath, prove me wrong.

She looked into
the flames, her eyes stinging.  And it was only when she felt his thumb on her
cheek, gently wiping the tear away, that she realized she was doing something
she'd never thought she'd do.

Crying.

In front of a
man.

For some absurd
reason, she began to laugh through her tears.  The world had been turned upside
down.

Chapter
20

Many miles away,
in her rooms at Rosebriar Park, Lady Nerissa de Montforte sat curled on a
window seat.

She was alone.
From downstairs came the sounds of her family at dinner, laughing children, the
distant strains of music.  How happy their lives were in comparison to her own.
She had no wish to join them.  Outside her closed door, she knew a dinner tray
waited, growing cold as she sat here looking out over the darkening fields.
But she had no desire to eat.

Perry.  A
choking sob lodged in her throat.

She had never
before thought of ending her life, but she was in such misery that the idea had
crossed her mind several times since Lucien had left for the coast with Eva.
Life had been marginally more bearable with him here to hate — it had given
focus to the heartache that had nowhere to go.  Rage was preferable to
desolation; anything, in fact, was better than this mind-numbing limbo of
anguish, this imprisonment in time and space and mood, this endless mental
lethargy that provided her with only enough energy to summon her memories . . .
to think of what might have been . . . and to weep.

Lucien.  Her
brothers thought they had triumphed in forcing him to marry the beautiful
American, but Nerissa had no illusions that the two of them weren't holed up in
some cozy bed, doing the things lovers do.  She had noted the sensual tension,
the heated looks that had passed between them.  She had noted Lucien's
single-minded fascination with this woman he could not have.  Oh, he and Eva
would not be looking for her dear Perry.  They would not even be thinking about
him.  They would be too wrapped up in each other to pay Perry a second thought.

So much for
promises, then.  So much for Lucien's vow to find Perry, and this, after his
manipulations were what had caused Perry's disappearance — if not his death.

And what use
were her other brothers?  Charles had his army career, an estate to manage, a
wife and daughter to love — he would not have the time to go chasing phantoms.
Gareth was busy with his duties as a Member of Parliament, his own holdings,
and his family.  And Andrew was not exactly suited to matters of diplomacy and
would be loath to leave his beloved Celsie, especially since she'd announced
her own delicate condition.  Besides, he was totally obsessed with the new
explosive he was trying to perfect.  Eyebrows aside, he'd be lucky if he had
any hair, let alone a head, left, when all was said and done.

Which meant
there was only one option.

She would have
to go in search of Perry herself.

She pulled
herself up on the window seat, the idea filling her with a resolve she hadn't
felt in weeks.  Go find Perry myself.  And why not?  She was young,
clever, determined and resourceful.  She was passionate in her commitment to
find him.  And she was a de Montforte.

Nerissa rose,
opened her wardrobe, and began to select the clothes she would take with her.  She
put on her wool riding habit.  Her thick cloak, trimmed with ermine, that she
had worn during her last day with Perry.  Her gloves, her riding boots, her
heaviest, warmest petticoats . . .

By the time she
had finished packing, it was nearly dark outside.  Clouds had moved in, and
spots of rain dashed against the window.  She hated the wet, but counted her
blessings — with no moon, her departure from Rosebriar would go unnoticed, and
it would be morning before her brothers even noticed she had gone.

Her brothers.

Dear Charles,
Gareth, Andrew —

A moment later,
her thoughts were words on a sheet of vellum:

Dearest
brothers,

I have gone
to find my Perry.  God bless you all.

Love,

Nerissa

She folded the
note, propped it against the candle holder, and blew out the single flame.  She
picked up her small satchel.  Nobody saw her creep downstairs, slip outside,
and hurry out to the stables.

As she led her
mare out to the mounting block, it began to rain in earnest.

Nerissa swung up
in the saddle and never looked back.

~~~~

A day after Nerissa's
three brothers discovered her absence and left Rosebriar in pursuit, hoping to
catch her before she could leave England, the fifth Duke of Blackheath married Eva
Noring de la Mouriére.

It was a wedding
that should have counted royalty, statesmen, and the bluest of English blood
among the honored guests — but instead was witnessed by only the vicar that
presided over it, staff, servants, and villagers, and the few sparrows that
managed to find their way into the ancient church, their wings fluttering
silently as they wheeled, chirped, and flitted through the rafters high above.

It was growing
dark.  Evening was rushing in like a racehorse tonight.  Outside, the wind
whistled around the old stone walls, promising a storm off the sea; inside, the
chill was enough to make the teeth of even the dead who slept in the
surrounding tombs chatter.  Lucien, standing stoicly beside Eva, listened to
the timeless words, repeated the age-old vows, with a sense of otherworldly
detachment.  This was his wedding day.  It should have been the happiest one of
his life, the triumph of his heritage, the celebration of the continuation of
his line.  Instead, he felt only a curious absence of feeling, a sterility of
emotion.  This was not a marriage, it was a business arrangement.  This was not
a lifelong commitment, but a short-term affair whose tenure would be dictated
by however long he had left on this earth.  This was not a love match, but a
sort of life insurance for his unborn heir, an official guarantee that the
child would carry its proper name, be raised with all the pomp and privilege
its birthright deserved.

His gaze passed
over the guests: villagers, tenants, the staff of Gingermere, a few servants
from Blackheath.  Most were smiling, excited, their faces glowing in the
candlelight.  How privileged they must feel, sole witnesses to the wedding of a
duke of Blackheath.  But Lucien felt only a pang of loneliness.  Emptiness.
Someone was missing.  His brothers.  His little sister.  It was not the same
without them.  But they were ignorant of the fact that he was finally getting
married.  They were absent because he, Lucien, had refused to allow them the
triumph of seeing him felled to their plan of getting him wedded at last.  But
he had planned it this way, hadn't he?  He had planned it, and thus should have
reveled in having the last word on the matter.  Instead, he felt only a sense
of guilt for his underhanded, and self-depriving, method of revenge.

Guilt, and loss.

Finally, it was
over; the ring was on her finger, the final vows were said, the deed was done.

He had a
duchess.

A wife.

A partner till
death did them part — which, surely, would come sooner rather than later.

He shook off the
sudden prickle of dread and offered his arm to the woman who stood, white with
cold, by his side.  In the soft glow of the candlelight, dressed in a polonese
gown of green and gold Italian silk, she had never looked more beautiful.  He
tore his mind from his own bleak regrets, his sadness about his missing
siblings, by envisioning how he would make love to her when they got back to Gingermere.
How he would peel that shimmering gown from her body, make her moan and thrash
with passion.

"Well, that
wasn't so difficult, was it?" he quipped, for his own sake as much as hers,
as he led the procession out of the church.  Outside, they were instantly
buffeted by the wind off the darkening sea, which stretched into forever just
beyond the cliffs.

She looked over
the parade of incoming waves, the wind sending her voluminous skirts twisting
and whipping against her long, lethal legs.  Lucien's throat went dry.  Ah,
yes.  Definitely better to think of what awaited back at Gingermere . . .

"As my
mother always said, getting married is the easy part.  The hard part is staying
married."

"Ah, but
with any luck, you shan't have to endure me for long, my dear."

"Really,
Blackheath.  You make it sound as though I look forward to becoming your
widow."

"Well, I
daresay the idea seems to hold more appeal for you than that of being my
duchess.  Shall I be on my guard tonight, lest you have aspirations of achieving
that widowed state earlier than expected?"

"Oh, I
think you are quite safe, Duke."  She flashed him a wicked look from
beneath lowered lashes.  "For now."

The coach was
brought around and servants and villagers hustled about, laughing, congratulating
them, some already carrying torches to hold back the gathering darkness.  The
smell of burning pitch mingled with the salty tang of the sea.  Leaping flames
glowed orange against excited faces.  Lucien cast a glance at his bride,
standing silently beside him.  Though she wore a smile, he could sense her
nervousness, her doubts, her fears.  She reminded him of a porcelain figurine
left out in the cold:  brittle, beautiful, and about to crack.

"Your
cloak, m'lady."

Lucien took the
heavy garment from Eva's maid, put it over his bride's shoulders, and, removing
her hat, pulled the hood up over her vivid red hair, already loosened from the
pins that were no match against the brisk wind off the sea.  She was trembling.

"Really,
Blackheath, I am not a child —"

"Shh."

She made a noise
of helpless impatience, but let him finish the task.  Her cheeks were flushed
with cold; her eyes sparkled like jewels in a face of porcelain beauty, but
whether it was regret or desire that fired them, Lucien could not tell.  As he tied
the hood under her chin, his fingers brushed her jaw in a gentle caress.  Her
eyes flashed up to his, briefly, and in them he saw guardedness, the desperate
need for reassurance that they had done the right thing.  He smiled, trying to
bolster her courage by his own example.

"Really, my
dear — it won't be so bad.  Remember, you will have all the independence you
require, both while I live and after I die.  The child will be provided for.
You will be provided for.  There is no need for worry."

She offered him
a wan smile in return.  "Then I will be happy at Gingermere, I
think."  She raised her chin and eyed him with her normal, haughty
amusement.  "As long as you keep to your side of the bargain and never
threaten my freedom, we might actually make a go of this . . . marriage."

Lucien handed
her up into the waiting coach, his eyes dark with hunger as she adjusted her
hoops and skirts and took her seat.

"And what
about you, Blackheath?  Not once have you confided your feelings
regarding this union.  Will it be a trial for you, having found yourself wedded
at last?"

"I do not
intend it to be, my dear."

She raised a
brow and slipped her hands into her fur muff.  "I'm sure you don't.  After
all, men always have the loftiest aspirations for marital bliss when the union
is young, but those aspirations never hold up to reality, nor to time, nor to
their own lust for variety.  Marriages spoil and go rotten the older they get,
just like old meat, bad cheese."

He climbed up
into the coach behind her.  "My dear Eva, I do wish I could do
something to change such a wretched attitude."

"Pah,
Blackheath.  How could you?  Besides, what do you know about marriage?  She
jabbed a finger at her heart and raised her chin.  "Trust me, I know what
I'm talking about.  After all, I've been down this road before.  You
haven't."

"I am
determined to ensure that our marriage will far exceed your dismal expectations
of it."

She gave him a
pitying look and shook her head.  She had taken her muff off and was now
twisting the wedding band around and around her finger, as though it agitated
her, as though she could not accustom herself to the feel of it.  "Oh,
Blackheath.  For such a worldly man, you are sometimes so . . . naive.  But
never mind.  I shan't spoil your illusions.  You'll learn soon enough."

"No, madam.
You will."

She merely
arched a brow at him and gave him a faintly amused smile, obviously convinced
of her own wretched predictions.

"I'm not
joking, my dear.  I intend to prove that marriage to me will not be the penance
you anticipate."

"Oh?  And
how do you intend to do that, Blackheath?"

"I shall
start by keeping you very satisfied in bed."

Even the
gathering gloom could not hide the sudden blush, nor conceal the way she
squirmed on her seat and began fidgeting.  "And I suppose you intend to
start . . . satisfying me tonight?"

He eyed her from
beneath hooded lids.  "I could start now, if you wish."

"After
supper, I think."

"No,
before.  A little bedsport will give cause us to . . . work up an
appetite."

She glanced
away, but not before he saw the desire reciprocated in her own veiled gaze.  She
took a deep breath, faced him once more, and eyed him from down the short
length of her nose.  "There's a man for you," she said, affecting an
air of superior knowledge.  "Always thinking of one thing, and one thing
only.  At least you're honest about it, Blackheath."

"It is not
something I could lie about, even if I wished to."

"So you are
thinking about it."

He smiled
slowly.  "Do you think to convince me you're not?"

She was toying
with the ring again.  "Of course I'm thinking about it.  But I can't help
what I think.  Pregnancy does strange things to a woman.  I'm sure that my
increased . . . appetite for that which I would normally find repulsive — that
is, sharing a bed with you, Blackheath — is due only to the fact that my body
is no longer my own."

"Hmm, yes.
But it was certainly your own when I planted that seed within you, was it
not?"

She shot him a
look of mock outrage.  "Really, must you bring that up?"

"My
apologies," he murmured, but he was grinning.  "Shall we
depart?"

"The
sooner, the better."

The coach moved
off, the wheels crunching through ice-rimmed puddles before picking up speed.
Lucien sat back, absorbing what warmth he could from his heavy woolen greatcoat
as he glanced out the window.  He could see the downs marching away to the
north, great, brooding sentinels against the darkening sky; to the south there
was only the cliffs, and beyond them, the sea.  In the close confines of the
coach, his breath frosted the air.

He glanced at
his bride.  "Are you warm enough, my dear?"

"Tolerably
so."

She would not
look at him; instead, her pensive gaze was directed out the window toward the
sea, where, in the deepening dusk, miles of charging whitecaps could be seen
marching toward shore as though fleeing the oncoming storm.

"Feels like
rain," she said.

"Snow, I'll
wager."

"Snow and
cold on our wedding night.  Hmph.  How fitting."

"Stop it,
Eva," he said quietly.

She flashed him
a defensive look.  "Stop what?"

"You are
doing your best to sabotage this marriage and I won't have it."

"I beg your
pardon?"

"You heard
me.  You are determined to fulfill this prophecy of misery to which you cling.
Determined to prove that marriage will be an insufferable penance.  Very well,
but I tell you, should this marriage fail, it will be because you wish
it to — not me."

Her eyes narrowed
to angry slits.  "Are you accusing me of poisoning this union before it
even starts?"

"As a
matter of fact, yes, I am."  He smiled and draped an arm across the back
of the seat.  "Tell me, madam, what do you intend to do about it?"

She stared at
him, temporarily at a loss for words.  Again, he had trapped her, and they both
knew it.  If she carried on with her waspish attitude, he was more than
justified in his thoughts; if she capitulated and tried to make amends by
honestly working on this marriage, she would be letting her guard down, laying
her heart open to hurt and betrayal.

"You're a
monster, Blackheath," she muttered, reaching for her muff once more.

"Yes.  I
know."  He smiled.  "But even monsters don't like to spend all of
their time in battle armor.  Now, shall we call a truce and try to make the
best of it?"

She sighed and
offered him a wary smile.  "Yes.  Yes, let's try."  She looked down.
"I'm sorry, Blackheath.  Perhaps you're right."

"Of course,
my dear."  He gave her his most maddening, self-assured grin.  "After
all, I always am."

She tore off her
muff and, laughing, flung it at his smugly smiling face.

Chapter
21

They returned
home to a feast.

Lobster in an
elegant sauce of cream and sherry.  Lamb, still sizzling in its fat, bathed in
mint sauce and garnished with sprigs of fresh parsley.  Baked fish drizzled
with lemon; rolls, still hot from the oven, into which creamy pats of butter
immediately melted.  Carrots in a sugary wine glaze, parsnips, and a host of
winter vegetables.  All were beautifully prepared, set on gleaming platters of
finest silver that, together with the crystal glasses and fine china plates,
threw off the light of dozens of candles.

The staff and
servants had proposed a toast to the new Duchess of Blackheath, a gesture that
warmed the ice Eva was trying quite hard to maintain around her heart.  But
Blackheath, with his refusal to anger despite her baiting, with his long,
simmering looks of promised passion, seemed as determined to breach her
defenses as a general laying siege to a city.

His earlier
words echoed in her head.  You are doing your best to sabotage this marriage
and I won't have it.

Eva, troubled,
took another sip of her wine.

You are
determined to fulfill this prophecy of misery to which you cling  . . .  I tell
you, should this marriage fail, it will be because you wish it to — not
me.

Guilt suddenly
assailed her, beating down the anger she could no longer sustain.  Was
Blackheath right?  Was she the saboteur of her own happiness?

But I don't
dare trust him.  I don't dare trust any man!  How can I, after what Jacques did
to me?  After what Papa did to Mama?

Dessert arrived,
a fabulous cheeseboard with wedges of Stilton, Cheddar, and Cheshire, garnished
with celery and accompanied by a small bowl of nuts.  Servants brought out two
more gleaming silver bowls, one containing Spanish oranges, the other, shiny
red cherries.  Blackheath dismissed the servants, picked up a small knife, and
began peeling an orange.

Despite herself,
Eva couldn't help but be transfixed by his hands, framed by elegant white
lace.  She watched them deftly peeling the orange, pulling away the tough outer
skin, exposing the sweet, fleshy ball of fruit inside.  They were beautiful
hands.  Skilled hands.  Dangerous, powerful, sensual hands.  Her hunger for
Blackheath must have shown in her eyes, for he looked up, caught her staring,
and with a lazy smile, placed a delicate segment of orange on her plate.

She put a hand
to her stomach.  "Oh, please, Blackheath, I cannot eat any more."

"My dear
wife, you've barely eaten a thing all night.  Are you ill?"

"No.  Just —
"

She couldn't
finish the sentence, but the heat in her cheeks, and her inability to meet his
eyes, must have told him all he needed to know.

His lips
twitching, he popped the sweet segment of fruit into his own mouth.

"— not
myself," she finished lamely.

"I
see."  He picked up a cherry by its stem and, eyeing her, twirled it
between his fingertips.  "Perhaps you need to be in bed."

She met his
dark, simmering gaze.  "Perhaps you're right.  After all" — she gave
him an arch look — "you always are."

"Hmm.  I'm
glad you've finally acknowledged that fact."

She laughed
nervously.  He put the cherry down.  Then he rose, tall, powerful, elegant in
indigo velvet, dangerous in every way.  Eva's blood warmed.  Shivers climbed
her spine.  What are you doing? her mind screamed.  But she knew what
she was doing, and at the moment, she had no desire to try and reclaim the
anger that Blackheath's ruthless kindness had stolen from her.

Not to mention
his alarmingly close-to-the-bone words.

You are doing
your best to sabotage this marriage,  and I won't have it.

Had she
been trying to do just that?  Well, then, she would be brave.  She would put
her anger aside, and let come what may.  She would ignore this feeling of
vulnerability, ignore experience, ignore, even, her pride, which was lodging an
angry protest against this strange capitulation on the part of not only her
body this time, but her mind.  Yes, she would ignore all of that, and just . .
.  feel.

And feel she
did.  A gathering ache between her legs . . . a sensitivity in her nipples . .
. a tautness in her belly . . . a yawning emptiness in her hard, hard heart
that demanded one thing, and one thing only.

Fulfillment.

Blackheath had
come up behind her chair.

He was standing
just above her.  Eva sensed the heat emanating from his body, felt it searing
her through her clothes.  She tensed, waiting —

And then he laid
a hand on her shoulder.

That dangerously
beautiful hand that had so transfixed her just a moment ago.

Eva sat
spellbound, not daring to move, her breath coming slow and feathery through her
lungs.

She felt the
spreading warmth of that strong, possessive hand as it rested there on her
shoulder.  Felt the crisp tickle of frothy white lace against the exposed skin
at the base of her neck.  Felt the brush of velvet there, and the heady,
teasing touch of his fingers, now stroking her skin, the thumb rounding her
collarbone, pushing into the faint indentations from which it rose.  She
swallowed hard, trying to draw air into lungs that had forgotten how to
breathe.

I want this.
I want him.  Why fight it?  Why fight something that feels so right, that does
neither of us any harm, that will not hurt me as long as I don't lose my heart
to him?

Yes.

Don't lose
your heart to him — that was the fatal mistake you made in the past.  Give him
your body . . . he cannot hurt that.  But never give him your heart.

She leaned her
cheek against the soft velvet, the lace at his wrist, and her hand came up over
his, pressing it down into her warmed flesh.

And now those
long, skillful fingers were dipping lower, idly teasing the top of her bodice,
back and forth, back and forth.

Eva didn't
move.  Her breathing was the only sound.  Keeping perfectly still, she glanced
down, watching his hand . . . the thumb, drawing a little circle against her
milky skin; the fingertips just roving over the top of her bodice.  He moved
his hand ever so slightly, and his fore and middle fingers dipped into the warm
valley of cleavage, the thumb now caressing the swell of her left breast.

Eva shut her
eyes on a sigh.  She was melting into her chair, filled with a sluggish
languor, a rising need to give herself to this man who was now her husband.
And now that hand came gently up beneath her chin, cupping her jaw and tipping
her head up and back until she was looking up into black, black eyes that were
burning with unmistakable hunger.

She gave a
breathy sigh and offered her lips to him.

He claimed them
immediately, his tongue sweeping between her teeth and into her mouth, his hand
still cupping her jaw, cradling the back of her head.  She felt his thumb
stroking her cheek.  Felt his breath warming the side of her face.  Tasted sweet,
tangy oranges on his tongue.

Slowly, he
pulled away, his hand still beneath her jaw so that she, opening glazed eyes,
had no choice but to stare up at him.

"Bedtime, I
think," he murmured.

She could not
find the breath to answer.  He drew his hand away, stepping back from the chair
so that she might get up.

Dazed with
sensation, Eva took his offered hand and began to rise — but her legs were too
heavy, her feet shod in lead.  A moment later, she was swept up in Blackheath's
arms, held close to his chest, his heart pounding just beneath her ear.

She hooked an
arm around his neck.

He paused only
long enough to retrieve the silver bowl of cherries, and, carrying her as
though she weighed no more than the air that surrounded them, headed from the
dining room.

Eva looked at
that bowl and felt her insides melting as she considered what he might plan to
do with the fruit.  She felt totally helpless, powerless in his arms.  She shut
her eyes, treasuring, enjoying, fearing this maelstrom of sensation.

Up two flights
of stairs he carried her, a strong, silent victor waiting to savor the prize of
battle.  His steps never wavered.  His arms were bars of steel from which she
had no desire to escape.  He reached the top of the stairs and unhesitatingly
swung right, moving soundlessly down a long hall lit by flickering sconces
whose light gilded his skin and set her hair aflame.

I want him.
God help me, I want him.

He pushed open a
door, shut it behind him, and carried her past a blazing hearth, past furniture
that glowed a rich mahogany in the light of the candelabra set atop a highboy —
and toward the large bed curtained in blue and gold damask that dominated the
room.

He laid her down
upon it.  He put the bowl of cherries on a bedside table, retrieved the
candelabra, and set it on the opposite one.  Eva gazed up into his dark face
and, unable to speak, to even muster the strength to move her sluggish limbs,
felt as though she were going to melt right down into the mattress.

She watched him
with naked hunger as he slowly, methodically untied his cravat and unbuttoned
his velvet waistcoat, his inscrutable black gaze roving heatedly over her body,
burning her everywhere it touched.  Eva shivered.  Outside, she could hear the
wind gusting, the distant roar of the ocean, and the occasional hiss of
something, probably snow or sleet, flinging itself against the window behind
the drawn drapes.  But she felt cozy, safe, protected.  She was here in a
secluded bedroom, all alone with Blackheath, her enemy, her lover — her husband
— and she was right where she wanted to be.

And he was still
watching her, a wolf sizing up its prey, the candlelight throwing his face into
flickering planes and shadows, deepening his eyes, glowing upon the queued
waves of his dark hair.  Off came the waistcoat, only to be tossed carelessly
over a chair.  Eva's tongue traced her suddenly dry lips.  He was splendid.  Matchless.
Her gaze locked on his, she reached up and pulled a pin from her hair, pulled
out another, and another, until the thick red waves, glowing like wine in the
candlelight, tumbled down around her shoulders, her breasts.

Blackheath was
watching her.

She smiled and,
arranging her hair beneath her, lay back against the pillows — watching him.

He was unbuttoning
his cuffs now, their rich, expensive lace frothing over his long fingers as he
worked.  The shirt was loose and billowing, cut generously through the
shoulders, the soft white lawn rippling as he moved.  Eva's gaze grew hooded,
her mouth dry, as his hands moved to his throat, loosening the button at the
base of his neck, opening up the slitted keyhole to reveal a wedge of skin that
contrasted with the whiteness of the shirt.  Absently stroking a thick tress of
her own hair that lay on the pillow beside her cheek, she watched with
undisguised hunger as Blackheath removed his shoes, unbuttoning his breeches at
the knees as he straightened up.

He stood there
for a long moment in the light of the candelabra, watching her.  Then he came
toward the bed.

Eva's hand left
her hair and drifted to her heart, beating like a drum beneath her suddenly
too-tight stays.  It was an effort just to draw breath.  An effort not to
spring from the bed and tumble him down to the floor like a leaping tigress as
he approached.  Her body quivered with the effort of lying still; her lips
parted as he unbuttoned his breeches, hooked his thumbs around the waistband,
and slid them down his legs and off, taking his stockings with them.  Finally,
he stood barefoot on the thick Turkish rug.  Only the shirt still covered him,
its hem reaching partway to his knees, teasing her with the knowledge of the
arousal it veiled, revealing long, straight, well-muscled thighs and calves of
athletic power . . . of aristocratic grace.

Eva smiled her appreciation
of such masculine perfection, and Blackheath, his own gaze moving to her prone
body there on the bed, pulled the shirt up and over his head.

There he stood,
just watching her, naked . . . proud . . .

Magnificent.

Eva swallowed
hard, trying to banish the sudden dryness of her throat.  Every inch of her
skin was afire, every shard of feeling in her body was centered in her breasts
and between her thighs, damp with wanting him.  Her gaze drifted from his face,
framed in thick waves of glossy black hair that swept back from his brow and
now hung loosely about his shoulders, emphasizing their breadth, their beauty .
. . down the strong column of his neck, down the splendid length of his body,
its gilded planes and hollows a study in candlelit perfection . . . down the
flat, tapering abdomen, laddered with muscle, the lean hips, and there, yes,
the evidence of his desire.

He was glorious.

And he was
waiting for her invitation to join her there on the bed.

She smiled and,
spreading her hand on the coverlet beside her, gazed up at him with a hunger
she didn't even bother to conceal.

"Well,
don't just stand there, Blackheath — you'll catch cold."

A faint smile
touched his mouth and he took the last steps toward the bed.  The mattress
sagged as it took his weight, and a moment later he was lying alongside her,
searing her with the heat of his body, so much longer, bigger, stronger than
her own.  Propping his weight on an elbow, he gazed down into her eyes, just
watching her . . . and smiling.

"I'm
sorry," she whispered as he caressed her breast, half of which was pushed
up by her stays and bare to his gaze, half of which still lay concealed beneath
shimmering silk.  "It did not occur to me that I was sabotaging our
marriage . . . I was simply trying to protect myself from further hurt."

"I
know."

"I may
never be able to give you my love, Blackheath, but I promise that I will give
you my loyalty, my strength, my — best efforts to make a go of this."

"I am in no
doubt of that.  And for now, that is enough."

"For now.  But
what about later, Blackheath?"

"Hmm, yes .
. . later.  If we have a later, Duchess."

"And if we
do?"

He smiled, and
in that moment she saw his soul, deep as the universe, in his eyes.  "Then
I would like the sort of marriages my brothers have."  His hand moved over
her partly concealed breast, teasing the nipple, bringing it to a hard peak
beneath the thin silk.  "I would like to have a marriage based on trust
and friendship.  A wife who is never afraid to tell me when I am wrong . . .
and children.  Many children."  His smile spread.  "Lots of
children."

"Girl-children?"

"Girls,
boys . . . their gender matters naught to me."  He caught a length of her
hair, dragging his fingers down and through it, letting them just touch her
pebble-hard nipple as he came to the end of each gentle pull.

"I could
grow to like this, Blackheath."

"My dear
madam, I daresay you already do."  He cupped her jaw with his hand, making
her feel tiny, fragile — cherished.  "Now . . . let us get you out of
these hopeless confines of fabric and hoop, yes?"

Off came jewels,
accessories, shoes, and hoops.  The beautiful Polonese gown followed.  Then,
wearing only stays, shift, and stockings, she rolled onto her stomach, arms
crossed beneath her on the pillow, back arched and her cheek resting on the
backs of her wrists.  "Oh, yes . . ."

She felt his
fingers caressing her nape beneath the heavy mass of her hair.  Her blood
thickened with sensuous languor, her body ached with desire.  She craved his
touch.  Sighed as his fingers combed through her hair, gently pulling it up and
away from the top of her chemise, gathering the weighty, silken mass up in his
hand before laying it alongside her neck and out across the pillow.  Cool air
kissed her exposed nape . . . then, the gentle, all-consuming warmth of his
hand.

She closed her
eyes in bliss as he slowly caressed her, his knuckles lingering in the hollow
between her shoulder blades; there they remained for a long, dragged-out
moment, skating over the thin chemise that separated her skin from his,
massaging out a knot before continuing downward, unlacing her stays, freeing
her from their constraints, traveling ever lower until his fingertips met the
dip where spine met hips.  There they lingered in a warm caress.

"If I were
a cat, I'd be purring," she mumbled, as he lifted her slightly and pulled
the stays out from under her.

His hand was roving
down her lower back, stoking the fire within her, now rounding the high curve
of her bottom.  "Ah, but you are a cat, my dear, sleek and lustrous, one
moment purring, the next, hissing and clawing."

"Mmmm . . .
purring versus hissing and clawing . . .  Do you have a preference, Duke?"

"No, as
long as I have variety."

"Then make
me do more than purr, Blackheath."

"With
pleasure, madam."

And with those
husky words, the bed sagged a bit more as he leaned down over her, and she felt
the press of his lips there in the dip of her spine, grazing the sensitized
skin through her thin chemise, making her sigh and flex her fingers beneath her
in pleasure.

"Mmmm,
Blackheath . . . I'm definitely purring, now."

He pulled the
long, loose garment up over her legs, lifted her, and dragged it up her back.  She
felt his hand tracing the curve of her bottom, his mouth teasing the small of
her back; then, slowly, his lips, his tongue, his teeth all working in a heady
caress, he moved up her spine, going to work on each vertebra, making her every
nerve tighten and tingle.

She raised her
head from the pillow, breathing hard.

"Oh,
Blackheath —"

Still he dragged
his mouth up and over each vertebra, his hand still caressing her bare bottom;
beneath her, pressed against the sheet, her nipples were on fire, and the
restless ache between her legs was growing unbearable.

"Purr for
me, Duchess."

His tongue was
stroking into each dip of her backbone now, drawing little circles on her skin
that the air instantly chilled, and she began to moan and squirm, fast reaching
the end of her tolerance.  In a moment she wasn't going to be purring; she was
going to be yowling.  And then he pulled the loose chemise back down and his
hand, which had been caressing the high, rounded curve of her bottom, moved
lower, finding her cleft through the thin fabric.

"Oh, damn
you, Blackheath!"

He only laughed,
and continued stroking her through the fine lawn, and Eva, beginning to
perspire now against the pillow, felt a spreading slick of moisture between her
thighs, soaking into her chemise as he pressed it against her aching center,
slowly moving the fabric up and down, the rough pressure bringing her nearer
and nearer to climax.

"Oh . . .
oh, you are a merciless beast.  "Please — stop!"

"But my
dear lady, I haven't fully . . . prepared you."

"Any more
preparation and the sheets are going to catch on fire beneath me."

He laughed, and
his hand left her hot, aching nether regions, pulling the chemise up once
more.  He lay the fine fabric across her bottom, her back, the bed on which she
still lay facedown and trembling.  Cool air assaulted her exposed legs,
whispered up her inner thighs.  His knuckles roved up her calves, grazing her
skin through her thin silk stockings.  It was nearly her undoing — but no, she
had control, she did, she did.  She would not let herself go over the
edge just yet, even though she wanted nothing more than those knuckles, those
hands, that warm, knowing touch, higher . . . wanted it where it had been a
moment ago, wanted him, and that hard, pressing arousal she could feel stabbing
into her hip, inside her.  Penetrating her.

But no.

No, he was
kissing, caressing, the sensitive backs of her knees . . . turning her over
now, his hands warm and guiding, peeling the chemise from her hot body as he
had earlier peeled the orange from its protective flesh.  His fingers were at
her throat, untying the neck of her chemise, sliding it down her shoulders,
baring them, baring her, to his simmering gaze, his skillful hands.  She lay
there for a moment, wrapped in only the thin lawn, now damp with her own
excited perspiration.  Finally, he removed this last barrier and she lay
beneath him, skin to skin, as naked as he.

He gazed down at
her, smiling as he took in her lush curves, her flushed skin, his eyes
lingering at the junction of her long white thighs.

"Now I
think" —  his finger traced the valley between her breasts, drew a light,
agonizing line down her abdomen — "that I will make you hiss and
scratch."

Anticipation
pulsed through Eva; she was so primed and ready for him that she feared one
more touch would make her splinter like crystal.

But he did not
touch her, except with that enigmatic black gaze; he did not lay a finger on
her, even, only allowing her to simmer in her own steam, smiling as she gazed
up at him through the tangled, damp skeins of her hair.

"And how do
you plan to do that, Blackheath?"

For answer, he
only let that grin spread — and reached for the bowl of cherries.

Eva's eyes
widened; she stared mutely at him.  Fascinated, she watched as he plucked a
cherry from the bowl, holding it by the stem and slanting her a wicked sidelong
glance; then, his eyes hooded, he lowered it to her mouth, dragging it lightly
over her lower lip, and then the arched contour of her upper one.

His command was
an unspoken one.  Eva opened her mouth and bit off the bottom edge of the sweet
fruit.  She boldly met Blackheath's gaze; his eyes went even darker.

He bent down and
kissed the thin trickle of red juice from her lower lip; then, still holding
the partly eaten fruit by its stem, he dragged it down the damp white arch of
throat.

Along the base
of one breast.

Around the
flushed areola, circling it once, twice, until the nipple tingled and ached;
still twirling the cherry by its stem, he let its soft, wet flesh, the slick
raspy roughness of the exposed pit, graze the edges of her nipple until Eva
felt the tension coiling between her legs once more, building, until she could
not contain her tortured moans of desire.

Breathing hard,
her hot body filmed with dampness, she opened her eyes just in time to see
Blackheath's mouth fasten upon the fruit-stained nipple, sucking and licking
the sweet red juice.

Eva gasped and
arched upward, using every bit of her will to keep climax at bay, her hands
shoving at Blackheath's shoulders, her nails scoring the skin stretched over
the hard, bulging muscle as his tongue flicked and rasped the engorged bud.

"Ah . . .
my cat shows her claws," he murmured, pulling back and smiling.

She stared up at
him, breathing hard, her nipples so tight she thought she would explode.  He
was still holding the half-eaten cherry; still twirling it lazily between thumb
and forefinger, his gaze dark, promising, and very, very wicked.

And then, as she
watched, he brought it to his mouth, and, his eyes never leaving hers, took a
tiny bite, exposing that much more of the fleshy red fruit, the paler pit.

His gaze still
holding hers, he held the cherry out, just over her stomach . . . and began to
lower it.

"No — oh,
Blackheath, no, you wouldn't dare —"

"Oh, but I
would," he murmured, and she gasped as he touched the cool wet fruit to
her abdomen.

He dragged it
around her navel, leaving a thin trail of fruity red juice . . . and just
skirted the top edge of her silken curls, teasing her, making her writhe with
wanting.

"Blackheath
—"

But he only bent
down and began to follow the trail of juice with his tongue.

Eva shut her
eyes as she mouth grazed her midriff, as his lips teased her skin into prickles
of exquisite agony, as his tongue ran over the sweet red juice.  She knew what
he was going to do . . . oh God, she knew what was coming —

And then, yes,
he pulled back, took another bite of the cherry, and, still holding the fruit
by the stem — now nothing more than a pit and a wedge of dark red flesh — he
dragged it around the triangle of soft red curls, coaxing her legs apart with
his other hand.

"Oh, dear
heavens, Blackheath —"

He merely
smiled, pulled the fruit through the thatch of silken hair, and then drew it
up, then down, between the parted lips of her femininity.

"Blackheath
—"

She writhed on
the pillow, drowning in sensation, fighting the inevitable, her hair spilling
across her face and twisting beneath her.

But he was
relentless.  Ruthless.  She felt the ball of fruit touching her most intimate
folds, felt him pulling it between the petals of her womanhood, held open by
his thumb and forefinger, and then —

Oh, God  —

And then, he was
holding her fully, tautly open . . . and touching the sweet fruit to her
engorged bud, fully exposed to his gaze, the air, the wet pit of the cherry.

Eva began to
sob.  To thrash.  To whimper and make strangled noises of desire.  Desperately,
she clawed at his hands, but he only caught her flailing wrists, lowered
himself down, and with his mouth and tongue began to follow the sweet red juice
from where he'd left off at her navel.

Down through her
hot, moist curls.

And there — there,
right at the peaked, burning center of her last kissed by the fruit, as he held
her thighs wide apart with both hands.

Eva felt climax
rushing down upon her.  She screamed and tore free, pushing at his head as his
tongue flicked and rasped over the hardened bud, mercilessly bringing her higher
and higher until she was raking at his shoulders, twisting helplessly beneath
him, crying out his name.  She forgot to breathe, and for a moment she nearly
blacked out . . . and when she came back to herself, he was atop her, covering
her with his body, his hands anchoring her head, his mouth covering her own
cries of passion as he slipped, oh-so-deeply, inside her . . .

Filling her.

Stretching her.

Causing her to
arch upward to meet his slow, driving thrusts until they came faster and
faster, carrying her right along with him, little cries ripping from her throat
as she soared with him toward climax yet again.  And then his body went taut.
He hung poised above her before giving one last thrust, and she buried her
scream against his damp shoulder as she convulsed with passion once more.

Exhausted, they
lay together, breathing hard, their bodies separated by only a film of
perspiration.

Outside, the
sleet hissed against the window.  The storm gathered force, and Eva felt sleep
pulling the curtain down around her eyes.

And as she faded
toward oblivion, her arms wrapped loosely around her husband's broad shoulders,
she was smiling.

Chapter
22

Lucien did not
go to sleep.

He lay there,
his arms and shoulders taking most of his weight, his body half covering the
woman beside him.  Outside, in the darkness beyond the heavy drapes, wind and
sleet hissed against the windows, rattling the casements, bringing to his ears
the distant roar of the sea.  He had no wish to give in to his body's demand
for rest, no wish to revisit the nightmares.  No, better to just lie here with
her, enjoying the feel of her in his arms, the scent of her in his nostrils,
the sight of her curving, long-legged body in the light of the flickering
candelabra.

She was
beautiful.  And this had been the first time she had given herself to him with
no coercion and little seduction; the first time she had let down her guard
enough to tentatively trust him.  The first time the aloof, contemptuous Eva
had allowed a softer, sweeter side to take its place.

Lucien smiled.
He quite liked this sweeter side.

Now that their
passion was spent, their bodies cooling, he realized how chilly it was in the
room.  Carefully, so as not to wake his bride, he rolled off her, seized the
thick coverlet, and pulled it up over them both.

She opened her
eyes.

"Lucien."

He froze.  Lucien
— she had called him by his given name.  Not Blackheath, not Duke, not Your
Grace — but Lucien.  His heart swelled almost painfully.  He swallowed hard
against the sudden tightness in his throat and managed a little smile.

"You called
me Lucien."

She rolled over,
using his arm as a pillow, and gazed up into his face.  Her eyes were glowing,
her lips curved in a soft, teasing smile.  "Is that not your name?"

"I do not
recall your ever having used it before."

"No."

She didn't need
to tell him that she'd never before used it because to do so would be to
discard yet another barrier she'd insisted on keeping between them; to use it
would be to embrace an intimacy she was not ready to allow; to use it would be
to imply friendship and trust when there was none —

But she had used
it now.

He reached out
and ran his fingers over the line of her jaw.  "Say it again, Eva.  I like
the sound of my name on your lips."

"Lucien."

He couldn't help
his spreading grin, couldn't help the sweet, all-consuming ache that threatened
to overwhelm him.  Just the sound of his Christian name on her soft, sultry
voice was enough to stir him back to arousal.  He stretched out beside her, his
arm still under her head, and ran his fingers through a thick skein of her
hair.  "You are making a mess of my heart," he murmured.

"Well,
Duke, if that's all it takes, maybe you'll be easier to handle than I'd
previously thought."

"You think
so, do you?"

"Don't
forget, I, too, like challenges."

They lay
together, mutually enjoying this newfound peace, this lack of enmity and
distrust.  For once, the beautiful slanting eyes that gazed up into Lucien's
were not narrowed or flashing fire, but glowing with something that looked like
hope.  The sensuous mouth was not twisted with contempt, but smiling almost
girlishly.  He sighed as her small white hand — a hand that could fell a man
twice her size with one blow, a hand that was as strong as it was feminine —
came up to trace the bones of his face, the point of his cheek, the noble,
sloping, nearly unbroken line of his profile.

"You still
haven't told me," he murmured, still thinking about that hand as he
enjoyed its gentle caress.

"Told you
what?"

"How you
rendered me senseless back in Paris."

She merely
smiled.

He lifted a
brow, waiting.

"Oh, very
well," she said, and let her fingers drift to the sides of his neck.
"There are arteries here.  If you can find just the right spot and press
gently, it produces a brief loss of consciousness."

"Ah, then.
Something you learned during your tenure in the Orient?"

Again, that
slow, mysterious smile.

She traced his
lips with one finger.  "I suppose I should apologize for what I did to you
that night, but I really didn't dare to leave you, unguarded, with the
aphrodisiac so near at hand."

"And I
suppose I should apologize for making such a mess of your life back in France.
It was not very gentlemanly of me, though I do not regret the end result."

She ran her
fingertip down the bridge of his nose.  "Yes — the end result.  I never
knew you were baiting me with all your talk about 'the colonies.'  Never
realized that your sentiments toward America are benevolent, and that you
empathize with the struggles of my homeland.  All I knew was that because of
you, I had to leave Paris, my ability to bring an end to the war between our
two lands compromised.   But sometimes fate deals us a hand that's every bit as
good.  I will welcome your intercession in Parliament, Lucien, to bring about
independence and peace."

"And I
promise you that peace between our two lands is something I will work most
diligently for, my dear."

"Yes — yes,
I think I believe you."

"You must
trust me implicitly."

"I'm not
very good at trusting people."

"It is a
skill that will take practice, then."

"But I'm
working on it, don't you think?  I mean, look at us, here and now, interacting
as if we actually like each other, as if we're friends instead of wary
enemies."

He smiled as her
fingers traced the roughness of his jaw.  "My dear Eva.  I have never
thought of you as my enemy."

She, too,
smiled, and then looked away — but not before he saw the sudden, troubled
confusion in her eyes.

"What is
it?"

"Do you
think your brothers — well, Charles in particular  — will ever forgive me for
what I did to him the night of the robbery?"

"I am sure
that if you ask his forgiveness, he will give it."  He smoothed her hair
back from her face.  "Is it so very important?"

"Yes, it
is."  She gazed up into his eyes.  "Because, you see, Lucien, I, too,
want what my sisters-in-law have.  A happy marriage.  Cheerful, bouncing
children.  A husband who lo —" She flushed.  "Cherishes and respects me."

He knew what
she'd almost said.  "It is conceivable that love, given time and half a
chance, may blossom between us, Eva.  But the trust must come first."

"Do you
trust me?"

He smiled, his
eyes very dark and deep.  "With my life."

She looked away,
assailed by guilt.  How brave he was, willing to risk everything:  his heart,
his pride, his dignity.  Was he that much stronger, that much more courageous,
than she?  Why could she not reciprocate?

I can
reciprocate.  And I can start right now.

"Lucien,"
she said, haltingly.  "Do you remember how you once asked me about my father,
and about what he . . . did?"

"I
do."

Eva swallowed.  Fear
began to speed up her heartbeat, cause her palms to grow damp.  Trusting him —
trusting anyone — was hard.  More difficult, even, than agreeing to marry him.
She wasn't sure if she could do it.

"Is there
something you wish to tell me, Eva?

She took a deep,
bracing breath.  "Yes."

His face lost
its smile, became grave; he said nothing, just waited, allowing her the time
she needed.  Finally, Eva shut her eyes and let her mind travel back over the
years.

"I was the
only child of a sea captain turned merchant," she began.  "We lived
in Salem, Massachusetts" — she gave a nervous little laugh — "the
witch town."

She waited for
him to make a comment about that, but he did not.  He merely lay there
beside her, watching her face, letting her tell this tale that had shaped her
into the woman she had become.

"My mother
was the youngest daughter of an English baronet whose seat is near Bristol . .
. a thriving port, as I'm sure you know.  It was there that she met my father.
He was tall, charming, adventurous — and altogether off limits for a woman of
my mother's noble blood.  Her family forbade her to see him, but of course, she
did so anyhow . . . and soon found herself pregnant.  With me.  My father
married her, her family cut all ties with her, and he took her back to America
with him, where he became one of the richest men in Salem.

"My
earliest memories are of my mother weeping as my father prepared for a sea
voyage.  It was the same thing, every time.  The house would grow silent and
still, the air almost brittle.  I would not dare to speak, but would stay out
of their way, watching my father as he silently packed his trunk, watching my
mother as she sat crying noisily, a handkerchief in one hand and a bottle of
spirits in the other . . . looking for attention and never getting it.

"It was a
grand performance, but he would ignore it.  Always.  And when it came time for
him to leave, he would kiss her on the cheek — always formally, with no more
feeling than if he were saying farewell to a dog — ruffle my hair in a pretense
of affection, and that would be it.  Off he would go, plying the Orient or the Indies,
returning weeks, months later with wondrous cargoes of spices, china, and other
exotic treasures that made me ache for wanting to see and visit those same
places."

She smiled sadly
and, pulling a thick tendril of glossy red hair over her shoulder, began to
plait it, needful of something to do with her fingers, her conflicting
emotions.  "Oh, how I used to beg him to take Mama and me with him on his
voyages!  But he never did, of course.  He'd just shake his head and say that
the sea was no place for women.  Looking back, I suppose it was as good an
excuse as any; Mama would not have gone with him even if he'd wanted us to be
there."

She came to the
end of the braid, combed it out with her fingers, began plaiting the skein of
hair once more, tighter this time, neater, her movements growing more
agitated.  "My father was favored with youthful good looks, wealth, and
charm.  Too much charm.  The sort of charm that women usually find impossible
to resist."  Her face grew shadowed.  "He was gone to sea a lot, but
when he came back from a voyage, smelling of wind and sun and salt, he always
had a trinket for me, a shawl of silk, a bag of fruit from some faraway port.
I loved it when my papa came home."  She swallowed, hard, staring at the
three ends of the little braid.  "I loved my papa."

Lucien smiled
gently; he could feel her pain as keenly as if it were in his own heart.
"Loved him, or worshipped him?"

"A little
of both."  She looked at him then, chin high, making a vain attempt to
maintain her pride — but he could see the suffering in her eyes, suffering that
she was unable to hide.  "I loved him . . . but I never knew, until one
horrible day, that he did not love me."

Outside, the
wind flung sleet against the windows, the draft moving the heavy drapes.
Lucien pulled the blanket up and tucked it around his wife's bare shoulders.

"I could
never understand why Mama was always so bitter and unhappy, her eyes full of
poison, when she spoke of my dear papa.  I could never understand why she grew
furious when I extolled his virtues, could never understand why she said the
things she did about men, and always in a venomous tone, the words forced out
between clenched teeth, her hatred so forceful it was often enough to drive me
from the room."

"What
things?"

"Oh, the
truth . . . things such as, 'You can't trust any of them, not a damned one of
them,' and 'Never fall in love, Eva, it will only break your heart,' and other
such advice that I did, of course, fail to heed until it was too late for me as
well.  But I will get to that.  What was I saying?  Oh,  yes.  I was saying how
I never understood why Mama hated men so, why she was never kind to my father,
why she loathed the idea of him coming home as much as she loathed the idea of
him leaving . . . why she would invite the women of Salem over for tea,
shutting the door so that I could not eavesdrop, even though I knew that behind
that closed door she was maligning him in front of those harpies, playing the
martyr with a vicious intensity that, at the time, I thought was largely
undeserved.  Unfair."  She gave a bitter little laugh and wiped at her
eye.  Wiped at the other.  "Oh, if only I'd known.  And on the day I
turned nine, I found out."

Hot tears were
spilling from her eyes, racing each other down her cheeks; wordlessly, Lucien
touched his thumb to the damp tracks and gently wiped them away.  "You
don't have to tell me if this is too painful, my dear —"

She shook her head,
her eyes suddenly fierce.  "No — I have started this, I will finish
it."

He leaned back,
watching helplessly as she ripped the hapless little braid apart with trembling
fingers and once more set to work on plaiting it.

"I could
not bear to be in the house with Mama, could not bear to see her drinking,
raging against my father, her fate, and men in general.  It was no more
difficult for me to slip out of the house and, disguised as one of them, join
the boys who used to gather around the docks, waiting for ships to come in,
trying to absorb some of the sea's excitement, than it was for me to adopt the
guise of a man some years later, fabricate references, and gain entrance into
Harvard.  Though the lads of Salem knew me to be a girl and accepted me as such,
at Harvard I had everyone fooled.  I was tall, athletic, quick — and, being
something of a late bloomer, I looked the part in breeches and coat.  But those
boys at the docks — they taught me how to fight dirty.  And those at Harvard"
— she gave a contemptuous laugh — "they taught me how to fight like a
gentleman.  Fools . . . for all their brains at that revered institution,
nobody ever caught on that I was a woman."

She came to the
end of the braid and began twisting it around her fingertip.  "But I digress.
One day, when I was at the docks with my young friends, a ship came in — I
immediately recognized it as my father's.  I grew excited, as I always did when
he returned from a long voyage, and ran down to greet him after the ship
dropped anchor.  I came up short before reaching him.  Before he saw me."
She paused, her face very still.  "There — there was a woman there."

Lucien tensed,
seeing the stricken look on Eva's face that must have echoed the one she had
worn all those years ago.

"I had
never believed my mother when she raged about men, had always defended my papa
because I thought he was . . . different.  But there, all dressed in fancy
silks and jewels that he, no doubt, had paid for, stood proof of my mother's
convictions.  She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, a painted
woman, and there she was, smiling a slow, seductive smile as she watched my
father being rowed toward shore.  He — he got out of the little boat.  His face
became animated and loving, the way it never did when he was with my mother,
and he offered that . . . that woman his arm and led her off . . . while my
world closed up around me."

Lucien ached for
her.  Lamented the fact that he could do nothing to ease the misery in her
eyes.  "He betrayed you," he said quietly.

"Yes.  He
did.  And there I stood, humiliated, stricken dumb by the realization that my
papa was unfaithful, not only to my mama — but to my belief in him.  It was too
much.  I began to cry.  The boys who I thought were my friends laughed at me,
told me my papa was 'acting just as he should,' and that it was time I faced
reality.  I ran home in tears.  I burst into the house, found my mother with a
bottle, and blurted out what I had seen . . . and it was then that she told me
the truth.  That when she gave birth to me, the experience nearly killed her,
and as a result the doctor advised her to never have any more children."

"Dear
God," said Lucien, understanding making him want to gather this poor,
still-hurting child up in his arms and comfort her.

"You're no
dull blade, Blackheath.  I'm sure you can figure out the rest.  After I was
born, my father was so resentful that my mother could not give him the
boy-child he'd wanted, the heir to not only his name but his fortune, that he
sought only to punish her for her failings.  He did it by taking mistress after
mistress, flaunting them in front of her, sating the appetites that she could
no longer satisfy.  And that's how I spent the rest of my childhood:  watching
my father come home from sea to be claimed by a different woman every time, and
listening to my weak, self-pitying mother's endless diatribes about the
baseness and untrustworthiness of men while she drank herself closer and closer
to an early grave."  She flung the braid aside, her eyes tragic, sullen.
"Eventually she got there, and put herself out of her own misery."

Lucien felt his
heart constricting.  Now it all made sense.  From childhood on, his wife had
been molded to resent men — and her father's betrayal had crystallized the
seeds of her distrust.  He wanted to strangle this sire of hers who had so
betrayed her; felt a desperate desire to prove that he was different,
that he would never, ever betray her with another woman, even under pain of
death.

"And this .
. . father, of yours," he murmured.  "Is he still alive?"

"No.  He
died at sea, somewhere off the coast of Madagascar, and good riddance to
him."

"Eva."

She buried her
face in her hands, the white fingers splaying up through thick, curling ropes
of vibrant red hair.  "I am sorry, Blackheath.  I am sorry that it is
nearly impossible for me to trust you, to trust any of you, that I am so . . .
damaged.  I am doomed to the same unhappiness as my mother; doomed to repeat
her own dire and vicious warnings, doomed to relive her own miserable existence
—"

"Eva."

"All those
years she warned me, but I had not listened . . . I wanted what I would never
find, I hated her for murdering my fairy-tale dream of love happily ever after
with a handsome, loving husband.  I hated her for being right about my father,
for making me resent men, for making me distrust them as thoroughly as she
did.  We became allies, of sorts.  Enemies, as she always envied my strength.
I grew up.  Grew breasts and hips and a caustic tongue.  And wherever I went, I
was surrounded by men.  My head swelled.  I enjoyed the attention, the power I
had over their pathetic hearts and ungoverned lusts . . . the power I had to
break their hearts, as my father had broken mine so many years before.

"Flattery
was my undoing.  I grew weak.  Soft.  Stupid.  I began to think that maybe,
just maybe, my father was one in a million.  That what happened to my mother
would never happen to me, because I . . ." — she gave a bitter laugh  — I
was strong.  And so, when I met Jacques and he joined my circle of
admirers, I accepted his hand and married him.  He was dashing, just like
Papa.  Aristocratic, like my mama had been.  And attentive — at first.  But he
soon grew cool.  Distant.  One day, Blackheath, I caught him in bed with my
maid.  I never let him near me again.  And from that day on, I vowed that I
would never again allow a man to control my destiny.  That I would never again
tie myself to a man, set myself up for heartbreak."

Lucien shook his
head.  "And yet you married me," he said softly, overwhelmed by what
she had sacrificed — or what she thought she had sacrificed — for her unborn
child.

"You have
promised me my freedom.  If there is nothing else I trust about you, it is that
you are a man of your word."

"I want you
to be happy, Eva.  Not only for your own sake, but for that of the child."

"As long as
you keep your word about my independence, Blackheath, I will be happy."

"And if
fate should separate us?"

"Do you
refer to your nightmares?"

"I
do."

"Then I
shall take the child back to America.  There is nothing to keep me here in England."

Lucien felt the
blood drain from his face.  A chill settled in his spine, spreading out into
his limbs, numbing, even, his fingers and toes.  Oh, no.  Oh dear God, no.

The will.

She looked up,
frowning in concern.  "Lucien, what is it?"

He got to his
feet, raking a hand through his hair before bending to pull on his breeches.
"I am afraid that is impossible."

She laughed.
"Of course it's possible.  I simply take the child, get on a ship, and
go."

"No,"
he said, shaking his head and buttoning the breeches, "you cannot."

She stilled.
Gamely, she tried to muster that flippant, amused laugh she'd mastered so well,
the one that was designed to mask the hurt that lived perpetually in her
heart.  "Really, now, Blackheath, what are you trying to tell me?"

He straightened
and faced her, already regretting the visit to his solicitor, already fearing
the impact of what he was about to tell her.  Oh, hell.  Oh, bloody,
thundering, hell.  Taking a deep, bracing breath, he murmured, "I am
trying to tell you that I made an adjustment to my will.  That you cannot leave
England with the child, Eva, whether or not I am dead."

She just stared
at him, unmoving.

"The child,
should it be a male, is heir to the dukedom of Blackheath," he explained.
"And if it's a girl, she is still my flesh and blood.  My responsibility.
I cannot allow the child to be brought out of England until it reaches its
majority and makes that decision for itself."  Her face was growing pale.
Almost opaque.  "Please, Eva, I beg you to understand; I did not do this
to curtail your freedom — I did it to protect my son or daughter."

She climbed down
from the bed, her nostrils flaring, her eyes cold, hard jewels of fury.
"You did it because you wanted full control over both me and the child,
even from beyond the grave!"

"No.  That
is not true.  I acted only out of concern for both the child's welfare and its
responsibilities toward its birthright."

"You deceived
me!" she cried, shaking her head in denial, as though unable to fathom
what he had done.  "I trusted you, Blackheath!"

"Eva —"

"You
deceived me, created the illusion that I would have my freedom, but you had it
all planned, didn't you?  You wanted me to think I had my independence, but no,
it's all meaningless, isn't it, meaningless by virtue of a simple clause in
your damned will!"

Lucien set his
jaw.  "Eva, you must listen to me, try to understand —"

"Oh, no,
Blackheath, there is nothing to understand.  I see you now for what you are —
the diabolical monster your siblings claim you to be, an arrogant, manipulative
bastard who isn't happy unless he's in control of everyone and everything
around him!"  She yanked on her clothes, abandoning the corset and hoops,
jerking the tapes and ties with vicious fury, her eyes on fire beneath angry
red brows.  "Well, this time you've gone too far, Blackheath.  You can
have your precious pile of stones, your precious title, your precious
birthright, but I'm telling you right now, you've just lost your precious wife!"

He slammed his
fist into the wall in a rare display of temper.  "Damnation, Eva, listen
to me!"

"No,
Blackheath, you listen to me."  She hauled on her bodice, stabbing
her arms through the sleeves, jerking the garment down over her hips.
"You listen to me, because I'm leaving."

And with that,
she spun on her heel and did just that.

Chapter
23

He came after
her, just as she knew he would, authoritative, autocratic, demanding.

"Eva."

She kept
walking, head high, fists clenched, her fury blazing behind eyes squeezed shut.
Oh, this is just what she deserved for trusting a man, just what she had
expected all along, wasn't it?  Wasn't it?  What a damned fool she'd
been!

"Eva!"

His terse
command echoed from just behind her as she swept into the hall.  She stopped
only long enough to grab her cloak and face him, her eyes narrowed.  "Get
away from me, Blackheath," she snarled, her voice quivering with wrath,
self-loathing, and the pain of betrayal.  Her fingers trembled as she fumbled
with her buttons, cinched her hood around her hair.  "I need time to
think.  The least you can grant me is a few moments to do just that, unless you
plan to deprive me of my freedom to think as well as to leave."

He moved to
block the door from which she planned to make her escape, arms crossed, eyes
blacker than Hades, his body an impenetrable wall of solid male flesh.
"You are not going anywhere until we have a talk, madam."

She yanked on
her gloves, bristling at his autocratic tone, his domineering manner.
"No, Blackheath, you need to have a talk, preferably with
yourself.  You need to consider the consequences of governing other people's
lives, making their choices for them, imposing yourself upon their free will.
You may have succeeded in ordering the lives of your siblings, but I swear you
will never order mine, not now, not tomorrow, and certainly not from beyond the
grave."  She walked up to him, skirts dragging, feeling as though she were
made of crystal and needed only the slightest tap to shatter; only strength of
will enabled her to maintain her composure.  "Now, I am asking you,
Blackheath, to stand aside and allow me a few moments to myself."

"I will
gladly allow you a few moments to yourself, madam, a few hours, even —"
his face was set, his eyes glacial, his mouth hard — "but not if you plan
to spend them outside."

"Ah, so
you're my gaoler now, are you?"

"I am your
husband."

"You are
the bane of my existence, and I am asking you to stand aside."

"No."
He remained where he was, arms crossed, barring the door.  "You are not
going outside in this sort of weather."

"Damn you
to hell, Blackheath, I am not a child, and if you have any shred of respect for
my feelings, you will let — me — pass."

"At the
moment, I have far more respect for your health and well-being than I do for
your feelings, madam.  You will turn around, find a bedroom, a parlor, a
sitting room in which to nurse your bruised temper, and when you have reached a
state of calm, we will discuss this matter further."

They faced each
other, neither willing to give an inch, neither willing to back down.  Eva's
face was white with fury, her hand curled into a fist and buried within a fold
of her cloak.  Lucien didn't move.

"So — is
that your verdict then?" she asked, her voice dripping acid.

"It
is."

She turned her
back, as though she could not bear to look at him.  Lucien set his jaw, keeping
his own temper under a tight rein.  How the devil had things come to such a
state?  All he'd done was try to protect his child by keeping it in England
where it would be safe.  He had not wanted to make Eva feel like a prisoner
within her own marriage, had not wanted to make her miserable, had fully
intended to spend his life with her, proving that he was different from all the
other men she had ever known.

And now he'd
done just the opposite.

Inadvertently,
of course, but he'd done it just the same.

Bloody hell.

Guilt assailed
him.  And self-loathing.  He should have known that a simple thing like
protecting his child from beyond the grave would lead to such an impasse.  Why
hadn't he foreseen the consequences of what he'd thought was a completely
natural and appropriate act?  Ah, but of course.  She was American.  A rebel.  An
advocate of freedom, and a woman who — despite all — did not understand
the critical importance of preserving an aristocratic line, a powerful family.
He had misjudged her; he had thought she would understand, even support his
actions.  He had thought she'd be happy to stay in England, rich, pampered,
powerful, after his death . . .  but he had been wrong.

Wrong.

Deliberately, he
softened his voice, trying to find a way to compromise, to reason with her, as
he addressed her back.  "Is it so very important that you leave,
Eva?"

"Important?
Ha!  It is imperative.  You see, Blackheath, I cannot stand the sight of you
another moment.  You make me ill.  You disgust me.  And I can assure you that
unless you intend to confine me under lock and key, I will find a way to
leave you and this wretched marriage I was foolish enough to enter."

Her words cut to
the marrow.  Punched a hole in his heart.  Wordlessly, he stepped aside, his
jaw clenched with fury, his lips a thin, severe line of suppressed pain.  For
once, he was at a loss what to do.

She turned then,
and just as silently jerked up her chin, walked past him, and out into the
night.

Lucien kicked
the door shut behind her.

And stood there
all alone in the room, his temples throbbing, his hands balled into fists as,
outside, the wind whistled around the house, and sleet hissed against the
windows.

Rage boiled up
inside him.  He could feel it leaching out of every pore, burning through his
veins, making his heart pound and pulse and throb until his whole chest felt as
though it were on fire.  If he didn't leave, he feared he would lose control of
his temper, do something vulgar and totally animalistic such as . . . break
something.  Hurt someone.  The idea of losing control was something he dared
not even contemplate.

She left me.

His body began
to quiver, to shake.

She bloody
left me.

Cursing, he
stalked back to the study and threw himself into a chair, willing his mind, his
body, to calmness — and failing miserably.  Desperate for control, he reached
for a glass and a bottle of brandy, his hand shaking so badly that he could
barely bring the spirits to his lips.  He downed the liquor, felt it burning a
path down his throat.  He got to his feet and began to prowl.  To pace.  His
caught a glimpse of his face as he passed a looking glass on the wall; it was a
thundercloud of fury.

She must be in
the stables by now.  Probably choosing the fastest horse upon which to make her
escape.

I'll never
see her again.

He raked a hand
over his face and refilled his glass.  I'll never see her again.

And look at him,
sitting here like a fool, just allowing her to leave and making no move to stop
her.  The depths to which he'd sunk!  What the blazing devil had she done to
his brain, to his self-control, to everything he prided himself on being?  How
had she managed to reduce him to this impotent fury, this raging self-doubt
that was consuming him from within?

He slammed the
glass down, shattering it.  Damn her.  She wasn't going anywhere, not tonight,
not tomorrow, not ever.  They were going to resolve this matter, and they were
going to do it whether she wanted to or not.  His jaw like steel, Lucien
stormed back out into the corridor, through the hall, and, without even pausing
to grab a coat, outside into the night.

Sleet stung his
face, wind lashed his cheeks, and the cold was a thousand needles driving
through his thin shirt as he stalked across the courtyard and headed for the
stables.  He could see lantern light glowing at the windows, and shapes moving
behind them.  Savage satisfaction filled him.  She was still here, then.  He
had caught her.  He would not let her leave.

He had just reached
the door when out she came, stiff, erect, a riding crop in her hand and a
worried groom trailing behind her, leading a saddled mare and protesting that
it was no night for Her Grace to be traveling.

"Her Grace isn't
travelling," Lucien bit out through clenched teeth.

Her head jerked
up and she saw him standing there in the sleet.  Something passed over her
face, settled in her beautiful slanting eyes — and in that moment Lucien knew
he'd made a grave mistake.

Her mouth curved
in a poisonous little smile.  "I should have known you'd interfere,"
she murmured, her voice colder than the sleet that beat down against their
faces.  She no longer radiated the furious temper he had left her in; now,
there was nothing but resentment.  Loathing.  "Even now you try to control
my destiny.  My fate.  You despicable wretch."

"You are
not going out on a night like this."

"Ah, listen
to you, Blackheath . . . ever the dictator, aren't you?"  She shook her
head.  "You just can't let a person control their own destiny, can't allow
them their God-given freedom of will.  How can you, when you think you rank
right up there with the Creator himself?"  She took the mare's reins from
the groom.  "You just don't learn.  I suspect you never will."  She
led the mare to the mounting block, gathered the reins and swung neatly up onto
the horse's back, where she sat staring down at him in disdain, the sleet
beating down around her face.  "I am well rid of you, Blackheath.  Just
remember, things could have been different . . . if only you'd been able
to relinquish some of that precious control you value so highly."

She put her heel
to the horse's flank; the mare began to move.

Lucien stepped
in front of the animal.  "Eva, I beg of you, don't go."

"You beg
of me?  You, the mighty Blackheath, reduced to begging?"  She gave a high,
mocking laugh, though he saw the pain in her eyes, the wounds that he had torn
in her soul.  "Oh, you can beg all you like, but it's not going to get you
anything but humiliation.  I think I would like to see you humiliated, though.
It's nothing less than you deserve.  Now out of my way.  I am through with
you."

Lucien caught
the mare's reins as Eva tried to get past.  The sleet was pelting his face now,
running through his hair and down the back of his neck, the wind knifing
through the thin shirt that was all he had against the elements.  "For
God's sake, woman, if you insist on leaving in this weather, at least let
Rothwell drive you into the village.  I don't want — that is, you can't be out
riding in this sort of storm.  Let Rothwell take you in the coach — if not for
your own sake, then for that of the child."

She glanced down
at him, weighing his words against her own fierce pride.  Then she jerked her
gaze up and away, glaring out into the silent darkness.  Around them, the sleet
hissed down, caking the mare's neck with ice, tracking down her thick winter
coat in dark rivulets, making her lay her ears flat against her head.  The
cobbles upon which they stood were growing slick.  The wind was picking up.  A short
distance away, a worried Rothwell stood shivering.

"Eva — please."

She swung back
to face him, her eyes burning with something like hatred as her gaze met his.
Wordlessly, she stared down at him through the stinging sleet; then, she kicked
free of the stirrups, swung down from the saddle before he cold step forward to
assist her, and stalked back into the stable.

Rothwell looked
toward Lucien for instruction.

But he was still
staring into the black rectangle of darkness into which Eva had disappeared.

"Hitch up a
team and see her safely into the village," he bit out.  "There's an
inn on the High Street.  Deliver her safely to the door, and do not leave until
you have the landlord's assurance that she will have a room for the night and all
the comforts she desires."

And with that,
Lucien turned on his heel and stalked back through the worsening weather toward
the house, his last words still stinging his tongue, his heart sitting like a
ball of lead in his chest.

They were the
hardest words he'd ever had to utter in his life.

Chapter
24

He slammed into
the house, ice melting from his hair and sliding down the back of his neck as
he stalked back toward the study.

He was so angry
he couldn't even think.  Never — not since he'd found his father all those years
ago, lying dead on those cold stone stairs with a broken neck — had he felt so
out of control, so near to . . . tears.  He seized the bottle of brandy, got
another glass, and immediately tossed it back, uncaring that he was soaked
through to the skin and shaking with cold.  He was too distraught to seek the
warmth of the hearth.  Instead, his gaze, of its own accord, jerked up and
found the window, hidden from his blazing eyes by thick, pulled-shut drapes.

Only supreme
force of will kept him from getting to his feet, yanking the drapes aside, and
getting a last glimpse of her as she came back out of the stable and entered
the coach.  In fact, he could envision it now; Eva, his wife, his duchess,
pacing back and forth as she waited for it to be readied, her eyes like two
chips of emerald, the riding crop still in her hand, no doubt, and impatiently
slapping her thigh.  It was all he could do not to go to her — again — and
infuriate her all the more with his bungled attempts at stopping this nonsense,
at trying to reach an understanding, a reconciliation.  But he had tried that
once and failed; all he'd succeeded in doing was making her hate him all the
more.

To hell with
her, then.  He'd lived without her for nearly thirty years, he could live
without her now.  He could.  Damn it, he was the Duke of Blackheath and he
didn't need to be chasing after a woman's skirts, making a fool of himself and
losing his own self-respect in the bargain!  God above, if his friends could
see him now . . . how they would be laughing!

He downed the
brandy, turning his back on the window so he could not be tempted to observe
her departure.  But the brandy would not dull the churning, writhing torment
that made him unable to sit still, unable to rein his thoughts into some
semblance of order, unable to do anything but pace back and forth and curse her
for her stubbornness and inability to see reason.

He was just
reaching for the bottle once more when he heard hoofbeats and the jangle of
harnesses just outside the window.  His insides tensed; he froze, jaw clenched,
shutting his eyes against the emotions that threatened to consume him, willing
himself to stand right where he was until the vehicle was long past the
window.  The noise peaked, then diminished, soon lost to the howl of the wind.
Lucien finished the glass of brandy, and then, his face set and cold, stalked
to the window and finally ripped open the drapes.

There, fresh
tracks through the crusted ice that covered the ground, leading off toward the
road.  He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat.  Heard his heartbeat echoing
in his ears.

There was
nothing out there now but beating-down sleet, and vast, empty darkness.

She was gone.

~~~~

It was freezing
cold in the coach.

Inside, Eva sat
as stiff as a corpse, willing her body not to shiver, staring straight ahead as
she tried to banish that last sight of Lucien stalking back toward the house
like a sullen, angry wolf.

She wanted to
cry.  To give lease to the tears that stung her eyelids, rose up in the back of
her throat, threatened to reduce her to contemptible, pathetic weakness.  It
was her own fault, of course; she had trusted him, a man.  As soon as she'd
begun to trust, he had betrayed her.  She didn't seem to learn, either.

She was no
better than he was.

She settled back
against the seat, burying her hands within the heavy folds of her cloak,
watching the needles of sleet streaking the dark window.  She could hear the
wheels crunching through the icy crust that now covered the ground.  They had
left the drive now, were on the road that led to the village.  Was Blackheath
giving chase?  She resisted the urge to look out the back window.  She rather
hoped that he was . . . she needed him as the target for her fury, needed her
fury to chase away the niggling thought that maybe, just maybe, he had come
back outside not in order to control her, but because he truly did care about
her safety.

About their
marriage.

About her.

Codswallop!  He
didn't care, didn't care one jot; all he cared about was his precious dukedom
and the power he wore about him like a mantle, power that he, in all his
aristocratic arrogance, expected to exert upon everyone whose lives touched
his.  Control.  It was all about control, wasn't it?

The bastard!
She was well rid of him!

She heard
Rothwell shout something to the horses, and then the vehicle veered left, the
wheels sliding for a heart-stopping moment as they crossed the bridge, frozen
now, that spanned the inlet.  A moment later they were turning south, following
the coastal road.  The wind began to pick up as they neared the sea.  Already
Eva could feel it rocking the coach, could sense the difficulty the horses were
having in keeping their footing on sleet-covered ice.  A prickle of unease
chased up her spine, and she hastily banished it.  She was safe and dry in the
coach; she could, at least, thank Blackheath for insisting she take it.

She settled back
against the seat, staring into the darkness.  Go back.   She shut her
eyes, pushing her fingertips against them and trying to ignore the persistent little
voice.  Go back, talk to him, try to see things from his side . . .

No!  She would
not humiliate herself so, she would not give him another opportunity — not one!
— to have the upper hand, the mocking triumph, the victory that would be his if
she went slinking back to him with her tail between her legs.  She would go to
the inn, sleep on her troubles, and maybe in the morning, when her head was
cooler, when she could think instead of just feel, she would consider what to
do next.  For now, she only wanted to escape —

Again the wheels
slid on ice, and Eva's hand shot out, her heart banging as she steadied herself
against the door handle.  She looked out the window.  They were very near the
sea; she could see its dark, almost frightening expanse out there beyond the
edge of the land, could feel the wind that drove ruthlessly off the long,
endless waves, buffeting the coach, rocking it on its axles.

Her uneasiness
built.  Her hands were sweating now, despite the chill inside the vehicle.
Perhaps she ought to tell Rothwell to turn around and take the longer road into
the village.

Perhaps she
ought to consider going back to Blackheath.

Perhaps she
ought to —

She cried out as
the coach skidded dizzyingly hard to the left, unable to find purchase on ice.
She heard Rothwell's desperate shouts, the frightened whinny of a horse, and
then, in slow, sickening motion, her world went awry as the vehicle, still
moving, hit the frozen verge and careened over.  Eva was hurled from the seat.
Glass broke all around her and there was a horrible screech of metal.  Her
knees shaking, she got to her feet — and reaching up, found the door where the
roof had been just a moment before.

The coach was on
its side.

Her knees gone
to jelly, she pushed the door open.  Immediately the wind caught it, ripping it
back on its hinges, nearly crushing her fingers and sending sleet driving into
her face as she looked out into the night.  Rothwell, who must have been flung
from the box, was trying to calm the horses, one of which was down, the other,
wild-eyed with fright, rearing and ready to bolt.  Eva's relief turned to angry
frustration.  This was just what she should have expected would happen.  Just
what she should have predicted, given that she'd taken Blackheath's advice and
allowed Rothwell to drive her when she would have fared much better on
horseback.  Men.  Stupid, impossible, men!

The hell with
this.  She'd walk to the village before she suffered another minute in
the company of a male.  Hooking her hands around the sill, she pulled herself
up through the door.  Instantly the wind blew her hood back, slinging sleet and
salt spray into her face and knifing through her cloak.  She drew herself up
farther until she was balanced on the edge — and what she saw filled her with
horror.  Not ten feet to her left was the edge of the cliffs, and beyond them,
several thousand miles of ocean.  And there was Rothwell, who'd just freed the
standing horse and was now trying to calm the downed one, still tangled in its
harness and thrashing wildly as it tried to get to its feet.

He looked up and
saw Eva poised atop the coach, ready to leap down — and flung his palm out,
trying to stay her.

"Your
Grace, please don't move!  I'll help you down as soon as I free the
horse!"

But Eva had had
enough.  More than enough.  She began to straighten in preparation to jump down
— just as the horse, still writhing on the ice, managed to gain its feet — and
bolted.  The overturned vehicle jerked forward.  Eva's feet went out from under
her, and she was pitched over its side.

Straight toward
the cliff.

She careened
through space, only to hit the ground with a bone-jarring crash, feet
scrabbling for purchase, hands flailing as she tried to slow her fall.  But it
was no use.  Her fall had momentum.  And it was taking her straight down the
cliff.

She screamed.
Her fingernails tore as, sliding feet first on her belly, she clawed at icy
outcroppings.  Rocks broke loose, charging past her on her downward slide,
bump, bump, bumping around her, racing her toward the sea that boiled and
thrashed so far below.  She groped frantically for a handhold; kicked her feet,
raked furrows in the ice with what remained of her nails.  Rubble tore at her
legs, bruised her knees, sent her skirts riding up around her waist as she
belted down the slope on a toboggan of loose stone and ice, falling ever
faster, ever downward —

Bang.

She slammed
against a rocky outcropping in a brilliant explosion of agony.  Agony that
burst from her pelvis, from her midriff, from the lowest region of her belly.
The pain tore at her consciousness, at her ability to even draw breath.  Far
below, the ocean boiled.  A few last pebbles skittered past.  She lay there,
the sleet stinging the back of her bare legs, feeling herself bleeding in a
hundred tiny places . . .

In one
frighteningly vital one.

"Help me .
. ."  She raised her face to the wind, the sleet that was now turning to
sifting, whirling snow.  "Oh, dear God . . . help me . . ."

But she knew,
even as she clung to the outcropping of rock, even as the pain became a
thousand knives impaling her belly, that it was too late.

Too late to for
her.

Too late for the
baby.

And too late —
far too late — to go back.

She tipped her
forehead against the icy stone and, as the tears came, surrendered to the
darkness.

Chapter
25

By the time
Lucien finished the bottle of brandy, the tinkling sound of sleet against the
windows had stopped.  Now, only snow whispered against the cold panes.

He sat sprawled
in a chair, damp shirt clinging to his back, his eyelids heavy, his brain
refusing to shut down as he had tried so hard to get it to do.  Another bottle,
then.  Yes, that was what he needed.  Setting his glass down, he pulled himself
to his feet.  Immediately his legs folded beneath him, and he narrowly missed
clipping his chin on the edge of a table as he went down.  He lay there on the
carpet for a moment, fighting dizziness, realizing, with a sense of stupefied
wonder, that he was drunk.

Drunk.
He had never been drunk in his life.  He had never been willing to relinquish control
of his mind, his body, to something outside of his own will, and the sensation
of finally having done so filled him with horrified amazement, curious
self-disgust.  Drunk.  And why?

Because of a
woman.

A woman who had
stripped him of all control, all sense of self, all identity . . . and left him
lying here on the floor, helplessly afloat on a sea of brandy.

At least he was
warm.  Comfortable.  Filled with a sense of lassitude that managed — only just —
to blanket the emotions that still churned his heart.  He pulled himself up
and, careening off a table, managed to retrieve another bottle from the
cabinet.  With a curiously unsteady hand, he splashed some into his glass and
sank back down into the chair, contemplating its color, its clarity, with flat,
unseeing eyes.

Yes, he was
warm.  Comfortable.  He took a sip of the liquor.  But what about her?  Was she
warm and comfortable out there in the winter darkness?  How could she be?

She — out there
in the winter darkness.

Lucien frowned.
Something wasn't right here.  She was his wife.  His duchess.  She shouldn't be
out there in the sleet and snow while he sat here in a sleepy, stuporous fog.

Look at what
she has reduced you to.

Indeed.

Look at you,
lying here in your own misery.  Why don't you go after her?  Bring her home
where she belongs?  It is your duty.

Duty, duty,
duty.  Always, duty.  But damn it all, that was his first obligation.  Duty.  And
his wife.

He got to his
feet, feeling as though he were swimming, clawing through fumes of brandy.  The
house was silent.  Not a servant was in sight.  Thank God for furniture, which
aided his precarious balance.  Thank God for brandy.  He staggered out into the
hall, remembering how she had confronted him here an hour . . . two? . .
. three? . . . before.  Agony sliced through him.  He might still be able to
catch her.  She would be at the inn.  He would go get her, bring her back home.

He pulled open
the door, using it for balance, and tottered down the stairs out into the
night.  It was only as he slipped and fell just outside, ice cutting his hand,
that he realized he had forgotten his greatcoat.  The devil, it was snowing.  Snowing.
He looked back up at the steps down which he had all but fallen, decided they
were too much for him to negotiate, and, pulling himself back to his feet,
headed down the drive, slipping and sliding all the way, a lonely figure in the
snowy darkness.

From some
distant part of himself, he felt the cold against his skin, scarcely protected
by his thin wet shirt.  Dampness came up through the soles of his shoes.  Snow
melted against his face.  But the brandy kept the sensations at bay.  He bent
his head and, mustering all his concentration, focused on putting one foot in
front of the other, one step, another, one step, another, as he lurched with a
strange, disjointed purpose down the dark, lonely road toward the village.

Eva, Eva.
Didn't she know, didn't she care, how besotted he was over her, how wretched
she had made him?  One step, another, one step, another.  Steadier steps, now;
the air, the exercise, the cold, the concentration . . . the fog that
obliterated his mind was parting, and through it, patches of clarity were
showing.

Patches of
clarity that brought only pain.

One step,
another, one step, another.  Damnation, it was cold.  Should have brought the
greatcoat after all.  Why hadn't he?  Ah, yes, the steps.  Steps.  One step,
another.  One step, another.  He watched his shoes scuffing through the falling
snow.  Felt the terrain beneath the crusted ground changing, and realized he
was no longer on the road.  Ah, yes.  The bridge that spanned the little inlet.
He reached out, grabbed the handrail for support, and skidded back down the
other side.

A strange sound
was coming from his mouth.  His teeth, chattering with cold.  He wrapped his
arms about himself and continued on, following the road toward the sea.  The
wind had stilled, though he could hear the distant roar of the ocean now, the
eerie silence of the vast and lonely night.

He trudged on.
From far behind him, back along the road, he heard hoofbeats, and men shouting
to each other.  Oddly familiar, those voices.  Ah, hell.  Keep going.  He
couldn't go back to the house and play host until he had his wife back.

And then
silence, deep, brooding, still, closed about him once more, the only sound,
that of his feet crunching along the frozen ground.

Time lost all
meaning.  He pressed on, head bent against the snow, his breath frosting the
air.  He was near the sea now.  He could smell it.  Taste it.  Hear it.  Ah,
yes.  There it was, cold and black, stretching into forever beyond the cliffs.

He kept going,
and then something made him stop and look up.  There, melting out of the
darkness far ahead, was a figure, leading a pair of horses.

Lucien stood
there, frowning.  A sense of anxiety pressed down upon him, but he could not
identify its source; desperately, he tried to gather his wits, but they eluded
him.

"Your
Grace!"

The voice was
all but obliterated by distance and lingering gusts of wind, but Lucien
recognized it.

Rothwell.

Inebriation beat
a retreat behind alarm.

Panic.

"Your
Grace!"  The figure was running toward him now, slipping and sliding on
snow-glazed ice, the horses trotting to keep up.  Lucien shook the cobwebs from
his head and hurried forward to meet the solitary figure.  Rothwell.  The
coach.  Eva.  It was all becoming clear to him now —

"Your
Grace, there's been an accident . . . I tried to help her, but I couldn't —"

Immediately
Lucien was sober.  More sober than he had ever been in his life.  Dread paralyzed
him — than he was running toward the groom, his heart pounding, a thousand
awful thoughts racing through his suddenly alert mind.

"Where is
she?  What happened?"

"Coach
overturned," the groom panted.  "She tried to jump out . . . fell . .
. down the cliff —"

"Down
the cliff?"

Lucien staggered
back, unable, for a moment, to see past the suddenly blackness that nearly
wiped out his vision.

"I was just
coming to get you, Your Grace . . . figured you'd know what to do . . .   She's
lying partway down the slope just after Taverton Bend — I tried to reach her,
but she —"  The man's voice choked on a sob.  "She wasn't
answering."

Lucien gripped
the servant's shoulders.  "Listen to me.  The duchess's life may well
depend upon it!  Return to the house at once and call out the staff.  Bring as
many as you can find back with you, along with blankets, additional horses, and
the other coach.  Send someone into the village for the doctor, and be quick
about it.  Move, man!"

Oh, dear God.  Dear
God!  Lucien broke into a run, heading down the path from which Rothwell
had just come.  Taverton Bend.  Oh, dear God, if she'd fallen there —

He refused to
think about it.  Refused to think about the sifting snow, the low whine of the
wind, his own rising panic.  He pounded on across the treacherous terrain,
every cold breath searing his lungs, every thought that entered his mind
causing him to find more speed, more stamina, as he charged across the frozen
landscape.  Eva.  Oh, dear Lord, he must reach Eva . . .

There, just
ahead, was the bend, meandering dangerously close to the cliffs.  From out of
the darkness, Lucien saw the coach, still on its side, the snow already
collecting atop its still-open door, the harnesses lying in a twisted, broken
heap nearby.  He ran to the edge of the cliff —

And stopped.

There she was.
She lay some twenty feet down, a small, broken doll pinned against a wedge of
rock, the snow already covering her body like the first earth thrown onto a new
grave.

The blood rushed
to his head and he tipped it back, fists clenched, eyes squeezed shut, feeling
such agony rising up from his soul that it was all he could do not to give way
to the howl of pure animal anguish that threatened to consume him.

"Eva!  Eva,
answer me!"

The snow swirled
around her; she did not move, did not raise her head, did not make a sound.
She was dead.  She had to be.

His heart
constricted.  The back of his throat closed up.  Lucien set his jaw and
mustered every shred of his formidable self-control.  He turned back toward the
overturned coach, the mangled harnesses, and it was only as he bent down and
began working with the automatic motions of the driven that he realized the
dampness running down his cheeks was tears.

I've killed
her.  His raw, frozen fingers worked to unfasten a buckle, another.  I've
killed her, and the child with her.  She was right.  I did not learn my lesson;
in seeking to control others I have lost the love of my sister, and now the
life of my wife.  He fastened two strips of leather together, unbuckled
another section, fastened it to the first, the frozen line growing as fast as
the tears that leaked, uncontrollably, from his eyes.  I've killed her . . .
Oh, Eva, you are free of me at last.  Free, forever.

He furiously
wiped a hand across his eyes, but the tears would not stop.  The harnesses lay
in pieces now, stiff beneath his numb fingers; one by one, he shook them out,
buckled them together, and at last had a sizeable length of leather.  He
carried it back toward the cliff's edge, steeling himself for the grim task he
must perform, this last husbandly duty to his duchess — to bring her body home.

He looped one
end of the line around the base of a rock, wrapped the other around his wrist,
and began the treacherous descent.

He allowed no
feeling to penetrate his wall of icy resolve.  No thought, beyond reaching the
snow-covered figure wedged down there against the rocks, to penetrate his
brain.  He had no fear, though he knew that one slip, one misstep, would mean
his own death.  He had killed her.  Life was not worth living without her.  He
had nothing to fear.

Slowly, he
picked his way down the slope, testing each outcropping to be sure it was solid,
checking each tentatively placed step to be sure his footing was secure.  The
wind howled around him; far below, the sea thrashed, boiling and breaking white
against the rocks.

He was almost
there.  Stones and chunks of ice, loosened by his progress, skittered down the
slope, some of them bouncing off the still, cloaked figure crumpled beneath him
before arcing out into space on their journey toward the sea.  Lucien winced
with each one that struck her, though he knew she was beyond feeling.

Eight more feet
and he would have her.

Six more —

And then his
foot slipped, pain blazed up his leg, and for a moment he hung suspended by the
leather line, heart hammering; then the wind slammed him back against the
cliffside.

He looked down
and saw what the fall had cost him.  His calf was ripped open, his stocking
awash in blood.  Lucien deadened his mind against the pain.  It was only
physical.  Nothing like the wound that had torn apart his heart.

He continued
down, cursing, for his ankle would no longer support him.  He must have sprained
it.  Maybe broken it.  He no longer cared.  All that mattered was reaching his
Eva.

On one leg now,
he descended the last few feet, gingerly testing the ledge upon which she
rested to be sure it would take his weight.  Then, and only then, did he take a
deep, bracing breath and, his face expressionless, reach for the cold, stiff
body of his dead wife.

His free arm
slid beneath her body, so frail, so tiny in death — and pulled it up against
him.  Her head fell against his shoulder.  The wind blew her hair against his
face, twisting the wet strands around his neck, wrapping him in its sweet smell.
Eva.  Oh, Eva . . .  For a long moment he held her against him,
squeezing his eyes shut against the pain, the tears that threatened to
overwhelm him, the urge to just let go of the leather line and give up, for he
had nothing left to lose; he had lost it already.

Lost it because
of his own arrogance.

He took a deep,
bracing breath and raised his face to the falling snow, willing strength back
into his will.  He could not take the easy way out.  He had to bring her home.
She was a duchess of Blackheath.  She deserved more — he swallowed the ache in
his throat — so much more . . .

Buckling the
harness around her body to secure her to himself, Lucien began the slow,
dangerous climb back to the road.  Wind pummelled his back.  His fingers went
numb, snow and ice hindered his progress, and his injured leg would not take
his weight.  He used his knee instead, pressing it against rock in place of his
useless foot, letting his good leg do most of the work.  Snow sifted against
his neck, his face; his frozen hands were raw and bleeding.  He paused to catch
his breath, letting his cheek rest against ice.  Continued on.  Stopped to rest
once more.  At last, he reached the top of the cliff and hauled himself and his
precious burden over its edge.

He collapsed and
lay there in the thin snow, cradling his dead wife to his chest and finally
allowing the tears to come.  Tears that, once started, would not stop, but only
gathered force like a river that has broken its dam.  Great, hitching sobs
locked up his chest and convulsed his body with grief.  He crushed her in his
arms, buried his face in her hair, and unbuckling her, let the wracking sobs
consume him.

Blackheath.

At first he
thought it was only a product of his tortured mind, his bitter, crushing guilt,
that brought the word into his head.  He tightened his arms around her.  She
was dead.

"Blackheath."

A ghost.

"Lucien . .
. you — you came for me . . ."

No ghost.  He
raised his head, shoved his fingers into her hair to anchor her head, and
looked down at her white, white face.  At the eyes, half-closed and glazed with
shock, that stared up into his.  She wasn't dead.  She ought to be, but she was
not.

"Eva —
"

"Lucien . .
.  I hurt.  Hurt all over."  Her voice was thin, thready.  Dear God, he
had to get her warm.  Had to get her to safety.  Had to get her to a doctor.

He gathered her
up in his arms and, slipping on ice, carried her to the lee of the overturned
coach, settling her against the undercarriage.  He wished he had his coat to
cover her.  Wished he had a horse.  Wished to God he'd set out in search of her
earlier, instead of drowning himself in self-pity and despair.

"Where do
you hurt, sweeting?"

She tipped her
head back against the coach, closing her eyes.  "It's gone, Lucien . . . gone."

Immediately, he
knew what she meant.  His hands shaking, he tried to warm them on his own
freezing body, to no avail.  Fearing the worst, he carefully lifted her skirts —
and felt everything inside him still. She was covered in blood.  Her legs were
streaked with it, her thighs soaked with it.  And it was still coming out of
her.

She began to
cry.

Wordlessly,
Lucien gathered her close as her body lurched with great, hitching sobs of pain
and grief.  He set his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut and rocked her, his own
pain so intense he thought he might die from it.  Her arms came around him,
clinging like a child.  She tried to bury herself against him, her tears
scalding his neck.  Lucien's throat closed with agony.  This was all his
fault.  He had done this to her.  To their unborn baby.  In seeking to keep his
child here in England, he had killed it.

Killed it.

"Eva."

He held her
against him, feeling the wind rocking the overturned vehicle against which they
rested.  Rothwell should have returned by now.  Where was he?  "Eva, I must
go get help."

"Don't
leave me, Lucien — oh, please, don't leave me."

She was crying
again, unable to think, only feel.  Gone was her hatred of him; gone was her
stubborn, willful pride, her beautiful fire; in its place was only this broken
shell to which he had reduced her, this pitiful, sobbing little girl-woman who
would die if he did not get her to safety soon.

"Eva,
listen to me," he said, peeling her from his chest and setting her back.
He looked into her eyes, but her soul was gone, along with all reason,
comprehension, and understanding, and only two empty orbs of pain looked back
at him.  "Eva — I am going for help.  You must stay here, do you
understand me?"

"Don't
leave me.  Please, don't leave me."

"Darling, I
have to.  I will be back for you.  You must promise me to hold on, to stay
awake, to muster every reason you can think of to hate me, if only to keep
fighting, do you understand?  Do not fall asleep — do not leave me,
Eva.  I cannot go on without you."  He pulled her close, dropping a long,
trembling kiss upon her icy brow.  "Don't leave me, because I love
you."

"Don't
leave me," she repeated, her words a whisper.

He loved her.
He had said it, but she had not comprehended, for the only thing she knew was
pain and shock and grief.  Lucien stood up on his one good leg, knowing, even
as he surveyed the coach that he had not the strength to push it back over.
Oh, hell.  Oh bloody, ripping hell.  Snow sifted down around him, coating his
eyelashes, and his body was shivering uncontrollably.  Desperately, he wondered
what he could do to shelter her . . . and then realized there might be a rug in
the boot.

On one leg, he
hobbled around the overturned coach, managed to get the boot open, and yes —
oh, thank God — found a blanket.

He carried it
back to her.  Her eyes were closed.  Panicking, he grabbed her shoulders and
shook her until they opened once more.

"Don't
leave me, Lucien . . ."

He could not
answer her.  If he did not leave her, she would die here, in his arms.  He
pulled her closer to the coach, trying to wedge her between the axle and
undercarriage, and tucked the blanket around her to keep out the cold.  Then,
gently taking her hands, he kissed each palm and tucked them beneath the
blanket.

He got to his
feet, resolved on a course of action, cursing Rothwell, who should have
returned long before now.  Around them, the snow whispered down . . . slow,
deadly, silent.

She looked at
him, a flicker of comprehension in her eyes, of panic — before her lids lowered
once more.

Lucien turned on
his heel.  He tucked his raw, reddened hands beneath his armpits to try and
warm them, and, dragging his useless foot, shivering uncontrollably in the
cold, began the long trek back to the house.

Chapter
26

The riders that
Lucien had heard galloping through the night had been no mere drunken
hallucination.  His brothers, who had set off in immediate pursuit of Nerissa,
had found her in Southampton, waiting for a ship to take her to France; now,
she was safe in the coach that accompanied them, and her brothers had decided
to spend a few days at Gingermere before returning their angry sister to Blackheath
Castle.

Covered in snow
and frozen to the bone, they entered the house only to find the place in an
uproar.  His and Her Graces had argued.  His and HER Graces? Charles had
expostulated, when his siblings could only stare in shock.

"He married
her this afternoon," explained the housekeeper.

"They had a
blazing row and she left him an hour ago," added the butler.  "In the
storm."

And then an
extremely distraught young man whose face was blistered with cold had burst in,
babbling that the duchess was dead, fallen down the cliff, and that he had met
His Grace — who'd appeared to be quite under the weather with drink — out on
the cliffs, wearing no coat, no greatcoat, nothing but a thin shirt to protect
him from the elements, and that His Grace had gone to retrieve the duchess's
body and that everyone in the house was supposed to turn out to help —

Thank God for
Lord Charles, whose military training and competent, reassuring manner were
enough to bring order out of chaos.  "Everybody quiet," he
ordered in a sharp voice that instantly quelled all clamor.  He faced them all,
snow and ice still dripping from his blond queue and down his broad, commanding
back.  "Now listen to me."

He was not
wearing his army uniform, but he might as well have been.  He was the officer
his men knew and respected — and as one, the panicky household quieted and gave
him their full attention.

Charles faced
the shivering groom who had just arrived.  "Someone fetch this man a hot
drink.  What is your name?"

"Rothwell,
my lord."

"Rothwell,
tell me exactly what happened, where you left the duchess, and where you last
saw my brother."

Teeth
chattering, Rothwell croaked out the tale, repeating His Grace's orders,
wringing his reddened hands, and saying over and over again that if only the
duchess had stayed put she wouldn't have died.  "She's at Taverton Bend,
my lord . . . halfway down the cliff."

Grim-faced,
Charles listened to this tale and then immediately began to bark out orders.

"You there —"
he beckoned to a footman — "what is your name?  Peterson?  Well, Peterson,
listen closely.  I want you to ride into the village and fetch the doctor.  You
will detain him here until my brothers and I return with the duke and duchess.
Go now."

"And
you."  He summoned the housekeeper.  "You are?"

"Mrs.
Cantwell, my lord."

"Mrs.
Cantwell, I want you and your staff to ready the bedrooms, build up the fires,
gather all the blankets you can find, and have something hot and nourishing
waiting when we all get back.  My sister will help you."

"Yes my
lord."

"And you.  Johnson,
yes?  Run to the stables, find twenty yards of rope, and get the saddles back
on our horses as fast as you can move.  I'll need blankets and a lantern as
well.  Now hurry."

One by one,
Charles took the trouble to learn the names — and earn the loyalty — of those
he would entrust with each task, and then, satisfied that all was running as
smoothly as he could make it, he sent for his own wet greatcoat, called for a
spare, and, with Gareth and Andrew hot on his heels, hurried back into the
night.

He had a feeling
there was no time to lose.

~~~~

Lucien had long
since given up trying to walk.

Where his ankle
had been, there was only agony.  Had he the time, he might have torn a strip
from his sleeve and bound up the gaping leg wound, but he dared not waste even
a single moment.  All that mattered was reaching the house . . . and bringing
help back for Eva.

But his leg,
damn it, would not support him.  He found a stick, frozen to the ground, and
managed to pry it loose, only to have it break when he tried to use it as a
crutch.  He flung it aside and continued on, hobbling on one foot, dragging the
other, until ice cost him his balance and he went sprawling, landing hard on
his chin and sending his teeth through the tip of his tongue.  He hauled
himself to his feet, spitting out blood, the cold making him dizzy now,
light-headed, faint.  Still he pressed on.  And fell again.

He began to
crawl, ignoring the pain in his frozen hands as he pulled himself through the
thin, crusted snow.  How far had he come?  How far back had he left Eva?  He
wasn't sure.  Nothing existed now except cold.  Pain.  And the only thing that
continued to drive him:

The knowledge that
if he did not reach the house, his wife would die.

The ache in his
hands became unbearable.  He got to his knees and then, using his injured ankle
for balance, back to his feet.  He put weight upon that ankle, forcing it to do
work it could not do, hating it for its incompetence, punishing it with pain
for giving out on him.  He would not let it stop him.  Would not let it keep
him from saving his duchess's life.

He was ever so
cold.  His wet shirt had frozen now, chafing his skin raw.  His teeth chattered
in his head, and he felt an increasingly urgent need to stop, to lie down . . .
to sleep.  And still the snow fell, whispering down all around him.  He paused,
panting, and gazed out into the night.  Nothing but darkness.  The persistent
hiss of falling snow.  And far off to his right, the sea.

Keep moving.

It was anguish
just to move his legs.  Agony just to draw breath.  To stay awake.

Don't fall
asleep, he had told her.

Don't fall
asleep, he ordered himself.

But he was fast
losing the ability to think.  His mind was no longer obeying his will, and
neither was his body.  He shook with cold, with exhaustion — with shock.  It
became an effort just to keep his eyes open.  Again he fell.  Again, he managed
to get to his feet, rods of agony shooting up his injured leg, the snow behind
him bloody where he had fallen.  But the agony kept him awake.  Alive.  In
sleep lay death.  He knew that.  He pressed on, forcing weight onto the leg,
welcoming the pain because pain meant survival.

He concentrated
on each step.  Welcomed each burst of pain.  Thought only of Eva, lying back
there alone, helpless, probably dying, maybe already dead.  She was depending
on him.  He could not fail her.  Where the hell was Rothwell?  Why hadn't he
returned?  Where was everyone?

Where, for that
matter, was he?

Keep moving.

He did — and
then his leg gave out from under him.  He tumbled down an incline, his body
crashing through ice, salt water stinging his eyes, filling his nose, choking
him.

Recoiling with
cold, he clawed to the surface and, gasping hoarsely, blinked the salt from his
eyes.

The inlet.  The
damned inlet.  He was nearly home, then.  Nearly to safety.  Warmth.  And most
importantly of all, help for Eva.

But he was too
cold.  He couldn't think.  His strength was rapidly failing him.  Floes of ice
were drifting down on him, hitting his face, the arm he weakly raised to try
and deflect them.  He went under.  Clawed back to the surface just as another
chunk of ice smashed into his back.  He willed strength into his exhausted arms,
his legs, but there was nothing left.  Nothing.  With one last, desperate kick,
he propelled himself to shore, dragged himself partway up the frozen bank, and
shut his eyes, ice and salt water still flowing over his legs.

Keep moving.

He tried.

Keep moving,
damn it!

His face fell
against the frozen bank.  His body would no longer obey him.  Blackness
encroached upon his vision field, and he tried, a last time, to move.  Failed.  And
then Lucien whispered the two words he had never thought to utter, only his
lips moving against the ice that pillowed his cheek.

"I . . .
cannot."

And succumbed to
the darkness.

~~~~

Charles,
carrying a lantern and mounted on his faithful military mount, Contender, led
his brothers toward the bridge.  He refused to think of what they might find
out there in the darkness.  Refused to think they might be too late.  Refused
to think at all, except of finding his brother and sister-in-law.

"Charles, hold
up!"

It was Gareth,
just behind him on Crusader, pulling the horse up as they crested the bridge;
behind him, Andrew's grey thoroughbred, Newton, nearly plowed into Contender's
haunches.  "Look, there's someone in the water down there!"

Charles stared
in the direction that Gareth indicated and felt his heart still.  "It's
Lucien," he said, already swinging off Contender and running across the
bridge.

He charged down
the bank, seizing his brother's hands and hauling him out of the water.
Instantly Gareth and Andrew were there, helping him, until they had Lucien
safely up on the sandy, ice-strewn bank.

"Oh, God,"
Andrew choked out, seeing the duke's still, pale face.  "Is he —"

"Dead?"
Gareth whispered.

Charles refused
to speak; he merely ripped open Lucien's drenched shirt and put an ear to his
chest.  In the darkness, his brothers knelt in stricken horror, watching the
snow sifting down upon Charles's pale lashes, Lucien's still face.  Neither
spoke.  Neither dared to breathe.

Charles
straightened.  "No.  Not dead.  Hurry, let's get him wrapped in a blanket
and onto Newton's back.  You two bring him back to the house and get him warmed
up.  Don't let him try to come to Eva's rescue when he wakes up.  If he
wakes up," he added darkly.  "Christ, he reeks of brandy."

Gareth and
Andrew exchanged glances; Lucien had never been one to overindulge.  But there
was no time for speculation.  They all knew that something horrible indeed must
have happened to bring their brother to such a state, and all of them knew that
in all likelihood, the duchess was dead.

"Come on,
Luce," Gareth said, trying for bolstering cheer as together they rolled
their unconscious brother in the thick wool blanket and carried him back toward
the waiting horses.  "You're going to be all right."

Lucien stirred
just as they managed to get him across Newton's back.  "Eva . . ."

Charles, grim-faced,
leaned close.  "Lucien, where is she?"

"Taverton
Bend . . . left her with the coach.  You must save her, Charles.  I . . . am
depending on you."

Charles was used
to people depending on him — indeed, he thrived on it — but he had no more
power over life and death than anyone else.  Still, for his brother's sake, he
would give it his best effort.  He squeezed Lucien's hand.  "I will bring
her back to you, Lucien.  I promise."

And then, his
face grave and his heart full of dread, he ordered Gareth and Andrew to take
Lucien back to the house and, swinging up onto Contender's back, sent the big
horse galloping off into the snowy darkness.

~~~~

Hoofbeats.

She heard them
above the wind, the thundering roar of the sea, which had tried, ever since
Lucien had left her, to lull her into the sleep of death.  But she had made a
promise to him.  She had not gone to sleep, and now she could hear a horse,
coming up fast from out of the night, ever closer, ever louder.  Someone was
coming for her.  Her eyes stung with tears.  Oh, Lucien.

Eva, shivering,
huddled deeper into the blanket.  It took all her strength just to turn her
head.  Sure enough, a rider was approaching, heading her way with relentless
purpose; he held a lantern high, its light a beacon of hope that cleaved the
night.  Eva began to shake; help had come.  He had come.

Except it wasn't
him.  Something was familiar but not right about the rider in the sweeping
greatcoat, and as he pulled the horse up before her and swung down in the same
motion, the lantern shone full in his face and she saw who her rescuer was.

Saw it, at the
same time she remembered that same face in the light of another lantern when
she had ruthlessly struck him down as he had tried, then as now, to help her.

Eva began to
cry.

"Your
Grace."  He was there before her, all kindness, all concern, all stern,
trustworthy competence.  "I have come to take you home."

"Lucien —"

"He is
unwell.  He needs you."  He knelt before her, brusque, efficient, and yes,
worried.  Worried, when he should feel nothing but hatred for her.  "Will
you allow me to take you?"

She heard the
benevolence in his voice even as she reached out and placed her icy hand within
his own.  "You mean you will not order me, then?"

He smiled
gently.  "No, your Grace.  You outrank me now."

His kindness
overwhelmed her.  Kindness, when she had treated him so despicably.  When she
had hurt him.  Fresh tears tracked down her cheeks.  She was so unworthy.
Unworthy of his kindness, unworthy of anyone's love, unworthy of anything but
death.

He was gentleman
enough to allow her the dignity of her tears without calling attention to
them.  She tried to get up.  Couldn't.  She had no strength left.  He saw it
and, reaching down, gathered her up in his arms and, keeping her wrapped in her
cloak and blanket, carried her to the waiting horse.

She didn't know
how he did it, but somehow, he managed to get her up into the saddle, bracing
here there while he swung up behind her; then, holding her against his chest,
he turned the big horse's head for home.

He was warm and
solid beneath her ear.  She could smell the dampness of his wool greatcoat, the
hard strength of his arm holding her safely close.  His nearness did not fill
her with lust, but with comfort — the sort of comfort she might seek from a
brother.  And he was a brother now, wasn't he?

A brother.   She
did not deserve this; oh, God, she didn't deserve it.  As he sent the horse
moving slowly across the icy terrain so as not to jar her pain-wracked body,
great, gulping sobs claimed her and she cried like a baby in his arms, no
longer caring what he might think, no longer trying to maintain an illusion of
femininely-superior strength.

He didn't say a
word.

"I'm so
sorry, Charles," she choked out.  "How can you be so kind to me after
what I did to you?"

"I believe
in giving everyone a second chance."

"But I hurt
you . . .  I struck you down and humiliated you and this is how you repay me,
by saving my life.  Oh, God . . . I'm sorry."  She started crying again.
"I'm so sorry . . ."

"It is all
right, Eva.  I have forgiven you.  Now hush.  Save your strength.  My brother
needs you.  We all need you."

She spoke no
more, and as her brother-in-law held her tight and safe, she shut her eyes,
realizing, as the fog of oblivion began to close around her, that she had been
wrong all along.  Wrong about men.  Wrong about Lucien.

Wrong about
everything.

If she survived
this, she had a lot of catching up to do.

A lot of amends
to make.

Her head fell
back against the strong arm that held her, the tears still wet upon her cheeks.

Chapter
27

They were a
family, and they rallied around her.

Not just because
of what she meant to Lucien — but because she was now one of their own.

In the days that
followed, Nerissa took over the duties of hostess with a brisk and inborn
efficiency.  The best doctors were sent for.  Charles, Gareth, and Andrew took
turns trying to keep Lucien off his injured leg — with little success — and
Lucien never left the bedside of his duchess, now delirious with fever and, according
to the doctors, quite unlikely to survive.

But they were
only doctors, he thought savagely.  He was the Duke of Blackheath, and he knew
the power of his own will, the lengths to which it would go to serve him, and
he had no patience for the dire predictions of the medical profession.

"I am
sorry, Your Grace — unless we bleed her, she probably won't last the
night."

"Bleed
her?"  Bleed her?  She's spent the last two days bleeding!  Now get
out," he snarled, glaring at the hapless fool who'd dared make such a
ridiculous suggestion.

The physician
fled.  Another was brought in his place.

"Even if
she survives, she is unlikely to ever conceive another child.  You would do
well, Your Grace, not to expect her to give you the heir you seek —"

One look from Lucien
had frozen the man in mid-sentence.  "Get out!"

And then a third
doctor, full of his own importance, arrived.  He bent over the duchess's
battered body, his self-confidence rapidly draining as the duke loomed over
him, not saying a word, not needing to, his eyes black and savage and cold.
Finally he, too, had straightened, shaking his head.  "I am sorry, Your
Grace.  There is nothing I can do for her except make her comfortable."

Lucien threw him
out, too, and went into such a rage that even the servants steered clear of
him.

He paced the
floor, using his walking stick as a crutch, roaring at anyone who dared tell
him he'd best stay off his leg until it healed.  He refused meals, refused
sleep, and existed on black coffee.  He lost track of time.  He forgot what day
it was.  He knew nothing except the shallow rasp of his duchess's breathing,
the hot brow he continuously bathed, the scalding bath of his own bitter
anguish.

It was obvious,
of course.  He loved her.  He loved her, and he wasn't afraid or too proud to
admit it.  She had slipped under his defenses and claimed his heart, and now
here she was, fading away before his eyes, taking his heart right along with
her.  Leaving him.  Damn the fates that had done this to him!  Damn the fates
that had done this to her!  He wanted his wife back; he wanted his
duchess with her rare and beautiful courage, one of the few people on earth who
wasn't afraid of him, the only woman who would ever be his match.  But the
woman who lay in the bed before him was no more than a pale, silent shell of
what she had been, her hair caught in a single girlish braid over one shoulder,
her skin as white and fragile as tissue.

She was dying.
And it was all his fault.  By trying to control her life he had killed her,
just as he had probably killed Perry, just as he had certainly killed any
chance Nerissa had for happiness.  He had wrought unforgivable damage in the
lives of other people; people who were not pawns to be moved about a
chessboard, nor puppets to dance to his bidding — but people he cared about.
People he loved.  People who had the right to make their own choices, live
their lives as they pleased, decide their own futures . . . without his
interference.

He looked at the
woman in the bed, and felt his chest constrict with grief.  How colossal his
arrogance now seemed, in light of what it had cost him, might still cost him.
Even now her words came floating back to him, torturing him with their
prophetic accuracy:

You need to
consider the consequences of governing other people's lives, of making their
choices for them, of imposing yourself upon their free will.

The
consequences.  Well, she was living — dying — proof of the consequences, wasn't
she?  He had imposed his will upon hers, with no respect for her thoughts, feelings,
and wishes.  He had imposed it because he had been supremely confident that he
had known best, that his way was the only way, that nobody was as capable as he
was of handling responsibility.  And he had done the same thing with his
siblings' lives — every one of them.  His clever manipulations had all seemed
like a game to him.  How he had prided himself on his successes, the ease with
which he'd ordered their lives!  But now, with bitter remorse, he realized that
life was no game.

And neither was
death.  He looked down at Eva's still, pale face.

I have
learned my lesson.  He buried his head in his hands, dragged them down his
face, then hooked them around the back of his neck, elbows on his knees.  He
sat watching her with a brooding stare.  Her ribs rose and fell beneath the
coverlet, and he willed each laborious breath not to be the last.  I have
learned my lesson, Eva, and never again will I try to play God with other
people's destinies.  If you live, my dearest, I will make it up to you.  If you
want your freedom, I will set you free.  Whatever I can give you is yours.  I
swear it.

Someone knocked
gently at the door.

"Lucien?"

He unhooked his
hands from his nape and looked up, blinking the fatigue from his eyes.  It was
Charles.  He pushed the bedside candle back so his brother would not see
glaring evidence of the agony that ravaged him.  "Come in."

His sibling
entered the room with a tray.  "Would you like me to sit with her for a
while?  You really ought to get some sleep."

"I cannot
sleep.  I will stay with her."

I will stay
with her because I am terrified of leaving her.  Terrified that if I leave her,
even for a moment, she will leave me and die, just like Father did.  Just like Mother
did.  I cannot allow it.

Charles nodded
and, pulling up a table, set the tray down.  The scent of strong coffee filled
the air.  He poured them each a cup, stirred milk and sugar into his, and,
carrying it, went to stand before the fire.  "I have been speaking with
Nerissa," he said, sipping the steaming brew.  "She's most distraught
about Perry — and furious with us for waylaying her in Southampton, I'm
afraid.  I know you intend to resume the search for him, but at the moment,
your going to France is out of the question.  I will go in your stead."

"We are on
the very brink of war with France, Charles.  It is unsafe."

"I know.
But some things must be done.  This is one of them."

"When do
you plan to leave?"

"In the
morning."

Lucien opened
his mouth to protest; he had spent his life protecting his siblings, making
choices for them, ordering their lives.  Charles wanted to go to France.
Who am I to prevent that?

He took a deep,
bracing breath, and clenched the protest between his teeth, giving his
more-than-capable brother the respect he deserved, hating the out-of-control
sensation of letting go.  God, it was hard . . .  So very hard.

"How's the
leg?"

His leg?  Yes,
of course.  His leg.  Lucien absently massaged the bandaged ankle and calf.  "On
the mend."  He took another deep breath, then bent his head to his hand,
kneading his brow and trying to find the right words.  "Charles, I have an
apology to make to you.  To all of you.  An apology that is many years
overdue."

Charles turned
and arched a pale brow.

"I want to
say I'm sorry," Lucien continued gruffly.  "Sorry for orchestrating
your lives, imposing my will upon yours, stripping you all of the respect and
dignity of making your own choices in life.  I will not do so again.  I have .
. . I have learned my lesson, I think."

Charles merely
looked at him, his pale blue eyes unreadable.  And then he turned back to the
fire, cradling his cup in his hands and watching the flames with a little
smile.  "Ah.  That explains, then, why you didn't give me grief about
going to France."

"Yes.  I
don't like the idea, of course, but I will not forbid you to go."

"It must be
difficult for you."

"Excruciatingly
so.  But I'm trying."

Charles took
another sip of his coffee, contemplating his cup for a moment, his thoughts his
own.

"Charles?"

"Yes?"

"You've uh,
been through all this.  All of you have.  Is this —" he swallowed, making
a helpless little gesture with his hands as he tried to find the right words.
"Is this the way it's supposed to feel?"

"Is this
the way what's supposed to feel?"

Lucien frowned,
his gaze sliding to the still figure on the bed.  "I'm sure you know what
I'm talking about."

"I'm sure I
do."  Charles smiled.  "I must confess, however, to taking a certain
satisfaction in wanting to hear you say it."

"Far be it
from me to deny you, then."  Lucien smoothed a stray tendril of hair from
Eva's brow.  "All these years, I have scoffed at the idea of my ever
falling in love.  Not that I didn't believe in it, of course; I remember how it
was with our parents.  I see how it is between all of you and your spouses.  I
just never thought it would happen to me.  Never thought I had time for
it, never thought my responsibilities to the dukedom would allow it, always
thought I could . . . control my feelings such that I would never be plagued by
it.  And now it has happened to me."  He shook his head.
"Funny, how quickly it creeps up on a person — I never saw it
coming."

Charles just
stood there, smiling gently.

But Lucien was
still gazing at Eva, his eyes deep and dark and sad.  "Never saw it
coming," he repeated, almost to himself.  "And never expected it to —
to feel like this."

"You mean,
gloriously euphoric one moment, and as if someone is carving up your heart in
the next?"  Charles gazed at his brother's bent head.  "Yes, Lucien,
that is exactly how it is supposed to feel.  At least, in the early stages.
Things do get easier as time goes by, though.  More . . . settled, I suppose
you might say, as you grow into a friendship with each other."

"Even so,
one must wonder why anyone would choose to even be in love."

Charles was
still smiling.  "I don't think most of us actually choose, Lucien.
Sometimes love chooses us."

Lucien said
nothing, his coffee going cold in its cup.  Both brothers were quiet for a few
moments; only the sound of the fire snapping in the grate and the wind sighing
outside broke the silence.  Both were lonely sounds.  Mournful sounds.  "I
have much to atone for, Charles," said Lucien at last.  "If she
lives, I don't even know where I shall begin."

"Well, you
could start by telling her how much you love her.  Tell her you cannot live
without her, that she means more to you than anything on this earth.  It might
give her the strength she needs to survive."

"I am not
convinced she even wants to survive.  I have treated her grievously, Charles.  Forced
her to do my will.  For her, death will be an escape."  He clenched his
jaw.  "An escape from me."

Charles finished
his coffee and looked down at his brother's bent head.  Never had he seen
Lucien like this; never had he seen him laid so low, never had he seen him so
humbled.  Then he cast an appraising eye over the woman in the bed.  Charles
had seen enough men dying while in the army, that he recognized the signs.  And
he knew, with a certainty that he didn't bother to question, that the Duchess
of Blackheath was not going to die.

Not anytime
soon, at least.

But Lucien
didn't know that.  And, given that love was already changing him in ways that
Charles had never even begun to imagine, strange and wonderful ways that were
preciously exciting, he decided that it was best, perhaps, not to interrupt its
course.  Love had a lesson to teach his brother.  And Charles would not
interfere.  Let Lucien experience the full range of feelings that went with
giving your heart to another person . . . including the frightening helplessness
that often went with it.

For a man so
used to control, it would be good for him to feel helpless.

He gathered up
the tray and cups.  "Well, I'm off to bed, then," he said.
"Good night, Lucien."

"Good
night."

He moved past
his brother, whose head was bowed in anguish, dropping a hand on his shoulder
as he passed.  And then he exited the room, quietly shutting the door behind
him.

Outside, Gareth
and Andrew waited; they got immediately to their feet, frowning as they saw
Charles's thoughtful, preoccupied expression.

"Well, what
is it, man?"

"Lucien."
Charles smiled, his heart full of what he'd just witnessed.  He looked at his
two siblings.  "He has finally, I think . . . received his true comeuppance."

~~~~

Some hours
later, Eva opened her eyes.

It was dark in
the room.  Preternaturally still.  She could hear the distant roar of the sea,
the casements rattling in the wind, the first cry of a newly awakened gull.
For a moment, her mind struggled to make sense of what had happened to her,
knowing that something wasn't right.

That something
was missing.

She felt a
grinding ache that went deeper than physical, and into her very soul.

And then she
remembered.

I've lost the
baby.

Everything came
back to her.  The fight with Lucien.  Her determination to leave him despite
the storm.  The accident.  Oh, God — the accident.  She had a dim memory of her
husband coming for her.  Rescuing her from the treacherous face of the cliff,
even as the blood had oozed from between her legs, silent, endless, and terrible
— as though her entire body were weeping for the baby's loss.

I've killed
it.  It's dead.

Dead.

She lay there,
hot tears trickling from her eyes, moving in silent, meandering misery down her
temples and soaking the pillow beneath her.  It's dead.  Her womb was
empty now.  So was her soul.  She, with her pride and lack of faith, had killed
her little baby.

Dead.

She wept
soundlessly, staring up at the ever-lightening ceiling above her head, the
distant sound of the surf tolling her baby's death with each mournful crash.
It was getting lighter now; blackness was becoming gray, and around her, the
still, silent shapes of furniture were materializing from out of the gloom.
There, the highboy just visible through the parted bed-curtains.  There, the
darker shape of a painting on the wall.  There, somebody in a chair drawn up
beside the bed, so close she could hear his measured breathing.

She reached out
and laid her fingers on his hand.

Lucien.

He stirred.  His
fingers closed around her own.  He said nothing, just sitting there holding her
hand, giving her a lifeline to his indomitable strength.

You are not
alone, dearest.  I am here.

She was unsure
whether the words came from his lips — or from the deepest recesses of his
soul.  She only knew that he had said them.  I am here.  Her tears
turned scalding, though she did not sob, did not make a sound.  I am here.
She squeezed her eyes shut, gripping his hand, the hot, salty droplets rolling
down her cheeks in silent misery.  I am here.

The bed sagged
as he sat down beside her, holding out his arms in unspoken invitation.

A year, a month,
a week ago, she would not have accepted the comfort he was offering, would have
laughed in his face, would have shunned the desperate ache in herself that now
made those arms the only place in the world she wanted to be.  A place she
never wanted to leave.  A place that would always hold her, keep her safe from
harm, offer refuge, comfort —

Love.

Without further
hesitation, Eva went into them.

"Lucien,"
she sobbed brokenly.  "The baby . . . oh, God, the baby . . ."

He didn't say a
word.  He simply held her and let her weep until she had no tears left to cry,
until the raw agony of grief began to subside, until exhaustion filed in to
take its place.  But she knew that he shared her anguish.  That the solid,
comforting strength that surrounded her would always be hers.  That he had been
with her by the bed all along, that he would always be with her.  Her mind
began to shut down, to seek relief in the deep oblivion of sleep.  She was safe
now.  After all these years of distrust, resentment and pretense, she was safe.

With him.

Chapter
28

In the days that
followed, Eva slowly went about the business of healing.  Grieving.  Accepting
not only that she had lost her baby, but any chances of ever giving her husband
the heir that was so important to a proud and powerful aristocratic family like
the de Montfortes.

She had failed
him.  She could never keep him now.  Not in a million years.  Annulment was
sure to come.  Day after day, she waited for his attentions to cool, to wander,
waited for him to find some other pursuit than sitting at her bedside,
encouraging her to eat when she had no appetite, joining her under the covers
at night, his big body keeping her warm as he shared stories about his life,
his childhood, those he knew and loved and cared for . . . and encouraged her
to do the same.  She was wary, waiting for the bubble to burst, waiting for him
to realize that she was no good as his duchess now.  Useless.  But he did not
go away.  He did not leave her.  And as the days turned into weeks, Eva's
wariness faded to confusion, and then a fragile hope that maybe — just maybe —
she had found that which her sisters-in-law had.

That which she
had longed for all her life.

The deep and abiding
love of a man.

God knew she
loved him.  How could she not?  He was the antithesis of all she had believed
the human male to be.  He was powerful, intelligent, compassionate, devoted,
caring, and worthy of the respect she had never thought she would give someone
of his gender.  She ached when he left her room, even for a moment.  She glowed
when he returned, knowing her smiles also lit him up, banishing the shadows
from beneath his eyes, the severity from his face.  He told her he loved her.
He proved it in gesture, kindness, and word.  But she could not bring herself
to do the same.  Not yet.  It was the last threshold she must cross, and her
inability to do so began to wear on her . . . in the form of frustration, in
the form of guilt.

She determined to
make it up to him.  To do something — anything — that would atone not only for
her failings as his duchess, but for her sins against his family.  Something
that would prove her love for him when she could not quite bring herself to
utter the words.  As her strength grew, she began to pace her room, and then
the house, and then the gardens outside, looking out over a sea as restless as
her own heart . . .

And then one
morning, a long-awaited letter arrived from France.

~~~~

Nerissa awoke
with the dawn.

Three weeks had
passed since Charles had left in search of Perry.  Three weeks, of worrying not
only about her brother's safety, but the fate of her lost love.  Three weeks —
of watching, waiting, for word from France.

Oh, where was
he?  What had he found?

Please,
Charles, come home.  Come home, and bring Perry with you.

The strain was
showing on everyone.  Gareth and Andrew, who'd elected to stay at Gingermere
until Charles's safe return, were desperate to return to their wives.  Gareth
blew out his frustrations by taking long gallops across the dales; Andrew, much
to everyone's dismay, occupied himself with his new explosive, the first
earth-shattering detonation even setting the bells in the village to ringing
the alarm until Andrew himself, fingertips burned and eyebrows singed yet again,
had ridden over to explain the source of the fearful booms, reassuring the
panicky inhabitants that no, the French were not attacking, and no, Britain was
not at war with her age-old enemy across the Channel.

Yet.

But any day now,
the dreaded news would come.  It was a certainty.  Nerissa feared for Charles's
safety.  She paced her room, constantly looking out over the sea, watching,
waiting, worrying.  And now, as she sat at the window and watched the sun rise
in a fiery orange ball, sparkling like diamonds on the water, she wondered if
today would bring the news that the two countries were at war once again.

There was a
gentle knock on the door.

"Come
in," Nerissa called, and turned to see her new sister-in-law enter the room.

"Why, Eva —
good morning."  She frowned.  "Are you sure you shouldn't be
resting?"

"Bah, I
have had more than enough of resting.  In fact, I'm feeling quite like my old
self these days.  Well enough, I think, to even go riding with Lucien this
afternoon."  Eva's green eyes sparkled, as they always did when she spoke
of the duke.  "Meanwhile, I thought we might have breakfast
together."

Nerissa surveyed
her with a critical eye.  Eva was still thin and pale, but every day had
brought healing, and the return of a little more of her old spirit.  As Eva
came fully into the room, bathed in the fiery glow of the newly risen sun,
Nerissa sensed an inherent strength about her that even now seemed to have been
enhanced, rather than beaten down, by all that she had been through.  It was no
wonder Lucien had fallen in love with her.  No wonder he had barely left her
side for the past three weeks.  But was it Lucien's obsessive care that had
brought a new softness to Eva's haughty features?  Was it Lucien's love that
now made her beautiful face glow with openness, something bravely vulnerable,
as though all the hard edges had been razed off, leaving a glittering jewel in
its place?

A maid came in
behind her, bearing a tray of hot rolls and tea.  She set it down, curtseyed,
and left the room as quietly as she'd entered.  Nerissa turned back toward the
window.  She stared out over the water, watching the gulls wheeling, diving, floating
over the silvered sea as Eva came up beside her.

"My Perry .
. . he is alive," she murmured, gazing out at the horizon.  "If he
were dead, surely I would have known . . ."  She placed a hand over her
heart.  "Surely, I would have felt it in here the moment his dear heart
stopped beating, the moment he took his last breath.  Am I not correct,
Eva?"

"You are
correct."

Nerissa turned
and looked into her sister-in-law's brilliant green eyes.  "Do you know
something I don't?"

"A letter
has just come from Charles.  Since Lucien is still abed, and I'm a perpetually
nosy female, I took it upon myself to read it."  She drew a folded piece
of vellum from her pocket and, with a gentle smile, handed it to Nerissa.
"Here."

Nerissa's breath
caught as she stared at the missive.  Hope and panic clawed for possession of
her heart.  What news would the letter contain?  With shaking hands, she turned
so that the fiery gold light streaming in from the window illuminated Charles's
recently-penned words:

Calais

3 February 1778

Lucien,

After
countless inquiries, I have learned that the survivors of Sarah Rose were
transferred to a small gaol near here, which I took upon myself to visit under
the guise of an American diplomat.  I have found Brookhampton.  Our friend,
though alive, is somewhat the worse for wear.  According to those with whom he
is imprisoned, he was engaged in ship-handling when the vessel was attacked,
suffered an injury that rendered him unable to speak for himself, and was taken
prisoner along with the seamen.  As his identity was not known to his
companions, they were unable to testify on his behalf.  Subsequently, our
friend has spent the first weeks of his incarceration trying to reclaim his
memory — and the last weeks, his freedom.

As you can
imagine, the situation here is a precarious one.  Given the rather singular
activities in which he was engaged when the ship was taken, the French do not
recognise our friend as a peer of the Realm and subsequently refuse to release
him.  The English authorities with whom I have pled his case are reluctant to
pursue the matter, for fear of setting the fatal spark to already hot powder
and bringing about this war that looms ever nearer on the horizon.  The
situation is beyond my ability to rectify; I have taken lodgings at 22 Rue de
la Mer in Calais, and beg your presence here as soon as you can
grant it.

Charles

Nerissa lowered
the letter, her eyes filling with tears.  "He's alive — oh, dear God, Eva,
he's alive!  We must go to him at once!"

Eva gently took
the paper from Nerissa's shaking hands and, putting an arm around her
shoulders, guided her to the table where their breakfast waited.  "I have
made a grave mistake, Nerissa.  You see, when I first visited the prisoners in
gaol, there was a young fellow lying on the floor, apparently near death . . .
he was dressed like all the other seamen, and so I neglected to consider that
he might be your lost Perry."  She poured a cup of tea, her eyes rueful.
"Had I known your beau was given to masquerading as a common sailor, I
might have taken a closer look at him."

Nerissa wiped at
her tears.  "I'm sure he was only doing it as a last way to have his fun,
his freedom, before settling down to a life of boring domestitude with
me."

"Here,
now.  You do not know that.  After all, men" — she smiled — "they do
such silly things."

That got
a watery smile out of Nerissa.  "Yes . . .  And Perry is the leader
of the Den of Debauchery, known for their outlandish pranks and outrageous
deviltry.  Or at least, he was.  I tell you, Eva, that is going to
change the moment we get him back."

"I'm sure
it will."  Eva handed the cup to Nerissa.  "Here.  Drink up, while we
decide what is to be done about this situation."

"But
there's nothing to decide — we must get my dear Perry out of that horrible
place at once!"

"Indeed,
but you must hear me out first."  Eva poured a cup of tea for herself.
"As Charles has said, the political situation in France is dangerously
volatile at the moment.  I know this is going to be hard for you to hear,
Nerissa, but you would serve Perry best by remaining here in England and
preparing a loving homecoming for him — while I go to France and negotiate for
his release."

"You?  But
Eva, you've been dreadfully unwell . . .  Why don't you let one of my brothers
go?"

"Because
this is something I must do," she said firmly.  "I have much to atone
for where your family is concerned, Nerissa.  My conscience is burdened.
Please, let me do this — for you, for Perry, for Charles."  Her face grew
shadowed for a moment.  "And, for Lucien."

"Lucien?
He will never let you go by yourself."

"Lucien"
— Eva affected a superior look — "will do as he's told."

An amused male
voice cut through their conversation:  "Lucien will do what?"

Both women
jerked their heads up; there was the duke standing in the open doorway, one
brow raised, his eyes gleaming as he took in the two startled faces.  He
strolled into the room, seated himself beside Eva, and wrapped an arm around
her shoulders.

"I
understand that a letter from Charles came for me this morning," he said
conversationally.  "Perhaps you'd like to share it, my dear?"

"How did you
know that?"

"I know a
lot of things, my love.  Do hand it over."

Eva rolled her
eyes, grinned, and relinquished the letter.  She watched as Lucien quickly
scanned it, his face going grave.  "I must leave for France at once."

"I am going
with you."

"No, Eva, I
forbid it.  You have been ill.  I would not have you accompany me on such a
perilous mission —"

"I beg your
pardon?"

"It is too
dangerous —"

"Now, look
here, husband —"

Nerissa wisely
chose that moment to intervene.

"Really,
Lucien . . . you did tell us all that you're turning over a new leaf.
That you're no longer going to control our lives.  If Eva wants to go, I think
you owe it to her to submit without argument."

Lucien's jaw
tightened as Eva rose to her feet.

"Your
sister's correct," she said.  "Besides, I know my way around French
diplomacy far better than you do.  You would be well advised to let me handle
this."

"But —"

"Lucien,"
Nerissa warned.

He thinned his
lips.  Took a deep, slow breath as he reined in his protests, and sought the
calm both women were both denying him.  Oh, this letting go, this
relinquishment of control . . . it was going to kill him, he just knew it.  But
Eva was right.  She was capable.  She knew her way around this situation far
better than he did, and having her along in Perry's rescue would be an asset,
not a detriment.

He exhaled, and
looked bleakly at his wife.  "I can't win," he murmured, shaking his
head. "I just can't win."

"No,"
she said, grinning as she got to her feet.  Linking her arms around his neck,
she pressed her lips to his, kissing him until the bleakness left his eyes and
they began to simmer with building heat.  "You can't win, so you might as
well stop trying."

Chapter
29

War was declared
between France and England the following day.

While Eva, Gareth
and Andrew went to Portsmouth and prepared for the crossing to France, Lucien
hurried to London, where he was granted an audience with yet another hapless
soul who owed him a favor:  the First Lord of the Admiralty.  Within hours, he
was on his way back to Portsmouth, where he informed his wife and siblings that
they were to journey to France as guests of a certain Captain Christian Lord
aboard the 74-gun warship, Arundel.

Predictably, the
captain — a tall, austere man with pale gold hair and foggy gray eyes — was not
at all pleased to have civilians aboard his ship, and even more irate when he
learned that one of them was a powerful and famous duke.  Still, Captain Lord
graciously gave over his own cabin to the Duke and Duchess of Blackheath,
ordered his first and second lieutenants to relinquish theirs to Lords Andrew
and Gareth de Montforte, and made his quarters elsewhere.

It began to rain
shortly after the ship weighed anchor and headed out into the foamy chop of the
Channel.  Captain Lord, directing activities from the quarterdeck with an eagle
eye, waited until his command, and the little brig Magic that
accompanied them, was well clear of the vessels anchored around Spithead, then
invited the duke and duchess to join him in his quarters for a conference.

There, the two
men granted each other a wary respect, each well aware of the other's power and
influence in his given domain.  Captain Lord had already been briefed by his
admiral about their mission:  to bring the Earl of Brookhampton safely — and
quietly — out of France.  Though Lucien was accustomed to taking matters into
his own hands, he conceded that this was a military operation, and thus
prepared to grudgingly defer to Captain Lord's judgement.

The officer
ensured that his guests had tea, coffee, and some light refreshment before
unrolling a map of Calais.  Spreading it out on his table, and using a sextant
to point out various parts of the coast, he began to outline his plan to get
Earl Brookhampton out of the French gaol.

"My orders
are to secure His Lordship's release under terms as peaceable as we can manage,
given the circumstances.  I hope we will not be forced to rely upon Arundel's
guns to effect our mission, but if it comes to it, we may have no choice."

He took a sip of
coffee.  "Admiralty has already made contact with Lord Charles in Calais,
who has been briefed of our plan."  The captain's gray eyes assessed his
guests and the lieutenants who surrounded him.  "Obviously, with war now
declared, it would be unwise to take our ships in within sight of the French
coast.  Therefore, we must fool the Frogs into thinking that this is an
American, not an English venture.  One glimpse of Arundel and that plan
will be laid to waste."

Lucien saw Eva
straighten in her chair.  "I'm of the same mind, Captain.  As I know the
French coast well, and have contacts near Calais, I propose that I be the one
to go ashore and, as part of the American contingent in Paris, negotiate for
Lord Brookhampton's release."

"No,"
said Lucien flatly.  "I will go."

"You can't
go," Eva countered.  "One look at you and the French will know
immediately that you're English.  Then we'll have to rescue you from gaol as
well as Perry."

"I forbid
it," Lucien said firmly.  "It is unsafe.  Besides, if Charles can
fool them into thinking he's American, so can I."

"Charles
served in Boston.  He's married to an American.  He can effect a passable
enough Yankee accent if he so chooses, which is the only reason he's been able
to deceive the French into thinking he's something he's not.  I'm sorry,
Lucien, but I don't think you're capable of pulling off the same
deception."

"You have
only just recovered from your injury, Eva.  This is too dangerous!"

"And
you," she said sweetly, nudging his ankle beneath the table with her foot,
"have only recently recovered from yours."

Captain Lord
just looked at the two of them, his cool gray eyes giving away nothing.  At
last he cleared his throat.

"With all
due respect, Your Grace, I am in favor of the duchess's plan.  With appropriate
support from my own men, I would prefer that she go in your stead."  He
smiled dryly.  "Besides, if I were to allow you — a duke — to go, and
something happened to you, Admiralty would have my head."

Lucien's eyes
went cold.  "Are you trying to tell me that I can not go?"

Again, that
hard, uncompromising smile.  "Yes."

Lucien stared at
the other man.  Nobody — nobody — had ever tried to thwart him, let
alone challenge his authority.  Who the bloody hell did this fellow think he
was?  He turned his most chilling stare on the captain.  "And you think
your head won't roll if something happens to my wife?"  His voice
was dangerously soft.  "Trust me, Captain, should one hair of her head be
harmed, I will ensure that you — and your precious career — are ruined."

Eva rolled her
eyes.  "Boys —"

But Captain Lord
was not finished.  "I have my orders, and I will carry them out as I see
fit."

"My wife is
not going ashore."

"Oh, yes, I
am," said Eva.

Lucien, jaw
tensed, got to his feet.  He knew the captain's word overrode his own here
aboard ship, but he could not accept it.  He knew Eva's reasoning was sound,
but he could not condone it.  And he knew that if he did not immediately remove
himself from this cabin, somebody — he directed his blackest stare on the
unflappable officer — was going to get hurt.

Very hurt.

He glanced at
Eva.  "I will see you at supper, my dear," he snapped, and bowing,
turned on his heel and stalked out.

Eva waited until
the door shut behind him, then smiled at the unruffled captain.  "Well,
then," she murmured.  "Shall we continue?"

~~~~

Gareth and
Andrew, fascinated by the workings of a warship, had stayed topside until they
were well out into the Channel, watching the seamen running up the ratlines to
set the sails, admiring the smart orderliness with which everything was carried
out, enjoying the feel of the mighty vessel under their feet — and speculating
on the reasons for why Lucien, alone at the weather rail, looked about as
furious as they'd ever seen him.  But as the rain worsened and the ship settled
on her course, Andrew retreated belowdecks, leaving Gareth still topside.  Some
time later, he joined Andrew in his brother's borrowed cabin.

"I say,
Lucien's in one hell of a temper," he announced, as he went to the stern
windows and watched the coast of England fading into the mist far astern.
"I just met Eva going topside to try and console him."  He grinned.
"'Twould appear that he and the captain didn't quite hit it off on the
best of terms."

"Well, no
surprises there."  Andrew was scribbling in a notebook, a lead box resting
near his elbow.  "Two men used to absolute control are bound to
clash."

"I was
talking to one of the crew . . . a lieutenant named Teach.  'Sdeath, the bloke
looks just like Blackbeard.  Said the captain is one of the Royal Navy's finest
and served for a time in Boston, so he must have a good understanding of the
Yankees.  Probably would get on well with Charles, if he were here."

"Yes, well,
speaking of Charles, what I want to know is how we're going to get close enough
to Calais to bring him and Perry out without the French sending their own
warships down on us.  One glance at Arundel here and they'll know
she's British.  And there was that fort the captain pointed out on the map,
too.  I'd hate like hell to get too close to that . . ."

"Eva
explained everything to me.  The plan is to keep Arundel just out of
sight of the coast and send Magic in, flying American colors, to report
on things and land Eva and our men; that way, the Frogs won't catch on that
this is an English operation."

Andrew never
looked up from his notes.  "Sounds good, but we all know that in wartime,
anything could happen" — he curled his arm around the lead box —
"which is why I've come prepared."

Gareth didn't
pick up on Andrew's veiled implication.  "Eva will go ashore tonight under
cover of darkness.  She'll rendezvous with Charles, who'll be waiting there
with horses.  Then they'll both go to the gaol tomorrow morning as
representatives of the American contingent in Paris, obtain Perry's release —
peacefully, it is hoped, but if not, that's why Admiralty sent this ship and
its complement of marines — and meet us back at the landing point tomorrow
evening."  He shook his head.  "No wonder Luce looked angry enough to
commit murder when we saw him earlier!"

Andrew glanced
up.  "What, is he not going with her?"

"Captain
forbids it.  Says if anything happens to a duke, his own head will roll, so
Luce stays here with us."

Now Andrew was
grinning, too.  "By God, that does explain Lucien's foul mood.
He'll not follow anyone's orders but his own.  I predict fireworks,
Gareth."

"So do I.
But really, I'm sure Eva is more than capable of getting Perry out.  Unless
Luce and the captain kill each other, we'll be back in England by tomorrow
night, no shots fired, no blood shed, everything done quite peacefully."
Gareth suddenly noticed the lead box at his brother's elbow.  "I say, Andrew,
what do you have there?"

"My
explosive."

Gareth went
bug-eyed.  "Good God, man, you'll get us all thrown off the ship if the
captain hears of it!"

"The
captain won't hear of it.  Besides, it's wartime" — Andrew was all
innocence — "and one never knows when a new, extra-potent explosive might
prove useful, eh?"

~~~~

Night fell.

As Arundel
prepared to rendezvous with Magic, the Duchess of Blackheath stood on
the lonely, wind-tossed deck, her hair hooded, a cloak protecting her against
the harsh winter sea wind.  Beneath her feet, the mighty ship rose and fell on
the waves, its lanterns doused, its crew working in total darkness.  In the
ever-nearing distance, she could see the dark coast of France.

It was nearly time.
She thought of Nerissa so many miles away, probably awake and praying for the
safety of her loved ones.  She thought of how she had struck Charles down and
humiliated Andrew during the robbery.  And she thought, too, of how she had
hurt Lucien and forever denied him an heir, all because of her own damned
pride.  Sorrow filled her, and she raised her face to the wind.  The time had
come to make amends.  To repay her debt to the de Montfortes.  And yes, to
prove herself worthy of that which she valued more than anything in this world —
Lucien's love.

Suddenly she
knew she was no longer alone.  Knew that he had come.

"Lucien,"
she murmured.

He came silently
up beside her, sliding an arm around her shoulders.  She turned into his
embrace, feeling his heartache, his anxiety for her safety.

"Forgive
me, dearest," she said.  "I know it's hard for you to let me do this,
but please, Lucien, understand that I must."

"I don't
understand.  But I am also trying to tell myself that that doesn't give me the
right to prevent you from going."  He reached down and tilted her face up
to his, blocking the wind and spray with his back so she would not suffer the
full brunt of the elements.  He cradled her jaw within his palms and gazed
steadily into her eyes.  "Will you not change your mind, Eva?"

She shook her
head.  "I cannot, Lucien.  This is something I must do.  For you.  For your
family.  But mostly for myself."

His own eyes
darkened and she saw the desperate ache and worry there before he concealed it
behind a mask of pained resolve.  Then he pushed her hood back and bent his
head to hers, his mouth claiming hers with a desperate hunger.  Wind lashed her
hair across their faces.  The timeless sound of the waves faded, and she heard
only his breathing, felt only his hard, powerful body, sensed only his fear
that this might be their last embrace.  Trust me, trust me, she
thought.  And gave herself up to this sweet good-bye, pressing her body up
against his, feeling the evidence of his desire against her pelvis and wishing,
wishing, wishing she could have him inside her, because she wanted more.  So
much more.

"When I
return, Lucien —"

"No
promises, my love.  Just come back to me, safe and sound."

"When I
return, there is something I must tell you."

"Tell me
now."  Because there might never be another chance.

Eva pulled a
deep breath into her chest — even as she heard someone coming up behind her.
It would be so easy not to say it until she got back.  So easy to put it off
until she felt she had the right to its reciprocation.  So easy to —

"Your
Grace, the boat is ready; it is time to leave."

— just wait
until she returned.

For once she
would not be a coward when it came to matters of the heart.

She reached up
and laid her hand against Lucien's cheek, her gaze meeting his, her heart
constricting.  The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself
from saying them.

"I love
you."

He swallowed.
His lashes came down, and he reached once more for her . . . but she knew that
if she went into his arms, she would never leave.  Steeling herself, Eva
stepped back and turned away, head high as, swallowing the lump in her throat,
she followed the lieutenant toward the waiting boat.  She could feel her husband's
anguished stare on her back.  Could feel his love, his worry, his agony.
Leaving him was the hardest thing she had ever done — but she had a job to do.
The most important job she had ever undertaken.  They would have a lifetime to
spend in each other's arms.

Shunning the
lieutenant's assistance, she climbed down into the boat . . . and looked toward
the dark, menacing coast of France, trying to shake off the feeling of
premonition that had nagged her all evening.

Of dread.

A lifetime.

She could only
hope.

Chapter
30

Charles, wearing
a black greatcoat and pacing fretfully, was waiting for her on the darkened
beach.  He stepped forward and helped her from the boat as it nosed against the
sand, eyeing her in concern.

"You're
sure you're up to this, Eva?  We have a bit of a ride ahead of us."

She turned and
gave the seamen the signal to depart.  "Never felt better," she said,
following Charles toward the three horses tied and waiting nearby.
"Bodies heal.  But other wounds take a little more effort."

"Meaning?"

"That this
is something I must do — for you, for your family . . . for myself."

He nodded,
understanding.  Then a smile softened his taciturn face.  "In that case,
I'm honored to have you at my side.  I must confess, it's good to have a real Yankee
here, as I don't know how long I can carry on with this false American accent.
It is only by virtue of the fact that English is not the primary language of
those with whom I've dealt that I have managed to fool any of them."

"Have you
seen Lord Brookhampton yet?"

"I
have."

"And you're
certain that this man we're about to rescue is indeed your friend?"

"I am
certain."

"Did he
recognize you?"

"No.  He
was asleep.  I hadn't the heart to disturb him, to raise his hopes of rescue.
Ah, here are the horses.  I've brought an extra along for Perry — providing we
are successful in bringing him out."

Eva tossed her
head.  "We will be."

Moments later,
they were cantering along the road to Calais, the reins of the spare horse in
Charles's capable hands.  Trees, pastures, distant villages were becoming
faintly visible in the gloom.  It would be dawn soon.

They stopped and
broke their fast at an inn just outside of Calais, where Charles's impeccable
command of French got them immediate service and a table near the fire.  By the
time the sun was breaking through watery cloud, they were back on the road, the
distant gaol looming upon the horizon.

They pulled the
horses up just outside the gates.

"What
condition is he in?" Eva whispered, dismounting as a guard approached.

"Bad.  But
between the two of us, we should be able to manage him well enough."

"And you
got Captain Lord's message about the plan of action?"

"Yes.  Get
Perry out as diplomatically as possible, ride calmly away, spend the rest of
the day out of sight, and meet the marines from Arundel just after
dark."

"Providing
this all ensues without complication."

"If it
doesn't?"

Eva smiled
grimly.  "We're on our own."

The guard was
swinging open the gates now, eyeing them suspiciously.  "Your
business?" he inquired in French.

Eva answered him
haughtily in his own tongue.  "I am the Comtesse de la Mouriére.  This is
my colleague, Charles Montvale.  We are here as members of the American
contingent in Paris, on orders from Dr. Benjamin Franklin.  Our business is
with your commander."

The guard,
recognizing authority in Eva's manner, bowed low.  "If you will leave your
horses here and come with me . . ."

Dismounting,
they followed him toward the building of dark gray stone.  Behind them, another
guard appeared, hauling the gates shut with an ominous clang that sounded
frightfully final in the early morning stillness.

Eva and Charles
exchanged silent looks, and, then, tight-lipped, continued on.  Eva, her nerves
taut, reached down and touched the pistol hidden in the pocket of her petticoat.
She told herself they were in no immediate danger, but her senses were on high
alert.

"This way, s'il
vous plait."

The guard pushed
open another door, and then they were in the gaol.  Eva blinked, trying to
adjust her eyes to the sudden gloom.  But it was nothing compared to the
stench.  She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it to her nose
as the guard led them deeper into the prison.

Its commander, a
Monsieur Durant, was seated in an office well away from the stink of the main
prison, eating a breakfast of eggs, sausage, and what looked to be a very dark
ale.  He was a large man, wide across the gut, with small, distrustful eyes set
in a face pooled with fat.  He looked up as Eva and Charles were shown in,
nodding in recognition to Charles, and eyeing Eva with curiosity and
undisguised lust.

Her skin crawled
with revulsion.  "I am the Comtesse de la Mouriére," she announced in
haughty, Boston-accented English.  "I am here on business of Dr. Benjamin
Franklin, with orders to secure the release of one of the prisoners taken from
the British ship Sarah Rose during her capture."

Durant pushed
his plate aside, settled back in his chair, and with a dirty fingernail picked
at a piece of meat lodged between his front incisors.  "You have
papers?"

Eva smiled,
though she was well aware that those shrewd, ugly eyes were on her breasts, the
flare of her hips beneath her riding jacket.  "From Dr. Franklin
himself," she murmured, producing the documents she herself had forged.

Durant's pudgy
hand plucked them from her grasp.  He eyed her suspiciously, then scanned the
document.

"It all
seems to be in order," he said, frowning as he handed it back.  "But
me, I cannot understand ze Americans' desire to have me release zis Briton.
Why is he so important to you?  He is crazed in ze head."

"Yes,"
Eva agreed, folding the paper.

"He says he
is a British lord.  Now, even if zis were true, why ze devil would ze Americans
want a British lord?"

Eva gave him her
most flirtatious smile and rapped his shoulder with the document.
"Because, my good sir, if it is true, one British lord is worth a
hundred American seamen when it comes to trading prisoners.  You French are not
the only ones at war with the despicable English.  We've been fighting
them for nearly three years."

"You hate
ze English as much as I, no?"

"Loathe
them," Eva seethed, meeting Durant's shrewd, piggy eyes.

"Zen I will
take you to zis — how you say? — obnoxious Briton who says he's a lord.  He is
difficult.  Arrogant.  We have had to punish him for his disobedience.  Put him
in ze solitary confinement . . . give him ze beating or two, you know?  You
will have your hands full with him, I zink."

He heaved his
huge bulk up from the table, pushed his chair back, and, grunting with the effort
of moving such a large bulk through space, led them out of his office.  Eva
cast a glance at Charles.  His eyes had hardened like ice.

Down through the
dank halls of the gaol Durant led them.  From behind blackened, dingy doors
came noxious smells, and the sounds of despair:  moaning, sobbing, futile
singing, a tin cup clanging against the bars of a window.

At last, they
came to a door at the far end of the building.  Durant took a huge ring of keys
from his belt, inserted one into the lock, and jiggling it, finally unlocked
the door.

It swung open to
reveal gloom.

Silence.

And a single
figure slumped in a corner, his cheek pressed against stinking wet stone, his
unblinking eyes turned heavenward toward the gray light streaming in through a
window far out of his reach.

"As you can
see, ze prisoner is in solitary confinement once more," Durant crowed,
looking at the man, who half sat, half lay, in a pile of damp, filthy straw,
making no attempt to move or even look their way.  "He struck at one of my
guards last night.  Ze guard — he had to strike back, no?  But I zink we have
finally broken le Seignueur's spirit.  He will not give you any more
trouble."

Durant moved
fully into the cell, Eva and Charles following just behind.  Eva did not know
Perry, but she knew he was a close friend of the de Montforte family, and she
could only imagine how much pain the sight of him must be causing Charles.
Filth and blood encrusted hair that was so dirty it was hard to discern its
natural blondness.  The cheeks, sallow now, were sunken beneath lifeless gray
eyes, the mouth swollen and cut from a blow, the clothes hanging off a
pathetically thin frame.

Eva's throat
ached with guilt.  This was the same man who'd been lying unconscious in the
cell when she'd visited the Sarah Rose prisoners weeks before.  Then, he
had been unable to speak for himself.  The others had not been able to speak
for him.  How had she misjudged the situation so badly?

"Take him,
zen," Durant said.  "I am well rid of him."

"Do you
have a coat for him?" Charles asked, eyeing the skin, much of it raw and
oozing with sores, that showed through Perry's threadbare clothing.  "It
is cold outside."

"Ah, you
Americans, you are just like ze British — far too compassionate for your own
good.  Je regret, but I have no coat for him."

Wordlessly, his
lips taut with anger, Charles stripped off his greatcoat, then put his own coat
of dark, serviceable broadcloth over Perry's shoulders.  His friend showed no
sign of recognition as the major gently bent his arms and coaxed them into the
sleeves, and finally wrapped the heavy woolen greatcoat over his gaunt frame.

"Has he
been this unresponsive all along?" Eva asked sharply.

"Non,
only since last night, when ze guard hit him.  An improvement, if you ask
me."

Durant stood
back as Charles hefted Perry in his arms, put him over one shoulder, and
carried him toward the door.  Emaciated and beaten, he did not appear to
recognize the man with whom he'd grown up.  Eva, trying to keep veil all
emotion — including fury that an innocent man had been treated so brutally —
watched in despair, wondering how on earth they were going to get — and keep —
Perry aboard the horse that awaited just outside.

Arundel,
cruising somewhere just over the horizon, had never seemed so far away.

Durant kept up a
stream of chatter as they moved down the dingy corridor, but Eva was not
listening to it.  Her nerves were tingling once again; the tinny taste of fear
filled her mouth, and her heart was beating fast.  Too fast.  Something was
wrong.

Do hurry,
Charles.

He was
hurrying — though he was trying to conceal the fact from Durant so as not to
raise an alarm.  Eva broke out in a nervous sweat.  Hurry, Charles.  Her
heart was pounding now.  Faster.  Ahead, two guards were leading a group
of prisoners from a cell.

A group of
British prisoners.

Those from the Sarah
Rose.

Oh no —

And then she
realized what was wrong:  That Charles, despite his ability to imitate an
accent, could never conceal the fact that he was a trained soldier.  It was
there in the way he walked.  In the set of his shoulders, in the way he carried
himself.  And it was just as they were stepping out into the fresh air once
more, freedom agonizingly close within their reach, that a voice called out
from behind them.

"I say!  Is
that you, Lord Charles?"

"Don't
stop," she hissed, for his ears alone.

"Lord
Charles!"

Durant was
turning around now.  "I beg your pardon," he said to Charles, "ze
prisoner — he mistakes you for someone else, non?"  He raised his
voice to address the man who had spoken and was now waving his arms,
desperately trying to get Charles's attention.  "You zere!  Quiet down.
Zis is Charles Montvale from America, and we all know zere are no lords in America!"

"American?
What do you mean, American?  He's not Charles Montvale, he's Lord Charles de
Montforte, and he's as English as I am!"

"Lord
Charles de Montforte?"

"Aye!  Met
him in Boston, back in '75 — I was in the Navy, he was a captain in the Fourth
Foot!"  The man was growing desperate now.  "Lord Charles, take me,
too!  You can't save just one, you've got to take all of us!"

Some of the
guards were frowning now, and even Durant was looking confused.  Agitated.  Eva,
fighting her growing anxiety, gave a high peal of laughter, knowing each step
brought them closer and closer to escape.  "Really, Durant, what is
going on with your prisoners?  You've got our friend here claiming he's a lord,
and that man over there claiming my countryman is a lord!  Why must everyone be
a lord, I ask you?  I daresay there must be something in the water!"

But Durant's
suspicions were raised.  "Wait."

"Keep
walking," Eva hissed.

"Nothing
but a lead ball is going to convince me otherwise," Charles shot back
under his breath.

"Wait!"
Durant yelled.

And then Durant
reached for his pistol and all hell broke loose.

"Run for
it," Eva cried — and with a swift upward punch, knocked the pistol from
Durant's hand.  His howl of pain was cut short by her next blow, which caught
him just under the chin and sent him toppling over backward.  By the time she'd
pulled out her own weapon, she and Charles were running for their lives.

Behind them,
shouts rang out on the early morning air.  Somewhere, a bell began to ring
frantically.  The alarm was raised.

"Bloody
hell," Charles swore, as they ran for the horses, who were fretting
nervously just inside the gates.  "I'm going to have to hold onto him,
he's in no shape to ride . . .  Have a care, Eva, here comes the gatehouse
guard —"

"Don't
worry about him, just yourselves!"  Something whizzed past Eva's ear; a
moment later, a musket cracked behind them.  And now the gatehouse guard was
running forward, bringing up his musket and training it straight at Charles.

Eva paused only
long enough to raise and fire her own pistol.  With a scream, the guard
collapsed, blood spurting from a hole in his side.  Eva snatched up his musket,
braced Perry while Charles swiftly mounted his horse, and shoved him up into the
saddle before Charles.

"Mount
up," he shouted.

"I'll hold
them off — you just get yourselves out of here!"

"Mount up,
damn it, and let's go!"

Another ball
whined past Eva's head.  Bark exploded from a nearby tree; an army of guards
came pouring out of the prison, all of them shouting, some stopping to sight
down the length of their muskets, and Eva knew that their time had run out.

Summoning her
strength, she leaped aboard her wild-eyed horse, gave it its head, and, with
Charles just behind, sent the animal flying out of the prison gates.

They had
moments, only moments, before the guards would be mounted and in hot pursuit.

Moments —

Between life and
death.

Chapter
31

Lucien was
sharing an uneasy truce with Captain Christian Lord on Arundel's
quarterdeck when a hail from above claimed their attention.

"Deck
there!  Signal from Magic!"

Captain Lord
immediately put down his coffee and was on his feet.  "Report!"

"Gunfire
from shore, sir!  Magic reports two riders racing away from the gaol
with guards in hot pursuit!  It is the duchess and Lord Charles!  Magic
requests orders, sir!"

The captain
turned to a midshipman who suddenly appeared at his elbow.  "Send to Magic
to make for the rendezvous point and hold off the pursuers as long as
possible.  And be quick about it!"

The young fellow
dashed off to hoist the signal.  The captain ordered Arundel to fall off
and the big ship swung toward shore in support of the smaller brig.  Lucien
barely had time to quell his rising panic when another cry drifted down from
above.

"Deck
there!  Three sail off the starboard bow!  Two frigates and a ship of the line,
all flying French colors, sir!"

Gareth and
Andrew, alerted by the shouts from above, came charging up on deck.

"Belay that
last order!" shouted Lord.  "Wear ship and prepare for battle!"

"What's
happening?" asked Gareth, looking about in confusion.

Lucien, his
hands clenched behind his back, stared over the water toward the rapidly
appearing coast as Arundel fell farther and farther off the wind, her
great stern already beginning to swing around.  His face was as white as the
foam that rode the surrounding waves.  "The brig is on station near
shore.  It just signalled that two riders are fleeing the gaol with guards in
hot pursuit.  We're going in to rescue them."

"The hell
we are," snapped Captain Lord, overhearing Lucien's tense explanation.
"That fort I showed you on the map will be the first thing they'll man.  I
don't care how big Arundel is, she stands no chance against the guns of
a fort, and neither does Magic."

"Are you
telling me we're abandoning my loved ones?" Lucien all but roared.

"I'm
telling you that if we don't get some sea room to fight off those vessels out
there, we'll be trapped between a manned fort and three French warships.  If
you think I'm about to risk my ship and the lives of six hundred men for two
people, you've got another think coming, Blackheath!  Now go below — things are
about to get hot."

"I'll be
damned if I go below!  You will head inshore to effect a rescue, Lord, or I can
promise you this is the last command you'll ever be granted!"

"Deck
there!  Enemy running out her guns, sir!"

Lord grabbed a
telescope from a midshipman.  "Take in the courses."

A moment later,
a low boom reverberated across the water like far-off thunder.

"They're
firing on us, sir!"

"Starboard
battery!  Load and prepare to run out!"

"'Sdeath,
now what?" asked Gareth.

"We're about
to get blown to kingdom come, that's what," snapped a lieutenant, racing
past.  "You three had best get below — splinters and hot iron'll be flying
in a moment or two."

But the three
brothers stood where they were, forgotten as the great warship prepared for
battle.  Men swarmed up into the rigging and out along the yards to reduce
sail.  Others ran to the boats in the ship's waist.  The gun crews loaded the
cannon all along Arundel's starboard side and, grunting and swearing,
ran them up to their ports.  Lucien, his jaw tense, glanced to windward; sure
enough, the three French ships were bearing rapidly down on them, trying to
trap them against the deadly guns of the fort and cut off their only means of
escape.

"God help
us," Gareth breathed — and in that moment, Lord brought his sword down.

"Fire!"

Arundel's
broadside turned the deck beneath their feet into a shuddering platform of
thunder, each reverberation roaring through their heads, deafening their ears,
sending clouds of smoke billowing back into their faces.  In a moment, all was
confusion as officers and crew raced about, some shouting orders, others
desperately hauling the cannon back in, sponging them out, and preparing to
fire once more.

"Get
below," Lucien yelled to his brothers.

"What?"

"I said,
get below!"

"We're not
going anywhere!" cried Gareth, and a second later another boom from the
leading French warship roared across the water.  A hail of iron rained into the
sea a quarter mile away.

Andrew was
watching intently.  "They're almost within range."

And now, to
leeward, they could easily see the French coastline — and the fort.  Lucien
snatched up a telescope and trained it on the shore.  His guts seized up.  Sure
enough, figures, tiny with distance, were swarming all over the fort, readying
its guns, preparing to fire upon Arundel and reduce her to floating
rubble.

"'Sdeath,
they're going to fire on us!"

Lord raised his
speaking trumpet and shouted an order.

Too late.
Tongues of flame spurted from the fort and a vicious storm of iron came
screaming overhead like a swarm of angry bees, lopping off the fore topgallant
mast like a scythe through wheat.  Men screamed.  The mast plunged into the
sea, taking rigging and sail with it.  Arundel faltered, then began to
ease into the wind, trying to obey her captain's command.  Lucien ran to the
leeward rail — and spotted the riders, made small by distance, racing down the Calais
road and fighting a losing battle to maintain the gap between themselves and
their pursuers.

He shut his eyes
in agony.  And here he was, trapped and helpless aboard a ship that even now
was turning its back on those he loved.

But Lord was not
prepared to go down without a fight.

Lucien's ears
exploded, and the deck shuddered beneath him as Arundel's guns returned
the fort's first challenge — but as the smoke cleared, it became apparent that
the range was too great; even had their own iron been able to reach the
towering stone walls, it would never have been able to penetrate them.

Never.

And here came
the French ships, bearing down hard, while Magic tried desperately to
rally to Arundel's defense.

Gareth was there
beside him.  "We're about to be smashed between land and sea."

"Go
below," Lucien snapped.

"If only we
had the range that fort has."

"For God's
sake, Gareth, get below!"

But Andrew was
there, hands on his hips, excitement lighting his eyes.  "I have an
idea."

"An idea?
What the bloody good is that going to do?"

But Andrew was
already rushing toward the hatch even as the captain, his face like a
thundercloud, stormed toward them from out of the drifting smoke.

"I am
ordering both of you to follow your brother below," he snapped, pointing
his sword toward the hatch.  "A warship's deck is no place for
civilians."

Lucien didn't
move.  "You're setting our boats adrift."

"Yes, to
lessen the chance of flying splinters impaling the lot of us."

Lucien's black
stare challenged the captain's.  "I will not leave my loved ones to perish
at the hands of the French.  You will give me command of one of those
boats."

Lord's face went
even darker; another boom sounded from the fort, and a storm of hot iron
screamed overhead, sending spars and rigging down about them.

"I'll deal
with you, after we get out of range!"

"You will
deal with me now!" Lucien blazed, and headed for the boats.

Just then,
Andrew, lugging a leaden box, came charging back on deck.  "Captain!"
he shouted, trying to be heard over the roar of the guns, the muskets, the
barrage of orders that flew all around.  "I'm an inventor — this is an
explosive I've developed!  It's far superior to gunpowder . . . if we put it in
the cannon, you'll have range enough to hit not only the fort, but those ships
coming in from windward!  It'll buy us enough time to get Lucien to shore so he
can save Charles and Eva!"

"What!"

Lucien, with Gareth
on his heels, was already at the jolly boat as the crew prepared to swing it
out over the side.

"I implore
you, just try it!" Andrew persisted, racing after the irate captain.

Lord waved a
lieutenant forward.  "Teach, summon a dozen marines and send them off with
the duke — he'll need all the damned help he can get."

"Aye,
sir!"

"But my
explosive!"

Another crashing
roar from the leading French ship sent iron splashing into the sea just yards
off Arundel's bow.

"Fort's
preparing to fire again, sir!" cried the lookout in the top above.

And then it
came, in a murderous salvo so brutal that Arundel rocked on her beams
with the impact.  Andrew saw one of the cannon spin and then flip like a top,
pinning men, screaming, beneath it.  Spars and rigging came crashing down from
above, bouncing off the rigged nets, falling into the sea.  And now the big
French warship was running out her own guns even as Lucien, Gareth, and the
marines, all vulnerable, were lowered down in the jolly boat.

"Sir, I beg
of you to at least try my explosive!" Andrew cried, desperately.

Captain Lord
halted, turned, and looked at him flatly.  "Very well, then," he
said.  "The carronades have the most range.  If you can buy time for the
duke, then I'll eat my goddamned hat."

~~~~

The jolly boat
hit the water, the single sail was raised, and the craft veered toward shore,
shielded, for the moment, from the guns of the incoming French ships by Arundel
herself.

Lucien sat
watching the two horses streaking across the ever-nearing countryside.  "We're
never going to make it.  We're too late."

"It's not
over yet," said Gareth, loading his own pistol.  "By God, I'm glad I
didn't enter the Navy.  Don't think I could take too much of this sort of
thing."

But Lucien was
staring toward shore.  He could see Charles in the lead, one arm around Perry
as he urged speed out of the tiring horse.  Just behind him was Eva, her hair
flying behind her like a red banner.  Their pursuers were gaining on them.  Raising
muskets.  The pop of gunfire came from across the water.

Charles had seen
them.  He was sharply reining his horse, sending it flying off the road and
down a muddy slope toward the shore.  Lucien gripped the gunwale.  Never had he
felt so helpless.

"Head for
the beach," he snapped to the man at the tiller.

Thank God the
wind was in their favor, driving them toward shore.  Thank God he had Gareth
with him, thank God Eva and Charles had each other.  Thank God —

And then Arundel's
guns flashed and the world exploded.

Metal screamed
overhead in a sound so unnatural that the man at the tiller dropped the bar,
two marines hurled themselves down into the hull, and for a moment the boat
careened madly in the draft left by the wave of iron.

"God and
the devil save us!  What the bleedin' 'ell was that?" cried the nearest
marine, his eyes wide with fright.

But Lucien was
finally smiling.

"Andrew's
explosive."

~~~~

"There they
are!" Charles shouted, holding desperately on to Perry as he sent his
exhausted horse plunging down the muddy slope toward the beach.  "Hurry, we've
not a moment to spare!"  Behind him, Eva was hot on his heels, the gaol
guards rapidly gaining on them.

Shots whizzed
past.

They were never
going to make it.

Eva, too, saw
the jolly boat driving forward to meet them, and farther off, the huge Arundel
running her guns out, pointing them toward shore.  The range was too great.
Powerful as the British warship was, she could never land her iron this far,
could do nothing to help them.  She, Charles, and Perry were on their own.

"Well, it
was a valiant effort," she cried, as the two hit the beach and thundered
down the sand toward the incoming boat.

"Can't say
we didn't try," shouted Charles, hurtling along beside her.

"If we're
taken, I'm sure Franklin will negotiate for our release."

Gunfire banged
behind them, and Charles winced as a ball sliced through the top of his sleeve,
leaving an arrow of blood.  "Taken?" he yelled back, as the French
began to send their own horses down the muddy slope in pursuit.  "At this
point I'd be happy just to survive."

"Look!
Lucien and Gareth are in the boat!"

And it was
nearly to shore; already, the marines were on their feet, muskets raised to
their shoulders; oh, God help them, thought Eva, six marines to hold back the
entire guard from the gaol?  They were all going to be cut down like grouse at
a hunt!

But at that
moment Arundel coughed two puffs of smoke from her bow, and an unholy
roar screamed across the water with a sound like all the demons of hell being
unleashed at once.  Eva's horse shied sideways, nearly unseating her; Charles's
own mount reared in terror, spilling him and Perry to the sand; a moment later,
it was bolting off down the beach, Charles was on his feet with Perry over his
shoulder, and Eva was throwing herself off her own mount and running alongside
him, both fighting to reach the incoming jolly boat before the guard was on
them.

"What in
God's name was that?" she shouted.

"Don't know
— never heard anything like it in all my years of being in the army!"

She glanced over
her shoulder.  "Charles, look!"

He did — and saw
what she had seen.

Half the guard
lay smashed and dead on the beach behind them, and the rest were milling about
in confusion, pointing out to sea toward Arundel and yelling madly in
French.

"Andrew's
explosive — it had to be!" Charles cried.  "Hurry, they won't be long
after us now!"

More shots
banged out from behind them as what remained of the guard rallied.  And now the
jolly boat was through the surf, the marines already firing upon the guard to
try and hold them off as Lucien and Gareth leaped out and ran forward to meet
them.

Lucien saw that
it was going to be a close thing.  He threw himself in front of the three
fugitives, took aim, and fired his own pistol at the Frenchmen charging down
the beach.

"Get in the
boat!" he yelled.

Lead whined all
around.  He saw Charles leap for the gunwales.  Saw Eva turn to fire at their
attackers.  Reached for her —

And felt his
side catch on fire.  He clapped a hand to the wound, hot blood gushing from
between his fingers, but it was too late.  Through a graying haze, he saw
Charles's stricken face, heard Gareth's sharp cry of denial, saw Eva — his
beloved, precious Eva — rushing forward to catch him.

Charles and
Gareth hauled him into the boat, shots echoing all around.

And the last
thing he felt was Eva's arms going around him.

Chapter
32

From far off
came the sound of voices.  Cries of pain.  The distant, lingering boom of
cannon.  A rocking sensation . . . like being in his mother's arms.

"He's
coming around," someone said.

Groggily, Lucien
opened his eyes.  For a moment he lay still, trying to discern his
whereabouts.  Trying to remember what had happened to him.  He lay on a hard
table.  There was still that rocking sensation, and as he focused on the dark
beams just overhead, a lantern swinging gently with motion, he realized that he
was aboard a ship, and his cradle was the sea.

"Lucien?"

He turned his
head and smiled weakly.  "Eva."

"You had us
all very frightened there," she said, stroking the hair at his temple.

"Are you
all right?"

"I'm
fine."

"And the
others?"

"Right
here," said Charles, moving into his field of view.  His arm was bandaged,
but he was intact.

And so was
Gareth.  "Welcome back, Luce," he murmured, joining Charles.

"Where is
Andrew?"

"Right
here."

"Your
brother saved the day with his explosive," said someone else, and turning
his head, Lucien saw the stern face of Captain Lord.  "If it weren't for
him, I dread to think of what might have happened."

"Yes,
you've never seen three ships flee as fast as those Frenchies did when we put
some of it in the guns and let fly," crowed Andrew, beaming.

Captain Lord
gave a dry smile and then returned his attention to Lucien.  "You've got a
piece of lead lodged just under your lowest rib," he said gravely.
"The surgeon is currently attending to the other wounded, but he'll be
with you shortly."

Ah, then, so
that explained it.  They were in the ship's orlop.  The surrounding cries, the
stench of blood and death, were not just a nightmare — they was real.

"How is
Lord Brookhampton?"

"Resting
comfortably.  He suffered a nasty head wound, but he's growing more and more
lucid and seems most desperate to return to England."

"Can't wait
to get back to Nerissa," Gareth explained.

Lucien smiled.
Eva, Charles, Gareth, Andrew, and yes, even Perry, safe . . .   All was right
in his world, then.  He turned his head once more and stared up into the foggy
gray eyes of the ship's captain.  "No hard feelings, eh, Lord?"

"None."
The other man smiled dryly.  "But that's the last time I'm ever allowing a
duke aboard my command.  I'd sooner resign, first."

Lucien laughed,
but the pain was too much.  He shut his eyes and willed his body to relax as
the captain moved off to comfort his own men.  He could sense his family
hovering around, could feel their love for him, their concern.  He was thankful
that he was so blessed.  But it was Eva's presence that was most precious.
Eva, who stood by his head, stroking his hair, resting her other hand
soothingly on his shoulder.  Eva, whose bravery and determination had cost him
his heart.

Eva.  His
duchess.

His love.

"The
surgeon's coming," she said.

Lucien smiled
weakly.  It hurt too much to move.  To breathe, even.

He felt someone
slicing off what remained of his shirt.  Competent hands, probing, palpating.
Fingers pressed against his ribs, moved lower, pressed there; he sucked
in his breath, his head swimming with the pain of it.

"Get him
some brandy," said a gruff voice.  "Lots of it."

Lucien,
breathing shallowly through his chest in order to escape the daggerlike agony,
opened his eyes.  "I need my wife, not brandy."

"And I need
you to be perfectly still as I'm cutting into you.  One move, even a
slight one, and it could cost you your lung, if not your life."

"I won't
move."

"He won't
move," echoed his brothers, who knew him well.

The surgeon only
raised a brow and cleaned his scalpel.  Gareth, Andrew, and Charles gathered
close.  Eva stood near his head, one hand still on his shoulder, her beautiful
face close enough to touch.  Lucien wanted nothing more than to do just that,
but he had said he would not move, and he would not.  Instead, he gazed up into
her slanting green eyes, at the long lashes veiling the worry she could not
hide.  He focused on her lips, the lower one caught between her teeth as she
watched the surgeon prepare to make the first cut.  On the pale clarity of her
skin, the purity of her complexion, the —

His breath
stopped as the knife went in.

"I can't
have you moving, Your Grace," said the surgeon, withdrawing.

"I'm not
moving.  I'm not even breathing," Lucien muttered, but he felt the
dampness breaking out all along his brow and knew that he would be unable to
keep his word.

The surgeon drew
back, shaking his head.  "I can't do it, then.  It's too great a
risk."

There was
silence as everyone looked to each other for a solution.  The surgeon prepared
to move on to someone else.  Again, Lucien tried to breathe, and felt searing
pain where the ball rested under his rib.  There had to be a way to do this.  Had
to be.

And then he felt
Eva's hand, still lightly stroking his hair, his cheek.

Wordlessly, he
reached up and caught it, his grip persistent enough to claim her attention.
He stared up into her beautiful green eyes.  She gazed back, trying to
understand what he wanted of her.  And then he placed her hand against the side
of his neck, keeping it there, pushing it gently, firmly down.  Their gazes
locked.

She smiled,
then.

She understood.

"Doctor?"
she called, as the surgeon began to move away.

The man paused,
frowning.

"He'll give
you no trouble," Eva assured the man.  "Just give him a moment."

"One
moment, then."

"All of you,
give him one moment," Eva murmured to the anxious party that surrounded
the table.

Lucien saw the
exchange of puzzled looks, his brothers' worried frowns before they, too, reluctantly
stepped a few feet back from the table, revealing the darkened overhead beams,
the lanternlight flickering against a bulkhead, once more.

"What a
clever girl I've married," he breathed, holding his own hand over her
fingers as she expertly found the proper place on his neck.  His gaze sought
hers.  "I love you, Eva.  I've loved you from the moment you first
thwarted me, I think."

"And do you
know something, my beloved Blackheath?"

"What is
that, dearest?"

"I love you,
too."  Her eyes grew luminous, and he saw her soul in them.  A soul that
was trusting where it had been suspicious.  Open where it had been closed.  Full
of hope when it had been poisoned with cynicism.  "I love you, Lucien, and
nothing on God's earth means more to me than you do."

He leaned his
cheek against the inside of her wrist.

Kissed it,
tenderly.

"Are you
ready, my love?"

"Yes,"
he said, turning his head so that he gazed up at her.  "Work your magic,
dearest, and work it well.  I have said I won't move."

"And you
won't," she assured him.

He gazed up into
her beautifully mysterious eyes, wanting to hold on to the image for as long as
he could.  He could feel the gentle pressure of her hand against his neck now,
the loving control of her fingers as she began to ease him down toward a place
where there was no pain, no awareness.  In a moment, he would be there.  In a
moment, the surgeon would be cutting into his flesh, digging beneath his rib,
and he would not move.

The darkness
gathered.  He did not fight it.  With a sigh of defeat, he gave in to it,
relaxing beneath her skillful touch, sinking down into the depths of
nothingness, his fingers twitching once, twice, before he lay as still as death
beneath his duchess' hand.

Raising her
head, Eva met the doctor's gaze.  "His Grace is ready for you, now,"
she said.

The scalpel went
in.  And true to his word, Lucien never moved.

~~~~

Late that
afternoon a war-torn Arundel, with Magic keeping station just off
her rear quarter, beat her way past vessels of every sort, and dropped anchor
at Spithead.

The sun was
setting off to the west, blazing a trail, it seemed, all the way to America.
Its light bathed the captain's cabin where Lucien lay propped up on pillows in
a serene orange glow.  Beside the bed Eva, her hand in his, sat in a chair drawn
as close to the bed as she could get it.

She checked his
bandage for the fifth time in ten minutes then, lifting her gaze to the
salt-smeared stern windows, the setting sun, smiled.

"A penny
for your thoughts," he said.

"I was just
thinking of America . . . and how in the end, we both wanted the same thing for
it, but were too stubborn to see it."

"Peace?"

"Yes.  I
wanted it through war, hoping that France's intervention would put a quick end
to things.  You wanted it through diplomacy, hoping that negotiations and
meeting my country's demands for fair treatment would satisfy its need for
freedom.  I only wish I'd realized we were both working toward the same end . .
. just taking different routes to get there."

"Would you
go back, Eva, given the chance?"

He was referring
to that terrible night when she'd learned the terms of his will, his desire to
keep her chained in England for the sake of his heir.  A family responsibility
that she now understood.  And forgave.  She smiled, and gazed up into his eyes.
"No," she murmured, shaking her head.  "My home is here in England,
now.  With you.  With your brothers, whom I am coming to adore.  With my new
family."

"I love
you."  Her hand still in his, he pulled her close and kissed her.  "I
am the most fortunate man in this world."

"And I love
you, Lucien.  I only wish I'd had the courage to tell you before."

"We have a
lifetime to make up for our past wrongs to each other."

"Do
we?"

He smiled, the
gesture lighting up his whole face, transforming it into something boyish,
eager, and charming.  "I haven't had the nightmare for weeks now.  I think
it's gone."

"Ah."
The corners of her eyes crinkled with joy.  "That proves me right,
then."

"Proves you
right?"

"I
suspected all along that the dream might be an analogy for something else.
Think about it, Lucien.  Every time you had it, you were impaled through the
heart with a sword, mastered by something beyond your control.  Do you not
realize, now, what that sword really was?  What it implied?"

"Love,"
he murmured, touching his fingers to her lips.  "And the death I saw was
the end of my lonely bachelorhood.  My obsessive need for control."

"All ends
lead to new beginnings."

"Indeed."

"And do you
want to hear of yet another beginning?"

He raised a brow
in silent question.

"I spoke
with Perry a short time ago.  He says he's had such a bellyful of adventure,
that the first thing he's going to do when he gets ashore is offer marriage to
Nerissa."  She grinned.  "Oh, Lucien — it seems as if your last grand
machination will bear fruit, after all!"

"Yes
—" he smiled.  "My last grand machination.  Imagine that."

There was a
presence at the door.  "I can't imagine it for one minute," said
Andrew, standing there with his two brothers.  "Can you, Gareth?
Charles?"

"Hell,
no."

The three
younger de Montfortes came into the sunlit room, smiling, relieved, happy,
looking fresh and windblown from standing topside and watching the shores of
England moving ever closer.

"We have
something to tell you, Luce," said Gareth.

"Something
important," Andrew added gravely.

"Something
that should have been said long before now," added Charles.

Lucien raised a
brow.  Eva looked up, puzzled, as all three brothers pulled up chairs and
gathered close around the bed.

"All this
time, all these years . . . we never expressed our gratitude to you for what
those machinations of yours brought us.  The happiness we've found with our own
wives.  Our children.  The blessed lives we all now enjoy —"

"Thanks to
you, Luce."

"And only
you."

"Yes, we
were so busy being angry with you for manipulating us, that we never really sat
down and thanked you."

"So thank
you, big brother."  Gareth took Lucien's other hand.  "Thank you for
all you've done for me.  For giving me Juliet.  My family.  If it weren't for
you, I'd still be running the downs, wreaking havoc and refusing to grow
up."

Charles moved
close, the brilliant orange sunset gilding his hair.  "And I thank you
too, Luce.  If it weren't for you, I would never have rediscovered the courage
I needed to be the man I had once been . . . to consider myself worthy of Amy's
hand.  I owe you more than just gratitude for my happiness.  I owe you my
life."

"You're the
best brother a bloke could ever want," Andrew said, smiling.  "Thank
you, Luce, for everything you did for Celsie and me.  We didn't know it at the
time, and certainly would never have admitted it, but . . . well, you really did
know what you were doing."

Lucien smiled,
his heart as warm as the orange glow that bathed the room in its beautiful,
ethereal light.  He looked at each beloved face in turn.  "You forgive me,
then," he murmured, with a little smile.

"We not
only forgive you — we love you," Charles said hoarsely.  He leaned over,
embraced Lucien and then stood up, adopting a look of mock severity.  "Now
get some rest.  And that's an order."

He cocked a
glance at Gareth and Andrew, and one by one, they left the cabin, leaving
Lucien and his duchess alone once more.

A deep silence
remained in their wake.

"Well,"
said Lucien.

"He is
right," Eva said, pulling the blanket up and tucking it carefully beneath
his arms.  "Get some rest, my love.  You need to heal."

He was eyeing
her beautiful lips, the swell of her breast, and lifting his hand, he gently stroked
her cheek, his eyes darkening with implication.  "So that we might work on
bearing fruit of our own?"

She sobered, her
mouth turning sad.  "You know what the doctors said . . . that I will
never conceive another child."

"To hell
with the doctors," he murmured.  "I never did put much faith in their
dire premonitions."

"I hope you
are right, Lucien."

"Of course
I am."  His smile turned devilish.  "Aren't I always?"

Epilogue

Christmas,
1778

There had been
great parties to celebrate the season in the past, but this year, the magnificent
ballroom at Blackheath Castle was quiet and still.

Outside, a few
last leaves floated in the moat, and the copper beaches, long shed of their
purplish leaves, stood bare and stark against the gray English sky.  The air
was damp and cold.  Mist hung suspended in the valleys.  Armageddon, his black
hide covered in thick winter hair, grazed contendedly in his pasture, every so
often pricking his ears at a pair of rabbits that dawdled nearby.

Above, the thick
cloud cover shifted, and the ancient and noble landscape brightened as a weak
shaft of winter sunlight managed to push its way through.

But not all was
still and quiet in this most holy of seasons, on this most holy of days; not
all was bleak and devoid of life.  For upstairs, in the great tower bedroom, a
precious Christmas gift had been given.

He was a miracle
who was never supposed to have happened.

He was the heir
who was never to be conceived.

He was a
squalling, dark-haired little bundle who came into the world screaming and
kicking and demanding with all the ferocity that his little lungs could muster,
that his needs be met.

He was Augustus
William Arthur de Montforte, the heir apparent to the vast Duchy of Blackheath
— and he had been safely and quite uneventfully delivered in the ancient oak
bed at Blackheath Castle, where every duke and every duchess before him had
slept, and where someday he would bring his own beautiful wife.

"He looks
like you," said his mother as she lay in the great medieval bed, her head
pillowed on her arm as gazied lovingly down at the baby at her breast.

"He has
your temper," said his father.

"He is
destined for great things."

"He is
great, already.  Our little miracle."

"Our little
miracle."

The baby
suckled, the soft, contented sound the only one in the room, and Eva moved to
cover his little body more carefully with a fold of the blanket.  Eventually,
he finished and lay in the warmth of her own body, drowsy, fighting sleep, his
fragile breathing the most precious sound in the whole wide world.  Lucien
gently lowered himself down to sit on the bed beside them.  As she and her
proud husband gazed down at their newborn son, Eva couldn't help but feel an
overwhelming wave of love and satisfaction and the purest sort of joy she had
ever known.  She had finally found what she had spent her life seeking.  What
she had believed could not exist.  And she knew, with a certainty she didn't
need to question, that she had been blessed in ways beyond her deepest imagining.

God was good.

She looked up
into her husband's eyes.

He caught her
gaze and smiled.

And as Lucien tenderly
picked up the baby and took him to the window to look out over the timeless
downs that fell away toward the horizon, to gaze upon the vast lands that he
would someday own and care for and love, she smiled and thought, quite
contentedly, that some things were constant . . . and would never change.

There would
always be twenty four hours in the day.  The sun would always rise in the east,
and set in the west.

Their little
miracle . . . who was never supposed to happen.

And Fate, it
seemed, would always be at the mercy of the fifth duke of Blackheath's wishes.

###

~ the end ~

About
the Author:

Bestselling,
multi-award winning and critically acclaimed author Danelle Harmon is the
author of ten books, previously published in print and distributed in many
languages worldwide. Though a Massachusetts native, she has lived in Great
Britain and is married to an Englishman; she and her husband make their home
in Massachusetts with their daughter Emma and numerous animals including three
dogs, an Egyptian Arabian horse, and numerous pet chickens. Danelle welcomes
email from her readers and can be reached at Danelleharmon@danelleharmon.com or
through any of the means listed below:

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