THE JEWEL TRILOGY

Lauren Royal

Author's Cut Edition

Novelty Books

THE JEWEL TRILOGY by Lauren Royal

Author's Cut Edition

Published by Novelty Books, a division of Novelty Publishers, LLC, 848 N. Rainbow Blvd, Suite 4390, Las Vegas NV 89107

All books originally published in paperback by Penguin Putnam Inc.

AMETHYST © Lauren Royal 2000, 2011

EMERALD © Lauren Royal 2000, 2012

AMBER © Lauren Royal 2001, 2012

ISBN 978-1-938907-04-3

3rd Edition, December 2012

Cover by Kimberly Killion

Book Design by Novelty Press

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever, electronically, in print, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both Lauren Royal and Novelty Books, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Authors work months or years on their books and need to feed their families, just like you do.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Learn more about the author and her books at LaurenRoyal.com.

INSIDE FLAP

In 1651, the four Chase children were orphaned when their parents died defending their king in the English Civil War. Raised on the Continent in the midst of Charles II's exiled court, they accompanied his triumphant return to England in 1660. For those close to the king, the Restoration meant more than the return of the monarchy. The family estate was restored to oldest brother Jason, now the Marquess of Cainewood, and his younger brothers were granted smaller estates and titles as thanks for their family's sacrifice. But none of the Chases have found love...

AMETHYST - London, 1666 - Colin Chase's carefully planned life is turned upside down when the Great Fire of London lands a lowly jeweler's daughter in his arms.

EMERALD - England & Scotland, 1667 - Jason Chase is on the road to bring a blackguard to justice when he crosses paths with a woeful Scottish lad--who turns out to be a lovely Scottish lass.

AMBER - England & Scotland, 1668 - Kendra Chase is caught in a compromising embrace with a dashing, mysterious highwayman. Will her brothers really insist she marry him?

TABLE OF CONTENTS

- Title Page

- Amethyst

- Dedication

- Prologue

- Chapter 1

- Chapter 2

- Chapter 3

- Chapter 4

- Chapter 5

- Chapter 6

- Chapter 7

- Chapter 8

- Chapter 9

- Chapter 10

- Chapter 11

- Chapter 12

- Chapter 13

- Chapter 14

- Chapter 15

- Chapter 16

- Chapter 17

- Chapter 18

- Chapter 19

- Chapter 20

- Chapter 21

- Chapter 22

- Chapter 23

- Chapter 24

- Chapter 25

- Chapter 26

- Chapter 27

- Chapter 28

- Chapter 29

- Chapter 30

- Chapter 31

- Chapter 32

- Chapter 33

- Chapter 34

- Chapter 35

- Chapter 36

- Chapter 37

- Chapter 38

- Chapter 39

- Chapter 40

- Chapter 41

- Chapter 42

- Chapter 43

- Chapter 44

- Chapter 45

- Chapter 46

- Chapter 47

- Chapter 48

- Chapter 49

- Chapter 50

- Chapter 51

- Chapter 52

- Chapter 53

- Chapter 54

- Chapter 55

- Chapter 56

- Chapter 57

- Chapter 58

- Chapter 59

- Chapter 60

- Chapter 61

- Chapter 62

- Chapter 63

- Chapter 64

- Epilogue

- Author's Note

- Acknowledgments

- Emerald

- Dedication

- Chapter 1

- Chapter 2

- Chapter 3

- Chapter 4

- Chapter 5

- Chapter 6

- Chapter 7

- Chapter 8

- Chapter 9

- Chapter 10

- Chapter 11

- Chapter 12

- Chapter 13

- Chapter 14

- Chapter 15

- Chapter 16

- Chapter 17

- Chapter 18

- Chapter 19

- Chapter 20

- Chapter 21

- Chapter 22

- Chapter 23

- Chapter 24

- Chapter 25

- Chapter 26

- Chapter 27

- Chapter 28

- Chapter 29

- Chapter 30

- Chapter 31

- Chapter 32

- Chapter 33

- Chapter 34

- Chapter 35

- Chapter 36

- Chapter 37

- Chapter 38

- Chapter 39

- Chapter 40

- Chapter 41

- Chapter 42

- Chapter 43

- Chapter 44

- Chapter 45

- Chapter 46

- Chapter 47

- Chapter 48

- Chapter 49

- Chapter 50

- Chapter 51

- Chapter 52

- Chapter 53

- Chapter 54

- Chapter 55

- Chapter 56

- Chapter 57

- Chapter 58

- Chapter 59

- Author's Note

- Acknowledgements

- Amber

- Dedication

- Chapter 1

- Chapter 2

- Chapter 3

- Chapter 4

- Chapter 5

- Chapter 6

- Chapter 7

- Chapter 8

- Chapter 9

- Chapter 10

- Chapter 11

- Chapter 12

- Chapter 13

- Chapter 14

- Chapter 15

- Chapter 16

- Chapter 17

- Chapter 18

- Chapter 19

- Chapter 20

- Chapter 21

- Chapter 22

- Chapter 23

- Chapter 24

- Chapter 25

- Chapter 26

- Chapter 27

- Chapter 28

- Chapter 29

- Chapter 30

- Chapter 31

- Chapter 32

- Chapter 33

- Chapter 34

- Chapter 35

- Chapter 36

- Chapter 37

- Chapter 38

- Chapter 39

- Chapter 40

- Chapter 41

- Chapter 42

- Chapter 43

- Chapter 44

- Chapter 45

- Chapter 46

- Chapter 47

- Chapter 48

- Chapter 49

- Chapter 50

- Chapter 51

- Chapter 52

- Chapter 53

- Chapter 54

- Chapter 55

- Chapter 56

- Chapter 57

- Chapter 58

- Chapter 59

- Chapter 60

- Epilogue

- Thank You

- Author's Note

- Acknowledgments

- Bonus Material

For my husband, Jack,

because I couldn't write about true love

if he hadn't shown me what it means

PROLOGUE

London

April 22, 1661

The last time Amethyst Goldsmith saw her king, she was five years old and he was about to have his head severed from his body. Now, twelve years later, she sincerely hoped his son would have better luck.

She shouldered her way through the crowd, her parents and aunt murmuring apologies in her wake. "Here, there's room!" Finally reaching a few bare inches of rail, she clasped it with both hands and turned to flash them a victorious smile. "Come along, it's starting!"

Hugh and Edith Goldsmith joined her, shaking their heads at their daughter's tenacity. Hugh's sister Elizabeth squeezed in behind. Ignoring the grumbling of displaced spectators, Amy spread her feet wide to save more room at the front. "Robert, over here!"

Robert Stanley tugged on her long black plait as he wedged himself in beside her. She shot him a grin; he was fun. Although he'd arrived just last week to train as her father's apprentice, Amy had known for years that she was to marry him. So far they'd gotten along fine, although he'd been surprised to find she was far more skilled as a jeweler than he. Surprised and none too pleased, Amy suspected. But he would get over those feelings.

She might be female, but her talent was a God-given gift, and she'd never in this lifetime give up her craft. Robert would have to learn to accept that.

With a sigh of pleasure, Amy shuffled her shoes on the scrubbed cobblestones. "Look, Mama! Everything is so clean and glorious." She breathed deep of the fresh air, blinking against the bright sun. "The rain has stopped…even the weather is welcoming the monarchy back to England! Have you ever seen so many people? All London must be here."

"These cannot all be Londoners." Her mother waved a hand, encompassing the crowds on the rooftops, the mobbed windows and overflowing balconies. "I think many have come in from the countryside."

A handful of tossed rose petals drifted down, landing on Amy's dark head like scented snowflakes. She shook them off, laughing. "Just look at all the tapestries and banners!"

"Just look at all that wasted wine," Robert muttered, with a nod toward the fragrant red river that ran through the open conduit in the street.

Amy opened her mouth to protest, then decided he must be fooling. "Marry come up, Robert! You must be pleased King Charles will be crowned tomorrow. Twelve years of Cromwell's rule was enough. Now we have music and dancing again." She felt like dancing, like spreading her burgundy satin skirts and twirling in a circle, but the press of the crowd made such a maneuver impossible, so she settled for bobbing a little curtsy. "We've beautiful clothes, and the theater—"

"And drinking and cards and dice," Robert added.

"That too," Amy agreed, turning back to ogle the mounted queue of nobility parading their way from the Tower to Whitehall Palace. Such jewels and feathers and lace! Fingering the looped ribbons adorning her new gown, she pressed harder against the rail, wishing she too could join the procession.

"Where did they possibly find so many ostrich feathers in all of England?" she wondered aloud, then burst into giggles.

Her aunt laughed and wrapped an affectionate arm around her shoulders. "Where do you find the energy, child? You must come to Paris. Uncle William and I could use your happy smiles."

Feeling a stab of sympathy, Amy hugged her around the waist. Aunt Elizabeth had lost her three children to smallpox last year.

"We need her artistry here," Amy's father protested, poking his sister good-naturedly. "Your shop will have to do without."

"Ah, Hugh, how selfish you are!" Aunt Elizabeth chided. "Hoarding my niece's talent for your own profit." She aimed a mischievous smile at her brother. "No wonder we moved to France to escape the competition."

Amy grinned. Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle William had been forced to move their shop when business fell off during the Commonwealth years. But they'd flourished in Paris, becoming jewelers to the French court, and wouldn't think of returning now.

"I'm glad you came for the coronation, Auntie. It wouldn't be the same without you."

"I wouldn't have missed it," Elizabeth declared. "Old Noll drove me out of England, so my home is elsewhere now. But it's God's own truth that no one here is happier than I."

"Listen!" Amy cried. A joyous roar rolled westward toward them, marking the slow passage of His Majesty in the middle of the procession. "Can you hear King Charles coming? There are his attendants!" The noise swelled as the king's footguards marched by, their plumes of red and white feathers contrasting with those of his brother, the Duke of York, whose guard was decked out in black and white.

All at once, the roar was deafening. Amy grasped her mother's hand. "It's him, Mama," she whispered. "King Charles II." Glittering in the sunshine, the Horse of State caught and held her gaze. "Oh, look at the embroidered saddle, the pearls and rubies—look at our diamonds!"

Amy didn't care for horses—she was terrified of them, truth be told—so she paid no attention to the magnificent beast himself. But three hundred of her family's diamonds sparkled on the gold stirrups and bosses, among the twelve thousand lent for the occasion.

"Oh, Papa," she breathed, "I wish we could have designed that saddle."

Aunt Elizabeth's hand suddenly tightened on Amy's shoulder. "Charles is looking at me," she declared loudly.

Amy's father snorted. "Always the flirt, sister mine."

Amy's gaze flew from the dazzling horse to its rider. Smiling broadly beneath his thin mustache, the tall king waved to the crowd. His cloth-of-silver suit peeked from beneath ermine-lined crimson robes. Rubies and sapphires winked from gold shoe buckles and matching gold garters, festooned with great poufs of silver ribbon. Long, shining black curls draped over his chest, framing a face that appeared older than his thirty years; the result, Amy supposed, of having suffered through exile and the execution of his beloved father.

But his black eyes were quick and sparkling—and more than a little sensual. Some women around Amy swooned, but she just stared, willing the king to look at her.

When he did, she flashed him a radiant smile. "No, Auntie, he's looking at me."

Before her family even stopped laughing, the king was gone, as suddenly as he had arrived. But the spectacle wasn't over. Behind him came a camel with brocaded panniers and an East Indian boy flinging pearls and spices into the crowd. And then more lords and ladies, more glittering costumes, more decorated stallions, more men-at-arms, all bedecked in gold and silver and the costliest of gems.

Yet none of it mattered to Amy, for there was a nobleman riding her way.

It wasn't the richness of his clothing that caught her eye, for in truth his garb was rather plain. His black velvet suit was trimmed with naught but gold braid; his wide-brimmed hat boasted only a single white plume. He wore no fancy crimped periwig; instead his own raven hair fell in gleaming waves to his shoulders.

Deep emerald eyes bore into Amy's, singling her out as he angled his horse in her direction. His glossy black gelding breathed close, but she felt no fear, for the man held her safe with his piercing green gaze. It seemed as though he could see through her eyes right into her soul. Her cheeks flamed; never in her almost-seventeen years had a man looked at her like that.

He tipped his plumed hat. Flustered, she turned and glanced about, certain he must be saluting someone else. But everyone was laughing and talking or watching the procession; no one focused their attention his way. She looked back, and he grinned as he passed, a devastating slash of white that made Amy melt inside.

Long after he rode out of sight around the bend, she stared to where he had disappeared.

"Amy?" Robert tugged on her hand.

She turned and gazed into his eyes: pale blue, not green. They didn't make her melt inside, didn't make her feel anything.

Robert smiled, revealing teeth that overlapped a bit. She hadn't really noticed that before. "It's over," he said.

"Oh."

The sun set as they walked home to Cheapside, skirting merrymakers in the streets. Her father paused to unlock their door. Overhead, a wooden sign swung gently in the breeze. A nearby bonfire illuminated the image of a falcon and the gilt letters that proclaimed their shop GOLDSMITH & SONS, JEWELLERS.

There came a sudden brilliant flash and a stunned "Ooooh" from the crowd, as fireworks lit the sky. Amy dashed through the shop and up the stairs to their balcony.

Gazing toward the River Thames, she watched the great fiery streaks of light, heard the soaring rockets, smelled the sulfur in the air. It was the most spectacular display England had ever seen, and the sights and sounds filled her with a wondrous feeling.

If only life could be as exhilarating as a fireworks show.

When the last glittering tendril faded away, she listened to the fragments of song and rowdy laughter that filled the night air. Couples strolled by, arm in arm. Robert stepped onto the balcony and moved close.

His voice was quiet beside her. "This is a day I'll never forget."

"I'll never forget it, either," she said, thinking of the man on the black steed, the man with the emerald eyes.

Robert tilted her face up, bending his head to place a soft, chaste kiss on her lips. It was their first kiss; she was supposed to feel fireworks.

But she felt nothing.

CHAPTER ONE

Five years later

August 24, 1666

"Are you telling me you made this bracelet? A girl? This shop is Goldsmith & Sons, is it not?" Robert Stanley puckered his freckled face and made his voice high and wavering. "Where are the sons?"

From where she stood by the stone oven, Amethyst Goldsmith's laughter rang through the workshop. "Lady Smythe! A perfect imitation."

"Well done, Robert." Her father smiled as he brushed past them both and through the archway into the shop's showroom.

Robert's pale blue eyes twinkled, but he stayed in character, cupping a hand to his ear. "Imitation? Imitation, did you say? I was led to believe this was a quality jewelry shop, madame. I expect genuine—"

"Stop!" Amy fought to control her giggles. "You'll make me slip and scald myself."

Robert's gaze fell to Amy's hands. As he watched her pour a thin stream of molten gold into a plaster mold, his expression sobered. "I like Lady Smythe," he muttered. "At least she buys the things I make."

"Oh, Robert." She sighed. "Why should it matter who made something, as long as we're selling a piece?"

"I'm a good goldsmith."

"You're an excellent goldsmith," Amy agreed. Although she also thought he was a bit unimaginative, she kept that to herself. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"You're a woman."

She clenched her jaw and tapped the mold on her workbench, imagining the gold flowing to fill every crevice of her design. "I'm also a jeweler," she said under her breath.

"Never mind." He walked to his own workbench and plopped onto his stool, lifting the pewter tankard of ale that sat ever-present amongst his tools.

Ignoring him, Amy picked up a knife and a chunk of wax, intending to whittle a new design while the gold hardened. The windowless workroom seemed stifling today—hot, close, and dark. She dragged a lantern nearer, but the artificial, yellowish glow did little to lift her mood.

Five years she'd lived and worked with Robert Stanley, and he still didn't understand her. She couldn't believe it. She was marrying him in two weeks, and she couldn't believe that, either.

Once it had seemed like a lifetime stretched ahead of her before she had to wed. She'd put it off, and put it off, then last spring her father had announced she was twenty-two and it was time to get on with it.

He'd set a date, and that had been that. No matter that Robert thought his wife should stay upstairs and mend his clothes; no matter that he resented it when her designs sold faster and she received more custom orders than he did.

No matter that she didn't love him. Not the way a wife should love a husband. Not the way it was in the French novels she read. Not the way she had felt, five years ago at the coronation procession, when that nobleman's emerald eyes had locked on hers.

She'd never forgotten that feeling.

She would learn to love Robert, her father said. But it hadn't happened—not yet, anyway. Not even close.

Amy sighed and lifted the plait off her neck, rubbing the hot skin beneath. She'd set out to talk to her father dozens of times, but her courage always failed her. Since the death of her mother in last year's Great Plague, it seemed she could take anything but her father's disapproval.

When the casting was set, Amy plunged it into the tub of water by Robert's workbench. She rubbed the mold's gritty plaster surface, feeling it dissolve away in her hands, watching Robert's knife send wax shavings flying as he sculpted a model.

She scowled at his curved back. "I believe I fancied you more as Lady Smythe."

Robert turned and stared at her for a moment, then hunched over suddenly. His face transformed, taking on a Lady Smythe look. "Are you certain, madame?" he asked in that high, wavering tone. "I hear tell you've had dancing lessons and speak fluent French. Such pretensions. I don't hold with women reckoning account books, you know. Not at all." His voice deepened into his own. "Or making jewelry, either."

Amy flinched. She pulled the casting from the water and carried it to her workbench to brush off the remaining bits of plaster.

He rose and came up behind her, tilting her head back with a hand beneath her chin. "Two more weeks, and a proper wife you'll be." With little finesse, his mouth came down on hers.

The faint scent of his breakfast had her squeezing her eyes shut and praying for the end to this torment.

"Part your lips, Amy," he demanded against her mouth.

She didn't. She wished he'd use one of those newfangled little silver toothbrushes Aunt Elizabeth had sent from Paris.

Finally he raised his head. "Two weeks," he repeated.

Her eyes snapped open and burned into his. "Papa would never allow you to keep me from making jewelry." Looking down, she brushed at the casting harder.

"Hugh Goldsmith won't be here forever." His hand moved to snake down her bodice.

Amy's gaze flickered toward the showroom in warning.

Wrenching away, he strode back to his workbench, back to his ale. "At least soon he won't be able to threaten me with bodily harm for sullying his virginal daughter," he spat, raising the tankard in a salute. "Two weeks," he added with a grin.

A grin that Amy had once thought boyish, engaging…but of late had made her uneasy.

They both turned as the bell on the outside door tinkled. Amy stood and whipped off her apron. "I'll get it."

"Your father is out there," Robert reminded her. "He can handle it."

She paid him no mind, but smoothed back a few damp strands that had escaped her plait. Pausing to straighten her gown, she put a shopgirl smile on her face before heading through the swinging doors into the cool, bright showroom.

"A locket," a young woman at the far end of the L-shaped case was saying, smiling up at a gentleman with his back to Amy.

Deep red curls draped to the lady's scandalously bare shoulders; her lavish golden brocade gown had a neckline much lower than Amy's father would ever allow. The man's mistress? In the years since the Restoration, the nobility had taken King Charles's lead as far as morals were concerned, which was to say they had very few.

The tall man addressed Hugh. "My sister would like a locket." He urged the lady—his sister, not his mistress—forward. "Go on, Kendra, see what you fancy."

Though the gentleman seemed determined to work with her father, Amy stepped closer, poised to turn the corner and help close the sale. Hugh glanced at her, then smiled. "Have you a style in mind, or a price, Lord…?"

"Greystone." His back still to Amy, he waved an impatient hand. "Whatever she likes."

Hugh cleared his throat. "Perhaps my daughter can help you decide. Amethyst, please show Lord Greystone the lockets."

She took a tray from the case and moved to set it before the man's sister instead.

"They're all so pretty!" Lady Kendra exclaimed in delight. When she bent her head to look closer, her beautiful red curls shimmered to rival the glitter of jewels in the case.

Amy's hand went reflexively to her own head, as though she could rearrange her hated black hair into something more fashionable than her serviceable plait. Resisting the urge to sigh, she lifted an oval locket with tiny engraved flowers.

"See the gold ribbons forming the bale?" As her father had taught her, her voice was sweet and confident, reflecting her certainty of both the quality of the piece and her ability to sell it. She snapped open the locket and extended it, looking from Lady Kendra to Lord Greystone. "It's—"

Her voice failed her.

Hugh nudged her, frowning. "Amy?"

"It-it's quite feminine," she stammered out, telling herself Lord Greystone couldn't be the man she remembered.

But then his emerald green eyes locked on hers—as they'd done five years earlier. He was the man she remembered, the man she'd been unable to forget…

The nobleman from the coronation procession.

Her heart seemed to pause in her chest, and for a second she thought she would drown in those eyes; then she looked away, with an effort, and down to the locket she was holding.

Lady Kendra reached to take the locket from Amy. "Oh, look how pretty it is, Colin." She held it up to her bodice, turning to model it for her brother.

With seeming reluctance, Lord Greystone swung his gaze toward his sister's chest. "I'm not sure I care for it."

"Notice the fine engraving, my lord," Hugh rushed to put in. "Truly first quality."

Lord Greystone ignored him and looked back to Amy. When his eyes narrowed, Amy found herself studying him in return. Classic symmetrical features: a long, straight nose, sculpted planes, a slight dimple in his chin. His clean-shaven complexion appeared more golden than was the fashion.

God in heaven, she'd never seen such a handsome man.

When he finally spoke, his voice, smooth and deep, sent a shiver down her spine. "Have you a locket with…amethysts?"

Amethysts…

She opened her mouth to answer, but the words refused to come out.

"No, my lord, we don't," Hugh said. "But emeralds would suit the lady—"

"Yes," Amy interrupted, finally finding her voice. "Yes, we do have amethysts! If you'll but wait one moment." She reached to grab the key ring off her father's belt, then turned and bolted for the workshop.

"What are you in such a rush for?" Robert asked as she jammed the key into the first padlock on their iron safe chest.

"Customers are waiting." Having removed the second padlock, she knelt on the floor and began working the twelve bolts in their complicated sequence.

Robert wandered over, wiping blunt hands on his apron, leaving streaks of abrasive gray slurry. "What customers?"

"A gentleman and his sister," she said as the last bolt slid into place, allowing her to access the final lock. She opened it with the largest key, then lifted the lid and rummaged inside.

Luckily, the locket she was after was there in the top tray. "Ah, here it is." Just seeing the piece, the shimmering gold, the sparkling gems, made her smile.

She rose and headed back to the showroom, Robert at her heels. He lounged against the archway and fixed Lord Greystone with a distrustful blue stare.

Well, she would just ignore him.

"I found it," she announced, handing the locket to Lord Greystone. She watched for his reaction even as she plunked the key ring into her father's outstretched palm.

Lord Greystone blinked at the piece in his hand. "Beautiful. It's truly beautiful."

Amy's heart swelled. "It does have amethysts, my lord, and diamonds, too."

"I can see that," he said, staring at the locket. "It's splendid."

It had taken her weeks to make it, so many hours she could still see it with her eyes closed. On top, a cutwork pattern of diamond-set leaves surrounded an amethyst flower. The lozenge-shaped locket dangled beneath, encrusted with amethysts and diamonds, its lid enameled with delicate violets. Swinging from the bottom, a large baroque pearl gleamed.

Lord Greystone finally looked to her father. "It's remarkable."

"I made it." Amy felt a flush blossom on her cheeks.

Lady Kendra's mouth dropped open in surprise. Lord Greystone's startled gaze swung to Amy, over to her father, who nodded proudly, then back to Amy. "I don't believe it. You're—"

"A woman?" She heard the challenge in her own voice.

His grin was a bit sheepish. "However did you learn to make something like this?"

Her father cleared his throat. "We hadn't much to do during the Commonwealth, my lord. I expect you were abroad?"

Lord Greystone nodded.

"Well, jewelry was much frowned upon, other than some mourning pieces. I had time aplenty to train Amy in the arts of goldsmithing." Amy's father placed a possessive hand on her shoulder. "She's a natural—even did the enameling herself."

"I must—I mean, Kendra—must have it."

Hugh shook his head. "I'm afraid it's not for sale. It's Amy's own keepsake."

"Of course it's for sale, Papa." Amy regarded Lord Greystone with a speculative gaze. "But it's very expensive."

"I'd expect so. We'll take it."

Lady Kendra turned to him, a frown creasing the area between her light green eyes. "Are you sure, Colin?"

He looked down at his sister. "Don't you like it?"

"It's lovely, but…"

"I said I would buy whatever you chose for your birthday. I want you to have it." He fished a pouch of coins from his surcoat and handed it to Amy. "Here. Take whatever's fair. Include a chain; I want her to wear it now."

Shocked that he would leave the price up to her, Amy fumbled with the pouch. She drew out a few coins, then a few more. The materials had been costly, and the piece had taken a lot of her time—she didn't want to take advantage of the man, but she wouldn't short herself, either.

"Papa?" Closing the pouch, Amy showed her father the gold she'd taken.

Hugh nodded. "That's fine, Amy." He pocketed the coins and placed a gold chain on the counter.

As she returned the pouch to Lord Greystone, he handed her the locket. His fingers brushed her hand, and a brief, warm shiver rippled through her. Her breath caught; she hoped no one noticed.

Robert sullenly pulled a cloth from his apron pocket and moved from the archway to stand beside her. He polished the glass case as she threaded the chain through the bale on the locket, then held it up for Lady Kendra to see.

"Ooh," Lady Kendra breathed. "Will you put it on me?"

She turned, and Lord Greystone lifted her hair so Amy could fasten the clasp.

Lady Kendra faced Amy and touched the locket reverently. "Thank you so very much. I'll treasure it always."

"Thank who?" her brother prompted with a smile.

"Thank you, Colin," she said and turned to embrace him.

Amy bit her lip, feeling an unexpected twinge of envy for this woman's shiny red curls and low-cut gown. But most of all, she envied the way Lady Kendra was hugging Lord Greystone. She glanced down at the counter, lest Robert catch sight of her telltale eyes.

Lord Greystone ushered his sister outside, then lingered in the doorway, looking oddly reluctant to leave.

"Can…" The long fingers of one hand drummed against his muscled thigh, then stopped. "Can you make a signet ring?"

His question came low across the small shop, to Amy, not her father.

"A signet ring?" she said with a small smile. "Of course, it's a simple matter."

Beside her, Robert stopped polishing.

"Excellent." Lord Greystone paused, frowning a bit. "I'll send a messenger with a drawing of the crest," he said at last. "And my direction to deliver it when you're finished."

Amy nodded, feeling a quick stab of disappointment that she wouldn't be seeing him again. Robert's hand resumed its deliberate circular motion on top of the counter.

"I thank you," Lord Greystone said. Then he melted out the doorway and into the teeming streets of Cheapside.

The bell rang again when the door shut. Amy stared at the solid wood until her father cleared his throat.

"I cannot believe you sold your locket," he remarked. "I thought it was your favorite piece."

"It was," she answered dreamily. "But I can make another one."

Her stomach fluttered with happiness, just knowing Lord Greystone admired her craftsmanship and his sister would be wearing her locket. And soon, he would be wearing her ring.

"If you ask me, it was a clod-headed idea," Robert put in with a shake of his carrot-topped head. "You'll never find time to make another locket with all the custom orders you get."

Amy and her father shared a quizzical look.

"Besides, I didn't like him," Robert added. "I didn't like the way he looked at you."

Amy lowered her gaze and brushed past him into the workshop. She'd liked the way Lord Greystone looked at her, very much.

Very much indeed.

Colin entered their carriage to find Kendra seated inside, her arms crossed. "What took you so long?"

He sat opposite her and looked out the window. The door of the jewelry shop was closed, so he couldn't see the girl named Amethyst, the girl with that long, thick, ribbon-entwined plait his fingers had itched to unravel.

"I ordered a signet ring," he said.

"You what?"

Colin could have asked himself that question. He'd known he was acting out of character, but in all his twenty-eight years he'd never met anyone like the girl who had made that exquisite locket. He'd wanted his sister to own it, and he'd wanted something she'd made for him, too. "I need a signet ring, for a seal."

Kendra shot him a look of patent disbelief. "You couldn't even afford this locket." She shook her bright head. "Something happened in that shop."

"Nothing happened," he said, although he knew very well something had. He'd noticed the way the girl's amethyst gaze had been drawn to his own. She'd felt it, too—that compelling, undeniable attraction. Remembering, he smiled to himself.

It made a man feel good, though nothing would ever come of it.

Unfortunately, his younger sister was observant as hell, a fact that could be deucedly inconvenient at times. "I just thought it was a beautiful piece of jewelry, and I wanted you to have it."

"Od's fish, Colin, you're the one always lecturing us about saving funds…"

He turned off her voice in his head, instead considering the possibility of landing that enticing little jeweler in his bed.

"…planning for the future…"

She was completely off limits, of course. Not a widow, not an actress, not a lightskirt, not a highborn member of King Charles's licentious court.

"And then you ordered a ring. You never wear jewelry!"

A sheltered young woman of the merchant class, she would never bed with any man outside of marriage. And Colin Chase, Earl of Greystone, had no intention of marrying beneath himself.

"I cannot believe you bought this locket in the first place."

Besides, he was already betrothed to the perfect woman.

"I do love it, though."

As they passed Goldsmith & Sons, he glanced out the window. He would never go back there. It had been a harmless flirtation, nothing more. He couldn't remember the last time he'd set foot in a jewelry shop, and…

No, he had no reason to ever return.

"Thank you, Colin. I truly do love it."

He blinked and looked at Kendra. She was sighing, gazing down at the locket and fingering it possessively.

What had she been saying?

Oh, she loved it.

"I'm glad. Shall we go buy our brother that telescope he's been hankering for?"

"Are you sure? Ford will be thrilled." Kendra bounced on the seat, then settled her skirts about her as though she'd just remembered she was grown up. "Can it be from me, too? Sometimes he drives me mad as a Bedlam wench with his scientific obsession, but he is my twin, and I love to see him happy."

Colin gave his sister a fond smile, hoping the man she finally consented to marry would have more energy than he did. "Yes, it can be from you, too. Now, where do you suppose we might find such a contraption?"

CHAPTER TWO

"Ring-a-ring o'roses

A pocket full of posies

A-tishoo! A-tishoo!

We all fall down."

"Hold still, if you please."

Amy looked down to the seamstress who knelt at her feet, pinning up the hem of her wedding dress. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Cholmley," she said with a sniffle. A tear escaped and splashed on the older woman's hand.

Mrs. Cholmley glanced up, concern in her kind hazel eyes. "Reminds you of your poor mama, don't it? The children playing outside, I mean?"

Amy nodded, blinking back more tears. She concentrated on the gown's wide lavender lace skirt, counting the love knots—small satin bows sewn loosely all over, one for each wedding guest to tear off after the ceremony as a keepsake.

Fifty-eight, fifty-nine—

"It's only a game, dear. Do you think they even know what they're singing?" The seamstress reached absently for more pins, talking to herself, so far as Amy could tell. "Roses, the rash; posies to sweeten the putrid air. The ring is…the plague-token, of course." She sighed. "My Edgar had one—not rosy, but black and filled with pus. He screamed so when the doctor cut into it. Lud, I still hear him in my dreams. Turn, please."

With a sigh of her own, Amy obeyed. She stared out the window at the sky, gray with smoke from the incessant burning of sea-coal.

"And your mama? Did she suffer one?"

Her gaze dropped to Mrs. Cholmley's gray head. "Suffer what?"

"A plague-token."

Would this woman never stop chattering? Amy's fists clenched. "We don't know. At the first sign of fever, she begged us to go to Paris and stay with Aunt Elizabeth." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I was in Paris. I don't know what happened to her. I know only that she's gone."

"Hard to believe a year has passed. It feels like yesterday they painted that red cross on my door. House after house marked for the quarantine and staffed with guards, all up and down the street. I thought I was like to meet my maker, right enough. And the death carts rattling by…'Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!'" Mrs. Cholmley shuddered and pinned. "My Edgar was buried in a plague pit. Your mother, as well?"

Amy shut her eyes and bit a mark into her lower lip. "We think so. We've found no grave." No place to bring flowers, nowhere to go talk to Mama, to tell her about the upcoming wedding and all her misgivings.

The heavy, sweet stench of decaying bodies had hung over London for weeks after Amy returned from Paris. She'd read in the London Gazette that one in five Londoners had died. But that had been months ago, and London had recovered its usual bustle.

Mrs. Cholmley had apparently talked herself out. Beyond the window, the children's voices faded, replaced by the ordinary sounds of busy London. Swiping the tears from her cheeks, Amy listened. Creaking wheels, animal snorts, the familiar din of grumbles, shouts, and the singsong chants of vendors.

She opened her eyes. The remembered reek of decomposing corpses shifted to the scent of new, starched fabric. At a gentle touch on her knee from Mrs. Cholmley, she turned again.

Her fingers worked at the love knots on her dress. She wished she could tear the little bows off now—or better yet, tear the whole gown off and into shreds. Ten more days and she would be Robert's wife.

Ten days! It seemed impossible.

For six months now, her father had gone about making wedding plans, and she'd done nothing to stop him. It had given him something to think about in the wake of his wife's death, and Amy hadn't found the strength to fight him. It had all seemed so very far away.

But now her wedding day was almost here. Every morning she woke up wishing it were no more than a bad dream. She had to find the courage to call off this wedding before it was too late.

Now.

"Are you finished yet?" she asked, her voice sharper than she'd intended.

Mrs. Cholmley sighed and stood up, flexing her arthritic joints. "All done," she said, smiling in a sympathetic way that made Amy feel even more guilty. "You nervous brides." Clucking good-naturedly, she drew off the wedding dress. Amy's maid pulled her periwinkle gown from the wardrobe cabinet.

Underskirt, overdress, laces, stomacher, stockings, shoes…dressing seemed to take forever. At last Amy went down the corridor toward Hugh's room. The closer she got, the faster her heart beat and the slower her feet dragged.

She paused in the doorway and stared at her father's back, struck as always by how empty the room felt without her mother's presence.

"Papa?"

Hugh jerked, startled. He stood slowly and turned to face her. "What is it, poppet?"

A familiar, dull pain briefly squeezed Amy's heart as her gaze dropped to the miniature of Edith, its oval gold frame cradled between her father's work-worn hands. "She was lovely, wasn't she?"

"Yes, she was." He smiled down at the picture. "You have her delicate chin and her beautiful amethyst eyes."

"And your unruly black hair." Hugh didn't react to her gentle teasing tone. "Sometimes, Papa…sometimes I think that if you could wear out a painting by looking at it, Mama's image would have disappeared from the canvas months ago."

He looked up, offering her a wan smile. "We shared a rare love, poppet."

It was a perfect opening; she couldn't let her courage fail her again. She lifted her chin. "Papa, I…I always dreamed of a love—"

"Have you seen those ruby earrings your mother wore to see Henry V the week before she—she—"

Amy crossed her arms, sympathy and impatience warring within her. Impatience won. "Papa, I need to talk to you."

"I just want to see them," he said gruffly.

She knew his moods, and there was no arguing with his retreating back. Determined to say her piece, she picked up her skirts and followed him down the two flights of stairs and into the workshop.

While he started unlocking their safe chest, she tied on an apron and sat at her workbench. More to calm herself than to accomplish anything, she unfolded the sheet of paper Lord Greystone had sent her and smoothed it flat against the table. She squinted at the drawing while she steeled herself to broach the subject again.

The last bolt clunked into place, and she heard Hugh throw open the lid and begin removing trays to access his private collection in the bottom. She dragged a candle closer to study the Greystone crest, listening to the soft metallic sounds of her father sifting through centuries of treasures.

She had to just say it. "Papa—"

"Mmm…I've always loved this piece."

Exasperated, she turned to watch her father sit back on his heels and hold up a pendant. It sparkled in the lantern light.

Drawn despite her low spirits, she rose and moved to him. "Let me see. Who made it?"

"Your great-grandpapa, a master with enamel. Look."

"Ahh…" Amy studied the piece, a merman, his torso consisting of one huge baroque pearl. His tail was an enamelled rainbow of colors set with cut gemstones. The merman wore a miniature necklace and bracelets and carried a tiny shield and saber. The entire, elaborate pendant was less than four inches tall, including three pearls that dangled from the bottom. "It's exquisite. I remember it now."

"He was inspired by Erasmus Hornick's design book." Hugh still had the treasured book, an ancient leather-bound volume from Nuremberg that Amy was almost afraid to touch. "But the workmanship was his own. He outdid himself with this one—in nearly a hundred years, no one in the family has ever been able to bring himself to sell it."

"I'm glad."

He replaced the piece and hunched over the chest, resuming his search for the ruby earrings. He was mellow, she thought. Maybe now…

"Papa—"

"Your talent came from him, you know. Through the generations. A gift—and an obligation."

She swallowed and took a deep breath. "Papa, I—"

"I know what you're going to say, Amy." His knees creaked as he stood up. "You think I don't know how you feel? It's naught but nerves. Every bride has them."

Amy shot him a hurt look, shocked that he'd known all along that she wanted to call off the wedding, yet chose to do nothing about it. Her own father.

She returned to her workbench and set Lord Greystone's ring into a clamp attached to the table.

"You bear a responsibility. Here, in this shop, our people have worked for generations, for you. You can do no less for your own children. And you cannot do so as a woman alone."

Amy heard her father's footsteps, then a small clink as he placed the earrings on her work surface.

The pear-shaped, blood-red rubies were bezel set and pavéd with diamonds on long, graceful drops. Amy's heart clenched as she remembered how her mother had protested they were too fancy, but then held her head high that night at the theater, to show them to advantage.

"Life is fragile, poppet." Hugh's voice cracked. "I want to see you settled before something happens to me, too."

The rubies seemed to wink in the candlelight, a poignant reminder of her mother and her mother's expectations. Her throat closed with emotion. She had to force the words out. "Nothing is happening to you, Papa."

Looking away from the earrings, she dug in a drawer for a stick of engravers' wax and heated one end in the candle flame, then rubbed it over the top of the ring.

"This family has hoarded gold, coins and gems for centuries—centuries, Amy—making certain no Goldsmith will ever suffer a moment of insecurity. The shop sold almost nothing during the Commonwealth. Could we have lived through it as we did—with servants, and nice clothes, and good food on the table—without that legacy handed down from our ancestors?"

She stilled, a sharp-tipped tool in her hand. "No." The word was directed toward Lord Greystone's ring, its hard-won shine dimmed by engravers' wax and the blur of unshed tears.

"And now that the good times have returned, we work every day to replace what we were forced to use. It's my responsibility, and one day it will be yours."

With the quick, sure strokes of an artist, she traced a reverse image of the crest into the wax, then lifted the graver. The murmur of Robert assisting two customers came through the arch from the showroom, but Amy and Hugh's silence grew tight with tension.

Hugh sighed. "These marriages—they're the way our trade works. I want your word that Goldsmith & Sons will go on. I need your promise."

"Nothing is happening to Goldsmith & Sons."

Amy started engraving, meticulously carving tiny ribbons of gold from the signet's top. She felt her father's gaze on her and knew he wanted an answer, not a denial. An answer about Robert.

The tool slowed as she focused on the ring—and the man it was for. A hazy image of Lord Greystone's handsome features hovered in her mind. He'd just looked at her with his piercing emerald eyes, and she'd felt warm all over and known that it would never, just never, be that way with Robert.

She hurried to finish, set down the graver and held the ring to the candle, studying the reverse crest for imperfections.

"Promise me," her father insisted. "You have a gift that cannot be wasted, an obligation in your blood. Promise me."

She dripped a shiny blob of red sealing wax onto the design sheet and pressed the ring into it. It made a perfect imprint of the Greystone coat of arms, but she didn't feel her usual surge of satisfaction.

Sighing, she turned to search her father's concerned blue eyes. "It's just Robert, Papa. He…he doesn't understand me."

"He doesn't have to understand you. You were promised to him years ago, and he knows his place. As a second son, he's lucky—very lucky—to be marrying into a wealthy family, with his wife-to-be the sole heir. Without you, Robert has nothing. He knows that. He's the right man for you—the right man for Goldsmith & Sons."

Her father didn't understand her, either. "He scares me when he touches me."

"You know nothing of the marriage bed, poppet. It won't scare you for long."

Tears stinging the backs of her eyes, she sat up straighter. "He wants me to stop making jewelry."

A short, harsh bark of laughter followed that statement. "The man is feeling impotent now. When his apprenticeship is finished, he'll feel differently. He won't care to do without the income from your designs."

He reached for the ruby earrings and turned to put them away. She watched him gaze at the jewels, then kneel to tenderly place them in the bottom of the chest. Her fingers clenched tight around Lord Greystone's ring as the tears that had been threatening welled up, and before she could stop herself, she dropped to her knees beside him.

"Papa, look at me. Me!"

She reached for his hands and grasped them in hers, the ring trapped somewhere amidst the tangle of their fingers.

"Papa! Remember you told me I'd have a love, a love like yours and Mama's? You promised, but it hasn't happened! I don't love Robert!" She felt a tear escape and roll down her cheek as her desperate eyes implored his pained ones. "If something happened to him, I wouldn't gaze at his picture, I wouldn't—"

"Enough!" Hugh stood so abruptly that Amy fell back. Never had he raised his voice to her. Now in his fear, his loneliness, he lashed out. "I loved your mother—I still do—and she's gone! I cannot work—I stare at her painting—I loved her so! Better you and Robert think straight. Not like me!"

His shoulders slumped, and his voice dropped to a husky whisper. "Not like me."

She watched him draw a shuddering breath as he reached a hand to pull her up. "I'm sorry, poppet." His eyes fluttered closed and then open as he ran a shaky hand through the black tangles of his hair. "That it's come to harsh words…I'm sorry. But there's more to life than love. It will be better for you this way. You must see a bigger picture. Tradition, continuity…this is how our guild has survived for centuries."

The hard edges of the heavy ring bit into Amy's clenched fist. She blinked back the tears. Like the vast majority of betrothal agreements, hers was not binding until consummation. No money had yet changed hands. There must be another way for her that would still preserve the business. "Surely there's another jeweler…"

"Ours is a small industry. Others were apprenticed a decade ago. Many died in the plague. These matches are made for children, and you're twenty-two. It's God's own truth I've been patient, but it's past time your future was cemented." He moved to wrap an arm tight around Amy's shoulders, as though willing her to understand, to accept the realities of her life. "Robert is a good goldsmith, a good man. You cannot have everything, Amy."

You cannot have everything.

The words echoed in Amy's head, summing up her destiny. She was stuck, as sure as an insect in amber.

Shrugging out of her father's grasp, she picked up a cloth embedded with reddish rouge powder and rubbed the ring absently, a final hand-polish to make it gleam. It felt solid in her hands, this thing she'd created from nothing more than raw metal and elusive inbred artistry. She could never give up making jewelry. She was born to it.

Her gaze swept the cluttered workshop. Tools, hunks of discarded wax and half-finished pieces of jewelry littered every available surface. A thin veil of the reddish rouge powder dusted the tabletops and stained her fingertips.

This was where she belonged. And if her father said Robert belonged here as well, that was the way of it.

The fire below the oven snapped, and she blinked, then knuckled the last trace of tears from her eyes.

You cannot have everything.

"Promise me, Amy. Promise me that Goldsmith & Sons won't end with you."

"You have my promise."

"I love you, poppet," Hugh said quietly.

He only wanted what was best for her. As she turned into his arms, the ring slipped from her fingers and clattered to the wooden floor.

"I love you too, Papa," she said.

It was a long time before she bent to pick up the ring, an even longer time before Robert came in to find her staring at it.

He stood over her. "You still working on that damned signet?"

She looked up at him, but couldn't find the energy to summon as much as annoyance.

"It's finished," she said. "I'll have it delivered in the morning."

CHAPTER THREE

"Colin! Down here!"

From along the ridge where he and nine others were grappling with a huge block of limestone, Colin glanced to the path below to see his brothers climbing from the carriage and Kendra leaning halfway out the window, waving wildly.

"You're early," he called a minute later, heading down the rise. He wiped gritty palms on his linen breeches, his shirt billowing in the light wind that buffeted across Greystone's quarry.

"Early?" His older brother Jason laughed, pointing at the sky.

Colin glanced straight up and then west to where the sun was nearly setting. "Sorry." He shrugged. "I've been about since six this morn. In the woods, the fields…I reckon I lost track of the time."

"I reckon you lost your hat as well?" Kendra fixed him with a half-serious frown of reproach. "Look at you, brown as a gypsy!"

With the back of one hand, he wiped at the sweat on his forehead. "Have you come to see the renovations, or to harp on my appearance?"

"To harp on your appearance," Kendra's twin, Ford, answered for her. "But I've a curiosity to see your new kitchen. Pipes and taps…do they work due to a siphon effect, or is it simple gravity? In Isaac Newton's new paper, he says—"

"Od's fish—how the hell should I know? I'm a farmer, not a bloody scientist. They work because the mason put them in right."

"What I want to know"—Jason patted his stomach meaningfully—"is whether we'll find food in this kitchen."

"Hell, yes." Colin laughed. "Benchley's been slaving since dawn, I expect. Go on up to the castle, and I'll follow along shortly. Four quarrymen are down with the ague, and we've two more slabs to bring up."

"God, it's quiet here." Kendra paused before climbing from the carriage into Greystone's little courtyard. "Listen." A few low birdcalls, distant bleating from the fields, a faint rustle from the smattering of trees that stood sentinel around the tiny circular drive. "It sounds like no one's home."

"No one is home," Jason reminded her. "Colin has only Benchley for company until the renovations are further along, and he's likely in the kitchen."

"Let's go see the kitchen." Ford urged them along. "Those pipes—"

"That food—"

"Those Chase stomachs!" Kendra laughed as they walked toward the door to Greystone's modest living quarters. "I cannot say I'm surprised that Colin restored the kitchen first."

"A man's got to eat," Ford declared.

"I could feed an entire village on what you three pack away in a day. Look…the door is ajar." Her hand on the latch, she stopped and turned back to watch their carriage pass under the barbican gate, the driver heading out to Colin's stables. "And the drawbridge is down."

Jason's green eyes sparkled with suppressed laughter. "It probably hasn't been up in a hundred years. What would be the point? There's naught in this old place of interest to anyone."

"Something doesn't feel right."

"There she goes, leaping to conclusions again." Ford pushed the door open and stepped inside the plain, square entry. "Good Lord, what is that on the floor?"

"What?" Kendra took a step back.

"Ouch!" Jason wrenched his foot from under hers. "Why do you insist on wearing those blasted high heels?" He shouldered his way past the twins. "Something spilled, is all."

Leaning down to touch one of the dark splotches, he rubbed the substance between his fingers, then sniffed and turned back to them slowly.

"It's blood."

"Blood?" Kendra squeaked.

"Don't get overwrought." Jason grinned. "I'd wager it's just one of Colin's practical jokes."

Kendra took another step back. "Real blood a joke?"

Ford put a hand on his sister's shoulder. "Perhaps Benchley butchered something outside and failed to notice it dripping when he brought it through here. Look, the drops trail under the door to the great hall, toward the kitchen. I wonder what it is? I'm hoping for suckling pig."

The great hall's door was ajar as well. Jason led the way into the gutted, roofless chamber, its pitted stone floor still scattered with rusted cannonballs from Cromwell's last siege.

"How couldn't he have noticed it dripping?" Kendra's voice was a whisper, her gaze riveted to the bloody trail. "It was pumping out here, from the looks of it." She followed her brothers, stepping carefully. "A suckling pig!" she exclaimed, her voice rising. "More like a cow, I'll warrant you. I've never seen so much—"

"The latch…" At the far end of the hall, Jason had reached for the door, then jerked back his hand. "It's covered in blood as well."

Kendra bit her lip. "Maybe we ought to wait for Colin."

"Don't be a goose." Jason kicked at the door with one booted foot, and it gave, swinging open with a prolonged creak.

They traversed the short corridor, following meandering bloody footprints. "I don't like this," Kendra muttered, gingerly picking her way past the dark red marks.

They paused at the entrance to the kitchen. "Benchley?" Ford ran a shaky hand through his wavy brown hair. "Benchley, are you here, man?"

"It appears not," Jason said unnecessarily.

Kendra pointed to one of the two sunken wells. "Oh, my God."

Ford glared at her. "What now?"

"Do you not hear the dripping?"

"Dripping?" Jason started toward the well, then suddenly flung out an arm. "Stay back!"

"What?" Kendra breathed. "What is it?"

"This is no joke. Ford, fetch Colin now!"

Despite Jason's warning, Kendra rushed forward, then let out an earsplitting scream before whirling to muffle her face against his chest.

"He's dead, he's dead, he's dead," she panted. "Benchley's dead. Oh, my God, Benchley's dead!"

Instead of fetching Colin, Ford threw his arms around them both, his breathing labored though he'd failed to utter a sound.

Squished between her brothers, Kendra turned her head and cracked an eye open, just to make sure. Bent at the waist over the crossbar that spanned the well, Colin's manservant dangled, his clothes streaked with red. More blood dripped from the sopping mass of his prematurely gray hair, echoing as it plopped into the water far below.

At the grisly sight she let out a whimper and promptly reburied her face.

Until, with an unnerving suddenness, mad laughter burst out behind them.

CHAPTER FOUR

Colin's siblings stared, dumbstruck, as he strode in and leaned over the well.

A plaintive voice resonated from the depths. "My back is killing me. Help me out of here, I beg you."

Kendra blinked. The color rushed back to her cheeks. "You lout! That was mean."

"But a good one," Ford admitted with a sheepish chuckle. "You did yourself proud, Colin."

"A devil of a mess, but worth it," Colin agreed cheerfully. He reached down to hoist Benchley up. "If you could only have seen your faces."

The manservant's shirt was plastered to his short, wiry form. "I'll be going to clean off now," he said with the greatest of dignity. Back ramrod straight, he thrust his beakish nose into the air and strutted from the room.

"Hurry back!" Jason called. "We're fair starving!"

The siblings waited until Benchley was out of earshot before bursting into peals of laughter.

Jason leaned both hands against the large, scrubbed wooden worktable, his long black hair falling forward to hide his face. "I cannot credit that I fell for it," he mused. "I even said at first…" He looked up at Colin. "By God, but your betrothed will be sorry she missed this one."

"Bosh!" Kendra waved a hand. "She would say it was a childish waste of time."

Ford sniffed at a covered platter. "Suckling pig," he mumbled, hiding a smile as he made his way over to one of the basins and reached for a bronze tap.

Her eyes sparkling with mischief, Kendra turned to Colin. "Have you and Lady Priscilla Snobs set the date?"

"Lady Priscilla Hobbs and I have yet to decide." Colin scanned the shelves, looking for something he could use to clean up. "She won't move to Greystone in its present condition."

"Gravity," Ford declared, opening the tap, then shutting it again. With obvious glee, he repeated the motion. "Definitely gravity."

Kendra nodded absently and turned back to Colin. "Priscilla could live at Cainewood with us."

"Not likely. This family is a bit too, uh, high-spirited for Priscilla." He dropped a wad of rags on the biggest puddle of pig blood, poking at it with one booted foot. "She's an only child, you know—used to peace and quiet."

"She's a snob, you mean. Otherwise—"

"Kendra!" Jason's leaf-green eyes glared into his sister's lighter ones. "Lady Priscilla is a perfectly nice woman. More important to Colin, though, she's pretty, titled, and the only heir to an enormous fortune. If it takes her a while to get used to us, we'll just have to put up with it." He turned to Colin. "How are the rest of the renovations coming along?"

"Slowly." Colin looked up from where he crouched on the floor, mopping the last of the bloody trail. "My study and one bedchamber are finished, enough for Benchley and me to stay here and work. But for Priscilla…"

Raising a hand to his narrow black mustache, Jason stroked one side then the other. "I imagine Priscilla requires a small army of servants, as well as a proper suite and a couple of receiving rooms, at the very least." He shot Kendra a warning glance. "On the other hand, she's not going to wait for the entire castle to be remodeled, is she?"

Colin shook his head vehemently. "God's blood, no." An incredible amount of work lay ahead; the castle had stood vacant since '43 when the Roundheads laid the great hall in ruins. "I'll warrant we'll see another quarter century before it's fully restored."

"See this lead pipe?" Ford gestured at the stone wall. "I'd lay odds there's a cistern on the roof. This second tap controls outflow—the River Caine lies downhill from here, yes?" He grinned, his deep blue eyes flashing with satisfaction. "Gravity."

"Fascinating," Jason said dryly.

Standing up slowly, Colin twisted the new gold ring on his finger, considering the enormity of the task ahead of him. "Priscilla wishes to wed and start a family soon. Just a few more rooms…" He sighed. "Everything's so damned expensive, and I'm spending more on farm equipment and livestock than renovations. Until the estate is in shape, it cannot generate a decent income."

"Poor Colin." Kendra walked around the kitchen, reaching up a hand to trail along the mantels of the three immense fireplaces. "I suppose I cannot fault you for wanting Priscilla and her enormous fortune, but why not hurry it along a bit?" She stepped in front of Colin, who was busy lighting candles to ward off the encroaching dark. "Can't you manage to compromise her or something?"

"Kendra!" Jason scolded.

Ford snorted, his attention finally diverted from the pipes. "Compromise her? At King Charles's court? Just what would that entail, do you suppose?" He wandered over to break off a piece of the fresh-baked manchet that Benchley had left on the table. "I'm afraid compromising went out with knights in shining armor—or Cromwell, at the very least."

He sank his teeth into the fine white bread, talking around a mouthful. "Colin could ravish her on the hazard table at Whitehall Palace, and I doubt anyone would take notice—other than to push them out of the way so they could get on with the game."

When he reached for more bread, Kendra slapped his hand away. "I'm not a half-wit." She often claimed that, due to her three brothers' exasperating diligence, she must be the only virgin at court. "I was trying to put it delicately, but what I meant was, why not just get her with child?"

Colin had held his tongue during Ford's tirade—facts were facts, after all—but this went beyond his gentlemanly sensibilities. "I cannot believe you'd suggest such a thing."

"I cannot believe you haven't thought of it. I'm sure you all have, in fact, and you just won't admit it!" Kendra's lips thinned with irritation. "You and your honor. If Priscilla Snobs had half the honor of any one of you, she'd swallow her pride, marry the man she supposedly loves, and help him rebuild his home. She can afford to live simply for a few months; it wouldn't kill her. Or she could move in with us, or live in the town house."

Colin gave a resigned shrug. "We've been over all our options." One by one, he took four goblets off the shelves and set them on the table. "The town house always has people coming and going—it's no place to actually live—"

"I like living there." Kendra reached for some napkins and started folding them into triangles. "London is exciting."

"Well, Priscilla feels differently. She's a very calm person. I like that, you know. Having been dragged halfway around the world most of my life, I'm looking forward to staying in one quiet place, with my own quiet family."

She straightened the fourth triangle, then looked up. "You'll be bored to tears in no time."

"Kendra's right enough," Ford put in. "It sounds like Priscilla's main attraction, other than the aforementioned enormous fortune, is her talent for putting one to sleep—"

"Enough!" The word burst out of Colin like thunder. His gaze flashed around the table, resting on each sibling in turn. "Perhaps I've yet to set a date, but I am marrying Priscilla Hobbs, and I won't have you discussing her this way any longer. I like her. I like her appearance, I like her demeanor, I like her background, and yes, I like her title and her fortune. She's exactly what I've been looking for, and I'm not going to let any of you ruin it for me!"

There was a rare silence among the Chase family. Colin considered they might even have stopped breathing; the only motion seemed to be the candlelight that flickered against the whitewashed stone walls.

"I'll be right back," he muttered after a minute, then stalked off down the corridor to the buttery.

Though he took his time selecting a bottle of wine, the silence still reigned when he returned. Jason shifted uneasily on his feet, Ford traced aimless circles with his finger on the tabletop, and Kendra seemed to be studying her shoes.

Colin almost felt sorry for them.

"Colin?"

"Yes, Kendra?"

"Do you love her?"

He sighed impatiently and set to uncorking the wine. "Our parents were in love, and what did it do for all of us? They were very passionate people, weren't they? Passionate about each other, the monarchy…we were born of their passion, not because they wanted children." He looked straight at Kendra, his eyes burning into hers. "No, Kendra, I don't love Priscilla, but I do like her. And I think it's better that way."

He filled the goblets, the sound of pouring wine unnaturally loud in the tense atmosphere.

Jason took a careful sip, then set his goblet back on the table, his expression tinged with sadness. "You've thought about this a lot, have you?"

Colin's chin went up. "Yes, I have."

Jason shook his head, almost imperceptibly. "It wasn't really like that, you know. Our parents—all of us—were victims of the times. I felt very wanted as a small child. During the fighting, I missed them terribly, and I'm certain they missed us. Damn Cromwell!" He slammed his fist on the table, making the empty bottle dance and the wine sway in their goblets.

"I miss them now," Kendra said quietly. "I always will."

"Well," Colin began—then broke off, interrupted by Benchley's sudden return.

The small man skidded into the kitchen, panting, water from his freshly washed hair puddling on the stone floor.

"My lord, you must come!" A lantern bobbed in Benchley's trembling hand; Colin leapt to grab it before it might crash to the floor. "I went outside the walls to dump the water, and—holy Christ, you must see it!"

"See what?" Colin asked, but the words were directed to Benchley's retreating back.

They followed him at a run, through the darkened castle and outside the turreted walls. A hush seemed to fall over the countryside as the five of them gazed toward London. At the edge of the jet-black night sky, a dazzling red glow hovered at the horizon.

Kendra's whisper shattered the silence. "What is it?"

"A fire," Jason stated grimly. "And it looks big."

"London, on fire?" Kendra's voice was tense with fear. "It looks closer."

Jason put a hand on her shoulder. "Don't trouble yourself, Kendra. It won't reach us here. It's just that the night is so dark, it seems to light the sky."

"But it looks enormous. Whitehall Palace could be burning, or St. Paul's or—our town house! Oh, God, what if the town house is on fire?"

By the dim light of the lantern, Jason's gaze met Colin's over their sister's head.

"We must go help," they said together.

"Ford, you'll come as well," Jason continued. "Colin, you've extra horses? Carrington will fetch Kendra home in the carriage. Let's move."

CHAPTER FIVE

Colin paused to lean and pat his skittish gelding's black, lathered neck as Jason and Ford rode ahead. "It's all right, lad," he murmured, though he knew the words were likely swallowed by the sounds of chaos that engulfed them.

"Colin!" Though they'd barely fought their way into London, Jason's voice already sounded hoarse from smoke and overuse. "Come along! We'll lose you, man!"

Usually dark and deserted at night, London's streets were alive with an appalling incandescence and a crush of displaced humanity. Colin's skin prickled with heat as he picked his way around people, animals, and debris. Bits of ash drifted down, dotting his clothes and hair. Squinting into the haze, he searched the maelstrom for his brothers.

There they were, their familiar forms near a commanding presence riding tall on a huge black stallion: King Charles with his own brother, James, Duke of York. Colin watched as the king reached into a bag flung over his shoulder and threw a handful of guineas to the workmen, encouraging them in their efforts to create a firebreak. The gold coins shimmered in the light of the flickering blaze, as though hung suspended in the thick, smoky air.

"Sweet Mary," Colin breathed, catching up to his brothers. "Where to start?"

"Here's as good a spot as any." Jason twisted in the saddle, looking for a safe place to leave their horses. His gasp made his brothers turn.

Hands white-knuckled on the reins, Colin could only stare at the terrible splendor of St. Paul's Cathedral all ablaze.

"God's blood," he murmured.

"I was there last week." Ford jockeyed his horse closer to Colin, shaking his head in disbelief. "Lady Tabitha and I—we carved our names into the lead on the roof."

"They're erased now," Jason said grimly. "Along with six centuries of other signatures." The molten metal ran down in fiery streams, St. Paul's glorious dome rising like a torch from the sea of flames made by thousands of structures burning all at once.

Jason shook himself, then reached to touch Colin on the shoulder. "Come, there's work to do."

They wheeled to see King Charles dismount and toss his reins to a liveried groom, who led the enormous horse to a makeshift penned area crammed with aristocratic mounts.

"There's a likely spot." Jason's eyes lit with relief. They left their own horses—along with a fair amount of coin to guarantee they'd see them again—and headed down Warwick Lane on foot, jostling through the swarm of firefighters.

A bucket brigade broke apart and reformed to include them, and before he knew what was happening, Colin was accepting pails from Ford and thrusting them at King Charles. From all evidence, the king and his brother had spent the night wading ankle-deep in trenches and splashing through mud and water; their silks and laces were drenched, sooty, and scorched.

"You've been here since when, sire?" Colin yelled as the king turned to take a bucket.

"We came downriver yesterday noon." Charles twisted to pass the bucket, then turned back to Colin. "Would have ventured out Sunday, but the Lord Mayor assured me it was nothing."

"Nothing? We saw it from Greystone!"

"If I recall aright, Bludworth's words were 'Pish! A woman might piss it out!'"

His Majesty gave a snort of disgust that may have been tempered by weary amusement, then stepped from the line when James thrust a shovel into his hands.

The royal brothers trotted off into the smoke. The fire was giving Charles his first opportunity as king to play the hero in person—and he performed the part superbly, Colin mused in some vague recess of his mind, passing along another bucket.

"Help!" The cry, thin and distressed, came through the shouts of the workers. "Help! My little brother!"

A hand tugged at Colin's breeches, and he looked down at a grimy young face. "Where's your brother?" he asked.

"In a burning house!" The boy grasped his hand and yanked him out of the queue—a feat made possible by desperation, given his scant five-foot height against Colin's six-plus.

The next bucket landed in the dirt, soaking Colin's boots and spewing mud into the frightened boy's face. "Where?" Colin repeated.

"P-Paternoster Row!" The lad was off like a rocket, brown hair flying as he threaded his thin form through the confusion. Colin followed at his heels. Rounding the corner and skidding to a halt, the boy pointed up at a high window.

Behind the mottled glass, a pale face hovered. The child's little fingers clawed helplessly at the pane.

Cursed bad luck, the lad was trapped in one of the few houses in this old neighborhood that actually boasted glass windows. The ground floor was engulfed in flame. Black smoke billowed out, cloaking the street, a typically narrow, dirty alley lined with tall houses leaning forward until they nearly met their opposite neighbors.

Colin peered through the haze. Flames leapt from roof to roof, eating their way toward them.

Without conscious thought, he bolted past another burning house to a third that seemed deserted but yet unscathed. He booted open the door and sped up two flights of stairs, coming out on the balcony.

The houses were crammed together. It was an easy leap to the balcony next door, and then once again to the one under the boy's window.

"Stand back!" he implored the terrified face.

Climbing onto the balcony's rail, Colin stretched toward the upper story to hack at the window with his sword. The boy disappeared into the smoke-filled room. Seeing flames lick up the far wall, Colin whacked at the window harder. But his elegant rapier blade was no match for the thick, uneven glass.

He dropped to the deck of the balcony and whirled in desperation, relieved to see Jason and Ford among a crowd that had gathered in the street.

"Rock!" he yelled, and the next second a chunk came sailing up; he caught and hurled it through the window in one smooth motion. A swipe of his blade cleared most of the glass from the sill. He dropped the sword and struggled out of his surcoat, tossing it up to drape over the frame before he jumped to catch the window ledge with his hands and hoist himself inside.

The small, towheaded child cowered against a side wall, wide-eyed with terror. Fed by the fresh air supply from the broken window, the blaze thundered. The fire seemed alive, a hideous monster come to devour all in its path.

Colin's lungs burned as he swept up the boy under one arm and leapt out the window. They landed hard on the balcony, tumbling into a tangled heap, Colin's surcoat twisted around one foot. Flames followed, orange and white and blue tendrils snaking through the window, threatening the wooden structure on which they huddled.

Colin unsnarled the garment and threw it over the rail to his brothers. He stood, pulling the boy up with him, and jammed his sword back into his belt. Below the balcony, several men waited, a quilt stretched tight between their hands.

"We're going to jump!" he shouted to the child over the roar of the flames.

"No!" The boy squirmed out of his grasp. "No! No!"

He snatched him back. A devil of a time to be scared of heights, but then again…

Colin's gaze focused on the quilt. Three stories, and his considerable weight plus the lad's—there wasn't a chance in hell they'd survive anyway.

Hot flames licked at his back; black, billowing smoke choked his air supply. Through tear-blurred eyes, he searched out Jason's face, far below.

"Rope!" he bellowed, the word tearing at his raw throat.

Time ticked away while he watched his brothers argue with a man intent on securing his worldly goods. At last they gave up and simply filched the rope from the laden cart, Ford tugging while Jason brandished his sword in the obstinate fellow's face.

A moment later, the lifeline snaked up, thrown in a wide arc by Jason.

With shaking fingers, Colin knotted it to a balcony post and pulled tight. He hauled the child onto his back, yelled "Hang on!" and they were speeding toward the ground. After sliding to the dirt, Colin grabbed the boy and rolled out of harm's way as the balcony fell to the street, landing with a mighty crash and a deadly shower of sparks.

Safe for the moment, Colin and the boy lay tangled together, coughing their lungs out.

"John!" The boy's brother rushed forward and scooped him up. "Oh, Johnny! I thought for sure you were dead!"

The child dissolved in tears. The older boy rocked him as, one on either side, Jason and Ford helped Colin stand and shrug back into his surcoat.

They urged him down the street, further from the threatening flames, while Colin in turn tugged the boys after him.

"Wh-where are your folks?" he croaked between coughs.

The older lad shook his head. "We don't know," he yelled over the deafening racket. "They told us to wait, but that was"—he tilted his blackened face to the sky—"yesterday, maybe." The smoke was so thick it looked like dusk, but the sun had risen, bathing the city with an unearthly glow.

The boy stopped walking. Hugging his sniffling brother to his side, he shoved the tangled brown hair from his face and fixed Colin with pleading eyes. "My lord, can you help us?"

"I…" Nonplussed, Colin looked to Jason and Ford.

They shrugged.

"Can you help us? Please?" Without waiting for an answer, the boy grabbed his brother's hand, pulling him along as he shouldered his way purposefully through the throng.

Colin's gaze was glued to the lads' vulnerable backs. "I'll see you at Cainewood!" he called to his own brothers before taking off after them.

He chased them through the teeming confusion of the intersection and onto Friday Street, where they ducked into a space between two buildings. Seven more children huddled there, most of them in tears.

"Davis!" a few cried in unison, running over to embrace the tall boy. They pulled little John into the center of their circle, a small island of camaraderie amongst the misery.

Colin's heart squeezed. These children could have been himself twenty years ago, and Jason and Ford and Kendra. They were commoners, not peers, and they were most likely lost, not abandoned.

But the desperate feeling was the same.

Davis withdrew from the group and returned to Colin. "We all live by Ludgate," he explained breathlessly. Though tall for his age, the lad couldn't be more than ten or eleven. "We waited there together, but our folks will never find us now. We had to move, to Warwick, then we found that empty house on Paternoster, then here…but my brother didn't make it here. Oh, I thank you, my lord." He fell to his knees in the mud. "You saved my brother's life."

Colin absently patted the boy's head, leaning to look into the street. "The hell of a lot of good it will have been if we all burn anyway," he muttered. "It's headed this way. Wait here; I'll be back."

He darted before a creeping wagon, its bed laden with a hodgepodge of household goods. With Colin's palms outstretched to press against the two horses's muzzles, the wagon ground to a quick halt.

"Hey!" the driver shouted. "What the devil do you think you're about?"

"I want this vehicle." Colin came around and leapt up beside the man, who shook his slick, bald head indignantly.

"Folks paid good silver for me to save their belongings. I'm bound for Moorfields, for the refugee camp." The man's accent branded him from the countryside, no doubt come into London to assist the victims' flight—and turn a handy profit in the process. A simple cart had suddenly become a high-priced asset, and this was a sturdy wagon.

"Silver, hell. I'll pay gold." Colin fished a pouch from his ripped surcoat and pulled out a guinea. He jumped to the street and began unloading the wagon, suffering a pang of guilt at his cavalier disregard for others' belongings. But a line from one of Dryden's poems came to him unbidden: "And thus the child imposes on the man."

Surely children's lives took precedence over men's possessions.

The driver bit on the coin and then pocketed it, climbing down to watch with disbelieving eyes.

Colin tossed him another guinea. "There's for your flea-bitten horses. And there's another in it for you if you'll help me unload. The fire's gaining."

A quick glance toward the flames had the man throwing goods off the back end, heedless of the clutter it added to the street. He grabbed the third coin, then took off at a run toward Cheapside, disappearing into the wretched mass of newly homeless.

The children clambered up into the wagon bed, their faces masks of relief beneath the tear-streaked soot. Waves of heat lashed at Colin's back, spurring him to move on.

He shrugged off his hot coat and stood up on the bench seat, plucking his damp, grayish shirt away from his body as he peered through the smoke toward the west. Priscilla lived in that direction, and his family's town house was there too, in Lincoln's Inn Fields. Thankfully, the area appeared untouched. The fire was heading north now; west was the best way out of London.

And out was where Colin intended to head—out and to his brother Jason's home, Cainewood. There was no sense searching for the children's families until the fire died down, which could be days. And there was no suitable space for them at Greystone.

He sat and picked up the reins. Traffic was unbearable, and they moved at a crawl. A quarter-hour later, they'd traversed one block of Friday Street and made the turn onto Cheapside. Just three or four blocks, a little further from the leading edge of the fire, and then—

"No, Papa!" The voice cut through the roar of the crowd; an oddly familiar voice, though Colin was sure he'd never heard it raised before. His fingers went instinctively to his ring. "Papa, you cannot!"

His head whipped around. There it was, Goldsmith & Sons. And the girl, Amethyst.

He jerked on the reins as her father shoved her stumbling into the street, flames thundering in the shop behind. A small trunk came out after her, then the man gestured wildly and ducked back inside. Colin saw him start up the stairs—stairs already engulfed in fire—before a blast of heat slammed the door shut.

"Papa!" The girl's wail was a knife to Colin's heart.

"Davis, take it," he barked, throwing the boy the reins. He jumped to the street, lithely dodging cross-traffic as he made his way toward the girl. She hastened up the street in the direction her father had indicated, not making much progress, weighed down by the trunk she dragged in the mud.

They both whirled at the sound of an ominous crash. She let out an anguished scream as the roof of her home caved in, sending a column of sparks into the sky that was extraordinary, even in stark daylight.

"Papa!" She dropped the trunk and rushed back toward the door. The gilt shop sign crashed to the street, but she lifted her skirts and leapt over it without missing a step. Colin reached her just as she grasped the door latch, but she jerked back, staring at her palm, where angry red welts were already rising. Cradling the hand, she doubled over, oblivious to the soot and ash that rained down on her head.

"Papa!" The cry was a whimper now.

Black smoke puffed out from beneath the door, swirling around her grayed skirts. She didn't move. Flames licked at the shop's windows. God's blood, the blaze would consume her in a moment, and she wasn't moving.

Colin grabbed her good hand and pulled her toward the wagon.

"No!" She wrenched from his grasp and rushed back to the door, bunching her skirts in one hand for insulation as she reached again for the searing metal handle.

Colin couldn't believe his smoke-blinded eyes. He clutched her by the waist and yanked her back against his body.

"No!" She slammed into him and immediately lunged forward. "Papa's in there—I must save him!"

The door's paint was now blistering, writhing, bubbling. At any moment the planks would flare up. Yet she tugged against Colin's restraint, aiming a shoulder at the door, clearly intending to batter it down.

With both hands on her shoulders, he dragged her back a yard…two…three.

"No! Let me go!" She twisted and turned in his grip. Heat battered them in scorching waves. "No!"

"Yes!" He spun her around and, desperate, gave her a shake meant to rattle some sense into her fevered brain. "You must leave!"

"I have to save him!" Head down, she kicked at his shins. Still he hung on, jostled by the torrent of evacuees, dragging her stumbling toward the wagon as she struggled. "Let go of me!"

Jaw clenched, he stopped and took her face between his hands, forcing her eyes to his. "He's dead!" he roared over the deafening noise. "He went up the stairs, and the roof collapsed! Now come, before you're dead as well!"

A glassy look of despair began to cloud her amethyst eyes as she went limp beneath his hands. Her knees buckled. He scooped her into his arms and ran to the wagon.

After flinging her light frame up front, beside Davis, he made to climb up after her.

She stiffened, bolting straight up. "My trunk!" she screamed, pointing at the homely object. It sat mere feet from the shop, flames from the front wall reaching deadly fingers in its direction. But one look at her face convinced him he'd have to retrieve it, or she'd attempt to do so herself.

"Go!" he shouted at Davis, slapping the nearest horse on the rump for emphasis. Davis lifted the reins, and the wagon lurched, inching down the street.

The heat was incredible. A window burst as he raced toward the shop, the blast scattering glass and releasing clouds of smoke that seared his lungs anew. Coughing, his eyes streaming tears, he knelt to lift the trunk.

Hell and furies, how was a small trunk so heavy? He let it drop and, grabbing one handle, dragged it clunking down the rutted street to where the wagon crept along. Waving the children back, he managed to heave it into the wagon bed, then ran around and swung up to the bench, taking the reins from Davis, who scrambled to join the others in the back.

"Are you hurt?" He forced the words past his raw throat. "Amethyst?" What had her father called her? "Amy?"

At the sound of her name, she looked up, her glazed eyes registering first confusion, then disbelief.

"Lord Greystone?"

Before he could respond, she threw her arms around his neck and burst into tears.

Colin placed one arm around her, gingerly and then tighter. The sobs wracked her slight body. Hot tears soaked through his shirt, wetting his shoulder.

Long, gut-wrenching minutes passed. They progressed several blocks before she choked back the tears and slowly lifted her red-rimmed eyes to meet his.

Dark purple smudges marred the delicate skin beneath her eyes. The fire had been burning since Sunday; she'd likely not slept for days.

"I'm so sorry," he said.

She nodded her head miserably.

"Where can I take you?"

Sniffling, she gave a vehement shake of her head. "Nowhere," she said in a trembling whisper. Her eyes filled again and threatened to brim over. "I have no one."

Discomfited, he turned back to the road. No one? It couldn't be so; surely she knew someone who would take her in. Her father had perished, true—he'd seen that with his own eyes—but what of a mother? A relative? A neighbor?

Against his body, he felt her take a shuddering breath. Shooting him an exhausted glance, she bunched up his discarded surcoat to make a pillow and lay down on the bench, her knees drawn up like a small child. Less than a minute later, her breathing slowed and evened out in the rhythm of sleep.

He drove on, absently smoothing the loosened, tangled hair off her face, letting his gaze wander over the melting softness of her slumbering body draped along the length of the seat. Something vaguely disturbing fluttered and settled in his stomach as he turned onto Lothbury and headed west.

CHAPTER SIX

"She's touching me."

Rubbing his dry, burning eyes, Colin glanced over his shoulder at the children in the wagon bed.

"He's looking at me oddly."

Colin clenched his teeth and turned his attention back to the road, where it seemed every inhabitant of London was ahead of him. A leisurely carriage ride from London to Cainewood Castle normally took about five hours, but the sun was setting, and after six hours they weren't even a quarter of the way there.

They could walk to Cainewood faster than they were moving, he thought irritably.

"She won't stop humming."

"Ouch!"

He had to find somewhere to stay before major warfare broke out. For the past hour, he'd stopped at every inn along the way and sent Davis to inquire about available lodging. Colin was beginning to believe every room in the kingdom was taken.

When Davis came out of the last one, shaking his head, Colin had briefly considered bedding outdoors for the night. But although it was warm, there was a persistent wind, and he shuddered at the thought of trying to make nine children comfortable with not so much as a blanket.

Nine children and Amy Goldsmith.

He glanced down at her grimy face. Amethyst Goldsmith—whoever would have thought? He'd left her shop two weeks ago with no intention of ever going back, ever purchasing another piece of jewelry, ever seeing her again. And now here she was, dropped—literally—right in his lap.

God's blood, it was incredible! What had he done to deserve this?

She'd moved up in her sleep, and her head now rested on his thigh. He'd warrant she'd turn red with embarrassment if she knew. She was so different from the women in his circle, and it was more than a lack of sophistication. It was a freshness, an optimism in those clear, innocent eyes—untouched by the Civil War, the years of the Commonwealth, the Restoration—all the calamities that had such a large part in the shaping of Colin and all of his acquaintances.

For the dozenth time, he allowed himself to touch her, thanking God she was alive. He ran the backs of his fingers over her delicate jawline and down her graceful neck, then slid his palm along her arm. He lifted her hand, lightly encircling her slender wrist. When she stirred he hastily replaced it, setting it back on her curving hip.

Murmuring something incoherent, Amy flexed her lithe body a bit, then settled back into sleep. Her long black lashes looked like feathery crescents on her tear-streaked cheeks.

Colin tore his gaze away and stared straight ahead at the congested road. Why did an innocent touch leave him so…disturbed? His betrothed, Priscilla, was the perfect woman for him, yet when he touched her—or made love to her, for that matter—he never felt like this.

He was more familiar with Priscilla, he decided, more comfortable. He wasn't supposed to touch Amy this way—indeed, he wouldn't dare if she were awake. It was the excitement of the forbidden, that was all.

Besides, he wasn't looking for passion in his marriage. He'd told his sister as much just last night.

God's blood, had it been but a day since his family's visit to Greystone? He felt ages removed from the lighthearted man who had pulled that prank. It seemed as though he hadn't slept in a week.

He pulled up before another inn and sent Davis to investigate. Scuffling sounds and a high-pitched shriek came from the back of the wagon. Colin's empty stomach complained loudly, and he came to a decision.

They were stopping here. To eat, if nothing else.

They were in luck—of sorts. Davis came running back to report that there was room in the inn. One room, to be precise. With two beds. For eleven people.

Well, it was shelter, and Colin was inclined to think there might be nothing else available between here and Cainewood. He sent Davis to claim it before someone else pulled off the road.

Amy washed down a bite of meat pie with ale, allowing the children's anxious chatter to lull her. Wedged on the bench between a girl of five and a boy of six, she kept her gaze on her plate and avoided Lord Greystone's eyes across the table.

She had no wish to talk—given her choice, she wouldn't even be awake. She'd managed to spend the past few hours in oblivion, casting the time away. Dreaming…warm hands caressing her…comforting. Now that she was conscious, she felt guilty for having such a dream when her father was dead.

A sudden sharp pain of loss overwhelmed her, and she struggled to force it back inside. She couldn't think about it now—it was too fresh, and she was too broken.

"Bread, Amy?" Lord Greystone's rich voice cut through her thoughts.

She slowly brought her gaze to his. "No, thank you."

"Cheese?"

"I'm really not hungry." She could see Lord Greystone eyeing her barely eaten pie, so she stuck her spoon in it.

"You have to eat." The statement was matter-of-fact, but his voice was filled with concern. "You'll fall ill."

When she dropped her spoon and lowered her eyes again, Lord Greystone cleared his throat and rose. "I'll take the children upstairs. You stay for a bit and finish your supper. Will you wait for me here?"

Amy raised her chin and nodded up at him.

"I'll come back down for you," he promised, and took himself off, the children trailing in his wake.

She toyed with her food for the next quarter-hour, breaking up her pie, the spoon awkward in her left hand. She attempted a couple of bites, but the meat had turned cold and stuck in her throat, nearly making her gag. Gulping more ale, she pushed her plate away; she hadn't been hungry in the first place, but Lord Greystone had insisted on setting it in front of her.

When her ale was finished, she stared at the pattern in the oak table and blanked her mind until, out of a corner of her eye, she glimpsed Lord Greystone coming downstairs.

He'd cleaned up, neatly pulled back his hair, donned his surcoat. It was ripped a bit, but he'd brushed it clean of the ash and soot. His grayish shirt showed between the unbuttoned front. He needed a shave, but looked strong and male—and there.

Watching as he went through a swinging door into the kitchen, she ran her fingers through her own tangled hair. Earlier, she'd scrubbed the grime from her face and unraveled her disheveled plait, but found nothing with which to brush it out. Their tiny room had no mirror—she was sure she looked a sight.

Not that she cared.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Colin backed through the kitchen door with two bowls full of sloshing liquid in his hands, some strips of cloth draped over one arm, and a jar of honey wedged between chin and shoulder.

He put everything on the table and straddled the bench beside Amy, motioning his head toward her plate. "Finished eating?"

"Yes, I am."

"May I have a look at that hand? We really should clean it."

"I suppose so," she said, offering her hand.

Colin wondered if he were up to the task of drawing her out of this dreamlike state. He had to figure out something to do with her, but she wouldn't be much help if she persisted in answering him with three-word sentences.

He glanced at her hand and winced. "Ouch!" he said with a mock shudder.

"It's not so bad."

"Bad enough." He gently placed her hand in one bowl. "We'll soak it for a few minutes, shall we?"

Her long black lashes swept down as she squinted at the bowl. "What is it?"

He smiled distractedly. "Cream."

"Cream? You mean, from milk?" She gave a slight shake of her head, making her dark hair shimmer in the flickering light. The glossy waves tumbled to her waist, and throughout the entire supper, Colin had been quite unable to keep his eyes off it.

"Why cream?" she asked.

"Huh?" He shook himself. "Good question. Doesn't everyone put cream on burns?"

"I think not," she mused, drawing her eyebrows together. Then her face cleared. She lifted her left index finger and raised it as though to make a point. "Butter. In my family, we put butter on burns."

"We always use cream," he asserted. "As well as honey. I hear tell butter's no good."

"That's not what I've heard," she said dubiously.

"Well, how does it feel?"

She paused, considering, then tilted her head. "A little better, I guess."

"See?" His smile was triumphal.

Amy smiled back; the smile was shy and more than a little bit sad, but a smile nonetheless. Colin congratulated himself.

"That should do it." She started a little when he took her hand, but he pretended not to notice. While he held it over the bowl, watching the cream run off in tiny rivulets, the air between them crackled with unasked questions. Her hand stopped dripping, and he rinsed it in the bowl of water.

Her eyes closed, and he felt her relax, her hand limp as he swished it around, pulled it out and turned it over.

"Hmm…" He dabbed gingerly at her palm with one of the linen strips. "It's clean now, and a bit less red." He held it up for her to see. "What do you think?"

Her eyes popped open. "It's fine."

But she was grimacing, and the longer she looked at it, the more he felt her stiffen. Not that he could blame her. The puckered blisters were an angry hue.

"We need it perfectly dry." He dabbed at her hand again, trying not to hurt her. "There. Now the honey…" He opened the jar, dipped in a spoon, and drizzled the sweet thick substance onto her injured palm, spreading it gently with one finger.

She sat silent as he wound a fresh linen bandage around her hand, tucked in the end, and rinsed his fingers in the bowl.

"Davis is watching the young ones." Wiping his palms on his breeches, he rose. "Would you care to take a walk?"

Without waiting for her answer, he took her by the elbow.

The road out front was noisy, crammed with an endless stream of people fleeing London. A well-worn path in back of the inn led up into gently rolling hills, and it was here that Lord Greystone guided her.

It was a cloudless night, the wind having blown every wisp over the horizon, and Amy could just make out his profile, dark against the moonlight. Aided by what seemed a million stars, her eyes adjusted to the darkness. As the lines of his face became more distinct, she decided his features were so perfect, so symmetrical, that he straddled the line between handsome and beautiful.

Then, without warning, he stopped and turned to face her. His magnetic eyes burned into hers, searching, and she decided he wasn't beautiful after all.

He was much too intense to call him that.

Twisting the gold ring on his finger—the ring she had made—Lord Greystone cleared his throat and looked away.

"How is your hand?"

"Not too bad."

"Are you right-handed, or left?"

"Right."

"It will be a spell before you can write, then."

She shrugged. "I expect so."

Lord Greystone sighed, and the fingers of one hand drummed against his thigh. "Amy…"

His voice sounded serious. She didn't want to discuss it. Not yet, not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Or, if God was just, perhaps this was all a horrible dream, and tomorrow she'd wake up back in Cheapside.

She took strength from Lord Greystone's presence, but she wished they were back at the inn, sitting side by side with tankards of mind-numbing ale, not saying anything. If he were going to insist on talking to her, she would have to make sure the conversation stayed on safe subjects.

When the drumming stopped, she took a quick breath. "You…you're very good with the children."

"Thank you." He looked relieved. "The lad Davis is an enormous help."

"Why are you…doing this? Caring for these children, I mean. It's very nice, but…"

"But why am I shepherding children when every other able man is still in London, fighting the fire?" Lord Greystone led her up a rise to where he'd spotted an ancient, broken stone wall. He seated himself upon a low section. "It's difficult to credit, but I've always felt a kind of…sympathy, I suppose you could call it, for children who are lost or abandoned. Perhaps I would have been of more use fighting the fire, but—"

"No, not at all." Amy levered herself up to sit on the wall, angling to face him. "The children needed you. Thousands are fighting the fire; one more would make little difference."

Lord Greystone hesitated, then shrugged. "I know how those children feel. When I was young, my parents left me quite often. Most of the time, in fact. And I was lonely and scared all the time. I wasn't a very brave lad," he admitted ruefully.

"They left you?" Amy could barely conceive of such a childhood; her parents had never left her for so much as a day.

Until today, she realized suddenly.

She felt a brief, sharp stab of grief, then pushed it down, down, far inside, like stuffing one of those new jack-in-the-box toys back under its lid.

She bit her lip. Lord Greystone was watching her. As long as she kept asking him questions, she wouldn't have to think about it. "Why…how could they do that?"

He cocked his head. "They were passionate Royalists. Cavaliers. King and country came first. We, my brothers and sister and I, were such a distant second we barely even counted."

"But…where did they leave you?"

"Oh, with other Royalist families. They weren't cruel—they didn't actually abandon us. But to a child…well, it felt as though they did. To me, anyway." He paused, twisting his ring again. "My brother Jason—he's two years older than I—feels differently. But he was older when the war started."

"How about your sister?"

"Kendra and her twin, Ford, were so young that I don't think they remember any other kind of life. They're twenty-two—about your age, I think?"

Amy nodded. "And now?" she asked. "How do they feel about it now? Your parents, I mean. Are they sorry?"

"They died. At the Battle of Worcester, fifteen years ago."

His parents were dead…just like hers. "Oh…" she started, then couldn't say anything more.

Mistaking her renewed grief for sympathy, Lord Greystone rushed to reassure her. "No need to feel sorry. It was Charles's last stand against Cromwell, and my folks wouldn't have missed it for the world. I was a strapping thirteen by then, safely ensconced with other Royalist exiles in Holland. I didn't miss them much, since they were hardly ever around anyway."

He sighed, gazing out into the endless dark rolling hills.

"Was your family Royalist, Amy? During the war, I mean?"

"No," she said slowly, pausing as she thought how to explain it. "I mean…we weren't not Royalist, either. We were—nothing, I guess. Papa just tried to keep doing business no matter what happened." To Amy's surprise and dismay, her mention of Papa released a floodgate of emotions. Tears began welling in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered, chagrined that she couldn't control herself.

"Don't be sorry. Whether you were Royalist or nay—it doesn't signify. It seems a fine survival tactic to me."

She couldn't answer. Her throat seemed to close up, and a warm teardrop rolled down her cheek and splashed onto her clasped hands.

"Amy?" Lord Greystone probed. "Where is your mother?"

She tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. "She died," she answered in a quavery voice. "Of the plague. Last year. She fell ill and we had to leave. We went to France, and I never saw her again."

"I'm sorry," he said softly. He moved over on the wall and placed an arm around her shoulders. "I'm truly sorry."

His voice was low and compassionate, but she wasn't ready to accept comfort yet.

"I…" His fingers tightened on her shoulder. "I don't understand. Your father, why he went back inside. When the shop was aflame."

Slow tears overflowed, quiet tears, not a storm like earlier in the day when he'd found her. They burned in her eyes and traced hot paths down her cheeks.

She was so exhausted.

"He wanted a painting of my mother." She brushed at the tears with the back of her good hand.

"A painting?" She could feel Lord Greystone beside her, shaking his head in disbelief.

"He had to have that picture. A miniature. He used to sit for hours, staring at it. Perhaps—perhaps he didn't really want to live without her," she said with a flash of insight that stabbed deep in her heart. "Now I have no one. I'm all alone."

He jumped down and stood before her, taking her face between his hands. "You're not alone, Amy."

"Yes—yes, I am. My parents are gone…my home is gone…"

Well, there was Robert, a little voice in the back of her head reminded her.

But there was no one to make her marry him now.

"You must have family, somewhere?"

"Only my Aunt Elizabeth." The words came out a whisper, forced through her painfully tight throat. "She lives in Paris. Last year when I stayed with her I was miserable."

"Your mother had just died," he reminded her gently. "You would have been miserable anywhere." With him standing and her seated on the wall, they were of a height. His eyes searched hers, an intense gray, their color neutralized by the darkness. "It's not so bad as all that."

More tears brimmed over, and she saw his brow crease in response.

"I wish I weren't alive," she whispered, dropping her head to escape his penetrating gaze.

He lifted her face and wiped her wet cheeks with his thumbs. "Never say that," he said, his voice gruff with emotion. "It's good to be alive. Never ever say that."

In a violent motion, Lord Greystone caught her to him and held her tight. Amy felt his cheek against hers, rough with unshaven stubble, but warm and vital.

She rubbed her face against his, almost imperceptibly, feeling a human connection for the first time since she saw her father disappear into the raging inferno that used to be her home.

"God in heaven," she whispered.

In his arms she felt safe, removed from her hostile reality, and she wished she could stay there forever. She breathed deeply of his scent, smoke and healthy male sweat, mixed with a faint underscore of fragrant soap. Slowly her arms came up and stole around his neck, her fingers entwined in his hair.

Dimly realizing that his attempts at comfort were edging too far toward impropriety, Colin tried to pull back. But Amy came off the wall with him, sliding down his body until her feet came to rest on the grass, her head beneath his chin, her face pressed into his chest, her tears soaking the thin linen.

Holy Christ. Despite her gut-wrenching misery, he couldn't help but think she felt too damn good in his arms.

Then he stopped thinking altogether.

When Amy raised her face to him, he pulled her even closer and brought his lips to hers.

The travelers rumbling by in the background, the crickets in the hills, the wind blowing past…all faded away like magic. Only the two of them existed.

The caress deepened and his lips parted hers, sending a thrill through her entire body. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she marveled at the new feelings, for his kiss was nothing like the ones she'd tolerated from Robert.

She was overwhelmed by the way Lord Greystone's mouth claimed hers. His kiss was like a potion—it made her body melt and her consciousness dim. Suddenly she couldn't remember who she was or whether she had any problems.

His tongue invaded her mouth searching for hers, and he tasted of ale, but sweeter, and it was shocking and wonderful. She leaned into him, reveling in the feel of his hard body against her softness, and his hands wandered down her back, cupping her bottom and pulling her closer still.

A low sound of pleasure escaped her throat.

It brought him back to reality.

He dropped his hands and broke away from her mouth. What was he doing? Seducing an innocent girl, taking advantage of her grief and loneliness, her vulnerability, her overwhelming need to feel alive and connected? He wasn't that kind of man—he'd always prided himself on being cool and logical, not ruled by his emotions.

And certainly a gentleman. He knew there were different rules for the women in Amy's class than for the promiscuous ladies in his own. He was thoroughly disgusted with himself.

Amy stared at him, dazed, her knees weak.

"I'm sorry," he said.

He didn't sound like Lord Greystone, Amy thought. His voice was rough, and he did look sorry—ashamed, even.

"Sorry?" Amy's senses were still spinning. She wasn't sorry, not one bit. She'd never imagined any person could make her feel like someone else, in a different time and place, and she'd wanted that feeling to go on forever.

And, unless she was mistaken, he'd felt much the same. Surely he couldn't have kissed her like that if he hadn't. Or could he? She was admittedly ignorant of such matters.

"You're sorry?" she repeated.

"Well, not sorry exactly," he said in that unfamiliar rough voice, fumbling for the words. "It's just…I shouldn't have done that…taken advantage of you like that. Not that I didn't want to—oh, bloody hell!" He took a step toward her and put his hands on her shoulders, holding her at arm's length, clearly exasperated. "You're a proper young woman, and I've a responsibility to send you to your aunt in the same condition I found you."

Amy would have agreed with him yesterday. But today, alone in the world and having tasted the sensations of being in his arms, she wasn't sure of anything.

"My lord—" she began.

"Colin," he interrupted, irony in his voice. "Once you've had a man's tongue in your mouth, you're allowed to call him by his Christian name."

Amy blushed furiously, thankful for the cover of darkness. Still, she tried the name in her head. Colin. She'd never called a nobleman by his given name, and it should feel wrong. But now she thought Colin, and it made her feel warm all over.

"And if you were about to tell me it doesn't matter," he continued, "you're wrong. It matters a lot."

"But—"

"No buts, Amy. It's late, and we're both very tired. We have a long ride to Cainewood in the morning. Let's get some sleep."

He grasped her good hand and pulled her toward the inn. She followed reluctantly. There was no arguing with him, it seemed.

Her hand tingled where it nestled in his. She'd held hands with Robert and never felt anything at all. Even with her limited experience, she knew this couldn't be normal.

Was it not the same for him?

CHAPTER EIGHT

It was.

Colin had a vast record of experience and knew this wasn't one jot normal. But it was absurd. He was betrothed, and Amy was a commoner, a woman who, as of this morning, had nothing whatsoever to her name.

He was tired; that must be it. He was very, very tired.

If his body felt like it were vibrating, that was only because he was tired.

After a good night's sleep, he'd feel differently. He'd be more himself, back in control. They'd go on to Cainewood, wait a couple of days until the roads were clear, then he'd take her to Dover and buy her passage across the Channel. They'd never see each other again.

His pride would remain intact, not to mention her virginity.

They arrived back at the inn and trudged wearily upstairs, to find four little bodies bundled in each of the two beds, crosswise, and Davis curled in the only chair, snoring softly.

Colin stood with his mouth open.

"You expected what?" Amy whispered. "That they'd all lie down on the floor and leave the beds to us? I'd say they settled themselves quite fairly."

"I thought they'd leave part of each bed to us," he complained loudly. "Greedy little devils, aren't they?"

"Shhh! You'll wake them."

"I wish they would waken, so I could rearrange them. But you're not well acquainted with children, are you? Nothing short of a cannon blast would wake them."

Despite the sleeping evidence, Amy still couldn't bring herself to talk out loud. "I have no brothers or sisters. How should I know how children sleep?"

"I'll go downstairs and fetch some more blankets," he said, turning on his heel.

He stopped short of slamming the door behind him. Amy slumped against the wall, wondering what had made his mood change so suddenly.

She slid down to the floor and waited, her knees to her chest. Alone, the grief started creeping back. She wouldn't think about it. She'd think about his kiss…

She felt her lips burning at the memory.

At last he returned, two threadbare blankets in hand. "It was like negotiating a treaty," he declared, "and they cost me a pretty penny. I'd be willing to wager they're her own personal blankets." He sniffed at them suspiciously. "They smell as bad as she does."

Amy wrinkled her nose, remembering the stout, flushed innkeeper's wife and her greasy hair.

Colin began to hand her the smaller blanket, then glanced at Davis uncovered in his chair.

"Hell," he muttered to himself.

There was nothing for it; he was going to have to share a blanket with Amy. Why? What had he done to deserve all this temptation thrown in his path?

He covered Davis and gently tucked him in.

"Sorry." He spread the other blanket on the floor and sat on it to pull off his boots. "This is what I was afraid of."

"Afraid of?"

"We'll have to share this blanket," he explained crossly.

"Is that what you were so vexed about?" Amy's features lost some of their tightness. "Strangers sleep together all the time when inns are full. Of course, they generally have a bed," she reflected.

"They're generally the same gender," he said pointedly.

"Oh."

"Yes. Well, come then, take off your shoes." He shrugged off his surcoat and rolled it up to make a pillow. "If they're anything like normal, these children will be up at first light."

He lay down. Amy slowly removed her shoes, then joined him at the edge of the blanket and arranged herself on her side, carefully separated from him. He threw the other half of the blanket over them both.

Her tears were silent, but Colin could feel the blanket tug slightly when her shoulders began shaking. "Damn," he murmured under his breath. He turned toward her and positioned himself against her back, like two spoons in a drawer.

"Hush," he whispered, although she wasn't making a sound. "Hush. It's all right. I'm here."

She fit him perfectly.

Presently her tears stopped, and she reached back for his hand and tucked it around her middle. She shuddered once more and was still.

His whole body was rock hard.

His last waking thought was that he was lucky he was so exhausted.

Damn lucky.

Amy trailed listlessly behind Colin as he hustled the children to the wagon. Leaning against the side, she watched them clamber into the back, wondering where she'd find the energy to climb up herself. She felt like she hadn't slept a wink last night; barring some catnaps Monday evening and her uneasy slumber in the jostling wagon yesterday, she'd been awake for nearly three days.

"Keep an eye on them, will you?" Colin asked.

She nodded, watching his broad back and easy stride as he headed into the inn. Thank God he was here…

Closing her eyes, she shook her head in a vain attempt to clear it. She had to think straight, figure out a plan. While it was easier to let him take care of her, she couldn't rely on Colin. He was a tempting comfort, but a false one. She meant nothing to him.

Her thoughts drifted to last night. How could she have asked him about himself and his past as though everything were normal, as though her father hadn't just died? And God in heaven, had she actually kissed him? Her face flamed at the memory. What kind of a daughter was she? She didn't deserve to enjoy anything, ever again.

She opened her eyes to see Colin returning, her trunk balanced on one straining shoulder.

"What the devil's in here?" He set it on the floorboards with a decided clunk.

"Everything I own," she said in a broken whisper, her gaze riveted to the wooden slats, the leather straps, the brass fittings.

Dear God, her father's life's work was in there.

Colin pushed the trunk under the bench, making a hideous scraping noise. Suddenly her throat constricted and she seemed unable to breathe. The grief was bubbling up inside her. A weight settled in her stomach; a fist closed around her heart. Her eyes filled with hot, blinding tears.

It was rising, threatening to overwhelm her, and this time she couldn't stop it.

She stumbled up to the bench, but she couldn't sit upright, so she sank to the boards and covered her face with her hands. Then she let it rise up and out, the pain and the tears and the great, tearing sobs.

Her breath came in hysterical gulps. Colin stroked her hair, but she shook off his hand, though she knew it might hurt his feelings. The children were silent; she could feel their pitying gazes. She didn't care. Her father was dead. She would never see him, never touch him, never hear his voice again.

She was jostled when the wagon started moving, but the tears wouldn't stop. Wordlessly, Colin stuffed a handkerchief into her fist. Before long it was sopping wet and twisted in her hands.

The world retreated until she was a mass of wretched pain. Her father was dead; her home was gone; she had no immediate family, no family at all except one aunt in a foreign country.

It was all Papa's fault. When he'd gone back inside their burning house, he'd robbed her of both her father and her life.

Damn him, she thought. Damn him to hell!

Bolting upright, she gasped and covered her mouth as though she'd said the words out loud.

She felt Colin's gaze, his compassion, but it didn't help at all. When he drew her hand away from her mouth and threaded her fingers through his, she levered herself up to the bench and leaned against him, closing her eyes. The tears leaked slowly, tracing new paths down her raw cheeks. Her head throbbed; her eyes burned, hot and swollen. But no physical pain could match the anguish in her heart.

She'd damned her father to hell, and for one split second, she had really meant it.

CHAPTER NINE

Standing beside the wagon, one hand resting possessively on her trunk, Amy watched, dazed, as Lady Kendra led two children by the hand toward Cainewood's immense double oak doors.

The raked gravel of the drive crunched beneath their feet. "I cannot believe you did this, Colin." Lady Kendra turned on the steps to count the young ones. "Nine children! You must have had your hands full."

She paused on the threshold, eyeing Amy speculatively. "Though it looks as though you had help."

Colin didn't respond, but Amy slipped him a guilty sidewise glance. She bit her lip, knowing she'd been less than helpful. She hadn't even been decent company. They'd been on the road for the better part of the day, and she'd strung no more than five words together the entire time.

But she had no time to dwell on herself, not with Cainewood Castle before her in all its ancient glory.

The living quarters formed a U around the quadrangle's groomed lawn. She looked up, and up. Four stories.

"Ninety-eight rooms," Colin said beside her, as though he'd read her mind. "Most of them closed up. Jason has years of restoration ahead." He pointed out the marks of cannonballs in the high, crenelated wall. "Cromwell sacked the place twice."

Beyond the smooth green grass of the quadrangle, a tall, timeworn tower rose majestically. "The original keep," he explained. "I believe it dates from 1138. Cainewood's been in our family, save during the Commonwealth, since 1243."

"Oh…" Blinking, she turned and stared up at him, his bold features shadowed by the turreted curtain wall. An enormous castle's wall. Other than Whitehall Palace, it was the largest structure she'd ever seen.

And his family lived here…

The thought was amazing. Almost inconceivable. Back in her shop and at the inn, Colin had seemed almost ordinary.

He shifted under her stare, and she glanced away, embarrassed.

He pointed again. "Beyond the keep, that's the tilting yard. Obsolete, these centuries past. Jason doesn't bother caring for it." His wave indicated the vegetation, untamed and ankle high.

Still, a tilting yard…she could picture knights of old, mounted on glittering steeds, jousting, their lances held aloft. She'd been reading a medieval history—she'd left it on her bedside table. It must have burned—

"Come, Amy." His rich voice rescued her from those thoughts. "I know you're tired. Come inside and you can rest."

He shooed the last of the children up the steps and motioned her after them, through the massive doors. The sun was setting, and she expected the entry would be dim. But a chandelier dangled from the vaulted ceiling, blazing with candles that flooded the cream-colored stone chamber with light.

In awe she moved toward the slim columns that marched two-by-two down the center of the three-story hall. An intricate stone staircase loomed ahead. At intervals along the gray marble handrail, carved heraldic beasts held shields sporting different quarterings of…

"The Chase family crest," Amy said softly.

"How did you…?" Colin set down the trunk and blinked at her. "Oh, you carved those symbols on the sides of my ring."

She smiled to herself, admiring the ornate iron treasure chests that sat against the stone walls, alternating with heavy chairs carved of walnut. Tapestries enriched and softened the effect.

"It's…impressive, no?" Colin cleared his throat. "We, uh, used to have somewhat of a fortune," he said, rather sheepishly. "Before the war, that is."

Amy looked up to the balcony that spanned the width of the hall. "I've never seen the likes of it," she admitted. "It's magnificent. The workmanship…"

"My home, Greystone, is nothing like this; take my word for it."

She didn't reply, mainly because her gaze had wandered back down the stairs and settled on Lady Kendra. From the top of her coiffed head, with her striking dark-red ringlets wired out on the sides, to the quilted slippers that peeked from beneath her mint-green satin skirts, Lady Kendra was the picture of perfection.

Amy glanced down, mortified. Her own wrinkled, smoke-stained skirts had started out lavender on Monday, but now looked positively gray. She could only imagine what her face and hair looked like, all dirty and disheveled. She wanted to drop into the floor.

"Kendra, you'll remember Mrs. Amethyst Goldsmith?" Colin's words prompted a small smile from Amy. Only harlots and pre-adolescent girls were called "Miss," and in light of her behavior last night, she considered herself lucky that Colin considered her neither.

A frown wrinkled Lady Kendra's forehead. "I'm not certain…"

"You met Mrs. Goldsmith last month in London," Colin reminded his sister. "She made your locket."

"Oh, of course!" Lady Kendra's face lit up at the memory. She scrutinized Amy more closely, then smiled. "It's just that I didn't expect to see you here."

Considering it was more likely that Colin's sister hadn't recognized her under all the filth, Amy warmed to her immediately. "That makes two of us, Lady Kendra. I didn't expect to be here myself."

Lady Kendra's laughter tinkled through the hall. "I suppose you didn't, at that," she conceded. "And please, call me Kendra—just Kendra. May I call you Amethyst?"

"My friends call me Amy," Amy returned hopefully. She badly needed a friend right now.

"Amy, then. Um…might I guess you'd like a bath?"

"Oh, yes," she breathed gratefully.

"And some supper," Colin interjected. "She hasn't eaten in two days," he explained to Kendra.

Amy shook her head slightly. She was certain she couldn't eat yet. "I really just want to sleep."

"Warm chocolate, then," Colin insisted.

Amy nodded acceptance.

"With brandy in it," he added decisively. "And some soup."

Amy sighed. "Perhaps some soup. The chocolate sounds nice."

The brandy sounded nice. The brandy and bed. She'd be willing to wager the beds in a place like this would be soft and comfortable.

"Well, up you go, then." Colin gestured toward the stairs. "Up you all go, in fact," he declared in a raised voice, striding over to the children huddled in the back of the hall, whispering amongst themselves. "Baths for everyone, first thing. Then supper, then bed."

There were audible groans at this announcement. "Could we not just wash up a bit?" Davis spoke for the group. "We won't really have to take baths, will we?"

Heading up the stairs, Amy smiled to herself. She knew that at home, Davis probably bathed twice a year, if that. Cleanliness was considered an invitation to infection.

"Oh yes, you will," Colin stated firmly. "Kendra, two at a time. And fresh hot water for each bath."

Behind her, Amy heard the children's startled breaths. Such lavish use of water was unheard of in the City. She met Kendra's amused eyes, then watched as her new friend's face took on a mock-serious expression.

"Tell Cook to prepare supper—lots of it," she called down toward her brother's dark head. "Then, for God's sake, come up and give me a hand. I'm not the one who volunteered to play nursemaid."

CHAPTER TEN

"The mews was over there," Colin said, pointing through the keep's glassless window.

The children clustered around him, craning their necks to see out. He felt a small tug on his breeches and looked down. Noon sunshine streamed into the ancient roofless tower, dancing on a small lad's red-gold mop of curls.

The child cocked his head. "What's a news?"

Colin smiled at his puzzled look. "A mews," he corrected gently. "A building where the lord kept his falcons. It was destroyed by the Roundheads in the siege of 1643."

"The same time the holes in the floor happened?" another boy asked.

"The same time," he told the child, a sturdy apple-cheeked lad. "But that only makes it more fun for hide-and-seek and treasure hunts, doesn't it?"

The boy and Colin shared a smile before the boy sobered. "When can we go home?"

"Yes, when?" another echoed.

"Today?" The smallest girl's blue eyes looked so hopeful in her angelic little face.

His heart aching for all of them, Colin brushed a golden ringlet off her tiny forehead. "Not today, Mary, but soon, I'm hoping." As a disappointed silence seemed to permeate the stone walls, he sighed, twisting his ring. "Very soon."

"Did you live in this keep when you were a little boy?"

Colin chuckled, gazing down into a girl's large brown eyes. "Heavens, no—how old do you think I am?" When the girl blushed, he reached to ruffle her straight flaxen hair. "No one's lived in here for centuries. The building was open to the sky long before my boyhood days. Would you like to see the wall walk?"

The sound of a clearing throat rang from the doorway. Colin turned, startled.

"'Dinnertime," Kendra announced.

He frowned. "How long have you been there?"

"We want to hear another story," piped up a chubby towhead. Davis's little brother, if Colin remembered right. After a good night's sleep and cleaned of the soot and ash, he appeared a different child.

"That wasn't a story," he told the boy, then looked up at Kendra. "I was just explaining a bit of history."

"It's time for dinner now," Kendra said firmly. "Lord Greystone will tell you another story later."

"I will?"

"Yes, you will." Kendra shot him a mischievous grin. "You brought them here, you're responsible for their entertainment. You owe them a bedtime story, at least." She motioned to the children. "Come along, you all need to wash before eating."

"But I promised to show them the wall walk," Colin protested.

"Oh, very well, but quickly. You know how sulky Cook acts when her lovely meals grow cold."

Beckoning, Colin led them all into the stairtower and down the winding steps to the archway. The children ran out along the top of the crenelated wall, shrieking with delight.

"Not too far," he yelled after them, "and be careful!"

"Dunderhead," Kendra chided. "When did you ever know a child to be careful?"

"Never," he said with a sheepish smile.

They both turned and faced outward. Resting their forearms on top of the ledge, they gazed out over the River Caine and the fields and nearby woods. Like most medieval castles, the tower at Cainewood was built on a tall motte—a huge mound of earth. Up on the wall walk they could see for miles in all directions.

"You're wonderful with the children," Kendra said quietly.

"I remembered playing in the keep—it was so much fun. I just wanted to bring it to life a bit for them."

Kendra sighed wistfully. "I never got to play in the keep." The war had begun before she was born, and as well-known Royalists, the family had adjourned to less obvious lodgings. Sadly, even that had failed to stop Cromwell from bringing his wrath down upon their home.

"I know, Kendra." Colin placed a hand over hers where it rested on top of the ancient wall. It was peaceful up here. The days of war were long over, thank God.

"How is Amy?" Kendra asked suddenly.

"Still sleeping. Sixteen hours."

"She was exhausted." Kendra slanted him a glance. "I saw you shaking her when I walked by her chamber."

"To no avail. She'd rouse for a few seconds at most, then drop back into sleep." He shrugged. "I thought she'd be wanting some dinner. She'd eaten but a few spoonfuls of broth, though her chocolate cup was empty."

"And her hand?"

"Blisters, but no telltale red streaks of infection. Thank the Lord for small favors. Coping with a grief-stricken guest is enough—I feel unequipped to deal with one who is fever-ridden, in addition." He stared out into the distance. "I changed the bandage, applied fresh honey. I believe it will mend without incidence."

Kendra hesitated. "You like her, don't you?"

"She's a talented girl," he answered cautiously, keeping his eyes trained on an outlying field.

"I meant you really like her. You're attracted to her."

"No, I'm not."

Kendra gave an unladylike snort. "I remember that day in her shop. And I've seen the way you talk about her, look at her, take care of her. And you put her in the Gold Chamber." The beautiful room was usually reserved for honored guests. "Colin…"

"I'm betrothed," he stated firmly.

"But—"

"No buts, Kendra. I—"

"I hate it when you say that!"

Colin glared at her. "As I was about to say, I know you dislike Priscilla, but I am marrying her. And dangling a penniless commoner in my face, no matter how attractive, isn't going to change that fact."

"But why? I've seen you with Priscilla—you don't love her, I can tell."

"I don't want to love her; I've told you that. She's wealthy, she's pretty, she's—"

"Cold."

Colin ignored that. "—she's titled—"

"As though we care about such things. We're titled, and what did it get us? Nothing! We were paupers on the Continent, dragged from Paris, to Cologne, to Brussels, Bruges, Antwerp—wherever King Charles wandered. We had no home, no one who really cared about us. People are what matters. Titles are worthless."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong. That title kept us fed, allowed us to tag along with the court, obligated them to take us in. It was all we had, the only thing of value our parents gave us. My children will have no less—and a lot more."

"You're an earl, for God's sake. Without the war, the Restoration, I'd understand your mindset. As a second son, if you failed to marry wealth you'd have to live off Jason's largesse, or take a commission in the military, or a religious vocation."

It was Colin's turn to snort. "Not that, I'll warrant. You'll see a Chase in the pulpit the day the devil takes residence in heaven."

"You have a point there," Kendra conceded with a grin. "All right. But Charles owed a debt to our parents, and he gave you the earldom. Your children will inherit. You've no need to marry a title."

Colin's jaw was set, his voice firm. "They'll have titles from both sides. They'll never know a day of insecurity."

"What a bunch of blatherskite! You're using this as an excuse to avoid caring about someone—someone like that lovely girl asleep in the guest chamber. It's what's inside that counts—the Chases don't care about titles."

"This Chase does."

Her coloring high, Kendra stamped her foot. "Oh, you're so stubborn!"

"No more than you are, sweetheart. It runs in the family."

"Hmmph!" She crossed her arms and turned from him, facing outward.

"Hmmph!" Colin did likewise, in imitation.

She burst out laughing.

But his attention was already diverted elsewhere. "Od's fish!" he exclaimed. "I cannot believe I was blind to this earlier."

Kendra squinted her eyes, searching for something of note. "What? I see nothing."

"Exactly. It's London. Not burning."

Sure enough, although a dark cloud of smoke still hung over London in the distance, it seemed to be lifting, and there were no visible flames underneath.

"Oh!" Kendra's voice went up an octave in her glee. "Ford and Jason are on their way home already, I'll wager."

"And I'll take the children back to London first thing in the morning. We can only pray it won't prove too difficult to locate their families."

"And Amy? Will you return her to London as well?"

"Of course," he snapped.

He was relieved when Kendra didn't comment on his annoyance. "Come along," she said. "It's dinnertime. We can tell the children the good news."

He led the way down from the tower. Once in the quadrangle, the children ran ahead, racing noisily to the entrance.

Crossing the lawn more sedately beside Kendra, whose fashionable high-heeled slippers discouraged running, Colin suddenly stopped in his tracks.

"Now where am I supposed to find a story, I ask you? No one found time to tell me fairy tales when I was little, I'll warrant you that."

"Oh, you'll think of something." Kendra flashed him an arch smile. "I have complete and total faith in you, Colin Chase." Then she took off across the grass, running anyway.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Colin gently tucked the bandage and set Amy's hand on top of the quilt. It looked tiny and delicate lying alone, with the rest of her buried beneath the covers. He licked a bit of honey off his finger, gazing at her heart-shaped face. She'd missed dinner, and now supper…he glanced behind in case his sister might be watching, then, feeling foolish, shook Amy's shoulder again.

Nothing.

He rested a hand on her forehead. Still cool, and he could tell by the rise and fall of her chest that she was breathing. He felt beneath her chin for a pulse. Nice and steady.

His knuckles caressed her cheek, then he flicked open his pocket watch. The children were waiting for that damned story he—no, Kendra—had promised them. One story, then he'd take everyone back to London in the morning. Surely Amy would be awake by then.

And by tomorrow night, his life would be back to normal.

Sighing, he gave Amy one last long look, then walked out into the corridor. The door closed behind him with a soft click, and he headed for the drawing room.

The children waited on the black-and-salmon carpet, sitting with their backs to the fire. Weary after the stress of the past two days, their bellies full of Cook's good hot supper, they watched him walk in with eyes that were already drooping.

Their chatter died down as Colin seated himself facing them in one of the salmon-colored velvet chairs. Kendra sat off to the side in its mate, her head bent to her embroidery.

The castle was cool and drafty in the evenings. Kendra hitched herself closer to the fire and jabbed her needle through the fabric. Colin was amused to see her engaged in such a ladylike occupation. It was quite foreign to her nature, but he supposed she considered embroidery a fitting pursuit for a lady passing the evening surrounded by children.

He hoped she'd stick herself in the finger.

The children shifted impatiently on their bottoms. "My lord, what story are we to hear tonight?" Davis asked.

Colin glanced up at the carved wooden ceiling, but there was no help from above. All around the room, large gilt-framed portraits of solemn ancestors watched over him, waiting for him to prove himself a worthy entertainer of children.

When his gaze fastened on a newly commissioned painting of his king, inspiration hit. "Tonight, you will hear the story of the Royal Oak," he announced.

The children scooted forward in anticipation. Kendra looked up with a congratulatory smile.

"After the Battle of Worcester," Colin began, "our king, Charles II, endured great hardships in escaping his enemies."

"Were you there?" Davis's little brother interrupted.

"No, I was only thirteen at the time. But my father and mother were there."

Colin saw no reason to tell them they'd both died in the battle. They were already worried about their own parents.

"For nearly six weeks, King Charles was hiding and sneaking about," he continued. "Sometimes he hid with persons of high rank, and sometimes with those of low. He'd been declared an outlaw, you see, and he was hunted for his life. But the people still saw him as their lawful sovereign and willingly risked their own lives to save his."

"Our king was hunted?" The girl with the straight flaxen hair looked doubtful. "For real?"

"Yes, certainly. Cromwell wanted him well out of the way." When the girl nodded, Colin went on. "Charles rode hastily away from the scene of his defeat, in the company of a few faithful friends. Whenever they came within hearing range of anyone, they spoke French to avoid detection. His friends brought him to a lonely farmhouse where five brothers named Penderel lived. It was death to anyone who dared to conceal the king, while a great reward was offered to any who would betray him to his enemies, but these honest farmers cared neither for threats nor rewards."

"How much was the reward?" Davis asked.

"A thousand pounds."

"A thousand pounds?" Davis's eyes widened. "Are you sure?" A thousand pounds was an absolutely vast sum, more than the average workman would earn in a lifetime.

"I'm sure," Colin assured him. "Charles cut off his famous black lovelocks so no one would recognize him. The Penderels dressed him like themselves, in clothes belonging to the tallest brother, for the king is over two yards tall."

"Like you?" little Mary asked, gazing at Colin as though he were the tallest man she'd ever seen.

Colin nodded solemnly while quelling a smile. "Yes, Charles and I are almost exactly the same height. He had to wear his own stockings with the fancy tops torn off, because his feet were so big they could find none to fit. And the clumsy country boots they gave him were too small, so he was forced to tramp around all day in great pain."

"Ouch!" said the apple-cheeked boy.

"Indeed. In fact, King Charles's memory of those boots is so strong that today he has the largest collection of shoes in the land, each pair made exactly to fit."

A couple of the children giggled. Colin glanced at Kendra. She was still smiling down at her embroidery. So far as he could tell, she'd yet to ply the needle.

"What happened then?" an impatient little voice asked. The girl had long dark hair and large gray eyes, and Colin realized with a pang that she reminded him of Amy. For a fleeting moment, he wondered what a little girl of Amy's would look like.

He banished that thought. "I'm just getting to the good part. One day, while the king was with the brothers in the forest, Parliamentary soldiers came upon them. Quickly, Charles climbed up an oak tree and crouched amid the leaves."

"How long did he stay there?" Mary asked.

"More than twenty-four hours, a whole day and night. The soldiers were certain they'd seen more men, so they rode back and forth searching all that time."

"How many soldiers?" Mary asked.

Colin shrugged. "I don't know, sweetheart."

"How many?" she persisted.

In a quandary, he glanced again at Kendra. She looked up, biting her lip to keep from laughing.

No help there.

"Seven," he announced finally. "I'm certain there were seven."

When the little girl smiled happily, Colin reached to ruffle her bright gold curls. "Charles slept for a time in the tree. When he woke, the soldiers were directly under him, saying how glad they should be to catch him. Hoping they wouldn't notice him there, Charles held his breath."

Hearing the children's indrawn breaths brought him a ridiculous sense of satisfaction.

"Finally, the next day, the soldiers rode off and left him to get down in safety." Little breaths were released. "That tree, in memory of the good service it had done him, was afterward named the Royal Oak, and if ever you go to Boscobel you can visit it," he said by way of conclusion.

"What happened then?" asked a boy. "How did he escape?"

Colin glanced toward Kendra, but she was smiling back down at her handiwork. "Yes, Colin," she said to a misshapen embroidered flower. "What happened then?"

"Hmmph," he said, wishing she were close enough to kick her. "The brothers were afraid the Roundheads would return when they couldn't find Charles elsewhere, so they moved him to another house, a few miles away. They had to find him a horse to ride there, because he couldn't walk that far on his aching feet. The boots, remember?"

Nine little heads nodded.

"He hid in a priest-hole in that house, and he was very cramped and uncomfortable in there."

"Because he's so tall," said little Mary.

"Exactly. Charles needed to get to Bristol to catch a ship and escape England," he continued, "but he couldn't travel in the farmer's clothes, since farmers don't often take to the roads. So they dressed him as a manservant and found a loyal woman named Lady Jane to ride behind him on a horse, posing as his employer. He decided to call himself William Jackson, and they made up a story that they were on their way to a wedding."

"Whose wedding?" Mary asked.

A smothered laugh came from Kendra.

Colin's mind raced. His gaze swept the chamber. "Lord Cornice and Lady Chimneypiece."

He would swear Kendra was choking. Not that she didn't deserve to.

He cleared his throat. "Charles and Lady Jane playacted all the way to Bristol. One day Charles's horse cast a shoe, and as he held the mare's foot for the blacksmith, he asked the man if there was any news since the battle."

Mary's big blue eyes were round as saucers. "What did the man say?"

"He told Charles that some of the Royalists had been found and arrested, but not yet Charles Stuart. The Roundheads called the king by the name of Stuart."

"Then the blacksmith was a Roundhead," Davis surmised. "Wasn't Charles afraid to talk to him?"

"Not Charles. But Lady Jane, she was having a fright. And what do you suppose our good king said then?"

"What?" the children chorused.

"He told the smith, 'If that rogue Charles Stuart is taken, he deserves to be hanged, more than all the rest.'"

"He didn't," Davis breathed.

"He surely did. Charles enjoyed his jest, but Lady Jane wanted to die right there."

"I don't blame her," said the dark-haired girl. "Not at all."

"Me, neither," Kendra put in with a raised brow. "That prank brings to mind one of my brothers."

"Let me finish," Colin scolded. "Lady Jane breathed more easily when the shoeing was done and they could be on their way. But at Bristol they were disappointed. For a whole month, there was no ship sailing to France or Spain. So Charles had to hide about the countryside again until they finally found a ship that could take him to France. The ship was named the Surprise, but it's now called the Royal Escape."

He stood. "And that is the end of the story. Time for bed, children. We've a long trip back to London in the morning." He flexed his shoulders and stretched.

Applause came from the doorway behind him. He turned to see his brothers, faces and clothing black with the soot of London's fire.

"Welcome back!" Kendra sprang up to greet them, her embroidery landing unceremoniously on the floor. She hugged them each in turn. "How did you like our storyteller?"

"Watch your gown; we're both sorely in need of a bath," Jason admonished. He aimed an exaggerated nod toward Colin. "I would have liked to attend the Cornice–Chimneypiece wedding. Pity that we were too young."

"Colin certainly rose to the occasion," Kendra said. "I all but forced him into it—in a sisterly way, of course." When Colin snorted at that, she flashed him an innocent smile. "Whatever made you think of that particular story?"

"Are you jesting? We must have heard Charles tell it a hundred times on the Continent. It was all but our nightly entertainment." He looked to Jason. "You brought Ebony with you, I'm hoping?"

"We're both fine," Jason drawled. "Thank you so much for asking." He turned to Ford. "So nice of him to inquire after us before thinking of his horse."

Ford shrugged. "It's not as though we've spent three days battling flames, exposing ourselves to the dangers of falling walls and debris—"

"No, nothing like that," Jason agreed. "Nothing that would compare to the hazards of telling tales to a pack of children."

"Oh, that's not all he's been doing. You don't know the half of it." Kendra rolled her eyes toward where Amy slept upstairs, and Colin moved closer, intending to elbow her in the ribs.

With a laugh, she dodged out of his way. "We'll see the children to bed. You two go clean up, and we'll meet you back here with some supper."

CHAPTER TWELVE

Amy woke to the sound of low voices nearby. She kept her eyes shut tight—she had no intention of letting anyone know she was conscious, just yet—but even so, she could tell from the color inside her lids that morning had arrived.

Finally.

Several times during the interminable night, she'd awakened and floated to the surface of awareness, first hearing the soft crackling from the fireplace, then feeling the persistent burning in her right palm. And then she'd remember—and immediately force herself back into the depths of slumber. Back to where it was last week, and she wasn't alone in the world, and her only worry was her upcoming nuptials.

Once, she'd sensed a presence in the chamber and slitted her eyes open, peeking through the slits to see Colin watching her, his profile dark against the light of the flickering fire. She'd shut her eyes and lain perfectly still, feigning sleep until he left. He'd sighed heavily before closing the door behind him.

What kind of sigh had it been? she'd wondered vaguely as she lapsed back to her troubled dreams. A sigh of concern, or a sigh of exasperation?

He certainly seemed to be exasperated now.

"Bloody hell," she heard him say. "I want to take her with me. I need this over and done with. I've work to do."

"Well, it's not to be," a male voice answered reasonably. Ford or Jason, Amy reckoned. So they were back. "You'll have to deliver the children without her. You're not going to haul her around the countryside unconscious, are you?"

"Of course not!" Colin spat.

"Shh!" cautioned another unfamiliar masculine voice. The other brother, she supposed. "She might be ill, you know, if she's been sleeping this long."

Amy heard a couple of footsteps, then a warm palm pressed onto her forehead and rested there a few seconds. Colin. It had to be. "She's not hot," she heard him say, his voice closer now. "I checked her hand again last night. There's no infection."

Amy's heart fluttered at the thought of him caring for her while she slept. Perhaps she should let him know she'd awakened…

No! He'd take her away, ship her to France, and she wasn't ready to go. Aunt Elizabeth was kind, but she'd smothered Amy with concern following her mother's death. She couldn't face that yet; she needed a few days to think about things, to come to some kind of peace within herself.

Better to pretend she still slept.

"It won't be a simple matter to find a chaperone in London right now," Amy heard Kendra pointing out. "And you cannot just plop her on a ship by herself."

"That's true," he admitted grudgingly.

"You'd better go," Kendra advised. "The wagon is packed, and the children are waiting. She's not going to magically wake up, and even if she did, it would take her too long to get ready. She hasn't eaten in two days."

"More like four days," Colin grumbled. The voices receded, accompanied by footsteps. "I suppose you're right."

"We'll have her ready and waiting when you return," Amy strained to hear Kendra say before the voices faded away entirely.

Amazingly, Amethyst Goldsmith woke up the minute Colin's wagon rattled over the drawbridge.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"I returned to take her to Dover and put her on a ship, and damn it, that's what I'm going to do!"

After three days spent weeping, thinking and healing, Amy had approached Kendra that very afternoon and shyly asked about joining the family for the evening meal. She'd been certain she felt ready for some human interaction.

Now that Colin was home, and she wasn't so sure.

In the corridor outside the drawing room, she stood frozen in place, listening. The Chases made an incredible racket. Amy and her parents had rarely shouted at one another, but this family seemed to use shouting as their main mode of communication. Even when they'd discussed her at her bedside, she reflected, they'd shouted in whispers.

Tonight, they were none so circumspect.

"I promised her, Colin!" she heard Kendra wail. "I promised she could stay here until she's ready."

"Ready? What the hell is that supposed to mean? She's awake, she's ready."

"I'm not quite certain she's awake," another male voice put in, with more than a little amusement. "She's been wandering around like a ghost."

Amy winced. Was that what they thought of her?

"She has not!" Kendra leapt to Amy's defense. "Her father just died, for God's sake. I promised her."

"A pox on your promises! I need to get back to Greystone. I needed to be there a week ago."

"Jason?" By the tone of Kendra's voice, Amy imagined her looking toward her brother beseechingly.

"A Chase promise is not given lightly." Jason, the voice of reason.

"A pox on you, too!"

"I agree with them, Colin. Promises aside, she's in no state for travel." So Ford was on her side as well.

"A pox on all three of you! I don't care who agrees with whom. I brought her here, and I'll take her away when I damn well please."

"I promised her!"

"You sound like one of those newfangled cuckoo clocks, Kendra. 'I promised her, I promised her, I promised her.' Well, cuckoo all you want; I'm not changing my mind. We're leaving come morning. Where is she? You said she was coming to supper."

Amy took a step back down the corridor.

"Your arrival probably scared her into the next county!" Kendra yelled.

"You're both acting like children!" Amy heard Jason shout while she steadily backed away from the room. "Colin, this is out of your hands. Go to Greystone in the morning. Ford or I will arrange for Mrs. Goldsmith's travel when she's ready. Kendra, go fetch her. We'll meet you in the dining room in half an hour."

Amy fled up the stairs to her chamber and was sitting primly on the edge of her bed when Kendra arrived.

Her friend stood in the doorway, frowning. "It's almost time for supper. You're…not planning to wear that gown, are you?"

Amy looked down to her skirts. The lavender dress had been laundered and pressed while she slept, but there were a few tiny holes where embers had landed, and little gray spots where the soot had stained it permanently. She'd worn it three days straight already.

Her face burned. "I haven't another," she said to her lap.

"Wait here a moment." Kendra started to leave, then reappeared in the doorway. "Oh, Colin is back." She disappeared again, yelling "Jane!" as she went.

Wondering what Kendra was up to, Amy ran her hand down the gilt bedpost beside her for what seemed like the millionth time since she'd awakened in this beautiful room a few days ago. It wasn't the costliness of the gold that stole her breath, for gold was so soft and pliable that she could hammer a single ounce into a hundred square feet of gold leaf. But she thought the intricately carved bed looked like nothing so much as a gigantic, exquisite piece of jewelry, and—with a fresh stab of grief—she wished she could show it to her father.

All of the room's furnishings were gilt, marble, or golden brocade. Amy felt like she was living in Queen Catharine's bedchamber.

A floral fragrance suffused the air. She shuffled her smoke-damaged shoes where they rested on a plush patterned carpet of brown, cream and gold. At home, the floors had been polished wood. Her family had owned two precious Oriental carpets, but the larger one had adorned a wall, the smaller, a table. Before arriving at Cainewood, she'd never considered actually walking on anything so expensive as a carpet.

Kendra came back leading Jane, a plain-faced young maid with a kind smile and an armful of dresses. Kendra grabbed a yellow one from the pile and held it up to Amy's cheek. "No, too sallow," she muttered, tossing it aside. The next was peach. "Too pale." Jane handed her another, a burgundy satin. "Perfect," Kendra declared.

Before Amy could protest, her gown was removed and Kendra's dropped over her head. A rose scent wafted from the fabric. Wiggling into the dress, she inhaled deeply of the luxurious fragrance, thinking the Chases lived a different life indeed.

It wasn't her life, though. Her life would never feel complete without the joy of working with gold and jewels to create lasting bits of beauty.

Jane laced up the bodice, attached the stomacher, tucked up the skirt to reveal a shell-pink underskirt. She plucked Amy's chemise through the slashed sleeves, which were caught together at intervals with pink ribbons. Then she seated Amy before the oval gilt-framed mirror and started fussing with her hair.

"I cannot figure out how to plait it properly." Amy tugged up her lace-edged chemise to fill in the gown's low neckline. "Our maid used to entwine ribbons somehow."

"Oh, curls are the fashion now." Kendra waved a hand. "Have you decided what you're going to do?"

What was she going to do? She stared at her reflection. Without her father to force the issue, the one thing she wouldn't do was marry Robert Stanley. She would have to write soon to tell him so.

"I'm not sure." She sat very still as Jane wielded a hot curling iron. "Go to Paris, I suppose, where my aunt and uncle have a jewelry shop." She toyed with a bottle on the marble-topped dressing table. "I promised my father I'd never give up my craft…and jewelry is my life. I know no other."

"Well, you needn't leave until you feel ready. I promised you that."

"Thank you." Her eyes met Kendra's in the looking glass. "You're a good friend."

Jane tied a pink ribbon in Amy's hair and stepped back to view her handiwork. "What do you think?" She reached out and tweaked a curl.

"Beautiful," Kendra said.

Amy gazed at her reflection, touching a finger to her lips. The lips Colin had kissed. Maybe, just maybe, she would find a man—another jeweler—in France. A jeweler who could make her heart beat like Colin Chase did.

"No time for cosmetics," Kendra said with a sigh. "We're late already."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"Where are they all?" Ford poured himself a second goblet of wine. "Kendra and Amy I can credit—women always take forever to ready themselves. But Colin—"

"Speaking of Colin…" Jason drummed his fingers on the mahogany tabletop. "I think Kendra is scheming to match him with Amethyst Goldsmith."

"Huh?" Ford shook his head. "Whyever would Kendra do that?"

"Damned if I know. Mrs. Goldsmith has nothing to offer monetarily. It's debatable whether a well-to-do merchant could match Greystone's needs, and now her family's shop has burned to the ground, rendering the question pointless."

Ford sipped. "The wench is a rare beauty."

"What the hell has that got to do with it?" Jason lifted his goblet. "I know Priscilla doesn't top Kendra's list of favorite people, but for her to push this match—" He stopped and took a quick swallow of wine. "Colin, there you are."

"Did you find the children's families?" Ford asked.

"Yes—and no." Colin took his seat. "It seems the littlest one, Mary, is an orphan. Her parents both died in the plague. Neighbors had taken her in, but now that they're homeless…" He shrugged. "I brought her back with me."

Jason's goblet hit the table with a clunk. "You cannot be planning to keep her?"

"Priscilla would never put up with it," Ford put in.

Colin flashed him a scathing glance. "No, I'm not planning to keep her." He turned to Jason. "I was hoping you could find her a home in the village."

"I expect I can." Jason's hand came up and stroked his mustache, his eyes thoughtful. "But couldn't you have sent her to a foundling home in London?"

"I could have, I suppose." Colin leaned for the wine decanter. "The authorities are handling such problems. But I hadn't the heart to leave her in such chaos. Moorfields is a sad scene. The grass is littered with rescued belongings that people are wary of relinquishing, interspersed with ashes—"

When Kendra and Amy walked in, Colin paused midsentence and stared.

Jason cleared his throat and kicked his brother under the table. "Colin?"

"Um, yes." Colin's hand dropped, and the wine decanter thudded to the mahogany surface. He blinked and came back to life. "Good evening, Amy."

"Good evening," Amy murmured, not quite looking at him.

"Won't you sit down?" Jason waved his hand, and a servant began ladling soup while two others pulled out ladder-backed chairs on either side of the rectangular table, at the end where the Chase men had seated themselves.

Kendra craftily slipped into the chair beside her twin, leaving Amy no choice but to sit next to Colin. As she seated herself, Colin gave her a gentle smile and briefly touched a hand to her arm.

In the guise of reaching for a piece of cake, Kendra leaned close to Jason. "A current flows between the two of them," she whispered in his ear. "You'd have to be addlepated not to notice."

"I heard that," Colin warned.

Amy only looked dazed.

"Colin was just telling us about returning the children to their families," Ford said a little too brightly. "Sounds as though it was a hellish mess out there."

"It's getting organized somewhat," Colin disagreed, putting down his spoon. "Charles has arranged for public buildings to store the goods of the homeless, and provided army tents and bread, all without charge. It was impossible to get about to find anyone, but they've set up a missing persons area. I waited there until all the children were claimed—all except Mary, that is."

A frown appeared between Kendra's brows. "The little girl with the golden curls and the never-ending questions?"

He nodded. "And the big blue eyes." Eyes that were as sad as Amy's looked now. "I brought her back with me. If I had a shilling for every question she asked on the way here, I'd be able to restore Greystone tomorrow."

Kendra smiled. "And our town house?" She spooned a bite of cake into her mouth; Kendra always ate dessert first, claiming she might not have room for it later.

"The town house is safe—Lincoln's Inn Fields was never in danger. The fire stopped short of Chancery Lane and Essex House. The burned parts smolder so hotly, though, no man would venture in. The first rain started this afternoon, though—I reckon that will help."

"It rained for but a few minutes." Kendra glanced out the diamond-paned windows. "I shouldn't think it would help much."

"Perchance it rained more in London." Colin shrugged. "Though with all the homeless, perhaps we should hope not…"

His mind wandered, and his words trailed off. A rose scent drifted over from Amy's direction. It was difficult to concentrate with her so near.

Having left her grief stricken and sleeping, he'd been shocked when the old Amy entered the dining room. No, not the old Amy exactly. This Amy was subdued instead of animated. She was sort of a Kendra-ized Amy, wearing a dress he recognized as Kendra's, her hair coaxed into long Kendra-like ringlets.

But he felt the same pull toward her nonetheless. The gown, which had never looked quite right on Kendra, was magnificent on Amy. While it was perhaps an inch too short and a bit tight across the bosom, the deep burgundy color suited her perfectly. Despite the obvious touches of Kendra, the conspicuous lack of jewelry separated her most from the old Amy. That, and her reserve. She seemed to be eating in a trance-like state.

He wanted to fold her into his arms and coax the sparkle back into her eyes.

"And Charles?" asked Ford.

If Colin inched his chair to the right, perhaps he could brush up against her arm.

No, too obvious.

Maybe he could just move his foot under the table…

Ford banged down his goblet. "Colin? How is the king holding up?"

Jason kicked Colin again.

"Ouch!" Colin blinked. What had Ford been asking about? "Oh, Charles. Od's fish, he's in his glory. He hadn't much time to chat, though."

He leaned to rub his ankle, deciding he'd deserved the kick. What was it about this woman that made him focus on her to the neglect of everyone else? Why did he always think about touching her?

Thank God he was leaving for Greystone in the morning.

Before he turned into a complete animal.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Amy spooned soup, letting the conversation swirl around her. The buzz was calming, soothing. Like layers of flannel protected jewelry, the family's chatter protected her from her own thoughts.

"Did you pay Charles a visit at Whitehall?" Kendra asked Colin.

The question startled Amy from her trance.

At Whitehall? she mouthed silently. Was this family on intimate terms with His Majesty? She sneaked Colin an incredulous sidelong glance, then chided herself.

Why should she be surprised? They lived in a castle, after all. Jason was a marquess, Colin an earl, Ford a something-or-other…a viscount, that was it. Titles all granted by Charles, Kendra had told her, explaining the unusual situation.

Colin shifted beside her. "No, Charles rode out to Moorfields. He sat on his horse in the midst of the woebegone crowd, the ruins of St. Paul's in the background, wisps of smoke rising from the rubble of the City. The stories of his heroism during the fire spread quickly, and those who didn't witness it are as loyal as those who did. He vowed, by the grace of God, to take particular care of all Londoners, by means of exciting plans for rebuilding. Great cheers went up…old Charles is a popular man these days."

Painted by Colin's vibrant words, Amy could picture the scene in her head: her king, seated tall atop his horse, addressing his adoring subjects. It was history in the making, and she loved history.

She sighed in satisfaction.

"What are these plans?" Jason asked. "Did he elaborate?"

"He issued a proclamation that all new construction should be done according to a general plan, so that London would—let me see if I can remember his words— 'rather appear to the world as purged with fire to a wonderful beauty and comeliness, than consumed by it' and 'no man whatsoever shall presume to erect any house or building, great or small, but of brick or stone.' I think I got the words right, but that was the gist of it, regardless."

Amy smiled to herself at Colin's precise descriptions; it had been the same when he showed her the castle. Dates, words…a man who paid attention to detail.

But one detail she was certain of was that he didn't want her here. He'd as much as said he couldn't wait to get rid of her. Still, she could swear she felt a warmth emanating from him, a warmth that made her want to throw herself into his arms.

It was confusing, to say the least.

"It sounds like a good plan," Ford remarked.

Colin nodded. "Charles also decreed wider streets so buildings on one side cannot catch fire from the other. He's appointing Christopher Wren as…let's see…'Deputy Surveyor and Principal Architect for Rebuilding the Whole City.'" He smiled at the grandiose title. "Wren is charged with drawing up a plan of boulevards and plazas and straight streets."

"Charles announced all of this?"

"He told me of Wren privately. It's not official yet. Wren was supposed to have the plans ready to submit today, and then an announcement will be made."

"A new London, rising from the ashes," Amy murmured, staring at one of the chamber's enormous tapestries, but imagining instead what this bright new city might look like.

Colin turned to her. "What did you say?"

"Nothing," she mumbled, her cheeks flaming.

He hesitated, then cleared his throat and turned back to the others. "Did you know that Wren's plan for restoring St. Paul's was accepted by the Commission just two weeks ago?"

"And now St. Paul's is burned to the ground," Jason said with a mournful shake of his head. "If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed this much destruction possible."

"Two-thirds of London is gone," Colin lamented, "and more than half the people are homeless. Miraculously, it seems that only eight lives were lost." He put a hand on Amy's arm. "I'm sorry your father had to be one of them."

Colin's touch startled Amy out of her vision, dragged her back into the real world. She nodded, but couldn't meet his eyes. It wasn't fair! Only eight dead, and her own father one of them…

Her spoon halfway to her mouth, she paused, swallowed a swiftly rising lump in her throat, and fought to bite back the tears. It was a losing battle. Suddenly, she rose. Her spoon clattered in the bowl where she dropped it.

"Excuse me," she apologized huskily, running from the room.

"You lout!" Kendra threw down her spoon. "This was her first supper in company."

"What did I say?"

"'I'm sorry your father had to be one of them,'" Ford mimicked in a mincing voice. "Hell, Colin, I'm the one who's supposed to be tactless."

"I said I was sorry," Colin protested feebly. He twisted his ring, listening to Amy's footsteps fade as she reached the top of the stairs and turned down the corridor.

"Leave Colin alone," Jason said. "He's confused enough as it is."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Colin demanded.

"Just that you're attracted to Mrs. Goldsmith, and you haven't decided what to do about it."

"What?" Ford burst out in surprise.

Kendra snorted, rolled her eyes toward the arched stone ceiling, then focused on her twin. "You are so oblivious. If something cannot be weighed or measured, it fails to command your attention."

Colin's hands clenched. "I'm not the least bit attracted to Amethyst Goldsmith—"

"Are you lying only to us, or to yourself as well?" Kendra fixed him with a pointed stare.

"She's a wreck," he stated firmly, pressing his lips together.

"So what?" Kendra asked.

"So I'm leaving in the morning, most likely before she rises, and one of you will see that she gets to France, where she will recover in peace and never see any of us again. That's what."

"Now, Colin—" Kendra began.

"Leave it be, Kendra." Jason looked at each sibling in turn, signaling that the conversation was at an end. Then, food being the typical Chase cure-all for most unpleasant situations, he rang for the servants. "I'm ready for that roast venison. How about the rest of you?"

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Amy bit her lip and added another crumpled ball to the small mountain of paper that was growing on the gilt dressing table in her bedchamber.

Why couldn't she get this right?

She flexed her hand. Though the blisters had healed, sometimes it still hurt if she overused it. One more try. She dipped her quill in the ink.

26 September, 1666

Dear Robert,

Perhaps you already know that I lost Papa and the shop in the fire. I am devastated. I've lost everything. My entire life has changed, and I'm afraid yours as well. Please forgive me, but I cannot marry you—

"May I come in, Lady Amy?" Small fingers tapped on her shoulder.

She looked up to see big blue eyes in an innocent face framed by golden curls. "I think you already have, Mary." Smiling, she set down her quill and pulled the little girl onto her lap. "But I'm not a lady, sweetheart. Plain Amy will do."

"You look like a lady."

"Oh, but that's only because I'm wearing Lady Kendra's dress."

When the child hopped off her lap, Amy smoothed the apple-green satin of her borrowed gown. She watched Mary wander to the bed and climb the bed steps, then winced when she stretched out her arms and, with a whoop of delight, flung herself facedown on the costly brocade counterpane.

"I'm wearing Lady Kendra's dress, too," Mary declared, the words muffled against the golden fabric.

"And so you are!" The dress hung loose on Mary's small frame and was hopelessly out of style. But she was thrilled with her new wardrobe. Kendra had found an old trunk filled with her childhood gowns, and Mary had worn a different one every day since her arrival. "And a lovely dress it is. Are you a lady then, Mary?"

"Nah." Mary giggled and rolled onto her back. "Are you sure you're not a lady? You live in this pretty place."

"Not really." Amy's gaze swept the gorgeous gilt chamber. "Before the fire, I lived all my life in London."

"Like me?" The child sat up and pointed a thumb to her own chest—a thumb, Amy noticed, that looked recently sucked.

"Just like you. In Cheapside."

"My house was in…" Her little face scrunched up as she thought. "Ludgate."

"Ludgate Hill? Then see, we were almost neighbors."

Mary's feet swung back and forth off the end of the bed. "And your mama and papa are dead like mine."

Amy nodded patiently. An eavesdropper would never guess they'd had this conversation at least a dozen times already. "Yes, my mama and papa are gone as well."

"And they're never coming back."

"No." She bit her lip. "They're never coming back. But I think about them all the time, so their memory lives on."

Mary jumped off the bed. "How many days has it been?" One little hand reached up to the marble-topped dressing table and snagged a silver comb. "How many days since the fire?"

"How many days was it yesterday, Mary?"

"Um…" She tugged the comb through her curls. "Twenty-something?"

"Twenty-one." Amy took the comb from her, and Mary faced away so she could untangle her blond ringlets. "So today, how many days has it been since the fire?"

The girl raised one short finger, then popped up another. "Two. Twenty-two." Her small voice was full of pride.

"Very good, twenty-two days." The comb made a pleasant swishing sound as she drew it through Mary's hair again and again.

"My mama died of the plague. How many days since that?"

"Oh, sweetheart, I couldn't tell you." Amy sighed. "A lot."

"More than a hundred?"

"More than three hundred."

Mary's eyes widened in the mirror. "That is a lot."

"Surely it is." Amy turned her around and tucked a golden curl behind one shell-pink ear. "And inside, it hurts a little bit less every day, does it not?"

"Maybe. A little bit." Mary's lower lip trembled for a second, then she picked up Amy's letter and stared at it uncomprehendingly. "Who're you writin' to?"

"A man I knew." Amy set the comb back in place. "In fact, I think I'm finished."

She took the letter from Mary's small hand. It would have to do. It was blunt, but she couldn't seem to get the words right no matter how hard she tried.

Perhaps Robert would be relieved. He might think that her promised value as a bride had been reduced by the loss of the shop. He'd be free to wed elsewhere, free to find someone who could meet his expectations of a wife.

If he could locate another heiress in the trade to marry.

Amy lifted her quill, dipped it in the ink, and put a period after the last word she'd written. Please forgive me, but I cannot marry you. Mary's thumb went into her mouth as she watched Amy sign her name: Amethyst Goldsmith, very neat and formal.

After blotting the ink with sand, she folded the letter. She wrote Robert's name and his father's address on the back, then set it aside, adding no return address.

There, it was done.

And Robert wouldn't be able to find her.

"How about this one?" The thumb popped out, and Mary waved another letter. "Who is this one to?"

"My aunt in Paris. I'm going to move there and live with her soon. But not too very soon, I'm hoping." Amy pulled the girl tight against her, enjoying her comforting, childish scent. "I like it here with you."

"I like it here, too." A sigh wafted from the child's rosy lips. "But I wish I had a mama."

Amy turned Mary to face her and locked her gaze on the girl's big blue eyes. "Lord Cainewood is going to find you a new mama very soon. He promised, remember?"

The child nodded.

"A Chase promise is not given lightly."

"What?" Her tiny brow creased.

"He always keeps his promises."

Apparently that was good enough for Mary. She waved the letter again. "What did you say to your aunt?"

"I told her how sad I am about my father." Amy rose from the dressing table and wandered to look out the diamond-paned window. Below, a servant hurried across the quadrangle, carrying a basket of laundry, leaving footprints in the damp grass. "Sometimes it helps you feel better to write a letter about your sadness."

"Like if I wrote a letter to Mama?"

On the wall beside her, Amy traced a finger around the oval gilt that framed a painting of a woman. Colin's grandmother, perhaps. Or great-grandmother. Her clothes looked like they belonged in the previous century. "You surely could write a letter to your mama. It might make you feel better." Neither she nor Mary had pictures to remember their ancestors by.

When she turned to her, the child's eyes were wistful. "I cannot write."

"Would you like me to write your letter for you?"

She nodded, looking hopeful. "All right."

Amy walked back to the dressing table and, sitting down, set a blank piece of paper on the marble surface. "What would you like to say?"

Mary stepped close and stared at the sheet of foolscap. A delicate breath sighed out through her parted lips.

"Dear Mama, I love you, Mama. I miss you, Mama."

Slowly Amy dipped her quill and wrote, her throat closing painfully as the words scrolled onto the page. She swallowed hard. "Anything else?"

"That's all I can think of," the little girl said gravely.

"It's a perfect letter." Amy kissed the top of her curly head. "Would you like to sign your name?"

She nodded quickly, and Amy lifted her onto her lap and handed her the quill. With a look of utter disbelief on her face, Mary thrust it joyfully into the ink, splattering the page, then scribbled something that Amy took for a signature. For good measure, she added a very crooked heart and a couple of stick figures that Amy thought might be Mary holding her mother's hand. She was afraid to ask if she were right or not.

"Here, sweetheart, you can fold it."

Mary did, and if the edges didn't line up, well, it certainly didn't matter. "Will Mama get it in heaven?" she asked.

"If you give it a kiss, she'll get it right away."

The little girl puckered her lips and kissed the letter gently, leaving a tiny wet mark. Amy imagined it was exactly the way she'd kissed her mother. She hugged the girl tight, and when Mary turned in her arms and pressed her lips to her cheek, her heart melted.

"Did Mama get my letter?"

She touched the sweet damp spot on her face, blinking back tears. "Surely she did."

"Even though it's still here?"

"Even though. There is special mail delivery to heaven."

The girl nodded. Children were so trusting. "Will Mama write me back?"

"In your dreams, sweetheart," Amy promised, needing to believe it. "When you go to sleep tonight, your mama will visit your dreams and remind you how much she loves you."

"I've never been in a fancy carriage." Mary bounced on the leather seat. "It goes slow. Why didn't we ride a horse?"

"Your friend Amy doesn't like horses," Jason said. "We would have had to leave her at home."

"No, I want Amy." Mary jumped up and onto Amy's lap. Amy held her close while she peered across at Jason. "Did you really find me a mama?"

He angled sideways to stretch his legs in the cabin. "I surely did, Miss Mary."

"When will I meet her?"

"In a few minutes, as soon as we get to the village."

Mary's thumb went into her mouth, then slid back out. "Why does she want a little girl?"

"She lost her husband last year, and she needs someone to love."

Amy knew Clarice also needed the money Jason would provide for Mary's care. It was the perfect solution all around.

"If her husband is lost," Mary said, "why does she not just look for him?"

Amy stifled a laugh. "He died, sweetheart. In a mill accident."

"Oh." The girl's legs swung back and forth, kicking Amy's shins until she lowered a hand to stop them. "Why do big people say that someone is lost? Why can't they just say he is dead?"

Jason reached out to tweak a curl. "My, you are full of questions, aren't you?"

"Will I have any brothers or sisters?"

"I'm afraid not. Mr. and Mrs. Bradford never had children of their own." Jason's hand went up to smooth his mustache, then he smiled. "That's why she wants a little girl so badly."

"Will she love me?"

"How could she not?" Jason chucked her under the chin. "And you will love her too, Mary, I promise."

"A Chase promise is not given lightly," Mary quoted solemnly.

His jaw went slack in surprise. "What did you say?"

"That means you always keep your promises. Amy told me."

"Oh." Jason and Amy shared a smile over the child's head. "Well, she's right, you know."

"Amy is always right." Mary craned her neck to see out the open carriage window. "Is that the village? Ooh, pretty."

Amy's gaze went to follow hers. "Much prettier than London, isn't it? And cleaner."

"It smells nice, too. Every house has flowers."

Mary watched, rapt, as they passed several more houses and rolled to a stop before a small white cottage with a thatched roof. The coachman hadn't finished opening the door and lowering the steps before Clarice Bradford rushed out to meet them, holding a new rag doll.

Mary bounded down the steps and right into her outstretched arms.

For a long moment they clung together. Then they pulled back to give each other a considered look. Clarice reached trembling fingers to caress Mary's bright curls.

She looked to Jason, who had followed Amy from the carriage into the cottage's tidy front yard. "Oh, she's beautiful, my lord."

Mary's head tilted up, then slowly went down as she took in the glossy brown plaited bun that sat atop Clarice's head, the gray eyes set in her pretty face, her simple tan dress, and the plain black shoes that peeked from beneath her skirts. "You're beautiful too, Mama."

The gray eyes filled with grateful tears. Clarice was an attractive woman, but in that moment she truly did look beautiful.

"Did you make this doll for me?"

"Just for you. I sat up all night working on it." Too excited to sleep, Amy guessed. Yesterday, when she and Jason had approached Clarice about taking Mary for a daughter, the woman had been overwrought with gratitude.

"Thank you, Mama. She's beautiful, too. I'll name her Amy." Mary clutched the doll close as she watched the coachman and outrider carry Kendra's trunk into Clarice's cottage. Her blue eyes widened. "Do I get to keep all those clothes?"

Jason smiled. "With Lady Kendra's compliments."

"And…" Moving closer, Amy pulled something from her pocket. "Lord Cainewood gave me permission to leave this with you, as a memento of our time together. I hope it will help you remember me."

The engraved silver comb sparkled in the sunshine as Mary took it, staring at it as though it were one of King Charles's crown jewels. "Oh, my lady—I mean, Amy! I will 'member you always."

Amy knelt on the grass, and tears came to her eyes as Mary's little arms wound around her neck. She hugged her back fiercely.

When Amy rose, Jason ruffled Mary's curls. "Will you be needing anything else?"

"No." Mary glanced up at him, then over to her new mother. She scurried to Clarice's side and reached up to take her hand. "I'm home now."

When, Amy wondered, would she be home?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Kendra dashed into the library and leaned against the large globe, breathless. "Amy," she panted. "It's Colin." She paused for more air. "He's here. What are we going to do?"

Amy felt as though she'd been punched in the stomach. "God in heaven," she whispered. "He's come to take me away, hasn't he?"

She looked up to the carved wood ceiling, her eyes tracing the intricate design while her mind wrestled with denial. "There's nothing we can do," she said finally, her gaze dropping to Kendra. "I'm lucky he stayed away this long—"

"You fit in here. I don't want you to leave."

Kendra's words warmed Amy's heart. She rose from the chair and gave Kendra a brief, sisterly hug. "Thank you for saying that; you'll never know how much it means to me." She sniffed back tears. "I've enjoyed every minute of my two months here, but this isn't my place. I have another life."

Kendra's brow furrowed in concern. "A life in Paris?"

"It's not so bad as all that," Amy said, remembering Colin telling her so outside the inn, after the fire. A long time ago, it seemed, but now she believed it. "As much as I love it here, my fingers ache to wield a knife on wax, to cast and polish and engrave."

Her hands clenched, then relaxed as her gaze dropped to the red-carpeted floor and ran along the wide decorative golden stripes, down the length of the long, narrow library to the fireplace. Kendra remained silent while Amy gazed into the distant flames, struggling with her feelings of being uprooted once again.

But she knew it was the only way. Robert must have received her letter and accepted her decision by now…and if not, well, he'd never find her in France. She'd work at Aunt Elizabeth's shop while she prepared to open her own.

She'd vowed that Goldsmith & Sons wouldn't die with her, and she meant to honor that vow.

Her trunk was gathering dust in the corner of her borrowed bedchamber, her inheritance locked inside. More than enough jewelry to stock a small shop, plus gold to pay for tools and equipment—gold that would be faithfully replaced as soon as she was able. She'd never deplete the Goldsmith fortune. Like the generations before her, she bore an obligation.

Kendra heaved a heavy sigh. "If you leave, I'll miss you."

Her doleful tone snapped Amy out of her trance, and she shot Kendra a conspiratorial grin. "I'll hide in here till Colin leaves. Up on the balconies—no one ever looks at the books there except me. You can sneak up food and tell him I've gone to Paris."

Kendra's laugh echoed through the two-story library. "I vow and swear, for a minute there I thought you were serious." She relaxed and leaned back against the brass mesh set into the bookshelf doors, then looked at Amy sharply. "You are fooling, aren't you?"

"Marry come up, Kendra!" Amy offered her a small, wistful smile. "Have you ever heard of anything more ludicrous?"

"I'll find out what Colin wants."

She reached to touch Kendra's arm. "We both know what Colin wants."

"Colin doesn't know what Colin wants," Kendra stated wryly. "I'll just see what kind of ideas I can plant in his head." And with that cryptic statement, she left the room.

Amy plopped back onto the chair. The history books in front of her had seemed fascinating a few minutes ago, but now they'd lost their appeal. She pushed them aside and laid her head on the exquisite mosaic table, the tiles cool beneath her cheek. She would miss this family, but she knew her life was destined along another path.

You cannot have everything, she heard her father say.

She sighed and rose to go ready herself for supper. If she hurried, perhaps she'd have time to take a walk around the grounds and think things through. But deep in her heart, she knew there was really nothing to think about.

This was it. Her time was up. Colin wanted her gone, and this time he would see it done.

She had no excuses left.

Jason had plenty of excuses.

In the midst of shouting at his brothers, Colin didn't spare Kendra a glance when she walked into the drawing room. "She's still here? I cannot believe it!"

"It hasn't been that long," Jason stated calmly.

"Nine weeks! Don't tell me she hasn't recovered enough in nine weeks."

"I haven't asked her," Jason admitted. "She does seem to be getting on fine, though."

Colin stormed over to where his older brother lounged against the carved stone mantel. "You never asked her?"

"I just said so, didn't I? We've been quite busy these past weeks."

"You've been busy?" Colin's fists clenched. It hadn't been easy to walk away from Amy, but he'd done it, trusting he'd never be tempted by her again. " Too busy to take a day or two to deliver her as promised?"

Jason only shrugged. "With the end of the harvest, Ford and I have been out collecting rents. It's that time of year, you know."

"Yes, I know," Colin said between gritted teeth. Jason's nonchalance wasn't improving his mood in any way. "I've been busy. Disposing of the harvest, looking after the livestock, overseeing the quarrying and logging operations, collecting rents, directing restoration work, working on the damned account books—and all by myself with just Benchley for help. You have Ford and a battalion of laborers and servants, and you hadn't the time to—"

"Amy's been doing my ledgers for me," Jason interrupted. "I reckon she'd be willing to help you out. She's quite grateful, you know."

Colin made his way to one of the salmon-upholstered chairs and dropped onto it, defeated. "She's been doing your ledgers," he stated in a dead voice.

"Oh, yes," Kendra bragged, "and she's much faster than Jason ever was. Why, she says she's just about caught up."

"That's a miracle," Colin allowed. "However did this come about?" They were bound to tell him anyway, so he might as well cooperate.

"I was showing her the portraits in the picture gallery," Kendra explained brightly, "and the door to Jason's study was open. He invited her in to look around, she asked what he was working on so hard, and that was that. She kept the books for her father's shop." Kendra smiled in a way that set Colin's teeth on edge. "She's so smart, Colin, you wouldn't believe it."

"Oh, I'd believe it all right." Yet one more thing to add to the shining qualities of Amethyst Goldsmith.

"She became great friends with little Mary." Jason made his way to the chair beside Colin's. "Why, you should have seen her with that child. She's a born mother." He sat and stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles. "I found a home for Mary in the village, with the widow of one of my men who was killed in the mill accident."

"Good." Wonder of wonders, his brother had actually followed through with something he'd asked of him. "Thank you for taking care of that."

"My pleasure."

With a gleam in her eye, Kendra turned to her heretofore silent twin for assistance.

"We've been discussing Amy's fine education," Ford put in helpfully. "She's interested in science"—Ford was forever complaining that no one in the family shared his fascination with science—"although she prefers history. She spends hours and hours in the library."

"She does, does she?" Colin crossed his arms and leveled a stare at Jason. "When are you taking her to Dover? You are taking her to Dover?"

"Of course, Colin. Whyever would you think not?"

"She should stay here," Kendra protested. "She's clever and sweet and helpful and a good friend and she has no one—just one aunt—and she fits right in with the family." Kendra paused for a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "You should marry her, Colin. We all think she's wonderful."

Colin had seen it coming. "Then you can all marry her," he suggested lightly, rising to go out the door. "I'm going to get cleaned up."

"Wait!" Kendra yelled after him.

He whirled around. "You wait," he returned fiercely. "I'm marrying Lady Priscilla Hobbs, or did that slip your mind somehow?" He turned to Ford. "You want Amy in the family? You marry her."

Ford's blue eyes widened at the mere suggestion. "I'm not ready to get married!"

Undaunted, Colin turned on Jason. "You marry her, then. You seem to enjoy having her around."

"I'm—I'm not attracted to her," sputtered the unflappable Jason. "She's—she's a bookkeeper!"

"Exactly." Colin turned on his heel and headed up to his bedchamber, shaking his head.

Sometimes his family was more trouble than they were worth. Kendra, especially. You should marry her, Colin.

Hmmph! He'd get Kendra for that one. Tonight. He'd get her good.

A nice warm bath would calm him and inspire a clever idea.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"Defending the castle?"

Taken off guard, Amy turned to see Colin framed in the arch to the keep's stairwell. He was dressed casually, in breeches and a billowing white shirt, his hair still damp from a recent washing.

The last time she'd seen him, he'd been mentally and physically exhausted. Now the circles were gone from under his eyes. He looked relaxed and rested, his body hardened by healthy manual labor.

She swallowed hard, her hands tightening on the iron grille set into the keep's window. "Defending the castle?" she echoed.

His smile reached his compelling emerald eyes. "This is where the castle guard lived, and you were watching through the window."

"Oh." She blushed, feeling thick-witted for not catching the reference. What was it about him that robbed her ability to think straight? "I was just…ruminating." She glanced out the window, struggling for some relevant comment she could make. "How could they see to guard? The windows are so narrow."

"The better to deter arrows in days past." Colin moved toward her, then abruptly stopped. She thought she saw a frown flit across his tanned features. "In truth, they only lived and stored weapons in here. There used to be a level above where they took turns day and night, watching through the notches in the battlement all around."

Amy looked up at the sky, streaked with colors from the setting sun. She imagined the guards up there, pacing back and forth, clanking around in their armor. Colin's words seemed to do that to her: make her imagine other places, other times.

She stole another glance at him. His gleaming black hair was loose for a change, cut just to his shoulders, easy to manage if not fashionable. It was odd, but the color she hated on her own head looked perfect on his.

She'd been convinced that her response to his kiss, that one time that now seemed so long ago, had been an outgrowth of her grief, a method for escape. But suddenly she knew she'd been fooling herself. It seemed each time she saw him, the pull was stronger.

She took a step closer. "I can picture the knights up there when you talk about them."

"A romantic image, but they weren't knights decked out for battle." Colin took a step back and leaned against the wall, crossing his ankles and arms. "Just regular men, mostly. Each of the lord's vassals—all the men granted use of his land—was obligated to spend part of his year as a member of the castle guard."

"I've been wondering what it was like to live here."

"Well, Kendra sent me to find you for supper, but I can give you my famous tour on the way down."

Amy laughed, a happy sound that tapered off into the night as he led her to the stair tower and down a level.

"It's hard to imagine living in anything so primitive as a keep today," Colin's words floated up to her, "but in the twelfth century, it would have contained the best residential lodging for the lord. In those days, others lived in the smaller towers set into the castle walls, while the rest of the people had their homes constructed against the inside surfaces of the enclosure."

When they came out on the next floor, Amy wandered to a window where she could oversee the quadrangle. "No wonder it's so big," she said, imagining hundreds of people milling below.

"The castle was like a small town, and this keep was the ultimate in luxury accommodations." He joined her at the window, grazing her arm. "There was a poultry yard where all the animals were kept." When he moved closer, the pit of her stomach began tingling. "Soldiers, skilled workers, servants and their families—everyone made their home within the castle walls."

Suddenly she felt giddy. His words weren't going in one ear and out the other, not quite, but she was having a hard time concentrating.

"Tell me more," she begged.

"The portcullis, that wooden iron-banded gate at the barbican over there, would be down all the time, not just at night like it is now. The drawbridge would be raised unless someone needed to leave or enter."

When Colin paused, she turned to look at him. He captured her gaze with his. "This would have been the lord's bedchamber."

"Oh." She blushed furiously.

"It would have been decorated with beautiful tapestries, and the beds would have been draped with yards and yards of fabric that could be pulled together to keep in the warmth. Enormous beds, so that on cold nights they could all get in, the whole family together, and cuddle to keep warm."

Though Colin's words were simply informative, his voice was deep and husky, as though…

No, it was all her imagination. He hadn't asked how she was, or anything else of a personal nature. She had to stop fooling herself. He'd come only to fetch her for supper.

And to take her away.

Well, there was no sense dwelling on such a depressing subject. "Is supper waiting?" she asked.

Colin blinked before answering, and when he did, his words were clipped. "I reckon it is. We should go."

Amy followed him down the twisting staircase, but when he headed toward the courtyard, she slowed on the bottom floor. Despite everything, she didn't quite feel ready to share him with his family.

"What was this room for?"

He hesitated before turning back. "This would have been the main living quarters for the lord and his family." He was the tour guide again, his voice instructive, nothing more. "They would have eaten here, food brought to them by servants from the castle kitchens. The lord's children would have had their lessons here, and the family would have played games and received visitors here. There would have been lots of food and supplies in the storeroom underneath, in case of a siege."

Amy ran her fingers down the ancient wall. "You've a lovely home, my lord."

He shrugged. "It's Jason's, really."

She walked around the circular chamber, trailing one hand along the rough stone. "I can picture your lord and his family living here. Were they happy, do you think?"

"I imagine so." Colin chuckled. "The Chases were always a boisterous lot, I'm told."

Amy halted, startled. But of course it had been his family living here these past four hundred years; it just hadn't occurred to her before. They'd been peers for all that long. Just as her own family had been jewelers for an untold number of years. It was an intriguing thought, and a sad one, emphasizing the many reasons they could never be together.

"They're surely waiting for us by now," Colin said, breaking her reverie. "Shall we?"

When Colin and Amy reached the dining room, they found the family arranged the same way they'd been seated the night before he'd left, forcing the two of them to sit beside each other again.

Colin wasn't surprised.

He took his seat, and supper was served. Conversation swirled as usual, but tonight he was the one not participating. He was so aware of Amy, he could swear he felt heat emanating from her body. It had taken all his willpower not to touch her in the keep.

She seemed different tonight. She wore a different gown, a hunter green he remembered Kendra wearing at a house party last year. Her hair was in curls again…

It was her eyes, he decided suddenly. The amethyst sparkle was back.

No one would think of describing this self-assured woman as "a wreck" now. She laughed and joked with his sister and brothers, kept up with their repartee as though born to a large, noisy family.

This large, noisy family, in fact.

Colin was stunned. Amy was everything he'd imagined her to be: beautiful, animated, talented, intelligent, witty…and entirely too comfortable with his siblings.

When she laughed again, his fists clenched under the table. He forced himself to look at his plate instead of her. She was enough to drive a man to the asylum. Or, even worse, to a life of debauchery.

And he wasn't that kind of man.

He would deliver her to a ship bound for France—tomorrow. It was clear that Jason and Ford had no intention of doing so in any reasonable timeframe, and it must be done—the sooner, the better.

"What do you think, Colin?" Amy asked, startling him out of his trance.

"Pardon me?" He hadn't followed the conversation in the slightest.

"Amy has challenged you to a game of piquet after supper," Ford explained.

"I just taught her last month," Kendra complained, "and already she puts me to shame."

"I'm weary tonight." Colin had no desire to match wits at a card game, most especially not with Amy. Besides, he had his plan to carry out. "I was looking forward to relaxing and listening to you play the harpsichord, Kendra."

"I played last night."

"Not for me. Please," he pleaded. "I've been locked up in my godforsaken stronghold for weeks, with no civilized entertainment…"

"Oh, very well. You don't need to act so miserable." Kendra sounded irritated, but her eyes danced. She dearly loved being appreciated.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The first wrong note slipped by practically unnoticed, what with everyone's voices raised in rousing song and Kendra's nimble fingers flying fast. But then she hit another sour note, and another…

She paused momentarily, then resumed the tune.

Kendra rarely made mistakes. She'd been an apt pupil, training for hours upon hours while in exile, an eager student for the bored ladies looking for ways to pass the time. Just as the men had taken Colin and his brothers under their wings, putting them through fencing maneuvers until they could parry and thrust to perfection, so had the ladies put Kendra through her paces. As a result, she was quite an accomplished musician, making this night's trouble particularly frustrating.

When three more notes proved off key in less than a minute, Kendra stopped abruptly and shook her head as though to clear it.

"What's wrong?" Ford teased. "Too much Rhenish tonight?"

"I never drink too much, Ford, and you know it."

"Oh, yes, I forgot. That's Amy's problem. Half a glass and she's on the floor."

Amy giggled.

Colin looked at her sharply, then back to his younger brother. God's blood, his family knew more about her than he ever would have guessed. She'd really been worming her way in, the little witch.

He hardened his resolve to remove her tomorrow, before she insinuated herself even deeper.

"Are you tired, Kendra?" Jason inquired.

"No, I'm not tired." Kendra was clearly irritated. "I'll just start over."

Start over she did, and proceeded to hit the same sour notes. She slammed her fists down on the keyboard, exasperated.

"Are your eyes bothering you?" Amy asked.

"No. And I could play this with my eyes closed, at any rate."

"Let's just talk tonight," Jason suggested. "We haven't all been together in a long while."

Kendra heaved an impatient sigh. "No. I know I can play this—I've done it hundreds of times."

She attacked the keyboard with a new vigor and hit the same wrong notes again.

The same wrong notes.

She leapt off her bench seat and lifted the lid of the wooden instrument. Half a second later, she slammed it shut and whirled about, pointing an accusing finger at Colin.

"You! You and your damned practical jokes. Have you any idea how long it will take me to retune this?"

"However long it takes, you deserve it, little sister. 'You should marry her,' indeed."

"Marry who?" asked Amy.

"Never mind." Colin waved her off, his attention on Kendra. "Got you good, didn't I?"

"I reckon you did," she admitted with a wry smile.

"What's going on here?" Ford walked over to the harpsichord, lifted the lid and peered inside, then convulsed in mirth.

"What?" Amy asked. "What is it?"

"He—he—loosened some strings," Ford managed to choke out between gales of laughter. "Look."

Amy wandered over to survey the instrument. Though she knew nothing of music, it was obvious what Colin had done. A half-dozen random strings were markedly looser than the others.

"See?" Ford pressed a key causing a plectrum to pluck a taut string, followed by a key to a loose one. The resulting sound was so discordant that Amy burst into helpless giggles.

They felt so good, those unconstrained giggles. She couldn't help herself; the giggles led into peals of uncontrollable laughter.

It proved infectious. Colin joined in, and Ford and Jason, and finally Kendra, until they were all laughing simply because everyone else was laughing. One by one, they stopped, dwindling into occasional chuckles, all except Amy. She clutched the harpsichord to keep from doubling over as she laughed and laughed; she didn't even know why, anymore.

Her sides hurt, and tears ran down her face.

Ford put a hand on her shoulder. "She thinks you're funny, Colin."

Amy blushed, but Colin just grinned. "I appreciate a woman who appreciates my jokes."

Amy's face heated even more. "I'll—I'll be right back," she hiccuped between bursts of giggles.

She had to gain control of herself.

Leaving the room, she wove her way through the corridor, laughing, and down the stairs, leaning against the wall at intervals. They must think I'm drunk, she thought—but she knew better. She was merely giddy from close proximity to Colin, intensified by a feeling of well-being, surrounded by laughing people who loved one another.

Maybe her family hadn't shouted, but they hadn't laughed together much either.

The laughter made her feel slightly sick, and she hugged her stomach and aching ribs. At the foot of the staircase, she gazed through tear-blurred eyes at the tall wooden front doors. The quadrangle beyond enticed her, the crisp night air exactly what she needed. She stumbled through the entrance hall and out the doors, laughing all the way, almost tripped down the steps outside, and fell into a heap on the damp grass.

As her giggles diminished, she took delicious breaths of cold air deep into her lungs. At last she sat up, wiping the tears from her cheeks between hiccups. Placing her hands behind her on the grass, she leaned back and gazed up at the sky, enjoying the feel of the frigid air on her hot face.

Colin came into the quadrangle and crouched down beside her.

"The family elected me to check on you," he said wryly. "Better now?"

"Uh-huh." She watched a dark cloud creep slowly across the moon. "I'm sorry. I guess I made a fool of myself." She hiccuped, more loudly than she would have liked. "Excuse me."

"No excuses necessary," Colin declared chivalrously. "And you made no fool of yourself, either. To the contrary, we're all pleased to see you've recovered your spirits."

Silent, Amy continued watching the clouds gather, dark shapes against the starlit sky. She hiccuped again.

"I'll take you to Dover tomorrow," Colin said quietly beside her. "I'm sorry Jason and Ford haven't found the time to do it."

Suddenly, the air seemed cold instead of refreshing. She shivered and sat up straight, folding her legs beneath her. "It wasn't a problem. I've been fine here."

His family's faint laughter drifted through a window. She felt a stab of pain at the thought of leaving them all; she was even growing used to their inevitable arguments. But it was only by chance that she'd been afforded the luxury of being a part of them for a while, and her time was up.

She shivered again.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

"A little bit."

He moved closer and put an arm around her shoulders, drawing her tight against him. "You'll catch your death out here. We should go back inside."

His heat penetrated the side of her body, warming her all over. She wouldn't have moved an inch for the world. "In a minute," she stalled.

He squeezed her shoulder. "How is your hand?"

"Fine." She spoke softly, fearing he might pull away. "It healed weeks ago."

Colin took her hand to examine it in the moonlight. "Mmm," he murmured, rubbing his warm palm over the back. "So it did."

More laughter sounded from above. Quite suddenly, his fingers came around and laced through hers, and then, to her complete surprise, he brought their joined hands to his lips and held them there.

Amy bit her lip and closed her eyes. When she felt Colin move around to kneel in front of her, she opened them to find his only inches away.

"How are you, Amy?" he asked in hushed tones, searching her face for the answer.

"I'm better," she whispered, overwhelmed by his intensity. "Much, much better."

"That's good," he replied, then swiftly, before either of them could think about it, he pulled her hard against him and brought his mouth to hers.

She was shocked at her surge of response. Her arms wound over his shoulders and around his neck; her fingers meshed themselves in his thick, silky hair. Inexperienced though she was, her lips opened, inviting him in.

As he eased her backward onto the damp, fragrant grass, his mouth trailed down, and she felt the heady, moist sensation of his lips against her arched neck. He stretched out, half on top of her. She'd slept next to him at the inn, but this was different, and her body felt on fire in a hundred places where it made contact with his.

Her senses spun dizzily, and all she could think was that she hoped this would never stop. He raised his head to choke out her name in a strangled voice before his lips recaptured hers, more urgent this time. He tasted of Rhenish, but, underneath, he tasted of Colin. A unique, delicious flavor she knew she'd search for the rest of her life.

His mouth felt hot and demanding, his kisses damp on her chin and her throat and finally between her breasts framed in the low neckline of her borrowed gown. She smelled his hair, his scent, not smoky this time, but warm and clean and masculine. His tongue traced a shivery line from her cleavage back up her neck, and she called out his name in a breathy cry.

He pulled away and sat up, muttering a soft oath. "I'm sorry," he sighed, running a hand raggedly through his tangled hair.

Of course he was sorry. He didn't like her; he wanted to get rid of her. What she couldn't understand was how he could kiss her like that, feeling as he did.

She didn't trust herself to speak. Instead, she sat up and put her head in her hands. But she didn't cry. She felt too dead inside to cry.

"I'm betrothed, you know," he said suddenly.

Amy looked up, startled. She hadn't known—nobody had thought to inform her.

"Her name is Priscilla Hobbs," he continued. "Lady Priscilla Hobbs. Her father's an earl—she'll make a perfect mother for my children. Oh, and she's very nice," he added unconvincingly.

"Why are you telling me all this?" she asked, confused.

"I'm just trying to explain why I cannot…pay court to you."

Humiliated, she lashed out at him. "Pay court to me? Because of a little kiss? What an absurd notion!" Her voice rose an octave in her agitation. "I'd never expect you to marry me—you've tried to get rid of me at every turn."

"That's not true," he protested.

"It is so true," she contradicted, but the anger was seeping out of her already.

Things were as they were.

She wasn't suited to him, and there was nothing she could do about it.

"Amy," he began, rising on his knees to face her.

When she instinctively scooted backward, a flash of disappointment crossed his face. She looked down, picking at an imaginary piece of lint on her skirt.

"I'm sorry," he finally muttered.

They were silent for a long minute. Then Amy looked up and locked her gaze on his.

"When you touch me," she confessed softly, "I feel things I never thought to feel. I don't know if you might feel them, too. What I do know is that it doesn't matter. You belong here, with lords and ladies and the king, and I belong in France, working at a jeweler's bench."

An inscrutable mask settled on Colin's features. He hesitated, then slowly stood and brushed the grass off his breeches.

"We'd better get some sleep," he said in a voice devoid of any emotion. "I mean to get an early start."

His long legs carried him up the steps and through the door without hesitation. Amy took a deep breath and raised herself up, wondering if her own legs would carry her.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Colin cursed fluently, aiming a boot at the side of the carriage for emphasis.

"My lord, we'll have to stop here," Benchley concluded.

"Oh, is that right?" Colin's voice dripped with sarcasm. "I imagined we could drag along to Dover on three wheels."

Benchley usually stood as tall as possible to compensate for his deficient height, but now his shoulders hunched over and he positively drooped.

"My apologies," Colin hastened to say. Though he'd be hiring more servants in the near future—as soon as there was lodging available for them at Greystone—at this point Benchley was his valet, butler, coachman, cook, and serving-maid all rolled into one. He didn't deserve Colin's misplaced wrath. "Damn me, but I'm vexed, is all."

"I quite understand, my lord. I'll just take one of the horses and return with a wheel and a wright to install it. You two sit tight and eat the dinner Lady Kendra sent. I'll be back in no time."

"The hell you will." Colin gestured angrily at the sky. "This storm is due to kick up any minute."

As though on cue, a few snowflakes drifted down from the clouds.

Benchley brushed a flake off his beak of a nose. "I fear you're right, my lord. I'm not certain I'll be able to find a wheelwright willing to come out in this weather."

The clouds that had begun gathering last night looked unequivocally threatening now. The family had tried to talk Colin into postponing this journey, but he'd been adamant. He meant to deliver Amy to a France-bound ship, and he meant to do it today.

Damn the broken wheel.

The thought of spending extra time with Amy, in a freezing carriage going nowhere, was daunting. The only thing colder than the weather was her attitude. They'd spent the first short part of their journey in total silence, in diagonal corners on opposite seats, each with their nose buried in a book.

Spending the afternoon cooped up with her in here was unthinkable.

"Pay the wheelwright whatever it takes." He dug in his pouch, slapped some coins into Benchley's hand. "The one saving grace is we happen to be close to Greystone. I'll take Mrs. Goldsmith there on the other horse. When the wheel is fixed, ride on over and we'll be on our way."

Colin helped Benchley unhitch one of the matched bays and sent him off with a smack on the horse's rump. Then he climbed into the carriage and sat opposite Amy, shutting the door against the frigid air.

Amy looked up from the book she'd been struggling to read in the failing light. "Yes?" she asked in a frosty tone.

"The wheel is broken," he began.

"I surmised as much." Amy shut her book. "I heard every word you uttered, foul and otherwise."

"Benchley has ridden off for help," Colin explained anyway. "We'll ride the other bay to Greystone and wait for him there."

"How far is Greystone?"

"A mile and a half, or thereabouts."

"I'll walk."

"No, you won't," Colin declared.

"I'm not riding any horse."

He knew she was unhappy with him, but did she have to contradict him at every turn?

"I won't allow you to walk. It's snowing, and you have no cloak. You'd freeze to death before you made it halfway."

"It's snowing?" Shooting him a skeptical glance, she rubbed a circle of condensation off the window with her fist. She peered outside, wrapped the blanket tighter about herself, and leaned back into the corner. "It's snowing."

Colin looked out the viewhole she'd created.

"Damn, it's getting worse than I expected." Her mocking expression made him bristle. "It's not my fault we're surprised with a November snow. For God's sake, we haven't seen snow this far south in three years. How the hell was I supposed to predict such an occurrence?"

"It was cold regardless. You could have waited for decent weather before insisting—"

"I have my reasons for needing to get on with this."

"Why? So you can get rid of me once and for all?"

"No," he said too quickly. She'd hit too close to home. "I'm sorry this happened."

Her response was a stony stare.

"I've already said I'm sorry for the way I've treated you."

She remained tight lipped.

His hands fisted on his knees as he fought to control his tone. "We need to get to Greystone, and at the rate you're moving this will be a full-blown blizzard before we even get out of the carriage."

Her icy mask fell, and she shrank further into the corner. "I cannot ride a horse."

"What?" His hands relaxed, and he rubbed them on his thighs. "Whyever not?"

"I've never ridden a horse," she confessed in a choked voice. "I cannot do it; I just cannot."

"People ride horses all the time."

"Other people."

"You've never been on a horse. What makes you think you won't like it?"

"I didn't say I've never been on a horse. I said I've never ridden a horse. Papa put me on one once, in Hyde Park, when I was eight. I was up so high, and this thing under me moved, and I screamed until he pulled me off. I swore I'd never get on a horse again."

Colin couldn't believe what he was hearing. They needed to be on their way, and now. "You're not eight anymore, Amy."

"I cannot. I just cannot. The animal is ten times my weight, it has a brain all its own— why, it could buck me off, or run under a tree and make me hit my head on a branch, or—"

"Now you're babbling." He reached for her hand to pull her out.

Snatching it back, she burrowed even further into the corner and tucked the blanket tighter. "I'm sorry. If I cannot walk, then I'll just wait here. I have a blanket, a book, and food. I'm prepared to stay until Benchley returns."

"This storm could last until morning," Colin argued, though he hoped to hell it wouldn't. "You're coming with me, and you're coming on the horse. I'll hold on to you. You'll be fine." He flung open the door, grabbed her hand from beneath the blanket, and pulled her up and out of the carriage in one smooth motion.

Glaring, she shivered in her blanket while Colin unhitched the horse. He watched her surreptitiously, his earlier annoyance rapidly turning to amusement. Imagine, a grown woman being scared of a docile animal. Surely once she was riding, she would see it wasn't frightening.

When the horse was free, he motioned her over. "I suggest you ride astride—you'll feel a lot more secure that way than sidesaddle."

"Sidesaddle?" She shot him an accusatory glare. "There's no saddle."

"Up you go," he said cheerfully, his laced fingers providing a foothold to boost her.

"You go first."

"Amy," he said with an exasperated sigh, "if I get on first, I won't be able to help you up."

She huffed, then clenched her jaw and stepped onto his hands, swinging her leg over awkwardly.

And almost fell off the other side.

Her screech pierced Colin's ears even as he leapt to right her. Seated at last, her eyes wide with fear, she wrinkled her nose. "He smells terrible."

Her skirts were hitched up in disarray, and the look on her face was so comical that Colin had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing.

"He feels warm," she reported. "And scratchy. And very alive." The horse took a small step backward, and she shrieked.

"It's all right," Colin soothed. "He's not going anywhere."

He turned back to the carriage, muttering to himself.

"Wh-where are you going?" she yelled after him. "Come back! You cannot leave me alone on a live beast!"

He leaned into the carriage to fetch Kendra's basket of food. "I was just getting our dinner."

After swinging up easily behind her, he held the basket in one hand and Amy firmly against himself with the other. His arm reached almost all the way around her waist.

"Better?"

She nodded. He waited until she relaxed back against him, then urged the horse at a slow walk toward Greystone.

They moved—an entire twenty feet.

"Stop!"

Colin didn't. "You're doing fine, Amy."

"No! I mean, we have to go back!" She twisted, trying to face him. "We left my trunk!"

He reined in, swearing under his breath. "Oh, no. We're not lugging that damned trunk to Greystone. It'll be here when we get back."

"No—it must come with me," she insisted, sounding panicked. She looked up and back at him, bumping her head on his chin in the process. "I'll get it myself if I have to." To emphasize her threat, she leaned to the side as though she were determined to slide off.

Colin clutched at her. "What the hell's in that blasted trunk that makes it so important?"

She gritted her teeth. "Everything I own."

The same answer she'd given before. He was certain she was hiding something from him, but then tears filled her eyes and he found himself climbing off the horse. He set the basket on the ground and headed back to the carriage.

"Thank you so much," she called to his back.

It was the first civil thing she'd uttered to him all morning. He hadn't a clue how he'd manage to carry Amy, the trunk, and their dinner on one horse, but he supposed it would be worth the effort, if she would act pleasant as a result.

Another shriek rang out as he stepped into the carriage. "It's moving! The beast is about to run away!"

"Pull back on the reins," he shouted.

"The what? Oh, God in heaven, he's leaning down! He's going to roll over on top of me and crush me, I just know it!"

Alarmed, Colin backed out of the carriage. The horse had moved, all right—all of three feet. His head lowered, he was munching contentedly on a clump of grass by the roadside.

"God in heaven is right." Colin hefted the trunk and made his way toward her. "Save me, please."

"What did you say?"

"I said I hope you're pleased I'm saving your trunk."

When he heaved the small but heavy trunk onto the horse's back, the poor animal turned its head to look at him dolefully. Colin sighed. He found it hard to believe the lengths he would go to in order to placate Amethyst Goldsmith.

"All right." He looked to her. "Now move back so I can ride in front of you."

"In front of me? How will you hold on to me?"

"I cannot hold on to you and balance the trunk, Amy."

She tightened her knees around the horse's middle, as though she expected him to haul her off. "I'll balance the trunk."

He looked at the heavy trunk and back to her, drumming his free fingers against his thigh. "I think not. Of course, we can leave the trunk here…"

"No," she capitulated. "I'll move."

She inched back until Colin nodded. Keeping a hand on the trunk, he leaned to scoop up Kendra's basket. "Here, you'll have to carry this."

She gazed at him dubiously, but took it and wisely kept quiet.

Still balancing the trunk with one hand, he managed to mount the horse without kicking her in the face, a feat he felt deserved her undying admiration.

She didn't even seem to notice.

"Hold on to me," he said.

"I cannot see ahead," she complained. "I can only see down. It-it's a long way down."

"If you'd rather ride in front, we can leave the trunk here," he suggested in the most pleasant tone he could muster.

"No, no…I'll be fine. Wait a minute, though." She pushed the handle of the basket up over her wrist so she could place both arms around him. "I'm ready," she announced.

"Wonders will never cease," Colin muttered to himself. He urged the horse forward, torn between going slowly and freezing, or moving quickly and frightening Amy half to death.

Mercifully, he chose to freeze.

He would swear he felt Amy's heart pounding against his back, even though he was insulated by his cloak, her blanket, and both their layers of clothing. Her hands, clasped together about his waist, were white knuckled with strain.

"God's blood," he said, "you have me in a death grip. The basket handle is digging into my side."

"Sorry." Her arms loosened an entire half inch, then tightened again when the horse gave a snort.

"Are you all right back there?" he asked with a sigh.

He hadn't the slightest idea what he'd do if she weren't.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"I'm fine," Amy ground out between gritted teeth. She wondered how long it would take to ride a mile and a half. It felt like forever already. "But snowflakes are tickling my nose."

"Feel free to let go of me long enough to brush them off."

She shook her head violently.

"Does it still seem a long way down?"

"My eyes are closed."

That was the only way she could bear it. Even pressed against Colin's warm back, she felt unsafe. Her heart skittered, and her legs were getting numb from squeezing tight around the beast's prickly body. It was ridiculous, and she knew it—even country bumpkins were comfortable sitting a horse.

But telling herself that didn't keep her from trembling.

"Cold?" Colin asked, apparently feeling her body quake.

"Yes." Better to let him think that was the reason.

"I warned you we needed to go quickly."

When the horse sped up, she yelped, and Colin scrambled to right the trunk, swearing under his breath. If she'd needed any more confirmation that she fit poorly in his world, she had it now.

Resolved to stay calm until this torture was over, she squeezed her eyes shut tighter and started singing to herself. Perhaps by the time her song was finished, they'd be at Greystone.

"'I tell thee, Dick, where I have been; Where I the rarest things have seen; Oh, things without compare! Such sights again cannot be found; In any place on English ground; Be it at wake or fair.'"

"You've a sweet voice," Colin called back, amusement lacing his words.

He was laughing at her. If she could only get past her fear and let go of him, she might be tempted to shove him off the horse.

Instead, she continued singing.

"'At Charing Cross, hard by the way; Where we, thou know'st, do sell our hay; There is a house with stairs. And there did I see coming down; Such folk as are not in our town; Forty at least, in pairs.'"

"Ballad Upon a Wedding," Colin remarked. "It was written by Sir John Suckling, you know. He fought beside my father in the war."

"'Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine; His beard no bigger though than thine; Walk'd on before the rest. Our landlord looks like nothing to him; The king, God bless him, 'twould undo him; Should he go still so dress'd.'"

"That's the groom, who is said to be Lord Broyhill. And the bride was Lady Margaret—"

"If you know the song," she interrupted, irritated into finally addressing him, "the least you could do is sing along with me."

But he didn't. There were fifteen verses to Ballad Upon a Wedding, and Amy sang them five times through before the horse finally stopped.

"We're here," Colin said with an exaggerated sigh of relief. "I believe the basket handle has impressed a permanent indentation between my ribs."

"Thank heavens." Amy's eyes flew open, and she blinked against the daylight. "I meant thank heavens we're here, not about your ribs."

A low chortle floated back. He unwound her arms from his waist and reached back a hand. "Here, let me help you down."

When she landed on solid ground, her knees nearly buckled under her. Taking a deep breath, she looked around. She found herself on a circular drive in a modest courtyard, enclosed on three sides by a crenelated curtain wall. The living quarters of the small castle made up the fourth side. The entire structure would fit into a corner of Cainewood.

She was enchanted.

Colin hopped down from the horse and slid her trunk to the snowy ground. He gestured at his home. "It's not like Cainewood, is it?"

"No, not at all," she said seriously. "It's much nicer."

"Nicer?" he asked in apparent disbelief.

She watched his gaze wander over the ruined portions of the wall and a huge roofless chamber that dominated the edifice. She followed along, seeing ancient weathered stones with stories to tell and a building the perfect size for one happy family.

"Yes, it's much cozier. Cainewood is beautiful, but I cannot imagine why anyone would actually want to live there."

"Try explaining that to the woman I'm betrothed to," Colin muttered, leading the horse to one of the posts set around the drive.

Still carrying the basket, Amy wandered back to the entrance and stared up in wonder at the massive oak portcullis gate. Outside the walls, she could see the moat was dry and had been for some time. A mosslike grass grew in its bottom, lightly dusted with snow.

"Once upon a time, it was filled by the River Caine." Colin's voice startled her, nearby. He pointed out the river in the distance. "It runs all the way from the coast past Cainewood to here. In fact, the license to crenelate was granted by King Richard II to protect Greystone from pirates who sailed up the River Caine from the sea. It was originally built by a bishop."

Amy felt her beloved history books coming alive within these walls. "How long has it been in your family?"

"Not at all, till recently. Its Royalist owners perished with no issue. Charles deeded it to me after the Restoration."

A ruined tower sat adjacent to the entrance, and she looked down inside it—a long way down.

"The oubliette," he explained. "It was secured with a heavy iron grille." His voice sounded mysterious and deep as the pit. "Miscreants would be cast inside…and sometimes forgotten."

Suddenly shivering, she tightened the blanket around her body.

With a grunt, Colin shouldered her trunk. "Come inside, where it should be warmer." He motioned for her to follow him down a short passageway with an unassuming oak door at its end.

He unlocked the door and entered, bending to set down her trunk. She followed in time to see him shove it against the wall with one booted foot.

"There." He glared at her accusingly. "I'm not looking forward to our riding back with it, I'll warrant you."

Her legs were still shaking, though she'd never admit it. She set the basket on the floor. "I'm not riding a horse back."

"Benchley cannot drive the carriage here with one horse."

"Then you'll ride out with him and return with the carriage. That way you won't have to carry the trunk on horseback," she pointed out.

"That's true," he conceded rather crossly. Averting his face, he turned to arrange some wood in the fireplace on the right.

The vestibule was small and square, with an open-beam ceiling of oak. An oak staircase marched up the wall opposite the entrance. To the left, Amy saw an arched door. She walked over and tried the handle.

"It's locked," Colin said, standing up. "The great hall is beyond, lacking half a roof at present."

She nodded, turning back to him. Behind him, the fire burned brightly, illuminating the dim chamber. Shadows danced on whitewashed, unadorned stone walls. The stone floor was polished smooth from centuries of use, and a fringed Oriental carpet rested in the center.

"Is this where you sleep?" Amy asked. She knew his home was mostly unrestored, and many families lived in a room this size or smaller. Perhaps he had a pallet that he put in here at night.

"Heavens, no." He laughed and picked up the basket. "I'm not that badly off. Come this way."

She followed him through an open archway and down a corridor. He paused at a doorway on the left.

"This is my temporary bedchamber," he explained. "Once the great hall's roof is complete, the rest of the living quarters will be restored."

Amy stepped into the austere room. It held a wooden washstand, a dressing table with a mirror, and a large bed with a small table beside it and a chest at its foot. Carved in a twisted design, the bedposts supported a cream-colored canopy that matched the bedclothes and plastered walls. A gray stone fireplace and hearth echoed the gray stone that framed the three windows.

She wandered to a window and drew in her breath in surprise.

"You're looking behind the great hall." Colin's voice came across the room from where he lounged against the doorjamb. "It's officially called Upper Court. The main courtyard where we entered is called Lower Court."

Amy gazed into the secret space, partially concealed by a light blanket of freshly fallen snow. Come springtime, when the winter cold subsided, it would contain a beautiful garden. Placing her elbows on the wide stone windowsill, she rested her chin in her hands and stared out dreamily. Having grown up in crowded London, the thought of a private walled garden was blissful.

"I would call it Hidden Court," she said softly.

A low chuckle came from the doorway. "That's exactly what I do call it, to myself."

Amy wasn't surprised. It was the perfect name for this most perfect place. "How do you get to it?"

"Through my study, next door."

Leaving the window, she followed him down the corridor. His study contained a large scarred wooden desk with a comfortable chair; a long, plain upholstered couch with a low table before it; and some rough shelving stuffed with a few books and a lot of ledgers and piles of paper.

"Benchley sleeps here," he said, indicating the couch.

But Amy had eyes only for the glass-inset double doors in the exact center of the back wall. She went straight to throw them open and stepped into the courtyard beyond, heedless of the frosty air and falling snow.

Colin turned to start a fire, slanting a glance now and then to watch her. He laughed when she brushed snow off the plants to see what lay beneath. What a marvelous creature she was, quick to anger, but even more easily pleased. Now that she'd emerged from the cocoon of her grief, she was like a beautiful butterfly, and his heart ached with the knowledge that he could never capture her.

Finished with the fire, he turned to warm his back near the flames, watching Amy flit around his private courtyard…the courtyard Priscilla had failed to even notice on her one visit to her future home.

He shook himself. Priscilla embodied everything he required in a wife. He wasn't a man to let physical attraction rule his life—he never had, and he had no intention of starting now.

That wouldn't be logical.

His betrothal was an ideal, rational arrangement. And not only was he bound by a formal promise, but he'd spent part of Priscilla's dowry on the restorations. He saw no way out of it, and he'd be a fool to consider it at all.

Amy was right: the two of them were unsuited, and the matter was no more simple or complicated than that.

He poked his head out the door to let Amy know he was going to settle the horse and would be right back. By the time she brushed off the snow and came in from the courtyard, red cheeked and shivering, he'd not only returned, but emptied Kendra's basket and laid out their dinner—cold chicken, bread, cheese, and a bottle of wine.

Everything was neatly divided and set on cloth napkins, his on his desk, hers on the low table in front of the couch. He closed the doors behind Amy and took his place behind the desk.

"Hungry?" he asked.

"Yes, famished, although it must be early still." Amy picked up her food and carried it to the carpet before the hearth. She looked over at Colin, up through her thick eyelashes, where drops of melted snow sparkled in the firelight. "It's much warmer here. Will you join me in a picnic?"

Colin knew that if he joined her, it would be for more than a simple picnic. He felt much safer behind the desk. "I'm accustomed to dining here, and Benchley there," he said with a wave toward the table.

"I'm not Benchley," she pointed out.

He gave her a considered look. "I've noticed."

A blush crept into her cheeks, and his whole being was aware of how pretty she looked framed by the light of his fire, magical in the flickering hues. His body tensed.

"Do you suppose he'll return soon?" she asked.

"Who?"

Her eyes narrowed, regarding him uncertainly. "Benchley."

"Oh, him. I certainly hope so," he said, glancing out the window.

The storm was building, damn it. God help him, Benchley had better return soon. He wanted this chapter in his life finished—without further incident.

He looked back to her with a sigh. "I'm miserable at preparing anything to eat. I assume you can cook?"

"I've never tried. We always had a housekeeper who cooked. You do have food?"

"Of course," he answered crossly. "I live here, you know."

"Of course."

Amy grinned, suddenly realizing how happy she was. Colin's plan to deliver her to Dover was foiled for now—despite his hope that Benchley would return soon, that wasn't likely to happen, given the weather. She'd survived the ride on horseback, and now she was alone with Colin in his enchanting castle, possibly overnight…

She felt like she'd just received a stay of execution.

Maybe he'd even kiss her again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Colin unwound himself from his cross-legged position on the floor, where he'd faced Amy across the low table and whiled away the past hours playing piquet. "So, what's the verdict?"

Amy scribbled for a few more seconds before looking up. "I won…but by less than a hundred points."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?" He smiled at the concerned look on her face. "You won all three parties."

"You won five hands."

There were six hands in each partie, which meant he'd won five hands out of eighteen.

Well, at least he hadn't been completely humiliated. He'd proven himself a sharp cardplayer in the past. He was out of practice; he didn't have the time to spend hours—not to mention money—playing cards like many courtiers.

He was not distracted by her close proximity, her quick intelligence, her joyous laugh, the sweet curves that weren't hidden by that modest old lavender gown.

No. He was tired. He was unlucky. He was hungry.

Damn, he was hungry. Where the hell was Benchley?

Tired of waiting, he reached for his cloak.

"I've been playing quite often," she said, continuing her efforts to salve his ego.

"I thought you just learned?"

"Well, I learned recently, but I've been playing quite often."

He shrugged into the cloak. "I see." Actually, he saw plenty. For one thing, he saw Amy wasn't the sort of woman who would let him win just to make him feel good. He liked that.

"Bundle up, now," he said, holding out the blanket. When she stood, he wrapped it around her shoulders, vexed at himself when he noticed the enticing rose scent that seemed to waft from her whenever she moved.

Turning away, he took an oil lamp off the mantel and lit it.

"We're going outside?" she asked as she trailed after him down the corridor.

"In a manner of speaking."

He stopped to unlock the door to the great hall, and she followed him inside. Lighting the way, he led her along the wall, moving beneath the overhang created by the partial new roof. He took her elbow to guide her around a rusted cannonball.

"I was hoping to have this roof finished before the cold set in," he yelled over the wind. It was picking up, making a hell of a racket. "Now, if it proves to be a snowy winter, I may as well stay at Cainewood much of the time. I won't see much progress in this kind of weather." A glance through the open roof had him shaking his head at the threatening clouds. "Bloody hell."

They were forced to brave the snow to reach another door in the center of the end wall. Once they were inside, he shut it quickly, glad for the blessed quiet.

"Storerooms," he explained, leading Amy down the short corridor with two cellars on either side. They came out into his large kitchen.

Amy looked suitably impressed. "My goodness, this is impeccably restored."

"It projects outside the curtain wall," Colin pointed out. "I suppose it made the castle somewhat vulnerable at the time it was first built, but it was a sound decision as a precaution against fire damage."

Proud of all his improvements, Colin showed her the ovens, spitted fireplaces, and wash basins with bronze taps and spouts. After she'd expressed appropriate admiration for the kitchen, he took her down a long, unused passage to the left.

"This was the original garderobe," he explained. "It hung over the moat, a nice innovation at the time. Owing to the location, though, everyone had to go through the great hall and kitchen to use it."

Amy peeked into the rough wooden latrines. "I'm glad I'm visiting now instead of then." She'd already made use of Colin's new garderobe, twin latrines with all the modern comforts, and declared them the most luxurious cubbyholes she'd ever seen. They had water closets, newly imported from France, and pipes all the way to the River Caine.

"I'll stick with the one next to your study, thank you," she said. "It's cold over here."

"It is, isn't it? Let's take our supper and head back."

Backtracking through the kitchen and toward the great hall, Amy followed Colin into the vaulted cellar on the left, a pantry stocked with plenty of food, although not yet a great variety. Handing the lamp to her, Colin grabbed a basket and filled it with a small wheel of cheese, some carrots, apples, and a jar of—

"What's that?" Amy asked in some alarm.

"Pickled snails."

"Pickled snails? Surely you jest."

"I do not. They're delicious."

"I guess I'll try them," she said dubiously, "but I have to say they look and sound disgusting." She slanted him an assessing glance. "You gentry certainly eat some strange things."

Colin laughed and led her into the vault across the corridor. Walls lined with racks held but a few bottles of wine, one of which he hastily selected. Watching Amy look around, he tried to see the cellar through her eyes. Great empty barrels were scattered about, and two long, ancient wooden tables ran down the center of the arched chamber.

"Let me guess," Amy suggested, "the taproom?"

"The buttery."

"A butter room?"

"Well, it's not where they kept the butter, but that's what it was called. Your first guess was close—this room was dedicated to brewing and serving beverages. 'Butt' is an old word for bottle."

Amy followed him out of the buttery and back toward the great hall. "How do you come to know so much about old castles?"

Colin shrugged. "They always interested me. I spent my early years at Cainewood and the rest of my childhood in a succession of old, drafty castles on the Continent. I asked a lot of questions, read a lot of books."

He motioned with his head for her to open the door, then winced when she got a blast of cold snow in her face for her trouble. He ushered her ahead, and she held up the lamp to light their way back.

"Most men, given this land, would build a new house and leave the ruined castle as a relic for their children to play in," he shouted from the swirling snow behind her. "It would probably cost less and certainly be easier to heat."

When they reached the other end, Amy opened the door and they stepped into the welcoming entry hall, warmed by the dancing fire. Colin shut the door against the wind, and the room went suddenly silent.

Setting the basket and bottle of wine on the stone floor, he turned to lock the door. "God knows why I'm restoring this place; it makes little sense." Finished, he faced her. "But it's three hundred years old, and it seems a shame to just let it crumble into ruin. The walls are thick and solid—it's a good home…" He shrugged and smiled at her. "I like living here."

"That's the romantic in you, Lord Greystone," she said softly.

Romantic? No one had ever accused Colin Chase of being romantic. Handsome, yes, he'd have to be deaf not to have heard the ladies extolling his physical virtues. He liked to think he was a good lover and he embodied many other worthy traits. But romantic? Never.

He searched her amethyst eyes, scarcely believing she could be serious. But he could see she was sincere.

She obviously didn't know him very well.

He cleared his throat, breaking the silence and tension between them. "Insane, is more like it."

She shook her head, smiling. Colin's gaze moved to her cheeks, pink from the cold, and her lips, red and slightly wind-chapped. Her curls, arranged so carefully by Kendra's maid that morning, were blown loose around her face…

God help him, he wanted to kiss her. He stepped forward.

She licked her lips. "Are those pickled snails really edible?"

He shook his head to clear those preposterous thoughts. "They're the best. Although I've just realized I forgot to bring spoons from the kitchen."

"You needn't brave the cold. I'm perfectly willing to share your knife with you." A gleam came into her eyes. "After all, I'm naught but a simple merchant's daughter."

Having delivered her jab, Amy leaned down to pick up the wine bottle. Colin frowned at her back. How did she know he thought of her that way? Kendra, most likely—the meddler in the family.

But it was as well that Amy had reminded him—for with all this talk of romance, he'd been on the edge of forgetting just who and what she was.

Clutching their supper to his chest, he turned and hurried down the corridor, back to the relative safety of his desk.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The keep was built of lavender stone, cut in perfect rectangular bricks, set together seamlessly to form the tallest tower in the world. Arched windows graced each landing, and as Amy wound up the spiral staircase she paused to look out.

Ferocious, fire-breathing, terrifying…the dragon lumbered relentlessly closer, its heavy tread making the earth shudder. She ran up and up, a burning stitch in her side, but came no nearer the top.

Papa was up there. She had to get to him.

The dragon let out an earsplitting roar, breathing its red and yellow and blue fire through a window. She pressed herself against the wall as flames raced past her up the winding steps, in a thick burning line toward the top where Papa waited.

When it seemed as though neither her legs nor her lungs would hold out for one more step, she finally reached the top—but Papa was already on fire. A skeleton he was, reclining in a chair, holding an oval-framed picture, his feet bones resting on a bolster. Flames shot from his skeleton eye sockets and between his bare skeleton ribs. Black smoke rose in a column from the bony structure to the sky.

Gray ash rained down on the lavender stone. The dragon's roar shook the tower. Its glittering eyes looked straight into hers before it bent its head and breathed fire into the stairwell. Red and yellow and orange flames rushed up the steps straight at her, burning a path all the way to her right hand. Her hand was on fire, burning brightly, and it started up her arm…

She screamed for help, but nobody came.

Her hand had turned into a skeleton hand; the flesh was burning off her arm, the flames working their way to her shoulder. She screamed at the top of her lungs…

It sounded as though someone were in the castle, attacking Amy in the bedchamber next door.

His heart pounding, Colin leapt from the couch, threw his breeches over an arm, grabbed his knife from the desk and his rapier off the floor. Blades at the ready, he burst into the bedchamber, where Amy thrashed wildly in his bed.

Alone.

He could scarcely imagine what demons could cause such a nightmare.

He tossed the weapons into a corner and pulled on his breeches, hopping on one foot and then the other as he made his way across the room. Tugging on the laces, he launched himself onto the bed with a force that nearly sent Amy over the other side.

"Amy, wake up!" He shook her frantically. "It's naught but a dream. Wake up."

A concerned voice floated up the winding staircase. Someone was coming to rescue her. Someone was coming, after all.

"Wake up! You're all right."

The voice was closer, right in her ear. Someone's hand was on her burning shoulder. Wait—no, it wasn't burning…

Amy heard her own cries and struggled through her fog into reality, her screams turning into deep, wrenching sobs.

"Hush, it's over." Colin pulled her into his arms. The quilt, which she'd thrown off during her nightmare, slid to the floor. She wrapped her arms around him, pressed her wet face into his warm chest. He rubbed her back through her thin chemise in a slow, soothing rhythm, murmuring to her all the while.

At last she calmed enough to pull away. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she sat up and stared at her right hand in disbelief.

"It was burning…"

"Does it hurt?"

She shook her head, remembering both the real pain from her old injury and the many-times-magnified pain of the dream. But the sensation now was just the fading tingle of memory, and the hand was fine, not the skeleton fingers she'd been half-expecting to see.

"No, it doesn't hurt at all." She dropped her hand to the bed, still staring at it by the light of the dying fire. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"I thought you were being attacked." He laughed shakily and stood up. "I ran in here with my knife, ready to defend you, wearing absolutely nothing. I'm not sure I'd have been a very effective warrior."

"Oh." She looked up, her gaze landing on his chest, which looked bronze in the shimmering firelight. Her eyes widened as she suddenly realized he wasn't wearing much more than nothing now.

His tanned upper body was clad in naught but a thin white scar, long since healed, a diagonal slash across his left upper arm. She wondered fleetingly what had caused it, but was too distracted to give it much thought. Her gaze dropped to his bare feet. Why, he wore nothing at all, it seemed, other than a pair of unfashionably tight breeches, and those—she couldn't help noticing—only partially laced.

In an instant, she forgot her dream. Her cheeks flushed, and she tugged down the hem of her chemise, which had ridden up as she'd thrashed about. But she could tell from Colin's face it was an ineffective attempt at best, serving mainly to make him more aware of her dishabille.

She shifted as his gaze wandered from her face to her bare limbs. He swallowed hard.

"Cold?" he asked. He walked around the bed to retrieve the quilt, made a great show of shaking it out, then let it drift down upon her. The blanket seemed to caress her as it settled. She wished it were Colin's hands instead.

He sat on the edge of the bed. "Do you want to tell me about your dream?"

She shook her head vehemently. "No. I don't want to think on it at all." She scooted down to lie flat and cuddled into the covers. "Would you stay with me for a spell, though? We could talk of something else."

"I'll stay as long as you like," he assured her, taking her hand. "What would you like to talk about?"

His hand felt warm and comforting. She shrugged. "Anything."

"Would you like to talk about how much you like pickled snails?" he suggested with a teasing grin.

"I did like them," she protested, although they both knew that wasn't true. She'd tasted one bravely, even swallowed it without gagging, but her appetite had fallen off afterward.

Her stomach was grumbling now. "Are there any apples left?" she asked.

Colin's smile was too knowing. "I believe there are."

He left, returning from the study with a shiny red apple. When she sat up and reached for it, he pulled it back playfully. "Hungry, are you?" Grinning, he handed it to her and stepped over to the windows.

Amy took a bite and slowly chewed. She watched him peer out into the night, his legs spread, hands linked behind his back.

"It's still snowing hard," he told her. "I reckon we may be stuck here through tomorrow."

"Mmm-hmm," she replied around a mouthful of juicy apple. The fruit was sweet, she was cozy, and she could think of worse fates than being stuck with Colin Chase another day and night.

"I should do bookwork tomorrow, so long as I'm here."

"Mmm-hmm." She took another crunching bite.

"What will you do?" He turned from the windows to face her.

Amy chewed and swallowed before answering. "I can read. Try my hand at preparing dinner. Help you with your bookwork." She took another big bite.

"I don't need any help."

She shrugged again. "I'll explore your castle, then."

"I'm afraid there's not much to discover." He walked over to the fire, added a log from the basket, and stirred up the embers with a wooden-handled poker. "It's small. And cold and damp."

"None of that will stop me."

Colin crossed back to her bedside and stood looking down at her with a wry smile, his teeth as white as the snow outside. "I suppose a bit of cold and damp are unlikely to deter the likes of you. So long as there's not a horse involved."

Grinning, she held out the apple core and slid down under the covers.

He put the core on the table next to the bed. "Better?"

"Much." She wiggled under the quilt, getting comfortable.

"Good." Offering her a distracted nod, he turned to the door.

"No, don't leave yet." She patted the bed beside her. "You said you'd stay as long as I liked."

With seeming reluctance, he turned back and slowly sat down. Amy reached over and took his hand. He tensed; she saw the muscles go rigid beneath his bronzed skin.

The nightmare had left her completely. The apple rested comfortably in her stomach, the room was warm, the bed was soft, and her hand tingled in Colin's. As she gazed at his profile in the wavering firelight, she wanted him to kiss her in the worst way. Just one more time. Just once more before he put her on a ship and she sailed out of his life forever.

She squeezed his hand, and he turned to meet her gaze.

Her heart beat faster. His eyes searched her face, and his free hand rose to wipe a bit of apple juice from the corner of her mouth. His hand lingered; his knuckles grazed her cheek.

He was going to kiss her, she knew it.

"Holy Christ," Colin murmured. Amy's skin was petal soft, her eyes dark liquid pools of desire. He couldn't help himself.

He'd kiss her just once—a goodnight kiss—and then he'd leave.

When she closed her eyes, he brushed her lips with his, a mere whisper of sensation. A little sound escaped her throat, and her arms came up and around his neck, dragging his mouth back to hers. She twined her fingers in his hair, her lips sweet and urgent.

"Amy," he moaned, giving in, his mouth demanding a response she seemed only too happy to give. His tongue traced the soft fullness of her lips, seeking entry. When she let him in, his blood surged in response to her sweet, velvety mouth. He would swear she stopped breathing.

He broke contact, and her eyes fluttered open, deep purple in the low light. She drew a long, shuddering breath. Using every ounce of his willpower, he pulled back.

"I cannot do this," he grated out.

She ran her hands over the muscles of his back and lifted herself to place a warm, moist kiss in the hollow of his neck. Her eyes questioning, she fell back to the pillows.

She was seducing him, the little witch!

"Amy," he said, sitting up fully, "this isn't right."

"Is it not?" Amy asked dizzily. Her senses still swirling, she impulsively ran a hand down his chest, surprising herself. She'd never touched a man's bare chest. Colin's was warm and firm, with a light sprinkling of crisp black hair. Defined muscles twitched under her questing fingers. "I like kissing you. What's wrong with that?"

"I cannot just kiss you." He pushed her hand away. "You're half-naked in my bed, for God's sake. I want you, all of you."

Shocked to the tips of her toes, she stared at him, tongue-tied. Never, in all her musings on the subject, had she imagined that Colin wanted to make love to her.

He hated her, didn't he? Or at least he didn't like her—she was naught but a bother to him, and inconvenience he needed to rid himself of. He seemed to enjoy kissing her, for some inexplicable reason, but…

"I'm sorry, Amy."

That loosened her tongue. She struggled up on her elbows. "Would you please stop saying you're sorry every time you kiss me!"

"I'm sorry." He smiled innocently, and she burst into helpless giggles.

Seconds later, his smile reversed to a frown. "Amy?"

She sobered instantly. "What?"

"You understand what I'm telling you?"

Relieved that the semidarkness hid her blush, she nodded.

"And you agree it would be wrong?"

She hesitated, then hoped he hadn't noticed. She knew what he wanted to hear, which was the same thing she'd been raised to believe.

"Yes, it would be wrong."

Colin had noticed, all right. He shook his head, amazed she'd taken so long to answer. "Then you'll understand why I cannot kiss you again," he said, intending to clarify his position once and for all. But when the sparkle left her eyes, he found himself rushing to reassure her. "Though it's God's own truth I was never once really sorry I did."

With another nod, her head fell back to the pillows. He rose and tucked the blanket about her in a businesslike way. "Good night, then," he said, heading for the door.

"Stay. Please." Something in her voice made him turn around. "I won't even touch you, I promise. Just sleep in here tonight. I-I'm afraid I'll have the nightmare again."

Colin wasn't sure he could stand another night sleeping beside Amethyst Goldsmith. Or rather, he was sure he couldn't.

"You won't dream it again. And if you do, I'll be right next door."

"You cannot know I won't dream it! I will, I'm sure of it. Please."

She seemed genuinely frightened; her pleading went straight to his heart.

Damn.

Perhaps he could lie next to her just until she fell asleep. If he left then, she'd never know the difference. "Very well. Just don't touch me," he warned with a teasing glare.

"I promise," she said with a sweet smile—so sweet he immediately had second thoughts. Against his better judgment, he walked around the bed and slipped in on the other side, as close to the edge as he could manage without falling off, his back turned to her.

"Good night," she called out agreeably.

"Good night," he returned on a sigh.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Colin must be asleep, Amy thought half an hour later. He hadn't budged in all that time. She could move over, not enough to touch him—she wouldn't break her promise—but just a little closer, and then maybe she could fall asleep.

She eased to the middle of the bed, and Colin didn't stir. His breathing stayed deep and even. A warmth emanated from his body, a warmth that drew her, tantalized her. A ripple of excitement flowed through her at the thought of touching him after all.

He was sleeping—he'd never know—and it would feel so comforting.

She rolled over, a smidgen at a time, until at last she brushed against his motionless form. His skin felt hotter than she'd imagined, and his nearness wasn't as comforting as she'd thought it would be. It made the little hairs raise on her arms instead.

She was touching him, but not really. Not enough. She couldn't resist molding the front of her body to the back of his. He felt so very good. When he remained motionless, her arm slowly sneaked up and around his middle—

She felt his sharp intake of breath. Oh, God, he was awake.

"Ammmmy…" he growled in warning.

Snapping her arm away, she flipped onto her back. Though the side of her body still grazed his, he voiced no protest.

A couple of minutes passed. The firelight made patterns dance beneath her tightly closed lids as she lay rigid beside him, wishing he would say something, or do something…

She wished he would roll over and kiss her.

He'd cautioned that kisses were likely to lead to more, but while half an hour ago she'd been shocked, now, fiercely aware of him next to her, she found herself intrigued.

What would it be like? The French novels she'd read made it sound mysterious and wonderful, and if it would make her feel anything like Colin's kisses did, she was inclined to want to experience it. Who would she be hurting? Who would ever know? She'd never see Colin again, and if losing her virginity was the price she had to pay for stealing a few more of his luscious kisses, perhaps she was willing to bear the cost.

Besides, she didn't really believe he couldn't kiss her without going further. The mere thought was absurd. Gentlemen flirted with and kissed ladies all the time, without anything more ever happening.

Maybe he really did hate her. Maybe this was his way of politely refusing to kiss her without hurting her feelings. Maybe he found her so repugnant he couldn't bear to touch her at all…after all, he'd made her promise not to lay a finger on him, then growled at her when she did.

She had to know. And there was only one way to find out.

She waited a few more minutes and then rolled against him again, lazily, as though she were doing it in her sleep. Her arm crept up and around…

He flipped over, landing half on top of her, his lips searching for hers and finding their target. A harsh sound came from deep in his throat. His kiss felt punishing and angry, but she responded all the same, and after a minute he lifted his head.

She opened her eyes to find his glaring fiercely back. "I warned you, Amy," he said.

With a quick nod of acknowledgment, she pulled him back down to her. Lips parted, she raised herself to meet his kiss.

A curious quiver of wanting ran through her when his mouth came down on hers again. She lost all train of thought. One moment she thought that of course he could stop; the next moment she didn't care. She wanted him to kiss her forever—and the consequences?

Damn them, she thought.

Then she ceased to think at all. It seemed she was capable only of feeling—feeling the demanding caress of his lips; feeling his tongue invading her mouth, soft and teasing; feeling his body, hard along the length of hers.

When she inhaled, his distinctive scent made her dizzy. The crackling sound from the fireplace receded, replaced by a rushing sound deep in her head. Gentle, damp kisses trailed her eyes and nose and cheeks. He nibbled at her earlobe, making a shivery thrill race through her veins.

He pulled away, his darkened eyes questioning. "Are you sure?" he asked in a suffocated whisper.

Her heart lurched in her chest. Oh, no, he couldn't change his mind, couldn't leave her now. Unable to say yes out loud, she grasped his shoulders, clutching him roughly, wordlessly.

He dropped his head, but not before she saw the raw hunger in his eyes. His lips claimed hers once again, sending the pit of her stomach into a wild swirl. Feeling his heart thudding against her breasts, she knew he was experiencing similar sensations. She'd asked for this. She'd wanted to know how he really felt about her.

She had her answer.

Yet she didn't want him to stop.

His fingers brushed a breast through the thin fabric of her chemise, and its peak tightened into hard tenderness. Her body arched toward him involuntarily, and she whimpered, her breath becoming strangely ragged.

"Like that, hmm?" he murmured against her mouth.

Her cheeks flamed, and "Mmm" was the only answer she could manage. Her fingers tangled in the thick hair on his neck as she kissed him frantically, pressing up against his hand, her body yearning for something she couldn't put a name to.

With whisper-soft caresses, his hand moved lower, skimming leisurely over her middle. She tensed when his fingers traced the curve of her hip.

His voice soothed, a husky whisper. "Ah, sweet Amy." He brushed her mouth with his as his hand teased lightly through the fabric, then more firmly, tracing the line where her thighs met.

A heat spread from his fingers, bathing her in warmth. Her body was humming, or maybe she was humming; she wasn't sure which. Or maybe it was neither, maybe it was all in her head.

Her head was swimming.

"Sweet," he repeated, his breath warm in her ear. "Has no man touched you here before?"

Her face flushed, and the rest of her, too—her skin tingled. "N-no," she whispered back.

"It's good, is it not?"

She moaned softly and felt Colin smile against her lips. Before she knew what was happening, he'd tugged down her chemise and fastened his hot mouth on her bare breast, suckling gently, laving his textured tongue over the sensitive tip.

It felt wonderfully scandalous. Did all men do this? She'd thought of lovemaking as kissing and hugging and mating, not…consuming.

God in heaven, it was indescribable.

He wandered to her other breast, his mouth hot there, the air cooling the wetness he'd left behind. Driven to distraction with new sensations, she writhed against him. Her breath came in short gasps; her hands roamed the hard planes of his back. She could scarcely believe she was acting so wanton, but she couldn't seem to help herself.

She didn't want to help herself.

He dropped damp, teasing kisses on her shoulders and neck, then everywhere near but not on her lips, until she grabbed his head in demand. He laughed triumphantly into her mouth, a deep, rich sound of pleasure.

Suddenly he was in motion, sitting up, the blanket tented on his shoulders. He swept off her chemise, and when she felt the shock of chilly air on her skin, her eyes flew open. She shivered, either from cold or the astounding reality of him gazing hungrily upon her—she wasn't certain which.

Colin drew in his breath. "You," he said slowly, worshiping her with his eyes, "are the most beautiful creature I've ever seen." Leaning over, he ran gentle hands on her skin, skimming her breasts and hips, raising goose bumps on her flesh. Her heart pounded almost painfully, but when she tried to look away, he caught her face in his hands and captured her eyes with his.

Bringing the blanket with him, he lowered himself, reclaiming her mouth in a devouring caress while he slipped his hand between her legs and parted them gently. His fingertips trailed sensuously on her inner thighs, making her begin to tremble. When he brushed against the curls that guarded her most secret self, she gasped in shock and wonder.

"Hush," he whispered into her open mouth. Concentrating on one long, deep kiss, he slipped a finger inside her tight passageway.

Somewhere in the back of her passion-hazed mind, Amy was scandalized. She could scarcely believe she was permitting a man to touch her there, let alone move his finger in and out of her body, as he was slowly doing now. It couldn't be right…or could it? She wondered foggily where the slickness was coming from, but the slippery feeling was so delicious she couldn't possibly care.

Colin's thumb found an exquisite spot, and waves of desire swept through her body, taking her unawares. She clutched him tighter, feeling as though her heart would burst if something, she didn't know what, didn't happen soon. She thought she would go insane with the pleasure of it.

He left her and she felt abandoned, holding her breath as he slipped off his breeches. When he rolled back to her, she threw her arms around him and held him tight, silently daring him ever to leave her again.

He laughed deep in his throat, a husky, choked sound, then reached blindly for her hand, guiding it to his rigid flesh. Overwhelmed by wondrous new sensations, Amy was beyond shock. Her fingers closed around him, and her eyes opened wide.

"It will work, Amy," he whispered, kissing her eyes closed, one and then the other. Amazed at her own boldness, she moved her hand a bit, learning him.

Warm, velvety…

With an audible breath, Colin wedged a knee between hers, and her legs came up instinctively to cradle him. God in heaven, he felt so right covering her body. He pressed himself against her, and she held her breath, but he stayed poised there, waiting…

For what? A whimper sounded deep in her throat, surprising her, then she involuntarily rose to meet him.

He groaned softly. "I don't mean to hurt you, love," he forced between gritted teeth. "But this once—"

She moaned in response, but she hadn't really processed his words, only the love. She knew it didn't mean anything, couldn't mean anything—it was just the type of thing men said to women in the throes of passion—but it made her blood sing anyway, just to hear it.

Still thinking of that, she stiffened in shock when he thrust home. Her breath caught in her chest.

He stilled and came up on his forearms, murmuring wordless sounds of comfort. He kissed her gently on the forehead and ran his fingers up her scalp and through her tumbled curls, arranging them on the pillow. Slowly the pain subsided, replaced with a growing sense of wonder at the throbbing fullness within her.

She felt an incredible urgency radiating from where Colin met her core.

His lips traced a path from her forehead down her nose, then settled tenderly on her mouth. His tongue plunged inside as his hips began a slow rhythm below.

Amy's blood rushed faster and faster. She was climbing higher and higher, to the top of a tower. Only this time there was no dragon, no fire, except when she suddenly reached the top and burst into the flame of a million glowing stars. They shot from her core like the most dazzling fireworks, throughout her straining body, to the tips of her fingers and toes, glowing streaks of sensation that raced through her veins in long, flickering bursts of pleasure beyond her wildest imaginings.

She felt Colin pulsing within her, the warm flood of his release. He collapsed against her, his chest hot and slick against hers, his back straining as he gulped for air. Her hands were everywhere, trying to feel him all at once as her breath came in long, shuddering sighs.

"I didn't know," she gasped in wonder. "I didn't know."

He struggled up on his elbows. "How could you know?"

His smile, proud, contented, and erotic all at the same time, made her pulse flutter anew. Taking her with him, he rolled over and hugged her tight against his chest. She smiled back at him until his own smile faded.

"It was wrong," he said strong and clear, and then, in a whisper so low she had to strain to hear it, "but I won't say I'm sorry."

"No. No apologies." Her senses were still whirling, and she felt strangely quivery, as though a mere attempt at standing would cause her knees to buckle. But the aftermath of dizziness was a small price to pay for that heady sweetness of buildup and release, the incredible wonder of sharing her body with Colin's.

She struggled to find words. "It was…do you remember the fireworks, that long ago night of the coronation procession?"

"Yes…" She could see him pondering her question; a small frown appeared between his brows.

He didn't understand.

"Oh, it was like that, Colin—it was just like that. Great fiery streaks…"

His face cleared and he said gently, "I know."

"Can we do it again?" she asked enthusiastically.

He laughed then, a great booming laugh that nearly bounced her off his chest. She dropped her head to his shoulder, her face burning. Did he think her wanton? After all, she'd practically seduced him and followed it up by asking for more.

"No, love, I think not. Even were I able, I imagine you're too sore to attempt any such thing for a day or two."

She relaxed a little. Though she didn't quite understand everything he meant, he didn't sound disapproving.

Besides, he'd called her love again.

And, even sure as she was that he meant nothing by it, hearing it was enough to cause all her worries to flee her mind.

Cursing silently at himself, Colin stroked Amy's hair. Love, he'd called her. Bloody hell.

What had he been thinking?

He hadn't, obviously. He hadn't been thinking at all. The endearment had escaped his lips thoughtlessly.

He'd never been "in love," and though no one else made him feel like this slip of a girl, that didn't mean he loved her. He hardly knew her, despite their weeks of acquaintance. Besides, love wasn't part of his plan.

Love was dangerous. It made one too vulnerable, too open to the pain of loss and betrayal.

Luckily, she hadn't seemed to notice, let alone react to, his slip of the tongue. Still, he must be more careful in the future.

She snuggled closer, and he breathed her clean, sweet scent, tinged with rose oil from her bath at Cainewood that morning. Rose oil and something else…the heady musk of their encounter.

His heart clenched at the still-fresh memory of her quivering in his arms. Her quick breath, her pounding heart, her passionate cries. All for him. She hadn't been grieving or trying to escape—she'd wanted him. Blood coursed through his veins at the thought of it—at the thought of them together.

But deep inside he knew it was naught but a fluke. A unique combination of fear, curiosity, and attraction had driven Amy into his arms this one precious time. She wasn't the sort of woman who would accept life as a man's mistress, beloved or not.

Running his fingers through the ebony curls that tumbled over his chest, he sighed, recalling the first time he'd seen her, how he'd yearned to see her hair unbound, itched to play with it just like this. Brushing a few stray strands off her forehead, he lifted his head to place a reverent kiss there.

She was sleeping, her breathing even and untroubled. The sight prompted a gentle smile.

He eased her off himself and onto her side, curling his body around hers protectively. His plan to leave her once she fell asleep was abandoned, forgotten.

He hoped it would still be snowing hard in the morning.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Amy peered into the mirror, surprised when her old face stared back. After last night, shouldn't something have changed?

Self-conscious, she glanced about to make sure she was alone, then dropped the sheet she was wrapped in and cast a critical eye on her body…nothing had changed there. Colin had brought her breakfast in bed this morning, then refused her offer of help again before disappearing into his study.

She sighed. Nothing had changed there, either.

She quickly bathed from the washstand, taking a mental inventory as she rinsed away all evidence of last night. In spite of a nagging feeling that something should be different, she felt exactly the same. Her only souvenir seemed to be a slight but persistent soreness between her legs.

A delicious soreness….a soreness that began to tingle, radiating throughout her body. Her heart skipped a beat as she remembered exactly how Colin had touched her last night, every little thing he had done to make her feel so wonderful. She felt her face heat, though no one was there to see it. Shaking herself, she dug under the bedclothes for her chemise.

The sheets were stained. God in heaven, she couldn't just leave them like that. She slipped the chemise over her head and looked around for where bedclothes might be stored. The chamber held no cupboard, only the chest at the foot of the bed. She lifted its heavy wooden lid, and Colin's scent wafted out.

She breathed deeply, a smile teasing at her lips. Inside, his clothes were neatly folded. The suits were darker colors than were currently in fashion—hunter green, deep blue, rich brown—the fabrics fine, the decorations simple and tasteful.

One was black velvet with glinting gold braid…was it the same one he'd worn for the coronation procession? His shirts were very white, sewn of gossamer cambric that felt smooth and expensive beneath her fingertips. She shook one out and held it up to herself, giggling when it fell well below her knees.

Carefully she folded and replaced it, then delved beneath lace-edged cravats, tall boot stockings, and more handkerchiefs than a man could possibly use in a lifetime. To her vast relief, she found extra sheets in the bottom. And atop them, a small leather-bound book.

Gold lettering on the red cover identified it as Hesperides, or The Works Both Human and Divine of Robert Herrick, Esq. Inside, the front page was inscribed in beautiful, flowing script.

"March 1649. Poetry, for my son the dreamer. Your loving Mother."

Colin, a dreamer? Amy's lips curved at the thought.

She opened the book to a random page. "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time." Well, the title wasn't fitting after last night—she blushed to think it—but…

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old Times is still a-flying:

And this same flower that smiles today,

Tomorrow will be dying.

Words to live by, were they not? Smiling, she replaced the book and changed the sheets, folding the stained ones and leaving them atop the chest. Anxious to explore the castle, she hurried to finish dressing.

A survey of the ground floor revealed nothing of interest. Narrow slits through the curtain wall let in little light, rendering the unrestored chambers dank and dark. What was left of the furniture was draped in cloth, encrusted with layers of dust sufficient to discourage her from peeking underneath.

She paused at the closed door to Colin's study, picturing him inside hacking away at his ledgers. She hoped he was suffering mightily, although in truth she had no idea whether he had an aptitude for such work. There was a lot she didn't know about him, she admitted to herself.

And a lot she did know.

Weak-kneed at that thought, she leaned against the door, half-embarrassed, half-brazen for thinking such things. It was shocking and wicked and wonderful, all at the same time.

Squaring her shoulders, she made her way to the entry, where the beautifully restored oak staircase renewed her hopes of finding something more intriguing upstairs. As she trudged slowly up, her muscles ached in places she hadn't known she had. She wasn't sure whether those muscles protested at being forced to ride a horse or from unaccustomed exertion in Colin's bed…but she blushed again as her sore body bade her to recall the latter.

As she'd done a hundred times this day already. And it wasn't even noon yet.

She sat abruptly on the top step. It was a good thing Colin had refused her help today, because she seemed wholly unable to concentrate on anything for more than a few seconds before she started remembering again. Before she started wanting him again, truth be told.

Her gaze lit on her trunk downstairs, still sitting against the wall where Colin had shoved it. What was left of her family lay locked inside.

She closed her eyes, rubbing her temples. God in heaven, what would her parents think of her after last night? If they were here today and she confessed her wanton ways, would they turn disapproving eyes on her? Or enfold her in their arms and say they loved her…even though she wasn't one bit sorry for what she'd done…

"Oh, Papa!" Her hoarse whisper filled the entry as she lifted her skirts and bolted downstairs for the trunk, then dragged it scraping along the stone floor to the bedchamber. She reached to pull the key from her hem even as she shut the door behind her.

Falling to her knees, she worked the lock with unsteady fingers, then threw open the lid. The tray on top was lifted and dropped to the floor, the box of loose gemstones discarded without a thought. For underneath lay the real treasure: bits of her father wrapped in small squares of white flannel, pieces of his soul etched forever in his exquisite works of art.

She thrust her hands into the trunk, filled both fists with jewelry, then moved to the bed and allowed the pieces to sift through her open fingers…remembering.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

With a heavy sigh, Colin dropped his head into his hands. His desk was piled high with receipts, his ledgers lined with numbers he'd spent the morning staring at with unfocused eyes.

In fact, he'd found himself unable to focus on anything this morning—anything except Amethyst Goldsmith.

He twisted the heavy gold ring on his finger distractedly. It was obvious he wasn't going to accomplish anything today. A glance out the window convinced him he wouldn't be delivering his distraction to the docks today, either.

The storm was waning, but the snow still fell steadily and the drifts were deep. His rumbling stomach reminded him it was past noon and Amy had promised to prepare dinner.

Leaving the study without bothering to don a cloak, Colin briefly poked his head into each of the empty downstairs chambers, then dashed through the freezing great hall and into the kitchen. He'd laid a fire for her earlier, hoping she'd be inspired to prepare something hot.

But she was nowhere to be found. Quick glances into the pantry and buttery also failed to reveal her presence. There was nothing bubbling in the stew pot nor any other evidence she'd been at work.

Was she lost? No, Greystone was too small to be confusing. Hurt, perhaps? That was a possibility. Despite years and money spent on restorations, the structure was still in bad shape; she could have tripped and twisted her ankle, or even worse.

He set out grimly to find her, back through the great hall and the ceaseless snow.

Once in the entry, his gaze swept up the stairs, and he remembered the library. Of course, he thought, relieved. Ford had told him of the countless hours she'd spent in Cainewood's library. She must have discovered his library and lost track of the time, forgetting about dinner altogether.

He took the steps two at a time, ran to the back of the upper level, and burst through the library door.

No—she wasn't here. Nor had she been here. Not a speck of the considerable dust was displaced; the titles on the neatly rowed books were as obscured by grime as ever.

Amy couldn't have found this room and left it undisturbed. It was completely against her nature to ignore a room full of books, regardless of its filth and neglect.

She wasn't in any of the other upstairs chambers, either. His heart started pounding as he once again imagined her stuck somewhere, arms or legs broken, perhaps lying in the freezing snow or at the bottom of the oubliette. He should have toured her around the castle and offered to help her prepare dinner.

What had he been thinking?

He'd been thinking about getting away from her for a while, that was what. He'd been pretending she had no effect on his life, that he could set to work as usual, regardless of her presence. He'd been hoping that a few hours of separation would break the spell she'd woven so expertly around him.

It had all been for naught—he was as spellbound as ever, and now she might be hurt, thanks to his negligence. He cursed at himself. She was in his care, and at the very least he should have asked her to stay in the bedchamber with a book while he worked.

The bedchamber. He hadn't even looked there. Maybe she was in the bedchamber with a book. As he hurried down the stairs, he pictured her curled on the bed, lost in the world of literature or perhaps even napping—it had been a short night for them both. He could hardly blame her for losing track of time.

He knocked softly on the door, half afraid he'd wake her up, half afraid she wouldn't be there at all.

No answer.

"Amy?" he called, his voice muffled by the thick oak. "Amy? Are you in there?"

He knocked louder. "Amy?"

On the faint hope she was inside, sound asleep, he eased open the door.

His jaw went slack at the sight that greeted him.

The room was strewn with glittering jewels. She knelt on the floor beside her trunk—that damned heavy trunk that she'd insisted go with her everywhere. And no wonder. The bloody thing was heaped with gold and gems and God knew what else.

He swore under his breath. "Why didn't you answer me?"

"I—I don't know. You surprised me."

"I was worried sick about you, Amy. You were supposed to be preparing dinner, and I couldn't find you."

"I'm sorry. I…forgot." She glanced out the window, but the sun was hidden behind snow clouds and gave no indication of the time. "Is it very late?"

"It doesn't signify," he muttered, his anger beginning to ebb as the shock wore off and the implications of her deception dawned on him. "God's blood, I suggested you leave that trunk on carriages overnight. Why didn't you tell me what was in there?"

"I…was taught never to trust anyone." She hung her head as tears filled her eyes. "I'm sorry. I should have told you. I've treated you badly when you've always been honest with me."

Colin knelt beside her, wracked with guilt for being the cause of yet more distress, knowing he'd been much less than honest with her—hell, he wasn't even honest with himself where she was concerned.

"I understand," he said softly.

When she looked up at him, her amethyst eyes bright with hope and unshed tears, his heart turned over.

She was still fragile emotionally, in a way that made him want to gather her into his arms and protect her from the world. He touched her instead, just lightly on the arm, and smiled at her, a smile of forgiveness that widened as they reached a silent understanding and he saw her eyes clear.

He ran his fingers down her arm, and her cheeks flushed pink. She looked away, flustered, and began gathering the jewelry.

He grasped her hand, halting her frenzied efforts. "May I see some of your things?"

She glanced at him in surprise. "Of course." Her face lit with pleasure as she gave him the piece she was holding, a large diamond stomacher brooch.

"This is breathtaking." An enormous, rectangular step-cut diamond rested in the center, surrounded by round diamonds set into a spray of gold leaves. He turned his hand to admire how the gems caught the light.

"Papa bought the center stone from a dealer in Antwerp, then saved it for almost a decade before mounting it." She wasn't flustered now; her words flowed easily. She missed her craft, Colin realized. "He rarely showed this to anyone. I don't think he really wanted to part with it."

"It's a shame it's never been worn and enjoyed."

"I made some bodkins to go with it." She rummaged in the trunk for a few seconds and came out with a half-dozen long gold pins, each topped with a gold leaf set with a rose-cut diamond. She dropped them into his other palm. "They would have been so pretty in a lady's hair, with the matching brooch. I always thought that someday, someone very important would own them."

"Someone important owns them now," Colin said, half-teasing.

But her heart leapt into her eyes. He'd best be more careful.

Mindful not to stick her with the pins, he handed the jewelry back to her and watched her wrap it up in two of the many pieces of flannel that were scattered about.

She'd gone quiet again. He moved to sit on the bed, where a pile of trinkets glittered. "Is there anything here that you made?"

"Oh, many things." She jumped up to sit beside him, sifting through the jewels until she found an oval, coral-colored cameo and handed it to him shyly.

He smiled down at it. Set into a braided gold bezel, the intricate carving was a profile of a beautiful young woman. She wore a little necklace of twisted gold wire with a tiny diamond pendant attached, as though it were dangling in her cleavage.

Suddenly Colin narrowed his eyes and looked more closely. "She looks like you," he said in surprise, and she giggled a little.

"Papa said the same thing. I didn't hold with that at the time, but then Mama agreed, and others, and I finally decided she must be me after all. Although I swear I hadn't intended to carve a likeness of myself. See, her hair is loose, and I never used to wear my hair that way."

"Yet you've worn it loose since the fire. Why did you change it?"

"I never learned how to plait it myself." She thought a minute, frowning. "It seems to fit my life now; I feel like a different person." She shrugged. "I wore it plaited for practical reasons—I couldn't work with it billowing about, getting in the way. And I haven't made much jewelry the last few months, have I?"

"No, you surely haven't," he agreed with a wry smile. "I fancy it loose, anyway. At your shop…I wished I could unplait it."

"Did you really?"

Colin cleared his throat. Now, why had he let that slip? "She truly looks like you now, at any rate," he rushed to say, hoping to gloss over the thoughtless remark. He held the cameo between a finger and thumb, glancing back and forth between Amy and her likeness. The resemblance was unmistakable. "May I have it?" he asked, surprising himself.

Amy flushed with pleasure. "Oh, yes, I would love for you to have it. And anything else you want," she added, gesturing at the pile on the bed.

He laughed at that, pleased with her generosity, for he didn't know what he'd have said had she refused him.

He really wanted the cameo.

"No, this will do nicely. I thank you."

"My pleasure."

The underlying warmth in her voice captivated him. She seemed genuinely happy to give him the trinket. He wondered if she had any idea how much it meant to him.

The cameo was but one piece from a virtual treasure trove of jewelry. Looking over the pile on the bed, mentally adding it to the amount littering the floor and left in the trunk, he came to the conclusion the trunk had been nearly full. Why, it was a cache any pirate wouldn't hesitate to kill for!

He shook his head, berating himself for not realizing the contents of the trunk, and at the same time amazed at her skill in hiding it. The more he learned about her, the more he admired her. She had a streak of self-preservation that ran deep.

He set aside the cameo and sifted through the jewelry on the bed until something caught his eye—a brooch in the shape of a bow, encrusted with tiny rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and diamonds. "This is a pretty piece. Did you make it also?"

Amy nodded. "There are many similar pieces here. Galants, they're called, and very popular. I think we could all make them in our sleep." She smiled at the memory. "Shall I give it to Kendra, do you think? And we should choose something for Jason and Ford, too." Her face lit up at the idea. "Everyone was so kind to me—why didn't I think of this before?"

"Because you would have shocked the hell out of us." When she laughed, Colin joined in. "Regardless, it's not necessary," he assured her. Chances were Amy would be living off this jewelry in the months and years to come; she shouldn't be giving things away.

"I want to do it." She dropped to the floor, already delving into the trunk for the perfect gifts.

"No." He put a hand on her arm.

She shook it off. "I insist." Gems flashed as she rummaged around, her attention wholly focused on the jewelry. "It was a terrible lack of manners on my part; I must thank them for their hospitality."

He gave up. She rivaled the Chases for stubbornness; he'd give her that.

After much searching and good-natured bickering, they settled on an aigrette for Ford. Of all the brothers, he liked to dandy-up a bit, and the fancy pin would make a smart statement on his hat.

Jason was another story. Amy insisted on giving him a large pocket watch with an enamelled face and an open-work lid set with one enormous oval sapphire and eight smaller ones.

"It's too much," Colin protested. "Besides, he has a pocket watch."

"I've seen it. It's small and has no lid. The Marquess of Cainewood should pull out an impressive watch to check the time. Papa had someone just like Jason in mind when he made this."

"Here's a nice, large watch." Colin pointed out a likely specimen with a solid, simply engraved lid.

"No. I want him to have this one. He opened up his home to me, Colin—"

"I didn't leave him much of a choice," he interrupted wryly.

"That doesn't signify. He was perfectly wonderful to me, and this is the least I can do. Besides, Robert made that one. I want him to have one my father made."

"Robert?"

"Robert Stanley. Our apprentice."

"Your apprentice?" Twisting his ring, he had a sudden vision of an insolent blunt-featured man leaning against the archway to Goldsmith & Son's back room. "You mean that red-haired fellow?"

She shot him an appraising glance. "You remember him?"

Distrustful pale blue eyes. He remembered, all right.

That settled it. Not only was Amy intractable, but Colin didn't want anyone in his family to own anything made by that apprentice. He felt uneasy just thinking about the man.

Amy was already wrapping up the remaining jewelry. He set the pocket watch with their other choices and began to help her. "Whatever happened to him? Do you know?"

"Who?"

"The apprentice. Robert." He disliked even saying his name.

Her hands stilled for a moment. "I have no idea. He went off to fight the fire, and I never saw him again." She toyed with a flannel square. "I was supposed to marry him."

"Were you, now?" No wonder Robert had acted so hostile. An imagined scenario popped into Colin's mind, of Amy kissing the freckled, carrot-topped man. It made him sick in his gut, and the question came out of his mouth before he could catch himself. "Do you love him?"

"No." Amy tensed visibly as she folded the flannel around a bracelet. "My father arranged the marriage. Lacking a son, he needed someone to run the shop, and he'd known the Stanleys forever." She moved to the trunk to set the bracelet inside, then returned to the bed. "My betrothal papers burned in the fire. It was the only good thing that came of it."

Colin released his breath, which he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Just because he couldn't have Amy didn't mean he wanted some dolt like Robert to get her.

Yet she had to marry…a woman had to marry. "Isn't he still expecting you to wed him?"

"It doesn't signify." She slipped a topaz ring on her finger and pulled it off again. "I would never have wed him of my own free will."

"What of the church records?" he reminded her. "He may think to use those to hold you to the betrothal."

She shrugged, still gazing at the ring. "We were betrothed during the Commonwealth."

Colin nodded. The Puritans considered marriage solely a matter between the couple and the state, not involving God. During Cromwell's rule, weddings had been performed by a Justice of the Peace, and betrothals had taken place without ceremony.

He lifted a torsade of pearls. "Still, you must wed, Amy. With these jewels you could buy a title—"

"And marry a nobleman?" The topaz ring fell from her hand to the bed, and her eyes burned into his. "No. I'd never be able to reestablish Goldsmith & Sons."

"No, of course you wouldn't." Absently, he fingered the heavy twisted ropes of pearls. "But you'll be in France, not London."

"I'll open a shop there. Not right away, but eventually."

"But—"

"No buts, Colin." She smiled at her use of his words, then turned serious. "Yes, I'm female. And a jeweler. I promised my father I wouldn't let Goldsmith & Sons die with me. No, it was more than a promise—a vow. And our last real conversation."

It was a ridiculous plan.

It was…none of his business.

Consumed by disturbing thoughts, he toyed with the necklace, admiring the way the creamy colors matched and the pearl sizes graduated along the strands. The little clicks of the pearls sounded loud in the silence.

"This must be worth a fortune," he said at last.

She nodded her head. "Pearls have doubled in price in my lifetime, and they're still rising. Would you like it? The clasp is beautiful, but I don't know who made it, so it has no particular value to me."

Colin glanced at the clasp, delicate filigree encrusted with sapphires and diamonds. He wanted nothing except the cameo. "I wouldn't dream of taking this from you. I know King Charles and his cronies drape themselves in such jewels, but no man in my family would be caught dead wearing ropes of pearls."

He couldn't give it to Priscilla—he'd never feel right giving her anything he'd taken from Amy.

"Besides…" He couldn't believe he was about to say this—to lend credence to her ludicrous plans. "You'll need to sell it to open your shop. Such an undertaking will be quite expensive—"

She shrugged. "I have the gold."

"The gold?"

"In the bottom." She waved at the trunk. "My family has been accumulating coins forever. It was"—she hesitated—"a secret. There. Now you know." Her sudden disarming smile enchanted him. "It's why my father never worried when business fell off during the Commonwealth. There are a few gold bars as well—for fabrication, you understand. We never melted coins."

Surreptitiously, he hoped, Colin nudged aside some of the jewelry in the trunk, revealing a pile of gold coins, many of them old and pitted; he glimpsed one dated 1537. Gauging the thickness of the trunk's walls, he came to the conclusion there was a fortune in gold coins there. A vast, unbelievable fortune.

He was shocked speechless. Why, Amy was rich! Richer even than Priscilla, or at the very least richer than Priscilla would be until the death of her very healthy father.

His gaze swept to Amy wrapping her jewelry, calmly making a pile of white-blanketed bundles, surrounded by gold, diamonds…riches beyond his comprehension. But what he felt for her had nothing to do with wealth or position, and everything to do with the way just looking at her made the blood course through his veins. His need for her was illogical, emotional…

Dangerous. It didn't bear thinking about.

He resumed helping her, full speed. The trunk should be locked and hidden. Although he'd been raised surrounded by beautiful, expensive things, after the war started his family had never had much in the way of liquid assets. This much gold, exposed, made him uncomfortable.

They placed the last pieces on top, and Amy retrieved the fitted tray and set it in place with a flourish. Then she reached for a long, black leather box that she'd apparently tossed halfway under the bed.

"The stones," she said, in answer to his unasked question. She flipped open a flap cover to reveal a single neat row of paper packets. Pulling one out, she opened the precisely folded paper and placed the contents in his hand.

He marveled at the two loose, matched gems. "Diamonds?" he guessed.

"Yes. Waiting to be made into something wonderful. Earrings, perhaps." She took back the diamonds, her fingers flying as she refolded the paper in a complicated pattern. Even having seen her do it, Colin doubted he could make such a packet from a plain rectangle of paper.

Amy slipped the packet back and pulled out another, opening it to reveal hundreds of tiny diamonds. "Melee, they're called," she explained. "About five carats worth, averaging fifty stones to the carat." The pile of stones glimmered in their paper, and Colin leaned forward to look. Instead of handing them to him, though, she refolded the packet. "If they spilled, we'd never find them all in this carpet," she explained apologetically.

She replaced the packet and flipped through a dozen or more. On the fronts, Colin glimpsed nonsensical numbers in tiny, precise handwriting. With a smile and a nod, she finally pulled out one and unfolded it, revealing an enormous blood-red ruby.

Spellbinding, it shone with a life of its own. Colin was no gem connoisseur, but he was certain he'd never beheld such perfection before. He reached for it.

"My father was working on a design for this when he"—she swallowed hard—"when he died. He meant to make it the centerpiece of a necklace. There are twenty carats of matched diamonds in here that he'd planned to set with it."

"It's beautiful," Colin responded gently. He examined the ruby, holding it up to the light before setting it back on the paper in her palm. "These gems must be worth an enormous amount." His vision clouded as he tried to imagine how one young woman could have so much in her possession.

"I'll warrant they're valuable," she admitted, "although I never think about it, really. You cannot easily use them to buy anything, like the gold." She folded the paper and returned it to the box. "They were always just there. Some of them have been in my family, waiting for the perfect mounting, for more than a hundred years."

Removing another packet, she spilled the contents into Colin's open hand.

He walked to the window, moving his palm so the twenty-odd diamonds shimmered in the light reflected off the snow outside. "They sparkle so…" he murmured. A myriad of subtly different colors, they ranged from a pure clear-white to a light but distinct yellow.

"About half a carat each. Not well-matched. They'd end up in different pieces."

He closed his fist around the glittering stones. "They're beautiful. I can hardly credit…Amy, there's so much here." He frowned in puzzlement. "Your family…you had so much. Yet you lived above your shop…"

She came closer, holding out the paper. He tipped the diamonds into it, a dazzling waterfall of costly gems.

"We weren't—I'm not—aristocratic. No one expected us to live lavishly. If people had known what we had, it would have been stolen." She folded the packet and returned it to the box, closing the flap.

"But—"

"We lived very nicely." She smiled at his confusion. "I had the best clothes, and we always had a maid and housekeeper. We ate well, and we never had to prepare meals or clean up after ourselves. Mama collected things—pretty, useless things—figurines and vases that made her smile. We had books, we went to the theater—the gold was security, so we never had to worry. It was collected over so many generations that I feel as though it's not mine, really…almost like I hold it in safekeeping for someone else." She walked to the trunk and set the box inside.

"But it is yours, Amy. It's all yours."

Silently she knelt by the trunk to close and lock it, then joined him again at the window. They both gazed at the snow drifting down. The storm was dwindling, and this would probably be their last night together.

"You're right," she said softly. "It is all mine. But in the last two years I've learned that what counts are the people you have around you. Money isn't important."

"It is if you don't have it," he returned bitterly, thinking about the years he'd spent struggling to get the estate into shape and restore his home, delaying his marriage and family plans.

"I'd trade it all—every bit of it," she whispered, "to have my parents again."

He felt his heart tug in his chest. She was right, of course. Turning to her, he took her face between his palms and gently tilted it to meet her eyes. "I know," he whispered back. "I know you would."

The chamber was quiet. The snow fell inaudibly outside the window; the crackling fire and their breathing were the only sounds. Her eyes deepened in color as he gazed into them, and he bent his head to capture her lips.

Amy felt her torn spirits mending in his embrace. His kiss was slow and caressing. His hands crept from her cheeks down the sides of her neck, to her shoulders and around to her back, where she felt their warm imprints pressing her against his powerful body.

A long, dreamy, melting time later their mouths broke apart, and Amy laid her head on his chest. Beneath her ear, his heart beat strong and steady. He stroked her hair with unhurried, gentle movements and twisted it in his fingers, almost as though he liked it, she thought lazily.

Her gaze drifted to the jewelry that sparkled on the bed. The galant, the aigrette, the pocket watch…the cameo. The thought of him owning it made her feel warm all over.

Would he treasure it like she hoped he would? Years from now, would he look at it and remember the passion they'd shared? She hoped so. If he felt even a shred of the emotion she did, she suspected he'd remember it all his life, for she was certain she would.

When she finally pulled away, she was surprised and relieved to find that, somewhere between his discovery of her secret and their shared, healing kiss, her uneasiness with him had vanished.

"I owe you a dinner," she reminded him with a grin. "Are you willing to try my very first stew?"

"With a side dish of pickled snails?" he asked, grinning back devilishly.

She groaned and headed out of the bedchamber.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

With a hum of satisfaction, Amy moved her bishop diagonally across the chessboard toward Colin's king.

"Check," she announced.

Colin was hard put to keep a smile off his face. After two complete games, it was clear Amy was the thoughtful tactician, while his style was fast and aggressive. But he'd put his mind to this match, planning his moves far in advance. He knew exactly what would happen from here on out.

He moved his king one space; then, the game well in hand, he turned his thoughts to something much more interesting: plotting the perfect practical joke.

Amy's gray marble knight made a decisive click against the black and white board. "Check."

As Colin's hand shot out to rescue his king, he decided he would offer to prepare supper. Alone in the pantry, he ought to be able to dream up a clever prank.

Ahh…yes.

She grinned, oozing confidence, and slid her bishop into place. "Check."

He managed to respond with no more than a speculative glance and a raise of one brow. Though he was relieved to find them much more evenly matched in chess than they'd been in piquet, there was no reason to rub his impending victory in her beautiful face.

He tapped his king into place, threatening her knight.

Amy frowned at the board, then slowly withdrew the knight, relieving the pressure on his king.

Colin rubbed his hands together in glee. Now he controlled the events of the board, and he quickly moved one of his jade-green rooks across to threaten Amy's gray one.

She had no choice—either move her rook or lose it. Colin saw her freeze—she could see the inevitable. No matter which way she went, she'd be dead in two moves—checkmated by his bishop.

She looked up, a surprised, wry smile on her face, then her hand moved to her king and gently laid it down.

Colin reached across the table to offer the obligatory victor's handshake, though he thought a kiss would be a much more interesting forfeit. "Good game."

"Shall we make it three out of five?"

He grinned. "I believe two out of three was the agreement." The slim margin of one game made victory all the sweeter. "Shall I collect supper?" Rising, he glanced at the clock on the mantel. "A midnight supper, as it turns out."

"I'll help," Amy offered.

"No, it's my turn." He shrugged into his cloak before she could offer again. "See if you can finish that book. You said you cannot bear to let me return it to Jason's library without seeing how it ends."

Reaching for the book, the tenth volume of Madeleine de Scudéry's Clélie, she smiled and settled back.

Apparently she wasn't suspicious.

He ducked out the door before she could change her mind.

When Colin came in whistling, Amy was jarred out of Clélie's adventures.

She'd never heard him whistle before. Although he did it quite well, he sounded a bit too cheerful, even for a man who'd just won a chess match.

"What might you be so happy about?"

"Oh, nothing." Still whistling, he moved the chess set off the table and laid out their light supper. "Sorry, but I've no bread," he said, apologizing for the unusual offering. Wine, oranges, smoked salmon, small dried biscuits, and another jar of those disgusting pickled snails.

Amy frowned at the stupid brown things. "Haven't you had enough of those?"

"Never," he said, and went back to whistling.

Amy's book lay open and ignored as he poured wine into two goblets. He was happy about something, she thought—probably that he'd finally be able to get rid of her tomorrow. The snow had stopped a couple of hours earlier.

Handing her a goblet, he leaned down to kiss the top of her head. She sipped, watching him through her eyelashes. He was hardly acting like a man who couldn't stand her presence—it was confusing, to say the least.

"Like it?" he asked.

"It's nice." Accepting a biscuit layered with fish, she popped it into her mouth, closed her book and set it on the table.

"It's Madeira." He took a swallow of his own wine, then raised the goblet in salute. "King Charles's favorite."

Chewing slowly, she watched him out of the corner of her eye. Underneath his light, meaningless conversation, she sensed a glee he could scarcely contain.

Something was up.

On the other hand, she reminded herself, she didn't know him very well.

She knew his body, though. Her gaze traveled his snug buff breeches and white shirt, which was casually unlaced to reveal the top of his tanned chest. And beneath that shirt, she remembered…

"Where did you get the scar?" she asked suddenly.

"The scar?"

"On your arm. The long, white—"

"Oh. That scar." He sat beside her and placed more salmon on a biscuit. "I seldom notice it anymore." As though the injury were of no consequence, he waved the hand with the biscuit airily. "It's an old fencing practice wound—I was sixteen or so."

"Didn't it hurt?"

"Hell, yes." He bit off half the biscuit and washed it down with a gulp of wine. "Someone poured brandy on it—that was the worst part—and then even more brandy down my throat. Then they stitched it up with a needle and thread."

"Lord! I cannot even imagine." Amy took a deliberate sip of her own wine, to fortify herself or wash away the image—she wasn't sure which. "And it was only a practice…didn't that make you angry?"

Colin stuck the rest of the biscuit in his mouth and chewed it slowly, considering. "No," he said finally, a wry smile on his lips, "it made me the best bloody swordsman in all of Europe. I made damn sure it would never happen again."

Amy thought about that: How Colin seemed determined to turn every disadvantage life dealt him into a benefit. He'd done it with his disappointing childhood, resolving to do much better with his own family. He'd done it with his dilapidated estate, toiling tirelessly to turn it into something of value. He believed hard work and dedication—whether countless hours of swordplay or working the land with his own hands—were the best means to a happy ending. And he didn't expect the good things in life to be handed to him on a silver platter.

There was much to admire in such an attitude, she thought.

Colin, on the other hand, had ceased thinking about it at all. The jar of snails on the table had reclaimed one hundred percent of his attention. Those snails beckoned, practically begging to be opened and play their part in this evening's performance.

He considered himself a veritable model of patience as he waited until he'd polished off his fifth biscuit before reaching for the jar and removing the lid.

"Ready for one of these?" he asked innocently.

She held up a half-eaten biscuit. "Not yet," she said through a mouthful of fish.

With a shrug, Colin nonchalantly dipped his spoon into the jar, scooped a snail, and placed it in his mouth.

Even the foreknowledge left him vastly unprepared for the taste of his concoction. Struggling to keep his face straight, he washed down the snail with a large gulp of wine as quickly as he could. If Amy succeeded in pretending she liked these snails, she'd be the best actress he'd ever seen.

She finished her biscuit and put together another, and then another. At last, when he doubted she could cram in another bite, she announced, "I'm ready."

"For what?" He fixed her with a puzzled, innocent look.

"For a snail, of course," she snapped.

"Oh, you want one?" Quelling a smile, he spooned out a snail and watched the liquid dribble back into the jar, his tinkering undetectable. He licked his lips.

"Here," he offered, moving his spoon toward her mouth with the mock generosity of a man reluctant to part with his favorite morsel of food.

When she opened her mouth, he delicately placed the snail inside. Though her face scrunched up in a look of dismay, she managed to swallow it. Then rushed to wash it down, draining her goblet of wine in the process.

Refilling the goblet with pretended indifference, Colin struggled to contain his mirth. "Is something wrong?" he asked, knitting his brows in feigned concern.

"It—it tasted a bit different. Do you suppose it might be a bad jar?"

Colin was enjoying himself immensely. "No, they all came from the same batch. Perhaps you simply don't care for pickled snails."

"No, no, I like them," Amy insisted. "But this one tasted different. Try one, you'll see."

"I already had one," he reminded her. "It was fine. Try another."

She put a hand on her stomach. "Please, I'd feel better if you have another one first."

There was nothing for it. He had to eat another snail or give up the game—and he was having too much fun to admit to his trickery just yet.

He took a deep breath before popping one in his mouth, then swallowed it without chewing.

"It's fine," he declared. "Delicious, in fact. Perhaps there was one bad snail in the batch." He fished out a snail and handed Amy the spoon. "Here, try another."

While Amy moved at the speed of a snail herself, inching the spoon toward her lips, he took a long sip of wine and swished it around his mouth to remove the foul taste.

Relieved, he turned to her expectantly.

Her face was slowly turning red. When she gagged, he burst out laughing.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Amy gasped as she finally realized what was happening. She spit the snail into her napkin. "Colin Chase," she demanded. "What have you done to these?"

Wiping tears from his eyes, Colin sputtered, "S-salt. And sugar."

A smile dawned as she reflected that she'd been well and truly duped. She deserved it, she decided, starting to giggle. "What else? What else was in there?"

"Nothing, I swear. You didn't care for them to begin with, remember?" His eyes glittered again, devilishly. "Oh, I forgot. You'd never admit to that."

"I admit it; I admit it," she choked out, laughing. "I hate pickled snails! I'll never eat another of those vile creatures so long as I live—with or without your special recipe."

She laughed again, partially because his joke was funny, and partially in relief, because she felt as though he'd just given her a test which she'd passed with flying colors.

One wasn't allowed to be close to Colin Chase if he or she couldn't take a joke.

And yet…he wasn't really trying to get closer to her, was he? She'd be leaving the country tomorrow, after all. His pleasure at her reaction, and the motive she'd credited him with, must be a figment of her imagination.

"Having coerced that admission from you," he declared now, "I proclaim my practical joke an unqualified success."

"Wait a minute, Lord Greystone. You were forced to eat two of those putrid snails, the same as I was. Surely a superior practical joke would not require its perpetrator to suffer the same consequences."

"You would dare to criticize the quality of my joke?" Though Colin's eyes went wide with pretended outrage, in truth he couldn't have been more pleased with Amy than he was at the moment.

He was pleased with her good-humored response to his joke. Pleased with her rediscovered ease in his presence. Pleased with her quick wit, pleased with her high color and those incredible sparkling amethyst eyes…all in all, he was very pleased.

Dangerously pleased.

"Mrs. Goldsmith, what qualifications do you have to recommend you as a joke judge?"

"My qualifications are beside the point entirely. The fact is, I saw the joke you played on Kendra a few days ago, and she told me about Benchley's fake murder and other tricks you've played over the years." She raised her chin. "The fact is, this joke was just not up to your usual standards."

Raising a brow, he brought his nose to within an inch of hers. "Is that so?"

Amy inhaled his distinctive scent, and her heart beat a little faster at his nearness. "Absolutely. Without a doubt—" She broke off as his mouth came down on hers, cutting off any further aspersions on his joke, not to mention her air supply.

Their good-natured argument was forgotten as his lips covered hers with demanding finality. Her senses reeled with now-familiar feelings of pleasure, and she instinctively moved closer to the source, parting her lips in invitation. Slick and warm in her mouth, his tongue sent new spirals of delight throughout her awakened body.

Urgently, Colin eased her back onto the couch. He knew he was acting irrationally; he'd been irrational since the day he'd walked into her shop. But she would be gone tomorrow, and he could be rational for the rest of his life.

Besides, the two of them couldn't be as good together as he remembered. It wasn't possible.

It is possible, his inner voice told him. It's possible and true, and she's beautiful and sweet and intelligent and…You're a fool, Colin Chase, the voice said, a fool if you let her get away.

But a louder voice was there, too, the voice that Colin considered his honor and his logic. It drowned out the other one, telling him he was committed to a lady who fit his every requirement. Unbreakably committed.

He should be committed to Bedlam, he thought briefly as his fingers worked feverishly to detach the embroidered stomacher from Amy's bodice. Then he bent his head to capture her lips once more, and the voices were quieted for good.

Caught up in her feelings, Amy barely noticed her stomacher drop to the floor, and the next thing she knew, her bodice had been magically unlaced and her breasts sprang free between the parted front, veiled by her loose chemise.

Colin's fingers teased through the thin fabric, and her nipples swelled and tightened in reaction to his expert touch. A delicious shudder rippled through her as she ran her hands up and down his back. Feeling lightheaded, she pulled his shirt from the waistband of his breeches and slipped her hands inside to feel the warm skin beneath.

He sat up and tugged off one of his boots. Bereft of his mouth and body, Amy marshaled her senses and realized what he was doing. "Colin—not here!"

He reached for his other boot. "Yes, here," he said in a husky tone. "Whyever not?" His stockings followed his boots, thrown to the floor in an untidy heap.

"It's not…there's no bed!" Hot color stained Amy's cheeks. One was supposed to make love in the bedchamber, wasn't one? Her parents, had they done so at all—and she admitted to herself that she was living proof of the deed—had certainly never made love in the study. Of course, they hadn't had a study, but that was beside the point.

While Amy worried about their circumstances, Colin pulled her feet into his lap and slipped off her shoes, adding them to the pile of assorted clothing on the floor. With a devilish grin, he plucked off her garters and sensuously rolled down one stocking, his fingers brushing feathery paths along the length of her leg. Lifting her foot, he removed the stocking and pressed a spine-tingling kiss to her sole.

Her toes curled as the sensation shot all the way up her leg and further, straight to the part of her he'd awakened the night before.

She shivered, and Colin chuckled.

"We need no bed, love," he murmured in a low, passion-roughened voice, while removing her second stocking in a manner similar to the first. "This couch will do fine. Or the floor—or the desk, for that matter."

At her sharp indrawn breath of shock, he chuckled again. "The grass is nice," he continued, slowly sliding up her body to lie atop her, "but it's a bit cold out there right now. The bath is wonderful. I haven't tried the stairs…yet."

He bent his head to kiss her throat, his warm mouth caressing the hollows there. She shivered again. His lips trailed up to her ear, and she could feel his heated breath as he whispered, "No…I think the stairs would be uncomfortable…"

Burning all over, from both his touch and the sensual images his words evoked, she turned her head and caught his lips with hers.

His kiss was unhurried, his mouth exploring hers as though he were trying to memorize every nook and cranny. She felt drugged, and time slowed until nothing else mattered but his taste, his scent, his touch.

With shaking fingers, she unlaced the top of his shirt and slipped her hands inside to grasp his shoulders. Her palms swept the corded muscles, then traveled over his chest. She felt and heard his breathing become uneven, matching hers.

Muttering a soft curse, Colin leapt up and drew the shirt over his head and off in one smooth motion. Reaching down, he pulled her to her feet and pushed her gown off her shoulders and down past her hips, until the worn lavender fabric pooled at her feet.

He stepped back to look at her.

"The light," she protested weakly, gesturing with a sweep of one arm at the oil lamps she'd been reading by a short time ago.

Making love half-cloaked by flickering firelight was one thing, but surely he didn't intend to unclothe her in the bright lamplight?

"You're beautiful in it," he responded huskily. His hungry, seductive gaze roamed her body. "Like a painting by Sir Peter Lely."

Amy's gaze shot down to her diaphanous chemise, and a blush heated her face. Lely was famed for his paintings of court ladies. Nude court ladies.

Resigned to the fact that he had no intention of dousing the revealing lamps, Amy shyly perused him in return. Though the room wasn't overly warm, his broad shoulders were glazed with a thin sheen of perspiration. The light sprinkling of crisp black hair on his chest tapered in toward his waist, disappearing into the waistband of his breeches, where his long fingers worked to loosen the laces. He impatiently tugged the tight breeches down and off.

Her eyes widened at the sight of him, large and ready. Surely that wasn't the same part of him that had slid inside her last night, was it? But though her cheeks flushed at the mere thought, her body moved toward him of its own volition, leaning against his solid chest as one hand closed around his velvet warmth.

Colin gasped. He reached for the hem of her chemise, pulled it up and over her head and tossed it away, even as he guided her back to the couch and came down on top of her.

The woven fabric was rough under her bare skin, but Amy's senses careened, and she could have been atop the finest linen sheets for all she was aware of it. Her awareness was for Colin only: his warm weight; his hot, wet mouth; his already familiar spicy scent.

His lips played over her face and neck, while his fingers roamed her body, grazing her arms, her legs, her breasts, her belly. Wherever he touched, tendrils of desire raced from his fingertips to her core, until she thought she would faint from anticipation unless he touched her there.

Finally, finally, his strong fingers urged her thighs apart, and when she felt his intimate caress, warm against her slickness, she thought she would explode with relief. Her nails dug into his shoulders.

"Oh, Colin," she breathed in a tremulous whisper.

"Oh, Christ," he grated out. In one lithe motion, he came over her and buried himself in her taut sheath.

A moan of ecstasy escaped her lips.

He froze. "Oh, love," he whispered in an agony of concern mixed with desire, "is it too soon? Are you too sore?"

"No," she whispered on a sigh. "God in heaven, no."

For one second her face flamed at the intimacy of his question, for the next second she was astonished that her soreness had indeed disappeared, was forgotten completely, and then she felt him move inside her and all thoughts fled. She arched against him, abandoning herself to the whirl of sensation.

At first Colin shifted slowly, until she squirmed beneath him in a frenzy of passion. Then he moved faster, matching every arching motion of her straining body, until waves of burning sweetness overcame her. Her arms tightened around him, her breath came in long, shuddering moans, and when she heard his cry of release she was flooded with an amazing sense of completeness.

Lying beneath his welcome weight, Amy filled her lungs with great gulps of air, more satisfying than the most splendid meal. Colin showered her face and neck with small, wet kisses, and she marveled at her feelings of attachment, so new and so perfect.

"Sweet love," Colin murmured. He couldn't make himself cease kissing her, stop and collect himself. For such would bring thoughts—thoughts that would confirm their impossible perfection together, thoughts that would tell him he'd be making the worst mistake of his life if he let her go. He couldn't afford such thoughts. They were the thoughts of an emotional man, and he was a rational man.

Still, he couldn't stay on top of her forever.

When he finally eased himself off her, molding himself against her on the narrow couch, Amy made a small sound of loss. She turned to him, wrapped an arm around his middle, pressed her satin breasts against his chest, entwined her legs with his.

He groaned in contentment. "Are you cold?" he asked softly.

She shook her head and wiggled against him, attempting to get closer still—and making him nearly fall off the edge.

He caught himself just in time. "We don't really fit here, you know," he teased, raising his eyebrows a fraction.

The moment was shattered. Amy came up on an elbow. "I told you so," she retorted good-naturedly, "before…before…"

"And so you did," Colin interjected, saving her from saying what they'd done out loud. Standing, he took her hand and pulled her up beside him. "Shall we?" he asked, gesturing to the bedchamber next door. Still holding her by the hand, he headed out to the corridor.

She blushed prettily at finding herself casually walking beside a man, the both of them stark naked. He didn't leave her much time to dwell on the strangeness of it, however, as he seemed unable to resist stopping every few steps to draw her into his arms for a long, lingering kiss. When they reached the chamber, she broke away and ran for the bed, diving under the quilts.

"Brrr!" she said with an expressive shiver, pretending she'd run for cover because of the cold—and not fooling Colin for a second.

He stirred up the fire and added a couple of logs. It was a shame they wouldn't be together long enough for her to become truly comfortable with him, for him to take pleasure in watching her come to terms with her sensuality. The thought of her freely giving herself to another man, without embarrassment or artifice, made his insides clench—but he knew, given her passionate nature, it was inevitable.

He would have to content himself with the memory of awakening her passion in the first place.

From the safety of the bed, Amy watched him boldly, enjoying the view more than she would ever have thought possible. She felt like a whole new person, an entirely different Amy.

Amethyst. She pronounced it in her head, drawn-out and elegant. Amethyst Chase. Lady Greystone.

No, she decided, she was still Amy. "Lady Greystone" would never design and create jewelry, never own and run a shop. She wouldn't—couldn't—let herself contemplate the possibility of anything permanent with Colin. Lucky circumstances had resulted in these short hours of bliss, and it was almost time to return to the real world.

But must she be wrenched from his side so soon? She knew full well it couldn't last, but they had scarcely discovered each other. She cast around wildly for an idea, any idea, and just as he crawled into bed beside her, she came up with one. "Colin?"

He turned toward her expectantly. "Yes?"

The idea suddenly seemed stupid. It was impossible to believe he would agree to it.

Still…it was worth a try. "I—I know we have to leave tomorrow, but…"

"But what?"

"Do you think you could take me to London?" she asked in a rush, before she lost her nerve. "I have no clothes at all, not anything, you know, and—well, it would take me naught but a couple of days to purchase everything I need, and then—"

"I'd be happy to take you to London first for a few days. We'll find you a chaperone there, and—"

"—I'd prefer not to arrive in France with nothing—"

"Amy." Colin leaned forward and planted a warm kiss on her forehead. "I said I'd be happy to take you."

"Oh." It had worked. She could hardly believe it. A few more days with Colin—it was a dream come true.

"We'll stay at the family town house," he said.

Amy's heart galloped with excitement. "Thank you," she breathed.

"My pleasure, love." He lifted her chin to lock his lips on hers, and she melted into his arms.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Retrieving her book from the study, Amy dragged her trunk to the front door and sat on it to watch through the narrow window. She unfolded the note and read it again. Amy, it said in Colin's bold printing,

I have gone with Benchley to retrieve the carriage. Please ready yourself to leave. We will breakfast on the way to London.

Greystone

That was it. No "Dear Amy." No "Love, Colin." Amy told herself nothing was wrong—Colin simply wasn't demonstrative on paper—but she knew she was fooling herself. The Colin who had made love to her three times during the long night had vanished.

She looked up from the note to see the carriage pass under the portcullis and onto the little circular drive in the courtyard. When Colin opened the door, she was standing by her trunk, book in hand, the note tucked safely away.

"Good morning, my lord," she said as cheerfully as she could manage.

Colin winced at the formal address. "Good morning," he muttered back, avoiding her gaze.

He lifted the trunk—more carefully than he had before he'd known what it contained—and carried it to the carriage. Amy trailed slowly. Colin waved her inside and returned to lock the door, then climbed in opposite her, and they were off.

"Breakfast?" he asked, pulling Kendra's basket from under his seat and setting it on the floor between them. He reached in, selected an apple, and polished it on his shirt before taking a bite.

Amy dug out another apple. Any minute now, she expected him to smile and tease her or start pointing out the features of his estate, but as time crept by she realized it was less and less likely.

They drove a mile or so in akward silence, the only sounds those of the wheels on the rutted, slushy road, the steady clip-clop of the horse's hooves, and the juicy crunch of apples being chewed and swallowed. Colin fetched a napkin from the basket and deposited his apple core in it, then held it out for Amy to do the same. Their eyes met, Amy's questioning, Colin's hooded and indecisive.

The core-filled napkin dropped from his hand to the basket. "What happened changes nothing," he blurted out. "I'm still betrothed to Priscilla."

Amy stared at him sitting stone-faced across from her. Unbidden tears threatened to spill from her eyes.

He hunched over, his elbows resting on his spread knees, his head in his hands. "Don't cry, Amy," he said to the floor. "I don't think I could stand it."

She blinked back the tears. "I know you're betrothed. I haven't been thinking anything had changed, my lord. Have I said something to make you think I have?"

"Well, no…" He hesitated, then moved over to her side and placed an arm around her shoulders. "No, you said nothing." He stared out the window. "But as much as I wish to spend every minute with you in London, there are those who would take note of it and make both our lives miserable."

"I know no one important in London."

"What about your former clientele?"

Amy bit her lip. He had a point. They may not have been her friends, but the fact remained she was acquainted with many of London's elite.

Could he possibly be suggesting they share the town house but not the same bed? Having already surrendered her innocence to Colin, she couldn't imagine living in celibacy with him, even for only a few days. Why should she, anyway? In his circle all the women were promiscuous. People would assume the two of them were sleeping together whether they were or not.

"It would be worth it," she said, turning in his arms, her eyes sending the message she was too shy to put into words. "I'll be in Paris the rest of my life, in all probability. What London thinks of me couldn't possibly matter."

Colin scooted as far away as the bench would allow, his hands resting on her shoulders as he looked into her eyes. "You don't know what course your life will take, Amy." He dropped his hands to his lap, and his voice took on a flat, emotionless tone. "I'll set you up at the town house, but I won't be spending nights there myself. A carriage and driver will be at your disposal. I'll let you know where you can reach me so you can send word when you've purchased all the items you need."

"Where will you stay?"

"That depends upon who's in town. But I'll make sure everyone knows we're not sharing the town house." Distancing himself from her already, he moved back to the opposite bench.

The implication was obvious. He wouldn't risk anyone finding out they'd been intimate, as a relationship with the likes of her could only be an embarrassment to him. She didn't believe for a second he was protecting her reputation.

Colin stretched his legs and crossed them, then retreated behind his book. Miserable, Amy withdrew into one protective corner of the carriage. There was no point in continuing the discussion. He had made his intentions clear, and he hadn't asked for her opinion, anyway.

He was so unfair!

She'd never asked to stay with him, or even hinted at it—she knew plain Amy Goldsmith didn't belong with the Earl of Greystone. She had her own life and obligations to fulfill. All she wanted was a few more days with him, a few more days of happiness, a few more days when she could pretend she wasn't alone in the world.

Even now, aloof as he was, she wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch him, to lose herself in his arms.

As hard as he was trying to be cold and demanding, he'd melted when her tears threatened. She should take comfort from that, she told herself. The real Colin was in there somewhere, obviously just as confused as she was—if not more.

She opened her book and held it in front of her face, staring blindly at a page while she composed herself. If she had any hope of regaining their intimacy for a day or two, she wouldn't accomplish it by weeping and begging.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to focus on the words, until she was caught up in the exciting end of Clélie's long tale. Three hours of silence later, just as they crossed London Bridge, she finished and, with a sigh of satisfaction, laid the book on the seat beside her.

Gazing out the carriage window, she marveled at the changes the fire had wrought in her hometown. Blocks and blocks were naught but charred vacant lots. The odd chimney or blackened stone oven stood like gravestones among the debris. Except for the clip-clop of horses and the creaking and crunching of wheels passing thought, it was hauntingly quiet. As Amy moved closer to the window, a small sound of distress escaped her lips.

Colin looked up from his book. "It won't be like this forever," he said gently.

She listened carefully. Here and there came rare, banging sounds of construction. "Some are rebuilding," she observed.

"Yes, but it's forbidden until owners clear the rubble and establish their claims to the land. It will take time."

Driving along Fleet Street toward Chancery Lane, they passed into the unburned area at last. Amy breathed a deep sigh of relief as the familiar smells of London hit her. Odors of tar, smoke from incessant coal fires, and the stench of tanneries were overlaid with a pervasive reek from the open sewer that the Fleet River, commonly called the Ditch, had become over the centuries. Though rank and foul, the stench was a comforting memory of another life.

And the traffic! Carriages, hackney coaches, carts, mounted riders, sedan chairs, pedestrians, and animals jostled one another in the noisy, crowded streets. After months in the quiet countryside, Amy's ears seemed assaulted with the cacophony of hawkers peddling their wares in pushcarts, wheelbarrows, and simple baskets, crying out in singsong rhyme of the superiority of their goods.

One man called out, "Rats or mice to kill!" and Amy smiled.

"The rats," she mused. "How could I have forgotten the rats?"

Colin smiled in return.

Thieves, pickpockets, and beggars were everywhere, but so were street singers ballading for pence. Amy caught sight of a familiar face and turned excitedly. "Oh, it's Richardson the fire-eater! May we stop and watch?"

Colin shrugged and knocked on the roof for Benchley to halt. Amy hung out the window, wide-eyed, as Richardson chewed and swallowed hot coals, then melted glass and, as a finale, put a hot coal on his tongue, heated it with bellows until it flamed, cooked an oyster on it, and swallowed the lot.

The audience burst into wild applause, and Colin dug in his pouch and handed Amy a coin to toss out the window before they moved on.

They finally reached Lincoln's Inn Fields, a fashionable residential neighborhood bordering a large, grassy square. It was quieter here, but only in comparison to other parts of London: Lincoln's Inn Fields Theatre was here, known for spectacular moving scenery, and the square was often the scene of fights and robberies, as well as a place for public executions.

The carriage stopped in front of the Chases' town house, a four-story brick building on the west side of the square. Amy climbed out and gazed up at the distinguished facade. Giant Ionic columns held up a boldly projecting cornice and balcony. Triangular decorations crowned tall, rectangular windows.

Colin came out after her and stretched, yawning.

"It's Palladian," Amy breathed in an awed tone. "Was it designed by Inigo Jones?"

"Yes." He took off toward the front door.

Following him, Amy frowned, her exhilaration at being back in the City dampened by his attitude. Where were his usual chatty explanations? Colin loved showing his family's homes and recounting their histories.

Was he that unhappy with her, then?

The interior was every bit as impressive as the outside. The few aristocratic residences Amy had seen were paneled in dark, traditional Jacobean wood. Not this home; the comparison was like coal to diamonds. Her gaze swept up a wide, graceful curving staircase. Light, cheerfully painted walls were ornamented with classical motifs and festooned with a riot of carving: flowers, fruit, ribbons, palms and masks.

She couldn't wait to get a tour of this magnificent house.

Colin prodded her forward, toward where the servants waited in a neat row.

"This is Mrs. Amethyst Goldsmith," he said, pleasantly enough. "She'll be staying here for a few days. Ida?"

A slight, blue-eyed girl stepped forward, perhaps sixteen or so. "Yes, my lord?"

"Please see to Mrs. Goldsmith's comfort." The maid's blond curls bounced as she nodded, eagerly accepting the responsibility. Colin turned to Amy. "I'm taking a nap. I suggest you do the same."

With that, he was off, his long legs taking the stairs two at a time. Ida showed Amy to a chamber and pulled back the covers on the bed. Amy still wondered about the house, but she hadn't been anticipating a self-guided tour; she wanted Colin beside her, telling her all about it.

She lay down, and when she awakened from her fitful sleep, Colin was gone. On her way down to supper, Ida said something about him dining with Priscilla before making an appearance at some ball or other, but Amy listened with half an ear.

Although she'd had most of the day to get used to the idea, she still couldn't believe that Colin had left her alone.

CHAPTER THIRTY

As the dance prescribed, Priscilla performed a graceful bow and pointed one square-toed shoe, chattering over the subdued music of the slow minuet. Growing more impatient by the minute, Colin wondered what on earth had possessed him to squire her to Lady Carson's ball. He hated these affairs.

And why hadn't he ever noticed before what a gossip she was?

Her mouth was as mincing as the minuet. Perhaps if he backed her into that matron over there, who rather resembled the stuffed peacock on the buffet table, Priscilla might shut up.

"Excusez-moi!" The matron pinned him with accusing eyes.

"My apologies, madame." He wrinkled his nose against the cloying perfume that wafted from the woman's unwashed body. But his ploy had worked. Priscilla ceased babbling about Lady So-and-So and Lord Such-and-Such, and turned her attention to him instead.

"Really, Colin. You must be more careful."

He flashed her an innocent smile. "Od's fish, my dear, but you are looking well this evening." It was true. Her shoulder-length silver-blond hair gleamed in the candlelight from the blazing chandeliers. Her figure was tall and willowy rather than curvy, but she carried herself regally, and her ivory satin gown accentuated her pale beauty. The complete opposite of Amy's coloring.

He shook himself. Whatever had made that pop into his head?

"Why, thank you." Priscilla smiled back at the compliment, but no blush marred her complexion. Sedate and proper at all times, she never blushed. Unlike Amy, who—

"Colin, did you hear me?"

"I was admiring your complexion. You're as beautiful and flawless as a porcelain doll."

"Oh." She concentrated on the next dance step. "I was saying that Lady Beauchamp—"

"Shh." He skimmed two fingers up her perfect chin and along her jaw. When she flinched and pulled back, he frowned and mentally added to his list: She was as cold and hard as a porcelain doll as well.

He would have to work on that.

They both balanced forward in three-quarter rhythm. "As I was saying, Lady Beauchamp—"

"Do you think we might discuss something relevant?"

"Relevant?" Her toe traced a half-circle.

"Relevant. Morals or values—but not in the context of the latest scandal. Politics. Literature. Art." The peacock matron shot him another dirty glare, and he edged Priscilla farther into the glittering jeweled throng of dancers. "What did you think of the play tonight?"

"Lady Scarsdale's gown was horrendous. The orange girls were better dressed. And did you see the earl's periwig? It had lice. I cannot believe we were forced to share a box with them."

The music ended, and Priscilla glanced around. "Lady Whitmore has arrived. I have something to tell her."

"By all means." With a great sigh of relief, he sent her sailing from the dance floor.

He had to find a way to stop this habit of perpetual gossip before it drove him mad. Perhaps an instructive practical joke…

Ah…yes. He smiled as he caught the eye of an old friend across the ballroom: Barbara Palmer, the Countess of Castlemaine and King Charles's mistress these past six years.

Barbara had a passionate nature both in and out of the bedchamber. A perfect co-conspirator, she would doubtless enjoy a prank as much as he.

As he approached Barbara, he couldn't help but admire the auburn hair and deep blue eyes that had played no small part in making her Charles's favorite. "My Lady Castlemaine." With a little bow, he took her arm and drew her away from the group surrounding her. Barbara was always in the center of a crowd. Everyone was well aware she had the king's ear and, even more important, wasn't opposed to dabbling in politics.

For a price, of course.

"Greystone!" Barbara's eyes danced. "You have my thanks for rescuing me. Where have you been hiding these weeks past?"

"Some of us have to work, you know," Colin teased. Pulling her farther away from the masses, he dropped his voice. "I was wondering…might you be willing to help me play a little trick on Priscilla?"

"One of your practical jokes? On Lady Priscilla?" Barbara's musical laughter tinkled through the ballroom. "Count me in! What do you have in mind?"

"Well…" His ideas were half-baked. But suddenly inspiration hit. "Would you mind pretending you're with child?"

"How would that help?"

"I've discovered Priscilla is a devil of a gossip—"

"You're just finding out? For the love of God, I've known that for years."

"Well, I was thinking to tell her you're expecting again—Charles's babe, naturally—but not to tell anyone. She'll tell everyone, of course, and eventually someone will congratulate you. Then—here's the part you may not like—then you'll burst into tears, saying you lost the babe, and Priscilla will be mortified that she started this rumor."

"I love it!" Barbara exclaimed. "It's so mean!"

Colin frowned. It wouldn't do to humiliate Priscilla; he just wanted to teach her a lesson. "Do you think so?" he asked.

"No, not really," Barbara recanted.

He looked at her sharply.

"Most any lady here would spread the rumor," she rushed to reassure him. "Lady Priscilla won't be thought of unkindly. Besides, no one will know where it started. One request, though. Afterward, we must tell the poor soul I break down in front of—and Lady Priscilla, of course—that I was never actually with child." She put a preening hand to her auburn locks. " I haven't ever lost a child, you know."

"Indeed. And we'll make sure everyone else knows, too."

"Oh, that won't be necessary. It will do my reputation good for people to think Charles has come back to me again. He will, you know."

"Of course he will," Colin assured her. "He always has."

"He's made such a fool of himself over Frances Stewart."

That wasn't news to Colin. A tall, beautifully proportioned girl some eight years younger than Barbara, Frances had arrived at court almost four years ago, and King Charles had been head over heels for her ever since. His love was unrequited, however, since Frances was that rarest of creatures: a chaste courtier.

"I cannot stand her," Barbara said. "She prances around in that man's dress made fashionable by the queen—as though I could wear such garb after bearing five of His Majesty's children!"

"Come now, such dress is ridiculous anyway. And no one could rival you in that gown." He conspicuously eyed her low decolletage.

"Thank you," she said as though such compliments were her due. "Charles wrote a poem about her, you know. 'Oh, then 'tis I think there's no Hell, Like loving too well,'" Barbara quoted in a sickly sweet voice. She rolled her eyes. "And still she wouldn't share his bed."

"There are those who think Frances must be simpleminded to persist in such virtue," Colin consoled her.

"Oh, she's a dunderhead, all right. Her favorite pastimes are playing blind-man's buff and building castles out of playing cards. Grammont said it's hardly possible for a woman to have less wit or more beauty."

"Then she's no true rival to you," Colin assured her. He spotted his intended making her way across the ballroom. "Priscilla is headed this way. You agree to my plan?"

"Yes, it shall be great fun. I shall dazzle you with my performance."

"Very well, then. I look forward to it." He walked toward Priscilla nonchalantly, hoping she hadn't noticed the long time he'd spent talking with Barbara.

After mingling a bit, he danced again with Priscilla, enjoying the jealous glances of the other men present. She was tall and graceful in his arms, and she wasn't gossiping, for once. At the end of the dance, he pleased to realize he hadn't thought about Amy for quite a few minutes.

Coming off the dance floor, he said casually, "I've heard tonight that Barbara is expecting His Majesty's sixth child."

"She told you so?" Priscilla was more animated than usual, her interest piqued by the opportunity to be in on a juicy bit of gossip.

"No, it was someone else. You mustn't tell anyone, though, for she hasn't even told Charles yet."

"Oh, I wouldn't," Priscilla said much too quickly. "But who told you?"

"I've been sworn to secrecy. I chatted a bit with Barbara to see if she'd let it slip, but she didn't say a word."

"She doesn't look enceinte." Priscilla slanted a dubious glance to where Barbara was surrounded by a new group of hangers-on.

"She's only just had it confirmed, according to my source. She wouldn't be showing yet."

"Of course. I'm not well versed in such matters, since I haven't had children myself—yet."

Priscilla knew Colin wanted several children; he'd made no secret of the importance he placed on family life. And she'd offered no arguments, he reminded himself now. She really was a good choice for him.

"Would you care for some spiced wine?" he asked, knowing it would be out of character for him to discuss such a gossipy subject too long.

"No, thank you," Priscilla declined prettily. "I'm not thirsty."

Colin saw right through her excuse: She couldn't wait to get back to her friends. However, he enjoyed his jokes tremendously, especially the anticipation, and wasn't quite ready to let her get started.

"No, I insist." He drew her over to the refreshment table and handed her a cup of wine. Taking one himself, he grasped her firmly by the elbow. "Shall we enjoy the garden for a while?"

"It's freezing out there," Priscilla protested, clearly impatient.

Colin smiled to himself. "Just for a minute. It's beastly hot in here."

She couldn't argue with that. Between the blazing fires on either end of the ballroom, the hundreds of candles burning in the chandeliers above, and the guests packed in elbow-to-elbow, it was difficult to breathe.

Priscilla reluctantly went with him, in no small part because he dragged her along physically, and he guided her through the crowd and outdoors.

"Ahh." Colin inhaled deeply of the fresh air. "It's pleasant out here, isn't it?"

Priscilla drained her cup and crossed her arms in a most unladylike fashion. It was quite foreign to her nature, and Colin was pleased; perhaps she was becoming more human. "I'm finished. May I go back inside now?"

"Not just yet." Colin drew her further into the formal garden, over to a low brick wall. He set down both their cups and leaned back against it, then wrapped his arms around Priscilla's waist and pulled her close. Ignoring the startled look in her eyes, he brought his lips down to hers—just a little bit down, he realized, momentarily surprised at the reminder of her height. But her mouth was warm in the cold night, and he was pleased that this statuesque heiress was his, so a few moments passed before he realized she wasn't kissing him back, and in fact was pushing away from him, her palms flat against his chest.

"Colin—not here."

"Why? No one's here to see."

"It's not proper. And there's no one to see because no one else is fool enough to come out in this weather."

"I'll keep you warm." Though taken aback by her reaction, he offered her a smile as he pulled her close again. She wasn't the most passionate of women, but she'd never resisted his advances before. She'd even been willing to share his bed. No one at court—barring an aberration like Frances Stewart—was celibate, after all.

But Priscilla was ever well mannered and proper, and Colin realized with surprise that he'd never tried to steal a sensual moment with her before, that every action had had its time and place. And he had no doubt that, with time, she would learn to enjoy a stolen kiss or two.

Priscilla went limp in his arms now, not resisting but not participating either, and Colin decided her first lesson in sensuality was over. He swung her about and walked her back to the ball, his arm lightly around her shoulders. When Priscilla's own arm stole around his waist as they crossed the threshold, he was pleased.

In no time, she was gone. She'd spotted Lady Crowhurst across the room and said she just had to talk to her, and Colin let her go. He chuckled to himself when he saw her lips mouth the word "Barbara."

Not five minutes later, Colin would swear there was a new buzz in the room as gossiping ladies rushed to be the ones to spread the delicious rumor. And in the end, it was Priscilla herself who couldn't resist approaching Barbara.

She waited politely until Barbara was free. "My Lady Castlemaine," she said, pulling her aside, "I hear congratulations are in order."

Colin sidled closer and concealed himself behind a post.

Barbara played her part to perfection. "Is that so?"

"I've heard in the strictest of confidence that you will be presenting His Majesty with another child soon."

Barbara's face fell.

"Is something wrong, my lady?" At the sight of Priscilla's panic, Colin had to choke back laughter. "Am I mistaken?"

Slow tears leaked from Barbara's blue eyes—what an actress she was!

Desperate, Priscilla grasped her by the shoulders. "Oh, my lady, are you all right? Don't you want the babe?"

"I lost it last week," Barbara wailed, the tears pouring in earnest now. "A tiny babe, perfectly formed…oh, my heart breaks to think of it…" She clutched her chest and let out a great sob, then ran from the ballroom and up the wide staircase, weeping all the way.

Priscilla followed her into the hall and watched her flight. She was still gazing up the sweeping stairs when Colin came up behind her.

"Is something wrong, Priscilla?"

She turned to him immediately, a frown of dismay creasing her beautiful forehead. "Oh, Colin, I've made the most dreadful error. I thought to congratulate my Lady Castlemaine, only to discover she's miscarried. Now she's horribly upset, and everyone thinks she's with child. What am I to do?"

"Whyever would everyone think Barbara is carrying?" he asked with a glint in his eye.

"I told them!" Priscilla wailed. "And they told one another."

"Priscilla! You promised!" he exclaimed in pretended disbelief.

"You mean to say you really meant it?" Priscilla protested. "Why would you tell me if it were a secret?"

"You mean to say I shouldn't trust you? I shouldn't tell you anything unless I want everyone to know?"

"Yes! I mean, no! Oh, Colin, I shouldn't be such a terrible gossip, should I?"

Colin grinned—he simply couldn't help himself. The scene was playing out even better than he had hoped.

"Why are you smiling?" Priscilla demanded. "I've ruined everything! She never really liked me—she only invited us to her parties because of my father, and now she'll hate me. We won't be welcome anywhere."

"Now, Priscilla, you know that's not true. Barbara would never leave me off a guest list. We were in exile together—I'm one of her dearest friends. Besides, Charles is all but a big brother to me. He'd never allow her to snub us."

He was right, and Priscilla knew it. Colin's relationship with the king was her father's primary reason for agreeing to the match. Lord Hobbs had been a fence-sitter during the war, and consequently, though he hadn't lost his lands, he held no favor with Charles, either.

"I suppose you're right," Priscilla sniffed.

Just then, Barbara came back down the stairs, dry eyed and grinning from ear to ear, and Colin took one look at her and broke out laughing. Priscilla stared at Colin, then at Barbara, and back to Colin before bursting out, "What is going on here?"

Colin could do no better than sputter. "I—we—I—"

Barbara rescued him—sort of. "What Colin means to say, dear, is that we set you up."

"Set me up?" Priscilla's pretty brows furrowed in confusion. "You mean you suffered no miscarriage?"

"I was never with child in the first place." Barbara chuckled. "Colin thought to demonstrate how gossip spreads."

Priscilla glared at her, openmouthed.

"It was a joke," Barbara finished weakly.

"A practical joke," Colin put in.

"A practical joke?" Priscilla repeated in disbelief. "On me?" She snapped him on the arm with her folded fan. "How dare you play a practical joke on me."

Colin rubbed his arm out of reflex, though it didn't really hurt. Priscilla had put as little enthusiasm into the blow as she gave to everything else. "I play practical jokes on everyone," he reminded her.

"You don't play them on me, Colin Chase. They're stupid and childish, and I won't stand for it."

"Don't you think it's funny?" The last of Colin's laughter died. "Don't you find it amusing that I know you well enough to devise a trap you would fall into perfectly?"

"No. I don't find it in the least amusing." Priscilla turned on Barbara. "How about you? I find it difficult to imagine why you would play along with his trickery—now everyone thinks you're with child."

"It doesn't signify." Barbara waved a hand airily. "I probably will be with child by the time anyone could discover otherwise. I always am, it seems," she lamented.

Colin laughed. "You're a good sport, Barbara."

"There are those who would disagree," Barbara pointed out archly.

Colin nodded, a knowing smile on his lips. More than one man had met his downfall at the hands of Barbara Palmer. Luckily, he and she had been friends too long, and he knew her too well to make the sort of blunder that would turn her against him.

The wind blew out of Priscilla's sails when she realized neither Colin nor Barbara were the least bit sorry they'd used her as the butt of their joke.

"Please call for the carriage," she requested calmly.

"What?" Colin said. "The evening is still young."

"We will forget this ever happened. I trust it won't again. I wish to return home now."

"Lost your taste for gossip, Lady Priscilla?" Barbara asked sweetly.

The barb went right over Priscilla's head. "I merely find myself fatigued. Colin?" She took his arm and led him away.

Colin looked back at Barbara, shrugging his shoulders helplessly. She laughed and waved him on before gliding back into the ballroom.

For the life of her, Barbara couldn't imagine what Colin saw in Priscilla, though she supposed it didn't matter. Priscilla was wealthy, and that was enough. One wasn't required to like one's spouse, and God knew Barbara despised hers. Marriage alliances were arranged for the benefit of both parties, and one could always take a lover.

Or two or three.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

"I have a headache." Priscilla lifted her elegant chin and calmly shut her door in Colin's face.

Now what?

Distracted by his prank, he'd neglected to approach anyone at the ball to arrange lodging. At a loss, he wandered back to his carriage. He wasn't about to drop in on a friend unannounced. And no one would be in at this hour, regardless; it was much too early for any self-respecting man-about-town to make his way home.

As Benchley opened the carriage door, Colin sighed. He could visit Whitehall Palace, where the court stayed up until the wee hours gambling and playing billiards, but he wasn't in the mood.

"Bloody hell," he said aloud, and gave Benchley instructions to return to the town house. No one even knew Amy was there, he rationalized, shoving aside the concerns he'd voiced earlier in the day.

As he settled back, his thoughts turned to the amethyst-eyed witch who'd wormed her way into his bed and heart. Now, there was someone who appreciated his efforts at humor. A vision popped into his head, of Amy laughing the loudest when the joke was on her. Her color high, her rosy lips parted…

He shook his head to clear the image. He'd known from the start that Amy's request for a few days in London had been little more than a ploy to stay with him longer.

But, hell, he hadn't been ready to part with her, either.

He never should have agreed—he'd known it was a mistake the moment "I'd be happy to take you to London" came out of his mouth. Now they'd be alone together in the town house. Alone, but surrounded by all of Charles's gossipy, meddlesome court.

Damn, but this had been a bad idea.

Well, done was done. And luckily, Amy would be asleep at this hour. He'd sneak in, get a good night's rest, and be out again before she awakened.

Where he'd go, in the early hours when everyone he knew was sleeping off overindulgences of the prior evening, he wasn't sure. But he trusted he could find some way to amuse himself. Perhaps he'd breakfast with Priscilla—she'd certainly turned in early enough to be ready for company come morning.

He entered the house quietly and ducked into the study to pour himself a brandy before stealing upstairs. No need to wake the servants—he was perfectly capable of putting himself to bed. Even a hushed conversation might wake Amy, which was the last thing he wanted.

Sneaking past her door, he nearly choked on a mouthful of brandy when he heard the unmistakable sounds of a heartbroken woman crying herself to sleep.

Damn, she was still awake.

He paused, his fingers drumming on one thigh while he listened. Then he reached for the door latch—and jerked back, almost as though it had burned his fingers.

He knew all too well what form any attempts at comfort would ultimately take. Better to let her get this out of her system once and for all, he decided firmly. There was no sense prolonging the agony, or giving her any ideas that things between them might be different.

Gritting his teeth, he passed her chamber and entered his. Unfortunately, he could still hear Amy through the adjoining wall, and easing the door shut failed to block the sound. He cursed at himself for allowing Ida to put her in the room adjacent to his, but he'd thought he wouldn't be here tonight, so it hadn't occurred to him to interfere.

It was pointless to attempt sleeping until she nodded off. Her muffled sobs went straight to his heart, and he'd never fall asleep while listening to such a poignant reminder of his guilt. He unbuckled his sword belt and tossed it on the bed, started a fire as quietly as possible, then sat in the nearby chair and slowly sipped his brandy.

He had done this to her. Weak, despicable man that he was, he'd let his emotions rule his head—taken this poor, innocent girl, callously, with no honorable intentions whatsoever. And then abandoned her.

But it had felt so right…she had felt so good…

Though the brandy flowed in a warm path down Colin's throat, it failed to melt the knot in his chest. Draining the glass, he set it on the small table by his chair and stared into the fire, twisting his ring.

Wondering how long she'd been crying her eyes out, he tried to envision her: hair a tangled mess, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, face puffy and swollen, creased from where she'd pressed it into the sheets to muffle those heartrending sobs.

It was not a pretty mental picture.

Perhaps he could go to her, soothe her, apologize. She wasn't likely to be attractive to him at the moment, looking so pathetic, nor would she be in an amorous mood. He stood up, shrugged out of his surcoat and removed his waistcoat, the better to put his arms around her—then stopped short.

Who was he fooling?

He needed a distraction. He silently finished undressing, slipped into a robe, and padded softly out of his bedchamber, intending to head for the library.

But as he passed by her door, she started moaning. Soft and resonant, the sound snapped his battered heart in two. He was into her chamber before he could form a coherent thought.

She was a long lump under the heavy quilt, her head buried beneath the covers.

He knelt by the bed. "Amy?"

"Colin?" The moaning ceased at once, and she peeked out, then sat up. In the firelight, she looked beautiful—and not at all like he'd expected. Her face was pink and tear streaked, yes, but not even close to the puffy mess he'd imagined when he heard her through the wall.

"What—what are you doing here?" She looked over the edge of the bed, taking in Colin's state of undress.

He stood up, belting his robe tighter.

Her gaze slid down to his bare feet, then slowly back up to his face. She sniffled, dashing the tears from her cheeks with an impatient motion. "How long have you been back?"

"Long enough."

"You've been…?"

"In the next room."

"Oh, God. You heard me, then."

She threw herself back to the mattress, pulling the covers over her rapidly reddening face. "Go away, please."

Her body shifted toward him as his weight dropped onto the edge of the bed.

"Go away!"

He didn't.

Amy lay rigid, apparently willing him to leave—or herself to magically vanish—until he folded the blanket away from her face. "I'm sorry," she squeaked out, her eyes filling again.

"You're sorry?" he asked, incredulous.

He couldn't credit it. He had abandoned her, and she was sorry.

"I've been…wallowing in my misery, I guess you could call it. I…haven't been alone before tonight. Since the fire, I mean. Not all alone, where I was sure no one could hear me. Since my father died." She sniffed and let out a long breath. "I thought I was alone…"

Colin released a sigh of relief and amusement at himself. Here he'd been, certain he was all-important in her life, wracked with guilt for hurting her, and she hadn't been thinking of him at all.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of." He gently wiped fresh tears away. "And here I thought you were heartbroken because I left you alone this eve," he teased. "The tears were probably just what you needed. I'm sorry I interrupted."

"I was just feeling sorry for myself," Amy said to her lap.

He believed her. Almost. But there was something in her voice…

And she wouldn't look at him.

He lifted her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his. "Is that all?"

She nodded. "Though I did wish you were here with me," she admitted softly.

Her eyes were wide and trusting, darkened in that compelling way that drew him to her, inexorably. Without thinking, he leaned over to kiss her, his mouth moving gently on hers in a silent apology.

It felt so…natural.

When he pulled away, her voice dropped to a whisper. "Why did you come back?"

"I couldn't stay away," he confessed hoarsely, knowing it was true the moment the words passed his lips. "I never made any other plans. I couldn't bear to think of you in my house and me somewhere else entirely. But that doesn't mean—"

"Shh." Amy placed her hand upon his lips. "Don't say it. I know you're promised, Colin Chase, and I've a destiny of my own. Just let me have you for one more night."

She was mirroring his thoughts. It was impossible for him to stay away from her when she was so close by. Absolutely impossible.

He'd never been able to resist her pull, never.

"Four," he corrected. "The shops are closed tomorrow, but you'll order a few gowns on Monday, have them delivered Tuesday, and the next morning we'll leave. We'll have four nights. And no one will ever know."

"But won't Lady Priscilla—"

"Shh," he admonished, borrowing her gesture and placing his fingers on her lips. "I'll take care of it. Don't you worry."

Four nights.

In truth, he had no idea how he would keep their liaison secret from Priscilla or anyone else, but he would find a way.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

"Four nights," Amy agreed solemnly. Four nights. Four nights more than she had any right to hope for or deserve.

As though to seal their secret pact, Colin lifted her hand and kissed the back, then, his emerald eyes locked on hers, turned it over and kissed the palm, his lips warm and tender.

His eyes glittered suggestively, and his tongue came out and teased at the sensitive skin. Amy closed her eyes as shimmering tendrils of feeling swept up her arm and danced all through her body.

Colin slipped under the quilt and stretched out beside her. He gathered her into his arms and held her close while his head slowly descended to meet hers.

Amy felt like she floated on a puffy, comforting cloud, lulled by the gentle pressure of his mouth. Her hand slipped beneath his robe and explored across his broad back and down his arm. There was that scar; her fingers traced the mark as though they could heal it, along with all his other childhood hurts.

Enjoying the warm, smooth expanse of skin, she brushed her palm down his side to his hip, then stilled when she realized he wore nothing underneath. Boldly—of its own volition, it seemed—her hand edged around to find him, hard and ready.

Tensing at her intimate touch, he breathed heavily into her mouth. She tasted warmed, rich brandy as his tongue fenced skillfully with hers. His kiss became fiery and possessive, and her breathing quickened to match his.

Somehow her chemise magically disappeared, and for long, sweet minutes he played her body, making her senses careen with the consummate deftness of a master. Every intimate stroke of his fingers, every burning trail of his lips sent currents of desire pulsing through her, imprinting the memory of him so deep in her heart that she knew she'd always carry a part of him with her, though they be parted by a continent and the impossible gulf of lives that had never been meant to cross.

Her breath came in little shuddering gasps, and her hands reached for his hips, wordlessly begging him to come inside her and make her complete.

But he didn't comply with her desperate plea. Instead, he rolled over, bringing her with him, and she lay on top of him, trembling with anticipation as he ran warm, soothing palms over her back and bottom.

When his hands reached down to rearrange her knees, causing her to straddle him in the most strangely intimate manner, Amy's eyes flew open. "Colin?" she whispered, not even knowing what to ask.

"Hush, love," he murmured. "There are many, many ways, and all are exquisite." And he lifted her hips, guiding himself into her.

As she settled around him, a delicious shudder flowed through her body, and a part of her marveled at her ability to accommodate his hard, deep penetration.

With a bit of incitement and direction from his encouraging hands on her hips, she moved experimentally against him. She shifted tentatively at first, then faster as she discovered and reveled in her freedom of mobility.

Her tumbled tresses played over his chest, a whisper of sensuous silk against his straining body. He pulled her down to him, bringing her lips to his for a slow, deep kiss. But she wanted swift, not slow, this time. She felt wild, and her mouth wandered his raspy cheeks, her teeth nipped at his shoulder.

With a throaty laugh, he pushed her away, so that his questing hands had access all over her inflamed body, caressing her tingling breasts and wandering the length of her back, a hot swath of sensation.

Blood pounded through her veins as he drove himself into her and she met his moves again and again. Through unfocused eyes she saw his face, slick and dark in the wavering firelight, a mask of ecstasy that sent her nerves skittering with pleasure. Then she felt him begin pulsing inside her, and her vision blurred as she exploded in uncontrollable, joyous passion. She soared higher and higher, until she felt her heart burst in a fierce combination of love and agony.

His hands slipped up her arms, pulling her close, and she fused her mouth to his and collapsed against him.

Colin kissed her for a long minute, then pressed her cheek to his shoulder. He lay motionless, enjoying her light rose fragrance and listening to her ragged breathing, matched by his own. In the stillness, he could feel her heart thudding, for him. And he was seized momentarily by a profound sense of sadness, for what was, and what couldn't be.

At last she lifted her head, raised a languid hand to shove the long, tangled ebony strands from her face, and gazed at him wordlessly. Her eyes were deep purple, brimming over with a complicated blend of passion, disbelief, and pain.

Incredible, incredible pain.

He pushed her head back down to his chest, unwilling to look into those anguished eyes just now. "Hush, love," he whispered into her hair. "Don't think on it. We have three more nights. It's a lifetime."

It's not, she thought. But it had to be. It was all she would ever have.

Colin moved inside her then, an exquisite promise where their two bodies were still joined.

"Don't think," he repeated, and then he proceeded to make sure she couldn't, with his hands and his mouth and his body and the incredible power he had at his disposal—the power of two souls that were made to be one.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Hearing voices in the corridor, Colin cracked open one eye. The full light of day streamed through the window.

Damn, he'd overslept.

Now the staff was up and about, and he'd be hard put to return to his chamber unnoticed, which was imperative if he wished to keep the gossips at bay. The servants' grapevine was well established in London; should he be caught in here with Amy, the news would be common knowledge before the day was out.

He lay still, listening, waiting for the best time to jump out of bed and make a run for it.

Wait. He groaned and rubbed his aching head. Those weren't servants' voices, chatting in passing as they went about their daily chores. The voices were louder and much more familiar. Jason's voice, and Ford's and Kendra's.

Bloody hell.

Of all the rotten luck. He'd thought he could spend his days and evenings with Priscilla and his nights with Amy. But it would be harder now, perhaps even impossible, to keep her presence a public secret.

Or maybe…ah, yes. His mind raced as he slowly released the breath he'd held since recognizing the voices. His family liked Amy. They didn't know he'd bedded her at Greystone. They could even act as his cover—yes, she'd stayed at Cainewood, after all, and they considered her their friend.

It would work—so long as he wasn't discovered sneaking into her chamber at night. They'd never approve of that.

The voices faded. Colin slipped out of bed and soundlessly into his robe, watching Amy sleep. The witch looked angelic now, her cheeks a delicate pink, her ebony hair a tangled halo around her head.

He leaned down and brushed a gentle kiss across her lips, then padded to the door and pressed his ear against it.

All clear.

He opened the door a crack, pleased that it didn't creak. Poised to run next door to safety, he took a deep breath and flung it open—and was greeted by Kendra's startled face.

He backed up and slammed the door shut.

"Colin?" Kendra's muffled voice came through the wood. "Is that you?"

He cursed at himself. In one split second, he'd made a complete mess of everything. Why the hell hadn't he walked brazenly into the corridor as though nothing were amiss? He could have come up with some plausible excuse for being in Amy's chamber.

Now he looked every bit as guilty as he was, no doubt about it.

Kendra hammered on the door. "Colin? What are you doing in there?"

A hand on the door latch, Colin stood rooted to the spot, his gaze riveted to Amy. She moved restlessly under the covers, fighting her way toward consciousness.

Footsteps approached. "What the devil?"

He sagged against the door. Damn, Jason was there now, too.

"Colin's inside." Hearing Kendra's smug tone, Colin could cheerfully wring her neck. "Hiding. With Amy."

There was nothing for it. With a last, lingering glance at Amy, he opened the door and slipped through. Closing it behind him, he leaned against it protectively. "Shh!"

"What were you doing in there?" Kendra hissed back.

He mustered his most convincing whisper. "Amy was having a nightmare. I was just checking on her."

"Is that so?" Kendra crossed her arms. "Then why did you shut the door when you saw me?"

He wrinkled his brow in what he hoped was a puzzled expression. "Were you there? Amy was calling out again, so I went back inside."

"Poppycock! You think I'd fall for such an old chestnut? I didn't hear a thing. This looks mighty suspicious."

"What business is it of yours?" Colin spat defensively. "I needn't answer to you, little sister!"

"Amy is my friend, and if you've taken advantage of her, it's my duty to see you do right by her, Colin Chase!"

Both of them had long since abandoned whispering. Jason stepped between them and faced Kendra. "If Colin says he was just checking on her, we'll have to take his word for it."

Ah! Some male loyalty. Colin smiled.

Until Jason swung around to confront him. "What is she doing here? I thought you were taking her to Dover."

"She wanted to buy some things before she left. She lost all her clothes in the fire."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, damn it! I spent last evening with Priscilla, at Lady Carson's boring ball." Colin yanked the belt of his robe tighter. "This is ridiculous. I needn't explain myself to you two." He stalked toward his chamber and had his hand on the door latch when Amy's door opened.

"Colin?"

He whirled around. Amy was framed in the half-open doorway, dressed in nothing but a sheet, her hair tangled, her lips still rosy and swollen from his kisses, her expression sleepy and confused. She looked adorable.

Colin was horrified at the sight of her.

He gazed at her beseechingly, vainly hoping she'd play along. "Amy! You weren't dreaming again, were you?"

"Dreaming?" Clutching the sheet with one hand, she shoved her hair from her eyes with the other. "What?"

Colin's heart sank as Kendra and Jason exchanged a knowing glance. But he wasn't yet ready to concede defeat. "The nightmare. The reason I came in to check on you."

"The nightmare?" Amy blinked.

When Colin glared at her in exasperation, her sleep-glazed eyes opened wider. "The nightmare. Oh, yes. I mean, no." Her gaze dropped to the floor, and her cheeks turned pink. "It's gone now…thank you for your concern."

Her fists white knuckled, she tightened the sheet around her body and backed up, easing the door shut.

Kendra's hand shot out and stopped it from closing. She gave Jason a long, meaningful look before turning to Amy. "I'm surprised to find you here," she said brightly. "Colin said you needed some clothes?"

"Yes." Amy threw Colin an apologetic glance before turning to his sister. "What are you doing here?"

Kendra took Amy's arm. "We came to London for Christmas shopping. We always do, this time of year," she said, drawing her back into the room. "May I come inside? Let me help you dress, and we'll talk."

The door shut behind them.

Intending to make a quick escape, Colin opened the door to his chamber, but his older brother swung him around by the shoulder and leveled a stare at him. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Give up, Colin. You cannot fob me off that easily." Jason's lips thinned beneath his mustache. "We all know what went on in that chamber. In that bed."

"What of it?" It was pointless to pretend any longer. "We're both adults. Give me three days, and I'll have her delivered out of our lives forever. And don't talk to her of it," he warned. "She'd die before she'd admit it, and I won't have you putting her through that kind of hell."

"I'm too much a gentleman to do anything of the kind," Jason assured him coolly. "Unlike you."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Only that you should do right by the lady and marry her."

"We've been through this," Colin growled in warning.

"Things were different then. It was naught but a suggestion. Now I insist."

"To the devil with you." Colin paused for a deep, calming breath. "I have other plans. I know you expect the Chase name to be beyond reproach, and I'm sorry to disappoint you. I'll admit made a mistake, but I don't intend to pay for it the rest of my life."

"I take it you won't be continuing to make the same mistake now that we're here?" Jason asked stiffly.

Colin's fists clenched. "That's none of your concern."

"I'm afraid it is," Jason argued. "She's under my roof, under my protection. And she's no lightskirt. She's a wonderful, gently raised girl who doesn't deserve to be treated like this."

"Treated like what?" Colin exploded. "She's been treated very nicely, I'll have you know. Believe me, she hasn't complained." He dropped his voice, afraid Amy might overhear. "Unlike you, she never expected me to marry her. In case you've forgotten, I'm betrothed—and I've already spent part of Priscilla's dowry, for God's sake. I regret not living up to your standards, but my mind is made up. I hope you'll be able to forgive my besmirching our family."

"Of course. You're my brother."

"I'm glad you see it that way." His jaw set, Colin turned to the door.

"But we all love her," Jason muttered under his breath.

Colin was seized with such an unreasoning fury, a hazy red mist exploded across his vision. Swiveling back, he glared straight into his brother's eyes. "Well, I don't." His voice was low and dangerous. "Since you all love her so much, why don't you all take care of her? Just see that she gets to France this time, will you? I'd prefer not to deal with her again." He backed into the chamber. "Do me a favor, and let Priscilla know I returned to Greystone. I have work to do."

He slammed the door and kicked it, then hopped around clutching at his aching bare toes. Bloody hell, what was happening to him? He'd never been such a hothead before, banging doors and kicking things. And though his family had always been loud and argumentative, of late his exchanges with them were less good natured and more acrimonious.

And now, in a moment of unthinking anger, he'd thrown away his last three nights with Amy.

Damn.

He had to leave or risk looking like even more of a fool than he was. And he couldn't so much as tell her good-bye. One look at her face and he knew his heart would break, as well as his resolve.

He threw on his clothes and left, cursing himself a hundred times for the hothead, fool, and coward he'd become.

No woman had ever had such an effect on him before, and he intended to make certain no woman ever did again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Kendra stood back, casting a discerning eye as Amy twirled around in the sapphire and cream gown. "It's gorgeous!"

Nothing like the day dresses Amy had planned to order, the shimmering satin gown's scooped neckline was set off with a wide vanilla lace collar, enriched with lustrous pearls. Matching lace spilled to her wrists from beneath tight three-quarter length sleeves. The full cream overskirt was split and gathered to the back to show off a pearl-embroidered sapphire petticoat.

"It makes me feel pretty," Amy admitted, "though I still cannot believe I let you talk me into it. I haven't a clue where I'll wear it."

"Colin will take you to a ball—"

"No, he won't." Though her initial reaction to Colin's disappearance had been anger and hurt, in the past two weeks Amy had resigned herself to the facts. "Colin wants nothing to do with me; he's made that perfectly clear. And most certainly not in public."

"He'll come around. Trust me. I know my brother. He's stubborn, but he's not addlepated."

Amy's finger traced a row of embroidered pearls on her skirt. "Colin and I don't belong together, and we both know it, Kendra. I'm destined to be a jeweler in France. It's not only what I want, it's what I have to do." She smoothed the slick satin, then turned to the seamstress with a rustling swish. "Unlace me, please, Madame Beaumont."

Amy had been distraught to find Mrs. Cholmley's shop burned to the ground, and the seamstress herself nowhere to be found. Owing to the king's passion for everything French, French dressmakers were all the rage. Kendra had insisted Amy order her wardrobe from Madame Beaumont, London's most sought-after modiste.

The seamstress's deft fingers loosened the gown, and Amy wiggled out of it. "The hem is fine." She stepped into the butter-yellow gown she'd borrowed from Kendra and pulled it up. "Will it be ready Monday?

"Certainement. Along with everything else." Madame Beaumont turned her around to lace her up in back.

"Thank you." Amy looked pointedly at Kendra. "Do you know if Jason is free Tuesday to take me to Dover?"

"I haven't the faintest idea, but it doesn't matter anyway."

Amy peered into the looking glass, rearranging her long, untamed curls. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You still have to buy stockings, gloves, and ribbons, not to mention shoes for all these gowns," Kendra declared gaily. "Then I want help with my Christmas shopping. You won't be ready to leave for weeks yet—perhaps not until after Christmas."

"Oh, no." Amy shook her head, remembering Colin's original plan to secure her wardrobe within a day or two. Madame Beaumont had taken a full twelve days to create her gowns, and that was after considerable begging and extra payments.

"Oh, yes. You had nothing whatsoever to wear; it takes time to outfit yourself properly. Besides, I'm having too much fun to send you on your way. Why, it's almost like having a sister."

"Colin would be furious."

"A pox on Colin! If he weren't so damned obstinate—"

"Marry come up, Kendra! Let's not start that again."

"Only if you agree to stop talking about leaving so soon."

"Well…I did forget about stockings and shoes…maybe I'll stay an extra week." Amy stopped fussing with her hair and turned from the mirror to look Kendra in the eye. "But that's all. Colin and I will never happen. I mean it."

"Of course you do," Kendra agreed a little too pleasantly.

A tinkling bell on the door announced another customer. Amy and Kendra prepared to leave as Madame Beaumont rushed out to greet the newcomer. Her melodious voice drifted back to the fitting salon. "Bonjour, Lady Priscilla."

"No, it cannot be…" Kendra muttered under her breath.

"Your gown is ready for your final fitting." Madame's accented words grew louder as she made her way to the curtained salon. "I'll fetch it from the back room. The salon will be vacant in a moment." The curtain parted, and Madame slipped inside. "Mesdemoiselles? Is there aught else I can do for you?"

"We were just leaving," Amy assured her.

The dressmaker stuck her head back into the shop. "Une minute, Lady Priscilla, s'il vous plaît." She hurried through the salon and into the back, murmuring "Merci, mesdemoiselles" as she went.

"Please let it be another Priscilla," Kendra whispered, her hand on the curtain's opening.

"What are you talking about?" Amy whispered back.

Kendra froze and stared at her. "Lady Priscilla."

"Lady Priscilla?"

"Colin's Lady Priscilla."

"Oh…"

Amy wasn't at all sure she wanted to meet the illustrious Priscilla, but she hadn't much of a choice, as Kendra grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into the shop.

"Lady Priscilla." Amy had never heard Kendra sound so sickly sweet, nor seen such a false smile plastered on her face. "It's a pleasure to see you."

"Lady Kendra." Priscilla's voice was cultured and emotionless, as though she ran into acquaintances everywhere and nothing ever surprised her. She leaned over and pecked Kendra on the cheek; a casual kiss between ladies was de rigueur upon meeting. "I didn't know you were in town. Is Colin back as well?"

"Oh, no. You know how he feels about the City," Kendra said significantly.

"Yes, but he was here barely a day last month."

"He's very busy at Greystone. Perhaps you should visit him there." Kendra's suggestion sounded sincere, although she'd told Amy that Priscilla loathed Colin's rustic home. "I'm sure he'd be glad to see you."

"Goodness, not in the state that place is in. Although I'd consider an invitation to Cainewood." Priscilla's cool gray gaze moved to Amy. "Who do we have here?"

"Forgive me for failing to introduce you," Kendra said smoothly. "This is Mrs. Amethyst Goldsmith. Amy, meet Lady Priscilla Hobbs."

Amy watched Priscilla look her over and instantly dismiss her as untitled and insignificant. "I'm glad of your acquaintance," Priscilla said with a small bored bow.

Amy opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. The very sight of Priscilla had rendered her speechless. God in heaven, if Priscilla were Colin's idea of the perfect woman…

Titles aside, she was Amy's complete antithesis. Priscilla was tall where Amy was diminutive, fair where she was rosy, straight where she was curvy, and cool where she was emotional. Priscilla's hair was blond, short, and styled, while Amy's was dark, long, and unruly.

And those were just the obvious differences.

Amy hadn't known it was possible to hate a virtual stranger. She felt like a sorry example of a human being, but she couldn't seem to help herself. If she believed in witchcraft, she'd surely be casting a spell forthwith.

Kendra nudged her with a discreet elbow. "I-I'm glad of your acquaintance," Amy managed to return.

Priscilla's pretty arched brows drew together in puzzlement. "Mrs. Goldsmith is a friend of yours?" She looked directly at Kendra, as though Amy weren't there, which Amy wished were the case.

"She's been staying with us since the fire. She lost her family and their jewelry shop."

"Their shop?" Priscilla's expression showed just what she thought of the Chases befriending a merchant, but the look also radiated annoyed indulgence—as though the Chases were known to be rather eccentric.

"We've known Amy for some time," Kendra stated defensively. As her fingers moved to the center of her neckline, where she'd pinned the bow-shaped jeweled galant that was her gift from Amy, a glint came into her eyes. "Our family has acquired much jewelry from hers. Colin especially."

"Colin?" Priscilla frowned. "Colin has never given me any jewelry."

Though Amy knew her friend was deliberately misleading Priscilla—Kendra must know Colin had bought only her locket and the ring for himself—she decided to play along. "I can assure you that Colin has often purchased jewelry, since he always asks for my assistance."

"Well then, perhaps Lord Greystone is waiting until after we are wed to gift me with it," Priscilla said with a sniff.

"Perhaps."

The single word was a challenge, but apparently Priscilla chose not to see it that way, since she looked straight past Amy to where the seamstress waited between the parted curtains. "Madame Beaumont, you are ready?"

"Certainement, my lady."

"It was a pleasure seeing you, Kendra," Priscilla said on her way into the fitting salon.

No such pleasantries were directed at Amy, who evidently was beneath common courtesy.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Lady Priscilla," she called out pointedly, if insincerely. But the curtain closed before Priscilla could reply, assuming such was her intention.

Somehow, Amy thought not.

"What a rude woman," she whispered to Kendra. "That is your brother's intended?"

"In all her glory." Kendra took Amy's arm as they headed into the street.

"I suppose this has been a bad day for her," Amy suggested, searching for a possible excuse for Priscilla's behavior.

"I doubt it. I call her Priscilla Snobs, you know." They shared a companionable smile before Kendra continued, "It makes Colin furious."

"Whatever does he see in her, I wonder?"

"You're not the only one."

Seeing their approach, Jason's coachman rushed to open the door. "We'd like to visit the New Exchange now," Kendra informed him before climbing into her brother's wood and leather carriage.

The coachman took her by the elbow to help her in. "As you wish, my lady."

Amy followed slowly, still thinking about Priscilla. She hadn't known what to expect, but Priscilla had turned out to be so perfectly upper class that any lingering unrealistic dreams Amy had harbored were swept away. No amount of heart-pounding attraction could entice Colin Chase to trade such an aristocratic paragon for plain Amy Goldsmith.

Even though she couldn't wed Colin whether he wanted her or not, it was a depressing thought. As she ruminated on it, she almost missed the voice that called from down the street. The shocked, all-too-familiar voice.

"Amy? Amy! Can that be you?"

"I wish they'd hurry and rebuild the Royal Exchange," Kendra lamented from inside the carriage. "It was so much better than the New Exchange."

Amy hesitated but a moment before rushing inside to join her. She pulled the door shut before the startled coachman had a chance to close it.

"What's happening, Amy?"

"Shh! Don't say my name out loud." She tugged the curtains over the windows, cursing the heavy traffic that perpetually clogged London's streets. "Oh, why can't we get going?"

The carriage gave a small lurch as it started into the center of the busy street, but it was too late. Bang! Bang! A fist hit the door, and the driver reined in the horses.

"Amy! I know you're in there!"

"Hey!" The driver jumped to the street with an audible thump. "Keep your hands off Lord Cainewood's carriage!"

Through a slit in the curtains, Amy glimpsed carrot-colored hair, but she needed no confirmation. Having worked with him for five years, she would have recognized Robert Stanley's voice anywhere.

"I don't give a damn whose carriage this is!" she heard him yell. "Amethyst Goldsmith is inside, and I must speak with her."

Amy bit her lip. The door opened and the driver asked, "Mrs. Goldsmith, do you know this gentleman?"

She decided to pretend she was surprised. "Robert!" She jumped out and wrapped her arms around the freckled man in a hug that was halfhearted at best, but she hoped would be convincing since she'd never been overly affectionate with him. "'I'm so glad to see you're well—I've been wondering about you," she gushed.

And it was true, in a way. Robert had been in her life a long time; she was relieved to see him whole and healthy.

"Your letter didn't say where you were," Robert said doubtfully, setting her away from himself. "Did you at least tell your Aunt Elizabeth? I wrote to her to find out, but I haven't heard back yet."

"Yes, I wrote to her," Amy said slowly. God in heaven…it hadn't occurred to her that Robert would contact her aunt. He would have found her even in Paris. She hadn't credited him with being that resourceful.

No, she corrected herself, she'd known all along that Robert was intelligent, though a bit unimaginative. The truth was, she'd done her best not to think of him and what he would do at all.

"I'm sorry," she said now, meaning it. "I should have found you to discuss matters. I wasn't thinking straight. I was…mourning. Devastated." She took a deep breath. "What have you been doing?"

Robert shuffled his feet on the slushy ground. "Looking for you. Helping my father a little. Drinking with my old chums at the King's Arms, mostly."

Not only drinking, Amy surmised, but eating his troubles away as well. He'd put on weight in the three months since she'd seen him.

Suddenly, he grabbed her by the shoulders. "I vow and swear, I cannot believe I've found you. I thought I'd never see you again."

When Amy didn't respond, he paused, apparently considering. "Were you ever going to try to find me?" he finally asked in a slow, suspicious tone.

Amy looked down at the street. She wished he'd let go of her, but he had her shoulders in an iron grip. A faint, stale smell of ale washed over her; she could taste it in her mouth. "Of course. I—I just got to the City," she hedged. "I've been staying with friends. Out in the country."

"Friends? Friends I don't know about?"

She lifted her head and shot him a bold look. "There's much you don't know of me, Robert."

"I'm coming to see that," he returned, dropping his arms to fold them across his chest. "Our wedding date passed, as you know. We shall have to reschedule."

Amy stared at him. "Did you not read my letter?"

"Wedding date?" Emerging from the shadowed corner of the carriage, Kendra stuck her head out. "Amy?"

Amy turned to her gratefully; this talk of weddings was making her ill. "Kendra, this is Robert Stanley. Robert, my friend Lady Kendra."

He aimed a curt nod at Kendra. "This is your friend?" he asked Amy bluntly. "The one you've been staying with?"

"Yes."

"Fancy carriage." He said it as though it were a crime to own one.

"It belongs to my brother," Kendra explained.

"Lord Something-or-other?"

"The Marquess of Cainewood."

Robert blinked and frowned, as though he were trying to remember something, then gave a quick shake of his head. He turned back to Amy. "So…when do you want to get married?"

"Never," she said quietly.

"You were promised to me." Robert's voice was low and deep and even more quiet than hers.

Too quiet.

Though Amy looked at him defiantly, she was shaking inside. She didn't want to hurt him, but she had to make him understand she had no intention of becoming his wife. "My father is dead. Everything has changed for me. And"—she lifted her chin—"and I don't have to marry you."

"Damn it, Amy, you're supposed to be mine. I waited and waited. The shop was supposed to be mine, too, but now it's gone. The inventory…" His eyes lit up. "Where is the inventory?"

Amy swallowed hard. "I don't want to marry you, Robert."

Robert's jaw was set. His pale blue eyes flashed with menace. "Where is the inventory?"

"I don't have it." Her voice wavered, but it wasn't quite a lie. She didn't have it here.

"I don't believe you. I went back to look, but found not a trace. No molten metal, no diamonds in the ashes. And diamonds don't turn to ash." He took a step closer. "Where is it, Amy?"

"I don't have it," she repeated shakily. "I—I have to go now." She turned to enter the carriage.

He grabbed her by the upper arm, swung her around, and dug his fingers in painfully. "The inventory is mine. I worked five years for it. Where is it?"

Amy winced and threw a worried glance at Kendra, spurring her friend into action. Kendra planted herself firmly in the doorway of the carriage. "Leave her alone!" she yelled at the top of her lungs. "She doesn't have it!"

Visibly shocked at this outburst, Robert turned on Kendra. "You stay out of this! It's not your concern."

Kendra's eyes narrowed recklessly. She came down from the carriage in a flash, curling one hand into a fist, which she propelled expertly into Robert's face. "Leave her alone, I tell you!"

Robert's pale eyes bugged out, and he dropped Amy's arm to grasp his rapidly reddening jaw.

With a triumphant grin, Kendra grabbed Amy's freed hand. "I haven't three brothers for nothing!" she informed nobody in particular, then jumped into the carriage, pulling Amy after her.

Amy stuck her head out and pinned Robert with a disdainful look. "Five years? My family worked five centuries for that jewelry. You learned your craft and were paid a fair wage, as well as bed and board. I owe you no more, and you'll never have more, Robert Stanley!"

She slammed and latched the carriage door.

Robert beat on it with both fists. "You're mistaken, Amethyst Goldsmith! I'll have the inventory yet, and you as well. You just wait!"

Inside the darkened carriage, Amy hunched over on the bench seat, covering her head with her hands so she wouldn't hear him. After what seemed an interminable wait, the vehicle jerked and started moving.

Amy straightened. "I'm sorry about that," she apologized, massaging her upper arm. She was certain to have marks from Robert's fingers.

"It's not every day I get to practice my boxing." Kendra's laugh was shaky. She rubbed her bruised fist ruefully. "God's blood, was he ever surprised!" She pushed open the curtains, and sunlight flooded the cabin. "Are you all right?"

Amy nodded mournfully. "I cannot believe what a perfect beast he was! And to think I almost married him." She shuddered.

"You never told me you were betrothed."

"I wanted to forget it. I never wanted to wed him in the first place—it was all my father's doing."

"He's so…he doesn't fit with you." Kendra's face turned contemplative. "He looked as though he might have an engaging grin when he's not angry, but he's short, bulky…soft-looking. I cannot imagine you with him. Now, you and—"

"He always scared me a little," Amy interrupted Kendra's musings. "He lived with us as our apprentice the past five years, but we'd been promised since we were children."

"Did you like him at all?"

"At first, until I got to know him. He had definite ideas of what he wanted in a wife, and they didn't mesh with mine. Still, I could have done worse, and my father was insistent." She shuddered again. "I'll never marry him, especially not after this," she declared vehemently. "Never, never, never."

Kendra frowned. "Your aunt won't expect you to wed him, will she?"

Amy thought a moment. Aunt Elizabeth was a warm, motherly type who wanted to see everyone around her happy. And she'd never been particularly fond of Robert. "No," she said at last. "No, I don't believe she will. Or my uncle, either."

"Then you've nothing to worry about. Robert doesn't know where to find you while you're staying with us—"

"And I'll be gone soon. Very soon." The sooner the better, she thought morosely.

Her time in England was really at an end.

Kendra leaned over to touch her hand, then suddenly grinned. "Five centuries?"

Amusement lightened Amy's mood. "Well…perhaps I exaggerated, just a little." When her eyes met Kendra's, they both burst out laughing.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Robert's alcohol-laden brain was trying to tell him something. Surrounded by his chums at the King's Arms, he was drinking too much and eating too little. He felt sick. Still, something in the back of his head was working its way out.

Kendra. Kendra. He took another swig. Was there not…

Yes! That bastard Greystone had a sister named Kendra.

They'd come into the shop only once, but the way the man had looked at Amy, and Amy's flushed reaction, still burned in his memory. He hadn't paid the sister any attention, but this could easily be the same woman.

He rubbed his aching jaw. This Kendra, with her iron fist, didn't look much like Greystone. Her hair was dark red while Greystone's was black, and her eyes were a lighter green than his, too. She was petite, and the bastard was tall—so tall that Robert had felt intimidated, although Greystone had ignored him.

Well, the sister intimidated him, too. Now.

Yes, she must be his sister. He squinted his bloodshot eyes, trying to better picture them both. They shared the same facial bone structure, he was sure of it, and the same shape eyes. And they both had the same cocky self-assurance.

And they were both "friends" of Amy's.

Amy. Beautiful, elusive Amy. She'd promised to marry him. For five long years he'd sat at her father's bench, with the promise of Amy and her riches in time.

The time had come. She was in London. If she wouldn't come with him willingly, he would have to force her. There were places he'd heard about, "privileged" churches where a man could marry a woman without posting banns, without taking out a license.

Without her consent.

He turned to the man next to him, one of the many who spent their evenings in this popular middle-class tavern. "Hey," he said, surprised to find his voice wavering, "have you knowledge of a privileged church? Not too far?"

"St. Trinity, in the Minories," the man answered.

"St. James in Duke's Place is another," a man sitting across the table put in. "They're the only two, I think. Claim they're outside the jurisdiction of the Bishop of London and can therefore make their own rules. M'sister was wed at St. James."

"Against her will?"

"Nah. She was just in a hurry. Got a predated certificate, too, so the babe wasn't early."

Robert nodded, digesting the information. Both Duke's Place and the Minories were nearby, just outside the old Roman wall. "I won't need a license or anything?"

"Nah. Just two crowns for the curate and a couple of witnesses."

Not a problem, thought Robert, imagining the stash of coins, gold, and gems that awaited him upon his marriage.

His stomach roiled, protesting another swig of ale. He was sorry it had come to this, sorry she wasn't wedding him of her own free will. But she was his due, and once the deed was done she'd get used to the idea. She'd come to his bed and bear his children. Eventually. She'd always been a cold one, anyway—he'd never expected much of her sexually.

And when she was his, everything she owned would be, too.

He looked up at his two drinking companions. "Either of you heard of Lord Greystone?"

"Nay, never heard of him," the man next to him muttered.

"Nah." The man across from him shook his head.

"Hey," he called out, his voice slurred. "Anyone here know a Lord Greystone? Colin Something-or-other?"

"Chase," someone called out. "Colin Chase." The man wore a long, crimped periwig and was dressed a tad more stylishly than the average patron of the King's Arms; Robert believed he could be acquainted with Colin Chase, or at least know of him.

"He got a brother? The Marquess of something?"

"Cainewood. The Marquess of Cainewood. Jason Chase."

"Right." And Amy had been riding in Cainewood's carriage, with Cainewood's sister. It all fit together.

Pleased with his powers of deduction, Robert paused for another swallow and dragged his sleeve across his mouth. "Anyone know where Cainewood lives? I'll pay someone"—he burped loudly—"ten shillings to show me where he lives."

There was a scraping of benches as men rose, eager to collect ten shillings for such an easy job. Robert wasn't so sotted, however, that he didn't realize most of them probably didn't know Cainewood's house from the London Bridge.

"You," he said. He rose unsteadily and pointed at the man who had answered his questions. "You're the one. Come along."

Gesturing for the man to follow, he stumbled through the door and out into the street. His companion pressed himself up against the wall as Robert paused to throw up in the gutter, his vomit barely adding to the refuse and filth already there.

Robert stood up, swiped a sleeve across his mouth, and let loose a loud belch. "That's better. Let's go."

Shaking his head in disgust, the man led the way all the same.

Ten shillings was ten shillings.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Amy jerked awake, struggling against a hand over her mouth—a grimy hand, smelling of ale and sweat and vomit. She gagged.

"Hush," came a hiss in her ear. "Make a sound and I'll kill you, I swear it. I've got a knife."

She froze at the sound of Robert's voice, but didn't believe him for a second. Jeweler's tools were the closest thing to a weapon he ever touched. He wouldn't know what to do with a serious knife if someone walked up and put it in his hand.

She lashed out at him, scratching at his face and kicking her legs wildly. He fell awkwardly on top of her, pinning her legs beneath his heavier ones. Her arms came around, and she sank her fingernails into his fleshy back.

"Damn it, Amy, I didn't want it to be like this," Robert whispered fiercely. His body held her crushed to the bed as he groped with a hand in the darkened room. Something fell and rolled along the floor. "Hell," he muttered, coming up on one elbow.

Her head exploded in pain. One second she was fighting for her life, and the next second the world went black.

Robert pulled himself off her, panting from unaccustomed exertion. The heavy candlestick thudded to the floor as he dropped to his knees and scrabbled under the bed for the candle. When his fingers closed around it, he ran to the fireplace to light it and rushed back to examine Amy.

A thin trail of blood ran from her scalp down her forehead. For a minute Robert panicked, searching incompetently for a pulse. He pressed his ear to her chest, heard her heart beating, felt the rise and fall of her even breathing. Thank God. Dead, she was useless to him.

He needed to marry her to get his hands on her fortune.

He ripped long strands of the sheet and tied one around her head as a crude bandage, used another as a gag, and a third to bind her hands together. Hoping she'd cooperate and walk when she awakened, he left her feet unbound.

He wrapped her awkwardly in one of the blankets, then grabbed her under the arms and tugged her limp form off the bed. He hadn't counted on the dead weight. Petite Amy felt heavy as a horse. Pausing twice to rewrap the blanket around her, he dragged her to the open window, where a ladder waited.

With a mighty effort, he hefted her inert body over one shoulder and ducked out, feeling for the ladder with an unsteady foot. Balancing her precariously, he lurched down a rung at a time, more than relieved when the hackney driver met him halfway and relieved him of his heavy burden.

The driver dumped Amy onto the bench seat, and Robert climbed inside. "You know where to go," he growled under his breath, sending the man up top with a wave of his hand.

He wedged himself next to Amy and fought to catch his breath as the cab squeaked through the quiet streets.

The sidelamp threw light into the interior, casting a yellowish glow onto Amy's slack face. Thankfully, her wound was superficial, the bandage stained but the bleeding stopped. He tucked the errant blanket tighter around her, then slumped against the side of the coach, relieved and exhausted.

A bellman called the hour of midnight, the words resonating through the thick, clammy fog. Three-quarters of an hour later, the springless cab bumped through Aldgate and into Duke's Place, rattling to a stop in front of St. James.

The door was unlocked, it being a church, but no one was inside. Robert walked to the altar, his footsteps on the stone floor echoing in the deserted chamber. Votive candles were set about the sanctuary, flickering, contributing to the eerie atmosphere.

Robert had never been in an empty church before. Truth be told, he hadn't been in a church at all in recent memory. In his opinion, life was for living, and there would be ample time for regret and penance when he was older.

He shivered.

"Anyone here?" he called, half expecting the figure on the cross to look down and answer him. But it didn't, of course. The sanctuary was silent save for his own breathing, which sounded louder and louder as he became more agitated.

The place was giving him the creeps. Everyone knew that dead clergymen were buried under the floors of these churches, and suddenly Robert was certain one of their ghosts was about to pop up and grab him. He turned and ran down the aisle and out the door.

"No one's there," he yelled at the hackney driver, as though it were his fault.

The driver shrugged. "It's Saturday evening."

It was actually Sunday morning by now, but Robert didn't bother arguing. Besides, what if someone needed a priest on a Saturday night? They must be available, somewhere. "Take me to St. Trinity, in the Minories," he ordered before jumping into the cab and kicking the half-door shut.

The driver shrugged again, then took a swig of the brandy he carried with him against the winter chill. He didn't care if the gentleman wasted his time. Robert had promised him a full evening's pay, and he'd quoted triple his usual night's take and demanded half in advance.

St. Trinity was a scant three streets away, much too close for Robert, still unrecovered from the last stop. The deserted streets contributed to his unease. Londoners stayed inside at night, venturing outdoors only for necessary travel, and then generally with an escort of footmen and linkboys to light the way. The Act of 1661 required citizens to hang lamps outside their houses on dark nights, but no one complied; the unlit, foggy streets were spooky, and Robert felt nervous and shaky.

He forced himself to get out of the cab and slowly walked up to the massive church doors.

Inside, St. Trinity looked much like St. James. His feet made a shuffling sound as he crossed the threshold, and his heart hammered in his chest as he scanned the flickering, shadowed walls. When a door at the other end opened, he jumped, letting out a little shriek.

A florid, balding man stuck his head into the sanctuary and smiled. "Feel free to pray here, my son. Problems seem smaller when you share them with our Lord."

The curate stepped out into the sanctuary, and Robert saw that he was plump and healthy, evidently well fed and cared for, unlike most parish priests. Apparently the curate of a privileged church enjoyed a highly lucrative position. The man didn't look frightening in the least.

The whole chamber seemed to lighten, and Robert heaved a sigh of relief. "I've come to get married, Father."

The clergyman looked pleased. "Ah, I see. Have you need of a—shall we say 'special'—certificate?"

"Nay, the date matters not. But the lady is…reluctant."

"That's none of my concern. The price will be three crowns."

"I heard tell it was two."

"Two and a half, then. Special, for you."

"Done." In truth, Robert would have paid ten crowns or more, and gladly, for securing Amy and her riches.

He turned toward the door, intending to fetch Amy posthaste and get it over with. He hoped mightily that she had awakened, or that it wouldn't matter either way to the curate.

"I'll see you Monday morning, then," the curate called out.

"Monday?" He swung back. "I—can we not do it now?"

The clergyman smiled wider, showing large, uneven teeth. "The Sabbath approaches, my son. There will be no weddings until Monday."

"But…"

"Bring with you two witnesses and a pistol—the latter will make it go faster." He winked at Robert. "I have five other weddings Monday, so come early or expect to wait. Good evening." He disappeared, shutting the door behind him, leaving Robert standing openmouthed.

Where was he going to get a pistol? And, even more difficult, whatever would he do with Amy until Monday? He cursed himself, loudly, for acting without planning first, then clapped a hand over his mouth. Surely cursing in a house of the Lord was much worse than cursing elsewhere.

He bolted for the door.

His heart was pounding so hard that it took him a few moments to notice the hackney's door was wide open and he could hear someone running down the street.

Amy had escaped.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Amy ran as fast as she could, clutching the blanket in front where her hands were tied together. It flapped behind her, floating in the draft, not providing any warmth to speak of. But she held on to it for dear life, knowing it could save her from freezing to death later on, if she couldn't find shelter.

With every jarring step, pain burst in her throbbing head. Racing along the scum-lined street, she stumbled over rocks and debris. A sharp sliver sliced into one bare foot, but she scarcely noticed. She developed a stitch in her side as she turned the corner onto Whitechapel, but she scarcely noticed that, either. She was too preoccupied with the pounding feet she heard approaching—feet that were bound to be Robert's, since she'd seen no other soul in the gray, foggy night.

She ducked into a narrow space between two buildings and hunched over there, trying with little success to maneuver the blanket around her shivering shoulders. The nightgown she'd borrowed from Kendra was all but useless against the winter cold.

Robert ran past, panting heavily, a dark shadow against the fog. She held her breath and flattened herself against one of the walls, trying to make herself invisible.

As his echoing footsteps faded away, Amy released her breath. The stench of rotting refuse permeated her nostrils, making her want to gag. Still, she forced herself to stay motionless, pressed against the rough, cold stone wall for what seemed like hours, but she knew was only minutes.

As the chill seeped into her body, penetrating to her very bones, she listened. She heard a baby crying, a couple's raised, angry voices, her own heart thudding in her chest.

The footsteps didn't return.

Minutes ticked by. She grew colder still; she would have to find shelter soon. Barefoot, clad in only a thin white nightgown and blanket, gagged and with her wrists bound, she imagined herself to be quite a sight. Regardless, someone would doubtless help her, take her in for the night, if only she could get to their front door. The arguing couple was her best bet—at least she knew they were home and awake.

Not an attractive alternative, but she was in no position to be choosy.

She waited a few more agonizing minutes, while her heart slowed to its normal rhythm, her breathing became more regular, and her shivering escalated to new heights. Finally convinced she had escaped successfully, she decided to venture forth.

Her deep, fortifying breath created a cloud in the frigid air. She peeled herself away from the wall and limped to the edge of the buildings. Her eyes now adjusted to the unlit London streets, she stuck her head out and looked both ways, seeing nothing that alarmed her, although she couldn't see far through the fog.

She thought the bickering couple lived across the narrow street, down Whitechapel to the right. The hazy yellow of a lit window in approximately the right place confirmed her guess.

Steeling herself to leave her cramped, freezing cold haven of safety, she counted. One, two, three…now.

She bolted across the street, angling toward the comforting light of the window. Suddenly, a rickety noise sliced through the blanket of fog as a coach came barreling around the corner. Releasing a whimper of fright that was muffled by the gag in her mouth, she dropped her blanket in the middle of the street and, reaching the other side, took a sharp left, running the opposite direction of the coach's travel.

It was no use. Before the hackney even screeched to a halt, Robert jumped off and gained on her immediately.

A fierce tug on the back of her nightgown brought her stumbling to her knees. She broke her fall with her elbows and bound fists. Numb with cold and shock, she scarcely registered the new scrapes. Moments later, Robert threw himself on top of her, forcing her facedown into the dirt and knocking the wind out of her lungs.

"Hell and furies!" he hollered. "Did you think you could actually escape me?"

Even had she not been gagged and breathless, she wouldn't have answered him.

Darkness had closed in again.

Morning sun fought to illuminate the room through a small dirt-streaked window. Blinking in the dimness, Amy struggled toward consciousness. Although she was alone and ungagged, her hands were still bound together. Beneath the dirty, threadbare blanket, her feet were tied to the bedposts.

She lay still, taking stock of herself. Her head ached, her knees and elbows burned, her body felt stiff and sore, bruised all over. She needed a chamber pot, but that would have to wait.

Diminished but still whole, she was determined to fight Robert to her last breath.

Her scraped elbows were roughly crusted over with new scabs that cracked and opened when she moved. She licked her dry lips, tasting coppery blood in the corners where the gag had rubbed them raw. She tested the bonds on her wrists, twisting them experimentally. They chafed horribly, the skin red and abraded. But, with patience and her teeth, she was sure she could untie the cloth strips. This time, however, she'd have a plan before she did anything.

The room gave no clue to her location. The window was so obliterated with dirt that she had no view of the outside. Dark shadows against the panes told her it was barred, anyway. The plain chamber contained nothing more than her flea-ridden bed, a rough table, and two chairs on a filthy, bare wooden floor. A paltry fire gave off little warmth and a fair amount of smoke, laid as it was in a blackened fireplace that had long been in need of cleaning.

She had no memory of her arrival here. She thought she'd been in Whitechapel when she made the aborted attempt at freedom, but she could be a day's ride from there for all she was aware of the lapse of time. She would have to wait for Robert's return before she could begin to plot her escape.

Closing her eyes, she prayed for the oblivion of sleep.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Colin leaned low over the saddle, his hands clenched on the reins, the paper crumpled in one fist. It wasn't possible to read it while Ebony's pounding hooves ate up the miles of rutted road, but Ford's scribbled words were burned into his brain.

Amy is missing. Come immediately.

His heart had been hammering since he'd set eyes on the cryptic note. He'd wasted no time setting out for London, his fevered imagination conjuring up scenes featuring every possibility, from Amy deciding to leave on her own, to Amy lying dead in a ditch, a pistol wound in her chest.

The wind whipped past as he barreled along, praying to a God he rarely addressed, save in the questionable form of a favorite curse or two. He made the most outlandish promises, bargaining with the Almighty for Amy to be returned unharmed. He would attend church every Sunday (no one did). He would give all his riches to the needy (what riches?). He would somehow persuade Priscilla to marry him immediately, and never spare a single thought for Amethyst Goldsmith again.

This last promise was the most unlikely of all.

He'd been fighting with himself for months now. It was a losing battle. As he shot through the City gates, one spurred boot nicked a vegetable barrow. He turned in the saddle, watched lemons and artichokes plop to the muddy street, yelled an apology to the vendor…and finally admitted to himself that he couldn't be happy living without Amy.

The truth was it mattered little whether they were parted by his own choice or the actions of a faceless criminal. The thought of whiling away his years at Greystone without her—whether she was growing old with her aunt, married to another man, or cold in her grave—made him sick in his gut. She was meant to be his.

He loved her.

Bloody hell, when had that happened? The admission was wrenched from a realm beyond reason or logic. His head reeling, he fought for breath, swearing to God and himself that he would personally see to her safe return. After that, they would come to some kind of arrangement. Priscilla would have to understand.

Understand what, he wasn't sure…

Ebony was lathered long before Colin reached Lincoln's Inn Fields, but he merely tossed the reins to a groom instead of rubbing the horse down himself as he normally would after a hard ride. He threw open the front door of the town house and raced into the marble entry, heedless of the mud on his boots.

"Jason! Ford! Kendra!"

"Colin, thank God you're here." Kendra appeared from around the corner and threw herself at him. "We've been beside ourselves with worry."

"Jason isn't home." Ford bounded down the stairs. "He left early this morning, before we discovered—"

"Discovered what?" Colin pulled Kendra's arms from around his neck and set her away. "Tell me what you know, now," he demanded.

She bit her lip. "Yesterday Amy and I visited Madame Beaumont. When we came out—"

"—Amy ran into a man named Robert, and they had a huge row," her twin finished for her.

Colin held up a hand. "Robert Stanley?"

"I cannot remember his surname," Kendra said, "but he was her father's apprentice, and he was betrothed to Amy."

"Robert Stanley," Colin forced through clenched teeth. "Go on."

Kendra took a deep breath and beckoned him up the stairs. "When she told him she'd no wish to marry him, he lost control. He seized her and threatened her—"

"—and Kendra punched him in the jaw." Ford paused on the landing. "Can't you just picture it?"

Kendra's eyes flashed green fire. "This is serious, Ford! And it was clearly a half-witted move on my part. Amy is gone."

"What happened then?" Colin snapped.

She turned down the corridor. "He was shocked—and gravely injured, I'm hoping. In any case, he let go of Amy, and we jumped into the carriage and rode away."

"But not"—Ford stopped, his hand on the latch to Amy's door—"before he claimed he would have Amy's jewelry and Amy as well. It looks like he meant it." He pushed open the door.

Colin was struck by a blast of cold air.

Momentarily dazed, he walked to the open window and peered outside. Below, a ladder rested against the house. He swung back around. The fire had long since burned out, and judging by the frigid temperature of the chamber, the window had been open for some time. Bedclothes littered the floor, and the blanket was missing.

"We left it as we found it," Kendra whispered. "Look."

Colin followed her gesture to the bed. Spots of blood dotted the sheets.

He dropped to sit on the mattress. A rose scent—Amy's scent—wafted into the air. "You think he's made off with her?"

Kendra knelt at his feet and rested her head against his knee. "It's the only explanation. Amy would never leave without telling us. And the blood…she might be dead. Oh, Colin."

One hand absently rubbed her bright curls while his other fingers traced the dark red spots on the sheet. Blood. Amy's blood. His stomach knotted, and he couldn't seem to think straight.

Ford paced the room. "As usual, Kendra, you're jumping to conclusions. There are but a few drops of blood here, and none trailing toward the window—I doubt she was seriously injured, let alone murdered. Why would this fellow want to kill her, anyway? You said he wanted to marry her."

"But she wasn't agreeable," Kendra wailed. "I'm telling you, he was furious."

"Look here." Ford pointed to Amy's trunk in the corner of the room. "He hasn't taken the jewelry, has he?"

"No…"

"Perhaps he means only to persuade her to marry him."

"By wounding her? For God's sake, Ford, think. He's taken her. If she's not dead, he obviously intends to ransom her, for her own jewelry or our money."

With a violent shake of his head, Colin regained his senses. He rose and went to the window, shutting it with a resounding bang. "I doubt he intends to ransom her. He cannot be at all certain we'd pay—we're not even related." Colin's mind raced. In truth, he wasn't sure whether he was relieved or alarmed that Amy's abductor seemed to be her ex-betrothed, rather than some crazed criminal. "Are you sure he knows where the jewelry is?"

"No." Kendra stood up slowly. "No. She didn't actually admit to having it."

"I assumed as much." Ford shot a meaningful look at the trunk. "Otherwise, he wouldn't have left it here."

Kendra stamped her foot. "All right, we bow to your scientific logic. What do you think this is about, then?"

"My guess is, he plans to compromise her, figuring she'll agree to wed him once the deed is done. Then he'll own her fortune outright."

"He wouldn't do that!"

"Grow up, Kendra. It happens all the time."

"She cannot be compromised; she's not even a vir—"

"This Robert doesn't know that, does he?" Ford tilted his head, slanting her a condescending look.

Her face reddened. "But—"

"Ford is right." Colin's voice was a command.

The twins turned and stared at him.

Under the circumstances, his imagined scenarios of violent death seemed improbable. On the other hand, Ford's conclusion of rape followed by coerced marriage seemed chillingly possible.

Colin took deep breaths to keep from retching at the thought. Hands fisted at his sides, he strode to the door, then whirled to face his brother and sister. "Stay here, in case we're wrong and a ransom note arrives. I'll be back. With Amy."

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The screech of a key working a rusty lock brought Amy instantly alert.

Finally.

Robert slunk in and shut the door behind him, taking pains to lock it before he turned to face her. His pale blue eyes impaled her as he slowly slipped the key into the pocket of his loose breeches. If only she could reach that key, she'd be halfway out of here. But it was impossible at the moment.

Patience, she reminded herself, forcing herself to breathe in a slow, measured rhythm.

He looked much the worse for wear. His shirt was torn, his fawn-colored breeches wrinkled and filthy. His hair hung in lanky strings, and the freckles on his face were obscured by a thin coat of grime. Then again, she thought wryly, she was hardly in a position to pass judgment. Clad in nothing but a ripped nightgown, bruised and bloody, it wasn't likely she presented an appealing picture herself.

"How are you?" he finally asked.

Her answer was a scornful roll of her eyes. Regardless of her firm decision not to agitate him, she couldn't bring herself to engage in conversation as though her situation were ordinary.

"Very well, then. Are you ill?"

"No."

"Are you injured?"

"Not mortally."

"Good," he said, striding over to the fireplace. He tossed another log inside, then wiped his hands on his dirty breeches. "I've got some errands to run. I just wanted to see that you were all right before I left." He headed for the door.

She couldn't let him go so fast. She knew nothing that could help her make plans. "Where am I?" she blurted out.

He hesitated, then turned back. "At an inn," he answered slowly.

"But where?"

"It doesn't signify. You'll be here only until tomorrow."

"And then?"

"I'll let you know later. When I'm prepared."

For what? The words stuck in her throat; she knew it would be useless to ask. "Wait!" she called when he turned to leave again. "I have to…you know…use the chamber pot."

His lips puckered, but he strode to the bed and reached underneath, retrieving a dusty, chipped pot. When he lifted the edge of the blanket, Amy moved her bound wrists to press down on it.

"Robert, no!" She'd rather lie in a wet bed than have him assist her in this matter.

"Did you honestly think I would untie you?"

"Just my hands, please. I promise I won't try anything."

He stared at her, the sound of his heavy breathing filling her ears while she shifted on the bed. "Very well," he said at last. "But only your hands."

He newly abraded her wrists as he unbound them, but she gritted her teeth and held her tongue. He slipped the chamber pot under the blanket and stepped away, turned his back and waited expectantly.

Mortified, Amy gasped. "You have to leave."

He swung back around. "Oh, no…no, I don't."

"Please. You cannot do this to me, Robert." She thought quickly. "I'm sorry we quarreled yesterday," she lied. "I—I'm sure we can work something out. And—and we cannot really start this way if we're going to be happy together."

His eyes bore into hers. She met his gaze, willing him to believe her.

The fire crackled on the hearth.

"I'll wait outside, but for only two minutes," he said at last and unlocked the door. "Then I'm coming back in, whether you're ready or not."

When he pulled out a pocket watch, Amy recognized the ruby-encrusted case that he'd labored hours over, back in the days when life was normal. With a meaningful glance in her direction, he flipped open the lid and stepped out into the corridor, banging the door closed behind him.

Inspired by his threat, she finished in record time. Leaning halfway off the bed to set the chamber pot on the floor, she was contemplating whether she had enough time left to untie her ankles, when he barged in. She bolted upright.

"Finished?"

She nodded mutely. He retied her wrists, yanking the knot tight in a silent show of domination, then peeked beneath the blanket near her feet.

Her heart pounded at the thought that he might have discovered her duplicity.

When he reached the door, he turned back to face her. "You know, I'm not nearly the simpleton you think I am. But you'll learn that over time."

And he turned and left, locking the door behind him.

Colin strode out the door of the town house, his stomach churning with anxiety and frustration. Amy-Amy-Amy-Amy-Amy, repeated over and over in his brain, accomplishing nothing but the beginnings of a massive headache.

He had to find her, but how? London was bursting at the seams with buildings and humanity, and Robert could have taken her anywhere.

Assuming it was Robert who had taken her. And assuming they were still in London. The sheer number of possibilities was overwhelming.

Leaning against the stable wall while his horse was resaddled, Colin forced his pulse to steady and his head to clear. He took slow, deep breaths, rubbing the white star on Ebony's forehead in a soothing rhythm.

Robert. How could he find Robert?

The man must have family somewhere. And that family would be jewelers, no doubt. Robert had been Hugh Goldsmith's apprentice, and if Colin understood how the guild system worked, apprenticeships were arranged between families well nigh at birth. He would lay odds that Robert's father was in the same business.

He just had to find the elder Mr. Stanley.

Robert returned several hours later, his freckled face scrubbed clean, his damp orange hair slightly curling at the ends. He was dressed in an immaculate brown suit, the jacket's wide cuffs trimmed in icy blue, the loose breeches beribboned with poufs of blue loops. As he entered, he unfastened his knee-length cloak and folded it over the back of a chair, revealing a starched white, lace-bordered cravat tied neatly at his throat and secured with a diamond brooch. His wide-brimmed hat boasted a blue ostrich plume and a jeweled hatband. He swept it off his head and tossed it on the battered wooden table with a flourish.

"I'm ready," he announced.

Amy eyed him dubiously. Clearly he was decked out for an important occasion—he almost looked handsome in his finery. She lifted her head to inspect him more closely. "Ready for what?"

"Our wedding."

Nonplussed, she dropped her head back to the dirty pillow. A puff of dust whooshed out, clogging her nostrils and making her cough. How could he think she would agree to marry him now, after a forcible abduction? It was beyond her comprehension.

This was hardly her idea of courtship.

When she offered no comment, he continued, his cheerfulness unabated. "Of course, today's Sunday, so we'll have to wait until tomorrow. But I decided to ready myself now, since I don't plan to leave you again beforehand. It makes me nervous."

So now she was stuck with him. This turn of events was unlikely to facilitate her escape, which she was more determined than ever to achieve. In the course of the past twenty-four hours, she'd decided that besides harboring an unforetold capacity for violence, Robert was quite obviously insane.

A shadow of discomfort crossed his face. He flexed his shoulders restlessly before dropping into a chair. "Aren't you going to say anything?"

"I'm not marrying you," she said bluntly.

In answer, he rose from the chair and reached behind his back, drew a pistol from the waistband of his breeches, and set it on the table. Softly, but she heard the metallic thud. "Yes, you are marrying me."

Amy was fairly certain he'd never use the gun on her—or anyone else, for that matter. She doubted he knew how to load it, let alone shoot it. But apparently she wasn't able to hide her apprehension, because Robert reseated himself with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

"We've an appointment at St. Trinity tomorrow morning," he explained. "I have two witnesses meeting us here. We'll tie you up and cover you with my cloak. The proprietor here already believes you're ill; he'll think naught when we carry you out and over toward the church."

St. Trinity was in the Minories. If he planned on carrying her there, they must still be in the City, or at least somewhere in greater London. That was welcome news.

Robert would have to leave sometime, at least to order some food, and perhaps she could untie herself, knock him senseless upon his return, steal the key and escape, losing herself in the rabbit warren of streets that made up London. She'd take his cloak to cover her nightgown…

"…gown and slippers will be delivered for you within the hour," Robert was saying. So she'd have something to wear. Things were looking up. "I've arranged for food to be delivered." Damn. There went his reason for leaving. "Are you hungry?"

"It doesn't signify. I wouldn't sit at table with you in either case."

"You're right. You're staying in that bed."

They glared at each other. Robert looked away first.

Amy kept her gaze on him. "No banns have been posted."

"No matter. It's a privileged church. You've heard of them, I presume?"

She nodded curtly. "I won't say 'I will.'"

"Oh, you'll say it." He picked up the pistol and hefted it as emphasis to his words. "I doubt the curate cares what you say, anyway. So long as he gets his blunt."

He had an answer for every protest. Nonetheless, from somewhere deep inside, Amy was confident she'd find a way out.

The alternative was too ghastly to consider.

CHAPTER FORTY

"I don't know where he is, my lord. I'm sorry."

"Think, Mr. Stanley. Please," Colin begged. "I must find her. I—I love her."

There. He'd said it. Out loud, to another human being.

Sadly, his confession, however difficult, didn't seem to make any profound impression on Robert's father. "I'm sure Robert loves her too, my lord," James Stanley said warily.

He was an older, much fatter version of Robert, exhibiting the likely result of an inactive life seated at a jeweler's bench. He looked affable enough, in much the same way Robert did. Still, the sheer resemblance of the two men led to Colin's instant resentment.

Was this jealousy? If so, it was a deucedly intolerable emotion.

"She's been promised to him since they were children," Mr. Stanley continued in a reasonable tone of voice. "They come from similar backgrounds. They can build a life together. What can you offer her?"

"That is none of your damn business."

James Stanley's face shut down, the straight line of his mouth indicating his unwillingness to cooperate.

Colin sighed, dropping his head. He stared down through the glass of the empty jewelry case. The little shop was closed, it being Sunday, but Colin had pounded on the door until Mr. Stanley came downstairs.

Confident until now, Colin had been on his quest for half a day already. Cheapside was still in ashes; no one near the ruins of Goldsmith & Sons had known of Robert Stanley. But on the Strand, home to more than fifty jewelers for the past two centuries, he'd hit gold: the elder Stanley's name and location.

Weaving Ebony across town through London's afternoon traffic, Colin's spirits had remained high. He was counting on a potent combination of ingenuity and sheer determination to help him locate Amy in this city of over a quarter million inhabitants, and he'd convinced himself James Stanley would know his son's plans.

But apparently Mr. Stanley either didn't know or wouldn't tell. And now Colin had alienated him with that thoughtless, hotheaded remark. He swore silently at himself; he hardly recognized the man he'd become since he found Amethyst Goldsmith outside her blazing shop.

He stared down at his reflection in the case's glass, and narrowed green eyes stared back up at him. His jaw was tense, his mouth twisted into a threat. He blinked, shocked at his forbidding countenance. He wouldn't send such a man after his son, either, he supposed.

Determined to regain his self-control, he forced his lips to part in a stiff, toothy smile and looked back up at James Stanley. "I just want to make sure this is what Amy wants. I would never harm her, physically or otherwise."

"Robert would never harm her, either," the older man snapped.

Colin lifted his chin, meeting Stanley's icy blue gaze—so like Robert's—straight on. "There was blood on the sheets, Mr. Stanley." The words were calm, unemotional. Inside, Colin was seething, but this man was his best hope for information, so he couldn't afford to let him see it.

James Stanley blinked, and his sharp indrawn breath revealed his shock. "I honestly don't know where he is," he said after a few moments. "He doesn't confide in me. But he spends his free hours at the King's Arms, on Holborn."

Robert pushed the spoon between Amy's lips, but it met clenched teeth. "Damn it, Amy, you have to eat. I won't have you fainting in church tomorrow."

"Untie me, and I'll feed myself. Otherwise…" She shrugged.

Robert dropped the spoon in the bowl. Ragout of mushrooms, sweetbreads and oysters splashed up, brown bits landing on the coverlet. "Have it your way. You'll let me feed you when you get hungry enough."

Never, Amy thought. She'd never grant him the satisfaction.

He rose from the bed, wandered to the window, and rubbed a fist on the grimy pane in an effort to see out. Then, giving up, he threw himself onto one of the wooden chairs, his legs sprawled out in front of him in an awkward attempt to recline.

Amy's carefully veiled eyes followed his every move. He was growing bored, tired of waiting. Good. Perhaps he'd become restless enough to consider leaving for a while.

He yawned, loudly, not bothering to cover his mouth. She grimaced at the sight of his overlapping teeth, wondering how she'd ever had the stomach to let him kiss her.

He yawned again. This was encouraging. If he fell asleep, she'd have a chance to untie herself. She ground her teeth lightly, anticipating using them to loosen her bonds.

A knock at the door jerked Robert back to life.

"About time," he growled, rising to answer it.

A man pushed a large box into Robert's arms. Reaching into his pocket, Robert fished out a coin and slapped it into the man's palm, then turned and kicked the door shut behind him. He set the box on the table. "Want to see it?"

Without waiting for an answer, he threw aside the box's lid and pulled out an ice-blue gown. Shaking it out, he held it up. "See? It matches my suit," he pointed out with a foolish grin.

He was obviously pleased with himself, his good humor restored. And why not? Amy reflected. He'd planned everything down to the last detail, and it was all proceeding perfectly.

"We'll appear the proper bride and groom," Robert boasted.

Amy snorted. Matching his outfit was the last item on her list of priorities. She had to admit, though, he had good taste.

However had he managed to procure such a lovely gown on a few hours' notice on a Sunday? The satin was embroidered with silver flowers and leaves, and scattered clusters of pearls suggested bunches of grapes. He spread it across the foot of the bed and laid coordinating blue slippers on top; they looked as though they might fit.

Amy was heartened. In such a gown she could flag down a hackney without the driver suspecting she had no means to pay. Another problem was solved.

She allowed herself a smile—but just a tiny one, so he wouldn't suspect.

The sign on the middle-class tavern swung gently in the light wind, the words "Kings Arms" spelled out in bright new paint. Colin stepped inside.

The clientele were seated in convivial bunches at long, clean-scrubbed wooden tables with matching benches. They were by and large a well-off group, although not of the aristocracy—merchants and solicitors, architects and publishers, gathered to share the news and some companionship at the end of a busy day. Many drank coffee, well known as a means of overcoming drowsiness and stimulating the wits, and the cheerful room was filled with the buzz of animated conversation and the faint scent of tobacco smoke. Colin could well imagine that a titled peer or two stopped by this warm, friendly establishment when they felt like slumming with the common people.

From behind a serving counter, the proprietor looked up then bustled over. Noting Colin's sword and spurs, and the fine fabric and cut of his surcoat, he immediately took him for exactly what he was.

"May I be of service, my lord…?"

"Greystone. I'm looking for a man said to frequent this establishment, a Robert Stanley."

The proprietor's dark, intelligent eyes scanned the room. "Your information is correct. However, he's not here now."

"Perhaps someone here may know of his whereabouts?"

"That's a possibility. He usually sits over there—men are creatures of habit, you know."

He indicated a table in the center of the room, crowded with jovial young men with tankards of ale before them. Their conversation ceased as Colin approached.

He did his best to put a smile in his voice as well as on his face. "I'm looking for Robert Stanley."

Silence reigned for a moment, the faces around the table cautious and suspicious. "Is he in some sort of trouble?" one man asked slowly. "Lately, he's been—"

His words were cut off when the man beside him dealt him a sharp elbow in the ribs.

The smile left Colin's face. He surveyed the table, focusing on each of Robert's friends in turn. "This is a matter of some urgency. It seems Mr. Stanley has abducted a lady of our mutual acquaintance. I'll pay for information."

Friendship apparently went only so far. Whether it was the severity of the charge or the offer of money, Colin didn't know, but the men suddenly came alive.

"He's been searching for his betrothed for weeks. Is it her? She may have gone willingly."

"He paid someone to show him the Marquess of Cainewood's house."

"Yesterday, he asked where to find a privileged church. I told him St. Trinity, in the Minories."

"I told him m'sister was wed at St. James."

Privileged churches. A forced marriage. Colin wanted to kick himself for not thinking of the possibility. He could have saved hours by simply enquiring as to where such churches were located and riding straight there.

Well, Ford's hunch, though slightly miscalculated, had led him to the truth. Colin drew a deep breath.

He was on the right track.

"Might anyone know where Mr. Stanley is now?"

The men shook their heads. "He hasn't been here since yesterday," one of them volunteered.

"Where is St. James?"

"In Duke's Place."

"Thank you, gentlemen." Colin dug in his pouch and threw a handful of silver coins on the table. He left without another word, at a run.

The two churches in question were just outside the City walls, and Amy had been taken last night. If Robert Stanley had timed it early enough, she might be a wife already.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Robert leaned back, balancing precariously on the hind legs of the rickety wooden chair, picking at his teeth with a fingernail. "So…are you ready to talk?"

Watching him, Amy shuddered. She hoped he'd fall over and crack his head open. "You mean, discuss something? As though you still lived in my father's house and we cared about each other?"

"I care about you, Amy."

"You actually sound sincere." She lifted her tied wrists, the skin red and raw. "You have an unusual way of showing it."

He leaned forward, and the front chair legs met the floor with a loud bang. "That's for your own good. We were meant to be together, and you refused to cooperate. After we're wed— after you have my babe—you'll agree."

She'd never have his babe, Amy promised herself—never. She'd drink a thousand purges first. She'd throw herself down a staircase. Whatever it took.

"Where's the jewelry?" he asked suddenly.

She stared at him, unblinking. "I don't have it."

"That is quite obvious. And unfortunate, as I'm sure you'd like to choose a few pieces to complement your wedding gown tomorrow." He flashed a facetious grin, but it faded swiftly. "No matter. It will all turn up once the deed is done, won't it?" He rose from the chair, walked to the bed, and leaned over her. "Won't it?"

She spat in his face.

He hovered above her for a moment, disbelief marking his features. Then his hand shot out and slapped her across the face, snapping her head to one side.

Tears sprang to her eyes, but she wouldn't cry. She wouldn't allow him the gratification of seeing her reduced to a quivering bundle of emotion.

"That was a mistake," Robert ground out from between clenched teeth. "Care to try it again?"

She shook her head infinitesimally.

"Very well, then." He turned and slunk back to the chair, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankles. "Now, you said earlier you were sorry we quarreled, and you were willing to work something out. Were you lying?"

She didn't answer.

"Were you lying?"

She turned her head. "I won't marry you," she whispered to the wall.

"What? What did you say?"

"I won't marry you, Robert Stanley!" she fairly yelled. "Not now, not tomorrow, not ever!"

She knew it was the wrong thing to do; she should act as though she were willing and wait for her chance to escape. But the rebel in her took over, and she couldn't help herself.

He leapt up to stand over her again. "Oh, yes, you will. I'm a second son. There are no jeweler's heiresses lining up to wed me. If I don't have you, I have nothing. That pistol"—he gestured toward the table—"will guarantee you'll marry me."

At that moment, he looked angry enough to use it.

"You'd never—" she started.

"And as insurance," he continued, his pale eyes flashing and wild, "I've a mind to take your maidenhead tonight." He paused, licking his rubbery lips as he considered the idea. "Ah, yes. A consummated betrothal is as good as a marriage, isn't it?"

Amy struggled up on her elbows. "Our betrothal papers burned in the fire. It would be your word against mine. My Aunt Elizabeth would swear her brother never betrothed me to the likes of you."

His face went slack, but only for an instant. "I can still ruin you for anyone else, can't I? You'd have no choice but to marry me then."

"You're too late, Robert Stanley," Amy shot back without thinking. "Someone else has already claimed the honor."

She glared at him, unflinching, even knowing how furious the admission was likely to make him.

He pounced on the bed, crouching over her with his hands on either side of her head. "Who was it?" He pushed his hands down at each word, for emphasis. "Who was it?"

She dared not tell him.

"Whoever it was, I'll kill him, I swear it. You're mine." The mattress continued to bounce, punctuating his words, swiftly escalating her diminished headache into a virulent pain.

His pale eyes narrowed as he growled deep in his throat. "It was Greystone, wasn't it? That bastard."

Evidently the fear on her face was all the confirmation he needed. He raised a fist and slammed it toward her, but she was ready and jerked her head to the side in time.

"Robert!" she screamed. "What have you turned into? Look at yourself!"

And miraculously, he did. He picked up his fist from where it was buried in the mattress and stared at it as though it were a foreign body. Then he slowly climbed off the bed and wandered over to the table.

He sat down, dropped his head to the surface with an audible bump, and stayed there, perfectly still.

Amy released her breath. She was shaking from head to toe.

She had to get out of here before he raped her. She choked back a sob at the mere thought, the possibility of him violating her body, pushing himself into her. It seemed a completely different act than what she'd done with Colin, and didn't think she could bear the disgust and humiliation.

Robert lifted his head from the table. His breath came in loud, ragged gasps. "You enjoyed it, didn't you?" he asked in an ominous, deep whisper. "Cold, proper Amethyst Goldsmith."

She flinched, but she didn't answer. She just watched his steely blue eyes, preparing herself to react should he attack her another time.

Silent moments ticked by. Robert's gaze remained locked on hers. His expression grew hard and resentful.

"You'd better pray you're not carrying his babe," he stated in a tone that was absolutely emotionless. "Because if you are, I swear I'll kill it."

A chill slithered down her spine.

"Robert Stanley," he said, "will not raise another man's child."

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Colin reached St. James, the first church outside Aldgate, just as the evening service was concluding.

The congregation was sparse. Religion had lost favor when Charles and his loose-moraled court took over London, and no one save a few tradesmen and peasants bothered attending church for anything but the obligatory baptisms, weddings, and funerals. No exception to the norm, Colin shifted impatiently, twisting his ring back and forth as the curate completed his boring, long-winded sermon.

The minute the parishioners began shuffling out, Colin strode toward the pulpit, jostling shoulders in his haste.

"Excuse me, Father," he called when he was but halfway down the aisle. "Did you marry a couple yesterday—he red-haired, and she small with black hair and—"

"Would you care to examine the marriage register, my son?"

Colin winced at the humor in the curate's voice; clearly the man was no stranger to lovesick swains having their intended brides stolen out from under them.

The register was duly produced, and there were nine recorded weddings dated the previous day—none of them Robert's or Amy's.

"Did you see them?" Colin persisted. "Perhaps you know where—"

"No one came to be wed yesterday who wasn't accommodated. Perhaps they went to St. Trinity?"

Colin was already out the door.

The marriage register at St. Trinity had logged eleven ceremonies, and Colin's heart seemed to grow larger in his chest as he scrutinized the long list. When he reached the end without seeing either name, he stumbled to a front-row pew and plopped down.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" the plump curate asked kindly.

"No, which is a relief. They didn't wed here, and they didn't wed at St. James." Amy was yet unmarried. Colin slumped on the bench, his pulse returning to normal.

Until another thought occurred to him.

He jumped up. "Is there another place in London where one can be wed—ah—in a hurry, without a license?"

Robert's friends had recommended only the two, but—

"Nay." The curate grinned, clearly pleased that he shared his lucrative business with only one other clergyman. "Not in London. In the countryside, near Oxford…"

Colin exhaled a long breath. "Too far to signify. They got a late start last night."

The curate ran his tongue over his uneven teeth, thinking. "This couple, from late last night. He wouldn't have had red hair, would he?"

Colin's heart skipped. "Yes! And she's small, dark-haired—"

"I never saw her. He said she was waiting outside, and she was likely to be…reluctant, I believe he termed it."

Thank God. Having abandoned Amy at the town house without so much as saying good-bye, a tiny, insecure part of Colin had been wondering if the blood could have been an honest accident, if Amy might marry Robert willingly, given the circumstances.

"I expect them back here in the morning."

"I must find them tonight. She could be injured…"

The clergyman frowned. "They're likely close at hand, as he's planning an early return. Perhaps at a nearby inn. You might try Fenchurch Street."

"Thank you, Father." Colin was so relieved he felt like kissing the fat, bald man, but he thought that would be improper with a man of God. Instead, he dropped a coin into the collection box on his way out.

The curate hurried to retrieve it when the door shut. Silver. His big teeth gleamed in the candlelight as he pocketed the coin.

He may have lost himself a wedding fee, but it didn't matter much. Over fifteen hundred anxious couples a year found their way to his altar.

No ransom note arrived.

A crackling fire warmed the drawing room, but the cold knot inside Kendra refused to thaw. Ford sat next to her and held her hand, which may have provided a small comfort if Jason's constant pacing weren't driving her to distraction.

She bit the inside of her cheek, worrying the soft flesh with her teeth. She couldn't shake the feeling that she was partially at fault. She should have checked on Amy much earlier. She should have taken Robert's threat more seriously. Over and over, she replayed yesterday's scene in her mind, looking for a clue to his plans.

Suddenly, the blood drained from her face, and she sat up straighter. "I just remembered something," she breathed.

Jason stopped in mid-track. "What?"

"He said he spent his time drinking at the King's Arms. Maybe someone there—"

"Oh, that is bloody useful information," Ford scoffed. "The King's Arms." He rolled his eyes. "There must be two dozen of them in town, at least. Not to mention the King's Head and other assorted royal body parts—why, half the taverns and inns have been renamed since the Restoration."

Kendra stood. Planting her feet in a wide stance, she placed her hands on her hips. "I cannot just sit here, waiting, any longer," she declared.

Ford's gaze swung to Jason's, inquiring, and Jason shrugged. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to ask around," he said with a sigh.

And Kendra was out the door, leaving her brothers to follow in her wake.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

As the sun disappeared, the grimy window darkened to black. Amy struggled to stay awake. Her life depended on it. If she nodded off and slept until morning, her chance for freedom would be lost.

And life as the forced bride of Robert Stanley wasn't worth living.

Her only hope lay in his falling asleep, deeply enough for her to escape her bonds and retrieve the key from his pocket. He had dozed a couple of times, but his body would jerk awake, his cold, suspicious eyes searching her out.

He hadn't said a word since he threatened to kill her child.

While she waited long hours for him to nod off, her emotions swung wildly. Deep inside, she seethed with mounting rage at his ability to control her just because he was bigger and stronger. Other young men took fencing lessons, trained with knives and pistols, spent hours in boxing parlors perfecting their skills. Not Robert. He spent his off-hours drinking, gambling, and wenching, and he had the soft physique to prove it. Yet that unhardened body was twice her weight, coupled with a deranged force that rendered her well-nigh helpless.

She lay still, as unobtrusive as humanly possible in an effort to avoid his wrath, feeling alternately angry, defiant, despairing, determined, and frustrated. In between, she made paltry attempts to calm her irregular pulse, telling herself to think of better times in the past and those to come, when she somehow extricated herself from this impossible situation.

Mostly, she thought about Colin.

She placed her bound hands over her stomach protectively. Was it possible? She'd never considered the hypothetical consequences when she'd lain in Colin's arms. Had he? She'd heard there were things women could do to prevent pregnancy, but the details were hazy. Were there things men could do as well? Had Colin done any of them? Though embarrassed at her lack of knowledge, she thought not. He'd seemed too emotionally involved to have concerned himself with any precautions.

She counted back carefully. Sixteen days had passed since she'd first lain with Colin. Her monthly flow had been due last Friday, but she'd thought nothing of it when it hadn't arrived; her body was notoriously irregular.

It was way too early to jump to any conclusions, but still…her heart beat an erratic tattoo at the thought. Even now, Colin's son might be cradled within her. She never even considered it might be his daughter. In her mind's eye, her body harbored a tiny little replica of Colin Chase.

Now she had yet another reason to make sure she escaped. If she should be so fortunate as to have conceived Colin's child, she'd cherish him her whole life. She'd set herself up as a jeweler's widow and raise their son in Paris.

She'd have a piece of Colin forever.

She smiled a slow, secret smile before she remembered her predicament and looked across the chamber to Robert. He was sleeping, his head lolling to one side, his mouth open and slack. His breathing was deep and measured.

Thank God.

Her heart galloping with excitement, she brought her wrists to her mouth and tested the knot. Her teeth slipped off the hard knob and clicked together with a sound that seemed loud in the still room, but Robert didn't stir, and she continued working at the knot, loosening it bit by bit.

Half an hour later her arms ached from holding them up, and her lips were chapped and sore from rubbing against saliva-drenched fabric, but her hands were free.

She made short work of the bonds on her ankles and stood on shaky legs. After twenty-odd hours flat on her back, her knees threatened to buckle under her, but she refused to give in to her weakness. Sternly forcing her body to comply, she drew the ice-blue dress off the foot of the bed and dropped it over her head, holding her breath when the satin rustled as it settled into place. She shoved the nightgown's sleeves up under those of the gown, jerked the lacings closed over her breasts, and attached the stomacher haphazardly. She could finish dressing properly when she was safely outside.

Slipping her feet into the matching slippers, which were a little large but would have to do, she tiptoed over to Robert. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was half-convinced it would wake him.

Silently blessing the powers that be for decreeing loose breeches with deep pockets were fashionable, she crouched behind him and eased her hand into one pocket. Her first try found a small gunpowder flask and a few balls and cloth patches, but no key.

She paused, taken aback by the evidence that he was prepared to fire the pistol. As she pulled out her hand, Robert took a deep, ragged breath, inhaling with a resounding snore, and Amy froze for a good two minutes before daring to try the other pocket.

When her fingers closed around the cold, heavy key, she could barely contain her glee. She was mere steps from freedom.

Reminding herself to be light-footed regardless of her haste, she slowly rose. Her gaze lit on the gun on the table. It gleamed in the weak firelight, the stock profusely inlaid with silver wire in a display of workmanship akin to the finest jeweler's. She briefly considered taking it, but the gown had no pockets, and she hadn't the faintest idea how to shoot it, in any case. Forcing her eyes away, she tiptoed to the door.

The key in the lock made a hideous grating noise, but she didn't look back.

She bolted into a dim, dusty corridor.

One of the too-loose slippers threatened to come off, making her trip and stumble. Suddenly she heard scuffling behind her, then a horrible ripping sound as, for the second time in as many days, she found herself tugged to her knees. Robert's considerable weight landed on her back, and she plunged forward.

"Holy Jesus," he hissed into her ear. "I'd have thought you'd've learned your lesson by now." He jerked her up, one hand coming around to cover her mouth and muffle her impending scream. She glanced frantically around the dingy corridor, but there was no one to help her.

The cold steel of the pistol's barrel pressed into the side of her neck. She should have taken it.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Colin had checked the eight inns closest to St. Trinity, but there was no sign of Amy.

His disappointment was a physical pain, a heaviness in his chest that was weighted with a creeping sense of foreboding. To have come all this way, crisscrossing the City, one clue to another, and then…

Nothing.

And somewhere out there, Amy was…what? Sleeping, suffering, frightened, abused? Well, it was still Sunday, so even if she'd left London, he was fairly certain she wasn't married.

Yet.

Perhaps he was on the wrong track. Perhaps he should go back to Robert's father, or the King's Arms, and ask if anyone had heard from Robert in the past few hours.

Intending to make the depressing rounds again, he'd no sooner untied Ebony when a yellow glow caught his eye, penetrating the fog from down the street. At this hour, in this neighborhood, where citizens couldn't afford the luxury of candles at midnight, where decent folk went to bed with the dusk and rose with the dawn, that light could mean only one thing: a tavern.

He leaped onto Ebony and clip-clopped down the dark, empty street toward the glow. Bereft and desolate, Colin could only muster a faint hope that he might have reached the end of his search. As he drew nearer, the light from the grimy window illuminated a cracked wooden sign proclaiming it the Cat and Canary, and a swift glance up at the overhanging story assured him that it did, indeed, boast a few rooms for rent.

Colin tethered Ebony in a rough shed across the street, then took the time to thank him for his service and companionship with a bucketful of brackish water and a forkful of hay. After all, of all the multitudes of places in London, he had no real reason to think Amy was here.

Robert shoved Amy back into the room and threw her on the bed. He pointed the pistol in her direction with one shaking hand while he attempted to lock the door with the other.

"Please, Robert—"

"Shut up. I don't want to hear one word from you." He frantically worked the lock, his hand fumbling. "God damn it to bloody hell. You'll pay for this, Amy. Mark my words."

At last the lock clicked into place, and he whirled around, wild-eyed, searching the room. With a sinister laugh and a flick of his wrist, the key landed in the flames of the fireplace.

"There," he said. "I'll take it back in the morning, when the ashes grow cold. Until then, we won't be needing it, will we?"

Cringing, Amy scooted back until her spine pressed against the dirty headboard. She pulled her knees up and hugged them tight.

Robert raised his arm and aimed the pistol at her again. "Lie down!" he barked, waving the gun wildly.

She dropped to the mattress, curled up in a ball, and let out a whimper as panic welled up in her throat. She whimpered again as she watched Robert switch the pistol to his left hand so he could work the buckle on his belt with his right.

She shut her eyes tight, as though by doing so she could banish Robert and his pistol and his belt from the earth. Any second now, she expected to feel the belt on her, the leather ripping shreds of her flesh in Robert's fury.

Instead, she felt Robert throw himself on top of her, flattening her to the mattress. The gun fell to the wooden floor with a meaty thud, and she twisted under him, intending to lunge for it. But Robert pressed her shoulders against the bed with his two fleshy hands, and his head descended on hers, blocking her vision and her access to the weapon.

He ground his lips against hers in a cruel ravishment of her mouth, until she tasted coppery-tinged blood. Her hands came up and pushed at his head, but to no avail: he was quite simply stronger and heavier than she. He forced her teeth apart with his, plunging his slippery wet tongue between them. She bit down on it, hard, but he didn't seem to notice, not even when his hot, salty blood flowed into her mouth.

She gagged. And she wished he had beaten her instead.

A lifetime later, after pinning Amy beneath the weight of his body, Robert came up on his elbows. Her mouth finally free, she screamed.

Robert laughed wildly. "No one will come," he taunted. "They all think you're delirious. And they've been well paid. You'll be mine after tonight," he growled. "No other man will want to touch you again."

Colin pushed on the Cat and Canary's door, and it swung open with a prolonged creak, revealing a plain wooden interior encrusted with years of accumulated dirt. He stepped inside and glanced around the tavern. It was a shame the blaze had missed this street, he thought with a grimace. This was the kind of firetrap London needed to rid itself of.

A nauseating reek of rancid food choked the air. A few scruffy men sat conversing morosely at one table. No proprietor was in sight. All was quiet.

Colin couldn't imagine Amy in a place like this, even as Robert's hostage. He turned to leave, but caught himself glancing uneasily over his shoulder. After a pause, he addressed the motley group at the table. "Pardon me, but is anyone staying above?"

The answer was a mix of shrugs and grunts that he took to be a negative. One man looked up at him, his bloated face showing surprise at finding someone of Colin's class in this tavern.

Colin focused on him. "I'm looking for someone…"

"Anyone you'd be lookin' fer'd be on Leadenhall Street," the man offered, inclining his head toward a street across the way, behind the shed where Colin had stashed Ebony. "Try the Rose 'n' Crown."

"Thank you kindly," Colin replied, moving to the entry. He couldn't wait to get out of this depressing establishment.

Halfway through the door, he heard a thud from above. His blood chilled. He swung back around. "Are you certain no one's up there?"

He would swear he heard a muffled yell. The men didn't react. One of them slowly rose, the legs of his chair scraping back on the wooden floor.

"No one's up there," he stated, running a dirty hand through shaggy hair that might have been yellow if it weren't so greasy.

A scream. Hysterical. Unrelenting. Anxiety sent Colin's pulse racing, and he felt as though his chest might burst. Noting a rough staircase in the back, he started toward it.

The yellow-haired man moved swiftly to round the table and block him. He wrenched a long, rusty knife from his belt and brandished it in Colin's face. "You cannot go up there."

Another scream sounded above. Colin's hand went to the hilt of his sword…and then to his pouch. He pulled out a gold guinea and flung it on the table, his eyes boring into the other man's.

"Room six," the man muttered, turning to scoop up the coin and test it between his teeth. "Third floor."

Colin bolted up the rickety staircase.

Robert ripped off one side of Amy's stomacher and tugged at her laces. He parted the front of her bodice and freed her breasts with one long tear of the nightgown's fragile fabric, then grabbed them in both hands and pushed their lushness together.

His pale eyes gleamed recklessly, and he smacked his lips.

He fell to, sucking and biting her sensitive flesh, heedless of her screaming. Neither did he stop when she tugged on his neckcloth and pulled on his hair. His breath was heavy and labored; the stench of stale ale and old vomit suffused the air around them.

He wedged a hand between their bodies, working frantically to unlace his breeches.

She clawed long, bloody scratches along his cheeks. But instead of relenting, he growled low in his throat and tugged at the voluminous skirts of the wedding gown, bunching it and the nightgown around her waist.

Though she'd thought she could feel no more panicked, the cool air on her extremities fueled her useless howling to new heights. When Robert shoved his knees between hers to force her legs apart, her anguish was so acute that it overwhelmed any physical pain.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

The numbers on the doors were too faded to read in the dark corridor. But there was only one room Colin sought, and Amy's unmistakable sobs led him straight to it.

"Stanley!" He pounded with both fists on the rotting wood that separated him from the woman he loved and her abductor. "Open up! Now!"

He ripped off his surcoat and threw it to the floor. Backing up a few feet, he made a run at the door and rammed it with a shoulder—the old lock gave with a satisfying snap, and the door flung into the room and slammed against the wall, barely staying on its hinges.

Startled, Robert rolled off Amy and slid over the edge of the bed, scrabbling to find the pistol on the floor.

Blinking and whimpering, Amy struggled up on her elbows, her gaze riveted to Colin in the doorway. He took a step forward as Robert rose, one hand clutching the waistband of his unlaced breeches, the other clenching the gun. A feral look hardened his bloodied features.

Colin took another step.

"Stay back, Greystone, you bastard." The pistol wavered as Robert growled. "She's mine." The flintlock had been half-cocked, primed and ready, and now he pulled back the lock.

The room reverberated with an ominous click.

A scalding fury burning in his chest, Colin advanced.

Robert's face registered sheer, unreasoning panic. His arm swung wildly as he squeezed the trigger. The pistol went off with a thunderous report.

Amy let out a shriek of terror, but Colin didn't flinch; his advance continued unchecked. The bullet was lodged somewhere in the wall of the corridor. Robert was left with a smoking gun in his shaking hands, the pungent scent of exploded gunpowder swirling around him.

There was insufficient time for an expert to reload, and Robert had already proven he was no expert. He flung the heavy pistol at Colin's head.

Colin ducked, and as his head came back up, he pulled his rapier out of his belt with smooth, practiced ease.

Without the false sense of security the pistol had provided, Robert seemed to shrink into himself. Colin saw the truth in his eyes: Robert knew he was no match for the Earl of Greystone—he'd known it from the moment Colin came into the shop, three long months ago.

Robert backed up against the wall, his pale eyes glassy with terror, fastened on the gleaming silver length of Colin's blade.

Flinging the sword away, Colin rounded on Robert with his fists clenched. He grabbed the shorter man's shoulders and yanked him away from the wall, then rammed him back into it with a raging force. There was an audible crack! as Robert's head met the rigid wood, and when Colin let go, Robert slid to the floor in an ungraceful heap.

The fight was over before it began.

Amy watched, silent, as Colin bent down to reclaim his rapier. "Do you want me to kill him?" he grated out, his breath coming in large gulps as he fought to control his fury.

She shook her head violently, still mute. Colin stood motionless for a moment, registering the shock in her disbelieving eyes. Then he slid the sword into his belt and moved to the bed, reaching down toward her.

"You're…you've been shot," she whispered, beginning to shake.

He straightened and looked down to where her gaze was riveted, surprised. His shirt was plastered to his ribs by a dark, sticky patch of blood, but it wasn't spreading. "It's but a scratch," he said. He still couldn't feel it—the white-hot maelstrom of his emotions overrode any pain.

Still, he had enough presence of mind to retrieve his surcoat from the corridor and shrug back into it, wrapping it tightly around himself to cover the blood before he scooped her up in his arms.

She trembled in his embrace. With a lingering, murderous look at Robert's still form, he carried her down the stairs and out into the street.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Only a street from the ramshackle Cat and Canary, the luxurious Rose and Crown seemed a world away.

Amy seemed a world away, too.

"I'm cold, Colin," she whispered as he gently laid her on the bed.

After starting a roaring blaze in the fireplace, he went downstairs to ask for a bath to be prepared. He returned to find Amy huddled in a chair, staring into the flames.

Concerned, he glanced back at the bed.

"I've been tied to a bed…" she murmured in answer to his unasked question.

He unbuckled his sword and set it on a low table, then lifted her up, took her place in the chair and settled her on his lap. Silent, they watched the fire together, Colin holding her close, her head against his chest.

He buried his lips in her tangled curls, and they stayed that way for a very long time, motionless except when Colin's mouth moved against her hair. His kisses were gentle, slow and warm. Possessive, healing. Not sensuous, but cherishing. His heart seemed to burst with tenderness at the miracle of her back in his arms.

Servants dragged a tub into the chamber and filled it with bucket after bucket of steaming water, scented with oil of roses. Hard-milled perfumed soap was left, along with a comb and a brush and large linen towels.

Alone again, Colin rose and stood Amy on her feet. He pushed the blue dress off her shoulders and down her unresisting body. It rustled to pool on the floor, a pale shimmer in the firelight. He drew the ripped nightgown over her head.

"I should have killed him," he whispered, looking at her. Her knees and elbows were scraped and scabby, her wrists and ankles raw and abraded. Purple marks marred one side of her face; dried blood crusted her forehead. Her lips were bruised and swollen, her hair a tangled mess tumbling down her back.

He had thought he would never see her again.

She looked beautiful.

Taking her hand, he led her to the tub and helped her lower herself into the soothing, fragrant water. She melted into the warmth, leaning her head back on the rim. Through half-closed eyes, she watched him shrug out of his surcoat, cringing when his bloodstained shirt was revealed.

"It's naught but a scratch," he reminded her, his voice low and steady. He turned away so she wouldn't see him wince when he pulled the fabric from the wound and slipped the shirt off over his head. But it was just a scratch, the barest graze, and wouldn't even require stitches. It stung, but not so much that he couldn't ignore it.

A quarter of an inch to the right—the thought made Colin suck in a breath. A broken rib, perhaps bone fragments puncturing his lung. It would have wreaked havoc, would certainly have impaired his swift action, if not killed him outright. Well, it hadn't happened. He'd been lucky—very, very lucky—and he would never reveal to her just how narrow their escape had been.

He knelt by the tub, dipped a towel into the water and dabbed at the blood until the shallow laceration was clean.

"Look, Amy." He turned toward the light. "It's nothing." She reached out tentative fingers, touching him lightly, and when he didn't flinch, she settled back with a nod.

Taking up a soft cloth, he cleaned her slowly and gently. He washed away the blood, the dirt, and—he hoped—the memories.

She didn't say a word and neither did he. It was the most impersonal bath he had ever given a lady, yet the most personal at the same time. His cloth ran over her tender breasts, her white belly, between her thighs.

When her ivory skin gleamed clean in the firelight, he lathered her hair with the scented soap and poured buckets of water down her back. His arousal, long denied, grew until he hurt, but he trained his face to remain impassive, his touch to be no more than methodical.

It was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

With a hand in hers, he helped her stand. The water sluiced down her graceful form, leaving droplets that shimmered on her bruised skin.

Colin's jaw tightened, and his eyes fluttered closed momentarily. Her wounds were merely surface deep, nothing that wouldn't heal in a few days at most. But he was furious nonetheless, feeling somehow responsible for her suffering, for the damage to her perfect young body.

He should never have left her.

He would never leave her again, he promised himself as she stepped from the tub and he patted her dry. The nightgown was ruined and the blue dress ripped in the back, so he wrapped her in a dry towel, swallowing hard as he tucked the end between her breasts.

He dragged the chair closer to the fire and drew her long hair out as she sat down, draping it over the seat back. Then he sat behind her to brush it dry. He hummed as he worked, a soft lullaby his mother used to sing to him before the war.

The firelight played off the shiny black silk, and he wished he could sink his fingers into it, wrap it around his hands and pull her head back, devour her mouth with his. But he willed his hands to continue the systematic strokes, his traitorous body to ignore the sensual stimulation the simple act elicited.

"It's so beautiful…" he whispered once despite himself, pausing to rub the glistening mass between his palms. She froze as though she were surprised, and he would swear she even stopped breathing for a few seconds. But she didn't say a word, and he went on with his task.

He toyed with the idea of setting her up as his mistress, installing her in his beloved castle and building Priscilla the modern manor house she coveted. But deep inside, he knew it would never work. And he daydreamed of taking Amy to wife, living with her openly, without pretense.

Still, old convictions were difficult to overcome.

When her hair was dry and gleaming, he rose and she came up with him. She turned to him with a gentle smile. "Thank you," she whispered. "I feel much better now."

"I'm glad." She stood so close he could feel the heat from her body. He swallowed hard. "Can you face the bed now?"

She nodded, her smile wobbly but determined. "It's a different bed."

"Yes, it is." He led her to it and lifted a corner of the covers; she unwrapped her towel and slipped between the sheets.

Her gaze followed him as he poured water from the ewer to rinse the bloodstain from his shirt, then moved to the hearth to lay it out to dry. His heart warmed at her peaceful, sleepy expression. When his boots hit the floor with two dull thuds, she closed her eyes. He undressed and blew out the candles, then slid into bed beside her.

"Amy?"

"Hmm?"

He had to know. "Did he? …I mean…"

She rolled to face him, opening her eyes to search his in the firelight. "No. He didn't," she whispered. "You arrived just in time. Like magic."

His body sagged into the bed with the release of tension he hadn't known he'd been holding.

She touched his face with feather-light fingertips. "It has only ever been you, Colin. Only you."

If he hadn't known it before, in that moment he knew for certain she was destined to be his. It seemed the harder he tried to ignore the truth, the more it persisted.

He swallowed past the lump in his throat, unable to respond to her artless admission.

"I still cannot believe you're here." Her eyes turned luminous as her fingertips stroked his jaw. "It was dark in that corridor—so dark that once you battered down the door, I could see only your outline framed in the opening. But I knew it was you. I knew it, but I couldn't believe it. I'd prayed my screaming would draw someone to help, but I never imagined the help would be you." Her fingers stilled on his face. "Am I dreaming?"

He brought his hand up and laced it together with hers. "No," he managed to say. "You're not dreaming."

"You were far away—at Greystone—then suddenly you were there. Exactly when I needed you. Just like during the fire."

The wonder in her voice, the total trust her words implied, made Colin's heart skip a beat.

"I'll always be here when you need me," he said simply. "Always."

He squeezed her hand tight, then drew her head down to rest on his shoulder. She closed her eyes and settled her small, soft body against his. He stroked her satiny skin, feeling her respiration settle into an even pattern, her body relax in the solace of long-denied sleep.

The weight of her head on his shoulder, the warmth of her breath on his neck, the silky pillows of her breasts nestled against him—all were heaven.

Yet he felt as though he were in hell.

Though his heart told him it was so, it seemed impossible to admit that the pure essence of Amy—her inherent goodness, her intelligent strength, her passion for life—more than compensated for any shortcomings in her background. She would make a wonderful mother someday; her warmth and compassion would create a haven of security no pedigree could provide; he saw that now. The bond he felt between them—as though she existed for him alone—would extend to children of their bodies as naturally as passion darkened her amethyst eyes.

And yet, he remembered another strong bond: that of a little boy for his parents. And he remembered the heartrending pain of abandonment.

How had this happened to him? He was rational, determined. He'd had a plan.

He hadn't wanted to love anyone.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

There was a King's Arms not three blocks from the Chases' town house. The few patrons still there had never heard of Robert Stanley, but the innkeeper directed Kendra and her brothers to another King's Arms, which directed them to a third.

The place was deserted, but a weary serving maid was still in the back, sweeping up, and she was able to confirm that they had indeed found Robert Stanley's haunt. Perking up at the sound of his name, she informed them that rumor had it he'd taken off with his love, bound for either St. James or St. Trinity.

"There would be no marriages on Sunday." Kendra's eyes sparkled with excitement. "Perhaps we're not too late. We'll go and warn—"

"Oh, no, we won't," Jason interrupted in a tense, clipped voice that forbade any argument. "There's no sense in chasing out there tonight. The morning will do fine."

"But—"

"Listen, Kendra," he said more gently. "We're as concerned about Amy as you are. But I know that neighborhood—it's no place to visit late on a foggy night. The clergy will have been long since abed, anyway. We'll go first thing in the morning."

Crestfallen, Kendra's enthusiasm evaporated. It had felt so good to be in active pursuit. Still, she knew there was nothing to discuss—Jason made perfect sense. "I want to get there early," she proclaimed. "Before anyone can possibly be married."

"We will. We'll be there when the sun rises."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Ford put a sympathetic arm around Kendra's shoulders and drew her out of the tavern, and she resigned herself to a sleepless night of waiting.

Colin was awakened by a warm, delicate kiss brushed across his mouth. He opened his eyes lazily, gazing up through half-closed lids. In the hazy light of dawn, he saw Amy's face just inches from his, her sweet breath lightly caressing him from between her parted lips.

"Colin, make me forget the feel of his touch," she whispered before lowering her mouth once again to meet his.

How could he resist such a heavenly invitation?

He returned her kiss gently, at first mindful of her bruises. But soon his resolve melted away. Concerns for her battered anatomy and fragile state of mind were pushed aside as his body responded to hers with a will of its own.

Rolling her over slowly, he brushed the hair off her forehead and framed her face with his hands. His eyes searched hers for permission and approval, but what shone from their amethyst depths was such a deep, abiding love that he was momentarily taken aback. His breath caught in his chest, and he blinked, but when he opened his eyes the look was still there.

Unconditional and unfaltering.

Her arms came around his back, and she gifted him with a sweet smile of encouragement. With a soft groan, Colin covered her parted lips with his own. His tongue plundered her warm mouth with reckless abandon until both of them were breathless.

When he broke contact, he could feel her heart beating against his in the still room. He bent to place a kiss in the hollow of her throat and inched one hand down to caress her breast.

She shook her head. "Now," she said, her voice shaky and tremulous. "Come inside me now. Please."

The simple words sent the blood racing through his veins. He'd never heard a more sensuous plea. A man given to leisurely, playful lovemaking, in this case he was only too eager to comply.

He came over her and slid inside her welcoming body with a single swift thrust. Her answering moan of pleasure drove the last lingering thoughts of restraint from his mind, and his body took over, innately establishing the glorious tempo that bound the two of them together, body and soul.

She cried out, clutching him, and his heart leapt. In that moment, he knew with a stunning clarity that he'd never give her up again. Nor did he want only part of her.

He had tried to protect his heart—tried and failed. Now it was bursting with love, and he couldn't deny it a moment longer.

He pushed into her again, and the sweet sensation of her convulsing around him sent hot fingers of fire sprinting along his nerves, enveloping his entire body in explosions of pleasure.

A while later, once his heart had slowed, he came up on his elbows and brushed the tangled curls off her face with shaking hands. His lips grazed her eyelids, the warm swath of her forehead, one shell-pink ear. "I love you," he whispered there.

Amy's breath came in uneven gasps. "Wh-what?"

He kissed one downy cheek and the tip of her nose before his tongue flicked her other earlobe. "I love you," he murmured, his voice husky and unsteady.

"No. You cannot. We cannot."

His head snapped up. Did she not want to marry him? "But I saw it in your eyes. I thought you—"'

"I love you, too," she whispered fiercely. Her arms tightened around him, crushing him to her. "I do. It's just—"

"Hush." Colin touched his fingers to her lips. "I've never told a woman that, you know," he admitted with rueful candor. "You've disrupted my entire life, Amethyst Goldsmith."

In contrast to his words, he felt immensely pleased with himself and his world. He kissed her with all the exquisite tenderness he felt in his heart, completely at peace for the first time in months.

"Tell me again," she begged, a smile in her voice.

"I love you," he said simply, and it was easier than he'd ever thought possible.

When he lifted himself off her, sliding from her body, a small sound of loss escaped her lips. "Oh…"

Chuckling, he settled himself beside her and propped his head up on one hand. "I'll be back," he promised, shooting her his best irresistibly devastating grin.

Her response was a hum and a gentle smile, intimate as a kiss. "Don't be too long, said in a seductive whisper, then she blushed, clearly pleased at her own boldness.

To his amazement, Colin's body responded immediately. When he opened his mouth to speak, the words were rough with renewed passion.

"Has it been long enough yet?"

It was still dark and foggy when Kendra and Ford left Jason and a footman at the deserted St. James. She was relieved to confirm they were not too late—at least not at this church.

The bleary-eyed twins traveled on to St. Trinity and were elated to find it empty as well.

They slipped into a back pew to wait, resting their exhausted bodies and chatting quietly. A couple arrived with two witnesses in tow, and then another couple, the woman visibly pregnant. The two groups stood in separate clusters in the back of the sanctuary, shifting nervously on their feet as they waited for their respective ceremonies to commence.

The light grew steadily brighter, passing through the ancient leaded windows and projecting brilliant colored patches on the walls and floor of the church. At last, a door opened at the far end, and a plump curate entered. He bustled about, lighting a few tapers before turning to address the small crowd.

A satisfied smile spread on his face as he viewed the assemblage. "Now, who was here first?"

"We were, Father." Kendra rose, tugging on Ford's hand to pull him up after her and down the narrow aisle.

"Where are your witnesses?" the curate asked as the twins came up before him.

"But—" Ford sputtered, "but she's my sister!"

The man's crooked teeth disappeared as his smile reversed to a stern frown. "Young man, I realize we're known for being, ah, tolerant here at St. Trinity, but the church expressly forbids—"

"Dear heavens!" Kendra's laughter rang through the sanctuary. "We're not here to be wed, Father—we're here to find out if someone else was wed on Saturday. We hope to prevent the marriage if it hasn't already taken place."

"Well, why didn't you just say so?" the clergyman asked peevishly. "Whom are you inquiring about?"

"Amy—Amethyst—Goldsmith and Robert Stanley."

The curate's eyes opened wider. "I declare, I cannot recall the last time there was so much interest in one wedding. Why—"

"Then they're already married?" Kendra's heart seemed to drop to her stomach.

"No. Not to my knowledge." When she sagged in relief, the clergyman smiled. "I believe they were here Saturday evening, however, and yesterday a tall gentleman with dark hair—"

"Our brother," the twins said in unison.

The stout man looked them both over thoughtfully. "Yes, he could have been. In any case, the groom in question planned to return this morning, and your brother went off to search the inns on Fenchurch Street last night."

"Thank you so much." Kendra handed the man a coin.

Her wide smile must have been contagious, because the curate's uneven teeth reappeared, although his gaze was already shifting to the other couples. "Now, who was next?"

Kendra and Ford retreated to the front steps of the church, where they quickly decided Ford would wait inside in case Robert and Amy appeared, while Kendra took the carriage to fetch Jason.

She arrived at St. James to find Jason pacing outside. He strode to the carriage. "What's news?"

"They're not wed." Kendra grinned. "But he plans to wed her today, at St. Trinity. Jason…"

"What?" He climbed inside and pulled the door shut.

"I'm hoping you won't mind, but I asked Carrington to head for Fenchurch Street. The curate said Colin was searching the inns there last night. I'm thinking perhaps he grew tired and slept at one of them." Jason began to protest, but Kendra held up a hand, rushing to finish. "Won't you check a few of the inns, please? I cannot just sit and wait."

"But you said Robert and Amy are due back at the church."

"It's still early. Besides, Ford will see to matters should they arrive."

"There's no arguing with you once your mind is set, is there?" Jason muttered.

For the next half hour, he obligingly walked along Fenchurch, checking a few likely places while the carriage followed at a crawl.

Kendra regretted the detour almost immediately. Waiting in the carriage, she grew more and more impatient as she watched Jason go in and out. She noticed a sign in the window of Mr. Farr's Tobacco Shop, proclaiming it had "The Best Tobacco by Farr." A few shops down there was another sign, that of his rival, "Far Better Tobacco than the Best Tobacco by Farr." She smiled, but mostly she was bored and restless, wondering what was happening back at the church.

Coming out of the seventh inn, Jason stalked to the carriage, his face set in purposeful lines. The door was flung open just as he arrived.

"Kendra, this is—"

"—a waste of time. They may have turned up at St. Trinity by now. And much as I trust Ford to intervene, I'd hate to miss the resulting scene. It ought to be better than Shakespeare."

Worn out as he was, Jason couldn't help but smile. "You're something else, you know that?"

"I'm your sister." She punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Come along."

Before climbing inside, Jason instructed his coachman to turn around at Mark Lane and head back to St. Trinity. But they'd driven less than two minutes when Kendra started banging on the roof of the carriage. "Stop! Stop!"

"What the devil—"

"That's Ebony! There, in that shed. Colin's here!"

She was down from the carriage before the wheels stopped turning. Jason groaned as he followed her out. "Now, Kendra, not every horse with a white star on his forehead is Ebony."

But it was. Whickering softly as they approached, Ebony bent his big head to search Jason's pockets for a treat.

"Colin must be in there." Kendra indicated a dubious establishment called the Cat and Canary.

"I think not." Jason shook his head. "Colin wouldn't stay in a place like that, no matter how tired he was."

"Then where?"

He pointed to the back wall of the shed. "Behind there is Leadenhall Street. And a very nice inn, if I'm not mistaken."

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Minutes later, Kendra and Jason were knocking on the door to Number Three at the Rose and Crown. A sleepy, barefoot Colin came to answer, his breeches unlaced, his shirt untucked, his hair in disarray, and a stupid, satisfied smile plastered on his bristled face.

Needing no other evidence to guess she'd find Amy in his bed, Kendra pushed past him. She wasn't sure whether she was thrilled to see Amy sitting up against the pillows, or horrified to see her friend had a quilt clutched under her chin to cover her bareness.

"She's in here, Jason," she shouted.

Jason shoved Colin back and followed him into the room, shutting the door with a little more force than was necessary. "Now you've done it."

Colin's smile was infectious. "I know. I found her. I can scarcely believe it myself." He began tucking in his shirt. "A fine bit of sleuthing, wasn't it? Hey—how did you find us, anyway?"

"That's not what I meant," Jason growled. "Once again, you—"

Shouldering Jason out of the way, Kendra took his place before her obstinate brother. "What he meant is, you'll have to marry her now, you—"

"I fully intend to," Colin said toward the floor as he laced up his breeches.

His words were quiet and matter-of-fact—so much so that Kendra failed to register them.

But Amy did. She let out a small gasp of surprise. Marriage! Colin had said he loved her, but he hadn't mentioned…

No, it would never work. Her stomach felt leaden and her eyes grew misty, but the siblings were too busy with one another to notice.

"Why are you grinning, you idiot?" Kendra railed. "You couldn't just bring her to the town house, could you? Once again, you've—"

Jason shoved Kendra over with his hip and stood beside her, the two of them effectively making a solid wall that obscured Colin from Amy's view. "You've really made a mess of things now, Colin Chase." Usually the calm one, Jason's voice seethed with uncharacteristic rage. "You couldn't leave well enough—"

"Jason. Kendra. I said I'm going to marry her."

Though Amy couldn't see Colin, she could hear the smile in his voice. He was enjoying this little scene. And she hadn't heard wrong the first time—he really did intend to make her his wife.

A prolonged silence settled as Kendra and Jason were apparently shocked speechless. Then Kendra whirled to face Amy. "Is this true?"

Was it? Amy clutched the blanket closer to her body. God in heaven, she couldn't marry him. Her father would never forgive her.

"I—no. No." She shook her head slowly, then faster as tears sprang to her eyes. "No."

"What?" Colin strode to the bed and stood staring down at her. "I told you last night—"

"—that you loved me." It hurt to look at him. She tucked the blanket under her arms and dropped her gaze, picking at a loose thread in the fabric. "I love you too, but I cannot marry you, Colin. I cannot. I have to reestablish the business—I told you that. I vowed I would see it carried on. And you said a peer's wife cannot run a shop. When we were at Greystone, you said if I married into the aristocracy, I'd never be able to reopen Goldsmith & Sons." She swallowed hard and looked up. "You said it, Colin—I heard you."

"Of course I said it!" He opened his mouth as though to say more, but then just stood there, red-faced and tongue-tied.

"You would choose a business over my brother?" Appearing completely baffled, Kendra shifted on her feet. "Over becoming a countess?"

"It's not a matter of choice!" Amy brushed angrily at her tears. Why couldn't these people understand? "I was born to a craft. And I hold in trust a fortune. I cannot just hand the Goldsmith inheritance to a husband—it belongs to future generations of Goldsmith & Sons."

"I won't take it, Amy. You have my word on that."

"What?" It was Jason's turn to look astonished. His lips thinned beneath his narrow black mustache. "You spoke truth when you said they belong together, Kendra. They're both totally, utterly insane."

Colin took a deep breath. The red faded from his features. "You have to marry me," he said calmly.

"Is something wrong with your hearing?" How many times could she refuse him without giving in? Every denial cost her a piece of her heart. "I said I cannot marry you. I cannot."

"You must."

"I said—"

"Robert is still out there. Bloody hell, I knew I should have killed him." He looked thoroughly disgusted with himself. "He'll find you, Amy. Even in Paris. He'll find you and he'll try again to force you to the altar. Maybe he'll succeed next time, or maybe he'll just murder you instead. Then he can petition for your wealth on the basis of the betrothal…"

Amy felt the blood drain out of her face. She put her hands to her cheeks.

Dear God, Colin was right.

"…if you marry me, it would do him no good to come after you."

"Because my fortune would belong to you, then."

"Only legally."

She found herself caught in his emerald gaze. "It's meant for the business," she whispered.

"It's meant for your descendants. As security, no?"

She nodded.

"They'll have it."

"Colin," Jason interrupted. "How will you restore Greystone?"

"Slowly," Colin snapped without sparing his brother a glance. "My new bride doesn't require living in luxury."

"But—"

"Hold your tongue." Waving him off, Colin knelt by the bed and took Amy's hands in his. "Your descendants will have your inheritance," he repeated. "Now…will you marry me?"

She gazed at him, his beloved features wavering through her tears. To wed Colin Chase—her heart's most selfish desire—so selfish she hadn't even dared to let herself consider it. But he was right—she had little choice. She could either wed him or Robert, or forfeit her life.

Forgive me, Papa, she intoned in her head, then nodded at Colin. His hands tightened around hers, almost painfully, and he raised himself to brush a kiss across her lips. An unfamiliar and unexpected warmth surged through her—a feeling of belonging to someone that she hadn't experienced in a long time.

Her senses were already reeling when Kendra let out a whoop of joy and threw herself on the bed, almost dislodging the carefully tucked quilt. She pulled Amy to her in a tight embrace that reminded Amy just how bruised and battered she was, but Amy didn't care. It felt so good to know she was about to be part of a family again. And when Kendra gushed, "Oh, Amy, you'll really, truly be my sister now," Amy was so happy she thought her heart might burst.

"Good job, Colin." Jason slapped his brother on the back, beaming. "You finally came to your senses. Well, partially, anyway," he added under his breath.

Kendra disentangled herself from Amy. "You were such a bloody blockhead," she told Colin, "I was ready to strangle you."

Colin just stood there grinning like an imbecile. Jason walked to the bed and leaned to kiss Amy on both cheeks. "Welcome to the family," he said warmly, and Amy would have thrown her arms around him if she hadn't been in such an embarrassing state of undress. As it was, more tears welled in her eyes. She blinked them back, and Jason straightened and cleared his throat.

"We'll have it at Cainewood," he said to Colin.

Colin had just sat to put on his stockings and boots. "Have what?" he asked blankly.

Kendra made a rude noise. "The wedding, of course." She looked to Jason. "He's still not himself, is he? A spring wedding… We'll have to start planning immediately."

"Oh, no." Colin's words were uttered in a voice that brooked no nonsense. "No spring wedding. We'll be married today."

"You cannot," Kendra said. "You have no license. No banns have been posted."

"Amy was to have been wed at St. Trinity this morning, and wed there she'll be. There's a madman loose. And even were that not so, I wouldn't wait a minute longer than necessary to make her my wife."

When Colin's gaze locked on Amy's, any objections she may have had to being married in a place of Robert Stanley's choosing were swept away in an instant.

Colin wanted her, and that was all that mattered.

"But…" Not one to be dissuaded easily, Kendra turned to Amy. "You want a real wedding, don't you? With guests and a wedding gown and dancing for hours afterward?"

Amy slowly shook her head. She'd planned a big wedding once, with an abundance of guests and a dress covered in love-knots, and she'd been altogether miserable. A simple wedding today, even at St. Trinity, sounded perfect.

And she'd be Colin's wife by tonight…

It still didn't seem real. It was too good to be true. You cannot have everything, she could hear her father saying—and he'd been right. But she had no real choice. Joy bubbled up inside her, and she hugged herself in blissful disbelief.

Now that was settled, Colin became all business. He strode to the hearth and plucked the ice-blue gown from where they'd left it in a crumpled heap on the floor. It rustled as he shook it out, saying, "It's ripped in the back. Damn."

Amy froze.

"Let me see." Kendra reached for the gown. No one noticed the color draining from Amy's face. "It's just a seam. I'm sure someone belowstairs can stitch it up in no time."

"No." The word was almost a whimper. Three sets of concerned green eyes fastened on Amy huddled on the bed. "I was supposed to marry him in that gown. I won't wear it."

Colin spread his hands and glanced around the room as though he expected a wedding gown to materialize out of thin air.

"I won't wear it," Amy repeated through clenched teeth.

Colin's hands dropped; his fingers drummed against one thigh as he stared at the gown in Kendra's arms, its icy blue contrasting with her own bright green dress. Then his fingers stilled, and he brightened. "Kendra, why don't you simply—"

Before the words were out of his mouth, Kendra wadded up the offending garment and thrust it into the fireplace.

It ignited with a great whoosh, sending sparks flying into the room. Colin blinked, dumbfounded. "What did you do that for? I was going to suggest—"

"A typical logical male solution—my swapping gowns with Amy. You poor fool. I can assure you she doesn't want that dress in the same city, let alone standing beside her as witness to her marriage." Shaking her head in mock exasperation, Kendra turned to Amy. "Men can be so stupid sometimes. Are you sure you want to marry this one?"

Amy's answering giggle brought a grin to Colin's face. He bowed in Kendra's direction. "Your servant, my lady. Since you're so intelligent, I'm awaiting your instructions on how to deal with this problem." He bent down and picked up the filthy shredded nightgown, dangling it at arm's length from two fingers. "Shall she wear this, do you suppose?"

Another giggle from Amy was drowned by a loud guffaw from Jason. Kendra rolled her eyes. "No, I don't suppose. But I do have a plan."

"By all means, inform us. We're all dying of curiosity."

Kendra took a deep breath. "You, Colin Chase, are going to have to wait a few hours for your wedding. Do you think you can handle that?"

He raised one eyebrow, apparently reserving judgment.

His sister continued in authoritative tones. "Being Monday, Amy's gowns are now ready at Madame Beaumont's. I shall fetch one and bring it here. You will go home, clean up, and return in appropriate wedding attire. Look at you—your shirt is ripped."

"A bullet will do that," Colin said wryly.

"A bullet?"

He waved off her concern. "It's nothing, just a scratch."

"Colin—" Jason started.

"It's nothing. Amy?"

"It's nothing," Amy said with a small smile.

She loved this bickering family.

Colin turned back to Kendra. "Continue."

"Well, then, you haven't shaved in two days!"

"I apologize for offending you," Colin drawled, rubbing his whiskered chin. "I've been a mite busy."

"Well, I'll admit we do have evidence you were occupied," Kendra returned, looking pointedly to Amy.

Amy had been so busy enjoying their argument and basking in the warmth of their acceptance, she'd almost forgotten her unseemly predicament. Now the center of their attention, she felt herself blush from her hairline to her toes.

Colin grinned with masculine pride, but Jason took pity on her. "Now that you've thoroughly embarrassed Colin's bride," he said to Kendra, "are you quite finished?"

"Yes," Kendra muttered. "Sorry, Amy."

"Colin, you seem to have forgotten one large obstacle to this hasty wedding." The good-natured bantering tone had disappeared from Jason's voice, and he looked toward Colin with all seriousness.

"What could that be?" Colin held up a hand and ticked off imaginary impediments on his fingers. "Apparently there's a gown waiting for Amy, and we've established my need to shave and change my shirt…what? What is it?"

"The simple matter that you're betrothed to someone else?"

"Oh. There is that."

Amy's heart skipped in her chest.

"Yes, there is," Jason said.

"You don't suppose I could just write her a letter afterward?"

"No, I don't think that would quite satisfy my sense of propriety."

"I didn't think so." Colin paused, staring at his boots for a moment, while Amy held her breath. "Well, there's nothing for it," he said at last. "I shall ride to Priscilla's house straightaway and explain myself. I don't expect they can force me to the altar."

"Let us hope Lord Hobbs agrees. There's the matter of the dowr—"

"Shh." With a furtive glance at Amy, Colin held up a hand. "He has no choice. He's a cold, calculating buzzard, but he won't get the best of me."

Amy started breathing again when Colin suddenly smiled. "Can you imagine anyone voluntarily becoming his son-in-law?" he asked playfully. "Or, even more unbelievable, taking his daughter to wife, when she's such a—"

"Snob?" Kendra supplied helpfully.

"Exactly."

Jason clapped Colin on the shoulder. "Are you still determined to accomplish all of this today?"

Colin ignored his brother, smiling at Amy instead. "Absolutely."

Meeting his gaze, she melted a little inside.

"Shall I come along with you?" Jason offered.

"No. I do believe I'm actually looking forward to clipping this buzzard's wings."

Colin's smile widened, his eyes crinkled at the corners, and she melted a little bit more.

"Very well, then. Kendra and I will fetch Amy's clothes and meet you at the town house. We'll all return together."

Frowning, Colin tore his gaze from Amy's. "Wait a minute—we cannot leave Amy alone. That scoundrel Stanley is still walking the earth—an error I'm regretting more with each passing minute."

"I'll send up one of the footmen to guard the door."

"Make that two," Colin said. "And Amy will need breakfast sent up as well."

Jason nodded. "Done." He swiped Colin's swordbelt off the table and tossed it to him. "I'll have to cancel a couple of appointments, but I suppose this takes precedence."

Colin caught the sword and buckled it on, grinning mischievously. "Are you sure, now? I wouldn't want to be responsible for upsetting your schedule."

"I'm sure." The brothers' eyes met, sparkling leaf-green to glittering emerald. Jason moved to enclose Colin in a bear hug. "God, I thought this day would never come. A Chase, married."

"It was bound to happen sooner or later," Colin said, his voice a bit choked. "Shall we?"

He accepted the surcoat that Kendra held out, flinging it over one shoulder, then went to Amy and leaned to brush a kiss across her forehead. Her heart pounding at his nearness and the realization that he would be hers—all hers—from now on, she risked releasing her blanket to reach up her arms and wind them around his neck, pulling his mouth down to hers.

Their lips met and clung for a long, sweet minute, until Jason cleared his throat.

"Get some rest, love." Colin's tone was more suggestive than his words. "I don't plan on letting you sleep tonight."

His sister gasped. "Col-in!"

"Hang it, Kendra, this was your idea in the first place."

Amy snuggled down in the bed, listening to Kendra's exaggerated sniff, Jason's infectious laugh, and Colin's hurried footsteps as they left to prepare for the wedding. Her family—almost.

The door closed behind them, but she could hear Kendra's exclamation through the walls. "Oh, my God—we forgot Ford!"

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Colin leaned against the mantel in the Hobbs's massive drawing room, twisting his ring and steeling himself to face Priscilla.

Breaking the betrothal had seemed such a simple matter at the Rose and Crown. But now that he was here, he suspected it would be harder than he'd thought.

Priscilla would be unhappy, though mostly out of humiliation, if he didn't miss his guess. He was well aware she harbored little genuine affection for him. He wondered if she were even capable of deep feeling.

Her father would be furious. Lord Hobbs had searched high and low for a son-in-law with Colin's connections, thrusting his daughter at every likely candidate. He wouldn't take lightly to having his careful plans thwarted.

Hearing heavy footsteps on the parquet floor outside the room, Colin stood up straight and tugged his surcoat tighter around his middle, hoping to conceal the rip in his shirt. His jaw tensed when Lord Hobbs entered alone. A tall, pale man, he was most definitely his daughter's father, though he did have a more animated personality—one that had always rubbed Colin the wrong way.

"Lord Hobbs. I had asked to speak with Priscilla."

"My daughter isn't home at the moment. I was thinking we might share a drink while you waited. King Charles—" Hobbs broke off and looked critically at Colin, sizing up his rumpled form. "My God, Greystone, you look positively disreputable. Have you fought a duel, or what?"

"Something like that," Colin muttered, rubbing his stubbled jaw. "When will Priscilla be returning?"

"Lord knows. She's off shopping with a few friends—spending my money like there's no tomorrow, no doubt." He poured Madeira into two goblets and handed one to Colin with a jovial slap on the back. "Glad that will be your problem soon."

Colin couldn't dally until Priscilla returned. Amy was waiting. "That's what I wanted to discuss, sir. I'm sorry Priscilla isn't here, but perhaps it's best I talk to you, in any case."

"About Priscilla's spending habits? I suppose you can put her on an allowance, but she won't take kindly—"

"No, sir. About our marriage." Colin took a mouthful of wine and swallowed it deliberately. "I want to call off our betrothal."

"You what?"

Colin hadn't eaten in two days. The Madeira burned a path down his throat and into his stomach, and courage flowed in after it. "I want to call off our betrothal," he repeated firmly. "Your daughter and I—we aren't suited. It's not a good match."

"Not a good match? You need her fortune, and I need the king's ear in order to obtain a license to develop my land outside London. It's a perfect match."

"I don't love your daughter, sir."

"Pshaw! What does that matter? Take a mistress. My daughter isn't the warmest of women—you think I haven't noticed? I won't think the less of you for it." Hobbs put an arm around Colin and tugged him close to his side. "A warm, willing wench in the City and a beautiful heiress in the country—what more could a man want, eh?"

Hobbs's hot, alcoholic breath washed over Colin's face, making him pull away before he retched in response. The man was making him physically sick. Colin felt sorry for Priscilla—it wasn't her fault he couldn't love her—and angry with Hobbs for treating his own daughter so callously.

The despicable buzzard.

He took a deep breath and sidled away from the man. "I'm marrying someone else this afternoon," he said quietly.

Hobbs's jaw set, and his breath became labored. "You would leave Priscilla for another woman? My Priscilla? After a formal betrothal? After you—you ruined her?"

Despite the gravity of the situation, Colin felt an absurd urge to laugh. "Ruined her?" he said, incredulous. "That's a joke."

Hobbs's gray eyes darkened in anger. "Not everyone shares our good king's lack of morals, young man. Priscilla was raised properly, and—"

"Do you honestly believe she was a virgin when I took her to my bed?" The outraged father role did not fit Hobbs well; Colin could see the truth in the man's eyes, and he'd had it with his pomposity. "After you tried to pawn her off on half the Royalists in England?"

"You…you…"

"There's not a name you could call me that would change my mind." With an outward calm he didn't feel, Colin set his goblet on the table, spread his feet and crossed his arms. "What will it take to satisfy you, Lord Hobbs?" His hand moved to his sword. "You may draw my blood if it will appease your sense of honor, but I warn you: I do not intend to lay down my life in order to be released from this betrothal."

The older man's eyes flickered toward Colin's rapier and back up, then narrowed connivingly. "I'm certain we can find a civilized way to settle this, Greystone."

"What do you want?"

"A private audience with His Majesty."

It was naught but an audience—it would cost Charles nothing but a few minutes of his time. He'd do it if Colin asked.

But it made Colin furious that he'd have to ask.

"I'll get you your audience. I'll get you ten audiences. You can have a standing appointment—"

"Just one audience. As long as you can guarantee my license will be forthcoming."

Colin paused. It was a tall order. Though Hobbs had professed neutrality throughout the war, he was rumored to be a closet Parliamentarian. The king did not look kindly on those responsible for beheading his father; Charles didn't merely disregard Hobbs, he actively disliked the man. More than a simple request, this would mean asking a special favor of Charles.

But Charles owed the Chases favors. And a license wouldn't cost Charles, either—to the contrary, he would probably milk Hobbs for an exorbitant fee. It grated on Colin, a scheming buzzard like Lord Hobbs getting his way, but it wouldn't be a problem.

He nodded once. "Consider it done."

Hobbs didn't smile. He seated himself at the drawing room's marquetry writing table and waved Colin into a chair opposite. "I'll expect my funds returned within the week, of course."

Colin's stomach knotted; this was the part he'd been dreading. "I cannot do that, sir. I don't have the funds. They were used for renovations—"

"Then the deal is off. You were legally betrothed, and you accepted part of the dowry. Surely you don't expect—"

"I'll pay it back. Just"—Colin sucked in a breath—"give me some time."

Hobbs fixed him with an icy stare. "You will sign a note. Eight percent interest, with the balance due before we see 1668."

A year. One year. If the renovations were halted, the fields produced bumper crops, the quarry was extra-productive, the sheep thrived…

It was a terrible gamble.

Colin pictured Amy waiting for him at the inn, and his vision blurred. They would have her inheritance. But he'd promised her he wouldn't take it.

"I'm waiting for your answer," Hobbs pressed. "Unless you'd prefer to pretend you never walked in here today."

Colin blinked. "I'll sign it."

Hobbs wasted no time producing paper, quill, and ink. He scribbled a hasty contract, which Colin signed, a weight in his gut, the scratch of the quill sounding like nothing so much as a death knell. Hobbs dripped wax by the signature, and Colin used his ring to set his seal, remembering the day he ordered it from Amy. How he'd walked away that day, expecting never to see her again.

Hobbs sprinkled sand on the ink, then dusted off and rolled up the contract. "If you fail to pay up, as God is my witness I'll have you slapped into Newgate Prison so fast your head will spin. You'll see the devil in heaven the day I show you mercy."

Although it would never come to that—Hobbs would end up with Greystone instead—the thought of squalid, vermin-infested Newgate made the bile rise in Colin's throat.

He pushed away the image. He'd find some way to pay back the money. Whatever sacrifices were necessary would be worth it in the end.

Hobbs tucked the scroll in a drawer, poured himself another goblet of wine, and downed it in one gulp. "I won, you know." He swiped a hand across his mouth. "I'll have my license, and I still have my daughter."

"To sell to the highest bidder? The man with the next item on your agenda?"

"That's what daughters are for. You'll learn it when you have your own."

Colin ignored that, setting aside his own goblet of Madeira in disgust.

"Who is she?" Hobbs asked suddenly.

"It doesn't signify. She has nothing to do with my lack of love for your daughter."

"Love, hah! You're a weak man, Greystone—my daughter is well rid of you."

Hobbs's stare dared Colin to respond to the insult, but Colin forced himself to ignore him once again. "Please give Priscilla my regards, and my sincere apologies."

"She'll be fine. She'll suffer some loss of face, but she'll survive. I'll remind her how little she liked you—and your countrified family, as I believe she called them."

That should have hurt Colin, but it didn't. He felt nothing but relief and an overwhelming compulsion to escape.

He stood. "I'll take my leave, then."

To Colin's vast surprise, Hobbs held out a hand. "A pleasure doing business with you, Greystone."

Colin blinked. "There are no hard feelings, then?"

Hobbs shrugged. "It was all for the better."

"That it was," Colin muttered, proffering a halfhearted handshake. He shuddered to think how narrowly he'd escaped becoming this man's son-in-law. Claiming a favor from Charles and acquiring a monstrous debt were small penalties, indeed, for avoiding the biggest mistake of his life.

Still and all, if he never saw that buzzard's face again, it would suit him just fine.

CHAPTER FIFTY

With Kendra in tow, Madame Beaumont bustled into the room and made her way to the window, throwing open the shutters. "Get up, mademoiselle. We must make you ready for the mariage!"

Amy sat up, blinking the sleep from her eyes. She winced as Madame clutched her chin, turning her poor bruised face this way and that to examine it in the early afternoon light.

"Mon Dieu!" Madame exclaimed, shaking her head, "we have a lot of work to do!" She gestured at the door. "Come in, come in."

Two footmen entered, toting a large wooden box between them. Madame indicated a spot on the floor where she wanted it placed, then shooshed them out with an impatient wave of her hand.

Kendra rummaged in the big box. She pulled out a dressing gown made of peach-colored fabric with a lavish lace edging. An amused smile played around her lips as she helped Amy out of bed and into the garment, tying it at her waist as one would for a small child.

While Kendra sat Amy at the dressing table, Madame took a wooden case from the box. Carrying it by its ornate brass handle, she brought it over and opened its hinged lid with a flourish. The contents were a jumble of brushes and pencils, jars, bottles, pots and boxes filled with mysterious colored powders and pomades, all of which Madame set about the tabletop.

"Now…" she said, lifting a sinister metal tool.

In her jewelry shop, Amy had used something similar to pick up loose gemstones. She flinched as Madame tilted her chin up and leaned over her, the device hovering in the region of her forehead.

"Oooh, charmant," Madame gushed suddenly. "Perfectly arched. Just look." As though Amy were nothing more than a doll, Madame swung her head around toward Kendra, then dropped the implement on the table. "No plucking," she declared.

Amy gaped at Kendra. Plucking, indeed!

Madame set to work, conferring with Kendra from time to time, and Amy relaxed, as no other instruments of torture seemed to be forthcoming. They chatted excitedly about the upcoming wedding and Colin waiting below in the taproom, "probably drinking himself into a stupor," according to Kendra.

Amy bit her lip. "I've never worn cosmetics."

"No?" Using a hare's foot, Madame powdered Amy's face.

"No. My father…I mean, for merchants…it's not considered acceptable…"

At their vague smiles, her voice trailed off. Could she ever fit in their world?

She sneaked a wary glance in the mirror, then gasped. "Marry come up! The bruises are gone!" She touched her fingers to her face in wonder. "And the dark circles under my eyes."

"It's the Princesses Powder." Madame brushed away her fingers and applied more to repair the damage.

"Princesses Powder?" Amy clenched her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking. Merchants' daughters didn't wear powder made for princesses.

And they didn't wed earls, either…

"It's so called because four princesses, whose great beauté is known throughout Europe, have used it with such success that they've preserved an air of youth till seventy years of âge."

"Seventy years?" Kendra touched nonexistent crow's feet at the corners of her eyes. "I must have some."

Madame turned away to swipe powder on Kendra's cheeks. "You can procure a supply from Madame Elizabeth Jackson, near Maypole in the Strand, for a price of sixpence per authentic packet."

Amy stared at her reflection. Would her father be disappointed if he were here? She was breaking her promises, but he'd loved her …would he really deny her love for Colin?

"A bargain at twice the price." Kendra's face appeared behind Amy's in the mirror. She frowned at her newly powdered complexion, then smiled. "I shall visit Elizabeth Jackson tomorrow. Will you come, Amy?"

Amy shook her head slowly, pressing her lips together to hide the telltale quiver.

"Of course not; how silly of me." Kendra's grin grew wider. "You'll want to be with Colin, won't you?" She handed Madame a kohl pencil.

With Colin. What a wonderful, magical thought. "Yes, I will," Amy said, surprised at how clear and sure her voice rang through the room.

Turning Amy from the mirror, Madame rimmed her eyes with kohl and darkened her lashes and brows with the end of a burnt cork. "Oh, did I get some in your eyes?" Concerned, she leaned closer, peering at Amy. "Je regrette. I'm so sorry."

"It's all right." Amy blinked back the tears, chagrined that she couldn't seem to control herself. She sneaked another glance in the looking glass. "My eyes look huge," she worried. "Maybe Colin won't like me with a painted face."

"Don't be a goose," Kendra said. "I expect I'll have to wipe the drool off his chin."

Madame tore a sheet of red Spanish paper out of a tiny booklet and rubbed it lightly on Amy's cheeks.

"Did Colin talk to Priscilla?" Amy hesitantly asked Kendra.

"No, he talked to her father."

"And?" Amy watched as Madame took up a small pot. "What happened?"

"Shh," Madame interjected, applying pomade to Amy's lips.

Kendra shrugged. "I don't know exactly, but all is well. Don't ask him about it. He's rather furious. Still muttering about the buzzard or some such."

Amy was about to ask another question, but Madame took her by the shoulders and swung her around to fully face the mirror.

She stared, her eyes sparkling. "I-I'm beautiful," she breathed, watching in wonder as the words came from between her glossy lips.

"No," Kendra corrected. "You're magnificent. You've always been beautiful." She bent to wrap Amy in a hug. "My lovely sister—can you credit it?" Sniffing, she wiped her eyes, and Amy wiped her own, too. "Oh, we're both going to ruin our faces! Let's get you dressed."

As Madame fetched her clothing from the box, Amy stood in a daze, trembling from head to toe, plagued by second thoughts, yet excited at the unbelievable miracle of wedding Colin. Madame and Kendra didn't seem to notice as they slid off the dressing gown and pulled a new chemise over her head, taking care not to disturb her carefully applied face. Next came the sapphire and cream gown Amy had despaired of ever having the occasion to wear.

The minute they smoothed the satin skirts over her hips, her doubts scattered. It was going to happen. God in heaven, she would be a countess before the day was out.

"Mine. I hope they fit." Interrupting her thoughts, Kendra held out stockings and a pair of fashionable Louis-heeled shoes.

With a distracted smile, Amy drew on the stockings and stepped into the shoes, teetering on the high heels while Madame twisted a sleeve here and tweaked the waistline there until she was satisfied. She led Amy back to the dressing table and tucked a kerchief into her low decolletage, to protect the exquisite pearl-studded lace while she powdered Amy's neck and cleavage to match her face.

A curling iron was set to heat at the edge of the fire, and Madame set to work on Amy's hair. "You really should cut this if you wish to be à la mode." With the edge of her hand against Amy's neck, the seamstress indicated the preferred length, just below ear level.

Remembering the feel of Colin's hands caressing her hair, Amy blanched and gathered her long tresses into both fists. Madame chuckled. "Perhaps not today."

"Colin wouldn't like it," Amy stated flatly, and that was that. Madame's deft hands twisted, plaited, and curled, and before long Amy's hair was arranged in a semblance of fashionable style—long ringlets at the sides and a bun plaited together with sapphire ribbons in the back.

"No wires." Madame patted Amy's thick mass of curls.

"No fair." Kendra pouted. "I need wires and false ringlets besides."

"Now you're being the goose," Amy said. "What I wouldn't give for that rich red color. And have you any idea how long it takes to dry this?"

"Mon Dieu, mesdemoiselles," Madame clucked. "We all have to work with what God gives us, and you're both lovely." She rummaged with a fingertip through a tiny box of black beauty patches. "Hearts, stars, flowers…which do you think?"

"Hearts," Kendra decided. "It's for a wedding, after all."

"No patches. I'm painted enough as it is. Colin will scarcely recognize me."

Kendra snorted. "It's not as though you're painted like an actress. One patch?"

"This is not a negotiation." Amy laughed. "No patches."

"Madame?"

Madame took Amy by one elbow, stood her up, and guided her to the center of the chamber. Amy stood stiff as a poker while Madame walked all the way around her, looking her up and down. The seamstress backed across the room, her eyes narrowing as she contemplated her creation.

"Her complexion is flawless," she said to Kendra.

"What difference does that make?" Kendra wondered. "Patches are all the rage; they're not just to hide pimples and smallpox scars anymore."

"She's a perfect bride, n'est-ce pas?" Madame led Amy to the pier glass. "Look."

Amy gazed in the mirror, transfixed. All evidence of her mistreatment was hidden. Veiled by the cosmetics, her face, neck and shoulders appeared creamy and unblemished. Vanilla lace spilled from her sleeves and over her wrists, concealing the unsightly abrasions.

The glossy sapphire satin shimmered; the pearls on her collar and underskirt gleamed. Fat, springy corkscrew curls spilled artistically over her shoulders, and suddenly the ebony color seemed to suit her perfectly. To her vast relief, she didn't look overpainted—to the contrary, owing to Madame's skill, she looked very much like herself, only enhanced.

Her eyes met Kendra's in the glass, and they shared a smile.

Amy had never felt so beautiful.

She would have stared at herself forever, but Madame gave them both a little push. "The groom is waiting. Allez-y!" With a graceful wave of her hand, she dismissed them.

The Chase brothers' conversation had long since turned to discussing the interminable length of time women always took to get ready.

Colin popped the cork on yet another bottle of sack. "I vow, they must have food in there."

"Food?"

"Food. They never eat much in front of us, yet they always complain about how full they are after a few bites. My theory is they sneak food into their dressing chambers." Colin paused for a swallow of wine from the green bottle. "While we're out here, waiting and starving, they're dining and laughing at us."

Ford chuckled. "Just how long do you hypothesize this has been going on?"

"Since the dawn of time, at the very least."

Jason stroked his mustache. "And they've kept this a secret over the centuries?"

"It's a vast conspiracy—every female is sworn to secrecy from birth." Colin spoke solemnly, but the glitter in his eyes betrayed his amusement. He lowered his voice and leaned into the center of the table. "We've always teased Kendra because she eats her dessert first. Well, that's because she already—"

An apparition coming down the stairs claimed Colin's attention, effectively cutting off his words. A vision in sapphire and cream, Amy glided toward him. His breath caught as he wondered how he'd ever considered letting her go.

The gown's bodice fit like a second skin, emphasizing her slim waist. The skirts flared over her hips, reminding him of the lush curves underneath. Dressed in satin and lace, ribbons and pearls, she lacked only some of her exquisite jewelry to look every inch the countess she was about to become.

Not that it mattered, of course.

She could be wearing a burlap sack, and he would marry her.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

As she came down the inn's staircase with Kendra, Amy saw Jason jiggle Colin's elbow. Colin slowly rose to his feet.

"Dear God in heaven," she whispered to no one in particular. He was quite simply the most magnificent male she'd ever seen. Once, months ago in her shop, she'd been overwhelmed by his good looks, but that initial impression had long since been replaced by a sense of the complex mix of heart and intellect that, to her, was Colin.

Now, seeing him dressed for his wedding—their wedding—the awe came rushing back.

The handsome planes of his face were clean shaven, and his freshly washed hair hung in dark waves to his shoulders. But it was his formal clothing that transformed him in Amy's eyes—a black velvet suit that reminded her of the one she'd found in the chest at the foot of his bed at Greystone.

Given Colin's simple tastes, the suit was a passable nod to fashion, the breeches fuller than he preferred, though not the divided skirts called "petticoat breeches" that were in vogue. Where a dandy's apparel would be dripping in looped ribbons—cuffs, waist, and epaulettes—Colin's was finished with gold braid. His full, snow-white shirt was trimmed with lace at the gathered cuffs. Matching lace adorned the cravat that flowed over the collar of his short doublet, Amy's gold-edged cameo pinning it in place. The signet ring she'd made for him was his only other jewelry.

Though Jason and Ford were decked out in similar finery, she had eyes only for Colin. When he started toward her, she saw he was wearing shoes—shoes, not boots!—heeled, with high tongues and stiff narrow ribbon bows.

Amy could scarcely believe this model of masculine perfection was about to be hers. She felt breathless, lightheaded, and nearly tripped at the bottom of the stairs, but Colin was there and caught her in his arms.

"No fainting, now," he quipped. "I may look like a peacock, but I assure you I'm the same man you consented to marry."

Clad head to toe in black and white, he hardly looked like a peacock. "No…you look…"

"Like a featherbrained fop, no doubt. These are my court clothes." Setting Amy down, Colin threw a peevish glance up the staircase. "She made me wear them."

Kendra's laughter floated down. "No one makes you do anything, Colin Chase. Though God knows we've tried."

"Besides," Amy declared, "I was about to say you look incredibly handsome."

Colin's face flushed pink under his tan, revealing his embarrassment at the public compliment. He clutched the sides of his full breeches in a show of annoyance. "Just don't expect me to dress like this often. A man cannot move properly with all this extra fabric hung about his person."

"I imagine Amy agrees," Ford put in, "as I'm certain she'd prefer you with no fabric hung about your person at all."

General laughter greeted his comment, and Amy's face flamed—though she'd been thinking the very same thing.

Moving closer, Colin linked his arms around her waist and captured her gaze with his. "My sentiments exactly," he murmured, his husky voice low so only she could hear. "Though you look unbelievably splendid in that gown, I can hardly wait to remove it."

Amy's cheeks burned even hotter.

Someone cleared his throat, and she broke free of Colin's embrace. Jason nodded toward her. "In the absence of your father, Amy, may I have the honor of giving you to my brother?"

For the countless time since this incredible day had begun, Amy's throat closed with emotion, and her eyes filled with tears. Although saddened by the absence of her parents, she was oh so gladdened by her acceptance into this marvelous family.

She nodded mutely.

"Well, then, what are we waiting for?" Jason's smile was warm and understanding as he offered Amy his arm. With a return smile and a swish of her satin skirts, she sailed past Colin and linked arms with her almost brother-in-law.

Amy couldn't really remember her wedding. From the moment they entered St. Trinity (the curate lifted a heavy brow at Colin and uttered, "This was worth chasing after"), until she was handed a rolled parchment declaring her officially Amethyst Chase, Countess of Greystone, the time swept by in an incoherent blur of unreality.

Oh, she remembered saying "I will" and hearing Colin's "I will" boom confidently through the sanctuary. She remembered him slipping a cool circlet of metal onto her ring finger, and she remembered his long kiss, sealing her to him forever, his sweet taste tinged with the sack he'd sipped while waiting. Jason had finally tapped Colin on the shoulder, and he'd reluctantly released her, and she remembered that, too. But the curate's words—the incessant drone that tied these events together—had been muffled by a distracted fog.

The ceremony was followed by a hastily prepared wedding feast at the Chases' town house. Their formal dining room was filled with laughter from the inlaid wooden floor to the ornate painted ceiling.

Portraits of ancestors watched the proceedings from the walls overlooking the laden table. Silver platters bearing suckling pig, a roast round of beef, and duck stuffed with oysters and onions were brought steaming to the table, surrounded by bowls of peas, cauliflower, lettuce, corn, potatoes, and rice spiced with saffron and chopped nuts.

The scent of fresh, hot bread and sweet butter tickled Amy's nose. Her cup was refilled with claret wine punch spiked with brandy, nutmeg, sugar and the juice of a lemon. As she drained it for toast after toast, she grew giddy with laughter and companionship, not to mention the unprecedented amount of liquor she consumed.

In the center of the table sat a white-iced wedding cake decorated with candied violets and roses (in the middle of winter!), which Kendra insisted they cut and serve immediately in celebration of their marriage. Amy and Kendra ate their portions, but the men pushed theirs aside to have later.

Colin raised a brow, his gaze searching out each of his brothers in turn. "See?" he asked them, his tone deep with hidden meaning. "It's just as I said…"

Ford and Jason laughed, while Kendra and Amy exchanged a look of confusion. But then dishes were passed back and forth across the table, plates were filled, more toasts were drunk, and the odd comment was forgotten.

Amy could eat no more than a few bites of the impressive feast. Her stomach churned with a combination of excitement, exhaustion, and a tinge of inebriation. Besides, the slow pressure of Colin's thigh against hers, under the cover of the table, kept her thoughts elsewhere.

Conversation whirled about her. She paid scant attention to most of it, but she did take notice of Kendra's reaction when Colin announced they were leaving. Kendra wasn't at all pleased to be having her brand-new sister snatched away so soon.

"You cannot!"

"The devil we cannot. If you think I'm spending my wedding night with my little sister hanging outside the door…"

"But you have only Ebony. Surely—"

"You can borrow my carriage," Jason offered pleasantly.

"Thank you, but I sent for my own carriage this morning."

"But—but—"

Colin smiled when his sister sputtered.

"Amy has no clothes!"

"She has a trunk full of clothes you picked up from Madame Beaumont only this morning."

"She has no shoes, no stockings, and no nightclothes," Kendra returned smugly.

"Surely you can lend her a pair of shoes and some stockings." Colin shot his sister a wicked grin. "She certainly has no need of nightclothes."

His prediction proved true. Amy hazily remembered being bundled into Colin's carriage and settling her head against his shoulder. The next thing she knew, she was back at Greystone, in his—their!—bed, wearing nary a stitch of clothing. But she wasn't cold. A blaze roared in the fireplace, and Colin's breath was hot on her neck where he'd nuzzled her awake.

"Have you slept enough yet?" he'd whispered, and then, with calculated, skillful maneuvers, proceeded to keep her awake until dawn illuminated the sky.

Not that she was complaining.

Judging by the bright sun through the window, it was afternoon now. Amy stretched beneath the sheets, content. She ran her hand over the shallow hollow where Colin had lain, imagining she could still feel his warmth and sniffing deeply of the distinctive scent he'd left behind. She had no cause to be concerned about his disappearance—he was her husband now.

The thought brought a smile and a vision of herself standing beside him in the old church. Sapphire and cream, black and white. They hadn't matched. It had been perfect.

No…

No, it hadn't been perfect. A disturbing emptiness seemed to open in Amy's middle.

What had she done?

She'd taken one vow and broken another. She'd never be able to reestablish Goldsmith & Sons now. Dear God in heaven, would her father ever forgive her? Would she ever forgive herself? Generations of craftsmanship, all ending with her, ending with her selfishness.

She should have married Robert willingly—then none of this would have happened. No matter that the mere idea twisted her insides; she would have had the solace of Goldsmith & Sons, of her craft, of knowing she'd done the right thing.

She'd done Colin no favor, either. What had he said? Bloody hell, I knew I should have killed him. Instead, he'd married her to save her from Robert. And now he was stuck with a commoner for a wife, when she knew he'd wanted a titled lady.

Did he really even love her? She curled into a ball and squeezed her eyes shut tight. Strange patterns danced behind her lids, making her dizzy. The claret punch from last night wasn't sitting well in her stomach.

She lay there for long minutes, hugging her knees, blanking her mind, forcing her breathing to slow and her heart to gradually calm.

At long last, she felt able to think more clearly.

What was done, was done. She would have to bury the guilty feelings deep. Her love was so overwhelming, surely everything would work out. She'd had no choice.

No other choice she could have lived with.

Opening her eyes, she straightened and rolled onto her back, gazing up at the cream-colored canopy. A warm fire crackled on the gray stone hearth. Yellow sunshine streamed through the window. A brilliant flash of purple arced from where her hand lay on the blanket.

She sat up, drawing a quick breath. In all the excitement, she hadn't found time to inspect it last night, but the ring was magnificent: a large heart-shaped amethyst surrounded by tiny seed pearls and table-cut diamonds, set in a framework of delicate filigree reminiscent of the finest sixteenth-century artistry.

Where had Colin come by such a masterpiece on such short notice? She waved her fingers, watching the play of light on the deep purple amethyst and old diamonds. It was eighteen karat, the shank worn thin with age and use, but still a rich yellow. Lovely, yet strange somehow…foreign…she'd never worn jewelry not made by a member of her family.

She pulled off the ring.

At her burst of laughter, Colin appeared in the doorway, sporting a wide grin.

"Good afternoon, sleepyhead. What's so funny?"

Sunlight flashed off the amethyst in the palm of her hand. "This," she choked out between giggles. "This ring."

His smile disappeared, replaced by a frown of hurt. "It was my grandmother's," he mumbled grimly. "I thought…"

Her laughter died as she realized he thought she was disparaging the beautiful piece of jewelry. Clutching the quilt around herself, she jumped off the bed and rushed to his side. "No, it's lovely," she cried. "But look—just look inside."

Colin took the ring. "Inside?" he asked blankly.

"Yes! Look there—do you see it?"

He frowned, squinting at the tiny marks. "An eagle?"

"A falcon! And the letters GSJ."

"So…"

"Goldsmith & Sons, Jewellers. Don't you remember the falcon on our sign? Colin, someone in my family made this ring!"

He glanced up quickly, then back down, staring at the ring in disbelief. "Are you sure? There's also an animal head of some sort stamped in here."

"A leopard's head. That means the gold was assayed at Goldsmith's Hall in London. It's why we call it hallmarking. And the leopard head is in a circle—an old mark used before 1519. Colin, this ring must be more than a hundred and fifty years old."

"I knew it was old, but—"

"It's very old. And very wonderful. Look at the filigree." Before Colin could look at the filigree or anything else, she snatched the ring from him and slipped it onto her finger. Extending her arm, she gazed at it possessively. "However did it survive this long? Most of our business was designing new mountings for old stones; fashionable people have their jewels reset every two or three years."

"Grandmother was never fashionable. She gave the ring to Jason—otherwise it would have been sold years ago to help fight Cromwell. Is it valuable?"

"Quite. Fine large amethysts are rare—they call amethyst the Jewel of Royalty. But it's the workmanship I treasure…I wonder who made it? My great-great-grandfather?" Happiness spurted through her as she looked from the ring to her husband. "Oh, Colin, this is the best wedding ring ever!"

Colin's eyes glittered in response. He moved to her, slipping his arms beneath the blanket to encircle her waist. "I'm glad you like it, love," he murmured huskily before his mouth descended on hers. "And I second your opinion concerning the rarity and value of Amethyst…"

His large hands were warm on her bare back, and he kissed her long and deep, breaking off only when the quilt slid from her shoulders and she pulled away and stooped hurriedly to retrieve it.

Colin wrapped it back around her. "Benchley has our dinner waiting. How quickly can you dress? Unless you'd rather have, uh, dessert first?"

"Kendra has dessert first."

Colin chuckled deep in his throat. "That wasn't what I meant." He leaned down to her, and his tongue traced her lips, sending a tremor through her body. When he pulled back, his eyes bore into hers suggestively.

Two hot spots burned on Amy's cheeks, but nonetheless she murmured, "Oh. Dessert would be nice."

This time, when the blanket fell, she didn't reach for it.

And as he carried her to the bed, she told herself it was impossible for something this perfect to be wrong.

She wouldn't let it be.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Colin entered the bedroom, careful to keep his expression neutral. "Will you come upstairs with me, love?"

Amy's reflection looked puzzled in the dressing table mirror. "Upstairs?" She folded the letter she'd just written to Aunt Elizabeth with the news of their wedding. "For three weeks you've been telling me it's dangerous up there. Besides, don't we need to leave for Cainewood?"

"Christmas Eve can wait a few minutes yet." Struggling to keep a smile off his face, he took her by the hand and led her down the corridor to the staircase.

She followed him up the steps. "When will the upper level be renovated?"

"I'm not sure. I've put all the renovations on hold. The farmstead is almost self-supporting, and then—"

He turned when he felt her stop. Her words came forced and quiet. "Colin, I have a trunk full of gold."

"So you do." He backed down a step, twisting his ring. "I promised you I wouldn't touch it."

"But—it's yours. Legally, it's yours." Her fingers trailed back and forth along the oak rail. "You…you'd have taken Priscilla's dowry, wouldn't you?"

Colin noticed the catch in her voice. It would kill her if he spent her gold. It would kill their marriage. Kill her love for him.

"Priscilla was different," he said carefully. "That was a business arrangement." He moved down another step to encircle her in his arms. "I love you," he said low. "We'll wait, see what happens. If you don't mind living like this for now—"

"I could live like this forever," she said quickly.

Very quickly, Colin thought. Much too quickly.

As he took her lips in a gentle kiss, a disturbing image of Lord Hobbs flashed in his head.

He didn't have forever.

Amy followed Colin down the corridor, feeling troubled by his sudden change of temperament. What she'd seen in his eyes had worried her. He'd seemed so lighthearted when they'd started upstairs—what had happened to lower his spirits?

It was odd and disturbing to find that his state of mind affected hers. It seemed that if he wasn't happy, then she couldn't be, either.

Love was more complicated than she'd ever imagined.

His step lightened as he reached the end of the corridor. Despite his earlier warnings, she'd seen no rotting wood along the way, no holes in the floor. He stopped in front of a stout, arched oak door and slipped a key into the lock.

After it clicked open with a rusty screech, he took her hand and placed the key in her palm. The metal was warm, retaining his body heat. She closed her fingers around it and looked up at him.

"Go ahead. It's yours," he urged, indicating the door and whatever lay beyond.

The door squeaked a protest of disuse as she pushed it open. The smallish chamber had a carved marble fireplace. A long upholstered couch sat in the center, and there was a heavy, dark wooden desk that belonged to the previous century. But best of all were the books, multitudes of them, lining the walls from floor to ceiling.

"A library…"

Her mood suddenly lifted, her uneasiness flitting away as it tended to do in the bliss of being wed to Colin. If they really loved each other, it should be enough.

It would be enough.

"It's yours," Colin repeated. "Your own place, like the study is mine. Though I'm hoping you'll let me in now and then. To borrow a book, you know."

He winked at Amy, but she only smiled faintly at his humor. She moved to the windows and gazed down into Hidden Court. The plants were mostly dead from the cold and last month's brief snow, but it would be lovely come spring. And the little library was perfect; she could already imagine herself curled up before the fire with a stack of books by her side.

"Do you like it?" From behind her, Colin's voice sounded warm and pleased, as though he knew her answer. It flowed over and around her, making her body hum with contentment and the physical need for him that always lingered just below the surface.

She turned to face him. "It's the most wonderful thing anyone's ever given me. Well, maybe except for my ring."

"We'll furnish it however you like. Benchley cleaned it for me. I don't know about the books—they probably haven't been disturbed in decades."

She wandered to the bookcases and ran a finger down the dark green leather spine of one volume. Her fingertip came away smudged, leaving the green stripe noticeably brighter than the rest of the cover. But it didn't matter; cleaning and organizing the books would be a joyful endeavor.

She'd felt rather useless as a countess these past three weeks.

"It's amazing," she said, looking back to Colin. Winter sun streamed through the windows and seemed to create a halo around him, swimming with brilliant dust motes from the recently swept room.

His lips curved in a wry smile, and he gave an elegant shrug. "I had nothing else to give you for Christmas."

Amy's heart plunged. "Oh, Colin, I have nothing for you. And this—this"—she gestured helplessly—"it's so much."

Colin moved to enclose her in his warm, strong arms. His face mere inches away, she lost herself in his emerald gaze. "I need no gift from you, love," he said, his voice low and slightly rough. "You're my Christmas present. You're all I want and more than I deserve. Besides, how could you get me anything? I haven't left you alone for a heartbeat."

He grinned, and it had a devastating effect on Amy's insides. Suddenly, she realized she did have a gift for him. She smiled to herself. An idea flickered in her brain. A mischievous Christmas prank.

She'd need Kendra's help…

He kissed her then, his mouth hot and demanding on hers, and her fledgling plans drifted away, replaced, as always, by the overwhelming feelings Colin engendered with his slightest touch.

His touch now was by no means slight. They made love on the couch—"christening" her room, as Colin put it devilishly, and disturbing years of accumulated dust in the process.

Afterward, Colin ran a fingertip down the bridge of her nose, as she'd done to the book. Laughing, he called for a bath, and they moved downstairs to wash each other in their enormous tub. Benchley had the horses hitched and had been waiting a good half-hour by the time they emerged and climbed into the carriage to make their way to Cainewood.

The road was hard and dry today, and their carriage barreled toward Cainewood in record time. Besides clothing for a short stay, their trunks had small packages tucked inside—Christmas gifts of jewelry they'd chosen the night before. Amy's heart galloped with excitement at the thought of everyone's pleasure in their gifts, especially the surprise she was planning for Colin.

Before she knew it they were in the village, knocking on the door to Clarice Bradford's whitewashed cottage. Little Mary came to answer, Clarice at her heels. The child looked well fed and pink cheeked, and with a whoop of joy she threw herself into Amy's arms.

"Oh, my lady—I mean, Amy! I didn't know if I'd ever see you again!"

Amy knelt to return the embrace, then pulled back. The girl's big blue eyes sparkled with happiness, and not just at seeing her old friend. She was content here with Clarice—the two had needed each other.

Just as she and Colin had been meant to be together.

"I am a lady now, Mary. Can you believe it? I've married Lord Cainewood's brother. Do you remember him?" She rose and put her arm around Colin's waist.

"'Course I 'member him." Mary tilted her head back to look up at him. "You saved me so I could be Mama's little girl."

Amy had to jump to the side when the child launched herself at him, leaping high, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. "Oh, my lord, thank you!"

"I cannot find the words to tell you how grateful I am." Clarice bowed her head and bobbed a curtsy. She reached for her daughter, but Colin shifted Mary to his hip, supporting her with one arm while he gave Clarice's hand a quick squeeze.

"It was my pleasure." He smiled at Mary, brushed blond ringlets from her face, touched her little nose with one long finger. "I'm delighted to see Mary so happy."

"No more delighted than I am to have her." Clarice reached again, and this time Colin handed Mary over. "Thank you, my lord." She cradled her daughter tight, tears brightening her gray eyes.

"I brought you something, Mary." Amy held out a tiny package wrapped in bright cloth and tied with a pink ribbon. "For Christmas."

"For me?" Mary's mouth dropped open in a little O. "What is it?"

"Open it and see."

Clarice set her down, and she fumbled with the ribbon until Colin took it and untied it for her. The cloth fell open in his hand, and Mary gasped.

"Is it really for me?" Without waiting for an answer, she reached for the sterling silver locket and brought it to her lips. "Oh, my lady, thank you!"

Amy had strung it on a narrow black ribbon. Clarice eased Mary's hand from her mouth and turned her to tie it around her neck. "A heart." She smiled at Amy. "Mary loves hearts. And it's engraved so prettily. It's lovely, my lady."

"I made it a long time ago." Amy took the pink ribbon from Colin and tied it in Mary's curls. "When I was yet a girl in London."

"I have something to give you, too." Mary dashed into the cottage.

Clarice spread her hands in question, but Mary was back in a moment, holding forth a scrap of paper. "For you," she said, handing it to Amy.

Tears pricked the back of Amy's lids as she gazed at the picture Mary had drawn. The cottage. A smiling sun. And two stick figures with a crooked heart between them. "Surely your mama would like to keep this."

"You keep it," Clarice said simply.

Amy bent to gave Mary a heartfelt hug. "I'll treasure it always."

Thank you, Clarice mouthed with a gentle smile. "Will you come in and share some Christmas cake?"

"I could use some sustenance," Colin declared, and they all laughed.

Back in their carriage on the way to the castle, Amy leaned across to take Colin's hands. "Wasn't that wonderful?"

"Yes, it was delicious. I was famished."

"You and your stomach." Giggling, she tried to pull her hands back, but he held them tight. "I meant Mary, and how happy she is."

"Oh," he said with an innocent grin. He squeezed her fingers and arched one dark brow. "I'm hoping you'll give me a little girl just like Mary."

She looked pointedly as his dark head, then freed her hands to sit back and lift a hank of her own ebony hair. "I think not, no matter how hard I tried."

Colin laughed. "I didn't mean blond; I meant sweet. Surely you can give me a sweet daughter? We'll have to work on it more often."

"Haven't we been?" Amy mused with a secretive smile.

As they pulled through the gatehouse and onto Cainewood's private road, he grumbled under his breath, "So much for working on it."

"Pardon me?"

He reached to take Amy's hand and pull her onto his lap. "Our days of solitude are over—not to mention our nights."

Amy laughed. "It's not so bad as all that! Surely we'll have time alone together. And the family…"

Amy was very much looking forward to spending time with her new family.

"The family. The loud, boisterous, meddlesome, teasing…" He swept the hair off the nape of her neck and bent his head to kiss her there with each word. "Argumentative, childish, outspoken, pigheaded—"

Amy turned on his lap. She touched her mouth to his, just barely, so he could feel her lips move. "Affectionate, generous, enthusiastic." She kissed him lightly. "Playful, thoughtful, alive." Another kiss, more forceful. "Intelligent, lovable—"

Colin pulled back in mock surprise. "Good heavens, are we as wonderful as all that?"

"Well, they are. I'm not so sure about you." The carriage wheels clattered over the drawbridge, and Amy leaned back to part the curtains as they passed through the barbican and into the quadrangle. "Oh, Colin, look."

All around the quadrangle, garlands of ivy graced the ancient walls. A large red bow hung over each door and window, the swagged ends wound with holly and laurel.

"It's beautiful!"

"Wait till you see inside," Colin promised drolly. "Kendra quite outdoes herself this time of year." But he was smiling, clearly caught up in the Christmas spirit despite himself.

Indoors, the monotone, cream-hued stone hall was asplash with red and green. Winter foliage and red ribbon twisted around the gray handrail, marching up the stairs and across the balcony at the top. Hundreds of beeswax candles sat at intervals, waiting to be lit when darkness fell. Cloth of gold swagged lavishly between the columns, held in place with enormous red bows.

Amy paused on the threshold, aghast at the splendor, and Colin seized the opportunity to kiss her, reaching overhead to pull a berry off the mistletoe afterward.

"Ah, our bride and groom," Kendra called, coming down the stairs. "Thank God you've arrived. Our mistletoe's been sadly neglected this season."

"We can remedy that situation." Colin gave Amy another light kiss and removed another berry.

Moments later, the brothers appeared. They both had resounding kisses for Amy, and the mistletoe was relieved of two more berries. Then Kendra claimed a kiss from Colin, albeit a mite more brotherly, and another berry was plucked.

"That's more like it." Kendra grinned, looking up. "At this rate, it'll be bare before evening!"

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

"Hey, down here!"

Amy looked down from the wall walk to see Kendra waving frantically and Jason and Ford toting a large saw between them. Colin laughed at the question in her eyes. "Come, love, we're going to cut the Yule Log," he said as he beckoned her to follow him down.

Spirits high, the five of them trudged outside the castle walls and into the bordering forest. Much good-natured arguing followed, as each claimed to have discovered the largest tree trunk. Teasing laughter pealed through the fragrant woods until Jason, as usual the peacemaker, swept off his cloak and shivered stoically while they used it as a crude measuring device.

Amy's tree was the winner. Her cheeks bright with the flush of victory, she watched the Chase men struggle manfully to cut it down. At last it fell, with a resounding crash and a great cheer from all. They cut a long chunk from the thickest part, which Amy eyed incredulously, considering they'd brought no cart or horse.

"How will we get it back to Cainewood?" she asked Jason.

"We'll manage." Beneath their cloaks, Jason and Ford both had lengths of rope coiled about their waists, which they unwound and tied around the colossal log, creating six long looped handles to pull it by. "Can you and Kendra handle the saw?"

"Of course, but must the log be so big?"

"Tradition says it will be a good year if we can keep it smoldering through Twelfth Night." Ford made a small grunt as he tugged a knot tight. "The bigger, the better."

"But that couldn't possibly fit in the fireplace."

Colin's laughter rang through the trees. "Don't be such a worrywart, love. We've done this a time or two."

"Hmmph." Tilting her nose in the air, she moved to help Kendra with the heavy saw. "You're the one who has to carry it, not me."

Kendra hurried Amy ahead while the men struggled behind. "Everything is all set," she whispered. "When it's time, a maid will come to your room and escort you to a chamber downstairs, where several footmen will be on hand to help."

"I cannot wait," Amy said with a conspiratorial smile. "Thank you so much."

"I cannot wait, either!"

Despite the frosty air, the men were covered with a thin sheen of sweat by the time they managed to haul the log to the front door. They needed the help of three additional men to lift it over the threshold and carry it into the great hall.

"Careful, the floor!" Kendra warned. "It's just been polished."

In fact, the servants were not quite finished: at the far end they were still spreading the milk that would dry to a high sheen. Amy gawked at the buzz of activity. From the planked floor to the intricate oak hammerbeam ceiling, the immense great hall swarmed with workers. Paintings were dusted, tapestries cleaned and rehung on the stone walls. Servants chatted excitedly as they brought in heavy, ancient trestle tables and set them with row after row of trenchers and cutlery.

"What's happening?" Amy asked, one eye on the men struggling to get the log into the enormous fireplace.

Kendra crossed her arms and tapped a foot disapprovingly. "Didn't Colin tell you about Christmas at Cainewood?"

"For God's sake, Kendra," Colin called across the chamber. "We've been wed but three weeks. Did you think we'd be spending our time talking about family traditions?"

Amy felt heat flush her face, but the others laughed until she was prompted to a smile. "Is there to be an entertainment tonight?"

"Tomorrow. All the castle retainers, tenants, and villagers will come for Christmas dinner, complete with gifts for everyone." Kendra waved a hand expansively. "Isn't it glorious? I love Christmas!"

Amy laughed. "I love Christmas, too. I missed it during the Commonwealth."

"May Cromwell roast in hell." Kendra wiped her tongue and spit. "That I should even say such an evil name. Eleven years with no Christmas… Look, Amy, it fit!" She clapped her hands.

The log snugged in the fireplace with room to spare. The brothers were remarkably well behaved, throwing nothing more than a few gloating glances in Amy's direction.

"You told me so!" she said for them with a giggle, and their answering laughter echoed in the cavernous hall.

"Food." Colin wiped his palms on his breeches. "After all that work, a man needs food."

"Christmas Eve supper awaits," Kendra announced.

In contrast to the great hall, the private family dining room seemed small and intimate, the air suffused with savory scents that made Amy's mouth water. Colin loaded her plate with clove-studded turkey, Yorkshire Christmas pie, artichoke bottoms and potatoes in pastry, spinach tart, and one of the new French rolls. Kendra started with a slice of almond cheesecake, a wedge of pumpkin pie, and an apple taffety tart.

"Kendra, Kendra." Jason heaved a good-natured sigh. "Pumpkin pie when there's Yorkshire pie on the table?" He spooned up a bite, the hearty crust filled with a mixture of turkey, goose, partridge, pigeon, hare and woodcock, all swimming in butter. "When will you grow up?"

"Buttered ale?" Kendra said sweetly, ignoring him as she poured a dipperful from the huge, ivy-garlanded wassail bowl that dominated the table. She floated a square of brown toast on top and handed the cup to Amy.

"Thank you." Amy sniffed deep of the hot ale, mulled with beaten eggs, sugar, spices and the pulp of roasted apples. When she took a sip, it warmed her to her very bones. "It's so lovely here," she said, thinking of Christmases past in the single room her family had used for cooking, eating, and socializing. "A different world. Look at the firelight dancing on the beveled windows."

"It doesn't hold a candle to the sparkling of your eyes." Colin reached for another roll. "Or the blush on your cheeks," he added with a laugh.

When everyone had crammed in the last possible bite, they all walked to the great hall with many competing groans of regretted gluttony. There they lit the Yule Log and sang the traditional Christmas carols, with Kendra accompanying on the harpsichord, which had been moved into the hall for the occasion.

The five of them were dwarfed by the enormous chamber, but warm and merry, clustered at one end with the fire burning cheerfully. When they ran out of songs, they opened their gifts.

Jason's serious face split into a smile when he saw his pearl cravat pin, and he put it on immediately. Kendra slipped the emerald ring on her finger and declared it her favorite piece of jewelry. Ford disappeared upstairs after opening his gift, returning with his new jeweled hatband adorning a fashionable wide-brimmed hat, which he wore the rest of the evening.

Amy couldn't have been more pleased.

Kendra's gift to Amy was a large assortment of shoes, stockings, ribbons, and nightgowns—the latter so sheer that Amy blushed when she unwrapped them. Colin made her stand up and display each one, finally declaring that he supposed she would be allowed to wear nightclothes after all, so long as she kept her selection limited to these.

His disarming smile and appraising gaze told her they wouldn't stay on for long.

Jason had wrapped up the history books Amy had left piled on the mosaic table in his library, and she clutched them to her chest in delight. Ford presented her with a selection of hard-milled scented soaps, floral bath oils, and French perfumes that had Colin wondering aloud at why such a gift would come from his brother—until Amy playfully punched him in the stomach. He doubled over, in laughter, not pain, and Amy couldn't remember when she'd had as much fun.

After everyone's gifts had been opened—a long proceeding, as each individual present was passed around and properly admired—Jason called for the plum porridge.

Amy groaned. "I cannot eat another bite."

"Oh, but you must have a serving." Kendra scooped a healthy dollop and plopped it in Amy's bowl. "Hidden within it are tokens that foretell of the year to come."

Colin's bowl held the first prize, a silver penny, predicting a fortune in the offing. "I've fortune enough for a lifetime already," he declared in a chivalrous tone, his gaze fastened on Amy.

The others laughed as Amy slowly turned red.

"Oh, no." Jason pulled a ring from his mouth, rolling his eyes as he licked it clean. "This should be Kendra's, surely."

They all laughed again.

"What does it mean?" Amy asked.

"It's a sign of marriage," Kendra explained. "Ah, the thimble!" She placed it on a fingertip, flashing an angelic smile. "A life of blessedness."

"When are you joining the convent?" Ford chortled.

She threw the thimble at his head, and obligingly he doubled over, moaning loud and long in a show of great pain.

"Well, so much for the tokens," Colin announced when Ford's act was over.

"Thank God." Amy set down her bowl.

"Aren't you going to finish it?"

She shook her head. "I've had enough," she said quietly. "I'm really not feeling too well." Kendra glanced up, and Amy threw her a surreptitious wink. "I think I should go to bed," she said to Colin.

He shot up at once and placed a hand on her forehead. "You're not feverish," he reported, visibly relieved. "But if you feel ill, then of course we must go to bed."

"But the games…" Ford protested.

"What games?" Amy asked innocently, finishing with a weak cough for effect.

"We always play games on Christmas Eve, charades and the like, until the wee hours." Grasping her hand, Colin pulled her up and put a protective arm around her. "But that was before one of us was married. Besides, your health is more important."

He started moving her toward the door.

"You must stay and play, Colin. It's only fatigue, I'm certain, and overeating and a bit too much buttered ale—though it was all delicious." Amy sighed prettily and placed a delicate hand on her abdomen.

Unfortunately, Colin proved to be overly solicitous. The best they could do was convince him to see her to bed and then return for the games.

He undressed her himself, pulled one of her new nightgowns over her head, then stood back to judge the effect.

He gave a low whistle. "Are you certain you're ill, love?"

"Quite certain." She forced another cough and clutched at her stomach. "Leave now, please, before I embarrass myself in front of you." She climbed into the bed, moaning softly to demonstrate her illness. "Could you put the chamber pot beside me before you go?"

"Sickness is nothing to be embarrassed about," he assured her. With a small thud, he deposited the chamber pot on the bedside table. "Are you sure you don't want me to stay?"

"I'm positively sure. Go enjoy the games." When he hesitated as though not quite convinced, she added, "If you'll but let me rest, Colin, alone, when you return in a few hours I'm certain to be feeling better."

"Well…"

"Much better," she repeated meaningfully.

She watched his eyes light up before she rolled away with a groan and pulled the covers over her head.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Half an hour after the charades game began, Colin and his siblings were interrupted by the head butler announcing the unexpected delivery of a crate. They all hurried to the stone hall to see what it might be.

The crate was enormous, standing taller than Colin himself, and his name was scrawled across the front. There was no indication of where or whom it had come from.

"Do you suppose it's a wedding gift?" he asked, coming up to stand beside it.

"Open it and see," Jason suggested.

The buoyancy in his voice had Colin turning to him sharply. "It's from you, then?"

"I didn't say that. Just open it."

"It must be furniture. A nice thought, Jason, but much too generous—and besides, I have no place to put anything yet."

Jason laughed. "Look, it's not from me. Just open it."

Colin considered. "Very well, but Amy should be here. Perhaps she's feeling better now. I'll just go and check."

"Let her sleep," Kendra said. "She felt beastly. "Checking might wake her, and you mustn't do that."

"I'm not sure what to do, then." Colin twisted his signet ring on his finger. "I expect this can wait until morning."

"It's addressed to you, not Amy," Kendra said. "She can see it in the morning. Open it, please—or I'll do it for you. I want to see what's inside."

"Well…"

"I'll fetch some tools," Ford offered, rushing off before Colin could protest.

Not that he really wanted to—he was at least as curious as Kendra.

A minute later, Ford was back, and together they pried off the front of the crate—only to find another box enclosed inside. They pulled the remaining three sides of the crate apart, but there was still no clue to the contents. The new box was unmarked.

"It must be fragile," Colin remarked uncertainly. "Let's be more careful opening this one."

The second box revealed nothing more than a slightly smaller version of itself hidden inside.

He threw his siblings a sidelong glance and silently set to opening it. When a fourth featureless box was revealed, he grinned at the profusion of lumber littering the hall. "What the hell is going on here?"

"I'm sure we don't know," Kendra protested.

"We were just minding our own business, playing charades," Ford offered.

"Just open it," Jason said.

Colin shrugged, trying to hide a smile. He loved a joke played on himself almost as much as being the perpetrator of one. "I think I'll wait until morning, after all," he said blandly, turning to leave.

Kendra lunged at him, tugging on his shirt. "Colin Chase, you open that box right now. I'm—I'm dying of curiosity."

He turned back and fixed her with an innocent look. "Well, then, I suppose I must. I wouldn't want you to die on account of me."

They laughed as he pulled the box apart, and he was not at all surprised to find a fifth box inside. This one had a sign on it, though, spelling out the words CONTAINS THE EARL OF GREYSTONE in neat block letters.

"It should say 'Contents for the Earl of Greystone,'" he pointed out. "Somebody doesn't know how to spell."

His siblings shrugged.

"It cannot contain the Earl of Greystone," he insisted, staring at their blank faces. "I'm the Earl of Greystone, and I'm quite obviously not in that box. I'm not certain I would even fit," he added as an afterthought.

A cough came from within the box.

Colin swung around. "What the devil…"

The top was hinged. He threw it open. Amy slowly rose, completely captivating in a soft peach gown, a dazzling smile on her lips and in her eyes.

"You! Uh—aren't you ill?" Colin sputtered.

"Do I look ill?"

"No. And you don't look like the Earl of Greystone, either."

Laughter came from behind him, and he turned, confused. Kendra tilted her head. "Don't you like your Christmas present, Colin?"

A grin of amusement twitched on his lips as he turned back to Amy. "You're lovely, but you're not a present, love. I have you already." He grasped her under her arms, effortlessly lifting her out of the box. "It was a good trick, though," he conceded as he set her on her feet. "Even if the sign was spelled wrong."

"No, it was spelled correctly," Amy said.

He remained silent, his brows drawn together in puzzlement.

"The box contains the next Earl of Greystone."

Colin could sense all their eyes on him, but his brain refused to work. His head felt completely blank. He leaned over a little, gazing into the empty box.

"It contained the next Earl of Greystone, I mean," Amy clarified. "He's not inside the box anymore."

Colin blinked stupidly.

"You'll have to wait to see him, though—about seven months, I suspect."

His heart faltered in his chest.

"He's inside me, Colin," she finished softly.

His mouth opened, closed, then he let forth a whoop of joy as he swept her up and swung her around and around in a wide circle. Jason and Ford both laughed, while tears brightened Kendra's eyes.

Suddenly, Colin stopped and set Amy down with exquisite care. "Have I hurt you?" he asked earnestly. "Either of you?"

"No, we're not that fragile. Though it's a good thing I don't seem prone to morning sickness."

Ford snorted. "You'd have gotten it straight in your face, I expect."

"Ford!" Jason and Kendra shouted together.

"Forgive him," Jason continued to Amy. "He's hopelessly uncivilized."

"I think he's funny," Amy declared between giggles. "And quite handsome, besides."

"Well, Colin, I reckon the honeymoon is over." Jason's smile belied the seriousness of his tone.

"Come again?"

"She played a joke on you. She's challenging your virtuosity as a prankster already."

Colin looked at his bride, his heart swelling with emotion. "Au contraire," he said slowly. "The honeymoon is only beginning." He swept her up, bearing her slight weight as one would a sleeping child, his arms beneath her shoulders and knees. Cradling her against his upper body, he strode toward the stairs.

"Wait!" Kendra shouted. "The games!"

"Go ahead, children," Colin called over his shoulder. "We have our own games to play."

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Colin kicked the door closed behind them and gently deposited Amy on the bed. The sudden apprehension in her eyes made his gut clench.

"Are you truly pleased?" she asked in a small voice. "I mean, it's so soon…and maybe I should have told you first, privately…"

She looked away, staring up at the underside of the canopy.

"Oh, love, how could you doubt it?" He lowered himself to the bed and turned her face toward him with a fingertip. "A family…a babe…"

Amy's breath rushed out, and she offered him a shaky smile. "A son," she said. "I don't know why, but I'm sure of it, Colin."

He didn't care whether she carried a son or a daughter. Either way, his throat tightened as he thought of their child growing within her. But he knew better than to argue with a pregnant woman. "A son," he echoed, suppressing a chuckle. "How long have you known?"

Her fingers toyed with a lock of her hair. "I think it must have happened the very first time, at Greystone. I first thought of the possibility when I was…stuck in that awful room with with Robert." At Colin's wince, she rushed to add, "It was that thought that kept me going, made me fight."

"But you said nothing."

"It was too soon to tell, barely more than a fortnight," she defended herself. "Besides, I would never have trapped you into marriage that way."

No, she wouldn't do that, Colin agreed silently. She was much too honorable to pull such a stunt.

He wished he could say the same for himself.

She'd known they weren't meant to wed, but he'd manipulated her by bringing Robert's threat into the equation. And look where it had gotten him: He was happy beyond belief, but those days were numbered. A year—one precious year—until that buzzard's debt was due.

He laced his fingers with hers. He'd been right all along: marrying for love was illogical. A mistake. But one he couldn't bring himself to be sorry for—yet.

"Go on," he said, squeezing her hand.

She took a deep breath. "When I became convinced—and don't ask me how, I just know—I didn't know how to tell you. I wasn't sure whether you'd be pleased. After all, it's so soon, and…the baby will come early, before we've been married nine months, even," she blurted out in a rush, then bit her lip. "But I wanted to give you a Christmas present, and this was all I had." Her mouth curved in a tiny smile. "Since you won't take my diamonds and gold."

"My Amethyst is the most precious gem of all," Colin teased. "Why would I want any others when they all pale in comparison?" He brushed a gentle kiss across her lips.

"Then you're really, truly pleased about the babe? You're not vexed that he'll come early?" Amy wiggled closer, pressing the length of her body against his. "Because, God forgive me, I cannot find it in me to be sorry we conceived. I want your son more than anything in the world," she finished on a sigh.

What had he done to deserve her? And how—bloody hell, how—could he manage to keep his promise and save Greystone, too?

Her amethyst eyes still radiated worry. "I'm more than pleased," he assured her. "I'm overjoyed…delighted…enchanted…elated…" A kiss punctuated each word, and his voice grew husky. "Ecstatic…intoxicated…"

"That's the buttered ale, I think." She giggled.

"No, it's you," he protested.

She blushed and cleared her throat. "Well, now that you've relieved my fears, we may as well go join in the games." Belying her words, she arched herself nearer, her fingers exploring seductively on his skin.

Colin laughed, the sound bubbling up from deep in his chest. "I think not," he said flatly, one arm coming around to hold her hostage.

"But I've never before had a large family to play games with."

He nuzzled her neck, smiling when he felt her pulse speed up.

"I-I was so looking forward to it," she stammered out, her eyes closed.

His tongue traced a trail to her ear. "I have much more interesting games to teach you," he whispered there. "But first, I would meet my child."

"Your son. But he won't be arriving for many months."

"That doesn't signify." Coming up on his elbows, he set about removing the embroidered stomacher from the front of her gown. "I shall meet him anyway."

He dropped the stomacher to the floor and unlaced her bodice, placing small, damp kisses on each bit of skin as it was exposed. Her body seemed to melt bonelessly beneath him. "Dear God," she breathed. "It's like your mouth sends messages to…"

He smiled against her cleavage. "To where, love?"

"Mmm." Her breath came quicker. "Mmm…never mind."

Chuckling, he spread her bodice wide. Her breasts had always been pleasingly full, but did they now seem especially lush? He couldn't be sure, veiled as they were by the diaphanous fabric of her chemise. Lifting her a bit, he drew the gown over her shoulders and down past her waist. Her stomach was as flat as ever, he marveled, skimming one hand over the thin material.

All at once, his heart soared. Though he hoped to God he'd never be forced to spend her inheritance, now, thanks to this miracle, he'd have something to bind her to his side. Their baby…surely she'd stay with him always for the sake of their child, even if he lost Greystone or depleted her gold in saving it.

Sweet Mary, he was so damned lucky to have her. Suddenly he was overcome with a desire to see her unclothed, to touch the body that harbored his child, to feel her smooth skin against his. With impatient hands, he tugged off her gown and chemise, removed her shoes and stockings.

After making short work of divesting his own clothing, he took a deep breath and leaned over her, running his fingers through her dark tresses and arranging them artistically on the pillows before his mouth met hers in an ardent kiss.

"Ahh," he said with a long, drawn-out sigh. "I haven't been able to touch you properly since morning."

"Improperly, you mean." Amy giggled, feeling light-hearted for the first time since she'd decided she was pregnant.

He smiled, that devilish grin that made her heart flip-flop. "It's deucedly inconvenient having the family around." His stern voice didn't fool her. "I warned you."

She lifted her head for another kiss. He tasted sweet and spicy: buttered ale and plum porridge and Colin, all mixed together. "It has its compensations," she said, watching the firelight play over his perfect features. His body against hers felt impossibly warm and masculine, she thought blissfully.

"Such as?"

"Such as…" Colin's fingers played over her sensitive breasts, making concentration difficult. "They're quite helpful with practical joke arrangements."

"I see." He cupped one breast in his large hand, squeezing experimentally, as though gauging its expanded weight.

"They…make interesting supper conversation," she managed to say.

"Is that so?"

"Mmm-hmm."

His thumb rubbed the peaked nipple in a circular motion that sent Amy's senses spinning to match. Then he lowered his dark head, and his warm mouth closed over where his thumb had been, and their inane discussion came to an abrupt end as her body responded with newly heightened awareness.

Amy's hands moved to the ribbon securing his hair, and she untied it and tossed it aside. When Colin's wet tongue trailed to her other breast, the rosy bud hardened instantly. She held his head captive, her fingers tangling in his midnight locks as he suckled and licked. More gentle than usual, his teeth grazed her ever so lightly, but her baby-swollen breasts surged in response, sending fiery sensations to her core.

When his lips reclaimed hers, her heart swelled with emotion. She touched him wherever she could reach: his muscled chest, his sleek side, the hard, smooth planes of his back. He felt divine against her palms: warm, large and solid, firm, yet silky soft.

His fingers brushed the soft curls between her thighs, then delved deeper, caressing until she became dewy with moisture. He slipped one finger inside, probing with a heavenly skill that made her squirm with excitement and tore a ragged sob from her throat.

"Now," she begged, her voice low and raspy, foreign to her own ears. Her hand moved down to encircle him. "Now, please."

She parted her thighs further, anxious to receive him. But though he moved over her, he glided down, until the roughness on his chin and cheek grazed against the softness of her belly.

"Are you in there, little one?" His voice vibrated into her body. "It's your father." His lips moved against her stomach, his breath moist and warm. She groaned, half with the frustration of delayed gratification, half with delight in his tenderness for their child. Her hands reached down to tug impatiently at his shoulders.

"Your mother wants me now," Colin gloated to his son with a low chuckle of satisfaction. "But first I want to say…we love you."

"Colin…" His mouth was hot and wet on her skin. She yearned for it on her mouth, ached for his weight on her body, burned for him to bury himself inside her.

"Good-bye for now," Colin murmured just as she decided she couldn't bear this father–son meeting a moment longer. "We'll talk again soon."

He lifted his head. His warm breath wafted over the wet patch he'd left on her belly. She opened her eyes and gazed down at him, questioning his hesitation.

The eyes that blazed into hers were a deep, fathomless green, overflowing with emotion that words could never convey. His breath came in a deep, ragged rhythm as he hovered there, and she could feel his life force sluicing through his veins, to match the insistent throbbing between her legs.

Then he moved down instead of up.

His lips traversed her sensitive inner thighs, one and then the other, leaving a moist, fiery trail of kisses in their wake. Warm and damp, his breath washed over her most secret places. She froze, sure he could hear her heart pounding, until…

With the tip of his tongue, he touched her.

Lightly at first, then more emphatically. Unbelievably soft and intimate, gentle and rhythmic, his caress was all but unbearable. Her knees felt weak, her pulse raced, her hands and feet tingled.

She hadn't known such things happened between a man and a woman, hadn't conceived of it in her wildest dreams, but she wouldn't have stopped him for the world.

His tongue was hot and slick and just the tiniest bit rough, enough so she felt every movement with exquisite sensitivity. Her breath caught as he licked slowly—maddeningly, maddeningly slowly—along the length of her pulsing cleft.

Twisting beneath him, she cried out his name in a manner so wanton that somewhere deep inside she was shocked at her unabashed reaction. And what he was doing to her, for God's sake, this…this unthinkable thing.

It must be wicked.

But everything between Colin and herself seemed incredibly perfect, as though they belonged together, each and every minute particle of their bodies and souls. Her heart had always known they were meant to be, even if her head told her otherwise.

She trembled uncontrollably, lifting her hips to get closer still, until suddenly she was overcome by an awesome burst of joy, an irrepressible, shuddering release of passion. He met her high piercing cry with a low moan of pleasure, and he lifted his head, pausing for a long, torturous moment before he slid slowly up her body and settled his hips into the cradle of her thighs.

When Colin plunged inside her, Amy let out a long, soft moan. It felt so right, like paradise, to have him filling her body, that tears of wonderment came to her eyes.

He kissed her then, his mouth urgent and hungry, and she tasted herself on his lips. He rocked against her, his hips maneuvering in a rhythm as ancient as time, and she matched his every move. She could feel him holding back, feel the uneven tempo of his breath as he struggled for control, feel the staccato beat of his heart against hers.

And then, with a groan of capitulation, he let go, and she felt him pulsing inside her, his hot seed pouring over her womb where their baby lay safe inside. Arching herself closer, she cupped his buttocks and pulled him deeper as her own contractions burst forth, matching and melding with his until she couldn't tell where one of them stopped and the other started.

Long minutes later, when their breathing had calmed and their hearts slowed, Amy sighed luxuriously. "I like that new game."

"Then we'll have to practice it some more, love, until we get it perfect."

"Mmm." She moved under him, feeling languid and seductive. "Colin?"

"Hmm?"

"Can I do that to you?"

It was a straightforward query, but Colin groaned, and she felt his body tense in response. "You're going to kill me, Lady Greystone," he murmured into the curve of her neck. "You're going to kill me."

He paused so long she nearly voiced her confusion.

"But I'll die a happy man."

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Six months later

Colin slid his knife under the red seal and scanned the brief missive.

Bloody hell, just what he needed.

Rubbing his temples, he dropped the vellum letter atop the ledgers and journals that covered the scarred wooden surface of his desk—ledgers and journals he'd be forced to abandon for the next few days. Beyond the castle walls, he imagined the rolling land, freshly green with the first new shoots from spring planting. Although it was all too far away to hear, he'd swear he could make out the bleat of distant sheep, the dull thud of a log being felled, the vague bangs and scrapes of quarrying—all work he was loathe to let continue without his supervision.

The estate needed his attention too, damn it.

The year was halfway over, and he'd saved nowhere near half of his debt to Hobbs.

The door cracked open. "Are you napping, my lady?"

"Hah." Amy looked up from her book as her buxom blond maid stepped inside. "My belly is so big and itchy, I cannot find a good position no matter how many I try."

As though he'd heard her complaint, her son swished in her womb, poking out fists, knees, elbows, and feet all at once, it seemed.

Lydia's kittenish blue eyes narrowed as she contemplated the rolling lumps on her mistress's abdomen. "Lud, that looks uncomfortable."

Amy laughed and set the book aside. "Sometimes I'm convinced I'm carrying a human octopus, or at the very least an accomplished acrobat." She pushed herself to stand. "Did you need me for something?"

"The lord said he has a matter to discuss. He waits in the study." Frowning, Lydia flipped through the gowns in Amy's wardrobe. "Cuds bobs, milady, you've got nothing decent to wear that will fit your ballooning midsection."

"Marry come up, Lydia! I needn't dress up to visit with my husband!" Giggling, Amy went next door to see him in the study.

She quieted as she drew near. The door was ajar, and she could hear Benchley's voice. "Fernew was asking when the new thresher will arrive."

"I canceled delivery."

At Colin's grim words, Amy froze, her hand on the latch.

"You—"

"Canceled it. Fernew will have to get along without it. Tell him it's only till next year."

The defeat in his voice gnawed at Amy's insides.

"And the mill?"

She grimaced at Colin's heavy sigh. "That will have to be repaired; there's no way around it. Have Jenner order the parts; I should be back to help well before their delivery. No sense paying for more labor when it isn't necessary. Anything else, Benchley?"

"No. No, my lord."

Amy jumped back when Benchley opened the door. He nodded to her and headed toward the entrance hall.

As his footsteps receded down the corridor, she stepped into the room. Colin was bent over a sheet of vellum, shaking his head. She bit her lip.

Another financial problem he couldn't solve, thanks to wedding her?

"Ah, Amy." He glanced up with a distracted smile. "Come here, love."

She went to him, smiling in return when he ran a hand over the swell of their child, learning her ripening form and feeling for signs of movement.

"Charles wants to see us," he said, looking up from her belly with thinly veiled disgust. "Tomorrow night."

"Charles?" Amy eyed the paper in his other hand. A large red seal was attached, broken but impressive nonetheless. "Charles who?"

"Charles. The king."

Her heart paused before continuing at an unsteady gallop. Of course she'd known that Colin was intimate with the king, that she was now a countess and expected to move in court circles. But here at Greystone, in their own little crumbling castle, she'd felt very removed from the possibility. "But…why?"

"Who knows? Perhaps he's miffed that I didn't ask his permission to marry you."

She leaned weakly against the desk. "His permission?"

Colin sighed, tossing the summons onto the surface with a flick of his supple wrist. "As a peer of the realm, ancient law says I'm obligated to obtain the king's approval. But no one actually asks—not even his own brother James before his secret marriage to Anne Hyde." With the heels of both hands, he rubbed his forehead, as though a massive headache had just arisen. "It's archaic; I'm certain no one has asked for centuries. Still, Charles and I were close once." He squinted, and his eyes turned a glazy dull color. "I don't know."

"Can't you just send him a note? Tell him you're busy and I'm with child?"

Colin's laughter was immediate; his eyes cleared and turned to her, a glittering emerald green. "No, we cannot just send a note, love." He caught her hand and pulled her onto his lap." When the king calls, one answers. It's off to Whitehall for us, I'm afraid." He was silent a minute, his fingers absently twirling one of her long ebony ringlets. "We'll leave first thing in the morning, to arrive at the town house by noon. You can nap before the evening festivities."

"I'm sure I won't sleep a wink tonight." She groaned softly and moved her hand to cover where their child registered his own protest, in the form of a particularly violent kick.

"It's nothing to be worried about. Charles is an affable sort."

"But there will be all those people…" She imagined hordes of svelte ladies, all dressed in the latest fashions. And haughty lords, beribboned and bejeweled, looking down their aristocratic noses at her bloated form.

"You already know some of them," he reminded her patiently, "from your shop."

"As customers. Oh, Colin, look at me! You're going to be sorry you married me, I just know it."

His fingers stilled in her hair, and he said very quietly, "I will never, ever be sorry I married you, Amethyst Chase. You're the best thing that ever happened to me."

When his hand moved to cup the back of her neck, and he pulled her toward him and kissed her lightly, she almost believed him. "And you're beautiful, as beautiful as ever. I swear it." He kissed her again, this time long and deep, his mouth warm and possessive, and she did believe him.

For two seconds, at least.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

"And when Harry kisses me…" Lydia shuddered expressively. "Oh, I cannot think how to put it."

"Ooh, la, la?" Madame Beaumont suggested, putting the finishing touches on Amy's face.

Lydia laughed. "Ooh, la, la, exactly!"

"Ooh, la, la?" Amy echoed distractedly.

Madame Beaumont helped her to stand. "You're a million miles away, my lady."

"What? Oh…yes, I'm afraid you're right." Sighing, Amy set down the amethyst necklace she'd brought from Greystone. The deep violet pear-shape gems glistened on the dark wood of the dressing table, beckoning her to hold them again. She flexed her hands and forced a smile. "I was daydreaming about wax and knives."

"Pourquoi?"

"Lady Greystone used to be a jeweler," Lydia explained, hiding a smile of her own.

"Oh, I see."

Madame looked as though she didn't see at all, but she didn't seem shocked or disapproving, either. Amy gave the older woman's hand a quick squeeze. "I cannot thank you enough for coming." Having received her frantic messengered note yesterday, Madame had been waiting at the London town house this morning, gown in hand. "You saved my life."

"Surely you exaggerate." Amusement twitched on the seamstress's lips as she drew off Amy's dressing gown and laid a gentle palm on her abdomen.

Amy jumped a bit, then relaxed. Of late, she'd noticed everyone thought they had a right to touch her, as though her body had become pubic property since she'd swelled with the child.

Madame slipped a lacy new chemise over Amy's head, and Lydia held out the gown. "I never exaggerate." The blond maid giggled. "Lud, my Harry is so virile."

"Pray tell, Lydia, where did you find this amour?" Madame set the curling iron to heat in the glowing embers of the fire. "This paragon of masculinity?"

Amy grinned. "In our stables. Colin recently hired him to relieve Benchley of some duties. Your dream man, is he, Lydia?"

"Hmm," Lydia murmured noncommittally. Hiding her face, she made herself busy adjusting the gown over the bulge of Amy's stomach. "In my bedroom, yes, but…all is not perfect with Harry."

The seamstress pushed Amy into a chair and set to work on her hair. "Have you talked to your amour about your problems?"

Lydia puttered around the room, sighing as she folded Amy's dressing gown. "I've tried. I suppose I should try again."

"I wish you luck." Amy frowned into the dressing table mirror. "Men don't care to discuss our problems. They always think they know what's best."

Madame's eyes met her reflection; her hands plaited faster.

"It's true," Amy muttered defensively. "When I talked to Papa about my marriage, he disregarded my feelings entirely."

"Not all men are like that." Madame's fingers caught and pulled at her hair. "Not my François."

"Surely not the earl?" Lydia's face appeared beside Madame's in the mirror, puzzled. "You confide in him, don't you? He loves you so."

Did he really? Amy bit her lip. It was pointless to confide in Colin, anyway; he'd made it clear before they wed that a countess would never run a shop. And he'd become more and more closed and distracted over the months.

The other women were still staring at her. "Oh, I suppose you're right," she said. "It's just one of my silly notions."

"She's breeding," Madame said knowingly.

"That doesn't make me a nimwit," Amy huffed.

Lydia nodded, ignoring her outburst. "I've seen five different ladies through five different pregnancies. They're all this way."

"Hmmph." Looking down to her crossed arms, Amy glimpsed her cleavage exposed in the purple dress's plunging neckline. "God in heaven," she whispered, her hands fluttering up to cover her bare chest.

Madame's laugh tinkled through the room. "You'll be the most modest lady at court, just you wait and see."

With luck, the brazen display would draw attention away from her unfashionable high waistline. But Amy felt daring and embarrassed at the same time. She hoped Madame was right.

"Voilà." Madame tied the last ribbon in Amy's hair.

While Amy watched in the dressing table's looking glass, Lydia clasped the amethyst necklace around her throat. Aching to make something like it again, Amy's fingers moved to touch the twenty-carat gem that dangled between her breasts. She gazed at its flashing brilliance in the mirror.

"Milady?" Lydia held out the matching earrings. "Shall I put these on for you?"

"Heavens, no." Amy took a deep breath and blew it out, then fastened the earrings on her lobes. Shaking her head to set them swinging from their clustered diamond tops, she smiled.

"That's more like it." Lydia slipped a simple amethyst and diamond bracelet onto Amy's left wrist, where it would complement her heart-shaped amethyst wedding ring. The maid stood back and grinned. "Cuds bobs, if you don't look the perfect lady. I'll just go tell the lord you're ready to leave."

"Come, see if your Lydia wasn't telling the bare truth." Taking her hand, Madame helped Amy rise from the chair and led her to the pier glass.

The rich purple silk gown shimmered as Amy approached the mirror, beaming at her reflection. The seamstress had worked her magic yet again. A gold tissue overskirt looped up, held on each side with golden bows, while matching gold bows marched down her full sleeves. The purple underskirt sparkled with hundreds of golden stars.

A low whistle of appreciation came from behind her. She turned to see Colin leaning against the doorjamb, his gaze fastened to her deep, scooped neckline. She melted a little at the sight of him, even after six months of marriage.

He was devastatingly male. Would she ever get used to it? She thought not. Not in six months, or six years, or sixty years, even.

"You'll be the most beautiful woman at Whitehall," he said softly.

"And you, the most beautiful man."

Colin laughed. He was dressed, predictably, in the same black velvet suit he'd worn for their wedding, identical down to her cameo pinned in the lavish lace of his cravat. His crisp, dark hair was loose and fell in waves to his shoulders.

Amy felt a lump of emotion swell in her throat. She was so lucky to have him. Their marriage was beyond wonderful, and she had no cause to dwell on melancholy thoughts, especially on a day like today.

She moved to him and looped her arms around his neck, threading her fingers in the hair at his nape. She heard Madame bustling about, putting away cosmetics, but the sounds seemed to fade as Colin brought his lips to hers.

He kissed her gently, and she tried to pull him closer, but he tugged away and grinned.

"Later, love. We wouldn't want to spoil Madame Beaumont's accomplished artwork."

Amy's face flamed, and she stole a glance at Madame. But the seamstress was studiously looking elsewhere.

"Shall we?" Colin curled an arm around her waist and drew her from the room.

Was she really on her way to Whitehall Palace, to be presented to England's king and queen? She, Amy Goldsmith, merchant's daughter?

It didn't seem possible.

"Why so quiet, love?" Colin interrupted her thoughts. "You're not worried about tonight, are you?"

"A little, maybe. But…"

Her chest ached with the need to tell someone, and she shot him an appraising glance. But then she heard the old words again, You cannot have everything, and God help her, she couldn't tell if it were her father's voice or Colin's.

"It's nothing."

"But what?" The fingers of one hand drummed against his thigh.

"Heavens, Colin." Forcing a smile, she pulled him toward the front door before he could question her further. "You know how moody breeding women are!"

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Amy trembled as she stood in line outside the Presence Chamber, a mixture of anticipation and sheer terror shuddering through her. Colin clasped her hand tighter and looked down at her sympathetically. "They're only people, love," he whispered.

Oh, but what magnificent people they were! Before her stood a lady in a satin gown of deep magenta studded with pearls, with an ermine-trimmed train so long that Amy was forced to stand ten feet behind her. She turned to peek at a lady wearing a splendid gown of rich turquoise with a silver lace overlay, then spun back and clapped a hand to her open mouth. Why, the woman's bosom was all but falling out of her low neckline, and the tops of her nipples were showing!

Beside her, Colin chuckled. He raised her hand and pressed his warm lips to the back in a soft kiss.

Amy looked up at him, offering a shaky smile. She was surrounded by men in long, elaborate crimped periwigs. Their satin and velvet clothing dripped with ribbons and lace in such profusion as to rival the ladies. Their fingers were bedecked with garish gemstones, their necks adorned with ropes of huge, costly pearls. Still, she was certain that Colin was the most stunning male specimen within twenty miles of Whitehall.

They advanced slowly, until suddenly it was their turn to be announced. The usher puffed out his chest and took a deep breath. "The Earl of Greystone. The Countess of Greystone."

As they entered the Presence Chamber, the throng of spectators in the gallery above leaned forward en masse. Heads turned to ogle the new arrivals. Amy heard a distinct murmur from the lords and ladies lining the walkway.

Gliding down the endless aisle on Colin's arm, she stared straight ahead. "What are they all saying?" she asked low, trying to keep her lips from moving.

With an easy smile, Colin inclined his head toward hers. "They're saying, 'Ah…the rumors are true. Lord Greystone jilted Lady Priscilla for an uncommon beauty.'"

"Shh!" Amy blushed and giggled. "They're all looking at us."

"Of course they are. See those ladies talking behind their fans? They're saying, 'Such a shame the earl's no longer available. But at least his gorgeous lady is taken and therefore out of the competition.'"

Amy almost tripped. "I was never in the competition," she chided. "I was only a merchant's daughter."

"Tsk. They're deluding themselves, anyway. You may be out of the competition for marriage, but at Charles's court, it's assumed one is always available for an affaire d'amour. It's taken for granted that wives are as unfaithful as husbands; the men here demand fidelity only from their mistresses."

"Not all the men, I'm hoping." She looked up at Colin with a sparkle in her eye.

He raised one brow devilishly. "Oh, there might be one or two holdouts."

In spite of her anxiety, Amy grinned, but the smile faded as her attention was drawn ahead, to where Their Majesties sat awaiting her.

Their thrones were set side-by-side on a raised platform, framed with a swagged canopy of crimson velvet bedecked in silver and gold. But it wasn't the magnificence of the setting that awed Amy.

It was the king himself.

The most compelling figure she'd ever seen, His Majesty sat tall on his throne, dwarfing his queen, his long legs sprawled carelessly before him. Though he'd already reached the advanced age of thirty-seven, his long, shiny black hair held nary a hint of gray. His face was lean, with a thin, curly black mustache over a generous, sensual mouth.

The prospect of actually meeting him was terrifying.

The magenta-garbed lady rose and moved out of the way, swishing her fur-edged train behind her. When Charles looked up, his heavy-lidded black eyes settled on Amy. A small smile twitched at his lips, and Amy's heart clenched in her chest.

Colin drew her forward. He walked with the sure steps of a man greeting an old friend, while Amy's feet hesitated along the carpeted approach. When they reached the dias and Colin knelt down, Amy tore her gaze from King Charles and dipped into a deep curtsy.

She looked back up into the large, liquid brown eyes of Queen Catharine of Braganza.

Queen Catharine's olive-tinted features were pleasant rather than pretty. Tiny and dark, with a long nose and high forehead, she looked very, very foreign. She smiled at Amy, revealing small teeth that protruded slightly.

"Lady Greystone," she said, her Portuguese-accented voice beautiful and melodious. Her eyes were compassionate, as though she understood Amy's nervousness. They flickered toward the king and back; though theirs was an arranged marriage, Amy thought she looked very much in love with her husband.

Catharine was dressed in soft yellow, an unfortunate choice of color that did nothing for her naturally sallow complexion. She proffered a slim hand for Amy's kiss, smiling graciously at her and down to her rounded belly. Was that a trace of jealousy that fluttered in Catharine's welcoming expression? Sadly, in five years of marriage, the queen had not proven able to present Charles with any royal children. There was constant talk of Charles setting her aside to replace her with a queen who wasn't barren.

She was brave and kind, and Amy decided she liked her very much.

"Ah, Lady Amethyst Chase, Countess of Greystone," she heard King Charles say. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, my dear." He held out a shapely hand, and Amy moved closer to kiss it. "A pleasure," he repeated, holding onto her hand a bit longer than was necessary.

"It…is my pleasure, Your Majesty," Amy replied after she found her voice. Charles's eyes locked with hers, signaling a warm welcome, and she decided he wasn't frightening after all.

"You've done well for yourself, Greystone," Charles drawled with a wink in Colin's direction.

"Then you're not…displeased?"

"Displeased, Colin?"

"I assumed, when I received the summons…"

"Od's fish! What an idea. No, I asked you here for quite another reason altogether. Later, when all this"—he gestured impatiently—"rigmarole is dispensed with, we'll discuss it."

Amy smiled to herself. Colin had told her that Charles was notoriously intolerant of court ceremony, considering it a waste of time. He much preferred to be out among his people, and made it a point to be available to them casually as often as possible, in public places such as parks.

Their exchange left Amy curious, but at least reassured as to Colin's relationship with the king. It didn't sound as though Charles were perturbed with him in any way. With another curtsy and a quick bow, Amy and Colin relinquished their positions to the next in line.

Colin drew her into the crowd. "That wasn't so hard now, was it?"

"I expect I survived." Amy turned in a slow circle, taking in the splendor of her surroundings. The Presence Chamber was lit by hundreds of candles in wall sconces and liveried yeomen holding flaming torches. Dressed in every color of the rainbow, lords and ladies shimmered in the blazing light. "Look at everyone! Sequins, fur, pearls, gems, ribbon, braid, embroidery…on men and women alike!"

"You can tell which are the ladies, though. They're the ones fanning themselves with those absurd painted creations."

Amy laughed. "You surely cannot judge gender by who is wearing the gems." Ornaments of every description glittered from necks, wrists, waists, fingers and ears. Seeing it all, Amy's fists tightened against her ever-present urge to make jewelry.

One tall, pale lady emerged from the throng to tap Colin on the arm with her folded fan. He started and turned to her, wondering briefly why he was surprised to see her there. Thankful that Amy was engrossed in watching the extravaganza, he pulled the woman a few feet away.

"Priscilla."

"Greystone," she said coolly. "To what do we owe the honor of your presence at court? I was under the impression you abhorred this type of gathering."

"I was summoned by Charles," he said smoothly, refusing to rise to her bait. "Did you receive my letter of apology? I regret—"

"Well, I do not," she interrupted. "Buckhurst is courting me now—though I've yet to decide whether I want him."

As though she were the one who did the deciding, Colin thought. Her father would never accept Lord Buckhurst. A handsome devil, and popular—Priscilla doubtless basked in reflected celebrity—Buckhurst was one of the "Wits" or "Merry Gang," as they were called.

These high-spirited gentlemen enlivened society with their sardonic and often vulgar poetry, plays, and literature. They were tolerated at court because Charles found them amusing, but they wielded no power. Buckhurst was most certainly not what Lord Hobbs was looking for in a son-in-law.

"I wish you every happiness with him," he told her.

She smiled smugly.

Amy glanced around, having finally noticed that Colin was no longer by her side. She recognized Priscilla with a jolt of surprise, and was even more surprised to find herself not worried or jealous in the least. Seeing them together, she was quite sure Colin didn't love Priscilla and never had.

She glided up to where they faced each other, and with a warm smile, Colin moved aside to include her.

"Lady Priscilla, may I present my wife, Amethyst—"

"Amethyst," Priscilla repeated under her breath, her eyes narrowing as she struggled to remember something. "Amethyst." Suddenly, her gray eyes snapped open wide. "You!" she exclaimed.

"A pleasure to see you again, Lady Priscilla."

Colin's brow furrowed in a frown of puzzlement. "You're…acquainted with each other?"

Priscilla didn't answer. Her beautiful mouth was slack with disbelief.

"We met once, at Madame Beaumont's," Amy explained, clutching Colin's arm in a silent statement of possession. "Before we were wed."

Priscilla finally found her voice. "I don't believe this," she spat.

Colin laid a hand over Amy's where it rested on his arm. "You don't believe what, Priscilla?"

"I don't believe you broke our betrothal to wed her," she burst out as though Amy weren't there.

She had a nasty habit of doing that, Amy thought.

"Why, she's not—" Priscilla sputtered, "she's only—she's—"

"My wife," Colin supplied. "And a countess. The Countess of Greystone. A smallish estate, with a charming medieval castle. You'll remember it, I'm sure?"

Priscilla stared at him for a moment, her eyes so cold that Amy half-expected Colin's arm to turn to ice under her fingers. Then Priscilla lifted her perfect chin, turned, and walked away.

She hadn't taken more than three ladylike steps when Amy and Colin convulsed in laughter. Amy was sure Priscilla could hear them, but she didn't care.

"I do believe she'll be asking Buckhurst to send for the carriage forthwith," Colin said with more than a little satisfaction. "She's certain to have a headache this evening."

"Is she, now?"

"Based on my experience, I'd wager on it. And this time, I find myself perversely pleased to be the cause of it." He took her hand. "Come, the dancing is about to begin."

The musicians were tuning up at one end of the chamber, and the presentations were complete. King Charles stepped down from the dias and gave the signal for the music to start.

He danced the first dance with Catharine, as was only proper. It was a courante, slow and grave, a pantomimic dance suggesting courtship.

Amy watched in awe, unable to believe she was in this place, at this time, watching the King of England dance with the queen. He moved with a rare grace for so large a man and cut a dashing figure indeed. In fact, he was put together in quite a pleasing fashion and, being a man who enjoyed and excelled at all types of sports, hadn't an ounce of spare fat on his well-formed frame.

The next tune was an English country dance, a few simple steps executed by many couples in a double line. Colin pulled her into the queue, and there she was—dancing at Whitehall Palace. Amethyst Goldsmith, merchant's daughter. Incredible.

When the ladies' line passed the men's, she could feel Charles's gaze on her.

Following the country dance was a branle, a group dance featuring pendulum-like movements combined with much running, gliding and skipping. It was a bit too energetic for Amy in her present condition, so Colin led her off to the side.

"Greystone!" The voice was light and self-assured, and Amy turned to see its lush, sensual owner. The lady's deep blue eyes were set in a classical face framed by auburn curls.

"My Lady Castlemaine." Pleasure at meeting her was evident on Colin's expressive features. "Amy, this is Barbara, the Countess of Castlemaine. Barbara, my wife, Amethyst."

So this was the king's longtime mistress! "I'm glad of your acquaintance," Amy said with a little bow, perfectly mimicking the behavior of the lords and ladies around her.

Colin watched Barbara look Amy up and down, nod her approval, then lean forward for the obligatory casual kiss. "I'm glad of your acquaintance, also," she returned with, to her credit, as much warmth as she allotted to any woman.

Colin smiled to himself. A natural predator, Barbara's charms were mainly reserved for men.

"Where is your rival tonight, Barbara?" He took advantage of his excessive height to give the chamber a sweeping glance.

"My rival?" Barbara's tone bordered on offended, as though she thought it absurd that anyone could rival the celebrated Countess of Castlemaine. But she wore a broad smile on her face, attesting to her good humor.

"Frances. La Belle Stewart."

"Frances? Have you not heard? My God, Greystone, whyever do you hide yourself away in the country like that? You miss all the fun."

"Heard what? Is she ill?"

"Only in the head. The ninny up and married Richmond in April—eloped, they did. Charles is livid. He won't stand to see her, at court or anywhere else."

"But why?" Colin asked dryly. "Certainly so inconsequential a matter as marriage wouldn't affect his pursuit of her." At the same time, he put an arm around Amy's shoulders to draw her near.

"If it were anyone else, you'd be right." Barbara looked from Colin to Amy and back. "Almost anyone else," she amended pointedly.

Colin's lips quirked in a half-smile. "But not Frances?"

"Not Frances. She's behaved with nauseating correctness—to the extent of returning all the jewels Charles had given her. Can you imagine?"

Of all people, Colin reflected, Barbara would have a hard time imagining that. "Perhaps she simply values a wedding ring over the benefits of being a royal mistress," he suggested.

"Hummph!" Only Barbara could snort so regally. "As though she couldn't have both!" Barbara's voice dropped suddenly. "Do you want to know the real reason Frances has never graced the king's bed?" She motioned them closer, and the three huddled together as she revealed conspiratorially, "She doesn't like it. She was terrified before she was married, and now that she is, she finds it disgusting. So much for the Duke of Richmond's prowess!"

Amy's eyes widened in disbelief as this tidbit was revealed, and Barbara burst into laughter. "From the look on your bride's face, Greystone, I would wager you share none of Richmond's shortcomings!"

Try as he might, Colin couldn't help but laugh at Barbara's observation, and after taking a moment to digest Barbara's meaning, a red-cheeked Amy joined in.

"Ah, Colin." Barbara's blue eyes danced with mischief. "I see you finally found someone with a sense of humor."

Amy cocked her head, and a slightly bewildered look overcame her features.

"It's old history, my dear," Barbara explained with a wave of her elegant hand. "But let me be the first to welcome you to court. So refreshing to have a new face in the crowd. We're all so bloody bored of one another!"

Colin was inordinately pleased. It was the most ringing endorsement he'd ever heard Barbara give another woman, and it boded well indeed for Amy's acceptance into society.

Just then a courtier came up to curry favor with Barbara, and with a roll of her eyes, she departed.

Amy turned to Colin. "I didn't know you were friends with Lady Castlemaine."

"As Barbara said, love, it's a small circle. Everyone knows everyone else."

"But you seem to know her especially well," Amy pointed out, her voice tinged with an unmistakable touch of jealousy.

"Is that what you're thinking?" It warmed his heart to find Amy so covetous of his person. "Me? With Barbara Palmer?" He shuddered expressively, as though the mere thought of sharing his bed with such a creature were abhorrent.

Amy laughed. "How long have you known her?"

"We knew each other in exile, and she was all of fifteen when she took up with Lord Chesterfield. She went straight from him to Charles—with some overlap, I suspect, since her oldest daughter, although recognized by His Majesty, bears a striking resemblance to Chesterfield." Colin's voice took on a melodramatic tone. "So, you see, I never got my chance with her." He sighed theatrically.

"Oh, my," Amy said. "What scrumptious scandals are to be discovered by attending court!"

"Enjoying yourself, my dear?"

The voice was resonant and impressive—it was King Charles, talking to her. She turned and gazed up at him in disbelief. As tall as Colin, or perhaps an inch higher, he was even more extraordinary standing next to her than he had been upon his throne. She grinned and nodded, the only reply she was capable of at the moment.

"Amy is a bit overwhelmed, I'm afraid," Colin answered for her.

"I am not," she retorted, finding her voice again. "I'm having a splendid time, Your Majesty."

Charles smiled down at her, his even white teeth flashing beneath his black mustache. "We're so pleased to have you here, Lady Greystone. A new face, and such a lovely one at that."

Amy colored—becomingly, she hoped. However, to her great consternation, she seemed to have lost her ready wit. "Thank you, sire" was all she could manage.

"The next dance is a minuet. Might you know it?"

She remembered Robert scoffing at her dancing lessons. The elegant minuet was staid enough even for a pregnant cow. "Oh, yes. It's one of my favorites."

Colin discretely elbowed her in the ribs. Before coming to court, he'd explained that ladies were supposed to ask the king to dance, not vice versa, and she had duly noted the information. But she hadn't expected to make use of it.

Was His Majesty hinting that he wished to dance the minuet with her?

She looked up at Colin, and he nodded circumspectly.

"Would—would you care to dance the minuet with me, Your Majesty?" she stammered out.

King Charles proved a superb dancer. As he gazed into her eyes, Amy realized with a start that although his looks were far from the classic English standard, he was the most blatantly sexual man she'd ever met. It was no wonder he'd already sired eight acknowledged royal bastards, plus, most assumed, an undetermined number of unacknowledged children as well.

Charles possessed many talents, not the least of which was an uncanny ability to put his companions at ease. By the time he returned Amy to Colin, she was laughing along with him as though they'd been the best of friends for years.

"Don't tell me you've fallen in love with him, too?" Colin teased. Turning her so they were both facing Charles, he wrapped his arms around her from behind. "You won't be the first, and you certainly won't be the last," he warned with the easy grace of a man unconcerned with offending a fast friend, no matter his rank.

Bright color flooded Amy's cheeks, for he spoke a partial truth: She was halfway in love with King Charles already, and there was nothing for it. His charm was too powerful to resist, and the prospect of a friendship with the King of England, albeit platonic, was too delicious to pass up.

Charles laughed in response. "Don't worry on that account, Greystone. Your prowess with a sword is legendary, and something tells me you wouldn't wear a cuckold's horns gracefully."

Colin dropped a kiss on the top of Amy's head. "Neither," he said pointedly, "would Lady Castlemaine."

Charles threw back his head, and a rumble of laughter poured forth. "You're quite right about that. And I've no wish to be skewered by either of you!"

Though no one would dare challenge the king for any slight either real or imagined, they shared a laugh at the absurd scenario. Then the king sobered, took Colin by the arm, and pulled him aside. "Will you come into my laboratory with me? I've something important to show you."

"Of course. Amy?"

"I'll be fine, Colin." In fact, the Duke of Buckingham was already making his way toward her. It seemed Barbara was right.

The courtiers were dying for a diversion, and having danced with Charles, her popularity was a fait accompli.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

Hands behind his back, the king paced determinedly through the Long Gallery, a dozen of his beloved spaniels yapping at his and Colin's heels.

"I need to beg a favor from you, Greystone."

"Anything, Charles. You know you need only to ask. What is it?"

His Majesty eyed the busy passage. "Wait till we're in the laboratory; it's the only chamber in all of Whitehall where I'm afforded privacy." Frowning, he paused on the threshold to the Royal Bedchamber. "Od's fish, how did they get here before me?"

With a sigh, he shouldered his way through the cluster of courtiers who gathered there day and night, competing shamelessly to do him the smallest personal favors.

"Would you like your slippers, sire?"

"A warming brick for your bed?"

"A cup of chocolate?"

"No. No, thank you. No." He beckoned Colin after him, the spaniels darting in their wake. "Quick, into the laboratory before someone offers to hold my chamber pot for me."

Colin laughed as they shut the door behind them, the clamoring courtiers and barking dogs safely on the other side. "And why not? I hear tell the French court obliges Louis so."

"Louis the Fourteenth I'm not," Charles said dryly. "I can wipe my own arse, thank you."

After the confusion of the public areas, the laboratory seemed eerily quiet. Colin's gaze swept over the profusion of paraphernalia. "Ford would have the time of his life in here," he said, making a mental note to secure him an invitation.

King Charles only nodded distractedly. The ill-synchronized chiming of his clock collection accentuated the expectant silence. Colin leaned back against a counter, nearly knocking over a telescope in the process. As he whirled to right it, Charles drew a deep breath.

"I'm certain you've heard about our embarrassment at the hands of the Dutch."

"I've been out in the country, not out of the country," Colin replied in an attempt at wry humor.

The king seemed so very serious.

Just two days earlier, the Dutch War had escalated, with disastrous results. Aided by a lack of defense funding and interest from the English government, the Dutch had cruised right up the River Thames, burned three of the largest vessels of the Royal Navy, and sailed back out to sea with the pride of the English fleet, the flagship the Royal Charles, towed behind them as a prize. It was, so far, the most humiliating moment of Charles's reign.

Yesterday, Charles and his brother James had been on the scene, supervising the sinking of ships in the Thames and its creeks to block a second attack. But it had been too little, too late.

Nobody commented upon Charles's hard work in defense of the Thames. To the contrary, the talk in London was about how he'd spent the night of the catastrophe dining with his son Monmouth, in the company of his mistress Castlemaine, where they all passed a merry evening hunting a moth around the chamber. He was suffering mightily for his exaggerated reputation of pursuing pleasure over responsibility. The Dutch War must come to a conclusion, and soon.

"The first step toward peace is to detach Louis from the Dutch," Charles explained, revealing his plan. "With the French as our ally, the Dutch will be forced to negotiate a treaty."

"Why should Louis want to side with us?" Colin asked. "Because he's your cousin?"

"One cannot rely on family relationships in foreign policy. At present, Louis covets their territory more than he desires our colonies." Charles picked at some lint on his velvet surcoat. "He has no real quarrel with England. Indeed, my reign has seen only one battle between us, and Louis emerged such a clear victor that he must be inclined toward cooperation now."

Colin frowned, confused. "I've heard of no fighting with France," he ventured cautiously. He walked around the chamber, skimming a hand over microscopes, magnets, and air pumps.

"It was a social battle," Charles conceded with a sigh. He began pacing. "Since the fire, I've grown weary of the complicated fripperies we adorn ourselves with here at court. Plumes, periwigs, lace, ruffles, ribbons, chains…it's all quite ridiculous, don't you agree?"

Colin couldn't have agreed more, as evidenced by his pared-down version of court apparel. Still, as Charles himself had brought the dandified fashions from the Continent, a prudent man wouldn't be too quick to assent. "One could look at it that way," he said guardedly.

"Last October, I designed for myself a more reserved costume. A long black coat, slashed here and there to show a white shirt, with a close-fitting waistcoat to match. Quite practical, I thought."

"And?" Colin failed to see what this had to do with the Dutch War, or a supposed French War, or any war at all.

"Well, Louis heard about it and promptly dressed all his footmen in my new uniform. I'm afraid the new style was blown out of existence by a gale of laughter," Charles lamented. He stopped pacing and turned to Colin. "A surprise attack, and a clean victory."

Colin had to choke back laughter. Louis XIV, the so-called "Sun King," had pulled off a practical joke of such unmitigated virtuosity, it turned Colin green with envy.

What a coup!

"I suppose it's just as well," Charles said mournfully. "Even though the court, naturally, followed my lead, I heard later that they all felt like damned penguins."

They both shared a laugh over that, which was a relief to Colin, since he was about to explode anyway.

When the last chuckles had died away and the king's face had settled back into worried lines, Colin asked carefully, "And what is it that I can do for you?"

Charles took a step closer. "I need you to carry a letter to my mother in Paris. I cannot correspond with Louis directly; it would raise suspicion."

The last thing Colin wanted to do was leave Amy, pregnant and vulnerable, to travel to France, a place full of sad childhood memories. He hated France. And there was the debt—what would happen to the estate's productivity without him there to oversee it?

He took a slow, deep breath and looked up from the pendulum he was playing with. "Why me? Why not Buckingham, or Arlington or Lauderdale? Such missions are part of their positions. I'm not involved in royal intelligence."

"Exactly. If I sent any of them to the Continent, they'd be followed. It's imperative these negotiations remain secret—if the Dutch suspect my designs, they'll present counterarguments to Louis before he even considers my plan."

"But there must be someone else. Someone with a lower government appointment, whom no one would notice."

"Why so reluctant?" Charles flashed a teasing grin. "The Chases have never hesitated to do my bidding before." Serious now, he put a hand on Colin's arm. "I'm sorry, but I've considered this carefully, and you're the perfect candidate. No one will question your visit to my mother; you were always close to Henrietta Maria, almost like a foster son. And no one will question when she visits Louis, her favorite nephew, afterward."

The plan was flawless, except that Colin wanted no part of it. He swallowed hard and moved away, rearranging some bottles of chemicals. "This is a bad time to leave Amy."

She'd seemed so melancholy of late, but she always claimed everything was fine.

"Ah, I see," Charles responded with the sort of genuine sympathy that was an integral part of his charm. "You needn't stay long; no one would expect it, with a child due soon. Just across the Channel, a short visit, and back. Three weeks—a month at the most."

Colin lifted a bottle of cloudy green fluid. A month. A month of the precious time he had left before he'd be forced to fail Amy…before everything would fall apart.

"Amy will be fine," Charles said. "I'll send her to Greystone with a royal escort. I want you to leave tomorrow."

The bottle clinked to the counter as Colin's head shot up. "Tomorrow?"

"This is very important," Charles said gravely.

"What about Jason?" Colin asked wildly, casting about for any possible replacement.

"Jason would never holiday in France without taking the twins. Everyone knows he takes them everywhere—trying to be the father they never had, I suppose. To leave them home would be out of character, and to bring them along, too visible."

"Ford, then."

"Ford was a child at the Restoration. My mother wouldn't even recognize him after all these years."

"Don't you think people will find my leaving Amy at this time a mite suspicious?"

"No one who'd be watching knows you well. You must admit: for a courtier, you keep a low profile. Your reluctance surely took me by surprise. A happy marriage is the exception these days, after all."

Colin was silent. Defeated. His family had always been there when the Stuarts had needed them, and vice versa. When Colin had asked him, King Charles had granted Lord Hobbs's license without so much as a blink of his royal eye.

But he was torn apart inside. He couldn't take Amy on a sea journey, seven months pregnant, and he couldn't leave her home…he just couldn't…

Charles put a hand on his shoulder and said quietly, "I'm asking you, Colin, as your monarch and as your friend, to do this thing for me."

He had no choice.

CHAPTER SIXTY

Benchley looked down his beak nose at Amy standing at the edge of Greystone's quarry.

"My lady, do you not think you've seen enough?"

She scanned the site once more, smiling at the view of the quarrymen dotting the stepped-down ledges. The blows of their hammers rang through the air as they toiled in the hot sun. She watched a huge slab of dimension stone begin to crack away from the face, mentally adding its value to Greystone's ledgers.

"It's doing well," she murmured, satisfied. Treading carefully on the uneven ground, she made her way down the rise and back to the two-seater caleche.

Benchley trailed behind. "In your condition, I cannot imagine why you insist on dragging yourself all over the estate. I shall take you home now."

"Nonsense—I'm pregnant, not ill. I haven't yet inspected the sheep."

She tried to hoist herself onto the seat, then convulsed in laughter, holding out a hand for his help. "God in heaven, I think my girth has doubled in the three weeks since Colin left for France. I've been wondering if he'll recognize me upon his return." At Benchley's wide-eyed look, she couldn't resist shocking him more. "I've also been wondering how a babe this size can possibly fit out of me, but Lydia assures me it will work."

The tips of Benchley's ears turned red. He picked up the reins and clucked at the horse.

"I try not to think about it too much," Amy added brightly.

"Excellent plan," he choked out, staring straight ahead.

During the thirty-minute drive from the quarry perched on one side of Greystone to the grazing fields bordering the other end, Amy digested what she'd seen. Though but a small portion of Greystone's income, the tiny quarry it was named for was producing well. Sky-high stacks of newly cut wood from the estate's abundant forests waited to be sold. The crops were coming in nicely, though she was glad Colin would be home for the harvest—she hadn't a clue what to do about that.

She'd brought the ledgers up to date, delighted to discover that Greystone had become self-supporting and then some. There looked to be a small profit due in the fall. She wondered why Colin had seemed so worried; did he not realize that?

She could hardly wait for him to come home so she could tell him. She missed him fiercely, his reassuring smile and the heavenly feel of his arms around her, especially when she lay alone at night in their big bed. She missed him more than she missed working with gold and diamonds.

God in heaven, she loved him. When he came home, she'd tell him so—a million times. Maybe he would have missed her, too. Maybe he'd be truly happy then.

The caleche rolled to a halt. While Benchley went off to hail a shepherd, Amy lowered her ungainly body to the ground. She perched carefully on the low fence and swung her legs over.

As she ambled through the pasture, the long summer grasses seemed to undulate on the rolling hills. Their fresh scent tickled her nose. It was quiet out here, the silence only broken by the occasional bleat of the sheep. When a lamb came toddling up and butted his head against her skirts, she reached down to let him lick her hand.

"Lady Greystone?"

"Yes." She turned and smiled at the shepherd; no apple-cheeked nursery rhyme boy, but a grown man much taller than she. "I trust the sheep are doing well?"

"I…" Lifting one weathered hand, he removed his cap and rubbed his bald head. "Do you know anything of sheep, my lady?"

"No. No, I don't. But—"

"That youngster there has bluetongue." He kicked a pebble and pulled the cap back over his brow. "I'm sorry, my lady."

"Sorry?" She looked down at the fluffy animal nuzzling her hand. "Bluetongue?"

"An illness. Swelling of the nose and lips, bleeding in the mouth, and—"

"Mucous," she finished for him, wiping her palm on her skirt.

"My lady!" Benchley rushed to unearth a handkerchief and thrust it into her hands.

The shepherd knelt to pry open the lamb's mouth. "See?"

"Bluetongue." Amy took a deep breath and wadded up the sticky handkerchief. "Or bluish-tongue, anyway. What does it mean?" She ran her fingers through the animal's thick wool. "Are they all ill? Surely we can still shear them come time?"

The man rose slowly. "Those that still live." With a sad smile, he patted the lamb on the head. "More than half of the ill ones have died already, and more fall sick every day."

"What?" Amy's heart sank. The profit she'd calculated depended on projected income from the wool. She'd assumed the production would be consistent with last year's. "Can't you make them get better?"

"I know of no treatment." He shifted on his feet, took the cap off and replaced it again. "Lord Greystone, he keeps up with the newest ideas, but he hied himself off to London and has yet to return."

"Did he know of this?" Perhaps this was why Colin had seemed so melancholy.

"No. He left before it started. It spreads very quickly."

"Oh," Amy said blankly. "Thank you."

"My lady." The shepherd bowed and touched his cap. She would never get used to that deference, she thought vaguely as she watched him walk away, the lamb following at his heels.

"God in heaven," she breathed, making her way back to the caleche. "Colin will really be unhappy now."

"Pardon, my lady?" Benchley raised a hand to help her up.

"Nothing, Benchley. Just talking to myself."

Her stomach felt leaden at the thought of Colin's homecoming. Now instead of greeting him with good news, she'd be reporting a sure loss of income and the need to replace expensive livestock.

She couldn't stand it, she thought as she plopped onto the seat. She really couldn't stand it. After all the years he'd worked this land, now to be saddled with her and a baby on the way, plus unexpected monetary problems…well, it just wasn't fair.

Colin deserved better than this. After all he'd done for her, was there nothing she could do for him?

She folded her hands over the mound of her stomach.

Damned if there wasn't.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

Colin looked again at the crumpled paper, then up at the street sign. Quai de la Tournelle. And there was the shop, Talbot Joaillerie.

For people driven out of England, the Talbots had certainly managed to land in a luxurious location. A plaque with Louis XIV's warrant was prominently displayed in the window.

"This is it," he said, stuffing the paper back into his pocket. At the cabbie's blank look, he uttered a quick "Merci" and thrust a few coins into his hand.

He pushed on the door, but the shop was locked. Was it past six o'clock already? Colin absently patted his surcoat, looking for his pocket watch, then froze as he remembered.

The blasted highwaymen had taken it. What a journey this had been—one disaster after another. He should never have returned to this loathsome country.

He plucked the sleeve of a passing pedestrian. "Excusez-moi, monsieur. Avez-vous l'heure exacte?"

The man walked past as though he hadn't seen him. Damn Parisians literally wouldn't give you the time of day. Colin couldn't wait to get home. No matter if the crossing were as rough on the return as it had been on the way here—he could puke his guts out and be happy for it.

He pounded on the door. And pounded. And pounded. Five minutes passed before a petite, attractive middle-aged woman pressed her nose against the window.

"Il est six heures et quart, Monsieur," she scolded, pointing to the sign that listed their business hours.

"I wish to speak with you," Colin called through the glass.

"By God, you're English!" she exclaimed, moving to unlock the door. She ushered him inside. "Come in, come in! I've nothing on display, but—"

"It's you I wish to see, not jewelry, madame. You're Elizabeth Talbot, I presume?" She nodded her dark head, clearly puzzled. "I'm Colin Chase—"

"Earl of Greystone and my Amy's husband," she finished for him. Delight lit her blue eyes. "I should have guessed. She described you in her letters as devastatingly handsome."

Colin felt his face heat. "Madame Talbot—"

"You must call me Aunt Elizabeth," she said, wrapping him into an embrace.

Following an awkward moment, Colin hugged her back, feeling a personal connection for the first time in weeks.

She smiled when she pulled away. "Will you come upstairs and have a cup of tea?"

"Tea?"

"Oh, I know it's a frightfully expensive delicacy, but a stuffy Marquise gifted me with a supply after we designed a diamond collar for his poodle. These French!" she added with a giggle as he followed her up the staircase.

"I'm so glad you saw fit to call on me," Elizabeth said after she'd hung a kettle of water over the fire. "But you didn't bring my Amy, did you?" She said it with mock disapproval, craning her neck as though he might have hidden her niece behind his back. "No, I can see you did not. I shall have to make do with you." She collected two porcelain cups, studying him with a sidelong glance as she set them on a tray. "My, but you're nice to look at. I think you'll do fine, after all."

Colin laughed, favoring her with one of his grins. He would swear she was flirting.

"Come into the sitting room, will you?" She handed him the tray, sailing past him with a swish of her skirts. A soft jasmine scent swirled after her. "You're here on king's business?"

Trailing behind her, he nearly dropped the tray. "How…"

Her musical laugh filled the air. "You'd be surprised what I know of you, my boy." Her lips twitched in amusement as she took the tray from him and set it on a table, waving him into a chair. "How did it go?"

"Not well, at first," he said carefully. How much could she know? "On the ride from Calais, my stagecoach was beset by highwaymen."

Gracefully seating herself, she raised a brow at him. "Not an auspicious start."

"To say the least." He hitched himself forward. "As I was carrying little cash, the damned felons took my ring—the ring Amy made for me." He rubbed the spot where it used to be, more angry every time he thought of it. "I would have run them through with my sword, but there were three of them, bearing pistols, and just one of me—"

"Amy would think you could handle them."

"She might at that." Her teasing expression coaxed a smile. "In any case, I know better, and none of the other victims seemed inclined to help."

An expectant silence filled the room. Elizabeth smoothed her skirts. "And Henrietta Maria? How did it go with her?"

Colin's jaw dropped open. "What has Amy written to you?"

"Not to worry." She waved a hand. "Only that you were visiting the king's mother on king's business. No details." Elizabeth cocked her head. "Does she know any?"

Colin nodded.

"Then she knows how to keep her mouth shut. As for writing of you…you know how it is when you're young and in love, and you look for excuses to say—or write—your loved one's name."

"I cannot say that I do," he said wryly. "I surmise I was never young and in love at the same time." He rose, pacing to the fireplace. "In any case, the Dowager Queen didn't see fit to be in residence. I cooled my heels for ten days, waiting for her return. After all that, I wouldn't have been surprised had she refused to act on her son's letter, but fortunately, that was the one thing that went right."

He toyed with a shepherdess figurine on the mantel, its frilly pink skirts reminding him of Henrietta Maria, who he trusted was on her way to Versailles to visit her nephew.

"And then?" Amy's aunt fixed him with a penetrating look. "Come on, boy, spit it out. I'm sure you wouldn't go out of your way to visit an old woman for the joy of it."

"Old woman, eh? Now you're fishing for return compliments." He laughed. "I can see right through you, Aunt Elizabeth."

"And I can see right through you. You're concerned about something, and don't try to tell me otherwise."

Uncomfortable under her knowing gaze, he walked to a window and swept aside the lace curtain. He gazed down at the bustling Parisian street. "Madame—Aunt Elizabeth—I came to ask a favor."

"Anything, my boy."

"If you could see your way clear to accompany me to Greystone for a visit, I'd be more than grateful." His hand dropped, and the lace fell back to shroud the window. "As I'm sure you know, Amy is due to bear our first child soon, and your presence would make it much easier."

He turned toward her slowly, surprising himself with a sudden wish to confide in someone for the first time in his memory. But he couldn't find the words to begin.

Elizabeth rose and came near. Her jasmine scent reminded him of someone…his mother?

She smiled. "I suspect you may need something stronger than tea for this discussion. May I prevail on you to squire me out for supper? With William away in Antwerp, I find myself weary of dining alone." Her hand brushed his arm, and she raised a brow. "What say you to La Tour d'Argent?"

"Restaurant La Tour d'Argent? With no notice? I hear tell duels are fought to obtain a table there."

"Not to worry, my boy, you won't have to fence for your supper." Elizabeth's eyes sparkled. "The owner's wife has been coveting a bracelet in my window…I'm certain we can strike a bargain."

"Anguille des bois, madame." With a flourish, the server set a pewter plate before Elizabeth. "Et pour vous, Lord Greystone,"—Colin smiled at the hacked pronunciation of his name, but gave the man points for trying—"Poule d'Afrique."

The savory scent of the delicacy wafted to Colin's nose, but it failed to entice him. He sighed as the server walked away. "As I was saying, Amy is unhappy. I'm sure of it, though she says otherwise. I fear it's because she broke her vow to wed me, and—"

"Her vow?" A frown appeared between Elizabeth's blue eyes.

"She promised her father—your late brother…"

She nodded, indicating she wasn't too fragile to discuss him.

"She made him promises," Colin explained. "To continue the traditions of Goldsmith & Sons. To save her inheritance for future generations. There's more, and to hear her tell of it, these vows might as well have been signed in blood. She's miserable, and there's not a damned thing I can do about it."

"Nothing?" Her bejeweled fingers toyed with her pewter goblet. "Nothing at all?"

"Not without giving her up." His voice caught, and he looked down to his plate, slowly cutting a bite of his hen. "She cannot run a shop and live with me at Greystone. And I cannot seem to make her happy there." The delicious entree could have been boiled wood chips for all it appealed to Colin. He chewed and swallowed, then brought his gaze to Elizabeth's. "I thought love would be enough, but it doesn't seem to be. Not enough for her."

"Colin—"

"It's my fault, not hers," he said through clenched teeth. A sip of his wine failed to compose him. "I manipulated her into this marriage—tricked her into saying yes because I couldn't stand to lose her." He took another gulp. "It was wrong. Terribly wrong. I knew all along a man in my position hasn't the luxury of wedding for love, but I lost my mind over your niece. Now everything's a bloody mess."

Elizabeth took a dainty bite of her eel, waiting.

He gazed out the window by their table. The Seine glowed orange in the sunset. The last rays glinted off the spire of Nôtre-Dame, making his eyes water. "There's more…"

"Yes?" Her voice came quiet.

"Did Amy mention I'd been betrothed to someone else?"

"You'd be surprised—" Elizabeth started.

"What you know of me," Colin finished dryly, looking back to her. "Well, I'd wager you don't know that I owe the lady's father a fortune—even Amy doesn't know that. Due at the end of the year."

Her delicate eyebrows rose. "And…"

"I cannot pay it." His hands fisted under the table. "Bloody hell, I cannot pay it. I'll be forced to use Amy's inheritance to avoid losing Greystone." His breath came hard and fast. "By God, she'll really hate me then."

"Will she?" Elizabeth murmured. He watched her graceful hands as she rearranged her cutlery. Jeweler's hands, like Amy's. "You're asking Amy to give up everything that made her what she is—that made her the woman you love. Would you give up everything for her?"

"Give up Greystone? If it were Greystone or Amy?" Had the pewter goblet been glass instead, it would have broken in his grip. He set it down, lest he spill on the snow-white cloth. "There are expectations in my world. For God's sake, the king granted me this property, this title. How can I fail him? What could I offer my children? I grew up without a home. I know what it feels like."

"From what I know of your story, you grew up without love as well…and which was the greater loss?"

Below the window, a boat drifted lazily by. Its passengers' lighthearted laughter swirled through the open shutters, melding with the conversational buzz that filled the elegant candlelit room.

Had he ever been so carefree?

If it were Greystone or Amy, which would he choose?

His stomach clenched. Hell, it was Greystone or Amy.

He had to choose.

"I won't take Amy's gold," he blurted, vaguely wondering if he looked more surprised than Elizabeth. He drew a deep breath. "If I do, I'll lose her. Emotionally, even should she choose to stay. So I won't take it. I just won't." With a motion that spoke of finality, he speared a bite of chicken and forked it into his mouth. "There."

Elizabeth's response was quiet and thoughtful. "Do you reckon it must come to that?"

"Yes. I gave her my word. I cannot betray her." He shifted on his chair, meeting her gaze. "Yes."

I think not, she mouthed, or maybe he just imagined it. But her features softened with a gentle smile, and she raised her goblet in a toast.

"Well, my boy, when do we leave for England?"

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Colin poked his head out of the carriage, frowning at the unmistakable sounds of construction. His gaze followed the circular drive as he slowly stepped to the gravel.

Atop the great hall, a new slate roof glistened in the sunshine.

Suddenly weak in the knees, he leaned against the carriage. Sweet Mary, if she'd spent his small savings on a new roof, thinking to surprise him…

But no, it didn't matter. Not now that he'd decided to forfeit Greystone, regardless.

His attention was diverted as Amy slammed out the front door and bounded toward him, as fast as her swollen girth would allow.

"God in heaven, Colin, I'm so glad you're home!"

She threw herself at him, the mound of her stomach bouncing off his solid form. With a shaky laugh, he reached to set her aright, then crushed her against himself, burying his nose in her rose-scented hair. "By God, I missed you."

She pulled back, a radiant grin on her face, then lunged at him again, as though to convince herself he was really there.

He half-laughed, half-groaned, the gravel crunching beneath his feet as he shifted. "What the devil's going on here?" he finally asked, gesturing at the roof.

Her grin widened, then she gasped when she looked past him. "Aunt Elizabeth?"

As her aunt stepped down from the carriage, Colin ventured a small smile of his own. "It seems we both had surprises for each other, love."

"Oh, Colin! Aunt Elizabeth!" As she let out a cry of pleasure, enclosing her aunt in an enthusiastic embrace, Colin's smile turned genuine.

She was such a joy…how could he have ever considered betraying her, even for a moment? Any sacrifice was worth it, so long as he retained her trust. And her love.

All at once, the old fear started melting away. Here with Amy again, it seemed marrying for love was the best thing he could have done for himself and his children, no matter the consequences.

Wherever they ended up living, they'd be happy, because they'd be together.

She tugged on his hand. "Wait till you see the inside! Did you notice the new windows as you drove up? The downstairs chambers are ready for furniture, and our suite upstairs is nearly—"

She stopped when he didn't budge.

He couldn't budge.

He felt rooted to the ground. He didn't want to see all the improvements, his home restored like he'd dreamed, only to hand it all over to Hobbs.

The buzzard.

He backed up and sat on the carriage step. "Amy, love…just give me a minute to get used to this."

"There's more! I bought more sheep, and the thresher. And the mill is fixed."

He squeezed his eyes shut.

"Colin?" She jiggled his arm. "Colin, are you all right?" She gave a nervous giggle. "I'm the one who's supposed to feel faint these days."

"I'm fine," he whispered. "Did you spend it all?"

"Spend it all?" Her laugh rang through the courtyard. "Have you any idea what those diamonds are worth? Or how much gold a trunk will hold?"

His eyes flew open. "Diamonds? Gold?"

Why did she always make him feel so dense?

Her laughter tapered off into the heavy summer air. "Did you think I would spend Greystone's accounts?" she asked slowly. "Without asking?"

"I…" He rose, but his knees still felt weak. "Are you saying, then—"

"I want you to have it, Colin. I want you to be happy." Her hand moved to the bulge of their child. "The gold was meant as security for my son, was it not?" Her amethyst eyes glistened with tears as she gazed up at him. "What could be more secure than an earldom and acres of land? The fortune will be there, in the crops planted in the fertile soil, in the stone walls of the castle and the shingles on the great hall's roof. I should have realized it months ago." One tear escaped and traced a path down her cheek. "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry…?" His hand came up to wipe away that single tear, warm against the pad of his fingertip. A peculiar grayness crept to fog his vision. He scooped her against him, holding her tight.

Holding himself up.

She was the pregnant one—he'd be damned if he was going to faint.

His expression unreadable, Colin approached their bed the next morning and handed Amy a letter decorated with an all-too-familiar red seal. A pain clenched her middle as her eyes scanned down the page, past lines of neat, flourished script, the product of many years of tutoring, to the bottom, where it was signed, "Your very loving friend, Charles R."

"God in heaven," she groaned. The parchment rustled as she dropped it to the bed. "Not another summons, another favor."

Colin's laugh boomed through the chamber. "Read it, lazybones." He stalked to the window and pushed open the drapes. "It's only a letter saying a treaty with the Dutch was signed three days ago at Breda, and thanking me for service performed on behalf of England."

She blinked against the sunshine flooding the chamber. "Thank God for small favors." When he came to kiss her on the forehead, she flashed him a mischievous smile. "I would have thrown you into the oubliette before I let you go this time. Six weeks you were gone…and we haven't even made love yet." She laughed at the hungry gleam in his eyes. "I don't remember going to bed."

"You fell asleep in the middle of a sentence last night. Been lying awake missing me all those weeks?"

When bent to kiss her again, his teeth nibbled at her bottom lip, sending her pulse racing. A soft moan escaped her throat.

He smiled against her mouth. "I never got the chance to thank you for sharing your inheritance—"

"There's no need—"

"—and for saving Greystone."

"Saving Greystone?" She struggled to sit up. "Perhaps I made things a bit easier for you, but Greystone would have done well in the long run, regardless It's a fine estate."

"A fine estate, yes." He sat on the bed and took her hands. "But it would have been Lord Hobbs's fine estate."

"Lord Hobbs's?"

"I owe him money. From Priscilla's dowry, due at the close of the year. It would have been Newgate Prison for me, or Greystone for him." He gave a rueful laugh. "Coward that I am, I'm afraid he would have ended up with Greystone."

"But there was always the gold—"

He quieted her with a kiss. "I promised you I'd never take it, love."

He'd been willing to give up everything for her.

Sudden tears flooded her eyes. "A Chase promise is not given lightly," she murmured, hearing Jason say so in her head. Back at Cainewood, nearly a year ago.

It seemed like a lifetime had passed.

"No, it's never given lightly," Colin agreed. "Most especially to those we love. Now, get some rest while I tour the estate."

One more kiss, his lips soft, lingering on hers.

"Tonight," he promised in a tight voice as he backed through the door, eyeing her belly with undisguised apprehension.

Smiling, she caressed the swell of their child. "Tonight."

One hand on the doorjamb, he paused. "Are you happy?"

"Happy?" she asked in a daze. "I've never been happier in my life."

At that moment, it was true. The smile transformed her face long after Colin's footsteps had faded down the corridor.

He loved her.

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

"You should be resting, child." Elizabeth came in to the study and settled herself on the couch. "Your time is near."

"I felt a sudden urge to straighten this desk." Amy sorted through the heap of yellowed receipts she'd found crammed in the bottom drawer, then held one up. "This is dated 1660, the year King Charles granted Greystone to Colin. My husband is a secret sluggard." She grinned. "Besides, I'm not made for resting; you know that."

"Your Uncle William says the same thing about me. The Goldsmith curse, he calls it."

The paper fluttered to the desk. "The Goldsmith curse," Amy repeated in a whisper, thinking not of the work ethic, but her cursed promise.

The Goldsmith curse.

"What did you say, dear?"

"Nothing. It's nothing."

The room fell quiet except for the rustle of paper. Amy felt Elizabeth's gaze following her as she moved back and forth, filing the receipts.

"What's wrong, child?" Elizabeth asked at last, her voice heavy with loving sympathy.

Amy's eyes filled with tears. Her emotions were so close to the surface these days; she was either violently happy or in the depths of despair; there seemed to be no middle ground.

"I don't know, Auntie." She leaned both palms on the desk, staring down, studying the grain in the wood. "I was so happy this morning."

"This wouldn't have something to do with a vow to your father, would it?"

Amy watched a tear splash onto the scarred surface of Colin's desk. "How did you know?"

"Colin." A long sigh escaped Elizabeth's lips. "But you haven't discussed this with him, have you?"

Amy shook her head.

"For God's sake, child, how can you let a promise to a dead man stand in the way of your happiness?"

"He told me I cannot have everything," Amy said in a tiny voice.

"Colin said that?" Elizabeth sounded incredulous.

"No, Papa said it."

"Oh, Lordamighty. My brother was a lot of things, but open-minded wasn't one of them."

Amy flinched with a sudden cramp in her middle. "Yet it's true, isn't it?" she said when the pain eased. "I'm with Colin now, and I have so much. I must learn to live with the fact that I cannot have everything."

"Poppycock. Hugh couldn't possibly have foreseen your future. He's dead, Amy. The shop is gone." Her voice gentled. "You're a countess, child. Were your father here today, do you honestly think he'd withhold his blessing?"

"I don't know." Amy dropped into Colin's chair. "Goldsmith & Sons was everything to Papa."

Sighing, Elizabeth stood up. "You can have everything, if you'll but listen to your heart. You need only speak with Colin—"

"About this? He's already told me—"

"He's not your father. Talk to him. You can live up to your vow—perhaps not literally, but the spirit, child. You can live up to the spirit of your vow, if you'll only approach your husband with open trust. He deserves that much, Amy."

She walked around the desk and leaned to kiss Amy on both cheeks. "Think about it. Now, I'm an old woman who has traveled many miles, and I think I need a nap."

Sniffling, Amy ventured a shaky smile. "God in heaven, Auntie. An old woman, indeed!"

Another cramp shot through Amy, but that didn't mean the baby was coming. He couldn't be coming—Colin had left to spend the whole day inspecting the estate.

Besides, she'd been having cramps for almost eight weeks now, and they'd never meant anything before.

Greystone hummed with productivity. Colin rode toward the fields at the far end of the property, certain the sheep and crops would prove as well maintained as the lumber operation and quarry already had. Amy was a hell of an estate manager. Almost as good as she'd been a jeweler.

A jeweler…

He looked down to his hands on Ebony's reins, at the band of white skin that marked where his signet ring used to rest. After all these months, he felt almost naked without it. And Amy…

Amy could make him another.

He smiled to himself, remembering her pride in her craft, the glow in her eyes when she shared the treasures in her trunk. Her joy at discovering the origin of her wedding ring. Her fingers absently caressing the necklace she'd worn to Whitehall Palace.

For certain, she'd enjoy making him another ring.

He reined in as the realization stole his breath away.

Bloody hell, what an idiot he'd been! She missed her craft—it was in her blood, as much a part of her as her amethyst eyes and her quick smile. She'd make him another ring, and then…

Holy Christ, he knew how to make her happy.

Colin wheeled Ebony toward the castle and dug in his heels. The rest of the estate could wait for an inspection. He couldn't wait to see Amy's face when he told her.

The distracted, sad look would leave her eyes. She'd throw her arms around him, kissing him all over his face in that exuberant way of hers, and he'd return every kiss, every caress.

Tonight be damned. If he rode hard, he could have her in his bed within an hour or two. Perhaps she was still there, resting. Waiting.

Damn, he hoped he could find a way around the mound of their child.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

"My lady," Lydia called from the study door. "Dinner is ready."

With a fierce effort, Amy opened her eyes and unclenched her fists.

"Milady?" Lydia's eyes widened until they were round blue circles. "Is it the baby?"

"No." Amy leaned against the desk. "It's only another one of those little cramps I've been having."

"Are you quite certain?" Lydia walked closer. "This looks…rather different."

"Yes, I'm quite certain," Amy snapped, her face impassive although her middle knotted in the most painful cramp yet.

God in heaven, it felt like a steel band were squeezing the very life out of her.

"I'm quite certain," she repeated through gritted teeth. "But I believe I'll take dinner in my bedchamber. I could use a nap." She began to walk from the chamber.

"Milady," Lydia called, alarm in her voice. "You're waddling."

Amy whirled around. "I am not waddling. There's nothing wrong with my legs. Waddling is for pitiful pregnant ninnies who want to draw sympathetic attention to themselves."

She was glad no one was in the corridor to see her, because it was rather impossible to make it to the bedchamber without waddling. She fell awkwardly onto the bed, but before she could get comfortable, a pale straw-colored, sweetish fluid gushed out of her.

She knew what that meant. Lydia had related every detail of her previous five ladies' birth experiences with maximum drama, leaving Amy in a wild state of alarm. Then, last night, Aunt Elizabeth had explained everything in a very calm, informative manner. Amy didn't quite know what to believe, but one thing was clear: When the bag of waters burst, the babe was coming.

No question about that.

Hot tears squeezed from beneath her closed lids as she curled herself into a ball. The babe couldn't come now. Colin wouldn't be here for hours. And she hadn't talked to him yet; Aunt Elizabeth was right—she had to talk to him. She had to trust him.

She wasn't ready for this baby.

The fact that her son was ready, that Aunt Elizabeth had said he'd come this week or next, was beside the point entirely.

When another white-hot spasm clenched her insides, she moaned in pain and frustration. All at once, Lydia barged into the bedchamber, a dinner tray in her hands.

"I knew it!" she exclaimed, staring at the sopping mass of sheets. She dropped the tray forthwith, and Amy would have laughed had she been able.

But her womb tightened more. "He isn't coming out now," she forced through clenched teeth. "I won't let him. I'll keep my legs stuck together."

"But, my lady—"

"My body wouldn't betray me this way," Amy snapped. She'd never felt so out of control. Determined to put an end to this madness, she struggled halfway up as the pain subsided.

Then the truth dawned in a burst of anger and inevitability, and she fell back to the pillows.

"This child is coming whether I want him to or not," she wailed. "There's nothing I can do to stop him. Nothing!"

Lydia's face looked blurry through Amy's fresh onslaught of burning tears. "Send Benchley to find Colin," she said weakly, closing her eyes. "And wake Aunt Elizabeth from her nap. Wake her now."

"I already did," Lydia said, kneeling to gather everything back onto the tray. When Amy forced her heavy eyelids open, Lydia amended with, "Wake your aunt, I mean."

Aunt Elizabeth arrived then, stepping over the broken crockery and taking charge.

"I'm hot and sweaty," Amy complained, and Aunt Elizabeth peeled back the covers.

"I'm chilled," she said, shivering, and Aunt Elizabeth piled them back on.

Amy felt nauseated, certain she was going to vomit, then she forgot her queasy stomach as waves of drowsiness overwhelmed her. She jerked awake when the next pain seized her, and the cycle started again. Through it all, Aunt Elizabeth kept up a knowledgeable, reassuring patter.

"You're so nice and helpful, Mrs. Talbot," Lydia said frantically. "Lady Greystone is lucky."

Amy opened her eyes long enough to glare at her.

"Oh, heavens," Lydia breathed, her eyes widening. "Milady, I can see it!" She moved closer and stared between Amy's thighs, but Amy didn't care enough to be embarrassed. "It's a shilling-size circle, covered with slimy black hair."

Amy grimaced, half in pain, half because she'd never heard anything sound quite so disgusting.

"Hush, Lydia!" Aunt Elizabeth admonished. She craned her neck to see Amy's face over the mound of her belly. "It's your baby's head, dear. He's ready to be born."

Aunt Elizabeth signaled Lydia closer and instructed her to hold Amy's hand.

"Push now, Amy," she encouraged. "Push as hard as you can."

Amy took her words to heart. She pushed with all the might she could muster, wanting nothing more than to get this horrible business over with.

"Ouch!" Lydia tried to jerk her hand away, but Amy tightened her grip.

When the pain ended and Lydia reclaimed and massaged her fingers, Amy felt guilty. Then it started again, and Lydia leaned over her, sweeping the hair off her forehead and clucking sympathetically.

"Will you stop touching me," Amy spat. She seemed trapped on a seesaw of emotions, unable to control herself. As the pain peaked, she squeezed Lydia's hand again, and she couldn't care less if she were hurting her. A tiny part of her was shocked at her behavior, but not enough to change it.

She rested, panting, then pushed, then rested and pushed again. She pushed until she was certain her insides would spill out onto the sheets, but still her son remained stubbornly stuck in her womb.

When the urge to push subsided, she closed her eyes, but the tears were leaking out all over again.

"Push, Amy, push," Elizabeth yelled.

Oh, no, it was coming again, so soon. Amy's frustrated tears flowed faster. This was so unfair! Her nails dug into the palm of her hand that wasn't clenching Lydia's.

"This isn't the place for you," she heard Elizabeth say firmly. "Pour yourself a brandy and wait in the study."

The words were more than confusing, but Amy's eyes were shut tight, and she was concentrating on the pushing.

"No," a deep, masculine voice countered. "I must speak with Amy."

Her eyes flew open. "Colin?" she moaned through the pain.

He hesitated, his breath coming heavy as though he'd been running. He glanced from Amy to Elizabeth and back again.

"I just want you to be happy, love." His fingers drumming against one thigh, he looked to where Lydia's gaze was rooted. His eyes widened before he refocused on Amy's face. "I have something I need to ask you, tell you. This is important to me."

When the pain waned, Amy nodded. "Come here. Tell me."

"I miss my ring." He moved toward her, smiling, absently rubbing the spot where it used to be. "Do you suppose you could make me another one?"

"Colin, not now," Aunt Elizabeth growled.

Though the pain had ended for the moment, Amy feared her heart had stopped instead. "You…you want me to make you a ring?"

"We can build a workshop. I was thinking by the kitchen—"

"Oh, Colin!" Tears sprang to her eyes for the countless time that day. "How did you know? It's just—"

A pain ripped through her, and she grabbed his hand, shutting her eyes, pushing, pushing, pushing. Her son was coming; she could feel his head stretching the entrance to her body.

It was a miracle.

"Will you teach our children your craft?" Colin asked. "Your blood—your jeweler's blood—it runs in this child's veins as much as mine."

"Your blood will be running if you don't leave," Elizabeth warned.

"No, don't leave!" Amy panted, squeezing his hand.

"And if you don't mind living simply—"

"I don't! I've told you that," she wailed as the pain subsided.

"Then we'll save to replace your inheritance. And someday, a younger son who cannot inherit will open the finest shop in London. Goldsmithing would be a much better life than soldiering or preaching."

"A younger son?" Lydia scoffed, mopping Amy's brow. "Cuds bobs, d'ye think she'll have another after going through this?"

"If you can all shut up for one minute," Aunt Elizabeth interjected, "this baby is about to arrive."

"Colin," Amy breathed.

She had so much she wanted to say, but the urge to push distracted her.

"Amy, it's time," Elizabeth encouraged. "Push."

She pushed hard then, harder, harder still—and her babe slipped out into the world.

"It's a miracle," she managed to choke out. "Everything." Then laughter bubbled up from her throat, even as tears flowed down her cheeks. And their babe's cries added the sweetest sound to the emotional confusion.

Colin moved toward the foot of the bed, his eyes registering sheer disbelief as the child of his loins was wiped off and wrapped in a blanket. Aunt Elizabeth set the wriggling bundle on Amy's abdomen, opened the blanket halfway, and used clean linen strips to tie the cord in two places.

Then Colin touched his offspring for the first time, holding the child still while the pulsing lifeline was severed.

"It's a miracle," Amy whispered to herself. Her precious son. Colin's wonderful plan to assure Goldsmith & Sons would rise again. Her love for Colin and—the biggest miracle of all—his for her.

All of it—a miracle.

Colin handed her the warm bundle. She held her wailing babe snug to her chest, afraid to crush him, but afraid to let him go. Ever.

She gazed into Colin's eyes, fresh tears of joy flowing from her own. "Would you mind very much," she said tremulously, "if we called him Hugh, after my father?"

The warm sound of Colin's laughter brought a smile to her lips. "If it's very important to you, we will, love," he choked out, "but I'm afraid the other little girls might tease her."

"The other little girls?" She blinked, confused. "This child is a girl? A girl? Impossible." She opened the blanket a bit, slipping Colin a sidelong glance. "It would be just like you to play a practical joke like this."

But there she was, pink-toed and perfect. Amy tore off the blankets and cradled her sniffling daughter against her own skin, rocking her instinctively.

"How could I ever have thought she was a boy?" she wondered of a sudden. "She's been a girl all along. This infinitely precious girl is mine."

Her daughter quieted then, cuddled against Amy's familiar body, her ear on Amy's chest, listening to the heartbeat that had sustained her for nine long months.

Elizabeth beckoned to Lydia, and they slipped from the room.

"I can teach her to make jewelry?" Amy asked, gazing up at Colin.

His answer was in his eyes. They bore into hers, unblinking.

"Will it not appear…unseemly?"

He smiled, that old devilish smile that made her heart turn over. "Are you trying to talk me out of it?"

"No." She took a deep breath. "It's just…too good to be true. Papa said I couldn't have everything, but I do. I have everything."

"Well, I don't," he said flatly, failing to hide the humor in his voice.

Amy didn't worry for a second. "You have me," she pointed out. "And our beautiful daughter. And Greystone—"

She broke off as she saw his eyes turn that darkest green that melted her inside.

"Every day we were apart," he said in the heart-wrenching husky voice she'd waited six long weeks to hear, "I dreamt of making love to you. It was the one thought that kept me going, minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day. And now…"

He shrugged, and that single expressive movement held all the pent-up frustration of a love that had gone unfulfilled.

No, he couldn't make love to her, Amy thought, not right now.

But soon…soon.

And, "You can kiss me," she invited, her lips already tingling at the proposition of that talented, well-remembered mouth on hers.

He did. Thoroughly.

When he pulled away, their daughter opened her eyes to gaze unfocused at her parents for the very first time.

Her emerald eyes mirrored Colin's own. He reached out to touch one little hand, his heart in his eyes as her tiny fingers wrapped around his big one.

"What a precious jewel," he murmured.

Amy met his gaze, her heart swelling in the shared moment. He was right. Of all the jewels she'd ever made, their daughter was the most precious.

"Jewel," they whispered together.

EPILOGUE

Six years later

Jewel climbed down the ladder and set it against the wall. Quietly, so her mother wouldn't hear. Then she squeezed through the door—carefully, carefully—since it was open only a tiny bit, just enough for a slip of a six-year-old pixie to fit through.

She skipped through the kitchen, pausing to grab a warm tart from a fresh-baked pile, then across the great hall and down the corridor to the study. Hesitating, she wiped the crumbs from her rosebud mouth and swept the disheveled ebony hair back from her heart-shaped face. Then she placed a delicate hand on the latch and pushed, bursting into the chamber.

"Papa, come quick! Mama's burned herself!"

Colin jumped up from behind his desk. "Holy Jesus," he said under his breath. Jewel retraced her steps, this time at a run at her father's heels. She hurried to keep up.

"Lord, let it not be bad," Colin whispered. The blast furnace in the workshop could rise to such incredibly high temperatures. "Please let it not be bad."

The workshop door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open—scrape, bang—and a deluge of frigid water poured down on him.

Behind him, Jewel dissolved into hysterical giggles. His wife turned around from her workbench, a knife and wax ring model in her hands.

"She got you," Amy said. "Again." Seeing Colin standing there, drenched, his hair plastered to his head and hanging to his shoulders in thick wet tendrils, she burst into laughter.

Colin reached back to pull his still-giggling daughter into the room. With a violent shake of his head, he sprayed droplets of cold water onto her small head and shoulders. "Jewel Edith Chase," he said with mock severity, "this is getting way out of hand."

"I owed you. For the lemonade."

The previous week, Colin had promised Jewel a cool mug of lemonade after a vigorous fencing lesson, but the concoction he'd given her had been double-strength, no sugar. The pucker on her face had been priceless.

He chuckled now, savoring the memory. "That was for the hay," he protested. "How did you do that hay thing, anyway?"

"I'm not telling. We're even now."

"Like hell we are."

"Colin."

Amy's gentle attempts to limit his blasphemy in their children's presence were mostly for naught, and she knew it. Colin smiled to himself, then narrowed his eyes at Jewel. "Is it not past your bedtime, young lady?"

"Mama said I could cast my ring tonight."

Amy laughed. "Good try, Jewel, but you spent the evening balancing a bucket of water."

Colin knelt and hugged his daughter to his side. "You can cast your ring tomorrow."

"If I go to bed now, will you tell me a story?"

Colin groaned. "What is this, a negotiation?"

"What's a negotayshun?"

He ruffled her hair. "A negotiation is when—"

"It's when you bat your pretty eyes at your father"—Amy's own eyes glittered with mischief—"and he gives you what you want."

It was Colin's turn to protest. "Amy!"

"Tell me a story, please," Jewel begged, her eyes sparkling with hope. Those emerald eyes that were exactly like his. Amy was right; he could never deny his daughter when she gazed at him like that. "Please, Papa. Tell me the one about when you were in France for the king, and your coach was stopped by hackneymen."

"Highwaymen."

"Whatever. Tell me, please."

Those eyes. "As you wish. Go get ready for bed, and I'll come up in a while and tell you the story."

"Can Hugh hear it, too?"

Jewel's brother Hugh was a strapping boy of four who followed his father around like a shadow. The next Earl of Greystone.

And then, of course, there was Aidan. Colin glanced at the sleeping child snuggled in the corner of the workshop. At six months, he still needed Amy near. And he would learn his trade here; his future was here.

"Papa…" His gaze moved from the cradle back to Jewel. "Please, Papa. Hugh loves your stories—you know he does."

"Very well, sweetheart." Emerald eyes sparkled again, and Colin's heart melted a bit more. Would he never get over the wonder of these precious beings entrusted to his care? "Now, go. I'll be along directly," he told her with a sigh.

She went, skipping out into the kitchen as though she hadn't a care in the world. Which was true. And Colin hoped he could keep it that way for a long, long time.

Closing the door, he turned to his wife. "Did you see how ingenious that was?" he asked, amazed at his daughter's creativity. "Look how she connected the bucket's handle to the door latch with a rope, so it wouldn't hit me on the head when it fell off the top of the door. Brilliant. Just brilliant." He shook his head slowly in admiration. "Our daughter is so incredible."

Trust Colin to equate intelligence with a well executed practical joke, Amy mused, rising from her workbench. She too was convinced their daughter was a genius, but her opinion stemmed from Jewel's reading ability and thirst for knowledge.

"I know what she did." Amy pushed the wet hair off Colin's face and wrapped her arms around his waist. "I was here, working."

"And you let her do it, anyway."

"Of course—you deserved it after the lemonade. Besides, she thinks she went unnoticed. She was quiet as a mouse, and I kept my back to her the whole time."

"So you're an accessory to the crime," Colin accused, with that devastating smile that made Amy's heart turn over, even after all these years.

"I suppose one could conclude that."

"Which reminds me: How did she manage that hay trick? You must know."

Amy did know. Jewel and Benchley, whom she'd long ago charmed into acting as her willing accomplice, had placed a board against the open wardrobe and stuffed hay behind it, then closed the door most of the way, pulled the board, and slammed the wardrobe shut. When Colin opened it to hang his shirt on a peg, he'd turned into a human haystack.

Watching from their bed, Amy had laughed herself sick. Jewel had run in, crowing with delight, prompting Colin to initiate a wrestling match that resulted in an explosion of sweet-smelling hay spread all about the chamber. And after Jewel returned to bed, Colin had picked the strands of hay from Amy's hair, one by one, running them over her body…

Amy shook her head to clear it. No, she hadn't the right to give away Jewel's secrets. "I have no idea," she said coyly. "Jewel doesn't confide in me."

But Benchley does, she amended to herself. Benchley was forever boasting about Lady Jewel's accomplishments. To everyone but Jewel's father, that was.

Benchley was loyal to a fault.

"Are you quite certain?" Colin asked, his mouth against hers.

"Quite."

His arms tightened around her, and his lips pressed closer, warm and demanding. Her mouth opened beneath his, and his tongue plunged deep, exploring possessively. Amy's knees turned to pudding, and she felt the blood coursing through her veins, spreading the familiar tingling weakness to every part of her body, but most especially the part that was reserved for Colin.

His hand reached down to tug at her skirts, and then it was under them and his fingers were cupping her. She throbbed, unbearably so, and if Colin's arms weren't supporting her, she would surely have slipped to the floor.

His kiss intensified, claiming her as his alone.

Her senses whirled, and her heart pounded so loud she was certain he could hear it. She vaguely wondered how she could feel this way—she, a grown lady of twenty-nine, with three children. But inside, she felt no older than when Colin first kissed her, so many years ago. And his kisses still affected her the same way, only more so.

"Amy…" Colin murmured into her mouth.

"Hmm?"

His hand stilled, and he pulled his lips from hers. But he pressed her even tighter to his hard body, his other hand in the small of her back. "How did Jewel pull off the hay trick?"

His lips brushed hers teasingly, his hand a warm promise beneath her skirts.

And she almost told him…

"Lord Greystone?" A sharp knock came at the door.

Colin jumped away with a groan. "Yes?"

Lydia opened the door and stuck her head in just as Amy smoothed down her skirts, her cheeks hot with arousal and embarrassment.

"Lady Jewel says you were supposed to tell her a story?"

"Oh…yes…I did promise her a story…didn't I?"

Though Lydia kept a straight face, Amy hid a smile. She knew she and Colin shared an unconventional marriage. Colin laid down the law with each new servant: One didn't just open a closed door when Lord and Lady Greystone were in residence. It didn't matter whether the door led to the bedchamber or the buttery, one knocked first—or risked being sorry later.

When Lydia hurried back to her charge, Colin groaned again. Amy knew he would follow—he'd never disappoint his precious Jewel.

A Chase promise was not given lightly.

"This will be continued," Colin vowed before going to his daughter. His deep, husky voice held a challenge, and Amy knew he was referring to the hay episode and what he doubtless considered an ingenious, delicious new method of inducing her to confess what she knew about it.

But, her body still tingling, she chose to interpret his words in an entirely different context.

This will be continued. For a long, long, long time.

Forever.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Dear Reader,

When I read a historical novel, I always find myself wondering what and who (besides obvious people like the king and queen) might actually be real. In case any of my readers share this curiosity, I thought a bit of information might be welcome.

The king's mistress, Barbara Villiers Palmer, Countess of Castlemaine (and later, after this story takes place, the Duchess of Cleveland), was indeed real. As King Charles's mistress on and off for at least ten years, she bore him four sons—all of which he created dukes—and a daughter. Charles granted lifetime annuities of £6000 a year for Barbara and £3000 for each of their sons. These were amazing sums at the time and more than he granted any other mistresses or children, yet he must have known Barbara had other lovers—a vast string of them, including not only many English and French courtiers, but also actors, a playwright, a Groom of the King's Bedchamber, and even a rope dancer!

I tried my best to recreate Barbara's vibrant personality from contemporary accounts of her life. I'll never forget the first time I read one of her early biographies, as a college student in the library at UC Irvine. The book, almost 300 years old, was much too valuable and brittle for them to lend out, but (unbelievably!) they did let me touch and read it. I remember my hands shaking—I found it so incredible that someone's words had come down to me through all that time. Years have passed, and I now have several very old books in my own library, but I still touch them reverently—such is the power and endurance of the written word.

Though Barbara Palmer presented Charles with more children than any of his other mistresses, many other women shared his bed. He eventually acknowledged nine sons and five daughters, and it's assumed that he had more. Sadly, Queen Catharine never did present him with legitimate offspring, but at long last a descendent of his is poised to sit on the throne, since Princess Diana's sons are descended from Charles II and Barbara, through their son Charles Fitzroy, Duke of Grafton, born in 1663.

As for Frances Stewart, the gorgeous but empty-headed courtier that Barbara and Colin were gossiping about, Charles did decide to forgive her for marrying the Duke of Richmond and eventually succeeded in wooing her as well. Unfortunately, shortly thereafter she fell ill of smallpox, and the resulting facial disfigurement seems to have cooled Charles's passions. But Charles was ever kindhearted, so she remained his friend. Before Frances succumbed to the dreaded disease, Charles's sister described her as "the prettiest girl in the world," and Charles immortalized that famous beauty when he had her pose as Britannia: Frances's face and torso still grace English coins.

Cainewood Castle is loosely modeled on Arundel Castle in West Sussex. It has been home to the Dukes of Norfolk and their family, the Fitzalan Howards, since 1243, save for a short period during the Civil War. Although the family still resides there, portions of their magnificent home are open to visitors and more than worth a detour, should you ever find yourself in the area.

Greystone was inspired by Amberley Castle, also in West Sussex. Charles II visited the castle in 1651 and 1685. The then tenant, Sir John Brisco, commemorated the second visit by commissioning a mural of Charles and Queen Catharine, which can still be seen in the Queen's Room, now a gourmet restaurant. The castle has passed through many hands and is now run as a luxurious country house hotel. The walls exude the spirit of dreams and legends, and a stay there is the stuff memories are made of, well worth the splurge.

For their London town house, the Chases have borrowed Lindsey House bordering Lincoln's Inn Fields. Attributed to the esteemed architect Inigo Jones, it is the only original house left in the square. The house takes its name from Robert, third Earl of Lindsey, who purchased the property in the 1660s from the family of Sir Theodore Mayerne, who had been doctor to James I and Charles I. There have been various distinguished occupants since, including James Whistler, who painted the famous portrait of his mother there.

To see pictures and learn more about the real places and real people featured in Amethyst, please visit my website at www.LaurenRoyal.com, where you can also enter a contest, sign up for my newsletter, and find a recipe for the Rabbit Stew that Amy made for Colin. If you try the recipe, I hope you'll e-mail me at Lauren@LaurenRoyal.com and tell me what you think, because I love to hear from readers!

You can read Clarice and Mary's story in my novella, Forevermore. (But don't read it before Emerald unless you don't mind spoilers!) And Ford's story is in Violet, the first book in my Flower Trilogy. You'll find an excerpt in the back of this book.

To hear about my upcoming releases, my contests, and other news, please sign up for my newsletter, friend me on Facebook, or follow me on Twitter (@readLaurenRoyal) or Pinterest. I love to keep up with my readers!

I hope you enjoyed Amethyst—thank you for reading!

Till next time,

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My heartfelt thanks:

To Terri Castoro, the most patient critique partner on the planet, for going way above and beyond.

To Audrey LaFehr, my editor for this (my very first!) book, whose confidence and boundless enthusiasm kept me going.

To Genny Ostertag, the brilliant assistant editor who cheerfully answered my endless silly questions.

To Jack Royal-Gordon, the world's most understanding husband, who put up with month after month of no clean laundry and nothing planned for dinner.

To my son Brent, for designing and maintaining my website and telling all his teachers that Mom wrote a book.

To my son Blake, for keeping so happy and busy I almost never felt guilty ignoring him to write.

To my daughter Devonie, for all the precious kisses and hugs even though I am far from a perfect mommy.

To Ken Royal and Margot Harris, the brave, generous people who read my early attempts and gave me encouraging feedback.

To writers group members Nancy Phillips, Elaine Ecuyer, Diana Brandmeyer, and Amanda Murphy for hanging in there with me.

To Rebecca Forster, mentor extraordinaire, for turning the lightbulb on in my head.

To the Orange County Chapter of RWA, for everlasting support, a wealth of knowledge, and the willingness to share it.

To Rita Adair-Robison, for all her encouragement and dragging me to RWA in the first place.

To the Rising Stars of Romance, for all the uplifting camaraderie.

To the Painted Rock Research Listserve, for having an answer to every question no matter how obscure.

To Elise Misiorowski, from the Gemological Institute of America, for her wonderful insight into old jewelry manufacturing techniques.

To Mark Zana, for exhaustive research into England's confusing monetary history.

To Herb Royal, for explaining all about obsolete guns and the resulting wounds in excruciating detail.

To Teri Royal, for invaluable firsthand experience in the mechanics of sibling rivalry.

To my oldest friends—Julie Walker, DeeDee Perkins, and Diena Simmons—for their Blind Faith (even though our favorite band growing up was the Who).

To Del Amitri, for writing and performing such incredible music for me to listen to as I write.

To my first readers and biggest cheerleaders—Joan Royal (head cheerleader), Dawn Royal, June Jørgensen, Karen Nesbitt, Taire Martyn, Alison Bellach, April Mann, Beth Sher, Tobey Seidman, and Sandy Shniderson—for reading my stories and laughing and crying in all the right places.

And to anyone who bothered to read all this, for your amazing fortitude.

Thank you, one and all!

For my mother,

Joan Falbaum Royal,

who taught me how to read and write

and

For my father,

Herbert Charfess Royal,

who taught me to appreciate and

respect all genres of literature

With my everlasting love to you both

CHAPTER ONE

Chichester, England

August 1, 1667

"Jason, you cannot mean to kill him."

Jason Chase stopped short and wrenched from the grasp his brother Ford had on his upper arm. "By God, no. But I'll learn why he did this and bring him to justice if it's the last thing I do."

"I've never seen you like this—"

"Because I've never seen anything like sweet little Mary lying still as death. Or her mother's torn clothes and bruised face as she chanted Geoffrey Gothard's name over and over." Trembling with rage, his hand came up to worry his narrow black mustache. "My villagers." He met Ford's gaze with his own. "My responsibility."

"You've plastered the kingdom with broadsides." Ford's blue eyes looked puzzled, as though he were unsure how to take this new side of his oldest sibling. "The reward will bring him in."

"I'm bloody well satisfied to bring him in myself."

Jason turned and continued down East Street to where Chichester's vaulted Market Cross sat in the center of the Roman-walled town. Carved from limestone, it was arguably the most elaborate structure in all of England…but the beauty of its intricate tracery was at odds with the evil that lurked inside.

An evil that Jason intended to deal with.

Scattered businessmen, exchanging mail and news beneath the dome, paused to glance his way. He recognized the Gothard brothers from the descriptions his villagers had given him: Geoffrey, tall and slim with a stance that bordered on elegant; Walter, shorter and rawboned.

Jason's footsteps echoed as he strode through the open arches, his own brother following behind. In their wake, people seemed to stream from all four corners of town, rushing to catch the show.

Walter Gothard scurried back like a frightened rabbit.

With a click of his spurred heels, Jason came to a halt and drew an uneven breath. He pinned Geoffrey Gothard with a furious gaze. "You'll come with me to the magistrate," he snapped out, surprising even himself at the commanding tone of his voice.

Gothard merely stared at him. For a fleeting moment Ford seemed dumbfounded, then he stepped away and motioned back the crowd.

Jason's hand went to the hilt of his sword. "Now, Gothard."

The other man's gaze held hard and unwavering. "My nearest and dearest enemy," he drawled in an insolent tone.

A line Jason recognized from Shakespeare. The man wasn't uneducated, then—indeed, his bearing was aristocratic, and his clothes, though rumpled from days of wear, were of good quality and cut.

Confusion churned with the anger in Jason's stomach. "Why should you call me your enemy?"

Gothard's gaze roamed Jason from head to toe. "The Marquess of Cainewood, are you not?"

"I am," Jason said through gritted teeth. He wanted nothing more than to go home to his calm routine, back to his estate, his life. But he could think only of little golden-haired Mary following him around the village, begging him for a sweetmeat, her blue eyes dancing with mischief and radiating trust.

Blue eyes that might never open again.

And there stood the man who had battered her, shaded by the Gothic structure overhead.

"I've done nothing to draw your ire—we've never met." Jason squinted at the man in the shadows. Gothard and his brother were pale, with the type of skin that burned and peeled with any exposure to the sun—and it looked as though they'd seen much exposure of late. "Stand down and consign yourself to my arrest."

The man's blue eyes went stony with resentment. Jason blinked. He seemed to know those eyes.

Maybe they had crossed paths.

"To the devil with you, Cainewood."

Jason squared his shoulders, reminding himself why he was here. For justice. Honor. The questions could wait—for now.

He slowly counted to ten, focusing on the fat needle of a spire that topped the old Norman cathedral across the green. As responsibility weighed heavily on his mind, his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.

Father would have expected this of him. To defend what was his, stand up for what was right—no matter the personal cost.

Deliberately he drew the rapier from its scabbard.

"Damn you to bloody hell." Gothard pulled his own sword with a quick screak that snapped the expectant silence. "We'll settle this here and now."

Jason advanced a step closer, slowly circled the tip of his rapier, then sliced it hissing through the air in a swift move that brought a collective gasp from the crowd. The blade's thin shadow flickered across the paving stones.

His free hand trembled at his side.

With a roar, Gothard lunged, and the first clash of steel on steel rang through the still summer air.

The vibrations shimmied up Jason's arm. Muscles tense, he twisted and parried, danced in to attack, then out of harm's way. His heart pounded; blood pumped furiously through his veins.

Like most men of his class, he'd been trained and spent countless hours in swordplay—but this was no game. And his opponent was skillful as well.

Two blades clanked with deadly intent in the shadow of the Market Cross.

Adam Leslie dipped his quill in the inkwell and carefully added "My" in front of "Dear Sister," frowned, then squeezed in "est" in the middle. My Dearest Sister. There now, surely Caithren wouldn't be miffed at his news after such an affectionate greeting.

Gazing up at the paneled walls of the Royal Arms, he flipped his straight dark blond hair—so like his sister's—over his shoulder. That he wouldn't be home soon shouldn't come as a surprise to her—it wasn't as though he'd spent more than a few weeks total at home these five years past. But it wouldn't hurt to be loving when he imparted the news…he did love her. And he knew that she loved him as well, even if he was rarely home.

Och, Scotland was boring. He was happy to leave the running of the Leslie lands to Cait and their father. He chuckled to himself, imagining Da's latest ineffective efforts to marry her off.

"Are you not finished yet, Leslie?"

He glanced over and smiled at his friends, the Earl of Balmforth and Viscount Grinstead. Dandies, they were, dressed in brightly colored satin festooned with jewels and looped ribbons. Though he kept himself decked out in similar style, he considered himself lucky they let him keep their company, untitled as he was—at least until his very healthy father died sometime in the distant future.

Da was naught but a minor baronet, so Adam wasn't entitled to call himself anything but Mister until he inherited.

"Leslie?"

"Almost done," Adam muttered, pushing back the voluminous lace at his cuffs before signing his name to the bottom of the letter. He sprinkled sand on the parchment to blot the ink, then brushed it off and folded the missive.

"An ale for my friend!" Balmforth called.

Adam nodded. This was thirsty work. Hell, any work was thirsty work.

He preferred not to work at all.

He flipped the letter over and scrawled Miss Caithren Leslie, Leslie by Insch, Scotland on the back. After dusting the address with sand as well, he rose and crossed the taproom to the innkeeper's desk, pinching the serving maid on her behind as she sauntered by with his tankard of ale.

She giggled.

"Have you any wax?" Adam dropped his letter on the scarred wooden counter and dug in his pouch for a few coins. "And you'll post this for me, aye?"

The innkeeper blinked his rheumy eyes. "Certainly, sir."

"Leslie, come along!" Grinstead shouted. "We're fair dying of thirst."

Laughing, Adam pressed his signet ring into the warm wax, then went to join his companions. He lifted his ale and leaned across the table. Their three pewter mugs met with a resounding clank.

"To freedom!" Grinstead said, shaking off some foam that had sloshed onto his hand.

"To freedom!" Adam echoed. "Till Hogmanay!"

Grinstead gasped. "You told her you'd be gone till the new year?"

"At the least." Adam swallowed a gulp and swiped one hand across his mouth before the froth dripped onto his expensive satin surcoat. "We've the week hunting in West Riding, then Lord Darnley's wedding in London come the end of the month. Wouldn't care to miss Guy Fawkes Day in the City. Then I might as well stay through the Christmas balls, aye?" The taproom's door banged open. "No sense in going home, then leaving again straightaway."

"No sense at all," Balmforth agreed, staring toward the entrance. "Will you look at what just walked in? Do you think she might be that MacCallum woman everyone's talking about?"

Their gazes swung to the tall lass and followed her progress as she sat herself at another table.

"Nary a chance." Adam contemplated the contents of his tankard for a moment, then tossed back the rest of the ale and signaled the serving wench for another. "Emerald MacCallum dresses like a man."

"She's carrying a knife," Balmforth argued in a loud whisper. "And she looks hard. Like the sort of woman who'd track outlaws with a price on their heads."

Grinstead let loose a loud guffaw. "You're in your cups, Balmforth. Emerald MacCallum carries a sword and a pistol."

"The MacCallum wench would kick your sorry arses." Adam tugged on the lacy white cravat at his neck. "And mine, too, I expect."

They all burst out laughing, until another bang of the door caught their attention.

An excited old-timer stood in the opening. "Duel at the Market Cross!"

As he and Gothard both fought for better footing, Jason hurried out of his midnight blue surcoat and tossed it to his brother, his gaze never leaving that of his foe. Gothard smirked as he lunged once again, barely giving Jason time to adjust.

Gothard was fleet, but Jason was faster. They scrambled down the steps, and the crowd scurried back. Gothard was cornered, but Jason was incensed. He edged Gothard back beneath the dome, skirting the circular stone bench that sat in its center as they battled their way to the other side of the octagonal structure. Gothard took sudden advantage, and Jason found himself retreating as their blades tangled, slid, and broke free with a metallic twang.

His arm ached to the very bone. Perspiration dripped slick from his forehead, stinging his eyes. But the other man's breath came ragged and labored.

All at once, a vicious swipe of Jason's sword sent Gothard's clanging to the stones and skittering down to the cobbled street, far from his reach.

Jason's teeth bit into his own lower lip. "I didn't come to kill today, Gothard. I merely want to see justice done." He sucked in air, smelled the other man's desperation. "Are you ready to come peacefully?"

Sweat beading on his sunburned brow, Gothard stepped back until his calves hit the round stone bench. Frantically he scanned the mass of people still pouring from the surrounding establishments. Three more men stumbled out of a taproom and crossed the dusty street to the dome, the bright rainbow colors of their clothing marking them aristocrats.

Their leader wove through the crowd, clearing a path for his two companions. "Come along, Grinstead!" he yelled as they pushed their way to the front.

Gothard's eyes narrowed. In a flash of movement, one of his arms snaked toward the newcomers, the other down to the wide cuff of his boot, where the curved handle of a pistol peeked out.

Jason's jaw tensed; his knees locked. Time appeared to slow. His surroundings seemed impressed on his senses: the heated babble and musky scent of the excited onlookers, the cool dimness in the shaded dome, the bright green grass and streaky sunlight beyond.

As Gothard rose from his crouch, Jason rushed headlong, his sword arm rigid.

Gothard jerked one of the men in front of him as a shield. Jason tried to check his momentum, but his blade forged ahead, piercing satin and flesh with an ease that came as a shock to a man unused to killing. As long as he lived, he would never forget the astonished look in the man's hazel eyes.

The sword pulled free with a gruesome sucking sound that brought bile into Jason's throat. The man collapsed, his eyes going dull as his bright blood spurted in a grotesque fountain that soaked Jason's shirt and choked his nostrils with a salty, metallic stench.

Stunned, he watched the blood pump hard then slow to a trickle—a spreading red puddle that seeped into the cracks between the stones. The dead man's face drained of color, to match the white lace at his throat.

Geoffrey Gothard raised his arm, cocked his flintlock, and pulled the trigger.

The explosion rocked the Market Cross, momentarily startling everyone into silence. "I'll see you at the gates of hell," Gothard muttered into the void. Then he turned and pushed through the crowd, signaling his younger brother to follow.

Ford Chase rushed forward when his own brother, the thirty-two-year-old Marquess of Cainewood, clutched his chest and crumpled to the ground.

CHAPTER TWO

Surely he was in hell.

Crackling sounds slowly filtered through his consciousness. A grunt. A dull thud.

His eyes slit open, and his head split in two. Or it felt like it.

Hell.

Wincing at the brightness, Jason forced his eyes open wider. Shiny dark red curls swam through his vision as his sister Kendra moved to toss another log on the already blazing fire. Another thud, and waves of heat washed over him.

Hell. It was hot as hell in here.

He blinked once, then again. "Where—where am I?" he stammered out.

Kendra whirled. "At Cainewood, Jason. Home." She rushed to his bedside and swabbed his brow with a warm, damp cloth. Her familiar lavender scent wafted around him. Her light green eyes were filled with concern.

Kendra, his sweet, exasperating sister Kendra, so full of life—but her expression worried him. And the heat.

"Damn, I'm hot." He pushed at the covers—two thick quilts and a velvet counterpane—and tried to sit up. Pain knifed through his body. He fell back, touching his shoulder and chest gingerly. Thick bandaging. "What happened?"

A quick frown marred her wholesome features, then was gone. "Don't you remember? You were shot."

It all came screaming back: the limestone Market Cross, the weight of the rapier in his hand, the shock as it sank into flesh. Gothard, that whoreson, pulling a man from the crowd to use as a shield.

"Holy Christ," Jason whispered.

He'd killed an innocent man.

"You're going to be fine," Kendra rushed to reassure him. "It was naught but a shoulder wound, and the ball came clean. The surgeon said you'll be fine."

No, he wouldn't. He'd never be fine again.

Jason shut his eyes and turned his head to hide the hot, unmanly tears that threatened. He was always so level-headed; whatever had possessed him to take the law into his own hands?

Rage, that was what. Black, unreasoning rage. The sight of Clarice Bradford's ghost-white face and her motionless, bruised young daughter. Just remembering made his blood seethe anew.

"Mary?" he croaked.

"She still lives. But she's no better." Kendra smoothed her lemon-yellow skirts, a cheery color that seemed to clash with the sadness clouding her face. She put a hand to his forehead. "You don't feel hot. You're not feverish." She swiped at her own damp brow. "How are you feeling?"

"Like hell. It's hot as hell in here."

"The surgeon said to keep you warm."

"Surely you took him too literally."

She bit her lip in a rare show of uncertainty. "I'll go get Ford." Giving his hand a quick squeeze, she sighed, then hurried from the room to fetch her twin.

Jason lay still, staring at the familiar stone walls of his ancestral home. Colorful tapestries lent the cavernous chamber an intimate feel and kept the drafts to a minimum. Cainewood Castle had always made him feel safe, peaceful.

But not today.

Pangs of guilt swept him in waves, only to be swamped by anger at Geoffrey Gothard's actions. This was no longer just about Jason's villagers—the coward had used a blameless man as a shield. A man who would live today if Jason had chosen to wait for the authorities.

But damn it, he hadn't gone there to kill Gothard, let alone an innocent bystander. He'd intended to see Gothard detained, brought to justice…

The pain in his head intensified.

He knew also the Gothard brothers would have been long gone had he not acted immediately upon hearing word of their whereabouts. Law enforcement in these parts was sorely lacking.

He raised a hand to his aching head. Why the devil did Gothard consider him an enemy?

Ford sauntered in at Kendra's heels, flashing a hopeful smile. "How do you feel?"

"Like hell," Jason and Kendra said together, way too loudly.

Wincing, Jason pushed the long black hair from his eyes.

"It's the laudanum." Ford stated the facts like the analyst he was. "The surgeon gave you enough to fell a middling-sized horse. Said you'd need it to survive the trip home, but that it may well give you a headache."

"He may well have been right." Jason closed his eyes and sucked in a steadying breath before opening them again. The candlelight seemed brighter than usual. Too bright. He blinked at the cobalt blue canopy overhead. "What day is it?"

"Friday. Evening." Ford cleared his throat and leaned against one carved, twisted bedpost. "You were out over twenty-four hours. Damn, it's hot in here."

Kendra glared at her twin. "I'll open a window."

"The door as well. And for God's sake, bank that fire." Ford turned to Jason, smiling at their sister's overzealousness. Then his expression sobered. "I believe Gothard thinks you're dead. You were covered in blood—"

"That of the man I killed." Jason's chest constricted painfully. "Who was he?"

Ford blinked. "I don't know. I rushed to care for you, and when I looked up, he was gone."

"He was with two other men. They must have taken him. We'll have to make inquiries—"

"In due time." One hand on her hip, Kendra frantically fanned the door open and closed. "Cooler now?"

Her face was flushed to match her dark red hair. Jason smiled, though even that movement hurt his head. "Sit down, Kendra."

The bed ropes creaked as she sat gingerly on the mattress. "I rode into the village this morning." One of her fingers traced idle circles on the blue velvet counterpane. "I talked to Clarice."

"She's talking?" He struggled up on his elbows, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, the throbbing in his head. After the incident, Clarice had uttered nothing but Gothard's name. He had to go to her, see if he could do anything for her daughter, get the answers to his questions—

"Take it easy," Ford warned.

Ignoring his brother's advice, Jason tried to swing his legs off the bed, then stopped with a defeated groan. "I'm not going anywhere," he muttered, his head dropping back to the pillow. "What have you learned?" He looked to Kendra. "How did Clarice know Gothard?"

"She'd seen him around the village."

"He made no attempt to hide his identity while he was here," Ford added.

"True." Frowning, Jason steepled his fingers atop the counterpane. "The brothers registered at the inn. They talked to people; I was able to get descriptions for the broadsides and the sketch from Martinson." The blacksmith was known for his clever characterizations.

Ford paced the carpeted floor. "It's clear the Gothards didn't come here intending to do this."

Kendra nodded. "Clarice told me that when all was said and done, they were each furious with the other. And frightened at the consequences. That's why they ran before finishing the…"

"Rape," Jason ground out. "You can say it, Kendra. Thank God at least Clarice was spared that." She'd been badly hurt, though, and his hands clenched as he vowed no one would ever hurt another woman like that while she was under his protection. "But why? Why did they do it?"

Kendra's gaze dropped to her folded hands. "Clarice said he told her…"

"If he couldn't have your castle, instead he'd have your woman," Ford finished for her.

His woman? Jason's head felt blank, until suddenly it dawned on him. "My mistress?" he said incredulously. "He thought Clarice was my mistress? A villager?"

"She's pretty enough." Ford shrugged. "He saw you hugging Mary and handing her to Clarice. He believed she was your daughter."

"My daughter?" Marriage and family were so far off in Jason's plans, his mind boggled at the mere thought. "How…what happened…with Mary?"

"She wouldn't stay quiet." Kendra's eyes turned misty. "Geoffrey threw her against the wall to shut her up. Forever, it seems. The doctor says she'll never wake."

"Holy Christ." He could picture her, the sweet little girl he'd come to know, limp and motionless, slipping into death.

And somehow, he was responsible.

CHAPTER THREE

Leslie, Scotland

"Married? I haven't any plans get married!"

The last strains of the funeral bagpipes were still echoing in Caithren Leslie's ears when she found herself facing the family lawyer across her father's desk.

As though it weren't enough she had to bury Da today, now this. Unbelievable. "Have I misheard you?"

Lachlan MacLeod sighed and ran a hand through his grizzled hair. "There's nothing wrong with your hearing, Miss Leslie. All of Leslie is Adam's…that is, unless you see fit to wed within the year. Then the larger portion that came through your mother will revert to you and your husband. In which case you'll provide for your brother, of course. The minor lands entailed with the baronetcy aren't sufficient to support a man."

"At least not in the style to which Adam is accustomed," Cait's cousin Cameron put in dryly.

"God forbid my brother should put Leslie before pursuing his own pleasure," Cait said, pensively twirling one of her dark-blond plaits. "It's been five years since he's been home for more than a visit." She closed her eyes momentarily, then focused on the lawyer. "Crivvens, this cannot be."

"It can be, Miss Leslie, I assure you." MacLeod's arthritic hands stacked the papers on the desk. "While it's rare for a daughter to hold title, it isn't unprecedented. Your father's wishes will stand against a challenge."

"Nay, that wasn't what I meant." Caithren stared at her father's desktop. It had always been littered with papers, reflecting the goings-ons at busy Leslie. Now it was neat. Too neat. Her heart ached at the sight. "Da told me that if Adam didn't mend his ways, one day Leslie would be mine. That part isn't surprising." She looked toward Cameron for strength, feeling a bit better when their hazel eyes met. He'd always been there to lean on. "It's the marriage requirement that makes no sense."

Taking her by the shoulders, Cam gently pushed her across the flagstone floor and into a brown leather chair. He perched his tall form on the arm and looked toward the lawyer expectantly. "Maybe if you read that wee portion of the will again. I don't think Cait quite heard it."

MacLeod shuffled pages, then cleared his throat. "'I am sorely sorry for this requirement, dear daughter, but it is my hope that you will grow to understand my position. As you're twenty-one already—'" The lawyer broke off and tugged at one pendulous earlobe. "He wrote this last year, you understand, before he—"

"Aye, while I was naught but a bairn." Caithren crossed her arms and legs. Beneath her unadorned black skirts, the leg on top swung wildly up and down as she talked. "Now, having attained the advanced age of twenty-two, I imagine I'm a confirmed spinster—"

"'As you're twenty-one already,'" MacLeod rushed to continue, "'I find myself concerned for your future. In addition, I promised dear Maisie on her deathbed that I would see you safely wed. Since you're hearing these words, it's apparent I failed to live long enough to do so. Caithren, my love, you cannot but admit to a certain streak of stubbornness and independence, and bearing such, have left me no other avenue to make certain your dear mother's wishes are granted. I know you'll do right by your mother, myself, and your own life, rather than see Leslie fall into your brother's incompetent hands. Please forgive me my duplicity and know it's for your own good.'"

Silence enveloped the small study, the pitter-patter of the rain unnaturally loud against the window. Caithren stared up at the timber-beamed ceiling.

Cameron's hand brushed her arm. "It's sorry I am for you, sweet. This is a hard day for you, I know."

"Da suffered. It's a blessing he's gone. Didn't everyone tell me that today?"

But despite having decided she was done crying, her throat seemed to close painfully, and something in her eyes was blurring her vision.

She blinked hard. "I have no intention of marrying."

Rising to tower over her, Cameron wiped his palms against the dark blue and green Leslie kilt he'd worn for the funeral. "Never?"

"Ever." Cait tightened her arms around her laced bodice, hugging herself.

"But—but so many have courted you," Cam sputtered, running a hand back through his straight, wheaten hair. "Surely there must be one man…" He blinked, then focused. "Duncan. Maybe you'd consider Duncan? He has land of his own, and the village maidens are forever tittering over his good looks—"

"He's a fool." When Caithren stood, Cam stepped back in self-defense. "He'd be no better for Leslie than Adam. And he'd never let me have a hand in running things, or you, for that matter."

Cameron blinked. "James, then. James is no fool."

"Aye, you've the right of it there. But James isn't one for the land. He keeps his nose in a book all the day. He'd be no better than Adam, either."

Cam walked to the window and gazed out at the pouring rain. "Surely there must be someone." His voice bounced muffled off the uneven glass. "What sort of life would you live, then? Your folks were so happy…don't you want as much for yourself?"

She joined him there and watched familiar gray clouds glide slowly over the green rolling hills where her family had lived for generations. Beyond a stone wall, the ponies she and Cameron were breeding fed in a nearby field, swishing their long tails. Tenant farmers worked in the distance—people she knew as well as her own kin.

She'd lived her entire life in this fortified house that looked like a wee, turreted castle. Da had built it for her mother—he'd always treated Mam like a queen. Love owercomes the reasons o' mind, Mam used to murmur when she walked up the path to her home; the heart always rules the head. But she'd said it with a laugh and a blush of pleasure.

Aye, Mam had been loved. But she'd still been the property of a man.

"For all Da loved her, Mam had nothing to call her own. I want to be independent, free to run Leslie—with you, Cam, the way we've been doing it since Da fell ill. Together. Any husband of mine would inherit my property upon marriage, and no man would allow you an equal partnership." One of her fingers traced the crooked line of a raindrop as it trailed down the pane. "We'd never realize our grand plans. Even my own dear father plotted to manipulate me from the grave. All men are the same."

"Not all men, Cait."

When she turned to him, Cam's eyes held a challenge.

"Maybe not all," she conceded. "Not you." Turning back to the window, she traced another raindrop…two…three.

Then hope leapt in her breast as it occurred to her. "You!" She whirled to face him. "I shall marry you! Leslie should be yours in any case—how many times have I said it?"

Cameron stared, incredulous. "Me? Are you daft? We're kin."

"First cousins." MacLeod's voice came stern across the room. Caithren had forgotten all about him. "I've heard it said that such inbreeding can result in diseased children."

"Inbreeding?" Cam was still sputtering beside her. "Cait, I…I love you, but not that way. More like a sister."

"I knew as much." She paused for a breath. "And my love for you is much the same. I never expected to wed at all, much less for romantic love." She felt a lump rise in her throat as her excitement gave way to defeat. "It's hopeless."

Her fingers went absently to play with her laces as she wandered back to MacLeod, tears swimming in her eyes. "Is there no other way? Must I wed or see it all go to Adam?"

"Well…" The family lawyer met her gaze, then looked away.

"Aye? What are you thinking?" Slapping her palms onto the desk, she leaned toward him. "You've an idea, don't you?"

MacLeod glanced heavenward. "May your father forgive me for circumventing his plans." He straightened his fine wool doublet. "If you could persuade your brother to sign over his rights—"

Caithren's heart galloped in her chest. "That would work? Such a paper would be legally binding?"

"I cannot see why not. It wouldn't be signed under duress, and who would there be to challenge? I assume, in exchange for a generous allowance for his keeping, that Adam would jump at the chance to relinquish his responsibilities. If I know your brother at all—"

"Aye, you do," Cameron said in wry confirmation. He walked closer to Cait. "And he'd still have the title. Sir Adam Leslie, Baronet. Not that he deserves it."

"I don't care about that, but it's all he cares about, which is why this should work." Caithren turned around to think. "I must go to Adam." She spun back to her cousin. "My letters never seem to reach him, and he may be off to India soon."

"India?" Cameron frowned. "Do you know where he is now?"

"A letter came just yesterday." She hurried to the desk and pulled out a sheet of parchment. "He mailed it the first of August, from Chichester." She scanned the single page. "He said he was in the company of two friends on their way to West Riding near Pontefract, where Lord Scarborough had invited them hunting. Then to London for Lord Darnley's wedding on the thirtieth. And he hopes to make it home for Hogmanay, but there's talk of a voyage to India." She looked up. "He should still be at Scarborough's. Pontefract is about halfway to London, isn't? Not so far."

"I'll go."

"Nay, Cam. I must ask this of Adam myself."

"You don't trust me to ask him to sign a piece of paper?"

Caithren winced at the hurt look on her cousin's face. "It wouldn't be the same request, coming from you." Setting the letter aside, she put a hand on his arm. "I do love him, you know, but I also see him for what he is."

Cam's hand covered hers and squeezed. "Then I'll accompany you—"

"Nay, it's here you're needed. The harvest approaches." She raised a palm to stem his next protest. "You may see me to Edinburgh and put me on the public coach, but then it's back to Leslie where you belong. I can deal with Adam."

"I don't like to think of you traveling alone."

The thought of a solo journey did make a wee tingle of fear flutter in her stomach. But she pushed it away. "We can hire a chaperone in Edinburgh. You may choose her personally, if that will make you feel better."

When Cam's shoulders slumped, she sensed her victory. He took her chin in one hand and tilted her face up. "There's no arguing with you, is there, sweet Cait?"

"Nay, and there never was." She rose to her toes to kiss him on the cheek. "I'm thinking it's about time you learnt it, cousin."

He gave a wry shake of his head, followed by a speculative smile. "Do you know, I reckon you may be right."

"Aye?"

"There may be no man willing to take you to bride, you stubborn lass."

"Crivvens! Be off with you!" She swatted at him playfully. "You know what Mam used to say."

"I cannot wait to hear this one."

"Ha freens and ha life."

"Good friends make a full life," Cameron murmured.

She locked her gaze on his. All she had left to love were Cameron and Leslie.

She would not lose either.

"You're a fine friend, Cam. The best. Leslie will fare well in our hands."

CHAPTER FOUR

Hurrying into the Edinburgh room she and Cameron had taken overnight, Caithren opened her satchel to add the ribbons she'd just bought.

Mrs. Dochart, the chaperone Cam had chosen, clucked her tongue. Her three chins wobbled, and one foot tapped against the bare, wood-planked floor. "What took you so long, lass?"

"I'd wager you five to one she got lost on her way back," Cam told the woman with a grin. "What happened, Cait? Did you go to Whiteford House instead of White Horse Close?"

"Worse," she muttered. She tied two black ribbons on the ends of her plaits, then slipped the rest into the satchel. "I was wandering around Brown's Close. I remembered it was a color, but forgot which one." She fished out her money pouch and added the coins she'd received as change. "And I set down my hat, then couldn't find it."

Cam laughed. "How is it that anyone as efficient as you can be constantly misplacing her hat?"

She sent him a scathing look. "They're just hats, not all that important. I usually have much more pressing matters to worry about. The Widow MacKenzie's health, or the proper time to shear the sheep."

"We shall have to advance our schedule by half an hour from here on out." Mrs. Dochart brushed at the mustard-colored cloth that laced over her pillowish bosom. "One cannot be late when the public coach is running." Her beady black eyes honed in on Caithren's open satchel. "What have we here, lass? Men's clothing?"

When Cait went to shut the bag, Cameron nudged her hands aside and pulled out a couple of garments. "Breeches? A shirt?"

"I may ride a horse at Scarborough's. Adam went there for hunting, aye?" She pushed him away and stuffed the clothes back inside. "I'm not used to riding in skirts."

The chaperone pursed her lips. "You're off to England, lass. Not the wilds of Scotland." She bundled up in an ugly mud-colored cloak that reached to the floor, covering her uglier calico skirt. Caithren thought she looked like a lumpy brown mountain. "Women in England ride sidesaddle, garbed in riding habits."

Cam snatched his woolen plaid off a hook on the plastered wall, wrapped himself in it, and jammed his hat on his head. "Mrs. Dochart's right, sweet. You won't be on your own land where you may act as you choose and none will say nay. Those Sassenachs are civilized." He pronounced the word with more than a modicum of distaste. "I'll tote the breeches back home for you."

"I want to bring them." Cait took tiny framed paintings of Da and Adam off the table and snuggled them on top of the clothing. She shrugged as she fastened the closure. "Whether I'll wear them or not remains to be seen."

While she donned her own tartan wrap, Cam hefted the satchel. "Bring what you wish. You're the one who has to carry it." He handed her the bag, failing to hide his amusement when she strained under its weight.

Squaring her shoulders, Caithren followed Mrs. Dochart from the room and down two of the five narrow flights of stairs before Cameron caught up and took the satchel from her. "I'll miss you, Cait."

She managed a brave smile. No matter what she'd said last week in Da's study, it was a scary thing to be going to England alone. "I'll miss you, too. But I won't be staying in Pontefract long, not with Adam off to London for that wedding. I cannot believe I had to wait a whole day just to leave here."

Cameron laughed. "My impatient Cait. The coach runs naught but once a fortnight." He pushed open the inn's door. "You were lucky, sweet."

Caithren touched the old emerald amulet she wore on a chain about her neck—her good-luck charm. She sighed as she stepped into the gray Edinburgh day. A persistent drizzle kept the cobblestones wet and shining. Canongate teemed with coaches, horses, and humanity, and Holyroodhouse loomed in the background, tall and imposing.

It was as different from peaceful Leslie as she could possibly imagine.

She drew her blue and green plaid tighter around her shoulders. "I can only hope there are no more delays, or I'll miss Adam for certain. Then I'll have to go all the way to London." She paused for a breath. "I'd prefer not to even consider that possibility."

"Me, neither." Cam chuckled as he handed her satchel to an outrider and watched him heave it onto the coach's roof. "I cannot imagine you making it all that way without getting lost."

Mrs. Dochart paused on the coach steps. "Worry not on that account, lad. I'm goin' all the way to London, and if need be I'll make it my business to see she gets there on time and in one piece. That's what you hired me for, after all."

Cait watched the woman's ample rear disappear into the coach. "God alone knows how I'll survive the eight days to Pontefract with that old bawface, let alone nine more to London if need be. Already I cannot abide her, and I only met her this morning."

"She's exactly what you need, sweet cousin. I hired well." Cameron carefully counted eight pounds to pay the two women's fares. "I can only pray Adam will do as well finding a chaperone for you on the other end." He glanced at the slate sky, then drew off his hat and settled it over her plaits. "Here, I don't want to see you go hatless."

She looked up at the plain brown rim, then grinned. "Do you think I look bonnie?"

"Oh, aye." His eyes lit with humor. "A man's hat suits you." His expression sobered as he rooted beneath his plaid, then pressed a pistol into her hands. "And I want you to take this as well."

"Da's gun?" It felt heavy and vaguely menacing, the dull metal pitted, the wooden grip worn smooth from years of use. "But why?"

"I don't trust the English. Short of accompanying you myself, I'd at least send you with some protection."

"But I don't know how to use it."

He handed her a heavy little pouch and a flask of gunpowder. "Pour a wee smidge of powder into the muzzle, then wrap a cloth patch around a ball, ram it—"

"Nay, that wasn't what I meant. I've seen Da load this pistol hundreds of times. But I've never shot at anything, Cam."

"Damn, I wish I'd known that. I would've practiced with you." He took back the pouch and flask, hesitated, then reached beneath her plaid and stuffed them into her skirt's deep pocket. "Take it anyway. You're a bright lass, Cait. If need be, you'll figure out how to use it."

Slowly she slid the pistol into her other pocket. The weight of it did make her feel somewhat safer. And she'd seen Da shoot it often enough; she reckoned she could do it if she had to.

"Take care of yourself, Cait." Cameron leaned to kiss her cheek.

She blinked back the tears that threatened, lest her cousin see them. Thankfully he couldn't see her heart racing in her chest, or tell that her stomach rebelled at the mere thought of traveling so far with naught but a stranger for company.

She forced a smile. "I'd better go before the old bawface starts in yelling at me."

With a laugh, Cam helped her up the coach steps.

CHAPTER FIVE

"Damn, it will take three days to cover Cainewood in this bloody creeping carriage. Pass me that journal, will you?"

"Clever change of subject." Kendra handed Jason the leather book and one of the pencils made from the graphite mined on the property. She hitched herself forward, frowning at him seated across from her in the carriage. "You're not well enough to go. It's been barely more than two weeks."

"I'm not waiting much longer." He flipped open the estate journal and made a note to have the Johnsons' roof rethatched. "The reward I posted isn't bringing in Gothard. I've killed an innocent man, thanks to him."

"Thanks to Gothard? It's yourself you're blaming." As usual, Kendra was too observant for his comfort. "Someone else is hurt, and naturally, it's all your fault."

Ignoring her sarcasm, he scribbled reminders to buy another bull and see that Mistress Randall's spinning wheel was repaired. "Not hurt, Kendra—killed. And poor Mary fares no better. It's a wonder she still breathes." The attack on Clarice and Mary might not have been premeditated, but the episode at the Market Cross proved the brothers were cornered. Dangerous. He rolled the pencil between his hands. "I'd have left already if only I had some clue to the Gothards' whereabouts. They seem to have disappeared."

"They'll resurface. And the reward you've posted will ensure you'll hear of it."

"When?" He banged the journal closed and slammed it onto the seat. "When will I find the whoreson who made me kill an innocent man? How many others will die before he's caught?" His fists bunched between his spread knees. "And who died at my hands? The least I can do is send condolences to his family, make some reparations. Where the hell is Ford?"

Kendra stared at him. "He's working on it," she said carefully.

Her pale green eyes looked so troubled. He consciously relaxed his jaw and, with a sigh, reached to put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry. I don't know what's come over me." He glanced out the window at the peaceful fields of Cainewood, struggling for the calm that usually came to him so easily. "I feel so damned powerless."

Kendra's gaze followed his and caught what he'd missed in his blind fury. "Look, he's back." She leaned to watch her twin gallop up the lane.

Jason knocked on the roof to stop the carriage and threw open the door. "News from Chichester?" he asked. "Do we know who I killed?"

"No." Breathless, Ford shook his head. "Whoever he was, his companions bore him away without so much as reporting his identity. That's not what I rode out to tell you, though." He swept off his hat, dragged a hand through his wavy brown hair. "There's a stableman waiting to see you. At home. Two of your horses have been stolen."

A hard ball of anxiety hit Jason in the stomach. "Not Chiron?"

"No. Pegasus and Thunder."

"Thank God for small favors."

Although he was relieved his favorite mount had been spared, he still cursed the slow carriage a hundred times before it finally rolled over the drawbridge and through the barbican into Cainewood's grassy quadrangle. A man waited on the wide steps that led to the castle doors, cap in hand and a crude blood-stained bandage tied around his head.

With an agility that wrenched his shoulder and made him wince, Jason leapt from the carriage and made for the double oak doors. "Porter, come in, will you?" He gestured the stableman into the entry.

The man frowned and touched his fingertips to his forehead.

"Come in," Jason repeated. "You're no longer bleeding. And these floors have seen their share of blood through the years, in any case."

With obvious reluctance the man climbed the steps after Kendra and Ford. Staring up at the slim pillars that supported the stone hall's vaulted ceiling, he seated himself gingerly—not in one of the carved walnut chairs that Jason indicated, but on one of the iron treasure chests instead, probably figuring it would be easier to clean.

Jason followed Porter's awed gaze as it swept the entry, taking in the intricate stone staircase, crowned at intervals with impressive heraldic beasts. "Who?" he asked impatiently. "Who has stolen my horses?"

The man dragged his gaze back to Jason's. "Those men, my lord. The brothers. The ones on the broadsides."

"The Gothard brothers? In stark daylight?" Jason's jaw dropped open in astonishment. "Right from under our noses?"

"They knocked me out." Slowly Porter shook his injured head. "I'm sorry, my lord. I didn't hear much, and I couldn't seem to move."

"What did you hear?" Jason crouched at the man's feet and peered into his apprehensive eyes. "Anything. Anything you can remember, I want to hear it."

The groom fiddled with the cap in his hands. "The one was saying he didn't want to take the horses." He set the cap in his lap. "I couldn't hear what the other said."

Reeling with confusion and frustration, Jason touched the stableman on the knee. "Anything else?"

"They did mention another man's name. They were headed to Lord Scar—" He stopped and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "I cannot remember," he said at last. "Lord Scar-something. He said his brother was entitled to whatever this other lord has. And they were going to take the horses and go get it."

"Gothard." Jason stood and cursed under his breath. "Cuthbert Gothard, the Earl of Scarborough. Why didn't I think of that connection?"

"It's a common name," Ford said. "You had no reason to think the Gothard brothers were connected to Lord Scarborough."

But he should have. It was his job to eliminate any threat to his village. "I could have sent a letter of inquiry to Scarborough, asking if they were relations and what he knew of their whereabouts." He paced the three-story chamber, his footsteps echoing off the vaulted stone ceiling. "Now it's too late—the brothers are on their way already." He paused midstep. "If I hurry, maybe I can reach Pontefract before they do and give Scarborough fair warning. Then lie in wait."

"Lie is right." Kendra slanted him a look of utter disbelief. "You'll end up lying in the road somewhere. You'll never catch them if you're riding in a carriage, with them on the backs of your fine horses. And you cannot ride Chiron such a distance in your condition."

Hadn't his father told him to stand up for what he believed in? Even without his personal responsibilities, common decency would demand he warn the earl.

"I can ride Chiron, and I will." He turned to Porter. "I thank you for a job well done. They'll doctor you in the kitchen. Tell Ollerton I said you may have the day off."

"Thank you, my lord." Porter stood and bowed, but Jason's attention was already elsewhere.

"Ford, ask Claxton to bring a portmanteau to my chamber. I'm off for West Riding."

"No, you're not!" Kendra ran after him up the wide stairway and jumped ahead of him as he entered his chamber. "You were shot two weeks ago, for God's sake!"

Shouldering her out of the way, Jason strode to his chest of clothes to choose a few of his plainest shirts. "It's not serious; the surgeon said so himself. The first days found me groggy from the laudanum, and I've let you coddle and care for me since. But now the bastards have stolen my horses, and I've a lead where they're headed. Nothing you say will keep me here. Lives may be at stake, and apparently, for reasons I cannot fathom, I am involved."

Ford came in with Claxton, who had brought the portmanteau and moved to pack it. "This is no ordinary journey," Jason told him. "I'd best choose my wardrobe myself."

His manservant blinked. "Then I shall go ready myself for travel."

Jason shook his head. "I go with no valet, but alone, dressed as a commoner. If Gothard thinks I'm dead, it makes no sense to call attention to myself."

"Alone, Jason?" Kendra railed as Claxton left the chamber. "Who will care for you?"

He walked to the bed, opened one of the two leather bags, and tossed in the shirts. "The shoulder doesn't pain me much," he said, stretching the truth, "and there's no sign of infection." That at least was fact.

And if his siblings were looking at him as though he'd gone around the bend, so be it. He would do what was expected of him. What he expected of himself.

Kendra pulled the shirts back out and folded them neatly. "You should have let Claxton pack."

"I may be surrounded by servants, but I'm capable of caring for myself." Bending over his chest, he selected two fine lawn shirts and a snowy cravat, depositing them into his sister's outstretched hands. He threw open his tall, carved clothes press and took a dark blue velvet suit from a hook. Three pairs of his plainest breeches and a couple more workaday shirts found their way into his bag. The boots on his feet would do.

"Geoffrey Gothard must be stopped." Jason paused in his packing to gaze out the diamond-paned window. In the sunshine beyond lay his land, his people. "I cannot face my own villagers until it's done."

"You sent broadsides near and far," Kendra argued. "It's common knowledge Gothard is a wanted outlaw. For the hundred pounds you've offered—"

"—that MacCallum woman will see it done," Ford finished for her.

"Emerald MacCallum? That fabled Scot who wears men's clothing and carries a pistol?" Jason blinked and dragged his gaze from his land back to the dim room. "Don't tell me you've fallen for that claptrap. A woman tracking outlaws for the reward—why, you'd have to be maggot-brained to believe such fancies—"

"Then someone else will see it done." Kendra crossed her arms.

Jason could feel his face heating. Part of him agreed with her, but the expectations he'd been raised with overrode her cool logic. "I cannot wait for someone to see it done. Since King Charles abolished Cromwell's Major General districts, there's no central authority of any kind." His sturdiest stockings joined the pile of clothing. "For God's sake, didn't you see it with what happened in Chichester? A man was killed, and no one even knows who he was."

"Charles did well to abolish the districts," Ford protested. "Their main activity was to tax us Royalists." He raised a finger to make another point, then shook his head as though realizing this was not the time for their old argument. "Jason, think about what you're doing."

"I've thought of little else. England has never seen such lawlessness." Jason paced the red and blue carpet, snatching up an ivory comb and his shaving kit as he moved past his dressing table. "There's no provision for passing vital information from one county to another. Depending on a reward offer—someone's greed—in order to see this man put away…no, I cannot do so."

He dropped to sit on the bed, fighting to marshal his temper. "I killed an innocent man. I won't able to live with myself until Gothard is behind bars, never to murder again. And I'll hear from him just what he thinks my part is in this debacle."

Kendra came to stand before him. "I've checked the church's birth records, and, contrary to popular belief, your middle name is not 'Responsible.'" She smiled, a gentle smile that tugged at his heart. "Gothard is gone from this area—you can be sure of it. You're injured. You have people here, people who need you. And family. Jason—"

"That's enough, Kendra." He couldn't let her sway him. Rising from the bed, he grabbed a ball of hard-milled soap from his washstand, threw it into the portmanteau, flipped the bags closed, and secured the latches. "No more arguments." He went to his sister and gave her a hard hug, ignoring the jolt to his shoulder. "They've singled me out—how can I turn away? What kind of man would that make me?"

Kendra opened her mouth, but Jason cut her off. "You cannot stop me, Kendra sweetheart." He smoothed her dark red curls. "Just wish me Godspeed."

"If you won't wait to heal, then at least wait an hour or two for Ford and me to get ready. You've never gone off without us. I can care for your wound—"

"This isn't a holiday, Kendra. You would slow me down."

He saw her take a deep breath before the fight drained out of her. When she nodded up at him, he turned to Ford. "Find out who I killed, will you? Ask around again in Chichester. Someone must know the identity of his two acquaintances. Then locate them, follow up. Send word to Pontefract if you hear anything."

"Jason, it wasn't your fault."

"Do it," he ordered. He jammed his sword into his belt, tucked a small pistol into his boot top, lifted the portmanteau. "Watch over Cainewood for me. God willing, I won't be long."

"And then we can lay this nightmare to rest?" Kendra asked.

He stared at her a long time while the chamber filled with an oppressive silence. Then, unable to make that promise, he kissed her cheek and strode from the room.

"Godspeed," she whispered after him.

CHAPTER SIX

Her back to the other passengers straggling in and queuing to rent rooms, Caithren stared at the innkeeper in disbelief. "Are you telling me there are no horses for hire in this town?"

He rubbed a hand over his bald head. "That's what I'm telling you, madam."

Mrs. Dochart took Cait by the arm. "Come along, lass. Maybe the situation will change on the morrow." With her other hand she set down her valise and dug inside for coins. "We'll take a room upstairs, Mr. Brown."

Caithren shook off the woman's hand and leaned farther over the innkeeper's desk. "Are there no hackney cabs, either?"

"No hackney cabs."

"But Pontefract is a stage stop!"

"We've extra horses for the public coach, naturally. But not for hire."

Behind her, Caithren heard feet shuffling impatiently on the gritty wood floor. "Hurry up, there," someone grumbled.

"Hold your tongue," Cait shot over her shoulder. "I've spent eight days shut up in a hot coach"—with a crotchety, meddling old woman, she added silently—"just to get here and visit with my brother at the Scarborough estate in West Riding."

Rubbing his thin, reddish nose, the innkeeper slanted her a dubious look. "The Earl of Scarborough's estate?"

"Aye, the same."

He shrugged. "You can walk. It's nice enough weather and naught but a mile or so." The man opened a drawer and pulled out a thick, leather-bound registration book. "Out there, then head east. The road will take you straight past the Scarborough place. You'll find it set back on the right side, perhaps a quarter mile from the road. An enormous stone mansion—you cannot miss it." With a dismissive thump, he set the book on the desk and opened it to a page marked with a ribbon. "You may leave your satchel if you wish. Should Scarborough invite you to stay"—his tone conveyed what he thought were the chances of that happening—"I reckon he'll send a footman to fetch it."

He waved her aside and the next person forward.

"Come along, lass. We'll be losing the light soon." Mrs. Dochart set her own bag alongside Cait's behind the desk. "Unless you'd prefer to wait for the morn?" she added hopefully.

Cait reached up a finger to twirl one of her plaits. "Nay, I wish to go immediately." Without a chaperone. "But I'm…I mean to say…well, I expected we'd part company here. Not that I haven't enjoyed yours," she rushed to add, waiting for a lightning bolt to strike with that lie.

She couldn't remember ever uttering a more blatant falsehood.

The old bawface looked dubious. "Your cousin hired me to look after you, lass, and—"

"Only so far as Pontefract. He was well aware I was getting off here, aye? My brother will hire a chaperone for the return journey."

Though Mrs. Dochart sniffed, it was clear she had no wish to tramp over the countryside. "If you're certain, then—"

"I'm certain." For want of another way to end their association, Caithren executed a little curtsy. "It's pleased I am to have met you, Mrs. Dochart, and I thank you for keeping me company."

That lie might have topped the first one; Cait wasn't sure. Feeling a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders, she crossed the inn's taproom and headed out into the waning sunshine and down the road.

She hadn't progressed ten feet when the woman's voice shrilled into the quiet street. "Ah, Caithren, lass!"

With a sigh, Cait composed her face and turned back to the inn. "Aye, Mrs. Dochart?" The bawface stood framed in the doorway. A cracked wooden sign swung in the light wind, creaking over her head. "I told you I shall be fine."

"But the innkeeper said east. It's west you're walking."

"Oh!" Her cheeks heated. "Right."

"Nay, left."

"Right. I mean to say, aye. Left, east."

Reversing her direction, Cait hurried past, murmuring "Thank you" over her shoulder. She heard the woman mutter under her breath and was soon relieved to be out of earshot.

The evening was warm, and the slight breeze felt wonderful after the stuffy, confining coach. It was passably pretty country, the land green and flatter than at home. She much preferred the harsh contours of Scotland—the beautiful glens, the blues and purples of the wooded mountains, the little lochs and streams and waterfalls everywhere. But she didn't have to live here, after all. She could enjoy the land for what beauty could be found.

Her heart sang to be free at last, on her way to meet Adam and perhaps rest a few days, depending on the returning public coach's schedule. In two weeks' time she'd be back at Leslie, signed papers in hand, giving Cameron the tongue-lashing he deserved for saddling her with that irritating old woman.

Glancing down, she spotted the distinctive red-green leaves of meadow rue poking from the edge of a ditch. With a gasp of delight, she knelt to pick some, wrinkling her nose at the strong, unpleasant scent. Bruised and applied, it was good to heal sores and difficult to find near home. Pleased, she tucked it into her pocket and continued on her way.

She rubbed a hand across her forehead and tried not to think about how tired she was. Instead she focused on the hours ahead. Following what promised to be her first decent meal in weeks, tonight she'd luxuriate in a big tub of clean, steaming water. She couldn't wait to wash off the dust of the road. And she couldn't wait until tomorrow morn, when she'd be snug in a soft feather bed at Scarborough's, imagining the public coach rattling down the road toward London with that bawface tucked inside.

The thought was so vivid and appealing, she nearly missed the gravel drive that led to a yellowish stone mansion in the distance.

The building threw a long shadow. The sun was setting. She tucked her plaid tighter around her black bodice and skirt. When Adam saw her dressed in mourning, he'd understand right off how completely he'd neglected his family and home. It would be a simple matter to persuade him to sign the papers MacLeod had drawn up.

In the fading light she hurried along the path, marveling at the way the gravel was so raked and pristine. Scarborough must employ an army of servants. But they weren't here now, she realized as she drew close.

The mansion was shut up tight as a jar of Aunt Moira's preserves!

The sun sank over the horizon as Caithren stared at the heavy, bolted oak door. Hearing the call of a single hawk overhead, apparently the only living creature in the vicinity, she stifled a sob.

So much for her happy daydreams. She would have to stay the night in Pontefract, steel herself to climb back on the coach in the morning, then somehow survive the nine days it would take to reach London.

She counted on her fingers. She should arrive on the day of Lord Darnley's wedding, just in time to present herself as an uninvited guest. It was the only place she knew for certain she'd be able to find Adam.

Touching her amulet, she prayed there'd be no summer storm or anything else to delay the coach, because God only knew where Adam would be headed the morning of August thirty-first.

A scuffling sound on the roof made her glance up. Probably some sort of wee animal. Or rats.

Cait shuddered. "Set a stout heart to a steep hillside," she said aloud, imagining her mother saying the words. She squared her shoulders and was turning back toward the road when there came the snort of a horse and an answering neigh.

Horses meant people. Her spirits lifted. Maybe Adam and his friends were here after all, and they'd just been out hunting. And even if it were strangers, maybe they could spare her the long walk—

She heard a muted thump and the crunch of gravel, as someone apparently dropped from the roof. Then another thump.

"Sealed up. Cannot even get inside and snatch a few trinkets to pay our way. Damn it to bloody hell." Coming from around the side of the mansion, the man's voice sounded cultured. But he was cursing a string of oaths the likes of which Cait had never heard.

She scooted into the archway that housed the front door and pressed herself against the cold stone wall.

"I'm glad it's sealed up." The second man's voice was whiny. "I don't fancy taking things, Geoffrey."

"Everything here is ours, Wat. Or should be. You crackbrain."

The man called Wat didn't respond to the insult. "But Cainewood's horses? What about those?"

"The horses are rightly mine." The first man kicked at the ground, or at least Caithren thought he did. It was difficult to tell from around the corner. "We had to take them. We were low on funds with no way to get here. Can't you get that through your thick skull? Did you want to walk? Sleep in the open and beg for our supper?"

"We could have found work."

"Work? When hens make holy water. Should we stoop to chopping wood for a living? Baking bread? Shoeing horses?"

"Geoff—"

"Enough!"

Caithren heard the crunch of gravel beneath someone's shuffling feet. "So. Lucas is gone. What now, Geoffrey?"

"He'll be at the London town house, I reckon."

Cait heard the sound of pacing. Then a prolonged silence, followed by a low whistle.

"What are you thinking?" Wat sounded wary. "I don't care for the look in your eyes."

"We'll go to London." There was a significant pause. "And we'll get what belongs to us."

A chill shot through Caithren, though the night was still warm. Apparently Wat felt the same way. "You cannot mean to hurt him?"

"Whatever it takes. He's got it coming, and you're next in line. When you're the earl, we'll be sitting pretty."

"When I'm the earl?" Cait could hear her heart pounding while Wat mulled that over. "Geoffrey," he said slowly, "you're not…you're not talking…murder?"

"Maybe I am."

They were planning to murder someone? Cait's breath seemed stuck in her chest.

"You would kill him?" Wat squeaked.

"I don't believe it will come to that. But it would be his fault for kicking us out. Just as it's his fault we're in this trouble. And his money we'll be using to get out of it."

Wat had nothing to say to that.

Or maybe he was shocked speechless.

"With Cainewood's death on our hands, we've nothing to lose," Geoffrey added gruffly. "Come along."

As she listened to them mount their horses, Cait began to tremble. It wasn't long before they rode around the corner of the mansion at a slow walk, heading straight past the front door where she hid. She scurried into a corner of the arched entry.

"I cannot do it." Even through Cait's fear, Wat's whine was grating on her. It was a wonder Geoffrey didn't put killing him next on his list of misdeeds.

But evidently Geoffrey chose not to listen, because he ignored the protest. "We have enough coin left to pay for a night at the inn. We'll let everyone see us."

"See us?"

"We'll leave for London come morning. People will remember us here, and if we ride like the dickens, no one will believe we could have gotten there in time. We won't be suspected of hurting our dear brother."

"But Geoffrey…" Wat's voice was so drawn out and plaintive, Caithren almost felt sorry for him. As they rode before her and then past, she risked inching forward to get a look at them.

Two men, both rumpled and sunburned. They spoke like quality, and looked it, too—overly proud, even if their clothes could use a washing. But they were robbing, murdering scum. English scum.

Cameron had been right about Englishmen.

"Now let's find some women." As they moved down the drive, the last of Geoffrey's words drifted back, faint but intelligible. "The last kitchen maid the housekeeper hired on before we left—she was a comely one, wasn't she? If she's not visiting her mama while Lucas is gone, she must be staying in Pontefract."

Women. The scum were in search of women. Caithren hugged the tops of her crossed arms in a futile attempt to stop herself from shaking.

England was as evil a place as she'd always heard. What was she doing here all alone? She should have let Mrs. Dochart accompany her out here to Scarborough's. Or Cameron—she should have let Cameron make the journey. This certainly had been an ill-conceived undertaking.

Though she couldn't hear another word the men said, she was still shaking when they disappeared from view, still shaking when she started the long, lonely walk back in the dark. Still shaking after she'd reclaimed her satchel, paid for a room at the inn and extra for a bath, and trudged upstairs to wash off the dust of a week's travel.

She slipped into her plain room, shut the door and leaned back against it, a palm pressed to her racing heart. She had to get herself in hand.

Nothing—leastwise a couple of scummy Englishmen—was going to stop her from finding her brother.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Jason slowly slid off Chiron, feeling stiff as a day-old corpse. It seemed the ache in his shoulder had extended to every bone in his body. He detached his portmanteau and set it on the stable's dirt floor, then stretched toward the rough-beamed ceiling, a delicious pull of his abused muscles.

"Will you be stayin' at the inn, sir?"

His arms dropped, and he looked down into the lined face of a gnarled old stableman. "Only long enough to eat and wash. Then I'm headed to the Scarborough estate in West Riding. I understand it's nearby?"

"Aye, but no one's there." The little man's face split in the involuntary grin of someone imparting bad news. "Scarborough shut the house and made off for London two days ago."

Jason could barely keep himself from groaning aloud. After six days of hard riding, had he arrived only to leave again?

He forked some hay beneath Chiron's nose. Perhaps the man was misinformed. "How come you to know this?"

The smile turned self-satisfied. "Cousin Ethel's worked there thirty-odd years. She's staying hereabouts while the lord is gone—likes to stop by to pass the day." He puffed out his scrawny chest. "Servants, we know everything."

Jason rubbed his stubbled jaw. "Then old Cuthbert is gone?"

The stableman blinked. "Old Cuthbert is dead."

"Dead?" Dead? At the hands of his relatives, the Gothard brothers?

"A month past. He and Lady Scarborough—they died crossing the channel. Young Lucas is the new earl. 'Course he's not so young, exceptin' compared to me." He eyed Jason up and down. "About your age, I suspect."

He bent to unbuckle Chiron's saddle. "Things over there be different now. Took the new earl no more 'n a week to toss his brothers out on their ears, with nothing but the clothes on their backs and some pocket change." With a little grunt, he lifted the saddle and hung it on a hook. "Deserved it, they did. Cousin Ethel tells stories…that Geoffrey tormented Lord Scarborough—the new one—from the day he was born. Geoffrey hated Lucas, he did, because Geoffrey was older but couldn't inherit."

Interesting. The little man was a fountain of information, if only Jason could keep it flowing. He reached for a currycomb and ran it through Chiron's glossy silver coat. "Why was that?"

"Rumor has it he be Lady Scarborough's son from another marriage, you see." When the stableman filled the trough, Chiron drank greedily. "That Geoffrey, he had it in for Lord Scarborough—the new one—before the lad was walkin'."

"And the younger son?" Jason probed. "Walter, is it?"

"Wat? Dumber than a box of hair. Geoffrey led him around by the nose since he teethed his first tooth. Two against one it was, and Lord Scarborough—the new one—just waitin' till the day came he could toss the two of them out. 'Course it's sad that was sooner rather than later."

"Does everyone in the village know all this?"

"All I know is what Cousin Ethel's told me." The man looked up from where he was crouched, cleaning Chiron's hooves. "But I know how to keep my own mouth shut. You can lay odds on that."

"Be an interesting wager." Despite his disappointment, Jason's lips twitched beneath his mustache. "Geoffrey and Walter, they're in the area?"

"Nah." He dropped a hoof and moved around to lift another. "Disappeared the day after the funeral. I've yet to set eyes on 'em since."

If anybody would know the brothers had returned, it would be this man. Some of the stiffness left Jason's shoulder. "I think they may have found trouble," he said carefully. "Talk has it there's been a reward posted for Geoffrey."

"That so?" The man's eyes lit up. "Well, then, I'm hopin' he'll come back and that Emerald MacCallum woman after 'im. A Scottish lass taking our own son, born and bred. Now that'd be a sight to see, here in little old Pontefract. We'd be talkin' about it for years."

"I imagine you would."

If the rumors of Emerald MacCallum were any more than fanciful nonsense.

Jason leaned to hand the groom the comb. "I reckon I'll be staying the night here, after all." Fetching his pouch from his coat pocket, he pressed a silver coin into the man's age-spotted hand and patted the horse's flank. "Keep an eye on him for me, will you? His name's Chiron. Appreciate the chat."

He lifted the portmanteau and headed from the stables. Now he knew why the Gothards had it in for their brother.

But what they had against him remained a mystery.

It surely felt good to be clean, Caithren thought. Even if she'd had to fold her knees up to her chin to fit into the inn's small wooden tub.

She tipped the wee bottle of oil she'd pressed from Leslie's flowers, pouring a few more precious drops into the bath. Scooping a palmful of the lukewarm scented water, she smoothed it over her shoulders.

It smelled like Scotland. Like home.

When the water grew cold, she donned the clothes she'd brought for riding: soft brown breeches and a coarse white shirt, castoffs outgrown by Da's stable lad. After plaiting her dark-blond hair, she piled it atop her head and jammed Cameron's hat on top.

There was no mirror in her room, but she hoped she looked enough like a lad that the men downstairs would leave her alone. She'd had her fill of English men tonight. Just her luck, the scum brothers would be staying at this inn. And in search of women.

She ducked out the door, then turned and went back in to paw through her satchel and find her father's pistol. It was an ugly thing of cold, mottled steel, made for naught but utility. It felt heavy in her hands—heavy and surprisingly reassuring. Bless Cameron for making her bring it; how had he known how alone and out of place she'd feel so far from home?

Remembering how Da had done so, she made sure the pistol was loaded, then half-cocked it and stuck it in the back of her breeches.

She dug her plaid out of the satchel to cover it. Unlike the English cloaks, a plaid was neither masculine nor feminine; Cam's looked exactly the same as hers. With any luck, she might pass.

As an afterthought, she tucked both the miniature of Adam and his letter into her breeches pocket, then headed downstairs to the taproom, doing her best to swagger like a man.

The paneled room was lit by oil lamps burning cheerfully on each of the round wooden tables. Pewter spoons clinked on pewter plates, and the buzz of leisurely conversation filled her ears. Homey scents of meat pie, fresh-baked bread, and brewed ale hung in the air. Her stomach growled.

She made her way to the taproom's bar. "Mr. Brown?"

"Yes?" The innkeeper looked up from wiping the counter. His brow creased, as though he were wondering how she knew his name. So he didn't recognize her; her disguise must be working.

She felt better already. "I'm looking—" She cleared her throat and deepened her voice. "I'm looking for my brother, an Adam Leslie. He was staying with Scarborough this week past."

"Adam Leslie?" The man set down his fistful of rags and wiped his hands on the front of his breeches. "I don't recall a man by that name."

Caithren's heart sank. Adam was fond of frequenting public taprooms, so she'd been hoping the innkeeper would know where he'd gone, what route he might have taken. Maybe she wouldn't need to travel all the way to London.

The man ran a hand across his bald head. "What does he look like?"

"Tall, fair, longish blond hair…" She dug in her pocket and brought out the portrait. "Here," she said, holding forth the wee oval painting. "I'm wondering if he told anyone where he was headed next."

Brown took it and considered, frowning. "I'm sorry, but I recall no man named Adam Leslie, nor anyone who looks like this picture." He handed it back. "Is it a decent likeness?"

She nodded.

"I have a good head for people, sir…er, madam?"

"Aye." Caithren sighed. Her disguise wasn't working after all.

Mr. Brown piled some discarded trenchers on a tray and lifted it to his shoulder. "I'm sure I would have remembered your brother had I seen him."

Blast it, another lump was rising in her throat. She'd never been a crybaby, and she didn't intend to take up the practice now. She pulled the letter from her pocket and unfolded it, scanning the worn page. "He was traveling with two other gentlemen, Lords Grinstead and Balmforth. Might you have seen them?"

"I'm afraid their names aren't familiar, either."

"Oh." A burst of laughter in the background seemed to mock Caithren's distress. Her hunger had faded…although she could very much use a mug of ale.

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

"It's no fault of yours." Slipping the letter and painting back into her pocket, she glanced about. She couldn't face the other travelers eating and socializing in this room—she'd spent the best part of a week with some of them already, with more forced togetherness promised to come.

And what if Mrs. Dochart came downstairs? The old bawface didn't know she was back yet—with a quick escape and any luck at all, she could spend one night alone in her peaceful, solitary room.

She turned back to the innkeeper. "Might you have some supper sent up? Room three."

"Certainly, Miss…Leslie, is it not?"

"Aye. Thank you."

"No trouble a'tall." With another appraising glance, he disappeared into the kitchen, and she turned to head upstairs.

"Thank you kindly." Jason pressed a coin into the serving maid's hand and settled back with his ale. Taking a swallow, he watched her sway from his shadowed corner into the lamplit center of the taproom. A nice sway she had, too, but he had neither the stamina nor inclination to pursue her right now.

He rubbed his tired eyes. God knew he wasn't good for much more than people-watching this evening.

He downed a second gulp as a boy, tall for his age, turned dejectedly from the taproom's bar and made his way to the stairs. The lad was overly pretty, way too thin, and young—not even shaving yet. Strange to find him in a taproom alone, but perhaps his folks were waiting upstairs. Jason hoped so—he knew what it was like to be young and alone, and he wouldn't wish it on anybody.

Massaging his sore shoulder, he took another sip. It was aggravating to find himself so worn out, weeks after the injury. But having pushed himself to the limit to beat the Gothard brothers here, he was relieved to find he'd managed it.

Obviously they weren't overworking his horses. When they arrived, tomorrow or the next day, they'd be in for a rude surprise. He'd get the answers to his questions, and this chapter in his life would be closed.

Or almost. No word had come from Ford as to the identity of the man he'd killed.

He took another sip of his ale, watching the boy start up the bare wooden steps. Two men came down and met the lad halfway, blocking his progress on the staircase's tiny landing.

Geoffrey and Walter Gothard.

Jason bolted up, his heart beating a wild tattoo.

The poor lad began visibly shaking. He tightened the blue and green shawl he had wrapped about his shoulders, squaring his slender frame. "I know who you are," he told the brothers bravely in a distinct Scots accent, his voice high as a girl's with tension. "You won't get away with your wicked plans."

The wean sounded like he meant it. Halfway there to intervene—not to mention capture Geoffrey Gothard once and for all—Jason froze. Was the boy after Gothard as well? There was, after all, the hundred-pound reward he'd offered—an absolutely vast sum to someone like this lad.

The boy took a step back down the stairs, then suddenly reached beneath the plaid wool and pulled something out, brandishing it daringly.

The soft glow of metal spurred Jason into action. No matter how bone-weary he was, there was no way he could allow a lad to become Gothard's next victim. A wild bellow rose from his throat as he drew his rapier and reached the stairs in four running strides. No doubt drawn by the racket, Geoffrey's eyes met his and went wide with recognition. The bastard turned and bolted up the steps.

Shouldering the boy aside, Jason yelled, "Send for the authorities!" and reached to snag Gothard by the arm. He whipped him back around, then deliberately dropped his sword—another death was not the way to end this. Instead, his fingers closed around Geoffrey's neck as the sword slid clattering down the stairs. Walter tried to sidle past, but Jason shot out a foot and tripped the younger Gothard, who thumped down, whining loudly.

Still holding Geoffrey by the throat, Jason held Walter hostage with a boot pressed into his gut. A sickening crunch and a short, sharp cry of pain drew his attention to the bottom of the stairs. He looked down, startled to see the boy had fallen sometime during the scuffle. Even worse, Jason's rapier lay dangerously nearby, and a bright splotch of blood stained the lad's shirt.

He lay still as death, face up amidst the tangle of his unwrapped plaid shawl. His hat had fallen off…

No, her hat.

Hell and furies, it was a woman! A woman with long, tawny plaits. When Jason half-turned to get a better look, his fingers loosened.

Walter squirmed from beneath his foot and stumbled down the stairs. "It's the ghost of Cainewood!" he yelled as he reached the bottom and ran for the door.

"Dunderhead!" Geoffrey rasped, one hand flying up to cradle his abused throat. Murder in his eyes, he dealt Jason a mighty shove that sent him to his knees and clunking down two steps. While Geoffrey pushed past to follow his brother to freedom, Jason righted himself and made his way down the stairs after them.

But at the bottom of the steps, the woman moaned softly at his feet. With a regretful glance at the door, he knelt by her side. Blood still trickled from the cut on her shoulder—a cut from his sword that had tumbled downstairs in her wake.

A negligible injury, but his fault nonetheless.

"Wake up!" Jason shook the woman's other shoulder, but her eyes failed to open.

He couldn't help but gape at her. How in God's name had he ever thought she was a boy? She was a woman, full grown, with a woman's bosom that heaved beneath her man's shirt. Smallish, perhaps, but a definite bosom nonetheless.

He rubbed the back of his neck. Why, that sorry excuse for a disguise wouldn't fool a living soul…well, perhaps only someone as single-minded as he'd been these days past. The lingering pain from the pistol wound must be muddling his brain.

He rose, shoved the rapier back into his belt, and bent to try to rouse her once again. No luck.

A pair of dusty shoes strolled into his vision and stopped by the woman's head. Jason straightened. "Did you send someone to fetch the authorities?"

"The magistrate's in Lancashire. Visiting his sick mother."

Typical, Jason thought in disgust.

The innkeeper, a wiry, balding man, rubbed his nose. He eyed the woman with sympathy. "She took room three. If you wouldn't mind bringing her up?"

"I expect I owe her that, at least," Jason agreed gruffly.

He grabbed the woman's pistol off the floor—the oldest, ugliest gun he'd ever seen—and lifted her into his arms. A limp bundle she was: slim, soft, and smelling of flowers. Feminine.

So why the boy's clothing?

It hit him like a bolt of summer lightning: she was after the reward.

He stared at her, picturing Geoffrey Gothard already miles down the road.

Damnation.

The whoreson had gotten away again, and all because of an incompetent Scottish reward hunter who would certainly bungle the capture—if she didn't get herself killed outright.

Jason had laughed at the ridiculous rumors, but the joke was on him…because here was Emerald MacCallum, right in his arms.

CHAPTER EIGHT

With a grunt, Jason laid Emerald on the bed, then lit a candle and set it on the plain wooden table beside her. Rubbing his aching shoulder, he stood staring at her chalk-white face.

The flickering flame cast a sense of movement he knew was only an illusion. He lifted one slim wrist and let it drop back to the bed. Limp and deathly still.

Just like little Mary.

A strange hollowness opened in his gut. He reached to feel for the pulse at her throat, relieved to feel it warm and steady beneath his fingers. After drawing a restorative breath, he untangled the plaid shawl. As he tossed it over the spartan room's only chair, the woman's soft floral scent wafted to his nose.

Though he was no stranger to undressing ladies, he couldn't remember ever stripping one he'd never laid eyes on before. The room seemed suddenly short of air. He drew off her shoes and dropped them on the planked wood floor, then rolled her stockings down shapely calves and off her small, arched feet.

He'd never noticed a female's feet.

Clearly it had been far too long since he'd had a woman. Of late, his responsibilities to the estate and as a father figure to his siblings allowed precious little time for pursuing personal pleasures.

Ignoring the unwelcome twinge of desire, he hurried to find the damage from his sword. He loosened the laces of her shirt, eased it down, and brought the candle close to her shoulder. The cut was small and shallow, the blood already clotted against her creamy skin.

His heart calmed somewhat, then raced again as he caught himself studying her half-exposed breasts—silky, bare breasts that looked as though they were made to fit in the palms of his hands. With a muttered oath, he set down the candle and tugged the shirt back into place, noticing a pendant nestled in her cleavage.

He lifted her head and drew off the necklace. Warm from the heat of her body, a rectangular green stone shone in an ornate gold setting. The simple link chain had seen much wear. Candlelight glinted off the stone's smooth, rubbed surface.

An emerald. Emerald MacCallum.

He set the pendant on the bedside table with a little click that seemed to reverberate in the quiet room. A soft moan from the woman lifted his hopes and drew his gaze back to her.

Emerald looked sweet and unspoiled. Like a dairymaid, truth be told, since she'd plaited her hair to conceal it beneath her hat. She wasn't at all like he'd pictured the fabled Emerald MacCallum, but then, it weren't as though anyone knew what she looked like. Drawings on broadsides were of the outlaws, not their pursuers.

But the thought of a petite woman like this capturing outlaws was laughable. The breeches left little to the imagination, and he couldn't help but notice she was thinner than the current fashionable ideal. Someone needed to feed this woman. Guilt lodged in his stomach as he rubbed a thumb along her cheek, glancing at her long, full lashes and wondering what color her eyes were.

Her wide mouth looked kissable.

With a huff of impatience, he jerked his hand away and rolled her onto her stomach, then wrestled the thin quilt from beneath her and settled it over her back. Gingerly he explored her head for the lump he knew must be there, given that she'd been knocked unconscious. He winced when he found it, hard and large and warm to the touch. The tight plait on that side couldn't be comfortable.

He set to undoing it to relieve the pressure. Long and shimmering, hair every hue of blond and brown slid between his hands. When the first side was loose, his fingers lingered at the place where her straight, white part ended at the nape of her neck. Baby fine hairs glimmered gold in that spot.

No matter that the woman was Emerald MacCallum, the downy little hollow looked innocent and vulnerable. Anger fired up. At himself, at the world.

He'd thrown down his sword to avoid bloodshed, and now someone else was hurt.

His fingers absently loosed the second plait while he seethed at the whole situation. Though he tried to block a vision of poor little Mary, the effort only led him to picture Emerald in the same condition. The thought made him shake.

And those bastards had gotten away. Again. He rose and paced around the room, lighting more candles and cursing himself.

He should have gone in with loaded pistols and blade at the ready, prepared to handle the brothers once and for all, with no thought to fairness or avoiding violence. Father would have done it that way.

"Father would have handled it," he muttered in self-disgust and walked across to the window.

CHAPTER NINE

Hearing a voice, Caithren shifted on the bed, her head in a painful fog.

The voice had been a dark, harsh whisper. She wasn't sure whether she'd actually heard it or if it had been part of her disturbing dream. She tried to move, but her head hurt. She moaned, struggling against the nausea.

Swift footsteps approached. "You're awake, then?" It was the same man's voice, but rich, comforting, and laced with relief.

Cait tried to roll closer to the sound.

He held her in place with a large, warm hand. "For God's sake, be still." Tinged with worry, his voice wasn't quite as nice. "You bumped your head but good."

She was lying facedown with her nose mashed into the pillow. She couldn't breathe properly.

The man's hands gripped her shoulders, gently helping her turn. "Are you dizzy?" he asked, moving to arrange her aching head on the pillow.

She intended to say aye, but when he came into view, her answer got lost somewhere between her mind and her mouth. Clear green eyes—too beautiful for a man—were studying her. His shadowed jaw and fine tanned features were framed by glorious, long raven hair that was wavy and prettier than her own. Bent over her as he was, the ends threatened to tickle her cheeks.

He looked frustrated and concerned. And she had no idea who he was.

"Can you talk? Emerald, are you all right?"

"Emerald?" she echoed. She supposed she was all right, if she didn't take her aching head into account. Her gaze was riveted to a faint dimple in the stranger's chin. There was only one thing she was certain of in that moment. "I-I'm not Emerald," she managed.

"Oh?" Beneath a narrow black mustache, his chiseled lips curved, but not in humor. "You're Scottish," he said, as though that explained everything.

"You're English," she countered, batting his hair from her face. He straightened, and his spicy scent wafted away, leaving her head a little clearer.

The room swam into view. She lay beneath not the dusky rose canopy of her bed at home, but a utilitarian beamed ceiling, the plaster cracked and at least a century older than Leslie Castle.

She was somewhere in England, and Da was dead.

Disoriented, she raised herself to her elbows, then flopped back to the pillow. A fresh burst of pain detonated inside her head, forcing a moan out through her lips.

"I told you to keep still." With a gentle hand, the man swept her hair off her face.

She pushed his hand away and fingered the ends of her hair, confused. He'd unraveled her plaits. Her other hand drifted up to touch the side of her head where the pain was the sharpest. "I'm not Emerald."

"You're Scottish"—he held up a palm to stop her words from tumbling out—"you're wearing men's clothes, you're carrying a pistol, and you're after a wanted outlaw. Now tell me you're not Emerald MacCallum."

"I'm not Emerald MacCallum."

His mouth curved as though he were amused. "Did the knock on your head damage your memory?"

"My memory is intact, thank you. But my name isn't Emerald." Despite her denial, her brain seemed impossibly muddled by the throbbing pain. "It's Caithren," she managed finally. "Caithren Leslie. Not Emerald."

"Hmm…" The man raised one black brow. "If you're not Emerald, then can you explain what you're doing here?"

Her brain might be muddled, but she knew an accusation when she heard one. "Why shouldn't I be here?" she asked on a huff. "Is there some law against my visiting your country? England and Scotland share a king, last I heard. Though not for long, I'm hoping."

Looking less than satisfied, he crossed his arms while one booted foot tapped against the wooden floor. Obviously he was waiting for her to explain herself.

Arrogant cur.

She wouldn't look at him, then. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the plain whitewashed walls, a simple wood cabinet, a utilitarian washstand, a small tub full of dirty bathwater that should have been carried away.

Pontefract. She was in her room at the inn in Pontefract. She was here in Pontefract…

She squeezed her eyes shut tight, blocking out the man so she could concentrate. "I've come to find my brother," she said at last, opening them in relief.

"Hmm, is that so?" he challenged in a calm voice laced with a touch of irony. "Then I suppose you can explain to me how you know Gothard."

She stared at him blankly. "Gothard?"

"Geoffrey Gothard. The man you tried to shoot in order to collect the reward. I'm not a half-wit, Emerald."

"I'm not Emerald. And I'm not a half-wit, either, but you're certainly making me feel so, since I haven't the slightest notion what you're blethering about."

He sat at the edge of the bed and studied her for a while, as though trying to gauge her sincerity. The mattress sagged beneath his weight, rolling her too close to him for her comfort. The queasiness clawed at her stomach again.

She was alone with a strange man. A strange English man. Her mouth went dry, and she licked her lips.

His eyes darkened, making her nervous. With a sigh, she reached up to fiddle with a plait, then remembered her hair was loose. She fisted her hands atop the bedcovers. "It's God's own truth I'm telling you, Mr.…"

His mouth twisted up in a hint of a smile. "Chase. But you may call me Jason."

"I may, may I?" Stuffy, these English. Well, it wasn't as though Cameron hadn't warned her. She took a deep breath and decided to try again. "Do you believe me?"

"I think not." His sarcastic tone grated on her. "What is your brother's name?"

She struggled against the pain in her head. "…Adam."

"And why do you have cause to think he'd be here?"

"He was invited by…"

As she strained to come up with the name, he shook his head, sending the glorious hair swinging. "You'll have to invent these lies more quickly if you expect them to sound believable."

"Scarborough," she gritted out.

"The Earl of Scarborough?" A sparkle came into his eyes, as though he were entertained by the thought of someone related to her being invited anywhere by an earl.

Just like the innkeeper downstairs.

Did she look that provincial? Her clothes were in decent condition. Her father had been a baronet.

"I'm surprised at you, Emerald." His mocking voice interrupted her musings. "You've a reputation for being the cunning sort. Surely you can come up with a better story than that. It must be the knock on the head."

How this man could think she was someone else was beyond her. Exasperated, she slammed her hand against the mattress, wincing when it jarred her. "Bile yer heid."

"Pardon?" Clearly amused, he raised a brow. "Are you suggesting I boil my head?"

Clenching her teeth, she looked away. Her plaid was tossed over a chair, her shoes and stockings on the floor. Alarm shot through her. "Did you undress me as well, then?" She thrust her hands under the bedclothes to see what else he might have taken off of her.

That brow went up again. "I reckon you'll find you're still decent. Bloody hell, woman, what do you take me for?"

"An Englishman." Her clothing was all in place, although the laces on her shirt had been loosened. She gave them a vicious tug, then looked down and gasped. "There's blood on my shirt." She felt for the source, though it didn't really hurt much.

"You were cut. Nothing serious."

Slackening the laces, she peeked beneath. He was right. The meadow rue she'd picked would heal it in no time.

"That's why your shirt was unlaced," he continued. "I…checked."

When she looked up, his face was red. A proper gentleman he was, then, but he was still an Englishman. And he was staring at her. Caithren bit her lip and felt for her good-luck charm.

Her hands closed on air.

"Where's my amulet?" she squeaked in a panic. She struggled up on her elbows again and felt the dizziness rush back.

"I have it right here." He reached to the bedside table, lifted the amulet, and dangled it over her head by its chain. The emerald swung in a hypnotizing pattern. "I'm hardly in the habit of stealing from unconscious women."

"Well, I don't know you, do I?" She snatched it to her chest.

"But you know Geoffrey Gothard, don't you?"

Crivvens, the man was persistent. She shot him a peeved look and slipped the chain back over her head, feeling better when the amulet was settled in place. She wrapped a hand around it.

That Geoffrey he was talking about, she remembered who he was now—the murdering cur she'd overheard at Scarborough's and met again on the inn's staircase. That terrible, horrible man and his scum of a brother.

Englishmen.

She shivered and tugged up on the thin quilt. Here she was, alone with another Englishman, a strange man in a strange country. Well, at least this one Englishman was looking out for her, even if she didn't care for him badgering her with questions. And though he was plainly annoyed, he'd yet to raise his voice to her.

"Thank you for your help," she said softly by way of apology.

When she tried to smile, his eyes softened. He leaned closer and brushed the hair from her face. One warm finger trailed her cheek.

He was staring at her mouth, looking as though he wanted to kiss her, like that bampot Duncan had looked at the village dance last month.

What a daft thought. The Englishman, kiss her? He didn't even believe who she was.

The knock on her head must have been harder than she'd supposed for her to think something like that. And he was vexed with her, although she'd done nothing to warrant it. Nothing she could recall, anyway.

She squinted up at him. "Why are you so vexed?"

"I had a job to do, Emerald," he said with a sigh that, if she didn't know better, she might take to be apologetic. "And you got in the way. No fault of yours." He waved a dismissive hand. "Stay away from Geoffrey Gothard. He's a dangerous man."

Despite his annoying use of the wrong name, Caithren's heart melted a little. He'd rescued her downstairs, and now he was warning her, trying to protect her. "I saw that for myself," she said, seeking to reassure him. "But he's unlikely to be a danger to me, seeing as he's on his way to London."

"London?" She saw his body tense. "How come you to know this?"

"I…overheard him and—his brother, aye? When I went out to Scarborough's to find Adam." Because he seemed concerned for her welfare, she added, "They didn't see me."

The Englishman's beautiful green eyes narrowed on hers suspiciously. "Why are you telling me this? To send me off in the wrong direction?"

"Pardon me?"

He stood abruptly. "Just stay away from Gothard. Find yourself another reward to collect." The candle flames flickered as he strode to the door, disturbing the room's musty air. His gaze settled on her emerald amulet for a moment before he pierced her with those incredible eyes. "I admire your persistence—it puts me in mind of my family—but I cannot see why you refuse to own up to who you are."

"You know what my mam would have said?" Caithren crossed her arms beneath the quilt. "Telling it true, pits ain in a stew."

He paused with his hand on the latch. "I cannot understand you."

"Then permit me to translate. Telling the truth confuses your enemies."

"I'm not your enemy." He blinked several times. "Why of a sudden does everyone think me his enemy?"

He said it to no one in particular, his gaze aimed toward the blackened beamed ceiling, as though he were looking for the heavens to send down an answer.

"I should be on the road after Gothard," he mused to himself. Then he sighed and looked back to her. "But damn if I don't feel responsible for you."

"Well, you needn't be," Cait said. "I can take care of myself."

"Not from what I've seen. And now, thanks to me, you're even less equipped physically to deal with men like the Gothards."

"What do you mean, thanks to you?"

He frowned. "Surely you realize you fell down the stairs as a result of my intervention? And it was my sword that cut you. Accidentally—I wasn't even holding it—but it's my responsibility nonetheless." She heard a click when he pushed down on the latch. "I insist you accept my help."

"I'd say you've helped me quite enough already." This man was out of his mind. "Your kind of help I don't need."

He didn't seem to hear her, or else he simply dismissed her opinion. "Get some sleep," he said, "but make sure you awaken. The last thing I need is another Mary."

Mary? Who the devil was Mary?

He opened the door. "I'll check on you in the morning. If your head still aches, we'll have a doctor in to examine it."

Caithren was so confused and frustrated that if she'd had the energy, she'd have kicked the door shut behind him. As it was, it closed softly.

Did he think she was there for his bidding?

I'll check on you in the morning.

Not if she had anything to say about it.

CHAPTER TEN

The silver blade flashed, vibrations sang up his arm, and the man before him crumpled to the ground. Blood pumped, sickeningly slick and bright—

His heart racing, Jason sat straight up in bed, sweat breaking out to coat his clammy skin. His breath came in short, hard pants.

Who was this man he'd killed? Had he been a husband, a father? Certainly he'd been a son.

How many lives had Jason ruined with that fateful thrust of his sword?

Hopefully not as many as when his own parents had been slain on the field of battle. God forbid he should put another family through a hell like that. Not even, as his parents had, for honor.

Senseless honor. They'd died fighting for the king, yet Cromwell had prevailed.

He raked a hand through his hair and swung his shaky legs off the bed. Dust motes floated in the brightness that streamed through the crooked shutters. Sunshine. Daylight. He'd overslept. Another restless, too-short night, like they all seemed to be since he was shot.

He stumbled to his clothing, pulled out his pocket watch, and flipped open the sapphire-adorned lid. Almost noon. Damn, Gothard would be long down the road by now.

And Emerald after him. Cunning Emerald, the woman Jason had found himself absurdly tempted to kiss. He was the one who ought to have his head examined.

He threw on a shirt and breeches, then padded across the hall to knock on her door. Silence. He tried the latch, and the door swung wide to reveal an empty room.

Cursing at himself, he returned to his own room and pulled on his boots. His family had been right—he had no business going after Geoffrey Gothard. But it had nothing to do with the state of his health. The fact was, he belonged behind a desk or riding his land. He'd always valued peace and tranquility; he didn't know how to do this. He was botching it good and proper.

Downstairs in the taproom, the early dinner crowd was much too cheerful for Jason's mood. A quick glance failed to reveal Emerald among the diners. The harried innkeeper was rolling a fresh barrel of ale into place behind the counter. When he paused to mop his red face, Jason jumped behind to help him upend it. It settled into place with a thump, displacing more than its share of dust.

Jason coughed. "Do you know where I might find the woman who was injured last night?"

The man wiped his shiny brow with a handkerchief. "She left this morning. On the public coach."

"The coach? Not a horse?"

"No horses available in Pontefract. Told her that yesterday when she wanted to hire one."

"She had no horse of her own?"

The innkeeper shrugged. "She arrived on the coach."

Jason rubbed his aching shoulder. One didn't use public transportation to track outlaws. If Emerald had arrived here looking for a horse, something must have happened to hers. She must be on her way to the next town to find herself another.

His hand dropped. "The coach toward where?"

"London."

"London?" Surely she'd gone in another direction; she'd only said London to confuse him, hadn't she? "Are you certain?"

But the moment the question was out of his mouth, he knew the innkeeper was right. The old stableman had told him Scarborough was in London. If the Gothards had come to West Riding to speak with their brother—to get something from their brother—it made sense that now they'd head to see him in London instead. And of course Emerald would go after them.

The man dabbed at his dripping nose. "London, yes. It's Thursday, no? The coach leaves for London at eight every Thursday."

"Eight. Damn." She had a four-hour lead. But the public coach was slow as a condemned man mounting Tyburn gallows, and Chiron, Jason's silver gelding, had won his last three races in Sussex. If Emerald hadn't found a horse yet, he might be able to catch up to her. "How much do I owe for the room?"

He slapped coins on the counter and ran upstairs to fetch his belongings, then headed back down to the stables. Blasted woman thought she could fool him, did she? The Gothard brothers were riding for London, and here she was, going after them at her first chance.

She was Emerald MacCallum, all right, no matter the lies that tumbled from her enticing lips. And he had to keep an eye on her, lest she get to Geoffrey first—because she was bound to get herself killed in the process.

She might have a reputation for tracking men—indeed, she'd done a credible job of it so far, tracing the brothers to here—but she'd never come up against the likes of Gothard before. The man was evil.

And now she was injured, thanks to Jason. He owed it to her to follow her, watch over her. Protect her.

Luckily, they seemed to be heading in the same direction.

It would be no trouble.

Jason caught up to Emerald's coach—at least he hoped it was her coach—in Doncaster. Passengers had disembarked. A few walked along Church Street or Greyfriars Road, stretching their legs while the horses were changed.

Emerald was nowhere in sight.

He tethered Chiron and poked his head into the coach's cabin, finding it empty. Neither was she inside the Greyfriars Inn, where other passengers were taking refreshment.

Bloody hell, she must have hired a horse and left already.

Frustrated, he paid for an ale and paced Church Street while drinking it. He decided he should be relieved—it would have been hell following a public coach. Too damned slow. Once he found her—assuming he could—it would be much better with her on horseback. He could follow surreptitiously and keep her safe, without worrying about the brothers getting too far ahead.

Yes, it really was quite a relief. Anxious to get on the road after Emerald, he tilted his head back and drained the rest of the ale. And looked back down to see a woman across the street.

A woman who looked rather like Emerald MacCallum.

Instead of breeches, the woman wore a dark green skirt over a long-sleeved, high-necked shift, topped by a brown laced bodice that looked like it belonged in the previous century. She rounded a corner of the Church of St. George, disappearing from Jason's view. He took off after her.

He hadn't caught sight of her face. But the sun had glinted off dark-blond hair woven into two plaits. He'd thought Emerald had plaited her hair last night only to hide it under her hat, but he could have been wrong in that assumption.

Absurd hairstyle for a grown woman.

There she was, standing by the double doors of the majestic medieval building. Stopping in a graveyard a safe distance away, he concealed himself behind a monument and watched.

It was quite definitely Emerald. Evidently she only dressed like a man when her quarry was in range. Or maybe she hadn't found time yet to wash the blood off her shirt and mend the slash from his blade.

Gazing up at the massive planked doors, she reached a finger to trace a section of their scrolled ironwork before her hand closed over the latch. But she stopped short of opening it. Instead she heaved a visible sigh and began wandering around the church, toward another graveyard that looked ancient compared to the one where Jason hid. Idly she bent down to pluck off part of a small plant and slipped it into her pocket. Strange woman.

It hit him then. As in Pontefract, there must have been no horses available here in Doncaster. She was only biding her time until the coach was ready to leave.

Damnation. He would have to follow the coach after all, until Emerald managed to find herself a horse. And thereby risk Gothard getting to London ahead of him, potentially endangering other people there and along the way.

Setting the empty tankard atop a gravestone, he groaned aloud at the thought. But he had no choice.

Or did he?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Tilted, mossy stone markers were spaced unevenly on the grass. Caithren strolled the crooked rows, touching one here and there. The same names appeared over and over through the centuries. Mowbray, Southwell, Hodgkinson.

She shivered as she touched the rough headstone of two Southwell bairns. They'd been dead more than two hundred years, one at the age of four, the other listed simply as "Infant Daughter." Cait's throat tightened at the thought of losing family. The recent loss of Da still hurt.

"Boarding!"

Startled, she glanced around the kirk toward the Greyfriars Inn. She'd enjoyed her solitude till the last possible moment, but now the coach had pulled up before the rounded corner of the red-brick building, fresh horses in place, and the first passengers were climbing aboard, that old bawface Mrs. Dochart among them. With a sigh, she kissed her fingertips and touched them to the sisters' gravestone, then turned to make her way back to the inn.

The sun disappeared behind a cloud. Suddenly the cemetery seemed eerie and forbidding. A soft wheezy sound set her heart to pounding. Was she hearing muffled footsteps?

Spooked, she froze in her tracks.

It's the wind, she told herself. The wind whistling through the old kirk. Cameron always said she had too active an imagination. But her fingers flew to her amulet as her body tensed, ready to run.

A louder footstep sounded behind her, and a hand clamped on her shoulder. Whirling, she shrieked.

"Whoa, there." Beneath his wide-brimmed hat, the man looked puzzled and apologetic. "You look like you saw a ghost."

The face registered, and Caithren's jaw dropped open. Her hands went to her heaving chest. It took a moment to find her tongue, but when she did, she let loose.

"You!" The Englishman had said he felt responsible, but she hadn't figured he was insane enough to follow her. "You scared me half to death."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you, only—"

"What the devil are you doing here?" Still trembling, she leaned on a gravestone. "Did you follow me? I told you I don't want your help."

He shrugged in answer as he gazed around the cemetery. "You're shaking. I suppose you believe in ghosts?"

"I've yet to meet a Scot who doesn't," she said shortly.

His lips curved as though he found that amusing. He motioned his head toward the gray stone kirk. "Why didn't you go inside?"

She glanced from him to the building, then back. "You were watching me?"

The thought was disturbing. She'd wanted to explore the elaborate medieval kirk, not to mention pray there for the stamina to put up with Mrs. Dochart for eight and a half more days. Lord knew she needed some help. But she'd been afraid the coach would leave without her, so she'd stayed outdoors instead.

And he'd been watching her. A vague sense of unease stole over her. Her hand went into her pocket, feeling for the familiar comfort of Adam's portrait she'd put there to remind her of her goal.

"I-I must go. Please, just leave me alone."

"It's a beautiful building." He gestured at the bell tower, where no less than sixteen pinnacles crowned the battlement. "You really should have a look inside."

The sun came back out, dispelling her nervousness. He was only a man, albeit a misguided one. "I don't have time to go inside. The coach is leaving."

He nodded. "I'll walk you through."

"There's a door on the other side?" She frowned but followed him, dimly wondering why she was cooperating with an Englishman. But she supposed he was trying to help.

Inside, it was cool and deathly quiet. Deserted as well, at two o'clock on a Thursday afternoon. The flames of votive candles made shadows dance in the dim light that filtered through the kirk's beautiful stained-glass windows. She paused to silently admire the ancient grandeur, loathe to disturb the utter peacefulness with unnecessary words.

With a tug on her hand, he urged her down a side aisle.

"Last call!" The driver's voice managed to pierce the thick stone walls. Looking up, Cait could see that some of the colorful windows were old and broken, no doubt letting in the sound, as well as the wind that had frightened her in the graveyard.

"Let go of me," she whispered, trying to pull from the Englishman's grasp. He had no business touching her. "I must go."

He held tight and continued doggedly toward a small private chapel that projected outside the main wall. It would be near Church Street and the inn. That must be where the door was.

But when they stepped through an archway and inside, a scan of the wee chapel revealed only a single wooden bench and a simple altar with three small burning candles. Afternoon sun shone through a cracked window, projecting brilliant colored patches on the stone floor.

Alarm skittered through her. "There's no door."

"I never said there was a door."

She stifled her urge to yell—she couldn't be making a racket in the kirk. "I must go."

"I think not."

He wanted to keep her here? She moved for the main sanctuary and front door, but he was faster and blocked her path. Losing patience, she shoved at his arm. "Please move out of my way."

"I'm not going to hurt you." He wedged himself into the archway, spreading his feet at the bottom and his hands at the top. "I want only to protect you."

Protect her? The man was daft. She beat both fists against his chest, and he yelped. But he was solid and immovable.

Through a high cracked window, she heard the call of her name. Panic welled in her throat. She needed to be on the coach. Her future depended on finding her brother. She didn't have time for this stranger and his accusations and claims of responsibility.

She gave him another shove and kicked at his shins, but he stood firm, his mouth a straight line beneath his thin mustache. She heard her name called again and wished she hadn't left Da's pistol in her satchel on the coach.

When she heard the creak and groan of the coach departing, her panic blended with white-hot anger. Frantically she tried to duck under his arms, through his legs, and finally turned her back, sputtering incoherently. Only when the sound of the wheels faded into the distance did he step from the archway.

No matter they were in a kirk—she whirled and slapped him hard across the face.

"Holy Christ!" His hand came up to cover his cheek where her finger-shaped imprints were already making a blotchy, red presence. "You've got a hell of an arm."

"Don't you blaspheme in the kirk!" she yelled, bringing her hand up again.

Neatly he caught her by the wrist. "Once, you're quick. Twice, I'm stupid," he said drolly.

"You're stupid, all right! I missed my coach!" She wrenched free and shrank away from him, back into the wee chapel.

"There's nowhere for you to go," he said calmly. "I won't hurt you."

"Why should I believe you?" But she did, though it made no sense. "How am I going to get to London?"

"There will be another coach."

"In three days! And I must be in London by next week!"

He rubbed his injured cheek. Absurdly, she noticed he hadn't shaved. He must have been in a hurry this morning.

"Next week," he mused, as though to himself. "What for?" He came close, his hand dropping from his face to clamp her shoulder, holding her from bolting. As if she had anywhere to go. "Why do you need to be in London? Think fast—I'm sure you can come up with a good one."

"My brother is expected there." She twisted from his grip. "I told you I'm looking for him. I need him to sign some papers."

"That story's getting old, Emerald."

"It's God's truth!" Tears threatened, but she blinked them back. She didn't know whether she was more enraged that he'd detained her or that he insisted on calling her Emerald. Both made her spitting mad. "If I miss him in London, he might go to India. And how will I find him then, I ask you? What will I do then?"

"India? Your creativity knows no bounds." Wincing, he bent to rub one of his shins, and she was gratified to think she'd damaged him. "India," he muttered, his voice unmistakably disgusted.

The tears did fall then, fast and furious. All she'd wanted was to find Adam. It had seemed such a simple matter to go to him and have him sign the papers. Now everything had gone awry.

"I must get to London!" The Englishman's face looked all blurry through her tears. "Why did you keep me here?" she wailed. "Whatever for?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again. "I told you last night. I feel responsible—"

"I'm not your responsibility!"

"—for seeing to your safety," he continued unperturbed. "I only hoped to delay you a few days, to allow me to deal with Geoffrey Gothard before he can do you harm."

"Gothard again?" She stamped her foot, hard. It seemed the candle flames wavered, but the Englishman didn't budge. "I hate you!"

"You're not my favorite person, either. I'm only trying to help you." He shook his head. "India." The sigh that escaped his lips was so elaborate it ruffled his long black hair.

She sat down on the single bench and dashed impatiently at the wetness on her cheeks. Wheesht! She rarely cried at home, but here she was a veritable fountain.

England was a very nasty place. Cameron didn't know the half of it.

"What am I supposed to do now?" Her shoulders trembled. "Will you take me back to the coach?"

"Forward to the coach. And the answer is no." His black boots shuffled on the stone floor. He plopped to sit beside her. "Please don't cry."

His voice sounded miserable. He hated tears, did he? Good. She let loose a particularly pathetic wail.

He scooted to the far end of the bench. She angled toward him so he could see the tears run down her face. He rose and walked away, pacing the breadth of the wee chapel and back again. When he came to stand before her, arms crossed, she dropped her head into her hands and sobbed uncontrollably.

Or at least she hoped he thought so. She had to convince him to take her to the coach.

"I'll take you to London," he muttered.

Tears forgotten, her gaze shot up. "If you think I'd go with—"

"Look, I must go to London regardless." He frowned at her puzzled glare. "To find Gothard. I can protect you this way. I don't suppose it will be too much trouble to bring you along."

She stood and rose on her toes before him, so she could stick her face near his. "Oh, aye?" He flinched, but she only pushed her nose even closer. "Thanks to you, I don't have any clothes or money—it's all on the coach. I don't even have a hat! I expect you'll be sorry before this is over."

His face turning red, he swept off his hat and stuck it on her head. "I'm sorry already."

"Good," she said through clenched teeth. Because it was good. He was unhappy and he was getting her out of here: both good things, in her estimation.

She tipped the hat's brim and swiped the tears from her cheeks.

As soon as they caught up with the coach, she'd be off, and best of luck to him in foiling her plans again. Fool her once, he was quick. Twice, she was stupid.

And Caithren Leslie was far from stupid.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Jason sat Emerald before him on his horse. Not ten minutes later, he knew it was a mistake. Damn woman kept wiggling against him, which made him uncomfortable in more than one way.

He hadn't considered how the two of them would get to London on one horse. Truth be told, he hadn't considered much of anything before coming up with this harebrained scheme to detain her—to ensure she didn't do anything foolish that might get her killed.

Before they left Bawtry tomorrow, he'd have to buy another horse. He hoped mightily he'd have better luck finding one than she'd had.

They rode two long hours before she said a word. As he guided Chiron through a stand of trees and turned back onto the Great North Road, she finally uttered a sentence. Grudgingly.

"Don't think I haven't noticed you took the long way round to avoid the coach."

He snorted. "To the contrary, Emerald, I'm quite certain you notice everything."

She leaned back to glare up at him, bumping her head on his sore shoulder. "I'm Caithren."

He grunted and scooted back in the saddle, but only momentarily. Christ, the wench smelled good. Like a heady mix of wildflowers. His arm tightened around her waist, even though the close contact made his aches and pains more achy and painful.

Bloody hell, was there anyplace she hadn't kicked or hit him?

"How did you find me?" she asked in a peevish tone.

It had been blind luck, but in his present mood he couldn't resist needling her anyway. "For a tracker, you're not very good at covering your own."

"I'm no tracker, whatever that might be."

"You trail outlaws and bring them in to collect the rewards." His gaze kept returning to that vulnerable little hollow at the nape of her neck. "Perhaps the Scots have a different word for it, but we call that tracking."

"Do you mean to say you think I do this regularly? Not just for this Gothard fellow, but for others?"

"It's exactly what you do, and we both know it. See here, Emerald, you're becoming legend. There are few hereabouts who don't know what you do, and I won't have you telling me you're one of them."

She huffed and jerked on the reins, jarring his bruised body and causing Chiron to shy. The end of one of her plaits flew back on the breeze, tickling his face. His stomach growled.

"Hungry, are you?"

"It's long past time for dinner." He didn't know which hurt worse: his poor abused body or his empty belly. "And I left without breakfast this morning, thanks to you."

"Thanks to me? This wasn't my idea."

He didn't rise to that bait, and they rode for a while more in uneasy silence. He wondered if he should give in and return her to the coach. But then he noticed her fingering her amulet.

Emerald.

Remembering her nick from the scuffle with the Gothards, he stiffened his resolve. She could get herself killed out there alone.

"You'll thank me for protecting you later," he murmured under his breath.

"You're not doing this out of responsibility and kindness." Emerald's smug words held a challenge. "Did you really think I'd fall for such an unbelievably noble excuse? You want to kill this man Gothard, and you're afraid I'll get to him before you do and steal your reward out from under you." Evidently proud of her powers of deduction, she leaned back with a grunt of satisfaction, jabbing her shoulder into his wound.

He opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. Let her believe that nonsense, if it pleased her. Though she could hardly have accused him of a motive that was more out of character, it wasn't surprising a woman like Emerald would find such a rationale acceptable. Telling the truth, that he was concerned for her life, must have insulted her independent nature.

Her explanation suited his purposes perfectly.

For the first time in days, he found himself pleased by a turn of events.

That evening, the clink of cutlery on pewter and the buzz of ale-lubricated conversation filled Caithren's ears as her gaze wandered the well-lit taproom of the Crown Hotel in Bawtry.

She inhaled deeply of a steaming chunk of meat pie before popping it into her mouth. "Not bad for English food," she admitted around the bite. "Hunger is the best kitchen."

Mr. Chase set down his tankard and steepled his fingers. "Translate?"

"Food tastes better when you're hungry. English food, at any rate."

Ignoring the barb, the Englishman lifted his spoon. She watched him, remembering when she'd first set eyes on him and thought he was so handsome. Now he just looked stubborn and irritating. Imagine finding oneself attracted to a man who had the gall to keep her off a public coach.

She deliberately looked away, out one of the Crown Hotel's large, fine glass windows. Across the street and to the right, candles glinted through the mottled windows of a nice, small plastered inn called the Turnpike. Down on the left sat the Granby Inn, a squat, square building that looked perfectly acceptable.

The Englishman had certainly chosen an enormous, expensive hotel. She wondered if he had money. He didn't look it. But she felt like she were staying in a private mansion. There were marble pillars in the entrance hall. And the hotel had fifty-seven rooms. Fifty-seven!

She wiggled on her chair, which was plush and upholstered and felt luxurious. At home they had only plain wooden chairs around their table. After spending half the day on horseback, the padding was welcome.

"You'll reach London much faster on horseback than by coach," the Englishman said, interrupting her musings. "This arrangement will work to your benefit."

"Aye?" She touched her emerald amulet. If all went as planned, this arrangement would end come midnight or so.

"We'll make it there in five or six days instead of nine. Long before the coach. And I hope before Gothard."

She took a dainty bite of her pie. "Gothard?" she echoed, unable to resist baiting him.

"Geoffrey Gothard," he clarified and stabbed his spoon into his own pie.

"Oh, him." On impulse, she reached across the table to touch the Englishman on the arm—then yanked her hand back. What was she doing? "You'd best go faster if you're planning to catch him. He was fixing to 'ride like the dickens,' whatever that means."

"It means like the devil." He polished off the last of his bread, studying her with a calculating green gaze. "How is it you know this?"

Cait sighed. "I told you I heard Geoffrey and Wat talking, when I was looking for my brother at Scarborough's place."

"Well, we made decent time today." He flexed his shoulder, a pained look coming over his face. "We shall ride like the dickens, then, and God willing I'll find the bastard right off."

"God willing, is it?" Toying with the handle of her dull pewter tankard, she drew a deep breath. "You can assist God by looking for Gothard at the home of someone named Lucas."

He stopped mid-chew. "Pardon?"

She took time for a sip of ale, half-hoping he would choke from curiosity. "The Gothards are going to London to get something from this man Lucas." She sipped again. "If he fails to give them what they want, they plan to murder him."

"Lucas Gothard? They plan to kill the Earl of Scarborough?"

Caithren shrugged. "Is that Scarborough's given name? Adam didn't say."

"What else did they say?"

"You cannot expect me to remember an entire conversation."

He said nothing, but she saw a muscle twitch in his jaw. Uncomfortable under his gaze, she reached into her skirt pocket to touch the miniature portrait of Adam. Her one memento of home—and the only thing she had to her name right now, save the clothes on her back.

The Englishman was studying her, his eyes narrowed. "Why did you let the Gothards get away?"

"I told you—"

"Yes, and it's a nice story. Very well done of you. But for you to know this much, well, it's perfectly clear you're none other than Emerald MacCallum, and there isn't a chance you'll convince me otherwise. Are you going to eat that?" He indicated her bread.

"Help yourself."

As she watched him reach across and break off a piece, Cait struggled for calm. She'd punished him with silence earlier, but it had been at least as hard on her as it had on him. No sense continuing the unpleasantness when she'd never see him again after tonight. Although if he called her Emerald one more time, a swift kick where it hurt might be in order.

He washed down a second piece of her bread with his ale. "Tell me why you're looking for your brother."

His tone implied he was trying to pacify her. That would annoy her if she let it, but she wouldn't.

Maybe if she told him more of her story, he would come to believe her.

"According to my father's will, Adam will inherit all of Leslie unless I marry within the year."

Plates rattled and diners chattered in the background. "And…?"

"Marriage is out of the question." She flashed him a bright, facetious grin. "Men are too demanding and controlling."

He appeared to be coughing up his ale.

"Is something amiss?"

"No." He thumped himself on the chest, then winced. "Continue."

"Well, Adam isn't fit to run Leslie. A restless sort, Adam is. And since I don't plan to marry, I need his signature on some papers relinquishing his rights to the property in exchange for a generous allowance." She fixed him with her best accusing glare. "The papers are in my satchel on the coach."

"I'll have another set drawn up in London." He blotted his mouth with his napkin. "At my expense."

"Your generosity knows no bounds."

Ignoring her sarcasm, the Englishman gazed at her supper. "Are you going to finish that?"

She shoved her half-eaten pie in his direction. "By all the saints, you're a bottomless pit. It's a wonder you're not fat as old King Henry."

"Runs in the family." With a scrape, he pulled it closer.

"As the sow fills, the draff sours."

"Pardon?"

She watched the pie methodically disappear. "The more you eat, the less you enjoy your food."

"Another of your mother's pearls of wisdom?"

"Aye, her words were wise."

"In this case, her words were wrong." He washed down the last of her supper with the last of her ale, then stood. "It was quite enjoyable. Now I must dash off a note and post it to Scarborough, to warn him of his brothers' intentions. And another note to my family. They'll be wondering where I am." He rooted in his pocket and pulled out a key. "Would you like to go up? The innkeeper had naught but a single room, but I'm certain we'll fare well together."

"You are, are you?"

"Yes," he said, so tolerantly she gritted her teeth. "Room twenty-six, upstairs and to the left. I'll meet you there in a few minutes."

Handing her the key, he started out of the taproom, then turned back.

"I can trust you to wait?"

The key's hard metal edges bit into her clenched fist. "I'm not going anywhere," she assured him blithely.

Not yet, anyway.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Caithren headed up the fancy wrought-iron staircase, fuming as she looked for number twenty-six.

It was clear the Englishman didn't like her, yet he expected her to share his chamber tonight. Fifty-seven rooms and only one available? She didn't believe him for a moment. He planned on keeping his eye on her.

She was glad she'd be rid of him soon. She'd never figure him out. Most especially, she'd never figure out what it was about him that made her want to goad him. Or what is was about him that made her want to touch him.

If she were to be honest, that was the most puzzling thing of all.

Reaching the end of the corridor, she turned in disgust. She must have gone right, not left.

The Englishman was standing at the other end, watching her. "Are you lost?" he called.

"Nay." She hurried toward him. "I only wanted to have a wee look around."

Raising a brow, he took the key from her hand and fitted it into number twenty-six's lock.

When the door swung open, she gasped and shot him an accusatory glare. "There's only one bed."

"I told you there was only one room. It's no fault of mine it has only one bed." He walked in and set his portmanteau on the bed in question. "We'll manage."

She stood on the threshold, eyeing the room with trepidation.

"Come in, will you? I may be an Englishman," he added dryly, "but I'm not in the habit of forcing myself on unwilling women."

"I didn't think you would." With a start, Caithren realized it was true. As infuriating as he was, she felt safe in his presence. It made no sense. She knew it made no sense, which was she was nervous.

Since she couldn't just stand there, she entered but left the door open. He removed his surcoat and tossed it over the back of a lovely carved chair, then went around the room lighting candles.

She wandered over and fingered the fabric of the brown coat. Fine stuff, although plain. Stitching neat enough to rival her mother's. "Mam always despaired of my sewing," she blurted.

What an inane thing to say. As though he cared. But she'd never been good at controlling her mouth when she was jumpy like this.

He shut the door, blocking out the noises of other people in the corridor and downstairs. "Did she, now?"

"Aye, she claimed I'd never make a proper wife. Never mind that I'm capable of seeing to the health and provisioning of every soul at Leslie."

He moved an extra candle to the dressing table. "At Leslie, huh?" From his leather bags came two shirts and a pair of breeches, which he left in an untidy heap on the bed, then an ivory comb, a razor, and a ball of soap. "If you can do all that, I cannot see whereas sewing would make a difference one way or the other."

"Don't you need a wife who can sew?" She hadn't finished saying it before heat rushed to her cheeks. Crivvens, she couldn't stop blethering.

"I don't need a wife at all." He set the implements on the dressing table and examined himself in its fine mirror. "My sister, Kendra, takes care of running my household."

"How about after she marries?"

His eyes met Cait's in the silvery surface. "Not bloody likely. Anytime soon, at least."

His gaze held hers for a moment. Her stomach fluttered. Perhaps she wasn't as safe with him as she'd thought.

He stroked his mustache, then sighed and set to work with the brush and soap, making a fine lather. When he started brushing it onto his face, Caithren felt she shouldn't watch. It seemed too intimate. Instead she walked to the window and drew aside the drapes.

It was pitch black behind the hotel, and she couldn't see a thing. With a sigh, she let the curtain drop and ran a hand down the wall beside the window. It had wallpaper—thick sheets nailed to the wall, with flock printing. The paper's pattern felt velvety under her fingers. She'd heard of wallpaper, but she'd never actually seen any before.

The blade made a small scraping noise that sounded loud in the silence. Despite herself, she sneaked a glance in the mirror. She hadn't seen him clean-shaven, and devil take it if her fingers didn't itch to touch the newly exposed smooth skin. Looking away, she went to the bed and started folding the clothes he'd left there.

But her gaze kept wandering to the emerging planes of his face.

He dipped the brush again, rubbed white foam in a wide arc beneath his nose, caught his upper lip with his teeth—

"What are you doing?" she burst out.

"Removing my mustache." Calmly—as he did everything else—he drew the razor over a section, rinsed it in the washbowl, shaved the next patch. And on, until many black hairs floated on top of the water, and the space above his lip was bare and paler than the rest of his face.

He rubbed it ruefully. "Feels odd."

He flashed her a grin full of straight, white teeth she hadn't noticed before. And those chiseled lips. Such a beautiful mouth. Her own mouth gaped open as she laid the second shirt on the bed and sat herself at the edge, her hands clenched in her lap.

"What do you think?" he asked.

She finally found her tongue. "You look young."

He laughed. "And just how old did you think I was?"

"I don't know," she hedged, mentally kicking herself for making such a brainless comment in the first place. "Thirty, maybe?"

"I'm thirty-two." He looked back in the mirror, turning his head this way and that.

"Thirty-two? But you look—"

"I know. That's why I grew it sixteen years ago. I was handed a lot of responsibility at an early age, and I thought if I looked older…" His fingers moved to stroke the absent whiskers, then jerked away. "I miss it already."

"I thought you wore it in imitation of the king." She gestured at the gorgeous long hair that reached to the middle of his chest. "You look like a Cavalier."

"My family did support Charles in the war," he said distractedly. One hand went up to stroke the wavy mass. "Well, there's nothing for it," he announced in resigned tones.

Puzzled, she cocked her head. "Nothing for it?"

"The hair." He reached for his knife. "It must come off as well."

She leapt from the bed, reaching to still his hand. "Why?" she breathed.

In response to her horror, his eyes crinkled with humor. "Same reason I shaved the mustache. Gothard knows I'm alive now. I don't want him to notice me following him. I'll look different, yes?"

"Well, aye." Suddenly she realized she was touching his hand voluntarily. She pulled back. "But you look different already."

He glanced in the looking glass again. "Not different enough." Holding a hank of the beautiful black silk, he measured it against his shoulder and hacked off a hunk. Crookedly.

She winced. "You're going to look like a wallydraigle."

His expression went from pained concentration to obvious amusement. "A what?"

"A most slovenly creature." She moved closer. "I'll cut it for you," she said, "if you'll go down to the kitchen and ask to borrow a pair of scissors."

Relief relaxed his features. "Done."

He left the room before she quite digested the offer she'd made. Cut the man's hair? She wanted nothing to do with him. What had she been thinking?

She paced around the large chamber. The carved oak furniture all matched, and the counterpane and bedhangings looked to be of silk. Once again, she wondered how he could afford such a place. But apparently he'd been thinking ahead. He'd needed a mirror to accomplish this transformation, and not many small inns would provide one.

She jumped when he barged back in, holding forth the scissors. "Did you think I was a ghost again?"

"Nothing that benign." She dragged a chair over to face the mirror and waved him into it.

He sat and grinned at her reflection in the glass, handing her the scissors over one shoulder. "Go ahead," he urged.

The black waves felt soft in her hands. With a wince, she measured and cut, measured and cut, a wee bit at a time. Soon she was engrossed in the careful work, but not so much that she didn't steal glances at him in the mirror.

His striking features looked even more arresting without the mustache. She hadn't noticed the long black lashes that crowned his clear, leaf-green eyes. A spicy masculine scent permeated his hair and skin.

With her hands on him like this, he didn't seem so irritating and dangerous. As his dark locks slipped through her fingers, it seemed as though a different man were emerging. Surely not, but she felt differently toward him all the same. And chided herself for it.

He studied her in the mirror as well. "What color are your eyes?" he asked.

"My eyes?" She clipped, then glanced up. "Hazel. Why?"

"They looked green earlier today, but now they look blue."

She frowned. "Well, they're hazel." Placing the last silky sheared hank on the dressing table, she stepped away to assess her handiwork. His hair now neatly skimmed his shoulders.

"Thank you," he said softly. "It's a much better job than I would have done."

She glanced at his knife on the table's marble surface. "I expect so," she said, a wry smile teasing at her lips.

Despite all her reservations, she was feeling rather kindly toward him—until he stood, stretched, then unlaced the top of his shirt and pulled it free from his breeches.

"What are you doing now?" she burst out.

He sat back on the chair to pull off his boots. "Getting comfortable for bed. We've a long day ahead of us tomorrow. We're planning to 'ride like the dickens,' if you remember."

"I remember," she said. "But—"

"Are you not going to take off your outerclothes?" His second boot fell to the floor with a loud plop. "I'm not planning to attack you."

"I have nothing else to wear, thanks to you. My night rail is in my satchel. In the—"

"—public coach." He peeled off a stocking. "I know. That thing beneath your bodice, the garment that looks like a blouse? I'm no expert on women's clothing, but it's quite long, is it not? A shift, is it called?"

"Aye, it's a shift." She plucked distractedly at its sleeves. "Not that it's any of your concern."

She stalked to the bed and tucked the shirts and breeches she'd folded back into his portmanteau, then moved it to a table. Pulling back the lovely counterpane, she found a thick quilt resting beneath. She lifted one corner and climbed into bed.

"Sleep well," she said, in a tone meant to speak of finality.

He rose and moved to look down on her. "You're going to suffocate," he predicted. "At least loosen your bodice."

When she made no move to do so, he threw back the quilt, leaned over her, and made quick work of untying the bow at the top of her laces.

"Unhand me!" she squeaked in disbelief. Before she collected her wits enough to bat his hands away, he began tugging at the laces. "I-I cannot believe what you're doing! No man has ever loosened my clothing—"

"A pity, sweetheart," he interjected smoothly while finishing the job he'd started. "Though I find that difficult to believe." One long fingertip trailed softly alongside her face. "Don't you fret, pretty thing—I may be the first, but I'm certain I won't be the last."

She felt a flush crawl up her neck, heating her cheeks. She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing coherent came to mind.

"There they go again," he said. "Your eyes were just green, and now they've turned blue." He reached for her amulet.

"This stays," she said firmly, finding her tongue. "I never take it off."

He shrugged, moving to the foot of the bed to pull off her shoes. "Now you'll rest easier." Caithren was still sputtering when he flipped the quilt back to cover her.

Glaring at him, she lay silent as he walked around the room snuffing the candles. In increments, the chamber descended into darkness. He slid in on the other side of the bed, his substantial weight depressing the feather mattress, making her nearly roll into him. She gripped the quilt in tense fists, holding herself in place.

"Sleep well, now," he called in a voice that was annoyingly unperturbed. Apparently giving him the evil eye had had no effect on him at all. "We've a long journey ahead of us."

When he leaned to blow out the candle on the small table by the bed, Caithren raised herself to an elbow to do the same on her side. Her heart pounded hard in her chest as she lay back down and stared into the darkness. It didn't seem as though he planned to attack her, and yet…

She realized suddenly that her pulse wasn't racing from fear, but from something else.

Da had fed and clothed her, Cameron had offered protection and companionship, and more than one suitor had connived to press his lips to hers. But no man had ever made it his business to care for her in a physical sense. The Englishman's hands on her had felt different than Da's or Cam's or those fumbling courting lads'.

She wasn't at all sure whether she cared for the feeling. And why did it matter, aye? Her hand went up and wrapped around her amulet. She'd be rid of him after tonight.

Rigid, she lay beside him, willing herself to stay awake while her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Had they crossed their arms over their chests, she imagined she and the Englishman would resemble one of the marble effigies in her village kirk, a lord and lady frozen together in time. But she was no titled lady, and the Englishman was certainly no lord.

He wasn't even a gentleman.

She had to get away from him. Back to the coach, where she hoped and prayed they were still carrying her belongings. It would be a miracle to find her money there as well, but she couldn't worry about that now.

It seemed like forever before his breathing evened out in sleep. She waited a few minutes until she was sure, then jogged his shoulder to double-check. He groaned as though in pain, then settled down with a soft snore. She leaned over him, remembering other moments he'd seemed to be hurting. Suddenly she wondered if he could have been injured last night as well. Helping her.

Rising, she swept her shoes off the floor, then caught herself looking back to him. But even if he'd been hurt, it was no fault of hers. She couldn't let herself be swayed. Her decision had already been made.

Slowly she backed away, then turned and opened the door. With one last glance over her shoulder, she slipped into the corridor and eased the door closed behind her.

Leaning against the wall, she calmed her pounding heart while she straightened her bodice and relaced it snugly. Then she slid into her shoes, marched downstairs, through the taproom, and out into the night, trying her best to look as though she hadn't a care in the world.

It was chilly and drizzling. She had no money to hire a horse, no alternative other than to start walking. But the coach would have stopped in one of the towns they'd passed, so if she followed the road, she'd be sure to get back to it by morning.

She set off into the long night that loomed ahead.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"Mama, must you go? You've been home nary a month."

"I must, wee Alison." Flora MacCallum moved to her youngest's bed and bent to kiss her little forehead. She smoothed the fine, chestnut hair from her daughter's face. "Maybe, with any luck, this time will be the last."

Malcolm crawled over his sister and down to the floor to hug his mother around the knees. "Are you going to be Emerald again?"

"Aye. I'm going to be Emerald one more time."

"But it's the middle of the night."

"Nay, dawn approaches. And others are doubtless on the Gothards' trail already." She knelt to give her bonnie lad a fierce hug, breathing in his scent to sustain her through the days and weeks ahead. Soap and milk, underscored by a faint trace of the dirt she could never quite get out from under his fingernails. She wished she could bottle the aroma and take it with her.

Unwinding his small arms from around her neck, she stood to shrug into a man's surcoat.

"It's lucky you two were of a height." Hearing her mother's voice, Flora turned to see her leaning against the doorway that separated the two rooms of their cottage. "Not many women can wear their husband's clothes."

"Aye?" A strand of long gray hair had escaped her mother's plait; Flora walked over and pushed it behind her ear. "It was the only lucky thing between us."

"Now, Flora—"

"Don't go defending him, Mama." Though her words were firm, she pressed a kiss to the top of her tiny mother's head. All of Flora's height—and she was the tallest woman in Galloway—had come from her father. "I'll never forgive my husband for pledging our home in a game of dice and then getting himself killed in that border raid. Damned halliracket."

"Wheesht! The bairns are listenin'."

"And right they should be." Flora twisted her unruly red hair and piled it on her head, then jammed her deceased husband's hat on top. "It's fair they know why I have to leave them."

"Flora—"

"Just give me peace till this is finished, Mama. One last time. With the reward posted for Gothard, I can pay off Kincaid and then some. We'll be able to breathe. Give the farm our attention. Maybe even get wee Alison her own bed. Won't that be nice?"

"Nice, Mama!" Alison repeated.

Flora's mother bent to sweep a length of broken reed off the floor. The roof needed replacing as well. "Damn your daftie of a father for ever takin' you tracking," she muttered. "Thought you were the son he never had."

"Neither of us chose our men well." Flora stuck a pistol into her boot top and snatched up the sword that was propped in the corner. "Still and on, if Papa hadn't taken me, I wouldn't be able to get us out of the mess we're in today." She kissed her mother's parchment cheek. "Take care of the bairns, Mama. God willing, I'll be back to stay."

Hard kisses for Alison and Malcolm, and she was off to do what needed to be done.

Once and for all.

Jason jerked awake. Emerald was gone. Again.

Dawn's hazy gray light seeped through the window. He slept soundly these days, the bone-deep weariness of a healing body coupled with hard hours on the road. But still…how was it that a woman could rise, dress herself, and leave without waking him?

Cursing himself—which was getting to be quite a habit—he pulled on his boots and went downstairs, hoping she'd only gone in search of something to break her fast. But the Crown's cheerful taproom was eerily empty. Too early yet for guests to be up and about.

And Emerald was gone, really gone.

He winced at the thought of her out there alone. But there was nothing for it. He could ill afford to waste precious time searching for her, even supposing it were possible he'd be successful. It had been a different matter when she was on a lumbering coach taking a specific route. She could be anywhere by now, and he didn't know the first thing about tracking a body—that was her skill, not his.

He would simply have to make it his business to get to London first. How long was her head start? Had she found a horse? With no money, she'd have a hard time of it—

Panicking, he pulled out his coin pouch and spilled the contents into his hand.

Nothing was missing.

Idiot woman.

Slipping the pouch back into his pocket, he tramped out into the gray morning and went to wake the stable boy.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Four hours had passed since Caithren had seen a soul. Soaked to the skin, she shivered with a bone-deep cold. She'd passed through three wee villages—if one could even call them that—but only one had boasted an inn, and no coach had been parked in its courtyard.

It felt as though she'd descended into an evil land where no one existed save herself.

As dawn approached, a talkative family rumbled by in an ox-drawn cart. She would have loved to beg a ride, but they were going the opposite direction. Regardless, just the sight of them brought a tiny smile of relief.

Walking backward, she watched them fade into the distance, their cheerful voices becoming fainter and fainter until all was quiet, save for the steady beat of the rain. A lonely sound.

Summoning her last reserves of energy, Cait turned and walked faster. She had to be near the coach by now. Squinting her eyes, she thought she could see a village ahead, a silhouetted irregular line of rooftops. A church spire, or maybe it was only more trees. She couldn't be sure, and rain suddenly pelted from the sky, obliterating the hazy view and making her shiver even more.

Water sluiced down the gently sloping road, hiding the deep, slushy ruts. She tripped into one of them and fell to her knees in the mud, wrenching a foot as she went. The tears that had been threatening all the long night pricked hot behind her eyelids.

No, not the tears. Not again. She blinked hard and took a deep breath, then dragged herself up.

Though she'd twisted only her ankle, her whole leg throbbed. Her teeth were chattering, and the hand clenching her amulet was shaking and white-knuckled with strain. When she heard a horse approaching from behind, she couldn't find the strength to turn around and see who it was. Why did it matter, really? Maybe the traveler would help her. More likely he'd simply ignore her.

But just in case, she pulled the amulet off over her head and shoved it up her soggy sleeve.

Not a second too soon. The heavy thud of someone dropping from a horse made her force herself to turn and look.

Leading an obviously ill-treated nag by the reins, a man was trudging toward her, his boots squishing in the mud. Black eyes leered wildly from his rough-hewn face, which was dark with unshaven stubble that didn't look anywhere near as bonnie as it had on the Englishman.

"What have we here?" he asked.

Caithren backed up. "I-I have no money," she managed to stutter out. To demonstrate, she turned her pockets inside out, revealing naught but the miniature portrait of Adam, which she hastily shoved back inside.

Undaunted, the man dropped his mount's reins and stepped closer. The horse looked too worn out to bother going anywhere. Even through the scents of rain and mud, the man's stale, liquor-tinged breath choked Cait as he came near and peered into her face.

"P-please, sir. I haven't anything you'd want."

"We'll see about that." With a lunge, he plunged one grimy hand down her bodice, rooting around.

Horrified, she twisted in his grip. "I have nothing! Unhand me!" Bile rose in her throat as panic tightened her chest. "Stop! Unhand me! Now!"

"No money in here?" The rough fingers shifted and clawed one breast in a painful squeeze. "Ah, but I wouldn't say you have nothing."

Anger and indignation boiled up. Cait's hands clenched round his thick neck, but though her vision blurred with the effort, he didn't seem to notice. She yelled, kicking at his shins, but her injured ankle threw her off balance, and he was managing to back her up into the trees at the edge of the road.

His other hand reached down, hiking her skirt as they stumbled together in the mud, a writhing mass of combat. Gathering her wits, she brought one knee up—hard. With a stunned grunt, the man pulled away and hunched over. But she knew he'd be after her again. She'd never outrun him with her hurt ankle.

If only she could get to his horse.

She sprang for the animal, but the man reached to snag her by the wrist. Still crouched, he managed to whip her back around. Thinking quickly, she gritted her teeth and reached her free hand to pat his body, searching for a gun, a blade—

Beneath his soggy, smelly coat, her fingers closed on the grip of a knife. As she tugged it from its sheath, the man growled in rage and wrenched himself upright.

"Keep back!" Bravely, she brandished the knife in his face.

And a gunshot rang out.

The sheer shock of it forced her backward into the mud. As her bottom met the ground, her breath expelled in a rush and the knife dropped from her hand.

But the bullet hadn't hit her. It had come from another direction.

The man turned and bolted for his horse. Hammering hoofbeats were drawing near—indeed, were it not for the pounding rain and the veil of her own fear, Cait knew she'd have heard the sound earlier.

Her attacker was mounted and moving before her rescuer arrived and reached a hand to help her rise.

She looked up into the face of the Englishman.

She stared at him in disbelief. No matter where she went, he insisted on showing up. But she found herself absurdly grateful he'd shown up now. While she didn't understand him, at least he'd never tried to take advantage.

Her hands splayed on her chest, trying to erase the feel of the monstrous man who was riding away. With a lingering glance at the man's retreating back, the Englishman slid from the saddle and gathered her into his arms.

"Are you hurt?"

Shuddering, she shook her head. It was the only answer she could manage. But she took comfort from his nearness, his warm body against hers.

"I can scarcely credit how much trouble you are," he muttered, the words laced with a quiet fury.

She'd have felt better if he'd have just yelled at her. "What did you say?"

"I said, are you hurt?"

That wasn't what he'd said. Sure they both knew it, she lifted her chin. "Nay, only shaken a bit," she said in a voice that indeed sounded shaken. She wished she could say it more bravely. Though she wanted nothing more than to stand on her own, her hands gripped his shoulders convulsively.

Her manhandled breasts burned beneath her bodice, and her ankle shot fire if she put any weight on it. But she wouldn't cry. He'd already said she was trouble, and she knew he hated her tears almost as much as she did.

After giving her a few awkward pats on the back, he set her away. She blinked in dismay at his face: the clenched, chiseled jaw; the hard, accusing eyes.

Predictably, his voice was as calm as ever. Calm and berating. "What the hell did you think you were doing wandering alone in the middle of the night?"

He had the nerve to be outraged on her behalf? Protective? The cur. Anger coursed through her anew. "I was going back to the coach! To get my things and complete my journey! I was almost there, too. Just leave me be!"

He stared at her, his mouth working as though he wanted to say something but couldn't think how to word it.

"I don't need your help," she added, though she wasn't at all sure what would have happened if he hadn't charged in on his silver horse. "I was taking care of myself just fine. I had a knife."

"I could see that." He eyed the dull gray blade in the mud. "And I saw you, um…with your knee…"

"Um-hmm." She gave him a smug smile.

"But I'd expect that from Emerald MacCallum."

"Very well, then," she forced through gritted teeth. "I appreciate your gallant rescue, but now I'll be on my way."

Gathering what little was left of her composure, she swiveled, hobbled over to fetch the knife, and started limping down the road. She could feel his eyes on her back. One, two, three steps…four, five, six…

"Emerald." His voice wasn't reproving any longer—instead it sounded mocking. "Oh, Emerald…"

She didn't stop. Her name wasn't Emerald. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve…

"You're walking in the wrong direction."

She dropped the knife back to the mud. He was behind her in a flash, his hands large and heavy on her suddenly trembling shoulders. "That's London ahead. We passed the coach. Most likely it stopped in Rossington, north of where we slept."

"I knew that." Staring into the distance, she fished the amulet out of her sleeve and slipped the chain back over her head. She rubbed a wet finger over the smooth rectangular stone. "I wasn't walking north?"

"No." He came around to face her, his expression softening. "You've been walking south."

Tears welled in her eyes; she couldn't seem to stop them. She hoped they were disguised by the rain.

His hand went up to stroke his missing mustache, then dropped and curled into a fist. "Didn't you notice the landscape was different?"

"Different?" Her voice went higher than she would have liked. She struggled to control herself as she scanned the drenched countryside. "It's flat, just the same as yesterday. All England is flat and ugly."

He shook his head and gestured at the gently rolling land. "Between Doncaster and Bawtry, it's flat planted fields, bordered with trees. Here, there are hills used for grazing."

"Hills, hah!" she said, even though he was right. Oh, why did she suffer from such a terrible sense of direction? Why couldn't she have normal faults, like normal folk? A lisp, or blotchy skin.

"Where I come from, this is flat." She sniffed back the tears, determined not to let them fall. "W-will you take me there, then? To Rossington, where the coach is?"

She hated herself for the wobble in her voice.

"No."

She hated him for being so disagreeable.

"Why not? What do you want from me?"

"I don't have time to backtrack. And I want to keep an eye on you." Rain dripped off his wide-brimmed hat, but he didn't look nearly as miserable as she felt. "I cannot allow you to face Gothard alone."

"Gothard!" The name was the last straw, the end of her hopeless struggle. The tears overflowed and ran down her cheeks. "I don't want this man Gothard," she wailed. "I want my brother, Adam! I want my bed at Leslie, and my cousin, Cameron. I want something—one thing!—to go right for a change! And my name is Caithren!"

Her chest heaved with a sudden sob, and the Englishman reacted immediately, wrapping her into his arms.

"I hate you!" Reaching up, she pounded on his shoulders.

With a grunt, he shoved her away. "Bloody hell, will you stop beating up on me?" he said much more calmly than the words would imply. "I told you I'd take you to London. I'll replace your clothes and your precious satchel and whatever else was inside. I'll repay your money, and should it turn out you really do have a brother"—his face showed what he thought were the chances of that—"I'll hire a solicitor to draw up your bloody papers. Just stop hitting me, damn it."

He paused for breath, and his voice dropped, almost to a whisper. "I'm not out to hurt you. I want only to get to Gothard first. I cannot get on with my life—whatever is left of it—until I do so." The eyes that bore into hers were filled with pain. "Can you not try to understand that?"

Despite herself, she nodded, hot tears trailing down her face to mix with the cold rain. When she swayed, he gathered her close once again.

She melted against him willingly, her tears flowing faster. What would she have done if he hadn't come after her? She was so far ahead of the coach now—far too far to go back. It made much more sense to head for London. But with no coin, she had no way to get there by herself, even if she managed to keep going the right direction. She couldn't walk there in time, and horses and food and beds all cost money.

But she hated the fact that she needed him, especially because his arms felt so reassuring around her. He was a scoundrel who wouldn't believe her story. A scoundrel who'd kept her off the public coach, endangering her plans to meet Adam and stranding her with nothing. A scoundrel who kept calling her Emerald.

And still, she felt safe in the circle of his arms. Beneath his chilly, wet cloak, his spicy male scent warmed her nostrils while rain pattered all around them.

"Have we a bargain?" he asked quietly.

She nodded against his chest.

He stepped back and reached out a finger, lifting her chin. "Was that a yes?"

"Aye, it was." She drew a shaky breath.

"And you won't disappear on me again?"

"I won't try to escape you."

"And you won't hit me again?"

A tiny smile threatened to burst free. "That I cannot promise."

He heaved an elaborate sigh. "I suppose I will have to take what I can get, then."

"I suppose you will." Despite her best efforts, her lips curved, after all. She simply couldn't help herself.

He was staring at her mouth. He moved close and placed his hands on her shoulders…and still, he was staring at her mouth.

"Shall we seal this agreement?" he asked softly.

"What?" Was he fixing to kiss her? Nay, that couldn't be. She backed away. "I said we have a bargain, Mr. Chase."

He blinked. "Mr. Chase? Didn't I tell you to call me Jason?"

"I haven't been calling you anything. I've been trying my best to ignore you, if you hadn't noticed. Out loud, that is. In my head, I've been calling you all sorts of things."

"I'll bet you have." He bent down and fished the knife from the mud, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped the blade. "I'm thinking you should have leave to call me Jason."

"Oh, aye?"

A gleam came into his eyes. "After all, we have slept together."

Her cheeks flushed hot. "Not exactly. You slept." Looking down, she readjusted the soggy bow at the top of her laces. "I was taught to address my elders with respect."

"Your elders? Do you think me so old and decrepit?"

He sounded so disconcerted, Cait's gaze shot up to his face. It took all she had not to laugh. She wished she had the talent to paint; if she could capture his expression on canvas, she could laugh at it forever.

"Very well, then," she said, keeping her voice businesslike. "Since I've no other means to get to London—thanks to you—I will stay with you willingly. As your equal." He opened his mouth, but she rushed on. "And as such, I will call you Jason. Out loud. I cannot promise what I'll call you in my head."

Frustration and amusement mingled on his face as he shoved the knife into his belt. "Here," he said gruffly, shrugging out of his cloak and settling it over her shoulders.

"You'll get wet," she protested even as she snuggled into it. It felt heavy and blessedly warm from the heat of his body. But his brown surcoat was becoming peppered with the dark splotches of raindrops. "I'm already soaked. It will do me no good."

"You're shivering. It will cut the cold." He removed his hat and plopped it on her head. "I won't have you catching a chill."

He'd tied his hair back with a ribbon, making a short, neat tail at the nape of his neck. She watched as it became soaked, too. "Now we'll both be miserable," she said. "But I thank you for your gallantry. Why you deserve thanks is beyond me, but Mam always said 'guid manners suffer bad yins.'"

Thin rivulets of water ran down his blank face and dripped off the end of his nose. She saw a muscle twitch in his jaw while she waited for him to ask for a translation.

"Courtesy outshines poor manners," she finally said.

His eyes narrowed but he said nothing, only swung her up into his arms. Before she could protest, he marched to his horse and deposited her on the saddle with a bit more force than was necessary.

She let out a little grunt.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "Are you all right?"

"I reckon I'll live."

He reached up to wipe a tear from her cheek, a futile gesture considering the continual rain. "Why didn't you pull your gun on that bastard?"

"It's in my satchel, in—"

"—the coach." He sighed. "I know. My fault. I'm sorry." He reached down to draw a pistol from his boot. The smallest one she'd ever seen, much fancier than Da's, with a brass barrel and a mother-of-pearl grip inlaid with brass wire scrollwork. "Here, take this one," he offered.

It looked very expensive. "Nay, I—"

"Take it. You should have something to protect yourself." When she didn't move to claim it, he reached beneath the cloak and stuffed it into her skirt pocket.

"Thank you," she said stiffly, clutching the cloak closed in front with two cold fists. "It may be that I'll need it; there seem to be a high proportion of unscrupulous men about England."

He fixed her with an assessing green gaze, then mounted behind her. His arms came around her waist, altogether more comforting than she expected, and they took off at a decent clip down the muddy road.

"You seem to paint all Englishmen with the same brush," he said presently. "Tell me, Emerald, are there not bad people in Scotland as well?"

"My name is Caithren," she snapped. "And we save our aggression for the English."

It wasn't even close to the truth, but it sounded good.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Seated behind Emerald in the saddle, Jason watched her head bob as she drifted in and out of sleep. He found himself leaning close, hoping for a whiff of the flowery scent he'd already come to think of as hers. Whatever it had been—bath oil, perfume, or the like; he was certainly no expert on women's toiletries—the rain had washed away every trace.

But plain Emerald smelled almost as good.

He glanced at the sky, happy that the rain had let up. The road in this area was clay, normally stiff and easy to travel, but the miserable wet had made it into a path of mud. On both sides of the slushy mess, barley fields glistened green in the dwindling drizzle.

When he stood in the stirrups to relieve his stiffness, Emerald came awake with a start. He grabbed her to keep her from falling. She yawned into a small, feminine hand.

It certainly wasn't a hand that looked accustomed to holding a pistol, but he supposed that was to her advantage. The less she looked like a threat, the more likely outlaws wouldn't notice her coming after them.

"Tired, are you?" he drawled, resettling both her and himself and adjusting again to Chiron's rhythmic sway.

"I didn't sleep, if you'll remember."

"What I remember is waking up alone, wondering where you were and if you were safe."

"You mean wondering if I'd managed to get to Gothard before you could."

"I didn't say that, Emerald."

"How many times must I tell you I'm not Emerald MacCallum?" She twisted around to see him. "Why won't you believe my story?"

"You do a pretty job of telling it, but it doesn't wash. For one thing, it hinges on you or your brother inheriting some land. Besides the fact that I cannot imagine you as a landowner"—that earned him a glare before she turned away, her chin tilting up—"you're from Scotland. Land there isn't owned by individuals," he said smugly. "It's owned by the clans."

"A fat lot you know." Her voice was unmistakably scornful. "I'm from the east, not the northern Highlands. Can you not tell from my accent?"

That lilting accent was muddling his brain. "You sound like a Scot to me." He guided Chiron back to the center of the road, away from the dangerous bogs that plagued the edges. "Scots are Scots."

Before him, her back went stiff. "Curious," she said softly. "You don't strike an initial impression of an uneducated man, but you seem to be unaccountably lacking in knowledge."

"And I suppose you've been to university?" The fact that he hadn't had always rankled him. Following the Civil War, he'd spent his early adulthood in exile with the king. Of all the Chases, only the youngest brother, Ford, had received a formal education.

"Close enough," she said. "I read all of Adam's books after he was booted out. Didn't want to see them go to waste."

"Don't tell me they believe women should be educated in that wilderness you call a country."

Though he'd said the words in all good humor—he'd seen to it that his sister Kendra was educated—an outraged squeal came from before him. Emerald bounced, her elbow unintentionally lodging in his gut.

At least he thought it was unintentional. "Ouch!" He rubbed his ribs. "Sit still, will you?"

"Well," she huffed, "I'm thinking you should buy another horse. Then you wouldn't care how I sit. And we could go faster. The Gothard brothers are on two horses."

"Don't I know it," he grumbled. His two horses.

She had a point. But though yesterday he'd planned to buy another horse, today he was having second thoughts. With another horse, Emerald would have the means to run off on her own.

Besides, his complaining aside, he rather liked having her sitting in front of him.

"This horse is faster," he said. "Even with us riding double."

"How can—"

"Take my word for it." He knew those horses; they were decent stock, but not in Chiron's class. The brothers had gotten a big head start toward Pontefract, yet he'd beaten them there traveling wounded.

"I'm sure they're not riding any more hours than we are," he said, anticipating her next protest. "This road is plagued by highwaymen at night, not at all safe to travel. And their horses need the rest; they've been riding them for weeks."

"They said they would ride like the dickens," she reminded him. "They could be changing horses."

"I've no fear of that. They haven't the money to be changing horses."

Beneath her borrowed hat, her plaits swished as she shook her head. "If you haven't the money for another horse," she said in a patronizing tone, "you can just say so. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

She truly had no idea who he was. He smiled to himself, glad to see his cover of a commoner was convincing. It was safer that way for them both.

"Speaking of money," he said, "why didn't you take some when you tried to leave? How did you expect to fend for yourself with no silver to pay your way?"

She was silent a moment. "Are you saying I should have stolen from you?"

"Some folks wouldn't look at it as stealing." When Chiron started up a hill, she slid back against him. Too close. "As you miss no chance to point out, it's my fault you have no coin. It's a dangerous world; you really need to look out for yourself."

The road flattened, giving him relief when she drew herself straight. "Two wrongs don't make a right."

"Does your mother say that, too?"

"Everyone says that. You must have heard it before?"

"I've heard it." Spotting a bridge up ahead, he tensed. "I just don't think it applies in this case." Deliberately he drew his gaze from the bridge. "Have you ever considered there might be such a thing as being too honest?"

"Wheesht! You actually sound angry I didn't take your money."

"Not angry. Only concerned for you, with your habit of chasing all over England." The sun peeked through the clouds just as the road fed onto Bridgegate. "I won't always be here to protect you."

"My habit of chasing all over England? I've never been here before. And it will be a long time before I'm tempted to come back. And I can take care of myself."

He'd seen no evidence that was true, but he was wise enough not to argue. Stopping at the bridge's end to wait for a cart and two mounted riders coming from the other direction, he wondered how she managed on her own. As unpleasant as this association had been, he felt he'd be signing her death warrant to allow her to go it alone. His father would never have left a woman to cope by herself.

Just then, the sun came out. The River Idle sparkled in the new, bright light, and a brilliant rainbow arched from its center.

"Oh, the colors are lovely!" Some damp strands had escaped Emerald's plaits, and she pushed them off the side of her face. "But rainbows bring bad luck, aye?"

"You think so?" he asked, amused.

She nodded. "I know a verse against it."

A carriage lumbered toward them across the bridge. "By all means, chant it if it would make you feel better."

Her chin went up. "Are you mocking me?"

"Never." At the driver's wave, he smiled and inclined his head. "I'm waiting to hear it."

She cleared her throat.

"Rainbow, rainbow, haud away hame

A' your bairns are dead but ane

And it lies sick at yon gray stane

And will be dead ere you win hame

Gang owre the Drumaw and yont the lea

And down by the side o' yonder sea

Your bairn lies greetin' like to die

And the big tear-drop is in his eye."

Finished, she waited expectantly.

"What a long, bothersome charm that is," he said. Not to mention he'd understood but half the words. "Can't you just cross the rainbow out?"

"Cross it out?" When Chiron shifted, she knotted her fingers into his mane. "What do you mean by that?"

"Hereabouts, folk place a couple twigs on the ground in the form of a cross and lay four pebbles at the ends."

"I've never heard of such a thing." She cocked her head. "Will you be doing it, then?"

"Hell, no. I don't fancy myself superstitious." Another rider was crossing the river. "Would you like to get down and do it?"

"Nay. The verse will do well enough."

Chiron snorted and gave an impatient toss of his head, making Emerald sway. Jason steadied her.

"Shall we cross already?" she asked.

A father and two sons were on the bridge. "I just…" There was no way to hide it—they'd be crossing many rivers. He took a deep breath. "I prefer to ride down the center of bridges."

"Down the center?" He could hear the smile in her voice. "And you say you're not superstitious."

"The bridge is clear now," he muttered and started across.

"Down the center," she repeated with a giggle. "I'd never have thought you'd keep a ritual like that. A man who scoffs at ghosts and superstitions."

He kept his eyes trained on the far side of the river. "I'm pleased to entertain you."

Though her shoulders shook with mirth, she kept her counsel as they rode through the town to the square.

The marketplace bustled with commerce. Sellers hawked wheels of yellow and white cheeses while buyers haggled over fresh produce. Cattle for sale crowded a smelly pen, and farm laborers stood around, waiting to be hired. Noticing a booth filled with a mishmash of household goods, Jason thought he spotted a few garments in the mix. With any luck, a new skirt for Emerald.

Perched along one edge of the square, Ye Olde Sun Inn was a timber-framed building with a central chimney and a narrow upper story beneath a steeply sloping roof. "Olde," indeed. But delicious scents wafted out the open door.

"Damnation, I'm hungry," he said.

"When are you not?"

"Since I met you? Never. You've a disconcerting habit of keeping me from my breakfast." As she drew breath to protest, he added, "I'll buy us a meal and take a room for a couple of hours. You can wash off the mud and then sleep while I find you dry clothes."

"Sleep," she breathed, apparently placated for the moment. "Oh, a wee sleep sounds heavenly."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"Emerald. It's nearly noon. Time to wake up."

"I'm not Emerald," Caithren moaned, batting Jason's hand from her shoulder. Her nap had been entirely too short—after walking all night, she could have slept the day away and then some. But there was no time to waste. No matter how tired she was, she needed to get moving in order to find Adam.

She forced her eyes open.

Dressed in clean, dry breeches and a fresh white shirt, Jason leaned over her, too close for her comfort. His broad shoulders blocked her view of the room, and suddenly she felt frightened, alone with this stranger. It had been different last night when she was planning to leave. Now she would have to forge some sort of relationship with him. Sharing a room at an inn was an intimidating way to start.

Even groggy, she was utterly aware that, because her clothes were all wet, she was naked beneath the sheets. And one of her breasts was already bruised with the marks of an Englishman's fingers. But she remembered Jason's pistol tucked beneath her pillow. Proof that he wouldn't be taking advantage of her, because surely he wouldn't have given her the means to defend herself.

She drew a shaky breath.

"Emerald?" He leaned closer yet, unsettling her even more. "I brought you something from the marketplace."

Yawning, she struggled to sit up while self-consciously clutching the quilt beneath her chin. "What is it?"

"A Shropshire cake." He held out a flat yellow pastry with a diamond pattern scored into the top. "Try it."

She stared at his hand, transfixed by the sheer size of it—the sheer size of him—until a delicious scent drifted to her nose, shifting her gaze to the cake. "Very thoughtful," she allowed. She leaned forward to have a bite. "Mmm. It tastes like shortbread."

"Well, take it."

Not wanting to disappoint, she bravely risked releasing a hand from the quilt to hold it and eat more. "Scottish shortbread," she said around a mouthful.

He smiled. "I'm glad you like it. I bought four."

The buttery pastry seemed to melt on her tongue. "Where are the other three cakes, then?"

With a sheepish grin, he pointed to his stomach.

"I see." She took another bite. "It's honored I am that you saved me one."

"It was a sacrifice," he said solemnly. "And a peace offering."

"For what?" The last morsel went into her mouth, and she licked her fingers. "I thought we already had a truce."

"For this." From behind his back, he produced a large, soft packet and set it on her lap.

Slanting him a sidewise glance, she used the same hand to slowly unfold the paper. When it lay open across the quilt, she could only stare. "You don't expect me to wear this, do you?"

This was a bright red gown, complete with an indecently sheer chemise and an embroidered stomacher—a long triangular contraption worn on the front of the dress to cover the laces. Cait looked wistfully at her shift, skirt, and bodice where they hung on three wall pegs drying. Or rather, no longer dripping. They were far from dry.

"It was all I could find," he said apologetically. He swept the gown from the bed, shook it out, and held it up. "It's not all that bad." He frowned at what was surely a look of pained disbelief on her face. "Is it?"

"It's fit for an English doxy."

Despite what looked like a heroic effort to control himself, his lips twitched. "If you think that, I'm forced to conclude you've never seen an English doxy."

Cait closed her eyes and touched her fingertips to her forehead. "It will have to do, I suppose. Temporarily."

"I'll leave you to get dressed." Quickly he stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

Resigned, she rose from the bed, wincing as she put weight on her ankle. When she slipped the chemise over her head, it slithered down her body, feeling like less than nothing. The gown went on next. She tightened the laces, then stared down at her cleavage exposed in the deep, curved neckline. The chemise's lace trim barely peeked out over the edge. Unlike her shift, it was mere decoration, apparently not meant to preserve the wearer's modesty.

No chance was she going into public with half her bosom hanging out. She loosened the dress and wiggled out of it, then took her shift off the wall and wrung it out mercilessly.

Jason's voice came muffled through the door. "Are you decent yet?"

"Just give me peace till I tell you I'm ready," she called impatiently. She shook out the shift, wishing she had an iron. It was more wrinkled than old Widow MacKenzie's haggard face.

Well, there was nothing for it. She pulled it on, shivering at the clammy dampness. Though she usually wore it open at the neck, she tightened and tied the ribbon so the collar was snug around her throat. After donning the dress, she lifted the matching stomacher and stared at it stupidly.

With a huff, she limped to open the door. "I cannot figure how to attach this."

Jason stood on the threshold with his mouth open.

"I know the dress is too big," she added, although she knew he hadn't noticed the loose waist. He was too busy gawking up higher, where her rumpled shift filled in the gown's plunging neckline. "Don't you dare laugh."

"I wouldn't think of it," he fairly choked out, reaching for the stomacher. He came into the room and shut the door without a single snort, which she imagined was some feat.

"Hold it here," he instructed, plastering the stomacher against her front. "And then you attach the tabs, like this—"

"I cannot breathe." The stiff stomacher flattened her belly and breasts, pushing the latter up higher, which made her even happier for the cover of her shift. Experimentally she leaned forward, grunting when the pointed bottom dug into her lower abdomen. "What's in this thing?" she asked. "Wood?"

"Yes. Or bone."

Though she'd been half-fooling, Jason sounded serious. She watched his long fingers work. "You appear quite the expert at this."

"You think? I never expected to be dressing a woman." Finished, he looked up and grinned. "I have more practice taking these off."

"I'll wager you do." Recalling him loosening her clothes last night, she blushed at the thought. Embarrassed, she lowered her gaze. "I don't suppose you brought me dry stockings?"

"Stockings. Oh, hell, I—"

"No matter," she said quickly, preferring not to discuss intimate clothing. "Mine are almost dry."

While he made their damp garments into a bundle he could hang from his portmanteau, she pulled on the stockings and her garters, lifting her skirt as little as possible. It was no easy task since the stomacher prevented bending over. "How is one supposed to sit a horse while wearing this contraption?"

"Ladies generally ride sidesaddle—"

"Balanced precariously for miles and miles?" Finished, she stood straight and arched her back, her body already protesting the anticipated hours on horseback. "Not a chance. I'll manage."

Closing the portmanteau, he slanted her an assessing glance. "Achy, are you?"

"Nay, only practical." She stepped into her still-wet shoes.

He nodded thoughtfully. "Emerald MacCallum would be practical."

"Caithren Leslie is practical." She dug beneath the pillow and slipped his pistol and Adam's portrait into the gown's pockets. "Shall we go?"

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Three tedious hours later, Emerald tugged up on the stomacher for the dozenth time. "All England is not flat fields," she admitted wonderingly. "We're actually riding through a forest."

The shadows of leaves overhead made pleasing patterns of light and dark on the road. "Sherwood Forest," Jason told her.

"Oh!" Her cry of discovery delighted him. "Robin Hood rode here, didn't he? I'd like to stop and have a wee look around Robin's forest."

He sighed. "Your nap this morning cost us hours. We haven't even made it to Tuxford. There's no time for wee looks."

"By all the saints! First you keep me off my coach, leaving me with no money or belongings so I'm stuck with the likes of you." She twisted to shoot him a glare. "Now you reckon you can make all the decisions?"

Bloody hell, she made him sound—and feel—like a tyrant. He pushed on her shoulder to face her forward again. "We cannot afford to let Gothard get too far ahead."

"I wish to go into the woods." With a huff, she leaned back against him as she had for much of the ride, supposedly to ease the discomfort of the foreign stomacher. "I hope to find plants I may be needing. My box of herbs was left in my satchel—"

"On the coach. I know," he said irritably. His body was reacting to her close proximity. "Is that why you plucked leaves off a plant by the church yesterday?"

"Aye. Featherfew, for the headache. I believe I feel one coming on." She made a great show of rubbing her forehead, and the movement ran through him like a tremor. "Ten minutes. If I haven't found what I need by then, we'll be on our way. I wish to find something to relieve the swelling of my ankle. And something to heal wounds."

He scooted back in the saddle, but it didn't help. "Wounds?"

"Like the one I have," she pointed out, "thanks to your sword."

"Very well, then," he muttered, annoyed. She was entirely too talented at triggering his guilt, not to mention his body's responses. "Ten minutes."

He guided Chiron off the road and dismounted, tethering him to a tree. Then he reached to help her down.

She pushed his hands away. "I can do it." But after a few clumsy attempts, she folded her arms over her well-covered chest, looking even more annoyed than he was. "Nay, I cannot. How am I supposed to move with this board strapped to my middle?"

Hiding a smile, he reached for her again, catching a whiff of her rain-washed scent. As soon as her feet hit the ground he released her, grateful to break the contact.

She flexed her knees, stroking Chiron's silvery mane. "What do you call him?"

"Who?" he asked, distracted.

"Your horse." She slanted him a look, took a few tentative steps, then headed off into the woods.

Her limp did nothing to alleviate his guilt. "Chiron," he said, following her. "I call him Chiron."

A giggle floated back through the trees. "Think yourself the Greek hero, do you?"

"A hero?" His answering laugh was humorless. "Not a chance."

"Jason, the Greek hero." She knelt to inspect some small plants by the base of a tree, allowing him to catch up to her. "One-blade," she murmured, sounding pleased. "The Greek Jason's guardian was the centaur Chiron, aye?"

"Aye. I mean, yes. My sister loves the legends; it was she who named my horse." Leaning against the tree, he frowned at the top of her head as he watched her pick a few blue-green leaves. She seemed surprisingly knowledgeable about plants. Knowledgeable about lots of things. "How is it you know that tale? A Greek myth. And the English tales of Robin."

Slipping the leaves into her pocket, she rose and wandered off, her gaze trained on the moist, dark earth. "You think I'm an ignorant fool then, do you?"

"No." That wasn't what he'd been thinking at all. Far from a fool, she was quick and creative—at least when it came to inventing lies. "I don't know what to think of you," he said honestly, following her again. "Or what to do with you, for that matter."

She whirled so fast he nearly ran into her. The dress she detested swirled around her legs. "What do you mean, what to do with me? You promised you'd take me to London."

"And I will—"

"This arrangement wasn't my choice." She appraised him for a few heartbeats before crouching to inspect another bit of greenery. "But I don't mean to be trouble.

Despite himself, his gaze was drawn to the nape of her long, slim neck. "Of course you're trouble." He shrugged uncomfortably, grateful her eyes were on the plant. He didn't want to know what color the hazel had turned to now. "But it's no fault of yours. All women are trouble."

She straightened to face him. "All women?" The two words were laced with challenge.

He took a defensive step back. "Are you not going to take any of that plant?"

"It's useless. I was hoping it was moonwort, but of course it's too late in the year." With a look that said the conversation was far from over, she meandered along and knelt by another plant. "Surely your mother wasn't trouble?"

"Her above all." He sighed, his mind far in the past—a past he preferred to forget. "She abandoned four children, effectively leaving me, as the eldest, to raise the rest."

She glanced up. "Abandoned you?" she asked softly.

He surveyed the fragrant forest, the cloudy sky, anything to avoid the pity in her gaze.

The last thing he wanted was this woman's sympathy.

"Well, she died, which amounted to the same thing. She insisted on following my father into battle against Cromwell. Not a woman's place, but—"

"Not a woman's place?" Shading her eyes with a hand, she sent him a glare clearly meant to intimidate. "Who are you to tell women where their places are, Jason Chase?"

He blinked. "I imagine I should expect such an attitude from a woman who does a man's job."

"If running Leslie is a man's job, then aye, I do one." Fallen leaves crunched beneath her as she rose. "Given your attitude toward women, I expect your three siblings are sisters?"

"Only one." Thinking of his sister prompted a smile. "But Kendra was enough trouble for three. And still trouble—she refuses to get married, at least to anyone remotely suitable."

"Poor, poor Jason." Her commiserating noises were clearly less than sincere. "Imagine a woman wanting to choose her own husband." She came near, her skirts swishing again, drawing his attention to the curves underneath. "Imagine a woman wanting a husband at all. They're all like you, thinking they can keep their women in place."

Those changeable eyes looked green now. He backed up until he bumped smack against a tree and could go no farther—at least not without looking like more of a fool than he already felt.

She moved closer again. Too close. "It's sorry I am if your mam was a halliracket, but—"

"A what?"

"An irresponsible person." She fixed her gaze on his. "But my mam would say a scabbit sheep canna smit a hail herself."

He crossed his arms and stared back at her, his mind a complete blank when confronted with such gibberish.

"One evil person cannot infect the whole. You cannot judge all women by your own isolated experiences."

He cleared his throat. "I suppose your mother is an angel on earth?"

Shrugging, she lowered herself to inspect another plant. After a moment, her voice drifted up, quiet and subdued. "She's an angel in heaven. Mam died when I was but twelve." Slowly she tilted her face until her gaze was locked on his. "And my Da died a few weeks ago."

A faint glaze of tears seemed to brighten her eyes. Though he didn't know how much of her story he believed, he found himself drowning in those eyes, wanting to reach for her and offer comfort.

He blew out a breath. "I'm sorry."

Thankfully, she focused back down, fingering a small whitish leaf. "It was a blessing." He watched her pluck it, her fingers both graceful and deft. "He had a fit last spring and couldn't move but to blink his eyes and swallow." She looked up again. "I wouldn't care to live like that."

"Nor I," he assured her, not knowing what else to say.

"Now my family is only Adam."

"Right, you told me about him." A few too many times. "Adam MacCallum."

"Adam Leslie." With a huff, she stood. "By all the saints, you have got to be the stubbornest man I've ever met."

"Runs in the family," he said dryly, watching her pull her amulet from under her shift and fold one hand around it. It looked ancient. He wondered how many Emeralds had worn it over the years. "Have you no other family at all?"

"A cousin, Cameron." The necklace fell from her fingers. "Leslie," she added before he could suggest otherwise.

He was beginning to think he'd never trip her up; she was a bright one, all right. And she asked way too many questions. Personal questions. "What is that?" he asked, indicating the leaf in her other hand.

"Bifoil." She added it to her pocket. "Good for wounds."

He bent and touched the plant's second leaf. "Why didn't you take this one?"

"I must leave some to grow and flourish for the next person who needs it. Removing too much is rude. We must respect Mother Earth if we wish her to provide."

She ambled off again, her gait made awkward by more than a twisted ankle. It was clear she was suffering from the long ride. Though he'd felt the same his first few days on the road, he wouldn't tell her that, any more than she'd admit to her pain.

It struck him that in some ways they were all too similar. Not particularly good ways, either.

She paused by a tall plant with a spiky bush of pale flowers, but left the blossoms alone, instead plucking off their ash-colored leaves. "Snakewood," she told him, the word trailing off into a yawn.

That reminded him she'd had no sleep in two days, other than the one short nap. He could see the weariness etched in her face, the dark circles under her eyes. Responsibility weighed heavy on his conscience, mingling with that tender feeling he found so confusing and disturbing.

His stomach rumbled, and he remembered they were almost to Tuxford. "Your ten minutes are up. Are you hungry?"

When she shook her head, his gaze raked her slim frame.

"You need to eat more."

"The gown is too big."

Her pert nose went into the air, a gesture so amusing it dispelled his strange mood.

"It's no fault of mine if you're no judge of women's sizes." She hugged herself around her loose waistline and started back toward Chiron. "You shall have to find me some decent clothes, Jase."

"Don't call me that," he said, following her. "Jase Chase. It rhymes. It's disgusting. What were my parents thinking when they named me?"

The question was rhetorical, but she responded anyway. "Evidently they weren't thinking at all." She turned and walked backward, watching him avidly, her grin too fetching for his comfort. "Or maybe they had a ripe sense of humor, Jase."

He growled deep in his throat. "Nobody calls me Jase."

At that, she turned back around. "I do," she called over her shoulder, sounding altogether more cheerful than she had since they'd met. "So long as you call me Emerald."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"What are they gawking at?" Caithren said irritably a few hours later.

Waiting at the end of the bridge into Newark-on-Trent, she yanked up on both the stomacher and her shift, giving the evil eye to the two shabby men who were crossing. "I'm not wearing this doxy's dress again."

She smiled to herself when Jason guided Chiron down the exact center of the bridge. "Careful, you're going toward the right—I mean, left. You wouldn't want to risk something bad happening should you veer from the middle."

"Very funny." His tone was dry, but she thought she could feel him laughing behind her. "It's clouding up again, so I think we'll stop here and try to make up the time tomorrow."

"Are you sure?" she asked. "It isn't dark yet. Though the thought of a bed is very appealing." And in the last twelve miles she'd learned the folly of turning down dinner in Tuxford. It felt as though a hole sat in the place where her stomach was supposed to be.

The sky did look menacing. After the soft, rain-soaked road, Chiron's hooves sounded loud on the town's cobblestones as he carried them down Beast Market Hill and onto Castlegate. "If we're going to stop, then I see just where to stay," Cait teased. On their right, the street's namesake loomed over the riverbank. "Since you seem wont to choose the most impressive place."

Now he laughed aloud. "It's Newark Castle, and after the war, Cromwell ordered it demolished. Fortunately, the people refused to complete the job, so the face of the castle remains. But behind it, nothing. I expect you wouldn't be comfortable."

"It's a beautiful facade." She mourned the loss. "We've many large castles in Scotland."

They jostled their way through Chain Lane, a narrow alley of a street lined with tiny shops of all sorts, and on into the marketplace. Jason rode through an archway beside a large inn called the Saracen's Head.

When Caithren slid to the cobblestones, her knees threatened to buckle. She sternly forced them to comply. Jason wouldn't see any weakness on her part—not if she had any say in the matter.

The Saracen's Head boasted fine stables. A liveried ostler came forward to take Chiron in hand, and Cait and Jason hurried toward the inn just as the first raindrops were falling.

Spotting bright yellow by the windows, she paused to snap off a couple of marigolds. Jason frowned. "I don't expect the proprietor will appreciate that."

"Earth's bounty is for all to share," she argued. "This is just what I need for my ankle. I'll ask for some vinegar to mix with the juice, and by morning I'll be right as rain."

"We'll both be soaked with rain if we don't get inside." When she would have reached for another flower, he took her by the hand and dragged her through the door and to the innkeeper's desk.

Jason set his portmanteau and their bundle of damp clothing on the floor. "One room," he told the seated man, a large fellow with a huge smile and a pockmarked face. "If you please, Mr. . . ?"

"Twentyman," the man said.

"Two rooms," Caithren corrected.

"One," Jason repeated.

With a huff of disgust, she decided he could handle this alone and wandered off to the taproom. Something smelled wonderful, and her poor belly was just begging to be filled.

"Good eve," a jolly, rotund woman greeted her. She had round red cheeks and a round brown bun that shone in the well-lit room. "We've a lovely mushroom pie this evening."

Caithren glanced toward the lobby. The way she saw it, Jason owed her whatever she wanted to eat. And then some. "I'll try it, then," she said happily. "And a sallet. And…"

"Spice cake?" the woman suggested.

"Aye. And a tankard of ale. I thank you."

"I thank you, milady," the woman said. "Seat yourself, if you please."

Milady. Though Caithren wasn't a lady, it was nice to be mistaken for one. Especially after the treatment she'd received thus far in this country. Smiling at the woman, she seated herself at a fine, polished table. When Jason came in and asked what she wanted, she was pleased to tell him she'd taken care of herself already.

He might think he was calling all the shots, but she would prove otherwise.

He ordered for himself and joined her at the table.

"Twentyman," she mused. "Where does one get a name like that?"

"That's a story," the jolly woman said, coming up from behind Cait to set two ales before them. "My husband's family was originally called Lydell. It's said that one of the Lydells pole-axed twenty men, hence the name Twentyman."

She walked away.

"You English are strange," Cait said flatly.

Jason just threw back his beautiful dark head and laughed.

Though Mrs. Twentyman had three serving maids to help her, she made it a point to bring Jason and Caithren's supper herself. The pie smelled divine. Its flaky crust was filled with gingery mushrooms and melted cheese, and Cait was in heaven with the first bite.

"Delicious," Jason told their hostess. "Newark was Royalist during the war, was it not?"

Mrs. Twentyman took that as an invitation to seat herself. "Aye, we were. Hull, Coventry, and Nottingham turned against King Charles in the troubles, but Newark was a loyalist stronghold." Warming to her subject, she hitched herself forward. "In 1642 the king paid a visit here, and the whole town turned out to greet him. There are secret underground passages where the wealthy people deposited their deeds, jewelry, and valuables during the war for safekeeping. One leads from our cellar," she confided.

"Secret passages?" Her curiosity piqued, Cait focused on Mrs. Twentyman while she stabbed blindly at her lettuce. "Where do they lead to?"

"They crisscross beneath the marketplace, connecting in various places. Besides stashing their treasures there, some Royalists used them to hide."

Cait took a sip of her ale. "Were they in danger?"

Mrs. Twentyman glanced around, making sure her serving maids were doing their jobs. "Most certainly they were in danger. As long as I live, I shall never forget one morning when their worst fears were confirmed. A party of Roundheads were spotted on Beacon Hill, waiting to attack."

Caithren toyed with her cake. "What happened?"

"My husband's grandmother brought an old army drum out of her house. It needed repair, but it could still make a racket. Her young grandson, my husband's cousin, sounded the alarm, courageously striding through the town, beating the drum loudly, shouting, 'Who will stand up for King Charles?'"

"And they did," Jason told Cait. "They supported him courageously."

"Yes, indeed. They had few guns but put on a brave show with their pitchforks and staves and whatever they could find. That day their luck was in. The Roundheads took one look at the mob and made a hasty retreat. Thanks to the loyal citizens and their little Twentyman drummer boy, Newark was still free."

"Sadly, only for a while," Jason put in.

"We withstood three sieges," Mrs. Twentyman said proudly. "Of course, I was but a babe at the time."

Feeling full after half her pie, Cait leaned back in her chair, lulled by the storytelling lilt of their hostess's voice and the quiet roar of the other guests eating and conversing around them. She yawned behind her hand.

Mrs. Twentyman began to rise. "Poor dear, you're sleepy. And here I am yapping away."

Cait shook her head. "Your stories are wonderful, really." When another yawn forced her mouth open, she blushed. "But I am tired." She glanced at Jason, then back to the nice woman. "Do you think you might spare a little vinegar?"

"Vinegar, milady?"

"To mix with the nectar from these." Caithren pulled the marigolds out of her pocket. "My ankle is a wee bit swollen, and it will help."

"Will it, now?"

"Aye."

When Mrs. Twentyman began stacking the plates, Cait noticed something on her hand. She reached across the table and touched the woman's thumb. "And if you squeeze a wee smidge of juice from a dandelion stalk on this wart, it will clear up in no time."

A little gasp came from Jason at her forwardness, but the innkeeper's wife looked pleased. "I will try that, milady. First thing tomorrow."

Cait smiled. "I would love a bath." She looked to Jason. "Assuming you can afford it?"

The minute the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Mrs. Twentyman had been treating them like husband and wife. She was mortified, thinking now the woman might realize they were sharing a room but not married.

Jason exchanged an embarrassed glance with their hostess. "I think I can manage that," he said carefully.

"And I shall be needing some decent clothes."

She wasn't surprised when Jason didn't argue. "I'll do my best to find some while you bathe. Let me just see you up to the room."

"You'll be needing clothes?" Mrs. Twentyman asked.

"Aye. And a night rail. Mine went…missing," Cait explained feebly.

Mrs. Twentyman looked between them, obviously curious. "I can lend you one of my sleeping gowns," she said generously.

When Jason eyed Mrs. Twentyman's ample form, Cait kicked him under the table. "I'd surely appreciate it," she said.

"Then I'll fetch one and send it up along with a bath and the vinegar." With one last puzzled glance, the woman smiled and took herself off.

Jason leaned to rub his ankle, eyeing Cait's half-eaten pie. "Are you going to finish that?"

She shoved it toward him wordlessly. He ate three bites, then looked up with a question in his gaze, and she passed him her leftover sallet as well. She sipped at the last of her ale while she watched him make her food disappear.

"If you're wanting to go upstairs," he said, "I'll be needing to keep the key." He eyed the remnants of her cake, then shook his head and sat back. "In case you fall asleep before I return."

The thought of sharing his room made her nervous, but she knew she had no choice. Her gaze wandered to the door in the corner. She was exhausted, aye, but not quite ready to go upstairs and face the night.

"Do you think that door leads to the cellar?"

"Probably." His brow furrowed. "Why?"

"I've a hankering to check out those tunnels." She rose and started toward it.

"Wait." Leaping from his chair, he caught her by the wrist. "I thought you were tired."

She shrugged. "I'm curious. Maybe we'll find some treasure."

"I don't think the Twentymans would appreciate—"

"Wheesht!" When she tried to pull away, she only succeeded in pulling him along with her. Other supper guests turned to watch. She lowered her voice. "Don't you have any sense of adventure?"

Without waiting for any reply, she tugged open the door and started down the cellar steps. She heard him mutter to himself as he grabbed a candle off an empty table and followed.

The door above them shut, and the flame pierced the sudden darkness. At the bottom of the stairs, she swiveled to face him. "Do you always do what you're supposed to?"

"Pretty much."

"Boring," she pronounced. With a swish of her English skirts, she turned and looked around. The cellar's walls were lined with provisions, the air chilly. A shiver rippled through her, borne of the cold or a tiny frisson of fear; she wasn't sure which. But it felt a wee bit forbidden and exhilarating to be down here.

Jason looked annoyed and tense. And darkly handsome in the cellar's shadows, if she were to be honest. "Has anyone ever told you you're impulsive?" he asked.

"Cameron. Every day. He finds it endearing."

Jason's response was a muted snort.

A narrow wooden door was set into one corner.

"That must be it." Her voice trembled a little.

He moved between her and the door and folded his arms across his chest, looking much like the man who had kept her from the coach. "I really think we should go back upstairs."

"You don't want to see the tunnels? There could be treasure—jewelry or money left since the war."

He widened his stance. "It wouldn't belong to you if you found any."

"Of course it wouldn't. I wasn't planning to keep it. But it would be exciting to discover, all the same. Aren't you intrigued?"

"No."

With a small huff, she skirted around him. "Then I'll meet you upstairs. Which room number?"

"Four. But—"

She pushed open the door.

A musty smell came from the cramped, dark passage beyond. A rush of excitement made her knees weak and forced a giddy chuckle through her throat as she stepped inside.

Jason slipped past her and held the candle hight. "Come along, then," he muttered.

Smiling to herself, she followed him along the dank, earthen tunnel. The curved walls oozed with moisture, and the place had a mildewed odor that spoke of long disuse. Something scurried across her path, and she jumped and let out a squeak, reaching for Jason's arm.

Bobbling the candle, he turned to her and cupped the flame to prevent it from blowing out. "It's only a mouse." His smile was disarming. "Ready to turn back?"

"Nay. I wasn't afraid, only startled."

"Very well." He cleared his throat and looked pointedly down at where her fingers were still clamped on his arm.

When she snatched her hand back, he proceeded.

His footsteps sounded loud on the deserted pathway. After a few yards, he stopped and glanced over his shoulder. "See any treasure yet?"

"Nay."

He walked twenty more feet. "Any treasure now?"

In answer, she blew out an amused breath.

Ten more feet. "Now?"

She half-groaned, half-laughed. The candlelight disappeared as he took a sharp turn. She followed him around the corner.

And caught sight of something over his shoulder that made her stop short.

CHAPTER TWENTY

A solemn man in a hooded robe stared at Cait, his eyes unbearably sad and hollow.

He floated four feet off the ground.

Even as a shocked gasp escaped her, he faded.

"What is it?" Jason whirled toward her, his eyes wide with alarm.

Shaking, she put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself. "Didn't you see him?"

"See what?" He turned to look, but the passageway was empty.

"He was there. I saw him, I swear."

"What?"

"A ghost! A man dressed in robes. But his feet didn't touch the ground. And then—then he just faded away. Into nothingness."

"Calm yourself." He switched the candle to his other hand and curved an arm around her shoulders. "There's no such thing as ghosts. It's spooky down here. You imagined it."

"I did not!"

"Very well, then, you saw something. But there must be a logical explanation."

"I want to go back."

"Fine." Brushing by her, he started down the passage. "I never wanted to come down here in the first place."

She hurried to catch up and grasped his hand, not caring what he thought. As she ran to keep up with his long strides, she threw anxious glances over her shoulder.

The ghost didn't reappear, but she shivered anyway. "Do you smell something?" Somehow, speaking aloud was reassuring. It blocked the echo of their footsteps and the eerie sounds that seemed to bounce off the walls. "The atmosphere down here is strange."

Jason's hand tightened on hers, making her already high-strung nerves tauten a bit more. "We're almost there." He turned and walked backward, peering through the semidarkness to see her face. "Are you all right?"

Before she could answer, a blast of frigid air whooshed down the corridor and snuffed the candle, plunging them into darkness.

Caithren screamed long and loud, ceasing only when Jason pulled her into his arms and her mouth was muffled against his warm chest.

"Hush." He rubbed her back in a circular motion. "It was only a draft."

The tunnel was black as the Widow MacKenzie's ancient kettle. She heard the squeak of a mouse, a slow drip somewhere, the rapid beat of her own heart, the slower beat of Jason's. "I don't like it down here."

"The door isn't far." His words were measured and patient. "We'll just feel along the wall."

Gingerly she reached out, her fingers meeting grainy, clammy dirt. She jerked back.

"I'll feel along the wall," he amended, turning within her grasp. "Just hold onto my waist, and I'll have you out of here in no time."

They progressed a few feet, then stopped cold when light suddenly flooded the passage.

"I heard a scream." Mrs. Twentyman stood in the open doorway, one hand to her ample chest and a lit lantern in the other. "Oh, it's you two."

Cait hurried past her and into the cellar, dropping to sit on a sack of flour. She crossed her arms and hugged herself in an attempt to stop the trembling. "I saw a ghost down there."

"No, she—" Jason started.

But Mrs. Twentyman interrupted. "Gilbert," she said matter-of-factly. "Our resident ghostly monk. One of the passageways leads to the old friary."

Caithren looked at Jason, still standing in the open doorway. "I told you he was wearing robes."

"Gray, with a hood?" The woman nodded sagely. "That's Gilbert, all right. But don't you worry, dearie, he's never hurt anyone. Though he does sometimes move bottles around in here—the serving maids dislike coming down to the cellar alone."

Jason shut the door to the tunnel, and Cait released a shaky breath. He came over and helped her stand, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "I apologize," he said to Mrs. Twentyman, "for trespassing. She was curious—"

"Bosh. Think nothing of it. You're not the first guests to take it in your heads to go exploring, and I'd wager you won't be the last." She winked at Jason. "And quite certainly not the first man to bring a woman down here and scare her into his arms."

Embarrassed, Cait jumped away from Jason just as he quickly dropped his arm. What must the Twentymans think of them? And her wearing an English doxy's dress.

The kindly woman turned to Caithren. "Your bath is likely getting cold, though, so you'd best run along."

She needed no more of an invitation to bolt up the stairs.

By the time she reached the taproom, Jason caught up to her. He reached for her hand, clasping it as he had in the tunnel. "I'm sorry she thinks that of us. I know it disturbs you."

Low and tender, his voice made her remember the heat of his body embracing her protectively. His hand felt warm and sent tingles up her arm. She wished he would hold her again…when she wasn't frightened of a ghost. Just thinking that made the blood rush to her face, and she brought her free hand to her cheek.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine." Falling in behind him on their way up the narrow staircase, she slipped her hand into the gown's pocket to touch Adam's picture. She needed to shake these ridiculous thoughts. "You still don't believe it, do you?"

"That you saw a ghost? No," he said flatly. "I reckon someone was down there, same as we were. Perhaps taking a shortcut or searching for forgotten valuables."

"He was floating. If you'd seen him, you'd believe."

"But I didn't." Jason reached the landing, turned, and shrugged. "Can we agree to disagree? Though I fought going down there, I thank you for coaxing me. It was fun."

"Fun?"

He grinned. "I haven't done anything impulsive in a long while. Maybe ever, it seems." His mouth reversed into a frown. "Other than taking you with me, that is."

"And you're not sorry for that either, are you?"

"I cannot say that I am." He guided her down a short corridor. "Here we are. Room four." Releasing her hand, he unlocked the door and waved her inside. "I'll leave you to your privacy."

"And my bath." She clenched her other hand around the one he'd dropped, but it didn't feel anything like when he'd held it. "I can still smell the mustiness from the tunnels. It will feel good to be clean."

"Oh," he said. "I almost forgot. I have something for you. From the marketplace this morning." He dropped the key back into his pouch and withdrew a tiny, corked ceramic bottle.

Puzzled, she took it from him.

"Smell it," he urged.

She pulled out the cork and waved the bottle under her nose, drawing a deep whiff of the fragrant scent.

"Flowers of Scotland," Jason said proudly. "Or so the woman at the marketplace told me."

Caithren was stunned. "It-it's lovely," she stuttered.

"It's the oil you use in your bath, no? And to wash your hair?"

"Well, I press my own myself. But aye, from Scottish flowers. Flowers of Scotland." What a sweet gesture. From a man who had as good as abducted her.

It was confusing, to say the least.

"It's lovely," she repeated.

"I'll replace whatever else you lost as well." He backed up, easing the door closed. "I never meant to cost you your belongings."

She gazed at him mutely, then nodded.

"I'm glad you understand, Emerald."

But she didn't. She didn't understand anything. Least of all why she found herself starting to like him when he was still calling her Emerald.

And he was staring at her amulet. He found a green stone more convincing than all her protests.

"I understand," she said, although she was more confused than ever. With a small smile, she added, "Jase," and then shut the door in his face.

"Mary! No!"

At the sound of a muffled yell, Caithren startled awake. Wide awake. She sat upright, her gaze frantically searching the room.

Across the chamber, Jason jerked and twitched. The fire had burned so low she had difficulty seeing him, but his face looked slick with sweat although it wasn't overly warm. The room had two beds, and she'd awakened in hers alone—but she felt disoriented and dismayed to find herself in a dark room with a man.

"No…" The single word was forced through a mouth contorted in pain. "No, no…"

Her stomach knotting with compassion, she rushed over, tripping on the hem of Mrs. Twentyman's much-too-long night rail and stopping her fall with his bed.

"Jason, wake up." She put a hand to his shoulder, jiggling it a little. When he only moaned, she shook him hard…harder. "Oh, please wake up!"

He half-rose and threw his arms around her. Her legs tangling in the night rail again, she tumbled on top of his long, hard body.

She lay upon him in shock, both of them trembling.

The thick white night rail had a high ruffle around the throat, full sleeves to her wrists, and enough fabric to wrap around her three times. But she could still feel Jason through the voluminous garment. His size, his warmth. His spicy male scent overwhelmed her.

She felt dizzy, like when she'd awakened in Pontefract. But she hadn't been hit on the head this time.

"Wake up," she repeated, her voice muffled against his chest.

Muttering an unintelligible response, he tightened his arms around her. Her heart lurched madly, and she sank into the embrace, molding herself against him, reveling in the feel of his hard planes against her softer curves.

"Christ Jesus, you feel good." He buried his nose in her hair. "Smell good."

His mouth trailed from her hair across her cheek, settling soft and warm on her lips.

The kiss was a sensuous, persuasive caress, nothing like the unschooled pecks she'd received from village lads. When his tongue sneaked out to trace her bottom lip, she gasped.

He bolted upright, and she flailed back, landing on the floor in a twist of night rail and limbs.

Above her, he blinked himself awake and stared at her on the floor, his eyes glazed with confusion. "I'm sorry." He ran a hand through his hair, staring at his fingers when it apparently ended way before he thought it should. "Bloody hell, I…did I wake you? I'm sorry. I…what did I say? Did I knock you over?"

She struggled to her feet. "Never mind."

"I was dreaming."

"I certainly hope so," she huffed, sitting primly on the edge of the bed. Though she was feeling anything but prim right now. It took everything she had to stiffen her spine. She felt boneless. "What were you dreaming about?"

His heavy sigh pierced the darkness. He lay silent a moment before words tumbled out, soft and rushed.

"It's always the same. I see Mary, little Mary, dying, lying still as stone. And then the scene changes, and I'm fighting. A duel, to the death. I run a man through with my sword. Not my enemy, but an innocent man. Accidentally. He dies." His voice hitched and dropped to a whisper. "I don't know who he is."

She yearned to touch him, but instead clasped her hands together in a death grip. "How perfectly dreadful," she whispered back, all but reeling from the pain that radiated from him.

"All the more dreadful because it's true." He reached a hand to pry hers apart and laced their fingers together on the coverlet. "In pursuing Geoffrey Gothard, I did kill an innocent man. Gothard is to blame, and the reason I cannot rest until justice is served." His eyes searched hers in the dim reddish light given off by the dying fire. "Would a woman like you fault me, Emerald MacCallum?"

Her heart squeezed in sympathy. He was needing forgiveness—from himself, not her—but she couldn't resist the pleading in those sleep-heavy eyes.

"Nay, a woman like Emerald wouldn't fault you," she whispered. "And neither would a woman like Cait."

His fingers gave hers a wee squeeze. Some of the tension drained from his body, and he rolled to his side, his eyes sliding shut. "We should sleep," he murmured. "The sun will be waking us soon. Between the rain and your nap, we lost time yesterday—we must make it up in the morning."

When his hand slid from hers, she felt a little pang of loss. He could be disagreeable and overbearing, but his was a tortured soul, and he could be kind, too. He'd been a rock of security down in the tunnel.

Perhaps she should give him the benefit of the doubt and start over in the morning. She'd let him call her whatever he wanted. She was stuck with him, and she had to get to London; she might as well make the best of it.

Besides, she couldn't remember ever before feeling quite like she had when Jason held her in his arms.

Her lips still burning from his kiss, she crawled into her bed and sank back into exhausted sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Downstairs the next morning, Jason looked up from the news sheet he'd spread on the polished wooden table. "Coffee," he told Mrs. Twentyman. "And…"

He hesitated.

Emerald was still upstairs getting dressed. Though his sister drank chocolate with breakfast, a woman like Emerald might prefer coffee instead. But maybe…

"Chocolate for the lady," he decided. As Mrs. Twentyman nodded and hurried off, he looked back down to the news sheet and began to scan the articles.

England was receiving New Netherlands in North America in return for sugar-rich Surinam in South America, under terms reached at Breda. Remembering his brother Colin's secret participation in that treaty with the Dutch, Jason smiled to himself.

A man named Jean Baptiste Denis had succeeded in transferring blood from a lamb into the vein of a boy. Amazing.

And Christopher Wren had—

He looked up when two men sat down at the adjacent table, already deep in conversation.

The ruddy fellow leaned across the table conspiratorially. "Me cousin wrote from Cumberland to say that none other than the celebrated Emerald MacCallum is in the vicinity."

She's not in Cumberland anymore, Jason thought with a smug smile.

"Damn me, but how does your cousin know that?" The man's companion, a thin, pale fellow, shook his head. "This Emerald MacCallum is naught but a fetching rumor, to my mind."

Just what Jason had once thought. He opened his mouth to clear up the confusion, but then thought better of it. No sense making it known he had Emerald in tow, he decided as a serving maid arrived with two steaming tankards.

A woman like Emerald might be liable to attract an unwanted entourage.

The first man hitched forward. "Me cousin talked to her."

"Surely you jest."

"God's own truth. He asked her why she does what she does." He ran a hand back through reddish-blond hair. "Woman's got two little children to feed, a boy and a girl, and her husband died, leaving her with a mountain of debt."

"Emerald MacCallum is a mother?" the thin man mused.

Emerald MacCallum is a mother? Jason mentally repeated, stunned.

Could that be true? It might explain why she seemed sweeter and more nurturing than he'd expected of a woman who made her living tracking.

But a mother?

"He also said the woman's over six feet tall. Imagine that."

Imagine that, Jason echoed in his head, stifling a laugh. Here she came now, meandering down the stairs, all five-feet-four-inches of her.

Unless, as she kept claiming, she wasn't Emerald.

His breath caught.

But that was impossible. He'd found her, a Scottish woman dressed in men's clothing, holding a pistol on a wanted outlaw.

As she came closer, the sight of her emerald amulet reassured him. Emerald was fast becoming legend, he decided, and folk always exaggerated legend. Look what they said about William Wallace…seven feet tall, indeed! As absurd as Emerald's being six feet, and likely off by a similar measure.

"Me cousin said she was kind," the ruddy fellow added. "He was sufferin' from the sore throat, and she gave him some strange Scottish herbs and told him to boil them in wine and drink the lot down."

Now, that sounded like the Emerald Jason knew. As she slid into the chair across from him, he resumed breathing.

"Hungry?" Jason asked, sliding a tankard in front of Caithren. "I can reorder if you'd like, but I reckoned you'd fancy chocolate over coffee."

She breathed deep of the sweet steam. "You reckoned well."

"How is your ankle this morning?"

"Much better." Cupping the warm drink in both hands, she sipped. "I borrowed your comb. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all." He raised his own tankard. "I paid Mrs. Twentyman for the night rail. Did you pack it like I told you to?"

"Aye. Thank you for that. And for having my clothes laundered and pressed." She smoothed her hunter green skirt and grinned. "Even if they were tossed over that chair rather haphazardly."

"My pleasure." His eyes danced with good humor. "It was the least I could do since I couldn't find you new ones." Sobering, he took a sip of Mrs. Twentyman's strong brew. "We can reach London in four days if we hurry. I've a mind to make it to Stamford by nightfall, but it won't be easy." He measured her thoughtfully for a moment. "I want to thank you."

"For what?" Caithren couldn't imagine. So far as she could remember, she'd done little but complain.

His lazy smile made her stomach do a flip-flop. "Last night, when I—well…I didn't mean to wake you with my nightmare, but it was nice to have you there."

She couldn't think of anything to say to that. It wasn't as though she'd had a choice. And it had been nice for her as well…if one could call those feelings nice.

She wasn't sure how to describe them.

Her tankard made a swishing noise when she twisted it back and forth. "Who's Mary?"

"Mary?" He busied himself swallowing his coffee and folding the news sheet.

"You spoke of a Mary in the night."

"Ah." An enigmatic glint came into his eyes. "A girl I love."

"Oh." She studied her chocolate.

"A young girl, all of five years."

"Oh!" The rush of relief took her by surprise. "What happened to her in your dream?"

"It's what happened to her in real life that signifies. Geoffrey Gothard was intent on taking pleasure of her mother, and Mary got in the way. She still breathed when I left, but she hadn't awakened. The surgeon said she wouldn't last the week."

"By all the saints."

"Mary was an orphan, abandoned in London's Great Fire. My brother rescued her, and I found her a home in my village. With the childless Widow Bradford—her husband had died in a mill accident. No fault of mine, but I felt responsible."

"Why?"

"It was my mill," he said lightly.

His mill? Jason was a miller? She wouldn't have thought so, but then she hadn't thought at all of how he might earn a living. She'd been too busy being furious with him.

Or, since the wee hours of last night, wishing he'd kiss her again.

To hide her suddenly burning face, she sipped.

"Mary was bright-eyed and intelligent," Jason continued. "She loved to laugh. She used to follow me around the village, and sometimes I'd stop by the Bradford house and play with her—"

Cait's tankard clunked to the table. "Play?" She tried to picture Jason on his knees with a small child.

"Yes, play. Backgammon and the like. She's remarkably good with numbers."

"You play backgammon?"

"Why does that surprise you?"

She shrugged. "I cannot picture you playing anything."

"My family plays lots of games. The man you've seen…he's not me at all." He rubbed his smooth upper lip. "When Gothard came into my life—destroyed people I cared for…"

"What of the mother?" She ran a fingertip around the rim of her tankard. "Do you love her, as well?"

He drank leisurely, delaying his answer. "No, but I feel responsible for her." He lowered the tankard, then steepled his fingers and studied her across them. "Why do you care?"

"I'm stuck with you, Jase. I'm trying to puzzle you out."

A slow smile dawned on his face, and he hadn't winced at the nickname.

She decided to push her luck a little. "Who do you love? Besides Mary?"

"What I'd love right now is breakfast," he said cagily. "And here it comes."

And that was that for now, she supposed as Mrs. Twentyman set a plate before each of them. But he wouldn't keep her in the dark now that she'd put her mind to figuring him out. He might think he understood women, but he'd never met the likes of her.

With a secretive smile, she watched him begin to eat.

He did love to eat.

Now she just had to figure out the rest.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"Tell me another," Jason said later, after they'd been on the road for hours—miles and miles of flat road that snaked through rich but unchanging farmland. It made a monotonous view that begged for a diversion. Lucky for him, Emerald had proved quite diverting indeed, regaling him with Scottish tales all morning.

"Can we not stop for a while?" She flexed her shoulders uncomfortably. "Is it far still to Grantham?"

"Not too far. One more story." He tugged playfully on one of her plaits. "In the sea fairy story you mentioned mermaids. Do you know a mermaid's tale?"

She thought for a moment. "Aye. But it's a sad one."

"Tell me. By the time you finish we'll be there and stop for dinner."

"Very well." She sighed and shifted on the saddle, a diversion in itself. "In the Land-under-Waves live the mermaids, which we call Maids-of-the-Wave. They are lovely to look at, and their voices are sweet and melodic. Their lower bodies are shaped like the fishes and glitter like salmon in the sun. They have long, coppery hair, and on beautiful days they sit on the rocks and comb it." She paused. "Unlike me, they have combs."

Jason laughed. "I'll buy you a comb before the day is out, I promise. And a Chase promise is not given lightly."

"I shall hold you to that."

He didn't doubt it.

"On moonlit nights," she continued, "the Maids-of-the-Wave sometimes take off their tails and don pale blue gowns. They can walk on the land then, and they're fairer than any land-dweller woman."

"Not fairer than you," Jason protested.

She shook her head. "If you're attempting to flatter me, I warn it will get you nowhere."

"You cannot fault me for trying."

"Do you want to hear the story?"

"Did I interrupt?" Behind her back, he grinned. "Pray, do go on."

She cleared her throat. "One moonlit night, a handsome young farmer was walking along the cliffs when he heard the most beautiful voices raised in song. He looked down to see a company of fair women, all dressed in pale blue, dancing in a circle around one who was the fairest of the fair. Then he noticed nearby a pile of scaled tails, still wet and glistening in the moonlight. He crept down the rocks, took one, and ran home with it."

Absently, Jason trailed a finger along the part in Emerald's hair.

She looked up and back, bumping her head on his chin in the process. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Did I do something?" Whatever had possessed him to do that, anyway? Irritated, he clenched his fist. "What happened next?"

Sending one more puzzled look over her shoulder, she faced forward. "When the mermaids saw the man stealing away, they screamed and ran for their tails. Hurriedly they put them on and jumped into the sea. All except one, the fairest of the fair. Her tail was missing."

"This is sad," Jason remarked, failing to hide the smile in his voice.

"Hold your tongue," she admonished. "Now, the farmer locked the tail in a box and hid the key. Before long, someone came to his door and knocked on it. He opened it to find the most beautiful woman in the land. Tears were pouring from her big blue eyes—"

Interrupting herself, she looked up. "That's the tallest spire I've ever seen," she said, sounding awed.

"St. Wulfram's," he told her.

A sight to see, the church seemed a combination of every period of Gothic architecture mixed with traces of Norman and possibly Saxon work. She gawked until he turned onto Grantham's busy High Street, a distinguished row of modern gray stone buildings interspersed with the occasional old, half-timbered Tudor.

"Now, to find a place to eat," Jason said. "In the meantime, please do continue your tale. You cannot leave me hanging on the precipice of such tragedy."

"Very amusing. Now, where was I?" She fussed at her skirts. "Oooh, look at that angel."

The carved stone angel was brightly gilded, giving it the look of solid gold. It perched over the gateway of an inn called—appropriately enough—The Angel.

"Whose heads are those?" she asked.

Jason halted and squinted up at the corbel above the winged cherub. "King Edward the third," he decided. "So that must be his queen, Philippa of Hainault."

She nodded thoughtfully. "I see you're not completely uneducated." Before he could protest that thinly disguised insult, she added, "Edward was brutal to the Scots."

"Everyone was brutal in those days," he pointed out. "Edward was after revenge for Bannockburn."

"He got it," she said dryly.

"So this is what comes of educating women," Jason mused as he guided Chiron through the archway and into the courtyard at the rear.

He helped her down and led her inside. The Angel's taproom had a fine timbered ceiling and an enormous stone hearth, but no fire this summer day. Since the weather was warm, Jason opted for a cold dinner of bread, cheese, and small pickled onions. He carried it to where Emerald had seated herself by a stone vaulted window.

"There are so many people," she marveled, watching them pass by on horses, in carriages, and on foot.

"Wait till you see London." He sliced the thick slab of cheddar. "So, what happened after the woman showed up?"

"Pardon?" She dragged her gaze from the window.

He handed her a piece of bread topped with cheese. "The mermaid."

"Oh. The Maid-of-the Wave." She took a bite. "Well, when we left her she was standing there in her blue dress, greeting. I mean, crying."

"Greet means to cry?"

"Aye. And she said, 'Won't you have pity and return my tail, so I can go home to the Land-under-Waves?'"

"Let me guess." He popped an onion into his mouth. "He couldn't stand to see the woman cry, so he returned her tail."

"Nay." Her eyes danced, looking turquoise today. "Maybe that's what you would do. But not this young farmer. He thought she was so gentle and beautiful that he couldn't bear to let her go. He told her, 'What I have I will keep. But shed no tears, fairest of the fair, for you may stay with me and become my bride.'"

She paused for a sip of The Angel's strong ale.

"Did she marry him?" Jason asked.

Cocking her head, she studied him. "Would you marry someone who kept you forcibly?"

He nearly choked on his own ale. An uneasy silence stretched between them until he wiped his mouth and said, "So, what happened?"

"She was a daftie—a fool. She walked away and returned to the sea, but without her tail she couldn't join her people. Instead of standing up for herself, in the morning she went back and agreed to be the man's bride. She begged him to be kind and never tell anyone who she was or how she came to be there, and he promised."

"And they lived happily ever after?"

"Nay. I told you it was a sad story." A faraway look in her eyes, she touched her emerald. "All the people of the village loved the Maid-of-the-Wave, but the man kept his promise and didn't tell them where she came from. They believed she was a princess, brought to them by the fairies."

"Half-witted fools," he said and ate another onion.

A frown appeared on her forehead. "You don't believe in fairies, either?"

"Hell, no."

"Well, then, that makes two of us," she said with a grin.

He laughed. "So were they happy together?"

"Oh, aye, for a spell. They lived in peace for seven years and had two bairns, a lad and a lassie. The Maid-of-the-Wave loved them dearly. Then came a time the farmer went to town to trade. It was a long journey, and he was gone several days. The mermaid was lonely without him, so she wandered the seashore with her little ones. As she sang to her wee lass, she remembered her people who lived in the Land-under-Waves."

"Very sad. Are you going to finish that?"

With a roll of her eyes, she handed him the rest of her bread. "One evening her son came to her and said, 'I found a key. It opens Father's box, and I looked inside. There's a tail in there, a big, shiny, beautiful tail that looks like a salmon's.' She gasped with shock and excitement and asked for the key."

"And he gave it to her?"

"Of course. She was his mother. After supper she put her children to bed and sang them to sleep. Then she opened the box and took out her tail. She sat by the fire for a long, long time, for she wanted so badly to go home to her people, but she didn't want to leave her bairns." She paused for a heavy sigh. "But then she heard the sound of singing coming from the sea. Her sister mermaids were calling to her. She kissed her two children and wept—"

"Greeted."

She smiled, though her eyes looked sad. "—greeted over them until their precious faces were wet with her tears. And still she heard the songs from the sea. With a heavy heart, she took her tail and hurried to the Land-under-Waves."

"Abandoning her children," Jason put in with no small measure of disgust.

"Aye," she said and nodded. "When the farmer returned the next morning, the sounds of joy and laughter floated to him from the sea. In his cottage, his children were fast asleep. But the box was open and empty. He sat down and wept, because he knew that the Maid-of-the-Wave had gone."

She released a shaky breath, tearing at Jason's heart. Without thinking, he leaned to cover her hand with his. "You must miss your own children."

A puzzled look came over her face. "What do you mean?"

"Your children. Your…bairns. A lad and a lassie, like the mermaid's, yes?"

"You think I have children?" She tugged back her hand. "Me? I've never even—"

"Never mind."

He hated the feelings of doubt that had been niggling at him ever since he'd overheard the men at breakfast. But his gaze strayed to her amulet. A ray of sunshine through the window made the old stone glint green. Emerald green.

Of course she was Emerald. Emerald would deny this, like everything else.

He damned the aggravating niggle and drained the rest of his ale. "Did the mermaid ever come back?"

One finger traced her crisscrossing laces while she studied him a moment. He shifted uneasily. He didn't want to be studied.

"Nay," she said at last. "But it's told that she often returned in the night to peek through the cottage windows at her bairns as they slept. She left trout and salmon outside the door. The farmer told his children that their mother was far away but would never forget them. When her son grew up, he sailed the seas, and no harm ever came to him, even in the fiercest storms, for the Maid-of-the-Wave followed his ship and protected him."

"That's not quite so sad, then."

A wan smile emerged. "Nay, I suppose it isn't. She had to go back to her place, didn't she? Her home, where she belonged." A muddy green now, her eyes met his. "Even though they'd never see her again."

Like Emerald would go back to Scotland. Her home, where she belonged. "Yes, she had to go," he agreed, though damned if the thought of never seeing her again didn't seem somehow incomprehensible.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The road from Grantham was hilly with lots of trees and sheep, a welcome change after traveling through flat land all the day.

At Stoke Rochford they took a wee bridge over a wee river—Jason didn't even hesitate—and rode up to the Church of St. Mary, which was perched on high land with a spectacular view. The village had no inns or taverns, though—no excuse for Cait to get off the horse and ease her aching legs and bottom. Her teeth were aching as well, from gritting them against the pain. But she wouldn't admit that to Jason.

Stretton had enormous trees and a lovely field of yellow wildflowers, but nothing else of note. They plodded on. A sleepy stone village called Casterton boasted a pretty Norman kirk, but Jason didn't suggest they stop and have a look.

After hours in the saddle, Caithren thought she would scream if she didn't get some relief. The sun was on its downward slide when she spotted a jumble of stone and patted Jason's knee.

"Do you think I might stretch my legs?"

"Why?" he asked, sounding amused. "Is something wrong with them?"

"Nay." She set her jaw. "It's only that I've a mind to explore that ruin over there."

"Oh. I see." By his tone, she guessed he saw all too much. "I suppose we could do that," he said, steering Chiron off the road and up the grassy rise that led to the crumbling castle. "We've made excellent time today. And I could do with a bite."

"I thought I heard your stomach rumbling," she said as he dismounted. "Are you always hungry, then?"

He spanned her waist with his big hands to swing her down. "Seems so," he said with a grin.

While he tethered Chiron to a tree, she flexed her knees and looked around. The remnants of the castle's walls meandered up and down gentle, grassy slopes, loosely connected by steps that seemed to lead nowhere. It struck her as both sad and terribly romantic.

From a corner of the site rose the keep, a square tower that was tall but open to the sky.

Rather than sharing her enchantment, Jason was digging in the portmanteau for the chicken, bread, and cheese he'd bought before leaving Grantham.

"Come up the keep," she said. "I'd wager there's a lovely view."

"Go ahead." He pulled a flask from one leather bag. "I'll arrange our supper."

With a shrug, she started up the winding stone steps. Though in better shape than the rest of the castle, the keep was far from habitable. The floors were half gone, and big chunks of the walls were missing. The narrow stairs bore deep depressions from centuries of feet, and there was no rail, but the steps themselves felt solid and safe.

She trudged up painfully, wondering if this were really a good idea after so many hours in the saddle. When she finally reached the top, puffing from exertion, she leaned on the crenelated wall and gazed out over the countryside.

"Oh, it's glorious!" The land rolled away in all directions, dotted with trees and houses, divided by glistening ribbons of rivers and streams. "You can see from here like a bird in the sky. You must come up!"

"Take your time," he called to her. "I'll wait for you here."

"Nay, come join me!" She rushed to the other side, saw the endless, brown swath of the road, steeples of churches, a working mill. "You can see a mill from up here, Jase! It's running. The top of a mill—wouldn't that be interesting?"

He was a miller, after all.

But his chuckle floated up the ancient stone walls. "I've no need to see a mill. I have one of my own."

"I knew that. But there's a big river too, and"—she worked her way around the perimeter—"a town, Jase! A bonnie large town!"

"Stamford," he told her. "We're nearly there." From her high perch, he looked small as he walked around to her side. The sun glinted off his hair. "I can see the town from here," he called up. "The keep is built on a hill. They usually are, you know. A motte, the hill is called."

"You cannot see it as well as I can," she argued. "It's a lovely town. With wee toy carriages going all over it."

Laughing, he seated himself on what was left of a crumbling stone wall. "Enjoy. Come down when you've seen enough."

"Please come up," she begged. She wanted to share this with someone. The beauty, the wonder. "Please."

He stared up at her for a minute. She wished she could see his expression better, especially when he released a long-suffering sigh. Finally he said, "Has anyone ever told you you're stubborn?"

Without waiting for an answer, he stood and brushed off his breeches, then disappeared around the other side of the keep.

A few footsteps echoed up the stairwell, slow and measured. Then…faltering? There was silence for a minute before the footfalls resumed, then stopped again. More silence, followed by the padding sound of walking on grass.

Then the sun was glinting off his hair again. He was standing below her, outside the keep.

"I changed my mind," he called up.

Awareness slowly dawned.

How very wrong she'd been. Ashamed, she slowly made her way down the tower. He met her at the bottom of the steps with a shrug and a self-deprecating grin.

"You've a fear of heights," she said softly. "That's why you won't ride at the edge of a high bridge, isn't it?"

Warm color flooded his cheeks. "Well, I did tell you I'm not superstitious."

It was just like a man not to come out and say it. "You should have told me the truth. I wouldn't have teased you so."

"You'd pass up that opportunity?" He rubbed the back of his neck. "It's hardly a manly admission."

"But I understand. Though it's not exactly the same, my mother feared small spaces."

"Did she, now?" He raised a brow. "And I imagine she quoted you wisdom for this sort of thing?"

Caithren smiled. "A common blot is nae stain."

"Come again?" He started toward where he'd left Chiron and their food.

She trailed after him. "Don't fret about small faults that are common to everyone."

"I see." Handing her a round of bread, he took the chicken and cheese and seated himself on a broken stone wall. "Well, I thank you for not laughing. I've never admitted this particular fault to anyone."

An unexpected warmth spread out from her heart, that he would choose her in which to confide. Never mind that it was so obvious he'd have looked the fool for denying it—it was a rare man who would own up to such an affliction.

She dropped to sit cross-legged on the grass, arranging her skirt to preserve her modesty.

"Miss your breeches, do you?" he asked, ripping a healthy portion from a chicken leg.

Composing herself, she tore off a hunk of the bread. "When I'm riding, aye. Maybe you should buy me a pair."

He only grinned, but the brilliant slash of white made her breath catch. Up here on this hill, she felt close to this man. Closer than she'd ever felt to any man before.

It made no sense. He'd kept her off the coach. He refused to believe a word she said. He was an Englishman.

She ate in silence for a while, watching the comings and goings of people passing under the medieval gateway at the bottom of the hill.

"It's a pretty town, all stone," she remarked.

"A rich town. The wool trade has made their fortune." He took a swig from his flask of water, then passed it to her. "They've a fine marketplace. There, see? And it looks as though they've a fair in full swing this eve."

She squinted into the distance. "Oh, just look how busy. So many booths!"

"Would you like to go?"

"Oh, aye!" But London was beckoning. Gothard was on the loose. She needed to find Adam. "We haven't the time," she sighed.

"We couldn't possibly make it to another sizable town by nightfall." He gestured toward the sun, low in the western sky. "We'll be staying the night in Stamford regardless."

She considered. "There will be things to buy at a fair, aye?"

One eyebrow arched. "What, have I not bought you enough?"

"One gown! One half a gown, truth be told." Her hand fluttered up to cover the top of her chest, although she was wearing her own laced bodice and modest shift.

Jason's laugh boomed over the hillside. "I was fooling, sweet." Her heart turned over at the careless endearment, even though she knew it meant nothing. "I'll buy you a comb. And some clothes, if they've any ready made," he added before she could ask. "And we can eat."

"Are you not eating already?" She aimed a pointed glance at the bare drumstick in his hand.

"Fairgoing victuals," he explained, grinning as he chose another. "One cannot attend a fair without eating. Fair food doesn't count as real food."

It sounded too good to be true, an evening of frivolous entertainment in the midst of their urgent journey. But they had covered quite a distance today, and it would serve a purpose as well. Jason did owe her replacements for her belongings.

And she still hadn't recovered from him calling her a pet name, never mind that he hadn't seemed to notice.

Confused, Cait stood and walked over to a pile of rubble, then climbed over it into an enclosure. "When was this built, do you think?" She gestured at the remnants of walls that marked what used to be chambers, now carpeted with soft grass instead of fragrant rushes. "It looks to be very old."

"Norman, I believe," he said with a nod that drew her attention to his arresting features.

My, but he was a beautiful man. Sweet, he'd called her, and it had sounded entirely different from when Cameron called her sweet.

Awareness flooding her being, she deliberately looked away from him. "Can you picture this castle all solid, with banners and tapestries on the walls? And knights battling. Over there, maybe." Feeling giddy, she whirled in a wide-armed circle. "Oh, I expect it was glorious!"

She stilled and turned to see him shrug. "I expect it was cold and rather crude."

"You see the world in black and white, don't you?"

Compelled by some pull beyond her control, she moved toward him. His hair shone blue-black in the deepening shadows, and his chiseled features looked sculpted in stark relief.

A curious quiver of wanting ran through her. "Do you not like castles?" she asked softly.

"I like them well enough." He made himself busy gathering the remains of their supper.

She stepped over the rubble and knelt to help him. "I live in a castle."

He looked up sharply, assessingly. "Do you?"

"Aye, but it's not quite a real one, you see. I mean, it's not ancient." Once again her nerves had her blethering, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. "Da built it for my mother on the land that she brought to their union. He always called her his queen. It's fortified, but just a house for all that…fifteen rooms."

"The castle at home—Cainewood—has stood five hundred years. It has maybe a hundred rooms."

"A hundred rooms? Are you sure?" Looking up at him, she reached blindly, encountering his hand instead of the napkin she was aiming for.

His fingers gripped hers. "I said maybe," he said with a grin. "I don't know if anyone has ever bothered to count." He swiped up the napkin and stood, pulling her to her feet with him.

"How can they not have counted?" Marveling, Caithren followed him back to Chiron. "Is that castle in ruins, then, like this one?"

"Oh, no. Though Cromwell did his best to flatten it, it still stands. I—people live in it."

"Is it very grand?"

He shrugged. "It's home. A home, I mean."

"Have you been inside?"

An enigmatic look crossed his face. "As a child, I used to play in the keep. That part is in ruins, though not as far gone as this. Of course, I never went up to the top," he added with a wry smile.

"As a child," she mused. "I cannot picture you as a child. What was your childhood like?"

"Happy. Until the war." He opened the portmanteau and started stuffing everything inside. "My parents were staunch Royalists. Father deposited us with friends and went off to defend the king, taking my mother with him. They both died in the Battle of Worcester. I was the eldest, at sixteen."

He was making a mess of packing the two bags, but she was afraid to interrupt to help. She sensed this was part of the puzzle. "You did what you thought your father would have wanted. Kept the family together."

He closed the first latch. "I was a man by then—"

"You were sixteen."

"He was a war hero." The second latch snapped into place. "Honorable, brave, self-sacrificing. I've never been able to live up to him."

She moved closer. "You make him sound like a god. He couldn't have been."

"You didn't know him."

Her stomach felt odd. She moved closer still.

His eyes darkened, and he cleared his throat. "How is your shoulder?"

"My shoulder?"

"Where it was nicked by my sword. Would you mind if I looked?"

She blinked, feeling heat stain her cheeks. "All right." Slowly she loosened the laces of her bodice and pulled it and her shift off the shoulder, feeling terribly naked beneath his gaze.

Nothing marked the skin but a tiny dark scab.

He bent close, nodding. "Looks good." His voice sounded husky by her ear, and her skin tingled at his nearness. Beneath the sleeves of her shift, the little hairs stood up on her arms.

"I-I thank you for taking care of me." Her fingers fumbling, she shrugged back into her clothes and tightened her laces. Tying the bow, she swayed forward involuntarily, peering up at him. "For caring."

His gaze locked on hers. Her heart skipped a beat. His knuckles came up and brushed her cheek.

She looked from his compelling green eyes to the lips that had touched hers last night…

He sucked in a breath. "The fair will close at nightfall," he said, pulling back. "We'd best be moving."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Caithren dodged a couple of dogs that were chasing each other near the entrance to the fair. "It's delightful!"

"It stinks," Jason countered.

"Aye, but it's exciting, don't you think?" She wrinkled her nose against the ripe smells of cattle and fish. But the odors didn't dim her enthusiasm. "We've nothing like this near Leslie."

She pushed into the noisy crowd, heading straight toward the area where vendors displayed an amazing array of merchandise. She passed stands piled with soap and candles, sugar and spices, making a beeline for a table strewn with a hodgepodge of gloves, ribbons, and lace.

"The blue suits you." Jason lifted a spool of ribbon and held it up to her hair. "Would you like a length?"

Her smile was quick, but she couldn't ask for luxuries—at least until Jason collected the reward he'd been blethering about. She opened her mouth to say nay, but he was already handing the ribbon to the vendor.

"A yard, if you please. And some of the red as well." He glanced at her skirt. "No, make that the green."

"Jason—"

"You'd prefer the red? I thought you'd rather not wear that dress."

"Nay, it's only—"

"All three, then." He dug in his pouch for a coin. "Do you know where we might find a comb for sale?"

"To the left, sir," the merchant said as he handed Jason his change.

Jason stuffed the coins and ribbons into his pouch. "Come along, Emerald." He took off in the direction the vendor had indicated, leaving her to follow.

Too excited to be irritated at the name, she found her attention pulled in all directions at once. A stall selling eggs, milk, and butter sat beside one offering fat brown sausages. The rich aroma of coffee beans competed with the scents of tobacco and cocoa.

She looked up, and Jason was gone. Craning her neck, she spotted his raven-topped head above the crowd and hurried to join him.

"Do you fancy this one?" The comb he held was made of the finest ivory, like his own, the creamy white polished to a high sheen.

"One of those will do." She indicated a comb of brown, mottled tortoiseshell. "Or this one." She picked up a plain wooden comb.

Jason plucked it from her hand and set it down. Experimentally he lifted one of her plaits and ran the ivory comb through its tail, then dug once more in his pouch. "We'll take it," he said, and that was that.

Caithren blinked in astonishment. She'd never seen anyone make such quick decisions.

Exchanging coin for the comb, he handed it to her. "Will this fit in your pocket?"

She nodded and slipped it inside, beside his pistol she still carried.

"Good. Now, for a gown…"

"I don't think we'll find a gown here, Jase. The fabric, aye, but—"

"Come along—we'll look."

He dragged her up one row and down another, past bolts of silks and muslin and calico. But as she'd said no ready-made garments were for sale. She found it difficult to keep up with his purposeful strides, so she was happy for a chance to catch her breath when he paused before a gingerbread cart.

"I'm hungry again." He grinned at her sound of disbelief. "Would you like some as well?"

She shook her head, watching while the baker dusted a wooden board with ground ginger and cinnamon. He scooped a hunk of hot brown dough from a pot and rolled it out, then cut it into small discs. Without further cooking, he piled several on a piece of paper.

When Jason paid the man and had a warm little circle of cake in his hand, the savory scent was too tempting. Her fingers crept toward the treat to break off a bit, and he laughed and handed it to her, taking another round for himself.

The gingerbread was spicy but not very sweet, and the doughy texture was unusual but not unpleasing.

A small hand tugged on Jason's breeches, and they both looked down to see a wee lad's grubby face.

"What, you too?" With another laugh, Jason handed a piece to the child.

When the boy stuffed it into his mouth and swallowed convulsively, Jason sobered. "So that's the way of it, is it?" Returning to the cart to purchase another serving, he handed it to the lad, along with the coins he'd received as change. "Run along, now, and buy yourself some milk."

The child's eyes widened in his dirty face. The coins disappeared into a fist gripped so tight the poor lad's knuckles turned white. Without so much as a thank you, he took off running.

Caithren lifted a turquoise plume from a nearby stand and waved it through the air thoughtfully. "That was nice, Jase."

He shrugged and pinkened beneath his tan. "It was nothing. Do you want that?"

"Nay!" She dropped it back to the table as though it had burned her fingers.

Was he intent on buying her everything she so much as looked at? Maybe it was a sign he was softening toward her, and that was a pleasing thought…or maybe he was only feeling guilty she'd lost her belongings on his account. Either way, she didn't want him spending his money unnecessarily, so she'd best keep her hands to herself.

A wild burst of laughter drew her attention from the merchandise. With Jason in tow this time, she fought her way into a crowd that circled a troupe of ropedancers. "Look, Jase!"

Indeed, she didn't know where to look first. One man was performing on a low rope, another on a slack rope that looked mighty dangerous, and a third was scaling a daunting slope. A fourth man danced upon a rope with a wheelbarrow in front of him, two children and a dog perched inside. A duck on his head was singing to the crowd and causing much of the laughter.

At the absurd sight, Caithren joined in, laughing even harder when the man executed a silly little bow, nearly tumbling from his rope in the process. The duck squawked in alarm, but of course it was all just a part of the show.

"I never thought to hear you laugh," Jason said wonderingly beside her.

She turned to see an unfathomable look in his eyes. A look that, if she hadn't known better, she might interpret to mean he liked her.

"I've had nothing to laugh at lately," she said gravely, the moment of light, unburdened hilarity lost.

"No, you haven't," he agreed. "Let's see what else I can find to amuse you."

With a light touch on the small of her back, he guided her through the throng and across a trampled field. Ahead loomed another enthralled crowd. "Ah, a mountebank," he said.

"A what?"

"A man who calls himself a doctor."

"Calls himself? Is he a doctor, or nay?"

He looked down at her, flashing an enigmatic grin. "You decide." And he pulled her into the cluster of onlookers.

"Is that the mountebank?" she asked, indicating a rather rumpled looking fellow in a velvet suit that looked much too hot for the summer afternoon.

"Hush," Jason said. "Listen."

"Ladies and gentlemen," the man called out, "do ever you suffer from distempers and ails of the digestion? Why suffer when you can take Dr. Miracle's Universal Healing Potion? My tonic is made from a secret recipe sent down through the ages from the sages of Rome. Along with healing herbs, it contains miraculous powdered bones from the relics of the saints."

"Powdered bones won't cure anybody," Caithren scoffed under her breath.

"Rubbish!" bellowed a stout gentleman standing beside her.

"Ah! We've a disbeliever here, ladies and gentleman. Well, sir, what must I do to prove my miracle cure?" The mountebank put one dirty finger to his chin and tapped it three times. Then his eyes lit up. "Aha! I shall poison someone, then cure him!" With a smarmy smile, he reached into a black bag at his feet and pulled out a squirming green creature that croaked. Cait jumped.

Chuckling, Jason put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

Dr. Miracle raised the small, warty thing for all to see. "I have here a toad, the most poisonous creature known to mankind." His calculating eyes scanned the gathering. "If a fellow swallowed this animal, it would lead to almost certain death, would it not?"

The crowd murmured its agreement.

"But!" He raised a grimy hand. "I will have it be known that my Universal Healing Potion will cure even this toad's mighty poison. Now…" He paced in a slow circle. "Who will volunteer to swallow this creature? Who among you be brave enough?"

Around and around the mountebank went, while the crowd backed away, until suddenly he stopped right before the man who had shouted "Rubbish!" He strode forward and thrust the toad in the man's face, which was too close to her own for Cait's comfort. She leapt back, right into Jason's solid form.

His warm arms came around to steady her. "Watch," he whispered in her ear.

"Are you brave enough, my man?" the mountebank asked. "Will you swallow the toad and take the cure?"

With a huff, the man turned and elbowed his way out through the crowd.

Dr. Miracle smirked as the mass of people parted, then closed in where the man had been. "Very well, then, I shall pay someone six pence if he will offer to swallow this poisonous toad, then be cured by my tonic." He walked slowly around the interior of the circle. "Will no one volunteer? Ten pence, anyone?" The toad sat docilely on his open palm, though Caithren could see its fat little sides heaving. "Hmm…I'll make that a whole shilling and include a free bottle of Dr. Miracle's Universal Healing Potion, worth another shilling. Now, who will volunteer?"

"I'll swallow it for a shilling." A ragged young man stepped into the open. He looked like he could use a shilling.

The mountebank puffed out his chest. "Ladies and gentleman, may we have a round of applause for this brave fellow?"

Everyone clapped, and some hollered and whistled. More fairgoers came to see what the commotion was about, pressing Cait closer to the center of the circle.

Dr. Miracle handed the young man the toad, then reached into his black bag and drew forth a dusty brown bottle. He tugged out the stopper. "Worry not," he assured the man. "My healing tonic will revive you—even should you be dead."

The volunteer looked alarmed at that pronouncement. He swallowed hard and gripped the toad harder. It croaked in protest.

"A whole shilling," the mountebank reminded the man. "Just for swallowing this fat little creature."

The young man scrunched up his face and squeezed his eyes tight before opening his mouth and stuffing the toad inside. With a gulp that could be heard to the back of the circle, he swallowed. Gasps and muttering ran through the crowd as they waited for something to happen.

After a tense minute, the man doubled over and let loose a pathetic moan. His head went back, and his eyes rolled up in his skull. "Cure me now!" He fell to his knees. "I'm dying!"

Dr. Miracle raised the brown bottle high into the air. He turned in an agonizingly slow circle, hampered by the suffering man, who was clutching at his ankles.

"Shall I administer the cure?" he bellowed at the crowd.

"Save him!" a woman screamed.

"Let him die," a man yelled. "Serves him right for being such a gull."

"No, cure him!"

The young man collapsed on the ground and curled up in a ball.

"Give him the cure!" someone hollered.

Several joined in the chant. "Cure him! For God's sake, give him the cure!"

Caithren twisted to see Jason's face, but he didn't look alarmed. His arms tightened around her as he watched over her head. She turned back to the toad-eater, who was now rolling on the grass in screaming agony.

"Cure him! Cure him! Cure him!"

The mountebank knelt slowly and cradled the young man's head in one dirty hand. He shoved the bottle between his lips, encouraging the man to drink. Two swallows later, the man's body relaxed and stilled on the ground.

In silence, the crowd waited. And waited.

The man drew a sudden breath, and his eyes popped open. His hands went to his stomach and felt around. He raised his head, then sat up, then stood up and did a little jig.

"It's a miracle!" he cried. "The miracle cure works!" He skipped around the circle, snatched the bottle, and took another swig. "Give me no shilling," he told the doctor, "but an extra bottle of this Universal Healing Potion." When Dr. Miracle handed him a second bottle, he clutched them both to his chest as though they were made of diamonds, not glass.

The mountebank pulled more bottles from the bag. "Who else would like a bottle? Only one shilling for my miracle cure!"

As people jostled to buy, Jason pulled Caithren from the crowd. "What do you think?"

"Very entertaining," she declared with a smile.

"Entertaining?"

His look of confusion didn't fool her. "The toad is in that young man's pocket," she said. "I wonder how much the mountebank pays him for each bottle sold?"

"I wonder how else I've underestimated you," Jason returned. But he didn't look displeased. "Should we buy tomorrow's breakfast and dinner now?" Low in the sky, the sun streaked the wispy clouds with shades of pink and red. "It's getting late, and we'd best make an early start if we want to outpace Gothard."

And the fun was over, Caithren supposed with an inward sigh. She needed to find her brother and go home.

Before she could even nod her assent, Jason went into action. He purchased a burlap sack from one vendor, then wove through the market filling it with selections from others: bright yellow cheese, tart pickles wrapped in parchment, and small round loaves of bread. From a produce stand he chose apples and costly oranges while Caithren amused herself watching two lambs in a pen, gamboling after their mother. She didn't like to think they might be someone's supper tonight.

Across from the fruits and vegetables sat a table laden with leather goods. Belts were arranged in neat rows, alongside coin pouches, scabbards, and luggage.

And by itself to the side sat one magnificent backgammon board.

It was a sight to behold. Black leather pips alternated with gray, the whole embellished with scrolling designs stamped in gold leaf. Two dice, fashioned of the blackest jet, lay as though just spilled from their matching leather cup. The markers were carved of jet and ivory.

Caithren smiled to herself, remembering hours on end spent playing with Cameron on Da's scarred wooden set. Jason wandered to her side, his burlap sack bulging with what she reckoned must be food enough for a week. "Do you know how to play?" he asked.

"I do." She squinted up at him. "I wager I could beat you."

"Do you, now?" He studied her, his features schooled into serious lines. But his green eyes danced. "And what might you be willing to wager?"

She blushed furiously at the tone of his voice. "I haven't any money—"

"—thanks to me," he finished for her in a singsong manner. "Well, I expect we'll come up with something." Once again, he spilled coins from his pouch and motioned the vendor over.

She'd meant to have a match then and there, not for him to buy the board. She should have known better than to even look at it. Though she gasped at the price, he didn't react. After closing the deal, he presented her with the set, picked up his sack, and announced that he was thirsty.

She carried the board across her forearms, like it was a king's scepter.

Without asking if she wanted any, Jason bought white foamy drinks for them both. "Syllabub," he said, leading her to a bench.

She frowned into her goblet, then sipped. "Oooh," she breathed, sipping again. It was the lightest, creamiest, sweetest thing she'd ever tasted. "It would set the heather alight!" she exclaimed. "It's wonderful!"

Laughing, he reached to wipe a foam mustache from atop her lip. Heat rushed to her face, and she turned away. Sipping their refreshments, they watched silently as other fairgoers paraded past. Cait balanced the backgammon set on her lap, careful not to let any syllabub drip on the fine leather. She still couldn't believe he'd bought it.

The sun was setting, casting the horizon in brilliant colors. As it sank below, a brief green flash lit the sky.

Part of her wishing the evening would never end, Caithren sighed. "Tomorrow will be a clear day."

He sipped from his drink. "And how do you know this?"

"Didn't you see the green ray? They say it portends of fair weather. Have you never heard the verse?" She drank, then licked her lips. "Glimpse ye e'er the green ray," she quoted, "Count the morrow a fine day."

"Is that so?"

"Aye." She touched her amulet. "And it's said that to see the green is to gain powers of seeing into the feelings of your heart, and thus not to be deceived in matters of love."

"Hmm. Sounds like yet another superstition."

She shrugged. "I didn't say I believed it."

He took a long swallow, then rubbed his bare upper lip with a finger. "I'm sorry there were no gowns here today."

"English gowns, pah! My own clothes will do if I wash them." She reached over the backgammon set to brush some dust off her forest green skirt, then toyed with an ivory marker, sliding it back and forth across the board. "It's decent clothes I was wearing when you—"

"Helped you off the coach?"

In the midst of a sip, she nearly snorted syllabub out her nose. "Aye, you might put it that way…if you were a candidate for the asylum."

Jason let loose with a loud peal of laughter, accompanied by the first genuine, unaffected grin she'd seen from him.

It lit up his face, and a place in her heart.

She smiled in return, lifting her goblet to hide the blush that threatened.

"Wait." He set his goblet on the bench between them. "Just wait right here."

At a loss, she sat and watched him take off, threading his lean form through the teeming crowd. Not a minute later he was walking toward her with his hands behind his back. He stepped up close, so close their knees almost touched, and leaned to tuck a small bunch of violets behind her ear.

"Ah, lovely," he said. "Of a sudden, I thought that would complete the picture."

"Picture?" Now she really blushed.

What was happening to them?

"When you smiled, it was like a…oh, never mind." He looked away.

"Thank you," she said, drawing his gaze back to her. She reached up to touch the soft, fragrant petals. "I do love violets."

Behind them, wives haggled over herrings, oysters, and mackerel. Across the way, feathers flew as a hundred chickens squawked their protest at being crammed in a wooden pen. But when Jason took the game off her lap and held her hands to pull her to stand before him, it was as though they were the only two beings there.

Her breath caught, and she'd swear her heart stopped for a moment, then pounded so hard she wondered if he could hear it.

His eyes burned into hers. Slowly he ran his hands up her arms to her shoulders, squeezed, then trailed back down to lace their fingers together. When he lowered his head, her lips parted in anticipation.

But he only kissed her on the forehead.

Her heart plummeted. The gesture was warm and sweet, but she'd yearned for more.

"We'd best be going," he said. "It's almost dark, and with the fair in town, I expect the inns will fill up early around here."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Caithren popped an orange section into her mouth and licked her sticky fingers before rolling the dice.

"Double sixes!" she crowed. Removing four white markers from the backgammon board, she added them to her stack with a gleeful clink.

Looking wary and distracted, Jason shook the dice as he scanned the large, plush common room at the George of Stamford.

Cait separated another section of the orange. "What are you looking for?"

"Not what. Who." The leather dice cup stilled in his hand. "The Gothard brothers."

"You think they're here in Stamford?" She hoped not. "Have you seen any sign of them?"

"No." He rubbed the back of his neck, still glancing around. "It's just a feeling. I know they could be far ahead or behind us, but something tells me they're near."

She made her own survey, seeing nothing alarming. People conversed in pairs and groups. They went in and out of the taproom or through the double doors into the more formal dining room. Two men played cards in one corner. A couple made their way up the stairs, laughing, their arms full of purchases from the fair.

"Well," she said, "I'm thinking those brothers cannot afford a coaching inn as nice as this one. Or any of the other inns you've chosen along the way." The patrons in the common room looked well-heeled and groomed, not rumpled like she remembered the Gothards. "Is that why you've been choosing as you have? In order to avoid them?"

A ghost of a smile curved his lips as he rattled the dice. After a moment it became obvious he wasn't going to answer. But she'd bet he was attempting to steer clear of them.

To keep her from getting the reward?

She'd never understand him.

He rolled a one and a two. With an exaggerated groan, he advanced one of his black markers a paltry three pips. "Why did I buy this backgammon set?"

"I don't know, but I'm glad you did. Though Lord knows how we'll manage to carry it."

She rolled again, a three and a five. Two more white markers came off her side. She held out a piece of orange. "Would you like some?"

He tossed the section into his mouth and rolled the dice. Double fours, and he was finally able to remove three of his black markers. But three rolls later the orange was finished and the match was over.

Two up on him now, Caithren celebrated her victory with naught more than a yawn. "What time is it?" she asked sleepily.

The watch he dug from his coat pocket brought her wide awake. The mere sight of it made her jaw drop. Solid gold, the thing was, with blue jewels stuck on the lid.

"Eight o'clock," he said and snapped it shut.

"May I see?"

"I know it's early." He handed the pocket watch over. "But if you're wanting that bath I promised, you'd best head up and take it now. We'll have to get an early start tomorrow if we want to be sure of catching the Gothards."

She stared at the watch, turning it gingerly in her hands, then flipped it open. "Eight o'clock," she murmured. That wasn't why she'd asked to see it—she'd believed it was eight o'clock. She'd just wanted to feel it, to touch such a wonderfully beautiful thing.

Maybe there was no cause for concern on Jason's behalf. Maybe he had more money than she'd imagined.

But he was a miller.

"Where did you get this?" she couldn't help asking.

Taking the watch from her, he pocketed it with a smile. "It was a gift from a lovely woman."

"Oh." A gift from a lovely woman. Why should that matter to her? Three days from now they'd reach London, and then they'd part company. It was what she'd wanted all along, wasn't it?

"My sister-in-law," he added.

"Pardon?"

His grin widened. "The watch. It was a gift from my sister-in-law. You do know what a sister-in-law is? The woman who married my brother."

"I know what a sister-in-law is, Jase." She rose and snatched up the backgammon set. "I simply cannot imagine you having one, let alone her being fond enough of you to gift you with a watch like that."

"Oh?"

"Oh, yes," she said, heading for the stairs. "You're too ornery by half."

His laughter followed her up all the way up.

An hour later Jason knocked on the door and entered to find Emerald sitting by the fire, swishing her new comb through her long, silky, bath-damp hair.

He'd never seen anything quite like Emerald's hair. The women in Cainewood's village always bound up their hair or hid it beneath a cap. And the court ladies of his acquaintance were always fussing with theirs, cutting it and curling it and crimping it and twisting it into all sorts of unnatural creations.

But Emerald's hair was straight and thick and shining. Swish. The ivory comb he'd bought her ran along its gleaming length. Swish. Swish.

Her eyes were downcast, but he remembered them lighting up at each of the small things he'd bought her. He pictured them sparkling with delight when she tasted the syllabub, crinkling when she laughed at the ropedancers, and flashing when she tsked at the mountebank.

Swish.

Jason didn't think he could stand it a moment longer. His fingers itched to bury themselves in that silk. He wanted to wrap the strands around his hands, pull her head back, and expose her creamy throat for his lips to plunder.

Bloody hell, he wanted to kiss her until she was breathless.

He'd dreamt of kissing her and hadn't wanted to wake. The real experience couldn't possibly be as good as the dream, but damn if he wasn't tempted to find out.

Stiffly he crossed the chamber and began loosening his cuffs. It didn't help that, thanks to the many bookings by fairgoers, the only room he could get had naught but one bed. Neither did it help that Emerald wore nothing but Mrs. Twentyman's night rail. Her old clothes and the red gown were wet, draped over the backs of two chairs to dry.

At last she stood and set the comb on a bedside table, beside the violets he'd given her, which she'd stuck into a pewter cup filled with water. The sight of them, bedraggled but saved, made his heart turn over.

He turned away and sat on the bed to pull off his boots, chucking them across the floor.

Her hair waterfalled when she bent to retrieve them and set them side by side against the wall. "You really should learn to be neater."

He loosened his shirt and lay back, crossing his hands behind his head and staring up at the beamed ceiling.

Her head swam into view. "May I have one of the ribbons?"

"Of course. Bring me my pouch."

She fetched the brown leather pouch and brought it over. God's blood, she looked beautiful standing above him, her thick hair bunched in one hand, the firelight revealing hints of her slender form beneath the white night rail. He could barely tear his gaze away long enough to fish in the pouch and pull out the blue ribbon.

It was much too long to simply tie back her hair, but she used it anyway, leaving the long ends to dangle down her back. He'd been right: the blue suited her perfectly.

He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, listening to the little sounds of Emerald readying herself for sleep.

When she crawled into bed next to him, he made no move to get under the covers. His blood was too hot; he couldn't trust himself to keep his hands off her. The dream had done that to him.

The dream and the woman beside him.

Whenever she looked at him, whether outdoors by that ruined castle or over a backgammon board, it was with eyes that pleaded, a mouth that begged to be kissed.

He wouldn't allow himself.

He couldn't allow himself. Emerald MacCallum was not the sort of woman he was looking for—not that he was looking at all.

Emerald was a liar and she was Scottish. Scottish, of all things! It didn't matter that she felt soft and smelled sweet. That was only part of the deception.

His eyes flew open when she turned to him and levered up on an elbow. A true hazel now, her gaze was riveted to where his shirt lay open across his chest, revealing the angry puckered scar. "Does it still hurt?" she asked softly.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "But it's healing. It's been more than three weeks."

"I should make a poultice for you." She reached out, making his breath catch, but then her hand dropped away. "What happened?"

He couldn't tear his gaze from her concerned face. And that luscious wide mouth. He was sure it was soft. It had been soft in his dream.

"Geoffrey Gothard shot me."

"He shot you?" She sat up in bed and shook her head violently. The dark blond tail of her hair shimmered as it swished back and forth. "You said he hurt, perhaps killed a wee lass. And nearly raped—"

"That he did—all of that. And when I went after him to bring him in to the authorities, he shot me."

Twisting to face him, she moved his shirt aside with gentle fingers and touched the pink, ridged tissue lightly.

Something melted in his gut.

"It was dangerously close to your heart," she said seriously.

A choked laugh escaped his lips. "No, it's only my shoulder. But I was already covered in another man's blood, so Gothard figured he'd hit his mark."

"It's no wonder you're after killing him, then." Her fingers exploring, she leaned closer. Her hair fell forward, and the ends of the ribbon tickled his chest.

"No, I…" He couldn't seem to think. "I'm after him because he killed a little girl, and he'll kill others if he isn't stopped." Absently he pulled one end of the blue ribbon until the bow came untied. Her eyes widened, but she didn't back away. "And—bloody hell, I know this is weak of me—but I cannot forgive him for causing me to kill a man. It's a burden I'll carry the rest of my life. But that he shot me…no. That I blame on my own carelessness. I wasn't fast enough; I was stunned." His fingers combed through her hair as the words tumbled out. "And perhaps I shouldn't have been taking the law into my own hands to begin with. It's not…not the sort of man I am. Though you've seen no other, so I cannot fault you for believing so."

"Nay, I believe you. I've seen the man you are, Jason Chase." Her fingertips brushed his jaw. "I've seen a man of honor and compassion, and sometimes, when you let it slip, even a wee bit of charm."

Reversing their positions, he came up on an elbow and hovered over her. She fell back to the pillow, and her lips curved into the sweetest smile, her eyes filled with blue light. Free from her customary plaits, her hair was a mass of colors shimmering against the sheets. She trembled beneath him, and his name escaped her lips in a breathy murmur.

Of its own volition, it seemed, his hand moved to cup her face. His mouth descended toward hers. "Emerald…"

The light in her eyes died, and she jerked her head away.

Unsure what had happened, he gazed at her a moment longer, then flipped onto his back and stared at the ceiling, saying nothing. There was nothing he could possibly say. He had no business kissing her in the first place, so he could hardly fault her for disallowing it.

Not that he was worried for her reputation. She was no chaste virgin, but a woman of…a woman of…

What was she, exactly?

A Scot, a mother, a daughter, and a sister—if he could believe her. A…businesswoman? What did one call a female who made her living tracking outlaws?

Well, whatever she was, he needn't worry about ruining her. Whether husband or lover, someone else had gotten there first. But that didn't mean it was all right to kiss her. It was very much not all right. Beyond her sensibilities, he had reasons of his own to keep his distance.

If only he could be a greater distance from her now.

He swore he could feel her warmth penetrating the bedclothes. With a muttered curse, he took the top quilt and slid off the bed. It wouldn't be the first time he'd slept on the floor.

Assuming he could sleep at all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

"The birds are singing," Caithren said the next morning when they were back on the road.

Since their almost-kiss last night, Jason had said hardly a word. While she didn't know how she felt about him, she did know she didn't care for the awkward silence. "Isn't it a beautiful day?"

"It's hot," he complained.

"It's warm and clear, just as the green flash portended. Will you open your eyes? The clouds look like wool before spinning."

She felt him shrug behind her. "They look like clouds to me."

"Is everything so black and white for you, then?" One of her hands went into her pocket to feel for Adam's miniature. For all his faults, Adam had an imagination. Too much of one, maybe; he couldn't be less like Jason. "Do you never see gray sometimes? Or purple?"

"Black is black, and white is white. I see no reason to call them otherwise."

"You're grumpy this morning." He was angry with her for rejecting his kiss. Well, she was angry with herself as well. She sighed and tried to put a note of compassion into her voice. "Did you suffer the bad dream again last night?"

"I wish I could have." With his free hand, he rooted in his coat pocket for his water flask. "It was rather impossible to dream given that I didn't sleep."

"Well, nobody said you had to sleep on the floor. I shared a bed with you the first night, and you didn't hear me complaining."

"Is that so?" He brought the flask before her so he could use both hands to pull out the cork. "Maybe that's because you didn't stay long enough in it—"

"Wheesht." She cupped an ear. "Do you hear water?"

He shook the flask. "No. It's empty." Disgruntled, he corked it and shoved it back into his pocket. "Are you thirsty?"

"Aye. And I hear a burn. Running water. There, to the right—I mean the left."

Following where she indicated, he guided Chiron off the road and along a small path that had been trodden through the trees.

Dismounting, she sighed in pleasure at the sight before her. The stream babbled through a sparse emerald forest, its banks studded with multi-colored pebbles that looked like so many wet jewels.

"Oh, it's lovely!" She sat upon a log to remove her shoes and stockings.

Jason turned from where he was tethering Chiron. "What on earth do you think you're doing?"

"I wish to take a stroll in the water. Does it bother you, then?"

He shrugged. "I suppose not."

"You said it was hot. A wee wade would help you cool off." While Jason didn't strike her as a man to doff his stockings and wade in a burn, it was worth a try to get him out of his dour mood. "Come along," she cajoled. "Be impulsive. Isn't that what you called it when we went down into the tunnel? And you said it was fun."

His eyes locked with hers for a long moment, clear and unfathomable. "Very well," he said at last. "Get started." He waved her along the bank. "Let me fill the flask and check the map, and I'll follow along in a bit."

The stream felt lusciously cold on her bare toes. Raising her skirt, she inched in until the water lapped at her feet and then her ankles. She wandered along for a few minutes, keeping a hopeful eye out for the dark green notched leaves of water betony as she skipped stones across to the other bank. The burn smelled fresh and enticing. Bunching her skirt in one hand, she bent to scoop a palmful with the other and took a deep, refreshing drink.

When she looked up, it was into the beady black eyes of a wild boar.

Caithren's heart paused, then skittered before beating again. The beast stood a goodly distance away, perhaps twenty or thirty feet, eyeing her malevolently. She took a step back, pitched forward and had to catch herself from tumbling. The bottom of the stream wasn't the smooth slope she'd been expecting. It dropped off toward the center.

The boar took a step forward.

"J-Jason?" she stuttered ineffectively, afraid to yell and provoke the animal. She stepped back again, more gingerly this time. The hem of her skirt dipped into the water, and she hiked it higher and tucked it into her waistband.

Her hand went up to grasp her amulet. The smooth, polished emerald felt solid and reassuring in her clenched fingers. But the stone's protective powers didn't seem to be in force. Staring at her unblinkingly, the boar came two steps closer.

Her heart pounding, she reached her other hand into her pocket, her fingers closing on the grip of Jason's little pistol. Slowly she pulled it out and cocked the flintlock.

At the distinctive click, the boar moved again. She would swear his eyes narrowed.

"Jason? Are you nearby?" Her hand shook as she raised the barrel. "S-stay back," she ordered in the most demanding voice she could muster.

Ignoring her command, the boar came closer.

"Jason!" she wailed.

Her breath was coming in panicky gasps. The boar took another step. "Stay back!" she screamed. "Keep away from me, you mawkit beast!"

But it wouldn't listen, and Jason wasn't coming to her rescue. When the boar came yet closer, she closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger.

The resulting bang! left her heart in her mouth. The pistol's kick sent her sprawling on her bottom in the cold burn, and the boar charged splashing into the water, straight at her. She scrambled to get up, but her feet skidded on the muddy streambed, and the pistol slipped out of her grasp, plunging to the bottom.

Just as she was sure she was about to die, the animal collapsed.

The silvery blade of a sword flashed in the sun, jammed between its shoulder blades.

Shuddering in both horror and relief, Caithren sat in the water, feeling a sudden warmth as the beast's blood spread in red ribbons beneath the surface. Her gaze was riveted to the motionless boar where its hairy back made a hump in the shallow stream.

Jason waded to her side and reached a hand to pull her up. She stood there, dripping, her hands clenching her crossed arms in a futile attempt to control the shaking.

"It wouldn't have attacked you if you hadn't shot," he said calmly.

"B-but he wouldn't stop." Her teeth chattered, although the day was no less hot than before. "He was coming toward me."

"At a walk, no? He was only curious." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Boars don't attack people unless they're provoked."

"H-how was I supposed to know that?" Her sodden skirt had come untucked and floated about her knees. Her bodice and shift were plastered to her skin. The pale ivory sleeves were streaked a sickening shade of pink.

She stared at the fallen animal until Jason took her by the hand and tugged her upstream. His fingers felt warm and reassuring.

"Submerge yourself," he urged. He waded back to the boar, lifting his boots high, heavy with water. "Go ahead," he called back. "The blood will wash out."

Numbly she obeyed, watching him tug the sword free and rinse the blade. He slid it back into his belt, then plunged his arm into the water and came up with his pistol.

For a long moment he held it dripping above the surface, looking from it to Caithren and back again. He cocked a brow. "I reckon it's best I keep this, no?" Tucking it into his boot top, he splashed his way back to her.

She plucked her soaked bodice away from her body, trying to gather her wits. "It's sorry I am that your boots are ruined."

"They'll dry." He shrugged, then his forehead furrowed. "You're a lousy shot, Emerald."

"I'm not Emerald." Irritated, she waded out of the water at full speed. "I've never shot a gun before. I didn't like it much."

He emerged from the burn and sat on a stump, shading his eyes with a hand as he gazed up at her. "You were carrying a pistol when I found you."

"Found me? Tricked me into staying with you is more like it."

His hand dropped. "I can do without the wordplay." He yanked off a boot and spilled out a gush of water. "What were you doing carrying a pistol if you don't know how to use it?" His stocking came off next. He wrung it in his hands. Absurdly, she thought he had nice toes. "Well?" he barked.

Her head jerked up. "It was Da's. Cameron made me take it. To protect myself from Englishmen like you."

A look of uncertainty seemed to cross his face, but he regained his normal implacable expression while he poured slowly from his second boot. "You're certainly one for the stories. Quick thinker, too." He peeled off his other stocking. "It's a good thing the outlaws don't know you cannot shoot—that could put a damper on your business, I expect."

She glared at him in disbelief, then turned and stalked upriver, back to where she'd left her things. "You've an aggravating master," she informed Chiron. Plopping down upon a log, she spread her skirts around her, hoping they might dry a wee bit in the sun while she pulled on her stockings and shoes.

Her eyes were still trained downward when Jason's nice toes marched into her field of vision. She squinted up at him. "Where is the food you bought yesterday? I'll be wanting a chitterin' bite."

"A what?"

"A chitterin' bite. Do you not eat something after a swim, to keep from catching cold?"

"No." He stared at her as though she'd left her head in the water. "Is that another of your Scottish superstitions?"

"It's not a superstition—it's a health precaution. And I don't care for the way you say Scottish."

He raised a brow. "Will an orange do?"

"Aye. Sweet is preferable to savory."

"I will file that information." He fetched an orange from the portmanteau and handed it to her. "You'll have to wear the red dress," he said, pulling it out as well. He draped it over the log, a jarring splash of crimson against the green of their forest surroundings.

"Nay." Ignoring it, she bit into the bitter skin of the orange and started peeling. "I won't wear that dress again."

Ignoring her in turn, he shrugged out of his surcoat and took dry breeches from one of the leather bags.

"Crivvens!" She jumped up, scattering orange peel all over the ground. "You're not going to undress right here, are you?"

"Nobody is around. What would you have me do?" In one single lithe motion, he pulled his shirt free from his waistband and off over his head. "I'd as soon not ride about the countryside soaking wet."

Cait knew how bairns were made. She was certainly familiar with breeding animals, and, as her best friend, Cameron had always answered her questions. She'd even seen Cam without his shirt. But never a stranger.

Her gaze was riveted to Jason's chest. Lightly defined muscles rippled beneath a sprinkling of silky black hair.

When he started unlacing his breeches, she gave an outraged huff. "I'd rather not have to watch." Despite the calm words, her heart beat much too fast. "Indulge me in my false pretense of innocence," she said sarcastically, then whirled to walk away.

His laughter followed her. "Come back and take the red dress. I won't have your skirt drenching my nice dry clothes as we ride."

The skirt in question was dripping on her nice dry shoes and stockings. In disgust she turned back and snatched the red gown from the log.

"Here," he said, digging in the portmanteau. "You'll be needing this as well." He held out the sheer chemise that had come with the dress.

Instead of arguing, she took it, though she had no intention of wearing it. Carefully she set the half-peeled orange on the log and made her way through the trees, far enough that she was sure he couldn't see her. She checked thoroughly for boars before unlacing her soggy bodice.

Goose bumps sprang up on her skin as she undressed. From cold, or confusion? This vexatious and misguided man kept insisting on calling her Emerald…but he never hesitated to come to her rescue. He was exasperating and rigid…yet oddly compassionate and honorable in his way. And though she'd never been as angry with anyone in her life—he'd completely ruined all her plans!—his slightest touch sent her heart to racing.

That last point didn't bear thinking about. She didn't want to be with any man. She wanted to find Adam and get back to Leslie where she belonged.

He was right, blast it—her shift was entirely too soaked to wear beneath the dress this time. Disgusted, she dropped the chemise over her head and wiggled it into place. The gossamer fabric might as well be air for all the concealment it offered. She stepped into the gown, laced it up, and attached the stomacher with fumbling fingers. Covering her exposed bosom with both hands, she made her way back to the streambank.

She was sure her face was as red as the gown.

Thankfully, Jason was decently clothed. But when his gaze trailed from her burning face to her hands splayed on her chest, he burst out laughing.

"Sorry," he mumbled, digging in his pocket and pulling out a handkerchief. "Here."

She cocked her head.

"To fill in the neckline."

"Oh. I thank you." She shoved it down the front of the dress and tucked it in as best she could before reaching for the orange. "You should have a chitterin' bite as well," she told him.

"Why? So I won't catch cold?"

"Aye." She sat on the log and divided the fruit, handing him half. "So you won't catch cold."

He stuffed a section into his mouth and dug out some fresh stockings before joining her on the log. "I thank you for your concern," he said. "I was under the impression you'd just as soon I caught consumption and died."

Her mouth hung open. What a thing for him to say.

Why had she ever thought she might like him?

"Not until you get me to London," she snapped.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

An hour later, Caithren dismounted at the Haycock Hotel and followed Jason into a charming courtyard with stone archways and mullioned windows. "A hat?"

"Yes, a hat. While you were busy provoking the boar, I checked on the map, and this is the only sizable village between here and Stilton. Should we ride all that way on a day like today with but a single hat between us, one of us will end up sunburned and suffering." He nodded at his hat, which was perched atop her plaits. "I'd as soon it not be me, though common decency dictates it will be."

"Oh." She slowly drew off the hat and held it out to him.

He took it from her and set it back on her head. "The shops are closed on a Sunday, but I'm hoping to persuade someone here to part with a hat in exchange for a generous payment." They both scanned the patrons in the inn's sunny courtyard, well-off ladies and gentlemen sharing conversation or lingering over news sheets. "Perhaps a more feminine design would suit you?" he added, tilting the hat's brim up with a finger.

Since his comment by the burn, she'd acted cold as a Scottish winter—and he repaid her by being thoughtful. Flustered, she tucked his handkerchief deeper into her neckline. "Sometimes you're too nice."

"I'm not nice." He drew back his shoulders. "I'm doing what I have to do. No more, no less. I'm responsible for you, and for everything you lost due to my actions."

"For my things, yes. But how many times do I have to tell you you're not responsible for me? I can take care of myself."

His mouth opened, closed, then he turned on his heel and strode into the cool, shadowed lobby to make inquiries at the desk.

Cait trailed behind him and stared at his back while he explained his problem to the innkeeper. Her legs were aching again, and her brain felt muddled.

She went closer and tapped Jason on the shoulder. "I'm away for a wee dander."

He stopped mid-sentence and turned. "A wee what?"

"A walk." She gestured toward the door. "Down the street a bit, to stretch my legs."

"Stay on the High Street," he told her.

Wansford boasted only the High Street, so far as she could tell. She wandered down it, enjoying the sunshine and the solitude she'd lacked the past few days. Her irritation with Jason melted away as her feet put distance between them.

Charming stone cottages with tiny gardens lined the road, bees buzzing around carefully tended flowers. There was one other inn, the small Cross Keys. Farther down the street, a little kirk sat with its door open.

A service was in progress. Cait sidled closer to listen. The drone of the vicar's sermon sounded peaceful and familiar. It was comforting to find that Sunday rituals, at least, were the same here as in Scotland. She slipped inside and into the back pew, feeling at home for the first time since she'd stepped onto the coach in Edinburgh.

At the end of a frantic search, Jason found Emerald in the church. Dozing.

Taking her by the arm, he pulled her up and out the door. "I was worried sick," he told her in hushed tones, tugging her away from the building. Once out of earshot, he turned her to face him. "I couldn't find you."

"Your face is red," she said, wrenching her arm from his grasp. "You're angry."

"Damn right I'm angry."

"But you're not yelling."

One of the two of them belonged in Bedlam. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"You should just show it. Why don't you show it?" She grasped her emerald necklace like it would save her from his nonexistent wrath. "And you're angry because you thought I'd gotten away and gone after Gothard on my own."

Amazing how she clung to that image of him. He took a calming breath. "Stay with me from now on, will you? I don't want you out of my sight." He swept his hat from her head and drew one with a white feather from behind his back, setting it atop her plaits. "There. Now we'd best get back on the road."

"I've never owned a hat with a feather." Hurrying down the street beside him, Emerald pulled off the hat and turned it in her hands. "It's bonnie. I thank you."

He donned his own hat. "Don't lose it."

"Have I lost anything yet? Without your help?"

"No." He looked down at her and, despite himself, grinned. "I've been a great help in that area."

With a reluctant smile, she jammed the hat back on her head. "The Gothard brothers were sunburned."

Baffled, he slanted her a glance. "And you're saying that why?"

"You were talking about getting sunburned."

"An hour ago." He would never understand how women's minds worked.

"Well, they were both sunburned." They turned a corner and continued toward the stable yard. "Do you think the Gothards cannot even afford two hats?"

"From what I understand of their circumstances, I wouldn't be surprised." Chiron was brought forward, and he handed the groom a coin.

"Then they really wouldn't be able to change horses," she mused as he hoisted her up and mounted behind her. "And he's a blockhead."

"Who's a blockhead?"

"Geoffrey Gothard. We were talking about him, aye?"

"Were we?" He tapped her on the shoulder. "Gothard is not as stupid as you think. You'd best keep that in mind."

"I didn't mean to say he was stupid. I meant he is literally a blockhead. He has a square head."

He squinted, trying to picture the man, and decided she was right. Delighted, he laughed and squeezed her around the middle, and then, without conscious thought, tilted her hat forward and pressed his lips to that enticing spot on the nape of her neck.

"What was that?" she squeaked.

He asked himself the same question.

Why the devil did he find her so alluring?

She was everything he wasn't. Superstitious. She believed in ghosts. She wanted his king out of her country. And though it was clear she was educated, half of what she said was lost on him between her accent and all those unintelligible words.

A Royalist and a Cavalier born and bred, he couldn't imagine why he was drawn to someone so provincial and…well, Scottish.

"I don't know," he said at last, meaning it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

After what seemed an interminable day, Caithren and Jason finally arrived at the Bell Inn in Stilton. Leaving him to settle Chiron in the stables, Cait wandered into the inn's courtyard.

A black cat ambled over and wove through her legs, making her smile. The pretty inn's walls were enlivened by fragrant flowering plants and a vined trellis. She knelt, absently petting the cat as she read the words engraved in stone above the courtyard's arched entry.

TO BUCKDEN 14 MILES, HUNTINGDON 12, LONDON 74.

Still such a long way to go, she thought with a sigh.

Spotting a well in the corner, she approached it from the east on the southern side, lest she bring bad luck on herself. At least, she hoped she'd come from the east. In silence she drank three handfuls of water and closed her eyes to make a wish.

Please let me find Adam. And…

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter.

. . . let Jason kiss me again.

Her eyes flew open. What an utterly improper wish! Never had she thought she'd ache for a man's kiss. She hadn't believed she had it in her.

Lifting the hem of the red gown, she raised the chemise to her teeth to rip off a narrow strip and turned to find Jason's gaze on her from just inside the open stable doors. Heat flooded her cheeks, but that didn't stop her from tying the scrap to the branch of a nearby tree.

The ritual complete, she seated herself on the lip of the well facing Jason. He kept glancing in her direction, a puzzled look in his eyes. A blackbird watched her from the tree, cocking its head as though it were puzzled as well. The cat meandered over and leapt onto her lap.

When Jason finally joined her, the look on his face told her he thought her more than a wee bit daft.

Not that that was anything new.

"Whatever were you doing?" he asked.

She stroked the cat, feeling it purr beneath her hand. "This is a clootie well, isn't it?"

"It's a Roman well, I believe." He placed his portmanteau and the backgammon set, which he'd carried in the burlap bag, atop the well's ledge. Leaning over, he looked inside. "What the hell is a clootie well?" he asked twice as his voice echoed back up.

"It's a well where you make a wish."

"Oh, a wishing well. But then you tear your clothes? What was that about? Or is it only that you hate the dress?"

"When you make a wish at a clootie well, your troubles are transferred to the cloth. Then you tie it to a tree and leave the troubles there."

"You believe this?" he asked, clearly incredulous.

"Of course I don't. But it doesn't hurt to do it anyway. It's a tradition."

"Ruining your clothes is a Scottish tradition?"

She laughed and shook her head. "Normally you'd tie a handkerchief or a rag. Ruining these clothes was an extra bonus."

A brief, amused smile curved his lips—until he tensed and shot a quick look over his shoulder.

"Do you see something?" she asked.

"No. I don't think so. But for a moment I thought I did." He blinked and cocked his head like the blackbird. "So…what did you wish?"

If only he knew! She blushed to think of it. "My wish won't come true if I tell," she said, then held up a hand. "Nay, I don't really believe that, either. But I'll hold to it all the same."

"Hush a moment." He turned in a slow circle, his gaze sweeping the grounds. "I have a strange feeling," he said low.

She set down the cat and watched it scamper away. "What do you mean?"

"I'm not sure." He grabbed the bags. "Let's go inside."

She'd given up hoping for her own room, but she was pleased to see two beds when Jason opened the door to their chamber. Kisses were one thing; sharing a bed, quite another.

She unpacked their wet clothes and smoothed them on the bare wooden floor, hoping they would dry by morning. Her task complete, she turned to him. "Let me guess. You're hungry."

"Actually, I'm not. I know you're shocked," he teased, "but don't faint on me, now." To her complete surprise, he followed up with a lunge to catch her in the imaginary faint.

She giggled, feeling overly warm where his hands gripped her upper arms. If he could loosen up and become more playful, so could she. "Emerald MacCallum would never faint."

"No, she wouldn't," he agreed slowly. His hands dropped from her arms, and he backed away, watching her.

"It was a jest," she said. When he didn't respond, her voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm not Emerald, but I cannot find the words to convince you."

He said nothing, only ran a hand back through his hair. Her own hands moved to play with her laces but met the embroidered stomacher instead. Feeling a tightness in her chest that had nothing to do with its stiffness, she tucked his handkerchief more securely into her neckline.

"I'm going for a walk," he said abruptly.

"All right," she said with no small measure of relief. The time alone would be welcome. Time to think about how she was changing. How they were changing, together.

He turned toward the door, hesitated, and turned back. "I think you must come along."

She groaned. "We've only just arrived. I'd rather stay here and have a wee rest."

Taking her by the hand, he pulled her toward the door. "I don't want to leave you alone."

She tugged her hand from his. "I'm not looking to escape you."

"I'm not concerned you'll escape. I trust you." He paused as though he couldn't believe those words had passed his lips. "But something has me uneasy. We both go, or we both stay here."

The four walls of the small room seemed to be closing in on her. With him in his present mood, the thought of spending all evening in here was daunting. With a sigh, she followed him.

A coach was departing as they went downstairs, its squeaky springs audible through the lobby's open front door. As they approached the innkeeper's desk for Jason to leave the key, another coach pulled up. Neither of them were Cait's coach, though. In truth, she'd given up looking. She knew it had to be days behind them by now.

"Busy place," Jason remarked to the clerk.

"A mail-posting station." The pale man shrugged. "The postmaster makes no wage—he paid forty pounds to obtain the position. Keeps the inn full." He nodded toward the door, where three more guests were straggling in.

In order to avoid all the activity in the front, they went out the back way and into the courtyard again. Once more Caithren's gaze was drawn to the engraved archway. LONDON 74.

"How many more days?" she asked.

Jason's gaze followed hers. "Two, I'm hoping." Propping one booted foot on a bench, he glanced around distractedly.

"You're worried the Gothards'll get there before you?"

"Pardon?" He looked back to her. "No, not really. I sent Scarborough a letter. Even should he not have received it, I think we'll have ample time to warn him. The brothers might beat us there by half a day, but I doubt they'll ride straight to his home and shoot him." He plucked a large leaf off the climbing vine overhead. "They'll want to plan first."

"It sounds like you're more concerned about saving Scarborough than finding the brothers."

"Scarborough's life is at immediate risk." As though he were uncomfortable, he rolled his shoulders, then winced and put a hand to where she knew the wound was hidden beneath his clothes. "The rest can wait. But not too long…the Gothards have gone too far already. God alone knows what they'll plan next."

Cait nodded. "I'm thinking we should rise early tomorrow and try harder to outpace them."

"I won't complain about leaving this place at first dawn." His fingers worried the leaf as he scanned the courtyard. "There's something eerie here."

She grinned, trying to lighten his mood. "Are you sensing a ghost, Jase?"

With a thud, he brought his foot down from the bench. "How many times must I tell you—"

"—there's no such thing as ghosts," she finished for him and laughed. "Is this where you wanted to walk?"

He tossed the shredded leaf to the gravel. "We'll walk around to the High Street."

They strolled out of the courtyard and around the corner. As they crossed the street, Cait glanced back at the Bell. It was a long range of stone-built bays and gables, with two massive chimney stacks and an impressive coach entrance. An ornate wrought-iron bracket supported a heavy copper-plate sign, painted with a large red bell.

There was nothing sinister about the place. But her hand went to her amulet, just in case.

Another mail coach pulled away as they started down the bustling road. There were fourteen public houses and inns along the High Street, and sounds of laughter and frivolity drifted out as they walked past. Beyond the candlelit windows, Caithren could see people eating, conversing, conducting business. Living their lives. Unlike her, none of them seemed to be questioning the very foundations of their plans.

This night she hardly recognized herself and her feelings.

Jason's boots slapped the packed dirt road; her own shoes made a softer, shuffling sound. Had he really kissed the back of her neck? She couldn't be sure. It had all happened so quickly.

Past the Talbot, the street became residential and quiet, a neat row of stone cottages with carefully tended gardens. Beyond that, nothing but the dusty Great North Road, stretching all the way to Scotland.

Caithren was so far from home. Her hand slipped into her pocket, feeling for Adam's portrait. She wondered what Cameron was doing right now. Dusk was falling, casting shadows along the street; Cam was probably having supper. He'd want to find his bed soon, to get an early start and take advantage of the long summer day. There would be a lot to do, with her not home to help him.

"What are you thinking?" Jason asked.

"Of home." The black cat from the inn came strolling up beside her. She reached down and picked it up.

"You sound melancholy." His tone was apologetic. "We'll be in London soon. Once I've…done away with Gothard"—he shrugged uncomfortably—"I'll give you the reward. For all your assistance. I don't need it." He stopped walking and turned to her. "That's why you're doing this, isn't it? For the money? I assume glory isn't nearly as important?"

When her fingers tightened in the cat's fur, it squealed and jumped from her arms. "How much did you say the reward is?"

"It said on the broadsides." He shot her a sharp glance. "A hundred pounds."

"And you're not needing that kind of money?"

He shook his head.

"Very prosperous mill you have there, Jase."

Mill? Jason thought. What did his mill have to do with this? For the life of him, he couldn't think of a response.

They'd reached the end of the village now, and he led her across the road. In silence, they headed back toward the Bell. Another coach creaked by, this time from the north. The sun was setting, and he saw her shiver at a sudden chill in the air. Their footsteps sounded loud in this sparse end of the village. She crossed her arms, uncrossed them, reached up to twirl a plait.

The faint sound of plodding hoofbeats followed the coach. Two horses. Feeling the hair prickle on his neck, Jason turned and walked backward to have a look. Two men. Too distant to see their faces, but they were hatless, and damn if one of them didn't have a square head.

Although somehow he'd known all afternoon, he gaped in disbelief.

A cold knot formed in his stomach. His thoughts only of Emerald, he swiveled and grabbed her arm, dragging her between two houses.

"What are you doing?"

"Hush," he whispered. "We're being followed." His hands went to her shoulders, and he backed her against the side of the nearer house. "Hold still."

As they waited, he felt her pulse speed beneath his fingers. One of his hands went to the hilt of his rapier, the other itched to reach for the pistol he'd hidden in his wide-topped boot.

But if he confronted Geoffrey Gothard here and now, what would become of Emerald? Torn in two directions, his thoughts raced incoherently. What would his father do? Protect the woman or stand up to the brothers like a man?

The hoofbeats came closer.

Panic.

Releasing his grip on the sword, he angled her away from the street, tilted her face up, and crushed his mouth to hers.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Startled, Caithren pushed weakly against Jason's chest with both hands.

"Kiss me, will you?" His lips brushed hers as he spoke. "They mustn't see our faces."

"Who?" she asked, but the question was smothered against his mouth, and her thoughts whirled and skidded when he gathered her into his arms. Maybe to shield them from view, but the truth was, she couldn't have cared less.

Improper or not, she was getting her wish, and she meant to make the most of it.

Her arms came up; her fingers wound themselves in his silky, blunt-cut hair. His mouth caressed hers, clever and persuasive. Heat sprinted along her veins. This kiss wasn't like that bampot Duncan's, or like anyone else's at Leslie. As the laird's daughter, all the kisses she'd received had been chaste and respectful.

Jason's was anything but.

A little moan rose from her throat, and he coaxed her lips apart with his own. Her bones seemed to melt when his tongue invaded her mouth, soft and warm and more exciting than she ever could have imagined. She'd never tasted a man before, and this one tasted divine.

Just when she thought she could never get enough, he stilled. "I think they're gone," he whispered against her mouth.

She pressed closer, wanting more. "Are you sure?"

"Mmm." Another light kiss sent her heart to racing. "Pretty sure."

He pulled back, and she slumped against the wall.

He stepped out into the street for a moment. "They're gone," he said as he returned.

"Who?" Her voice came out thin and reedy.

He drew a deep breath. "The Gothards."

"The Gothards?" She struggled to pull herself together. "Why didn't you just shoot them?"

"I…it…didn't feel like the right time." He looked into the street, down at his feet, everywhere but her eyes.

She gave a violent shake to her head, and it cleared with a rush of shock and outrage. "I heard no footsteps following us! You only…you used that as an excuse to ravish me!"

"Ravish you?" He appeared to choke back laughter. "I think not. When I've ravished you, sweetheart, you'll know it." His hand went up to stroke his missing mustache, then fisted and dropped to his side. "Besides, I didn't hear you take exception. You kissed me back. I'm not the one who put your arms around my neck."

"You claimed we were being followed! I wanted to make it look good."

"Hmm, is that so?" He didn't look convinced.

He didn't look at all spooked anymore, either.

"You set this whole thing up," she accused him. "From the outset this eve, you've been telling me something was wrong. All so you could kiss me."

Now he did laugh. "That hard up I'm not. I needn't make up stories to get women to kiss me. For example…"

He pulled her away from the wall, bent her backward, and ravished—there was no other word for it—ravished her mouth with his. Any protest died on her lips as tendrils of sensation stole along her nerves. His tongue traced the line where her lips met, and she opened her mouth, and he nibbled on her bottom lip. His spicy, warm scent flooded her senses.

When he set her away, carefully standing her straight, she just stood there, trying to catch her breath. No words came to her stunned mind.

He had plenty of words for them both, though. "So, you see, I've no reason to make excuses. If I'd wanted to have you, I've had ample opportunity. You wouldn't have stopped me, as our little demonstration just proved."

"Oh," she breathed, shaken and embarrassed. Her knees trembling, she walked to the edge of the houses and looked out into the street. Although dark was encroaching, the little village was still busy. People drifted in and out of taverns and rode the street on horseback. She didn't recognize anyone, but they were all far away and hard to see in the failing light.

She turned back, not quite sure if she believed him or not. While he was kissing her, a coach-and-eight could have thundered by and she wouldn't have heard it with the blood rushing in her ears. She glanced up at the hard line of his mouth. If she questioned his intentions again, he'd surely argue, and she didn't want to argue with him.

She wanted him to kiss her again.

Her legs felt wobbly, and her heart was still racing.

He looked down at her. "As you saw for yourself, they're definitely gone."

His voice was gentler—not that it had been terribly harsh in the first place. His innate calmness unnerved her. When a man was upset, he ought to show it.

He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Don't be frightened."

She wasn't frightened; if she looked peaked, it was because she still hadn't recovered from his sensual assault. When she failed to respond, he took her hand. Even his fingers felt warm and exciting. Though she'd rather he held her hand because he wanted to, for him to hold it out of gallantry was almost as good.

"Come along," he said. "We'll get you some supper, and you'll feel better."

That prompted a smile. "Is food your solution for everything, then?"

"Pretty much." He grinned, then led her back to the street. As they walked along, she shifted her fingers so they laced with his. That felt even better.

In tacit silence they made their way back to the Bell, their footsteps echoing in the dark. Jason seemed to be on the alert, leaving Caithren to her own thoughts.

After supper, Jason would leave her in their room for a while to give her privacy while she changed into Mrs. Twentyman's night rail. He'd return, remove his surcoat, loosen his clothes. She'd unplait and comb her hair, then reweave it into a single plait down her back. They'd climb into their separate beds. So it had gone almost every night.

But tonight felt different. Just thinking about sharing Jason's room tonight made her knees feel weak. Remembering the touch of his lips, feeling his hand in hers, her whole body seemed afire.

She wanted him to kiss her again.

"Let's go into the stables," he said, interrupting her thoughts.

"Why?" As they turned off the High Street alongside the inn, her mind raced with possibilities—mostly ones that made her blush. Some stables had nice lofts. "Are you worried for Chiron?"

"No. I want to make sure the Gothards aren't staying here."

"Oh." When disappointment flitted through her, she told herself she was being ridiculous. Of course his mind wasn't on kissing her—he'd convinced himself they were being followed.

He drew her into the Bell's stables and quickly paced the length, looking into every stall.

Pulled along by the hand, Caithren hurried to keep up. "Do you reckon the brothers are so poor they'll be sleeping in stables?"

"Not exactly." Reaching the end, he visibly relaxed and dropped her hand, leaning to take a fistful of carrots from an open wooden box. "I was looking for their horses. They're not here, though, so I assume they're staying somewhere else."

Cait followed him to where his own horse was stabled. Chiron munched contentedly while Jason resettled the thin night blanket over his back. She moved closer and smoothed a corner of the cloth. "You would recognize their horses?"

He gazed down at her, his eyes dark and unfathomable. Her heart skittering, she tilted her face up, hoping for a kiss.

He blinked. "I believe so," he said and turned to leave the stall.

With a warm hand at the small of her back, he drew her outdoors. Their footsteps crunched on the gravel in the courtyard. When his fingers meshed with hers, she inhaled sharply at the contact.

Something drew her to this man, though she couldn't figure why. She didn't want to ever marry, to share Leslie with anyone but Cameron. But the feelings Jason kindled in her were fascinating. She'd never thought much of the marriage bed or what she would miss, but surely she couldn't want that with him. Just another kiss. He wasn't immune to her charms—she was sure of it. There must be a way she could coax a kiss.

One more kiss.

As they headed to the taproom for supper, she came up with a plan. Now she just had to find the nerve to carry it out.

CHAPTER THIRTY

"Nay, please don't leave."

The door to their room halfway open, Jason turned to look at Emerald. She'd finished unplaiting her hair and was slowly dragging her fingers through the crimped, dark golden mass.

"Pardon?" he said.

"Will you remove this stomacher for me?" She licked her lips, her hands moving to fumble with the tabs. "I've got it knotted. I'm not very good at it."

For a moment he could only stare. "You removed it yourself in Newark-on-Trent."

"It was a struggle." She sighed prettily, her eyes a soft blue. "You should have been there."

He raised a brow. "Amusing, was it?"

"Nay. I mean you literally should have been there." She came closer, reaching past him to shut the door. "Please?" With a coquettish flourish, she whisked his handkerchief out of her neckline and tossed it onto the nearest bed. "You said you had a lot of experience taking these off," she said huskily, leaning into him.

What was going on here? What had gotten into her? Where was her usual willful independence?

Flowers of Scotland were muddling his brain.

"Very well," he said, since she wasn't giving him much of a choice. "I'll help just this once." Easing her back into the room, he began detaching the tabs. "This really is quite simple, though. Watch."

She looked down, her warm breath fanning over his fingers. "I'm watching," she all but purred, sounding nothing like the Emerald he'd come to know. "Oooh, Jason, you really are quite good at this."

She shot him a provocative glance, as though…she couldn't be trying to seduce him, could she? Emerald? Blushing, straightforward Emerald? What a contradiction she was!

With a nervous laugh, he set the stomacher on the bed. "There."

"Thank you," she whispered, leaning close again. She raised her face, all but begging for a kiss, just like she had in the stables.

But he couldn't kiss her, not in the stables and not now. Though he'd honestly begun kissing her to hide her from the Gothards, the kiss hadn't ended that way. Bloody hell, the reality of kissing Emerald had proved ten times better than the damned dream. Kissing her again would surely lead where neither of them should go.

But as he made to turn away, her eyes seemed to spark with something akin to desperation. Her fingers went to the gown's laces, loosening them, spreading the bodice wide, wider—wide enough that he could see the rosy tips of her breasts beneath the sheer chemise under the dress.

He watched, stupefied. This was so unlike her. "What the devil are you about?"

"I'm g-getting comfortable for bed," she stammered. "Like you keep telling me to." Her breasts rose and fell when she took a huge breath. "Mrs. Twentyman's night rail, well, it's really too big and cumbersome."

He struggled to keep his face impassive. When she swayed closer, he stepped back.

Her eyes going hard with determination, she pulled out the lacing completely, tossed it on the bed, and began wiggling the dress down her body. The candlelit room was rather dim, but not so dim he couldn't tell she wore nothing beneath the thin chemise.

He swallowed hard. "Um…Emerald? Just how, um…comfortable are you planning to get?"

The gown dropped to the floor, puddling around her feet. She bit her lip and stepped shakily from the folds. "This ought to do it," she said in a soft, trembling voice.

It did it, all right. His gaze raked her all the way down to the torn hem of the chemise. He wondered if she knew her entire form was silhouetted beneath the off-white cambic. Her nipples were hard points against the front of the filmy garment. And it wasn't cold.

Feeling overly warm himself, he removed his coat and loosened the laces on his shirt.

She walked up to him. Right up to him. Her scent surrounded her like a cloud. A soft, dizzying cloud. Flowers of Scotland again.

Her hands came up to rest lightly on his shoulders. He stood, speechless, while she went on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his.

Warm lips. His body responded immediately, and her lips parted, inviting him to explore the sweet cave of her mouth. Ignoring a painful wrench in his shoulder, his arms went around her to press her close, and then closer—close enough to feel the hard rectangle of her emerald between them. Her almost-bare back felt small and vulnerable against his hands.

Vulnerable? Emerald MacCallum, vulnerable?

He pulled away. Of course she was vulnerable, or he wouldn't be bound on protecting her. He would have gone after Geoffrey Gothard tonight, instead of worrying for her safety and deciding to wait until she was settled somewhere safe—very safe.

But she was still Emerald MacCallum. A woman with whom he had no interest in becoming entangled. No interest whatsoever, at least in his mind.

He wished he could convince his body of that.

She was gazing at him, her eyes now darkened to a deep, hazy blue. Her tongue came out to moisten her lips, leaving a delicious sheen that he ached to kiss away. Deliberately he lifted her hands from his shoulders and moved to get into his bed.

She followed him, sat herself on the edge of the mattress, and leaned close, silently begging him to kiss her again.

Damn if some part of him didn't want to. The nonthinking part.

He forced a laugh instead. "Your bed is over there, Emerald."

She straightened, and one hand went up to draw her thick hair over her shoulder. Twirling it slowly, she looked nervous and innocent. It must be his imagination—either that, or she was quite the actress. There wasn't a chance she could actually be innocent. Not a mother. Not an independent, free-thinking woman like Emerald MacCallum.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

Forcing another laugh, he looked pointedly toward the second bed.

Her lower lip trembled. "I know there are two beds in this room, Jase. You don't have to laugh at me." Averting her gaze, she rose and walked slowly to the other bed, lowering herself to it as though she might break. "So my efforts to allure you are humorous, are they?"

He would swear he'd heard tears in her voice, making him feel like a sorry excuse for a man. "It's not that. It's—" he started, then stopped.

He didn't know what to say, couldn't find the words to explain. He didn't want to hurt her, but he couldn't have her thinking he wanted her—no matter that he did.

He couldn't act on his dishonorable urges, couldn't take her for all the wrong reasons. No responsible man would.

"Go to sleep, Emerald," he said through clenched teeth.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Caithren set down the candle and shook Jason's shoulder. "Wake up."

"What?" He struggled up, then fell back to the pillows. "It's the middle of the night," he complained, blinking in the near-darkness. "The birds haven't even started their chorus yet." He rubbed his eyes, then focused on her. "You're already dressed?"

"You said you wanted to leave at first dawn." She turned away and reached for her shoes, mostly so she wouldn't have to look at him. After what had happened last night, she couldn't bear to see the rejection in his eyes.

She could hardly live with herself, let alone what Jason must think of her. She'd made such a fool of herself—he must think she was a wanton. In her quest for a kiss, she'd all but begged him to bed her—and the worst of it was that, in the heat of that moment, she might actually have gone through with it had he given her the opportunity.

Cameron's teasing had proved right on the mark. Impulsive, that's what she was. She had to learn some self-control.

She wanted to be outdoors, in front of Jason on his horse, where he wouldn't be able to see her face and she wouldn't be able to see his. She wished more than ever that he'd obtained a second horse, because she suspected sitting so close to him would be almost as much torment as looking at him.

He was falling back asleep.

She shook him again. "You said this town made you uneasy." Thank God she had a viable excuse to wake him and leave while it was still dark. "Do you wish to overtake the Gothard brothers, or nay? We haven't any time to waste."

"All right. Give me a minute." With a groan, he rose from the bed and changed his shirt, tightened its laces and those of his breeches. Her eyes averted, she parted her hair and hurried it into two plaits, tying the ends with the green ribbon he'd bought her at the fair. Thankful that her own clothes were dry, she folded the red dress and chemise and packed them away.

"Hurry up," she said.

"What's going on here?" he muttered, tugging on his second boot.

He was going to keep at her unless she managed to put this behind her. She gathered herself together. "About last evening," she said to the floor, "do you reckon we can just forget it happened?"

"Nothing happened." He shoved yesterday's shirt into his portmanteau.

She pulled it back out to fold it. "Jase—"

"I've forgotten it already. I lack the sleep to think straight, in any case. It's a wonder I remember my name, let alone events from yesterday." Taking the shirt from her hands, he stuck it into the portmanteau and opened the door. She followed him out and downstairs.

On the way from the inn he peeked wistfully into the dining room, but it was unattended and pitch-black. "The minute the sun comes up, we're stopping for food."

"Far be it for me to deny your stomach."

He handed her the room key, dug in his pouch for some coins, and slapped them into her hand. "Leave these on the counter, will you? I'll ready Chiron. No sense ruining the stable lad's sleep, too."

With a theatric sigh, he headed for the stables.

The birds were singing by the time they reached Sawtry. A small, sleepy town, its few public buildings bordered one side of the village green, the other three sides lined with thatched-roof houses. There was naught but one tavern, a rectangular stone building called Greystones.

Jason chuckled when he saw the sign.

"Whatever do you find so amusing?" Cait asked.

"My brother—um, he…lives in a place called Greystone."

"So?"

"It just struck me as funny, is all." He swung himself down to the street. "We'll stop here for breakfast."

"Why don't we eat it on the road?" she suggested, looking at the square, at the sky, at anything but him. "I'll wait here with Chiron while you go inside and get something."

"The Gothard brothers were in Stilton, which means they're not making better time than we are. I'm certain they're fast asleep. We have time to stop and eat."

"I'd rather not, if you wouldn't mind." She didn't want to face him across a table. "I'll stretch my legs while you fetch the food."

Without agreeing, he helped her dismount. She took his horse by the reins. "I'll just walk Chiron over there"—she indicated the village green and a post with a sign in its center—"and wait for you."

"I'd rather you come inside. After yesterday—"

"You said the brothers will still be sleeping. How unsafe could it be? You can watch me from the window."

He fixed her with a penetrating gaze that made her quickly look elsewhere. "Very well," he said at last. "But stay in sight."

The grass was soft and springy, and it felt good to walk after more than an hour in the saddle. She was delighted to discover that she wasn't really sore anymore. After four days on horseback, her body was finally adjusting.

She tethered Chiron to the signpost, which was topped by a fancy wrought-iron affair with letters spelling not only SAWTRY, but also SALTREIAM, the village's name from Roman times.

Doffing her shoes and stockings, she wiggled her toes in the grass and wondered what Jason was thinking of her after last night. He was acting normal. Probably because he didn't want her, so her behavior hadn't mattered to him.

A depressing thought.

In an effort to cheer herself, she rolled her shoulders, reached for the sky, then bent to touch her feet, coming face to face with a fresh, white daisy. She plucked it from the grass and brought it to her nose, smiling at the sweet, familiar scent. Sprinkled liberally throughout the green, the flowers reminded her of a childhood pastime, and she picked a handful, tucking up her skirt to collect them.

Jason found her sitting cross-legged and working industriously. "Is that what I think it is?" he asked, amusement lacing his voice. "A daisy chain?"

She slit the last stem and slipped the first daisy through it, completing the circle. Then she looked up into his smiling eyes, finding it easier than she'd expected.

"For you," she said, rising. "A peace offering." Standing on tiptoe, she crowned him with it. "A daisy chain is supposed to protect you from the fairies."

Instead of teasing her about another superstition, he turned pink beneath his tan, revealing freckles she hadn't noticed before. "We've found peace between us already," he said. "Have we not?" With a sheepish smile, he removed the daisy chain and put it on her own, smaller head.

It slipped right down and around her neck. He leaned closer, settling it into a gentle curve atop the swell of her bodice, his fingers lingering there longer than was necessary.

A frisson of confusion ran through her. She licked her lips and looked down, then reached to grasp the amulet that lay framed within the flowers. Something solid and familiar to cling to in the midst of all this foreignness.

When she glanced up, he was contemplating her bare feet. He bent to pluck another daisy and tucked it into the plait behind one ear. Stepping back, he grinned.

"You look very Scottish," he said.

"Do I, now?" She met his gaze, surprised to find she was able to do so and smile. "Well, you look very English."

"Hmm…" he said in a thoughtful tone. "Both of us managed to say that without sounding insulting." He turned to untie Chiron. "Imagine that."

"Imagine that," she echoed.

Imagine that, indeed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

White and yellow wildflowers dotted the gently rolling land on either side of the narrow lane leaving Sawtry. As they rode, Jason could see Emerald lazily fingering the daisy chain around her neck, silent as the peaceful landscape. But for once it wasn't an adversarial silence, merely the silence borne of exhaustion, the comfortable silence that comes to pass when two people coexist without the need to fill it with senseless chatter.

Indeed, the only sounds were those of Chiron's hooves on the rutted road and the occasional travelers who passed. Until there came a wild yell, and three young bareback riders came racing down the road right at them, all but forcing Chiron into the stream that ran alongside.

"Gypsy lads!" Emerald came alive. "They pass through Leslie every year, and oh, they play the most lovely music." She cocked her head. "Can you hear a lute?"

"Easy, boy." Jason reined in. "I can hear nothing except—damn, here they come again."

From the other direction, they thundered past.

"Follow them," she urged. "They must be encamped nearby."

Sure enough, over the next hill came the delicate notes of the lute she'd heard. The lively tune grew more distinct as they turned off the road and followed the trail of clumps kicked up by the racing horses.

The Gypsy boys halted and slid from their mounts beside a makeshift community of people milling among tents, carts, and pack animals. Smoke rose into the air above the encampment. The lads bent over in laughter, pointing at Jason and Emerald.

An old woman motioned them closer, flashing a gap-toothed grin.

Emerald turned and tilted her head back, one hand on her hat to secure it. "Have we time to stop? Just for a minute?"

He'd never seen her so excited—he couldn't deny her dancing turquoise eyes. "Ten minutes."

Emerald was already waving to the short, round-faced woman. "Hallo!" she called as they pulled close.

"Hallo, me lady," the Gypsy woman returned. She wore a long, many-layered skirt in a myriad of bright colors and a head scarf of another color altogether. Thick gold loops hung from her ears. "Will you buy?"

"I could have told you that's what she wanted," Jason muttered.

"Wheesht!" Emerald admonished. She slid from Chiron. "I haven't any money."

The woman patted Chiron's flank. "A beauty." She pulled an apple from her pocket and held it out for the horse to munch. "How much?"

Jason dismounted and held the reins possessively. "He's not for sale."

"Pity." She sighed. "Trade?" With an expansive gesture, she offered several horses grazing nearby. "Two for one?"

Jason laughed. "No trade, either."

"Pity." Giving a dismissive wave, the woman turned and walked into the tent village.

Emerald shrugged. "Come, let's find the music. They don't usually mind visitors."

He lifted Chiron's reins. "Is it safe to leave him here?"

"They won't be stealing him, if that's what you mean."

It felt deucedly strange to be asking Emerald for advice, but the truth was, he felt completely out of his element. As a young man in exile he'd lived all over the Continent, but he'd never felt as much at odds with his environment as he did in this little pocket of foreignness here in his native land.

He tethered the horse, then followed her into the encampment. They wove between tents made from fresh-cut hazel pushed into the ground and bent over, which formed a resilient frame the Gypsies covered with colorful blankets. Delicious smells came from a huge iron kettle suspended over a stick fire. Women sat on stools around it, weaving lace and chattering in the Romani language, guarded by soft-eyed lurcher dogs.

As they walked by, a woman rose to stir the soup. When she set down the wooden spoon, a dog came up to lick it. "Bah!" she said, throwing the spoon into the fire.

At Jason's sound of surprise, Emerald turned to face him, walking backward. "It's mockadi," she explained. His face must have registered his confusion, because her laugh rang out over the lute's music. "Dogs and cats are unclean," she clarified. "You really are a gaujo, aye?" She laughed again. "A house-dweller."

"The woman fed Chiron by hand," he said. "Horses are not mock"—he frowned as he searched unsuccessfully for the word—"unclean?"

"Nay. Horses are revered. And they're not mockadi because—" She stopped walking backward, and when he almost ran into her, she put a hand to his chest and raised on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. "They cannot lick their own backsides."

He laughed so loudly they attracted several stares. A tall, gaunt man with a wide mustache ducked out of a tent. He wore ordinary breeches and a shirt topped by a colorful vest. His black eyes fastened on the sword hanging at Jason's side. "Sharpen it, milord?"

"No, thank—" Jason started.

"Oh, for certain it should be razor sharp, my lord." The sparkle in Emerald's eyes revealed her amusement at the thought of him bearing such a title.

If only she knew.

"You must let him do it." Reaching for the hilt, she pulled the rapier from his belt. "Since you'll be wanting to"—she cleared her throat conspicuously—"take care of Gothard with it."

It was plain she still thought he was out to kill, but Jason didn't argue. He let her hand the sword to the fellow, though he had no intention of killing anyone with that blade ever again. One innocent man was more than enough life lost at his hands.

The man sat at a portable whetstone and began grinding. Over the sound of the wheel, the delicate notes of the lute were joined by other instruments: a guitar, a violin, drums, maybe something else. The music rose, becoming even livelier. After Jason retrieved his sword and handed the man a coin, Emerald took off in search of the musicians, leaving him to follow.

In a small clearing, dancers swirled, a wild mass of colors. Emerald turned to him, an avid look on her face. "Shall we dance?" She took both his hands, held them up between them, and pulled him toward the clearing.

He took several tentative steps, then stopped. "This isn't the minuet, nor even a country dance."

She giggled up at him. "Nay, it's not. Can you feel the music?" Indeed, it seemed to vibrate from the grass beneath their feet. "Cameron and I dance with them every year. Doesn't the music make you want to move like they do?"

They were whirling in circles, stomping their feet, clapping their hands, snapping their fingers. "No, it doesn't," he said honestly.

"Come, try it!" She tugged his hands harder, until he stumbled into the midst of the dancers. But his feet refused to move like theirs, no matter how hard he tried. After a few halting steps, he pulled his hands from hers and backed away with a small bow and a sheepish smile of apology.

And he watched. Watched her swirling and dipping, swaying to the music that quite clearly spoke to her soul. Others watched as well, their own feet slowing as they watched hers fly.

Her hat flew off, and he ducked into the fray to retrieve it, then hurried back out. Her plaits whipped around, shimmering in the summer sunshine. The daisy chain about her neck whirled in her breeze, swooping up and down and around with her.

Murmured conversations sprang up all around him. Though he didn't know a word of Romani, he did know admiration when he heard it. Emerald was a—gaujo, had she called the house-dwellers?—becoming one with their Gypsy music.

He shifted on his feet, his eyes riveted to her lithe body, a blur against the backdrop of colorful clothing, tents, and trees. She'd come alive, an effervescence he'd been unaware of spilling out…and lodging somewhere in his heart.

Here was a small piece of England where she was more comfortable than he. What a difference it made. And, in contrast, how difficult it apparently was for her to operate in his world.

When the music ended and she stopped, the Gypsies burst into wild applause. Her cheeks reddened, she made her way over to him, stumbling and laughing at her dizziness. Another tune took up where the last one had left off, and she swayed to the beat.

"It's like a fair, isn't it?" she said breathlessly. "Except we're the only ones in attendance." She twirled in an exuberant circle, her arms wide, the daisy chain flying again. When she stopped, her eyes sparkled to rival the sunshine. "Imagine living like this every day."

He moved closer to resettle the ring of flowers around her neck. "It would be exhausting."

A frown flitted across her features. "There you go again, seeing the world in black and white."

"Right here I see it as most colorful." He tugged on one of her plaits, then set the hat back on her head. "And quite lovely."

She blushed prettily. Why had he never noticed before how very pretty Emerald was? The milkmaid had bloomed before his eyes.

"I've never seen anyone dance quite like that," he said, struggling for the words to describe it. To describe her. "So…free."

"The dancing brings the freedom, aye? While I'm dancing, I don't care."

"About what?"

"About anything."

Their eyes locked, and a moment of silence stretched between them. The Gypsy music pumped in the background. Slowly he nodded, and she smiled, then sighed. "I suppose we must get back on the road. It's been more than ten minutes."

"Wait, me lady." The old woman came out of nowhere and plucked Emerald on the sleeve. "You buy first."

"I told you I have no money," Emerald said firmly.

Jason laid a hand on her arm. "I have money."

The woman's lips curved up in her gap-toothed grin. She led them to an area between the tents, where carts were piled with goods. "Basket, me lady?"

"We cannot carry that," Emerald told her. "We're on horseback the next few days."

The woman frowned. "Livin' like you are, you got no need for a broom or a rake, then."

Emerald smiled. "Nay."

"Cooking utensils?" the woman asked hopefully. "Nails? Tools?"

Now Emerald laughed. "No nails or tools, either."

A foot tapped the grass beneath the woman's colorful skirt. "Me lady like silver?" Her gaze fastened on Emerald's amulet. "Or gold?"

Emerald grasped the green pendant. "Nay."

Not for a moment did Jason believe her. "Show me what you have," he told the Gypsy.

The woman ducked into a tent and came out with a handful of black velvet. She pulled up a stool and sat, opening the fabric in her lap to reveal a heap of gold trinkets.

Leaning over, Jason stirred the pile with a fingertip. The jewelry gleamed in the sunshine. Every piece was embossed or engraved with elaborate designs, and some of them were set with gemstones besides. "They are lovely, madam."

"You buy one?"

He selected a flat engraved band embedded with tiny, bright green emeralds. Turning to Emerald, he took one of her hands and slipped it onto the fourth finger. It fit perfectly.

Her pretty mouth hung slack for a moment. Her eyes turned a cloudy blue, and a frown appeared between them. "I cannot take this."

"Of course you can. Keep it as a memory of this day."

"I'll remember without it."

"Then as a token of thanks. From me. I enjoyed watching you dance."

Her cheeks flamed red. She twisted the band around her finger. Another Gypsy tune was playing in the background, but she didn't move to the music. "I…I cannot take it," she said again.

"Go away, then," he said with a wave of his hand.

"Pardon?"

"Over there." He pointed to the next tent.

Looking bewildered, she solemnly backed away until he nodded.

"How much?" he whispered to the Gypsy woman. When she told him, he dug out his pouch and paid her, then beckoned Emerald back over.

"You're supposed to dicker," she informed him. She tugged off the ring and took one of his hands in hers, turning it palm up as she leaned close to whisper in his ear. "She thinks you're an easy mark," she added, depositing the ring in his hand and folding his fingers firmly around it. "Did you notice she didn't even show you anything made of silver?"

He shrugged and put the ring in his pouch. He would give it back to her later.

"Come, me lady." The Gypsy woman stood. "I tell your future."

"I think not," Emerald said—but somewhat wistfully, Jason thought.

The woman held up one of his coins, her gap-toothed smile appearing again. "No charge."

"Go ahead," Jason urged.

"Have we the time? The Gothards—"

"The Gothards ought to be rolling out of bed right about now," he said dryly.

He could tell Emerald was intrigued. As he was himself—he'd never seen a fortune-telling. It ought to be entertaining. And if the brothers were already on the road, it wouldn't be such a bad thing should they get ahead.

He felt more comfortable as the pursuer than he did as the pursued.

"Are you sure?" Emerald asked, and when he nodded, she added, "Come with me, then."

He grinned. "You couldn't keep me away if you tried."

The Gypsy woman motioned for them to follow her to the edge of the encampment, near where Chiron was grazing lazily. "Milord does not believe in dukkerin'?"

"My lord," Emerald said, nearly stumbling over the two words if his ears didn't deceive him, "is a confirmed skeptic."

He swept off his hat and ducked his head to enter the woman's tent. Inside he couldn't stand straight, but the Gypsy motioned him into a beautifully carved gilt chair. Two lamps set on a low table threw glimmering light into the small space, which, in contrast to the clutter outside, appeared immaculate.

Waterproofed canvas lined the ground, and a fringed cloth, patterned with costly metallic thread, covered the table. His hat in his lap, he leaned back and stretched his legs, content to watch the show.

The woman settled Emerald on a low stool, then sat herself on the other side of the table. Emerald swept off her hat and set it on the floor.

The Gypsy reached across, took Emerald's hands, and just held them for a minute, smiling into her eyes. Then she leaned close, her gaze darting from one palm to the other. "Ah…a long life you will see." Her voice sounded different than it had outside—low and soothing.

Emerald smiled, slightly swaying to the music that drifted in from the clearing.

"And children. Many children."

Emerald stilled and shook her head. "You cannot tell that from my hands."

"The hands tell all." The woman's tone brooked no argument. She measured Emerald's white fingers against her own brown ones. "Middling," she declared. "Life is balanced." Then, "You." She swung on Jason, pointing a craggy finger with a curved, lacquered nail. "Your fingers long. Very responsible. Too responsible. You plan too much."

"Hmm." Emerald looked toward him speculatively.

He fisted his fingers to hide them, crossing his arms. He hadn't come in here to be analyzed. He'd come in here to be entertained.

And he'd kiss a ghost before he'd believe such nonsense.

The fortune-teller hitched her stool forward and made a humming sound deep in her throat. Laying Emerald's hands palm up on the table, she traced the lines with a crooked finger. "One of a kind. You go your own way." She looked closer. "Fate line is broken. A great life change."

"Oh." Jason strained to hear Emerald's whisper over the lively beat of the music. "My father recently died."

"We all lose our folks." The fortune-teller shook her head. "Something more than that."

Outside, the musicians slid into something slower and faintly sensual, the violin rising above the other instruments in long, poignant notes. With a light touch, the Gypsy indicated a spot on Emerald's hand. "A grille, like bars." Her voice shifted too, matching the rich tempo. "The bars of a gaol, where your heart hides, locked away. You must open the bars and trust." She stole a glance at Jason.

Uneasy beneath her gaze, he leaned to part the tent's opening and look outside. A whir of life bustled past the narrow slit: a woman sauntered by with a basket of laundry; a man rolled a wagon wheel along; a child chased a dog in the bright sunshine.

It seemed darker inside when he allowed the tent to close.

"Ah." The woman nodded, her bobbing earrings gleaming in the lamplight. She touched another place on Emerald's palm. "A cross. A happy marriage in this lifetime." Pausing, she looked up. "Far from home."

Emerald blinked. "Aye, I'm far from home. I live in Scotland."

An enigmatic smile creased the fortune-teller's face. She turned Emerald's hands and lightly skimmed her nails over the backs, making Emerald visibly shiver. "Sensitive. Your body begs to be touched."

Jason swallowed hard as the woman turned Emerald's hands again. "Mount of the Moon, high and full. A lover bold, creative, beguiling."

Though Emerald turned red, Jason thought that the most accurate thing the woman had said yet. Bold—last night flashed into his mind—and beguiling.

Alarmingly so.

Black Gypsy eyes fastened on his and held steady while the music pulsed in the background. "A man in love with you," she said to Emerald while still commanding his gaze, "must respect your independence…if he wishes to hold your heart."

"I'm not—" Jason started.

"Shush!" The harsh word vibrated in contrast to the sensuous violin. The woman swung back to Emerald and pointed a finger at her chest. "That green talisman…" Emerald's hand went to her amulet, and the woman nodded. "When it changes hands, a change of heart."

Emerald's fingers clenched around it. "It will never change hands, not while I live."

The Gypsy shrugged, a movement so expressive it spoke volumes without words. The music stopped. A hush of silence enveloped the tent.

Emerald rose, breaking the spell. "I thank you."

"My pleasure, me lady."

"I think we should leave," she said to Jason. Her voice was very quiet. "It was time to go almost before we arrived."

Rising, he bumped his head on the low ceiling. The woman stood as well. "I come see your pretty horse." She followed them out and watched them mount.

"My hat!" Emerald clapped a hand to her head.

"I get it, me lady."

The Gypsy disappeared into her tent and returned with the feathered hat. Moving closer, she rose to her toes and set it on Emerald's bent head, then put a gnarled hand on her arm. "You not like your fortune?"

"It was very…interesting." Jason heard the catch in Emerald's voice. "I'm afraid, though, I found it a wee bit confusing."

"All will come clear in time," the woman predicted. "Wait here, me lady." She hurried off toward the fire, returning with one of the lace handkerchiefs the women were working on there.

"It's lovely," Emerald said sincerely. "But I told you I have no money."

"We've been paid." Black eyes sparkled up at Jason. "You keep, to remember."

Emerald tucked the intricate hanky into her sleeve. "I won't forget."

"You come back?"

"Not here, I'm afraid. But I will dance with your people again. At home."

The woman reached to grasp Emerald by the hand. "Farewell, me lady." With a nod at Jason, she ducked back into her tent.

Jason steered Chiron toward the road. He remained mute until they were out of earshot. "So…you've danced with the Gypsies before."

"Aye, many times."

"You've camped with them, then. During your travels." It made perfect sense.

"My travels?" Her laughter floated back on the breeze. "Until now, I've never been farther from Leslie than Edinburgh. Twice. I told you, Jase—a group of them camps by Leslie each year."

Damn if she wasn't convincing.

He almost believed her.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

"I don't believe it," Caithren said later when they'd stopped at the Lion in Buckden for dinner.

Jason spooned soup into his mouth, following it with a gigantic bite of bread. "But you believe in ghosts."

"What do ghosts have to do with it?"

He rolled the dice and took two markers off the backgammon board they'd set on the table between them. "Why should you believe in ghosts but not fortune-telling?"

"Dukkering," she corrected crossly. "They say what you want to hear." She poked at her Dutch pudding, using her spoon to flake off bits of the minced beef. "Or rather, what they think you want to hear. But the Gypsy woman misjudged me."

His compelling eyes looked speculative over the rim of his tankard. "Did she, now?"

"Aye." Avoiding his gaze, she tossed the dice and made her move. "I don't intend to have children at all, let alone many."

He stuck the dice back in their cup and rattled it, his gaze straying to the window beside them. "Do you not like children?"

"I like them fine. It's the necessary husband I'd as soon do without."

He set down the dice cup, raising a brow. "So much for the happy marriage she predicted."

"Are you going to take your turn?"

Slowly he reached across the small table and traced a fingertip across the back of her hand. A shiver ran through her. "But are you not sensitive to physical touch?" he drawled in a voice low and lazy.

She was sensitive, all right. It took everything she had not to leap across the table and kiss him. Struggling for control, she forced herself to remember last night. "Why today should you want to touch me?"

"Perhaps I've had a change of heart." He chucked her under the chin. "Like you will when your precious amulet changes hands."

She took the dice cup and firmly wrapped his fingers back around it. "The amulet will not change hands. The Gypsy was wrong."

Even with the noises of conversations and dishes rattling around them, the dice sounded loud as Jason shook them and spilled them onto the leather board. Two more of his pieces made their way into his haphazard pile. "Someday—"

"Nay. I won't ever take it off." She bit her lip, then decided to come out with it. The terrible words she'd thought to herself but never said aloud. "My mother took it off only once. To wear a pretty necklace my father had just brought her from Edinburgh. She died that day. Broke her neck when she was thrown from her horse."

"You blame your father for her death," Jason said flatly.

"I don't." She shook her head. "I never have."

He was silent for a minute, watching her drop the dice back into the cup, slowly, one by one. "You blame her," he finally said.

"Nay." Maybe she'd thought it, but she didn't believe it. "Though I won't tempt fate by making the same mistake."

"It's naught but metal and stone," he said gently.

"It's more than metal and stone," she disagreed. "It's been in my family for centuries."

"Has it?" He dipped a piece of bread into his soup. "Is there a story behind it?"

"Of course. We Scots have a story for everything." As he glanced out the window again, she touched the amulet and rolled the dice, smiling when they came up double fives. She moved her last two markers into home court and stacked another two neatly by the board. "I was made to memorize it word for word before the necklace could be mine."

He grinned. "I enjoy your stories. Tell me."

She handed him the cup. "In 1330, Sir Simon Leslie set out to accompany James, Lord Douglas, who was charged with returning the heart of King Robert the Bruce to the Holy Land. On their way through Spain, they fought with the Moors, and Douglas was killed." She paused for a sip of ale. "Leslie went on to Palestine, and there he fought the Saracens and captured one of their chiefs. When the chief's mother came to beg for his release, she dropped an emerald from her purse and hurried to scoop it up. Leslie realized it was of great importance to her, and he demanded it as part of the deal for the release of her son."

She stopped, because Jason was staring out the window again. "Go on," he said, looking back to her.

"That is it, really." Gazing down at the amulet, she traced its scrolled setting with a finger. "He had it set in this bezel and brought it home, claiming it had miraculous powers for seeing him through the journey. It's been handed down through the generations. People once came from far and wide to obtain water it had been dipped in. They would put a bottle of this water by their door, or hang it overhead, for protection against the evil eye."

His bowl empty, he set down his spoon and rolled the dice. His last two pieces clicked as he dropped them onto his pile. "But not anymore?"

She shook her head. "The old ways and beliefs are dying."

"Yet you won't take it off."

"Maybe it's nothing more than unwarranted superstition." She wrapped her fingers around the emerald. "But there will be no change of hands."

Nor, she thought fiercely, would there be the change of heart the Gypsy had predicted.

His gaze had returned to the window yet again. "You won," she said, and he nodded without looking at her. Idly she started making his pile of markers into two tall stacks. "Are you seeing something?"

"Not exactly." He lifted his tankard of ale. "I'm just getting that feeling I had last night…"

One of the stacks toppled over. "You mean that strange feeling that gives you an excuse to kiss me?"

His tankard hit the table with a thud. "I mean the feeling that we might be followed."

Cait looked out the window at the red-brick walls of the George Inn across Buckden's busy High Street. People rode or strolled by. Ordinary people. No one appeared suspicious or familiar. "I see nothing."

He shrugged.

"Here," she said, pushing the rest of her Dutch pudding toward him. "I'm not finding myself very hungry."

He dug into the remains of her dinner. "Still worried about your fortune and future?"

"Of course not. It was naught but a lark. I've forgotten it already."

In truth, she hadn't, not really. But she was more intrigued than anything, and not by the fortune-teller's meaningless predictions. More by the fact that the woman had assumed she and Jason were a couple.

For a moment she stared unblinking at the creamy plastered walls of the Lion's common room. Jason's attitude had changed in the encampment as well. When she'd told the story of her amulet, he hadn't interrupted her to insist the fellow was a MacCallum, not a Leslie.

Gypsy magic? Would it wear off? Or might he be feeling more kindly toward her?

"Ready?" He shot another glance out the window. "We should be going."

They quickly packed up the backgammon set and slipped it into its burlap bag. She followed him toward the back door to the courtyard and stables. Once there, she stopped him with a hand on his arm. "My hat." She touched her bare head. "I've forgotten it."

"There it is." He gestured to where it sat on the wide window ledge, right where she'd left it. "I'll get it," he volunteered, handing her the backgammon set.

She pushed through the door.

Someone lunged at her.

She saw a flash of silver and heard the shout of a stable boy before she screamed. Though the man jerked back, she felt a sharp sting on her upper arm.

The backgammon set fell with a bang! and markers rolled out of the bag, bumping across the cobblestones as she curled a hand into a fist and propelled it into the short man's face. He yowled and grabbed his jaw, dropping his sword. A metallic twang rang out as it clattered to the stones.

Wat Gothard.

"You murdering cur!" She planted her feet, aiming to follow up with a deadly knee.

"Dunderhead!" a man shouted, thundering into the courtyard on a horse. He scooped up Wat, wheeled around, and rode out the gateway and out of sight.

The stable boy rushed forward as Jason burst out the door, rapier at the ready.

"Go!" Caithren yelled, gesturing out the gateway. The stable boy took off running. She turned on Jason. "Go! It was the Gothards, and he'll never catch them on foot. Get Chiron and go!"

His eyes frantically searched her. "You're bleeding." He dropped the rapier and reached to make a ginger exploration.

"I'm fine!" Bending to sweep his sword off the ground, she shoved it into his hands. "Just go, will you?"

A torn look in his eyes, he backed away a few stumbling steps, then turned and raced for the stables. Moments later, he galloped bareback out of the courtyard.

Reeling with both relief and disbelief, Cait sank to the cobblestones. She gripped her upper arm. It didn't hurt too badly, considering.

The stable boy limped back into the courtyard, puffing from exertion. "They're gone," he said. "No one out front saw what happened, so they were able to flee unscathed." He knelt to collect all the backgammon pieces, then looked up at her, shoving blond hair from his face. "Are you quite all right, milady?"

She waved aside his concern. "My…friend"—how was she to describe Jason, anyway?—"went after them on a horse. Maybe he will catch them."

She hoped so. If they got away, he'd likely blame her once again.

At the sound of hooves on the cobblestones, her heart sank.

"They disappeared," Jason said. "Just disappeared." He slid off Chiron, and Cait scrambled to her feet as he came close. "Besides this"—one finger skimmed her upper arm, making her wince—"are you hurt?"

"Go back!" With her good arm, she gestured sharply. "You cannot have looked well enough. You cannot give up so soon."

"What I cannot do is leave you bleeding while I play hide-and-seek. I never did make a very good 'It.'" He tugged at the neckline of her bodice and swore when it wouldn't budge. His fingers went to loosen the laces. "What the hell happened?"

"Wat," she said. "He sliced me, but I think he was going for you. He pulled back when he saw who I was." Frantically she pushed at his hands. "Oh, will you not just leave? Go after them! I can tell you the story later!"

Stuffing the backgammon pieces into the bag, the stable boy glanced up. "She punched the bastard but good," he told Jason.

"You what?" Jason's gaze shot from her arm to her face. "You hit him?"

"You want I should stand there and let him kill me?"

Tossing the hair from his eyes, the boy stood straight and snorted in approval. "She was fixing to unman him as well, I believe."

Jason stared at her a moment, then reached for her laces again.

"Jason!" Her gaze flickered toward the stable boy.

Jason's green eyes flashed with impatience. "Come inside, then." He leaned to retrieve Wat's sword. The stable boy thrust the burlap sack into his hands and moved to take Chiron.

The innkeeper stood gaping in the doorway.

"If I may see to the lady's wound," Jason prompted him.

"Of course." He ushered them indoors, alternately gasping with horror and clucking with sympathy. "Buckden is a quiet town."

"I will require a room for the lady."

The lady? Since when did Jason refer to her so? And in such an authoritative tone?

The innkeeper showed them up a flight of wooden stairs to a small chamber. "Shall I bring water and towels?"

"Please do."

"As you wish, my lord." The man bowed and backed away.

My lord. Jason didn't seem wont to correct the mistaken form of address. He simply shut the door, turned, and met Cait's eyes.

Her head swam. From the pain, the shock, the intensity of Jason's gaze locked on her own? She couldn't tell. It all seemed muddled in her brain.

She stood silent and limp while his fingers went to unlace her bodice. He eased it off and dropped it to the bed. She shivered in only her shift, like last night—except this time, instead of turning away, he reached to loosen the neckline and draw it down to expose the cut on her arm.

His breath hissed in, then fanned warm over her bare shoulder. "Sliced you good, didn't he?"

Her heart racing, she held the shift to her chest and glanced down. "Not too bad, I'm hoping."

A knock came at the door, and Jason went to answer, returning with a bowl of warm water, towels, and bandages. As he set everything on the bedside table, the door closed with a quiet snick, and they were alone again.

With a doleful shake of his head, he sat her on the bed. She listened to the innkeeper's heavy footfalls retreating as Jason dipped a towel in the bowl of water and dabbed at the bloody wound.

"It's clean, but deep."

She hadn't known a man's hands could be so gentle. "I'll make a poultice for it when we stop tonight."

He dabbed some more, for all the world looking helpless. "Would it be better to do it now?"

"My herbs are outside, in the portmanteau." She swallowed hard. "I'll be fine."

Nodding, he wound a clean cloth around her upper arm. Used to blood she was, but not necessarily her own. She felt dizzy, from that or from Jason's proximity—she wasn't sure which.

He looked very businesslike as he tied the bandage. Apparently he didn't notice she was about to expire from wishing he would kiss her.

"Why didn't you go after the Gothards?" she asked.

"Geoffrey Gothard will get his due." His eyes bore into hers. "But I won't see you hurt in the interim. Never that. Never again."

His voice wasn't loud, but she detected a tremor beneath the control. She was finding it hard to breathe. His hand went to the neckline of her shift, and she released her hold on it, watching his long fingers draw it up to cover her shoulder.

Suddenly she saw that her nipples stood out dark against the shift's delicate fabric. Her breath hitched in shock. Grabbing her bodice from the bed, she stood and shoved her arms into it, sending a surge of fresh pain up her shoulder and down to her hand.

"Hush," Jason soothed, helping her ease into the garment. Trembling, she stared at his chest as he slowly threaded the laces and tied a crooked bow. When he was finished, his fingers trailed up her neck, leaving shivers in their wake, until his hands came to rest on her cheeks.

He cradled her face, tilted it up, drew her closer. He was going to kiss her again, Caithren realized with a heady rush of anticipation. For real, this time, with no excuse of being followed.

She released a shuddering breath. Her heart pounded so loudly she was certain he could hear it in the still, dim room.

He lowered his mouth to hers.

His lips were soft, gentle, tender, his hands caressing. Her heart fluttered in her chest, her blood sluiced through her veins, and she pressed closer, wanting to feel him. Her arms went around him, wanting more. Wanting, wanting…

Wanting.

With a sudden clarity she knew she wanted Jason more than she'd wanted anything in her life. His hands, his mouth…all of him. Just this once, to know what it was to give herself to a man. To this man.

Astounding herself with her daring, she parted her mouth, darting her tongue out to trace his bottom lip. His kiss turned wild and demanding, making her pulse race. When he eased her down to the bed, she felt no pain. She felt nothing but his welcome weight, his warmth, his strength—and a strange and marvelous exhilaration inside her.

As his mouth plundered hers, one hand inched around to the back of her neck to pull her closer and deepen the kiss. She sank into it, into him.

Another knock came at the door, and he bolted upright.

"Is the lady all right?" the innkeeper called. "Will you be needing aught else?"

As Cait sat up more slowly, Jason ran a ragged hand through his hair. He rose and went to open the door. "She's fine," he said. "We were just leaving."

When the man's footsteps faded once more, Jason turned to her. "We have to leave," he said, his voice husky and…apologetic? She couldn't be sure. "Are you all right to ride?"

The door was still open. She stood and took a steadying breath. "I'll survive."

Her arm throbbed, but she wouldn't have admitted to the pain were she like to faint from it. She wouldn't be a burden on his journey, and she had to get to London herself.

There would be time to tend to the injury later. When she wasn't reeling from his kiss. And its abrupt ending.

"Let me know if you start hurting, all right?" He looked shaken. "Emerald—" He broke off.

She wouldn't answer to that name. Not after what had just happened between them.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking like he meant it. "For…for letting things get out of hand." Somehow she was sure he'd intended to say something else, but he barreled on. "It was wrong of me to—"

"I've forgotten it. Like you forgot last night. We're even now." She pushed past him out the door. "And my name is Caithren, whether you believe it or not."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

He did believe it. Now.

And he cursed himself for not believing it sooner.

She was shorter than Emerald MacCallum was rumored to be, not to mention completely unsuited for Emerald's profession. She didn't know north from south or right from left. She cried far too easily, and she had no business carrying a pistol. Why, she wouldn't hit an outlaw from arm's length.

None of that had convinced him.

Neither had her ongoing protests.

But seeing her reaction to the Gothard brothers had exploded his entire view of the woman he'd thought was Emerald.

Though she'd defended herself, she'd urged him to go after them. She hadn't even tried to do so herself. Bleeding or not, Emerald MacCallum would have been hot on their trail before Jason even stepped into the courtyard.

She was Caithren, as she'd said all along.

He didn't like that at times like this his father came to mind. A father who had never made mistakes. Certainly not a mistake on the order of this one.

He swore at himself for two solid miles.

If he hadn't already been certain he was ill-suited for this quest of justice, he had the proof riding in front of him. First he'd taken the life of an innocent man, then he'd endangered that of an innocent woman by mistakenly dragging her into this mess.

If only he could turn back time and leave Caithren on that public coach. He would—honestly, he would—even though that would mean he'd never have held her in his arms. An almost unthinkable thought.

His arms tightened around her waist at the mere notion.

Unfortunately, going back in time was naught but wishful thinking. The hard truth was, now that the Gothards had seen them together, protecting her was more important than ever. Their wild attraction only complicated matters.

He needed a clear head to see this through. Distance, both emotional and physical. He'd proven that to himself back at the Lion in Buckden. Only by thinking of her as Emerald had he been able to check his emotions.

And only by continuing to call her Emerald aloud could he ensure she kept her distance as well.

They rode through Southoe, a sleepy village with three moated manor houses and a single old brick inn. "Are you hungry?" Caithren asked as they passed it, jarring him out of his thoughts.

"Hardly." He pushed back his hat. "I've been thinking—"

"I cannot say I'm surprised. You seem to do that a lot. Did the Gypsy not say you plan too much?"

"Hush." He tugged on one of her plaits. "And listen to what I have to say. We've no need to rush anymore. We don't have to worry about the brothers reaching London before us."

"What makes you think that?"

"They've been following me. They tried today to kill me."

"Not a very competent attempt," she said doubtfully.

"Walter isn't known for his brains. Still, they obviously had a plan, with Walter doing the deed and Geoffrey then spiriting him away. Geoffrey wouldn't want another death on his hands, and Walter is a malleable sort."

"So…"

"So they won't be racing off to London the way they planned when they thought I was dead. It seems they've decided to do away with me first. Alive, I can bear witness to their deeds, and well they know it. They're desperate. If ever they had a decent bone in their bodies, it's disappeared now that they're backed into a corner."

She was silent as she took that in.

He drew a deep breath. "Another change in appearance would be prudent. And they'll recognize Chiron as well. I'll have to board him and buy another horse." Another thought occurred to him. "Two. They won't expect us to be riding two."

"I won't try to escape you," she said, reading his mind.

"I'm glad to hear that."

He would miss holding her before him, though. The feel of her warm body, the scent of her hair, the tantalizing nape of her neck. Without thought, he pulled her closer.

Then reminded himself he had to maintain distance.

"We'll stop in the next town and stay the night," he said. "You can rest and tend to your wound while I gather what we need."

"We?"

"You'll have to change your appearance as well. They've seen you with me now—they'll assume you could bear witness too." His voice dropped. "I'm sorry. It's for your own good."

"Whatever you say, Jase," she said softly. Her hands closed over his where he held the reins.

When she squeezed his fingers, his heart squeezed in reaction.

He felt a maddening concern and tenderness for this infuriating woman. But the gentle, nurturing emotions did nothing to calm the shakes that assaulted him at the thought of Gothard following them. Christ, Caithren had been hurt and might have been killed. And it would have been his fault for making her part of this.

He was caught in a trap of his own making, and he felt the jaws closing—teeth of steel that he'd sharpened himself.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

"How is your arm?" Jason asked the next morning as he tied back his hair. He swept something long and shaggy off a table and took it over to the mirror.

Caithren sat up in bed and flexed her arm, perusing the breakfast tray he'd just brought her. "Not too bad. I used up everything I collected in the woods, though. I hope to find more today." She watched him shake out the shaggy thing and hold it high in the air. "What is that?"

"A periwig," he said, settling it on his head. "What do you think?"

Popping a radish into her mouth, she stared at the reddish wig. Crimped and curly, it draped far down his chest, longer than his own hair had been before she cut it. She chewed and swallowed before answering him. "You look different," she said diplomatically.

He smiled as he dug through his portmanteau, scattering clothing all over the other bed as he worked his way to the bottom. A dark blue velvet suit with gold braid trim came out, then a fine lawn shirt with lace at the cuffs, and finally a snowy cravat.

None of it was at all similar to any of the other garments he'd worn. Had the clothes been there all along? Or had he brought them back last night? She'd fallen asleep hours before he returned.

"You don't like it, then." Turning back to the mirror, he adjusted the wig's crown and flipped a hank of curls over his shoulder.

Giggling, she hid her face in her cup of chocolate.

"Many men wear periwigs, you know."

"But not such long ones." She chewed slowly on a bite of bread, studying him in the mirror. "It looks like you're trying to pass as a nobleman."

He raised a brow at that.

"And—it's red!"

"You're hurting my feelings." Though he pouted, the eyes in the looking glass were a sparkling green. "Does it look so out of place, then? My sister is a redhead, and my mother was as well. Myself, I was a skinny, freckled lad—I expect red hair would have been more fitting than the black."

She reconsidered. "The red isn't too bad. But I cannot picture you skinny and freckled."

"It's no lie. I was awkward, too. Gangly." As he fussed with the wig, Cait watched the muscles move beneath his shirt. He wasn't gangly now. "Took me years to grow into my looks."

"Ah," she said with a teasing smile. "And here I thought it was the mustache that transformed you."

"That as well." He leaned closer to the mirror and stroked his bare upper lip. "But I think I'm getting used to its loss." Turning, he reached to steal a cube of cheese off her tray.

"I thought you had breakfast downstairs."

"That was an hour ago." He filched another cube and chewed thoughtfully. "Do you like me better with or without?"

"Without. Both the mustache and the wig." She set the tray aside. "Supposing I like you at all, that is."

"Supposing." Moving to the other bed, he lifted the velvet surcoat and shook out the creases. "Your new clothing is waiting behind the screen."

"Is it?" Curious, she climbed from the bed and made her way over to have a look.

She blinked and looked again.

"By all the saints," she breathed. "It's worse than the red dress."

Draped across a chair lay a bright turquoise brocade gown trimmed with a gaudy wide edging of embroidered silver ribbon. A purple underskirt and stomacher were tossed on top. Even without trying it on, she could tell the dress's scooped neckline would reveal a lot more skin than she was comfortable displaying.

After she'd made such a fuss over the red dress, she couldn't believe he'd brought her this. She stepped out into the room to give him a piece of her mind, then dashed back behind the screen.

"Crivvens! You're in the scud!"

"Translate?" he called.

"You…you're naked!"

"One does have to undress to change clothes." He sounded amused, not angry. "Are you putting on the gown?"

Touching her hands to her cheeks in an effort to cool them, she dragged her mind from its vivid picture of a bare Jason. "You expect me to wear this?"

"Hell, yes. I spent a fortune for it."

"Just who am I supposed to be posing as in this monstrosity?" She grabbed the gown and held it up to her body, gazing down at herself in horror. "Queen Catharine?" She kicked at the hem.

"No." He laughed. "My mistress."

The gown slipped from her fingers. "Your what?"

"My mistress. Are you undressed?"

His mistress.

"Nay. Not yet." Self-conscious, she fluffed Mrs. Twentyman's night rail. "Are you?"

"Not anymore. Come out and have a look."

Cautiously she stepped from behind the screen—and burst out laughing.

He glanced in the mirror critically, then back to her. "What's so funny?"

"You—as an aristocrat." Tears ran from the corners of her eyes. "Y-you expect people to f-fall for that disguise?"

A small smile quirked at his lips. "As a matter of fact, I do."

"Just because one innkeeper called you my lord yesterday—"

"And don't forget the Gypsy."

She laughed even harder. "O-oh, aye. The Gypsy called you milord as well!"

He took her by the shoulders and turned her toward the screen, giving her a little push in that direction. She yelped, looking back over her shoulder to giggle at him again.

He pulled on her single nighttime plait. "Go get changed," he said with mock sternness.

"Very well." She hiccuped and went behind the screen.

She was thankful the long puffed sleeves didn't rub her injured arm, but the gown hugged her upper body like a second skin. Small though they might be, her breasts welled over the top. The stomacher was stiff and uncomfortable.

No surprise there.

"Don't forget the shoes," Jason called.

The shoes. Embroidered silver brocade with pointed toes. And high heels. The only positive thing she could find to say about them was that they fit.

A pity. She would have liked an excuse not to wear them.

"Very practical for riding around the countryside," she said sarcastically. She took a deep breath. "I'm coming out."

"Thank you for the warning."

His smile died and a low whistle sounded as she stepped from behind the screen. His eyes widened. "Whoa."

She teetered to the mirror and pulled her plait forward to unravel it, stilling when he came up behind her and slowly ran his hands down her sides. His palms felt hot, even through the fabric, skimming a tingling path on her skin beneath the turquoise brocade.

Cait swallowed hard. "Could I be cast as your servant instead?"

"Hmm." He blinked and jerked his hands away, as though they'd just been burned. "I think not."

She took the Gypsy-lace handkerchief and started stuffing it into her neckline.

"Uh-uh." Reaching over her shoulder, he plucked it out of her hands. "My mistress wouldn't wear that."

Her exposed bosom broke out in goose bumps. "Maybe I could pose as your little sister, then?"

"Wouldn't help. Kendra doesn't dress all that differently from this, sweetheart."

Sweetheart. Her gaze met his in the looking glass.

"And you don't look like my little sister," he added huskily.

"I don't feel like your little sister, either."

He flexed his hands. "No, you most certainly do not."

Her fingers fumbled with the ribbon on her plait. Clumsily untying it, she watched his reflection back away to sit on one of the beds.

He didn't take his gaze off her.

She'd never had such difficult time unraveling her nighttime plait. It might help if her hands would stop shaking. She grabbed her ivory comb and reached to part her hair in the back.

"No." Jason's voice came from behind her. Confused, she met his eyes in the mirror. "Leave it loose. My mistress doesn't wear plaits."

Slowly she ran the comb through her hair. Crimped from the plaiting, it hung in shimmering waves to her waist. "Wouldn't a nobleman's mistress wear her hair in curls?" Her stomach fluttered. "And pulled up on the sides, with a bun at the back, like I've seen—"

"Not my mistress." He got up and began stuffing clothes into the portmanteau.

She turned from the mirror and walked over to pull a shirt back out and fold it. "Clearly you're used to having someone look after you," she said softly. "Do you have a mistress, my lord?"

Beneath the blue velvet, his shoulders tensed. "I do now."

For a long minute, neither of them said anything. Then he looked away.

It meant nothing, she decided. Nobleman and mistress. A game—just a game.

She finished folding his clothes and tucked them into the portmanteau, then went to fetch the night rail, wavering on the unfamiliar heels. "I cannot walk in these."

"You'll learn," he said, tossing the comb into one of the leather bags. As he took the folded night rail from her hands, his gaze swept her again from head to toe. Turning to face the mirror, she put her hands back under her hair and fanned it forward to cover her cleavage.

His eyes locked on hers in the mirror, keeping her captive. He seemed to be holding his breath. His jaw tightened.

Was he angry? At her? Why?

He backed away, his expression becoming a mask of stone. "I've arranged for two horses," he said. "We'd best go, Emerald."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Riding beside Jason in brooding silence, Caithren sneaked glances in his direction. Encased in the dark velvet suit, his lean, hard body moved with the big black horse as though they were one. Wind whipped the long red hair around the planes of his clean-shaven face.

She had to admit she might have thought he was a nobleman if she didn't know him. Her stomach felt fluttery just looking at him. It might have been fun to playact lord and mistress under other circumstances.

But there weren't any other circumstances.

Always she would want him, and always he would come temptingly close and then back off.

It was better this way, she decided firmly. Better without any emotions, any entanglements. She needed to find her brother. Jason wanted to find the Gothards. Anything personal between them would only get in the way. And ultimately lead nowhere, since she lived in Scotland and he lived here in England.

But her stomach didn't feel fluttery anymore, just sick.

With a sigh, she tried to turn her mind to more pleasant thoughts. "I miss Chiron," she said conversationally as Jason waited to cross another bridge.

"I miss him, too." He seemed distracted. "And I hope he's well taken care of."

"You paid enough that he should be," Cait said. He could have bought a third horse for the coin he'd coughed up for board.

"Chiron has never been mistreated." He nodded as a man passed from the other direction, then guided his mount down the center of the bridge. "I'm hoping to keep it that way."

Caithren followed, reaching to pat her horse's red-chestnut neck as they came into the small town of Biggleswade. "This mare is a bonnie lass. What is she called by?"

"I didn't think to ask."

"Nay? Then I will have to name her myself."

"You do that." He twisted in the saddle, scanning the street. "Mind if we stop? There's a baker next to the Coach & Horses. We'll just run in and get some bread."

"I'll wait here."

"No." His gaze shifted to her injured arm. "I want you to come with me."

She'd lost this argument before, so she slid off her horse—whatever the creature's name might be—and tethered her beside Jason's.

Though the sun wasn't high in the sky yet, it seemed a long time since breakfast. Delicious smells of fresh bread came through the bakeshop's door. Jason tugged it open and hurried to pull her inside.

Unused to the heels, she nearly stumbled. "Jase—"

"Hush." Baskets tacked on the wall were brimming with crusty loaves. With a rigid hand on her elbow, he guided her over and turned to her expectantly. "Grain or manchet?"

"Um…manchet."

He shot a glance out the window, then grasped her round the waist and swung her to face the baker. "What did you say, sweetheart?"

"M-manchet," she stammered out. She leaned closer to whisper. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Two loaves of manchet," he told the baker loudly.

"Two pence, my lord." The flush-faced baker fetched two small loaves and began wrapping them in paper.

Jason pulled out his pouch. "Geoffrey Gothard," he muttered under his breath.

Cait's spine stiffened.

His attention on the window, he took his time paying the man. At last she saw the tension ease from his shoulders. He tucked the two breads beneath one arm and curled the other around her waist. Casually, he drew her through the door and outside.

His fingers tightened just before he whirled her around and urged her back against the building. "Pretend you're flirting with me," he said, the words coming stilted through a wide, devastating smile.

He pressed close, closer, until the warm bread was pinned between their two bodies. It was broad daylight. All morning he'd been acting like he wanted nothing to do with her.

Her breath caught when he touched his forehead to hers, hot and close. "Now," he demanded in a harsh whisper. "Geoffrey Gothard is walking this way—he won't look twice at a couple in a passionate embrace."

She tried to lean and see for herself, but his free hand came up to hold her face. "Put your arms around me."

She shakily complied.

"That's better," he murmured in her ear. His tongue flicked out and his teeth nipped her lobe, making her feel shakier still.

Ever since she'd donned the turquoise, gown, he'd been looking at her differently. Maybe he just wanted to kiss her. She tried again to see Gothard, but Jason's fingers tightened on her chin. His gaze bore into hers, so intense her knees nearly buckled.

"You're m-making this up as an excuse to kiss me."

"If you value your life, you'll play along." His mouth brushed her cheek and trailed down her neck, leaving a quivery path of dampness. "You're my mistress," he murmured into the sensitive hollow beneath her chin. "Try to look like you're enjoying this, will you?"

Aye, she was enjoying it.

When she arched against him, he claimed her lips in a soul-searing kiss. The heat from the bread seemed to seep into her stomach and spread. Her head felt woozy. Her entire body felt limp. Only the wall and Jason's arms kept her standing.

His tongue traced her lips, then swept inside, kindling a hot rush of excitement. And, somehow, that changed everything.

Her fingers tangled in the coarse hair of the wig. The now-familiar pleasure stole through her, and she wondered vaguely how she could have thought she was better off without this. She clung to his lips, molding herself against his body, wishing she could flow right into him.

Were they really being watched? Either way, she felt safe with him here, as she always had, though it made no more sense now than it had in the beginning. The melting intimacy felt genuine, not staged, and despite herself—despite the real danger—she found herself savoring every second.

Surely he felt the connection, too. She couldn't let him deny these feelings again.

He raised his head and looked both ways, then said, "He's gone."

Feeling a loss, she held him captive with a hand behind his neck and the other splayed against his back. "What else can you tell me about your mistress?" Her voice shook, betraying her emotions. "I-if I'm to act the part, then—"

He groaned, a heart-wrenching sound of capitulation. "My mistress…there's no one I'd rather kiss." The green of his eyes turned dark and unfathomable as he clasped her tightly against him. His mouth brushed hers, once, twice, caressing her lips more than kissing them, wordlessly begging her to open and let him in. When she parted her lips, he devoured her mouth with an urgent hunger.

She was stunned at the possessiveness of his embrace. He wanted her, she was sure of it…

Now that she was dressed like an Englishwoman.

But it wasn't right. She'd wanted him all along, mustached or not, long hair or short, dressed like a peasant or a nobleman. It was the man she wanted, not the package in which he was presented.

She pulled away, struggling to regain her senses. "Now you look at me differently," she accused. "Ever since I put on these clothes."

"No." He captured her gaze with his. "Ever since I saw you dance with the Gypsies."

Since then? Her heart leapt. Dancing with the Gypsies, she'd been herself, Caithren Leslie, more than at any other time since she'd stepped foot in England.

He backed away, catching the bread from between them before it could fall to the ground.

Cait blinked and put her palms to her cheeks. She focused on the loaves in his hands. "They're squished," she said stupidly.

"Gothard is gone." He handed her a loaf. "I think we fooled him."

"I hope so," she said.

But maybe not. Maybe she'd like to try to fool him again. She wasn't completely convinced this was the only way to keep from being seen, but it could be the only way Jason would allow himself the pleasure of kissing her.

That sort of bloody-mindedness she was determined to change.

The bread didn't feel as hot as it had between their bodies. Though she wasn't hungry, she unwrapped the loaf, tore off a hunk, and stuck it in her mouth. Before she could say something else stupid.

"Shall we go?" he asked her.

"Aye." Swallowing, she wrapped her bread back up. "Let's go." They untied their horses and headed out.

The road out of Biggleswade was narrow, with a few small houses scattered alongside. As scattered as Cait's thoughts. Jason was the most confusing man she'd ever met. Exasperating. Authoritative. Protective.

But he certainly knew how to kiss.

Although it was clouding up and cooling off, the brocade gown was heavy enough to keep her warm. The gown and the hot blood pumping through her veins…

What would she have done without Jason? It felt like a lifetime since he'd kept her off the coach. She'd still be on it, wouldn't she? Slowly making her way toward London, listening to Mrs. Dochart day in and day out.

She'd have her money and her clothes—clothes that didn't leave half her bosom exposed for the world to ogle. But she wouldn't have attended a country fair, tasted syllabub, or danced with the Gypsies.

Or learned what it felt like to really be kissed.

He'd swept her plans out from under her. The trouble was, she feared he'd swept her heart out from under her as well.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

My dearest Malcolm and Alison,

I did not have to travel all the way South, as evidence proves the Gothards to be following the Great North Road toward London. They are not good at covering their tracks. So I hope to be home sooner than planned, which is a very happy thing, because I miss you both more than words can say.

All the day, as I ride the road, I think about my two bairns and what you might be doing. Every day that passes without you is a day I've missed forever, and I cannot wait to see your two bonnie faces and hold you in my arms again.

From what I have learned, these men are very, very bad people. I know I will be doing the world a good deed to see them gone. All the same, I would rather be with you, and I count the days until it will be so. I cannot wait to hug and kiss you, and my dearest prayer is that when I come home to you this time, it will be forever.

Your very loving Mama

During the ten long miles from Biggleswade to Baldock, the weather failed to cooperate. As the long blowing grasses gave way to Baldock's neat clipped gardens, the clouds grew darker and the wind picked up, whipping beneath Caithren's heavy skirts.

They rode past the Church of St. Mary, a pleasing amalgam of several centuries of architecture. Jason slowed before the Old White Horse. "You hungry?"

She held up her half-eaten loaf of bread. "I can wait if you can."

With a glance at the menacing clouds, he nodded. They continued on toward Stevenage, with Cait trying her best to keep the conversation flowing over the hours, so as not to think too much.

Because, truly, she didn't know what to think anymore.

When the temperature dropped, they donned their working-class hats even though they didn't match their upper-class disguises. Jason dug in the portmanteau and jostled his horse closer to settle his cloak over her shoulders.

"Thank you," she said, snuggling into the woolen warmth. She fastened the clasp beneath her chin. "Maid-of-the-Wave."

"Pardon?"

"I'm naming my horse Maid-of-the-Wave. Her coat is glittery like a mermaid, don't you think? And sort of reddish, like a salmon?"

He shrugged. "If you say so."

"What will you be naming yours?"

"Nothing." He shot a glance over his shoulder. "I'll be riding him only through tomorrow. He won't have time to learn a name."

She shook her head mournfully. "All creatures need a name. If you won't name him, then I shall have to. Hmm…" Chilled, she gathered the edges of the cloak more closely around her. "Hamish," she decided.

"Hamish?" Jason slanted her a puzzled glance. "After who?"

"The young farmer who married the Maid-of-the-Wave."

His lips quirked. "You never said his name was Hamish."

"Well, I don't actually know his name. But it seems to me that about one out of four men in Scotland is named Hamish, so I figure it's a bonnie good bet."

She was blethering again.

Since he appeared to be choking back laughter, she looked away and caught sight of a flutter in the sky. An excuse to change the subject. "Magpies," she said, watching one of the black-and-white birds land in a tree. "Do you see their dome-shaped nest? I hope there are at least two in it."

Frowning, he glanced over his shoulder again. "Why?"

"Less than two are supposed to be unlucky, aye? And doubly so if you see one alone before breakfast." He was still looking behind them. "Are you counting the magpies?

"Pardon? No. No, I'm not."

"I don't believe the superstition, but I do know a verse." She started quoting. "One for sorrow, two for luck, three for a wedding—"

"Bloody hell!"

She gasped when he reached across and grabbed her reins. Kicking his horse into a gallop, he drove them both off the side of the road. His hat flew off.

"What are you doing?" she yelled, holding on for dear life, one hand on her head to keep her own hat from flying away.

"Just hold on!" His jaw set, he pressed on, and Cait wondered wildly what they could be running from. Six strange little round hills sat off the road a wee distance. Drawing close, he reined in and dragged both horses to a halt.

He dismounted in a flash and reached both hands to help her down. He tugged her toward one of the mounds.

"Will they stay?" she asked. "Maid-of-the-Wave and Hamish?"

He shrugged, hurrying her along. "The horses are the least of our worries."

"Don't tell me you think those brothers are after us again."

He shot a glance around the hill, back toward the road. "All right, I won't tell you."

She followed his gaze. Her heart seized when she spotted Walter and Geoffrey Gothard astride two horses.

"Damnation! Get down!" With two hands on her shoulders, Jason pushed her to her knees.

She shrieked, her hand going to her hurt arm.

"Sorry," he hissed. Her hat tumbled off as they scrambled behind the mound and out of sight. But there was no way to hide the beasts they'd been riding on. And Jason's instincts had been right. The brothers were following them. She'd seen them with her own eyes.

Quite suddenly she recalled a vivid memory of standing outside Scarborough's house and overhearing their wicked plans. As then, she shivered. But her heart was pounding a good deal harder than that day, knowing the Gothards were now bent on killing not just Scarborough, but her and Jason, too.

"Cooperate this time, will you?" Jason's eyes burned with an intense green fire. "There's nothing for it. I hope they'll stay on the road, but if they ride round this hill and get a good look at our faces—"

He broke off, and his mouth covered hers.

The caress was more than a simple kiss this time—his body covered hers, warm and heavy, pinning her to the cushiony grass. Her blood raced in both passion and fear. She felt boneless and aflame all at once, the conflicting emotions all-consuming.

Was it grass-muted hoofbeats she heard drawing near, or her own heartbeat in her ears? Whichever, stark panic overcame the softer feelings, and her heart pumped even faster as she imagined Gothard stabbing Jason in the back as she lay under him, or shooting him, or—

"Pardon my impudence," he murmured, "but I've got to make this look good." The next thing she knew, his hand was venturing under her skirt—

And the hoofbeats came yet closer—

"Damn me, Caroline," a man's voice drawled. "Someone's found our favorite spot."

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Jason opened one eye to get a look at the intruders, then sat up, muttering a curse. Caithren lay limp in the grass, a hand pressed to her heart while he adjusted the tangled cloak and tugged down on her skirts.

He glanced up at the young man and woman, both on horseback. Country folk, likely stealing away to court on the sly.

Horror widened the girl's round gray eyes. "Let's go! Can't you see they're quality? Let's go!" Her cheeks stained bright red, she dug in her heels and took off.

The young man wheeled and rode after her, shouting, "Caroline!"

Releasing a slow breath, Jason crawled around the mound to have a look, then returned to Caithren. "The Gothards…I guess they rode past." He raked a rather shaky hand through his hair, only to realize it was the periwig, which he nearly dislodged. "We scared off those lovers but good," he said with a smile, offering a hand to help Caithren sit.

She smiled back. "We did, didn't we?" She burst into giggles, hugging her sides. The giddiness of relief, he guessed. "My mam always said, 'guid claes and keys let you in.'"

"Good what?"

"Clothes. Dressing well can open doors for you the same as a key, aye? We've dressed the part, and they believed it, just like that." She snapped her fingers and stood up, evidently not an easy task in the silver shoes. Her legs looked wobbly. "What are these wee hills? They look too regular to be natural."

"They're Roman barrows." Jason rose as well, brushing off his velvet breeches. "Burial mounds."

"Oh," she said, making a face. "Faugh."

"Faugh? That's it?" He leaned to pick up her hat. "No quote of your mother's for this one?"

"I'll tell you, Jase. I don't think Mam ever kissed anyone while lying on top of dead Romans."

He threw back his head and laughed.

"I wouldn't mind trying it again, though," she added.

That sobered him. "What?"

"The kissing." She shook out her skirts and pulled up on the hated stomacher. "You seem to enjoy the kissing enough, but you need to have an excuse." She squared her shoulders and faced him daringly. "You're attracted to me, aye?"

"I am." He'd be lying to deny it. "But God knows why." Maybe because she made him laugh. He'd been far too serious the past weeks—the past years, truth be told. Ever since his parents had died and left him with all the responsibilities. "And God also knows I've no business acting on that attraction."

"Why not, I ask you?" She moved closer. "I wouldn't tell a soul, and I wouldn't try to trap you, either. I have every intention of going home to Scotland, and I won't be expecting you to come with me. Before I leave, though, I'd just like to know…"

Both her proximity and her earnestness made him uncomfortable. Turning her hat in his hands, he started walking back to the horses. "Know what?"

"What it would feel like, is all." She hurried to keep up with him, stumbling in the new shoes. "What it would feel like to—"

When she broke off, he risked looking over at her. Her breath came unevenly. Her cheeks had turned a becoming shade of pink.

"You know," she said, as though he knew what she was talking about.

Which, of course, he did.

He halted mid-step. A Scottish woman propositioning him. He needed a moment to digest that.

No matter how much his hands burned to run riot all over her body, the mere idea was absurd. And it was wrong as well. Even more so now that he knew she was a provincial baronet's daughter, not some bold, widowed reward-hunter.

He'd already compromised her by traveling alone with her. There was nothing he could do about that now, but he sure as hell wasn't going to take things any further.

He turned to her and stuck the hat on her head.

"With you," she added in a whisper. "I've never wanted to before. Before I met you, I mean." Her hand went to her amulet, and her lower lip trembled. "But you won't do anything about it, will you?"

"No, I won't be doing anything about it." Her eyes were a gorgeous hazy blue. Christ. "You should be grateful for that. It's wrong to take a woman and—just leave her," he said, striding over to the horses.

Teetering in his wake, she called after him. "If you believe that, have you never, then? With a woman, since you've said you're not wanting to marry. I mean…" She rushed in front of him and stood blocking his way, looking up at him. "Are you a virgin, Jason Chase?"

Her words seemed to echo across the open fields. At first he was horrified, but then he laughed. "No, I'm no virgin. But it's different in my circle of acquaintances." King Charles's court was licentious as hell. Barring his sister—he hoped—he doubted there was a courtier over the age of fourteen who could call him or herself virgin. "We have different expectations. With you, there's a matter of responsibility."

"I have no expectations. For once, could you listen to the Gypsy? Could you forget about responsibilities and just let yourself feel?"

"I think not."

He felt all too much, and that was the problem. If he thought he could simply love her and leave her, he might consider it. He hadn't been so tempted in a good, long while. Maybe in all his life.

But with Caithren it would be all or nothing—he knew that in his bones.

"Look, we've been tied at the hip for days now. All you really want from me is to get to London. And I'll get you there, I promise. A Chase promise is not given lightly."

Her eyes cleared and turned a disappointed, indistinct color. "You have no idea what I want from you, Jason. And I don't believe you ever will." She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.

"You're cold," he said. "And the weather looks to be getting colder. Come along. We're almost to Stevenage, where I can buy you a cloak."

The clouds had grown dark and menacing, and Jason found the interior of The Grange even darker. Brushing off the drizzle that had beaded on his cloak, he stepped into the taproom and blinked in the dimness.

Caithren wasn't at the table where he'd left her.

Panic sprinted along his nerves before he got himself under control. He tossed the new wool cloak he'd bought over her chair and walked around the tavern, checking every corner of the oddly shaped room. Then back to the table, his heart beginning to beat unevenly. He'd left her with his portmanteau and the burlap bag with the backgammon set.

All was gone.

Geoffrey's and Walter's faces flashed in his mind. But no one in the taproom looked at all concerned, and it was inconceivable that Caithren would go with the brothers without a fight. While it was true she couldn't shoot, he'd seen her in action: punching, kicking, wielding a knife. And there was no sign of a confrontation.

Still, his pulse raced, his head felt woozy. What if they'd managed to take her? How would he find them? What would he do? He couldn't think clearly when he kept seeing her standing in that courtyard with blood running down her arm. Blood from a Gothard's blade.

If anything more happened to her, he would never forgive himself.

He paced around the tavern, stopping at tables, querying one patron after another. "A woman was sitting there. Short, blond. Did she leave with anyone?"

No one had seen a thing.

When she came down the stairs, stepping gingerly on the heeled shoes, he spun around. His long legs ate up the distance between them.

"Where the hell were you?"

"Hold your tongue. Everyone is looking at us." She walked to their table, set down the burlap bag, shrugged the portmanteau off her shoulder. "I took everything with me so nothing would go missing. I was gone but a minute."

"You have a damn odd idea of a minute. Where did you go? How dare you disappear on me! I thought the Gothards had—"

"I had to…you know. Use the privy." Frowning, she peered into his eyes, and then, unbelievably, her lips turned up in a hint of a smile. "I've never really seen you angry before. I didn't think you had it in you."

"I've never thought you were missing before," he snapped out.

She crossed her arms and leveled him with a stare. "How about when I tried to escape you? Or when I fell asleep in the kirk?"

"Things were different then. Then I didn't—oh, bloody hell."

"Then you didn't care?" she supplied. "You cannot say it, can you? That you care."

"I care," he said. "I care about making things right. I care about replacing what you lost on my account. I care that you get to London in one piece, not carved up by a Gothard's blade."

The sound of raucous laughter came from another table. Pewter tankards clanked on wood. "I don't want anything to happen to you, either," Caithren said softly.

"Why?" he asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.

"Because I care." Her gaze dropped to her crossed arms. "And I don't mean about getting to London or the money you owe me."

With a finger he lifted her chin. "Emerald—"

"And no matter what you call me, I care because of this—" She went up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his.

Bloody hell. Calling her Emerald wasn't working. With a groan of surrender, he closed his eyes to return the kiss.

His arms went around her, and the sounds of the tavern receded as she arched herself so close he felt her damned amulet between them. Her lips were warm velvet; her flowery scent assaulted his senses.

How could such an exasperating woman be so sweet?

At the sound of a whistle, he pulled away to much applause.

"We see you found her," someone yelled.

Caithren's cheeks went from the pink of passion to the red of embarrassment.

"Shall we go?" he asked with a laugh. He drew the new cloak from her chair and settled it over her shoulders. "It's seven miles to Welwyn and starting to rain already."

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

"We're not going to make it, Jase," Caithren yelled through the storm. She hadn't known it was possible to feel so wet. Her new cloak was all but useless against the downpour. "If this gown soaks up any more water, poor Maid-of-the-Wave will be driven to her knees."

A huge crash of thunder made both horses shy. The sky opened up and spewed twice as much water, a feat she hadn't thought possible. Rain came down in blinding sheets. Cait couldn't see as much as two feet ahead.

She felt Jason's leg bump up against hers before his hand came through the downpour to grab her reins. "Shelter!" he hollered over the next crack of lightning. "Come with me!"

He led them off the road along a barely visible trail. Hidden in the trees sat an old thatched cottage. How he'd found the place she'd never know, but the mere sight of it lifted her heart.

She held both horses while Jason pounded on the door. No one came to answer. The shutters were all latched from the interior, and the door was locked. Water streaming into her eyes, Cait waited while he walked all the way around the one-room building.

"Closed up!" he called through the pounding rain.

She wanted to cry.

He stood stock-still for a spell, then disappeared behind the cottage and returned with a hefty log. Bracing it against his good shoulder, he stepped back and ran at the door.

It didn't give, and she winced at his anguished yell. "You're going to kill yourself," she called. "You're in no shape for this!"

But he tried it twice more, until the door crashed in. He nearly fell on his face after it, and, miserable as she was, Cait had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

"Go inside," he told her, and she did, gratefully. After tethering the horses beneath some trees, he took their things and followed her, propping the door into its space behind them.

They stood there, dripping, for a long minute. Rain pounded on the roof. The cottage looked clean enough and boasted a bed with a thick quilt, a small table, two wooden chairs, and a brick fireplace. No wood, no candles, no oil lamps. The warped shutters let in a little light and a lot of rain that puddled near the glassless windows. But it was shelter, and Caithren couldn't remember being more appreciative in her life.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Jason gestured helplessly. "It will be cold come night. And dark. All the wood outside is soaking wet." He looked at the table and chairs.

Her gaze followed his. "You're not thinking of burning them?" When he shrugged, she shook her head. "They're not yours to burn. Besides, where would we continue our backgammon tournament?"

"That's right." Grinning, he pulled off his hat. Water poured from the wide brim. "I'm ahead."

"You are not." She set her own drenched hat on the table. "We're dead even. Seventeen matches each."

He dragged off the wet wig. His own hair underneath was just as soaked, sleekly black and plastered to his head.

"You look like a selkie," Cait said.

He unfastened his cloak and let it drop to the floor in a sodden heap. "A what?"

"A selkie. A mythical creature that takes on the form of a seal in the sea and a man on the land."

"How flattering." Amusement lit his eyes as they raked her from head to toe. "You on the other hand, look the picture of perfection."

"Aye?" Laughing, she shrugged free of her cloak. "I wouldn't be surprised if this gown weighs more than I do." Bending at the waist, she gathered her hair and twisted it. Water streamed out onto the wooden floor.

As she straightened, her hair still bunched in one hand, Jason's arms came around her from behind. She hadn't even heard him move close. He pressed his lips to the nape of her neck.

Warm and soft. Her breath caught, and she stood stone still. She hadn't imagined it the first time, she realized, a little thrill running through her at the thought. "What was that for?"

"I've been wanting to do that since the day I met you," he said huskily.

Quite unsure about this side of Jason Chase and where it had come from, she turned to face him. His penetrating gaze was entrancing. "Well, I wouldn't have stopped you," she said.

"I don't expect you would have." He took a deep breath and looked away, the Jason she knew slipping back into place. "Let me fetch some dry clothes."

Still stunned, she stood and shivered while he went through the portmanteau. One after another, their clothes came out, every piece soaking wet.

She draped the garments on the floor around the room. "I hope they'll dry," she said on a sigh.

Finally, from the very bottom, he unearthed a pair of buff breeches and one of his shirts and held them both up triumphantly. "Dry. Almost. Which do you want?" He waved the breeches, a distinct leer in his eye.

Surprised and a bit unnerved by his playfulness, she snatched the shirt from his other hand. "This will do, thank you. Turn around."

With a grin, he obeyed. One of his feet impatiently tapped on the wooden floor, the wet boot leather squeaking with each motion.

"No peeking," she admonished. Quite adept at removing stomachers now, she did so in all haste.

"Are you finished yet?"

"Nay. Stay put."

His foot kept tapping while she wiggled the gown and chemise to her waist and slipped his shirt over her head. Unexpectedly soft, it smelled warm and spicy, like he did. Reaching beneath the hem, she pushed everything down and off, leaving her shoes in the wet pile when she stepped out of it.

"Now your turn." She faced away to wait.

A hand came down on her shoulder and slowly swung her around. His gaze traced a lazy path down her body. She blushed, aware that the shirt reached only to her knees.

He raised a brow. "Much better than Mrs. Twentyman's night rail. I think we ought to burn that thing."

"You haven't got a fire," she said crisply. "Are you going to change or not?"

"In due time."

Mindful of his eyes on her, she yanked up on the sleeves, which fell well past her hands, and tightened the shirt's laces. "Aren't you freezing?"

"Are you?"

Her skin erupted in goose bumps, though it really wasn't too cold now that she was out of the wet gown. "Not since I changed. I'll just take these clothes"—she bent to retrieve them—"and lay them out while you dress." She turned her back and started spreading the garments over what little floor space was left. "Don't worry—I promise not to look."

"It wouldn't bother me if you did, sweetheart," he drawled.

If past experience was any indicator, she had no cause to doubt him. Blushing furiously, she made long work of squeezing the water from the brocade gown and wringing out its chemise. Her shoes were alarmingly soggy, but she sat them on the floor and hoped for the best.

The stomacher was soaked, yet still just as stiff. Apparently Jason hadn't been fooling when he said there was bone inside.

"Ready," he called.

She turned, then whirled back away. "You're still half-naked!"

"If you'll hand over my only dry shirt, I can finish dressing," he said drolly.

She hugged the shirt in question around her middle. "Oh, never mind."

Averting her eyes from his bare chest, she fetched the backgammon set and removed it from the burlap bag.

"Sit," she said, plopping the drenched board onto the table. "It's wet, but I reckon it'll survive, seeing as it's made from a cow that likely got drenched in its day." She lined up the markers on their respective pips.

"I reckon it will," he said, his voice tinged with amusement. Taking the dice cup, he rolled two sixes.

She sat across from him, trying not to notice the way his muscles rippled when he leaned across the board to make his moves. Though still a livid pink, his wound looked all but healed. Rain beat down on the roof, and thunder and lightning disturbed her concentration.

Damn if she didn't lose three matches in a row.

"I'm hungry," Jason complained as she reset the board.

"There's some bread left in the pocket of my cloak."

He rose to fetch it, treating her to a view of his broad shoulders and back. He returned with a handful of white mush. "I don't think so," he groaned and tossed it into the empty fireplace.

"Maybe it will stop raining so we can continue on to Welwyn before you waste away of starvation."

He snorted.

But the weather didn't let up.

By the time Cait had lost two more matches, the rumbling was directly overhead and nearly constant. Dark was falling. Brilliant flashes of lightning lit the room through the ill-fitting shutters, but the sporadic brightness wasn't adequate to play by.

Caithren squinted at the dice, trying to see what numbers she'd rolled. With a sigh, she rose and headed for the entrance, picking her way around the clothes that littered the floor. She pried the door free from where Jason had propped it within its frame, just enough to see outside.

The rain pounded down, assaulting her ears. "I don't think we'll be going anywhere," she yelled over the noise.

"I expect not," Jason said softly, right beside her. When she jumped, one of his arms came around to steady her. The other hand reached to shove the door back into place, blocking most of the sound.

She could still hear the rain on the roof and through the shutters, but the room seemed suddenly and immeasurably quieter. It seemed she could hear her own heartbeat over the soft sigh of Jason's breath by her ear.

Surely that wasn't possible. Just as it wasn't possible that he was sweeping aside her hair and kissing that spot on the nape of her neck again.

She shivered.

"Are you cold?" he whispered.

She wasn't sure. Was she cold or just unbearably aware of his lips on her skin? Regardless, she nodded.

"Come to bed, then. I'll keep you warm."

Hope blossoming, she spun in his arms. But when a flash of lightning illuminated his eyes, she could see they were guileless.

"I'll just keep you warm," he repeated. "I promise. A Chase promise is—"

"—not given lightly," she finished on a sigh.

She wanted so much more than to be kept warm. But she couldn't face yet another rejection. She wouldn't ask with words, ever again.

Instead she asked with her body. She pressed against him, ran her hands over the hard planes of his bare shoulders, pulled the tie out of his hair, meshed her fingers in its silky softness.

Her reward was hearing his sharp intake of breath.

"To bed. To keep warm," he said firmly and turned her around, guiding her across the darkened room with a hand clamped on her shoulder.

She clenched her teeth, but a groan slipped out anyway.

"Have I hurt you?" he asked. "Oh, damn, it's your arm, isn't it?"

She began to nod, then realized he couldn't see her. Turning to face him, she flattened her hands against his chest. "Aye," she whispered, her palms tingling. "I never found time to gather plants today."

"Is it getting any better?"

"Nay." She wouldn't lie. But she didn't want to alarm him, either. She didn't want to be thinking about her arm now—she wanted to be thinking about his body, warm and tucked beside hers. "It's been but a day. These things take time."

"I wish I could have a look."

"Well, it's dark. You can look in the morning, if it pleases you. For now…" She snuggled close.

Though she felt him hesitate, she also felt his heart pounding beneath her hands. With a muttered oath, he swung her into his arms and carried her to the bed, probably scattering all their carefully laid out clothes as he went.

Not that she cared. She knew she had won.

The bed ropes creaked as he set her down, and another flash of lightning revealed his features in stark relief. Enough so she could find his lips with hers by the time the responding thunder rumbled through the sky, shaking the cottage, the floorboards, the bed.

Or maybe she was shaking. Nay, for sure she was shaking. His hands moved to cup her face, and he eased her back, coming down on top of her. His shirt rode up her thighs, and it was scandalous, but she couldn't find it in herself to care.

How could she care when her dreams were coming true?

His bare chest felt wonderfully warm through the thin cambric shirt. His lips were gentle and giving, but she could feel his reticence, a sweet reticence that teased her. She grabbed at his hair and fitted her mouth to his, reveling in his groan. Her world was reduced to his hands and his mouth and his body, the heat and the glory, the pure pleasure of him touching her at last.

His shoulders tensed above her as he shifted onto his elbows, sparing her his full weight. His fingers worked at the shirt's laces while his mouth trailed down, lingering in the hollow of her neck. She arched in shivery delight, gasping when she felt the lacing drawn out of its eyelets, gasping again when the same laces dropped to the floor.

His mouth teased in the open vee of the shirt's placket, licking, biting, kissing. And lower, his lips playing over her aching breasts and grazing her sensitive nipples. It was wicked, but wickedly marvelous. It was—

He moved to draw the chain with her amulet over her head.

"Nay," she whispered, wedging a hand between them to settle the necklace back into place.

"Nay," he echoed, the word sounding foreign from his lips. His knuckles brushed her face, hesitated, halted. He stilled. "Nay," he repeated, closing his eyes and pulling away.

He sat up, breathing in slow, loud puffs.

"I said I wouldn't do this," he ground out from between gritted teeth. "It's not responsible, and—"

Reaching up, she grasped his shoulders. "For once in your life, would you forget about being responsible? I want you, Jason."

Another flash of lightning, and his answer was in his eyes.

No.

Despite her resolve, she had asked with words again—and, no, he wouldn't have the likes of her.

A sob tore from her throat—a sob borne of frustration and embarrassment, endless rejection and unfulfilled passion. She leapt up and made for the door, clawing at it with frantic fingers, throwing it to the floor behind her. A mighty crash resounded from the cottage as she raced out into the storm.

He was behind her within seconds, but she kept running, darting around the shadows of the trees, until finally he caught her by the hem of the shirt and pulled her to her knees in the wet grass. She threw herself forward, shutting her eyes against the sight of him, though she couldn't really have seen him anyway in the darkness and the driving rain.

"Leave me alone!" she screamed over the deluge. Never had she realized water could be so loud. But that was good—it drowned out her harsh breathing and the staccato beat of her heart. It pounded on her skin, cold needles that drove away all her anguished thoughts as she concentrated on the chilled wetness. It caressed her body with the icy fingers she needed to cool her ardor and bring her back to her senses.

Then warmer fingers were on her, rolling her onto her back. Jason was kneeling over her. "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded over a rumble of thunder. "You'll catch your death out here."

"Leave me alone!" Angrily she pushed at his hands and struggled to her feet. "Always, since I met you, you will never leave me alone," she hollered as he came up after her.

A bolt of lightning illuminated his face for a second, just a second. But long enough for Cait to see his tortured face, his anguished eyes. And in that flash she saw that the rejection she'd seen in the cottage had been something else. She'd seen what she'd expected to see, rather than the truth.

The naked hunger.

"I don't want to leave you alone," he bellowed over the wind and the rain and another hard crack of thunder. "Damn it to bloody hell—I never wanted to leave you alone!"

And he was on her in an instant, his bare torso hot on her chilled, wet body, his mouth searching for hers.

Their lips met, and a jolt of desire shot straight through to her heart. The kiss wasn't gentle, but devouring, demanding a response she was only too ready to give. His tongue swept her mouth as his hands swept down to the hem of the shirt, dragging it up her body until he broke contact to pull it over her head.

Lightning flashed as he crushed her to him, skin against skin, fusing his mouth to hers again. Rain pounded down all around them, but they were close, so close not a drop could shimmy between their straining bodies. His lips traveled her cheeks, her nose, her hairline, leaving a burning path no cold water could erase. Unshaven roughness grazed her skin, a man's texture that gave rise to a thrill as wild as the storm.

He lowered her to the grass, his hands roaming her body and leaving a riot of sensation in their wake. Her own hands skimmed his back, his shoulders, wherever she could reach. Thunder rumbled—in the distance, then closer—matching the uneven beat of her pulse. The rain smelled chilly and fresh, but Jason smelled warm and male and unbearably exciting.

When his hand raced down her side and his fingers explored between her legs, she cried out, feeling herself wetter than the rain somehow and straining for more. More of his body, more of his mouth, more of his fingers where they teased. More, more. She pressed her lips where his neck met his shoulder and tasted him, her teeth nipping his heated skin.

He reared up, and suddenly all four of their hands were fumbling on the laces to his breeches. In moments he had peeled them off, and his mouth closed over hers as he plunged into her.

A wee bit surprised at the intrusion, Cait stiffened and gasped. He hesitated above her.

She couldn't see his face through the dark and the rain. She knew only that he couldn't stop now. She wouldn't let him. Like the rain and the thunder and the lightning, nothing would stop them.

Nothing.

She arched up against him, taking him deeper, her heart soaring when she felt him respond. Her hands clawed at his back as he rocked against her, the water sluicing over them in a relentless rhythm that matched their own.

Relentless, like the feeling building inside her, a feeling so urgent and wondrous it could come only from nature. Relentless. A jagged bolt ripped from the sky as Caithren hurtled to a point of no return.

Then she did return, only to feel Jason pull out of her as the answering thunder rumbled the earth beneath them. Shuddering, he buried his face in her shoulder. "Caithren," he choked out.

She'd thought she couldn't feel any more wonderful, but hearing him utter her name—her real name, for the first time—made her heart constrict with an unsurpassable pleasure. Her feelings weren't entirely unreciprocated…and, even more significant, he finally believed she was Caithren.

Finally.

He struggled to his elbows, hovering above her. "Caithren, sweet Cait." The words came in ragged pants. "I'm—Christ, I'm so sorry."

She moved under him, feeling entirely too drained to respond to his distress. "I told you I was Cait—"

"Not about that."

He rolled off her, onto his back, putting a hand over his eyes. One knee was raised, and her greedy gaze roamed his body as another flash of lightning revealed it.

"Bloody hell," he said, "I lost my head, and I've"—his face constricted in anguish—"ruined you. Let you down, your family, myself…I'm so damned sorry."

"Don't you dare be sorry," Cait yelled over the crack of thunder. "Be sorry you didn't believe me, if you will—you haven't believed a word I've said since the day we met. But don't you dare be sorry for this. I am not ruined. A man's contrivance, that."

By all the saints, he looked wretched enough to do himself damage.

"It was good, wasn't it?" She sat up and leaned over him, shoving his hand from his eyes. "Wasn't it?" she demanded.

"It was." He sat too and clutched her close, covering her mouth with wee kisses, with all the tenderness they'd abandoned during their heated encounter. "It was good." Another kiss, and his tongue flicked out to trace her lips. "But it was wrong, and for your first time—"

"It was good," she interrupted. It had been more than good—it had been unbelievable. The sheer force and power of it, of the two of them together. "I would never have known how good it could be, and I can only be better for the knowing. I didn't have a clue, Jase. Not a glimmer—"

He groaned. "All right. It was good. My sweet, independent Cait. What is it the Gypsy said? You go your own way." He kissed the dripping rain off her nose. "Sweet Jesus, have you ever in your life been so damned wet?"

CHAPTER FORTY

She was still laughing when they made it to the cottage and he shoved the door back into place.

Except for when lightning lit the sky and seeped through the shutters, the room was pitch-black, but he managed to find some of the less wet clothes and rub her down with them, then tuck her into the bed before seeing to himself.

Thankful that she couldn't see him in the darkness, he scrubbed mercilessly at his skin, as though he could scour away the guilt. Oh, she was right—it had been good. Damned good. Better than he'd ever had; better than he'd ever imagined. Even now, his blood ran hot wanting her again…wanting to give it to her nice and slow, the way a virgin should be treated.

God damn him for being so weak and irresponsible, for allowing his body to rule his head. He should never have taken her—it had been selfish and wrong. Wrong beyond description.

But it was done, and like everything else, he would make this up to her.

Somehow.

After this was all over.

Now, he would have to work hard to put the distance back between them—the distance they both needed in order to make sure Gothard was dealt with and no harm came to Caithren.

His precious Cait.

When he crawled into the bed, she reached for him. Her lips searched blindly for his in the darkness, fumbled, then found their target.

A sweet, sleepy kiss.

He wrapped his arms around her, settled himself against her welcoming body, and listened to the patter of rain on the roof. Distance, he thought as he felt her drifting into sleep.

He had meant to put distance between them, yet here they were, almost as close as two bodies could be. But she felt too good against him to be thinking of distance now.

The morning would be soon enough.

Crivvens, she was in the scud.

Sunlight streamed through open shutters to where Caithren lay alone in bed, naked beneath the quilt. Last night came rushing back, mad images of rain and passion she knew must have really happened, because she couldn't possibly have imagined anything so perfectly glorious.

Heat rushed to her cheeks just thinking of it.

She rubbed her aching arm. The wound felt hot beneath the bandage. She should have unwrapped it last night and allowed it some air, rather than keeping it swathed in damp cloth. But she hadn't been thinking of anything practical then—she'd thought about nothing but how Jason was making her feel.

How would she live the rest of her life without a man? Without Jason?

Every fiber in her body reacting to that thought, she sat abruptly, pulling the quilt about her shoulders. It was time to talk sense into herself. Last night had been wonderful beyond words, but she'd never feel like that again. Even should she spend the rest of her life with Jason—an idea so absurd it didn't bear considering—she'd never again experience the depth of emotion brought on by that wild combination of attraction, frustration, and weather.

Maybe it was her imagination. Could touching him, loving him, really feel that all-encompassing? In the time she had left with him, she would do her best to find out. But she already knew what the answer would be.

Jason had said they'd be in London by tonight. Friday—two days from now—she'd find Adam at Lord Darnley's wedding.

Then she'd go home to Scotland, where she belonged.

The door lay flat on the floor, and their clothes, save for her mistress outfit, were all gone. Crammed unfolded into the portmanteau, no doubt.

A smile tugged at her lips as she wrapped the quilt around her body and walked to the gaping hole where the door belonged. The sky was cloudless, and the last remnants of the rain glittered like diamonds in the sun's rays. Songbirds chirped in the trees. A beautiful, lovely morning.

The best morning of her life.

Jason was outside by the horses, already dressed in his nobleman disguise, securing their belongings. Her gaze skimmed his gleaming black hair and the masculine planes of his face. He had shaved while she slept, making her fingers itch to feel the smooth skin and compare it to the roughness of last night.

The very thought of that roughness brought a rush of urgent heat that weakened her knees and made her stomach flutter. She drank in his muscular physique, imagining what was underneath the fancy blue velvet suit. Nay, not imagining…remembering.

She blushed. "Good morn," she called.

He looked up, favoring her with one of those white grins that made her heart turn over. But as she watched, it faded. His eyes looked hooded, wary. "Good morn," he returned, then glanced away.

Her heart floundered in confusion. The pleasant flutter in her stomach turned to an uneasy jumble of nerves. After all they'd shared, still he was holding back.

Her face must have betrayed her disappointment, because he came toward her with concern in his eyes. She turned her back, leaning against the empty door frame. But when he laid his hands on her shoulders, her traitorous body responded immediately, and she felt a hot stab of desire.

He tried to swivel her to face him, but she stayed stubbornly facing away. She wouldn't let him see the tears that glazed her eyes.

She pulled from his grasp, and he followed her into the cottage.

"The horses did fine," he said from behind in a matter-of-fact tone. "Get dressed, and we'll make for Welwyn. I'm starving."

Then he wasn't going to mention last night. Wasn't going to reassure her. Nothing.

When she heard the clink of coins hitting the table, she turned. "For the damage," he explained, indicating the door and the mess of congealed bread in the fireplace. "The owners will have to pay someone to fix it up, wash the bedclothes and all."

Pay someone? What kind of a man hired people to do his work for him? When something needed doing at Leslie, she or Da or Cameron did it themselves.

Still, leaving the money was so like Jason. He was a good man. Despite her uncertain feelings, she felt compelled to try to reach him one more time.

"I want to thank you," she started.

"For what?"

"Last night." She clutched the quilt tighter. "I'll never forget it."

"I won't forget it, either," he said. "But that doesn't make it right. It shouldn't have happened."

He regretted last night.

Robbed of breath, she turned toward her still-damp clothes, feeling his gaze on her naked back where it was revealed by the drape of the quilt. Bare skin she'd never thought a man would see. But she'd exposed more than skin to him—more than her back and her breasts and the rest of her body. She'd exposed her entire soul.

And he'd wrenched it right out of her.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Hours later, somewhere between Highgate and Hampstead, Jason admitted to himself what he'd known for days and hadn't wanted to face: He'd fallen in love with Caithren Leslie.

He wasn't ready for this. He'd tried so hard to resist. Because he'd known all along that, with Cait, it would be all or nothing.

He'd wanted the distance he needed to keep his head clear and do what needed to be done. He had responsibilities. Urgent responsibilities: little Mary, her mother, the innocent man he'd killed. Gothard. Less urgent but nonetheless important responsibilities, such as seeing his sister settled.

Distance. Until last night—until he'd lost his head—he'd maintained it. This morning he'd attempted to recover it. A hopeless, disastrous attempt. But how could he share his feelings when so many responsibilities stood between him and the woman he wanted?

He wasn't ready.

But he knew he'd hurt her. His heart sinking, he took refuge beneath the shady cover of the trees overhead, thankful Cait couldn't see his face. Silently they rode past small houses with their shutters closed against the wind, like his mind had been closed to the truth. Cows and sheep in the fields turned as they passed, pinning him with liquid, accusing eyes. Two magpies mocked him from a tree.

He sneaked a glance in Caithren's direction. She looked pale, tired, on the edge of tears, her fingers white-knuckled on the reins. His fault.

Tonight he would leave her safe at his London town house while he took care of Geoffrey and Walter Gothard. Another responsibility—keeping Cait safe.

When the Gothards were behind bars, he'd help her find her brother. He'd tell her he believed everything she'd told him, and…

He'd ask her to marry him.

Though the mere thought pulled the breath from his body, quite suddenly he knew that nothing else would do but to keep her by his side forever. Never had he met anyone who could make him laugh and live like she did. His life before her seemed bleak in comparison.

Leslie was a baronetcy—Scottish or no, the match would be considered suitable. Not that he really cared; the Chases didn't go out of their way to placate society. His own brother had, with his blessing, wed a commoner.

Another glance at Cait tore at his heart. He didn't deserve her. He'd put her very life in danger, then compounded his sins by taking her, callously, with no thought to her pleasure or the words of commitment she had every right to expect from him. No wonder she was mired in gloom.

Soon he would give her everything she wanted, if only she'd give him the chance. He'd spend the rest of his life making it up to her—making her the happiest woman on earth.

In the aftermath of the storm, the road was disastrous, a muddy mess. The day's progress had been slow and aggravating. It seemed a lifetime before they made it to the tollhouse. A lifetime of torture. He would rather have submitted to the rack.

"We're in Hampstead," he told Caithren, hoping to cheer her up. "London is in reach."

"That's good." Her voice sounded weak.

He handed a coin to the tollkeeper and motioned Cait down the hill toward the heath. "Soon I'll be able to warn Scarborough," he said. "That will be a weight off both our minds, won't it?"

Though she nodded and forced a smile, he could see her jaw was tight.

The heath was wild land punctuated by weedy ponds—even slower going than the Great North Road. Narrow trodden paths wound through sprawling acres of wooded dells and fields of heather. Since they couldn't ride side by side, Jason took the lead.

"Could that be a real tree?" Wonder in her voice, Caithren uttered her first unsolicited words since they'd left the cottage that morning. "An elm, is it not? It's amazing."

The gigantic elm was perhaps ten yards around, with steps inside leading to a wooden platform that rose above the topmost leaves. He turned to see a smile on her face—a smile he'd been afraid he might never see again. His heart warmed. "Would you like to go up?"

For a moment she looked like she was seriously considering saying no. Then her eyes lit with determination. "Aye. I would like that very much. Will you come with me?"

He eyed the platform apprehensively. It looked sturdy, and the steps didn't look too daunting, housed as they were in the trunk of the tree.

"It's not so very far up," she coaxed. "Not nearly as high as that tower outside Stamford."

There was nothing he wouldn't do at this point to make her resent him a little less. "Very well," he said. "I'll be up in a moment." At her doubtful look, he added, "I mean it this time. Just let me secure the horses."

He tethered the animals to a nearby tree that was large yet dwarfed by the elm. Then he gritted his teeth and started up, mentally groaning when he saw the stairs were slatted instead of solid.

The first few steps weren't too bad, but then the staircase started spiraling inside the trunk, getting more and more narrow. Look up, he told himself, look up. Eyes on the goal, not the drop. His pulse skittered, his head whirled, the blood roared in his ears.

Halfway up, he paused to lean against the hollowed interior and close his eyes. When he opened them, his vision was blurry, and he shook his head to clear it. One foot in front of the other, one step at a time, and if he felt as though his dinner might come up, well, he'd just have to ignore that.

Given her head start, he was surprised when he caught up to her. She seemed to be expending quite an effort in the climb. Last night must have taken its toll on her. Another blade of guilt stabbed at his heart.

What kind of man took a woman in a thunderstorm?

She glanced back at him. "You look pale."

He blew out a breath and shrugged. His gaze on her back, he ordered his legs to stop shaking, and at last they made it to the platform.

"Forty-two steps," she announced. "By all the saints, will you look at that view!" She rushed to the rail, her gaze scanning from right to left and back again.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said. The platform looked as though it might hold about twenty people. Wiping sweaty palms on his breeches, he stayed in the exact center. "We're lucky to have a clear day. London's often mired in fog." His stomach did a flip-flop when she leaned over the rail. "Keep back, will you?"

"London is incredible. It's enormous! I've never seen so many buildings in one place."

The view stretched for miles and miles. From his spot behind her, he pointed out the ruins of St. Paul's Cathedral, destroyed in last year's Great Fire, and the hills of Kent south of the Thames.

"And what could that be?" Cait asked, indicating something much closer, in the shrubby area at the far end of the heath. She turned to him. "A reservoir? With horses and carriages driving right through it?"

"Whitestone Pond." Jason nodded at a large marker that sat near it. "Named for that old white milestone. King Henry the Eighth designed it to keep the City free of the countryside's mud. All horses and wheels pass through it on the way in from Hampstead." He laughed at her expression of disbelief. "We'll be doing so ourselves in a short while."

"It still looks a long way to London," she said quietly.

He frowned at her tight features. "Just an hour or so."

"I-I'm hurting, Jason." She dropped her gaze, plainly uncomfortable at the admission. "My arm," she explained. "I thought I could make it through the day, but…"

"Damn, and I didn't take you foraging for plants." Forgetting his dizziness, he moved closer and slung an arm around her shoulders. He remembered her clenched hands and the stoic set of her jaw as they rode. "Was that why you were so quiet?"

She nodded miserably.

Though he'd thought her silence had meant she resented him, he was too guilty to feel relieved. "You cannot make it another hour?"

Clouded with pain, her eyes met his. "I don't know," she whispered. "All the day I've been—"

"London can wait," he decided, alarmed. Caithren was nothing if not strong and steady. "We'll ride back up the hill, to Spaniards Inn. You saw it, by the tollgate?"

She nodded again.

"It's not far at all." He swung her up into his arms, as one would carry a small child. "You're going to be fine."

"Jason!" Despite her distress, she giggled, making his heart lift a bit. "Put me down!"

"I'll hear none of it," he told her with mock sternness, starting down the steps and forcing himself to ignore the rush of vertigo. "We'll have you in a room in no time. Can you sit your own horse?"

"Of course I can. I rode all the day, did I not?" Warm laughter rang through the hollowed trunk, bringing him waves of relief.

But the feeling was short-lived once he looked down the steep, winding stairs.

There was nothing for it, he told himself sternly. One step after another, he ordered his feet to comply. With the drop looming before him, the way down was always worse than the way up. And doubly worse carrying Caithren, leaving no hand free to balance against the wall.

His breath came in embarrassingly short pants, and the arms that cradled her were shaking. Mercifully, she didn't comment on any of that or his lack of speed. "Put me down," she repeated quietly instead. "I'm not an invalid. I only wish to rest."

He didn't put her down, and somehow he made it to the bottom. He didn't have the luxury to let his knees buckle or to sit a spell and recover his composure. Silently congratulating himself, he perched her on her reddish mare and mounted his own black steed.

Afraid to jar her, he led her slowly back over the heath and up the hill to the white, weatherboarded inn. Securing a room seemed a process that took forever. And he knew that forever to him must have seemed forever and an eternity to her.

At last he closed the door of their oak-paneled room, and she dropped into a chair, white-faced.

"That bad?" he asked.

She put on a brave smile. "It hurts. But mostly because I'm so tired, I'm sure. I didn't sleep much last night." Color sprang to her cheeks as she doubtless remembered why. "We should have gone on to London. I'm sorry I made you stop."

He wasn't falling for her false bravado. "Let me have a look."

Without waiting for her agreement, he crouched before her and detached the tabs of her stomacher. As he began loosening the gown's laces, a flush came to her skin. Her heart sped up beneath his fingers, as clear an indicator of her desire as if she had told him outright. Despite his worry, answering need rushed through him.

Damnable, unconscionable need.

He clenched his teeth and forged ahead, carefully lowering the dress's bodice and the chemise underneath, helping her pull her arms from the sleeves. She pressed the gown to her chest with a hand and held out her injured limb.

All lust fled when he lifted the edge of the linen bandage and glimpsed what lay beneath. A soft moan escaped her lips.

"Christ." Jason unwound the fabric as gently as he could. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Cait whispered. "I know you don't mean to hurt me."

He smiled a little, then grimaced as the wound was revealed. Not long, but deep. Deeper than he remembered and surrounded by angry, dark pink flesh. A drop of red blood seeped out when the bandage fell away, and he could see a sickening taint of white inside.

"I should have been checking on this." Yet another failure on his part.

"You wanted to last night—"

"It's getting infected."

She glanced down, then averted her gaze. "It looks very bad." He watched her jaw tighten with determination. "I'll be fine, Jason. Don't worry for me. It will heal. I'll make a poultice." Her face brightened. "So close to London, there might even be a shop. I can tell you what I need—"

"I imagine it hurts like hell." He rose and paced away, then turned back. "I'd best fetch a surgeon. I believe it should be stitched."

"Stitched?" Her pretty forehead wrinkled, making his gut twist with sympathy.

"It's getting worse rather than better." He stared at her colorless face. "The doctor will know for sure. Bloody hell, I'm sorry."

Cursing himself for messing up yet again, he went downstairs to send a man to find a surgeon.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Jason returned a few minutes later with a goblet and handed it to Caithren. She sniffed at the contents suspiciously.

"What is it?"

"Whiskey."

"I thought as much." She handed it back. "Nay, but I thank you for the thought."

He frowned. "You don't like whiskey?"

"Have you seen me drink whiskey before now?"

"No, but…you're Scottish."

"And…?"

"It's whiskey, which the Scots invented if my—"

Caithren burst out laughing—until the movement pained her arm. "We don't all fancy whiskey, Jase. It's not a law. And here you accuse me of painting all the English with one brush." She watched him slowly turn red. "Some ale wouldn't be amiss—"

A sharp knock came at the door, and Jason went to answer it.

Cait felt the blood drain from her face as the surgeon marched in, a burly man clutching a bag of implements. But she told herself to be brave. She didn't want to embarrass herself before Jason.

He thought little enough of her as it was.

"I'm told of an injury," the surgeon said. "A slash wound, is it?"

"Aye." Clutching her bodice to her chest, she held forth her bare arm.

The surgeon came closer, yet gave it but a cursory glance. He looked to the goblet in Jason's hand. "What've you got there?"

"Whiskey." Jason's voice sounded weak to Cait's ears. Or maybe the blood pounding in her head was muffling the sound. "Here," he said more clearly and offered the goblet to the doctor.

The man took it and downed a healthy gulp. "Decent stuff," he declared, then poured a thick stream over Caithren's wound.

Her breath hissed in, but she wouldn't cry. She'd shed the last tears she would in front of Jason.

"Wh-what did you do that for?" she managed to stutter.

"To cleanse it. Stop infection."

"What?" It stung like blazes. "My cousin Cam would skin you alive if he saw you wasting good whiskey like that. Give it here." She snatched the goblet from the surgeon's hand and gulped greedily, feeling the liquor burn a hot path down her gullet and into her empty stomach.

Jason appeared to be holding back a laugh. A dark glare took care of that. "I have always practiced gentle healing," she told him. "I cannot believe he did that."

She sipped again. The stuff wasn't nearly as nasty as she'd thought.

"It's not unheard of, sweet. Ford did the same for my bullet wound, and he's no surgeon, though he does fancy himself a scientist."

"Ford?" She drank again. The warmth in her stomach was spreading, and her arm seemed to hurt less. Her head was beginning to feel as though it might detach itself and float away.

"My youngest brother, Ford." Jason crouched down and gazed into her eyes. A tiny smile emerged on his face. "Never mind."

He stood and motioned the surgeon closer.

She sipped once more, then set her jaw and angled her arm out. "Have at it," she declared.

The man rummaged in his bag and came out with a needle and black thread.

Caithren winced and looked up at Jason. "Are you sure he has to do this?"

"I'm sure. Drink." He shoved the goblet closer to her lips, and she complied. "It won't take long."

She nodded and steeled herself for the pain. When it came, a sharp prick and a scraping sting as the raw edges of flesh were bound together, it wasn't as bad as she'd anticipated. Not nearly as hurtful as when the surgeon had doused her arm with the whiskey. Or maybe the whiskey had numbed it some.

Jason put a hand on her good shoulder. "You're doing fine." His voice sounded proud, or maybe impressed. It made the whiskey curl warmer in her belly. It seemed all she wanted was his trust, his approval.

Nay, not all, not if she were to be honest with herself. She also craved his arms around her, his lips on hers.

His love.

Everything—her whole world—seemed so confused. When had her goals changed? Where had this yearning come from, and why was it so overwhelming?

She didn't know. She knew only that it was wrong—wrong for her, for her plans, for her life. She belonged home with Cameron, tending their land, their heritage. Not far away in England with this exasperating man.

Her thoughts turned to Jason more every day…her thoughts and her heart. But staying with him was impossible. Even if Jason wanted her, it would be impossible. And he didn't want her, which should have made it easier. But it didn't make it easier; it made it worse.

Much, much worse.

The hated tears flooded her eyes, and one rolled warm down her cheek. She dashed it away with her good hand.

"Nearly there," Jason soothed, stroking her hair. "He's almost finished."

She felt another jab and tug on her arm, and the tears flowed faster. Not from the pain, though…

Oh, aye, from the pain. The pain that weighed heavy as a brick in her chest. The pain in her heart.

It wasn't long at all before the surgeon knotted the thread and cut it with a knife. He tied a bandage around her arm to protect his handiwork. Then, mindful of his patient's distress, he collected his things quietly and went to Jason. "Go to Hampstead Wells and ask to see Dorothy Pippen. She sells medicinal water."

"My thanks." Jason pressed a few coins into the surgeon's hand and followed him to the door, closing it softly behind him. Cait put her arms back in her sleeves and tightened her laces.

"There." Jason came close and patted her shoulder. "It wasn't so bad, after all, was it? And now it's done."

She shook off his hand. She couldn't bear his touch. Not when she knew they'd reach London tomorrow and go their separate ways, with no regret on his part. Only pride, she imagined, that he'd kept her where he wanted her, ensuring his successful, unimpeded capture and murder of Geoffrey Gothard.

Oh, it was not to be borne! Despite a heroic effort to rein in her emotions, she rose and wandered away in tears. Her hand went into her pocket and found the miniature of her brother.

She pulled it out and stared at it, drifting to the window, where she could see the picture better in the failing light. Her thumb caressed the glass that protected Adam's familiar face.

Adam. Where was he? Though Lord Darnley's wedding wasn't until Friday, Adam might well be in London by now. Maybe she would find him tomorrow, and when she saw him, her world would be set to rights. Her plans would be back on track, and she wouldn't feel as though her life were so out of control.

Adam. Dear, familiar Adam. She gazed at his oval face, his wheaten hair, his hazel eyes. All just like hers. The foppish outfit he'd posed in, all velvet and ribbons and snowy linen, brought a smile through the tears. So unlike herself and Da, but typical Adam.

"Adam," she said softly.

"Who is that?" Jason asked from behind her.

"Adam," she said louder, feeling better just saying her brother's name. She had a goal—a worthy goal—and at last it was within reach. So close. "Adam. My brother."

When she turned to look at Jason, his face was whiter than the lace on Adam's cravat.

"What is it, Jase?" She'd never known a man to faint, but he looked as though he might keel over at any second. "Is something amiss?"

"Yes." He blinked and shook his head. "No. No." He drew a long breath, and his lips curved in a forced smile. "You're tired. Let me go downstairs and bring up some supper. Then I'll pay Dorothy Pippen a visit and get you the water."

Cait's hand went to her amulet. "I don't need special water. And I'm not hungry. Just stay with me, all right?"

His gaze skittered away. "I must at least make some inquiries and see if I can find out where we need to go tomorrow. Where Scarborough lives, I mean." He made as though to reach for her, then pulled back. "Sleep well. I'll be up later." With a distracted kiss to her forehead, he left her to go to bed.

Alone and reeling.

Gasping, he checked his momentum, but not in time. His silver blade flashed, sliced in, sending a shiver up his arm. The man before him crumpled to the ground, his lifeblood pumping into the dirt. His eyes stared unseeing at Jason… hazel eyes… Emerald's hazel eyes… Caithren's hazel eyes…

Caithren's brother's hazel eyes.

His heart racing, Jason let out an anguished yell as he awakened. He curled up on the bed. His breath heaved. He couldn't recall what he'd eaten for supper, but it felt like it were about to come back up.

"Jason?" Caithren leaned over him, patting his shoulder uncertainly.

He moaned. His head pounded from overdrinking last night—something he never did—and a frustrated dampness squeezed from beneath his clenched eyelids.

Dear God in heaven, he'd killed her brother.

She would never accept him, never love him, never stay with him, never marry him. As though killing an innocent man hadn't tainted him enough, the man had been her brother.

With all his might, he wished she'd really been Emerald. He would still love every stubborn inch of her, and he might have a chance with Emerald. Emerald would understand the driving need for justice that had turned him into another man. Emerald would understand the way killing, even unintentional killing, changed a person.

But Caithren…sweet, unspoiled Caithren…

She wouldn't.

And he'd killed her brother. Her brother. How could he expect her to forgive him, when he couldn't even forgive himself?

He couldn't tell her the truth.

He had to tell her the truth.

"Jason?" Her hand jiggled his shoulder, spiking the pain in his head. Not that he didn't deserve it. Slowly he rolled over and gazed up at her.

"Was it the nightmare again?"

He nodded.

Her lovely eyes filled with compassion. "It will go away when you know who he was."

"I—"

He broke off. Words simply failed him. He needed to tell her…

But how?

Unaware of his anguish, she leaned closer. Her sweet breath felt heavenly, washing over him through parted lips. Clearly concerned, she leaned closer still. Her mouth was close, so close.

Resolve melted, and he closed the distance and met her lips with his, kissing her desperately. She flung herself against him. A low moan vibrated in her throat as she deepened the kiss, inviting him in to explore her velvet warmth.

Sweet Mary, she wanted him—he could feel her need pumping into him. His arms moved to enclose her, to crush her against him—

No, he couldn't do this. Not this time, not this way.

His hands fisted against her back. If he was going to accept the comfort of her body, the least he could do was slow down, show her the tenderness he'd failed to the first time. Keep his head. Protect her injured arm.

Protect his injured heart.

That heart pounding, he pulled back.

He needed to tell her.

He couldn't tell her.

Not telling her was a lie.

Though he knew he'd be damned to hell for the lie, not to mention for taking her—again, when he knew the truth—he couldn't seem to help himself. Just this once, before she discovered what he'd done—what kind of man he was—he would worship her. With his hands, his mouth, his body, he would make her his, make her happy, if only for tonight.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Cait knew the moment he gave in.

His hands relaxed and pulled her close, bringing her mouth to his again. His kiss wasn't angry or hesitant—instead it was sweetly cherishing. It seemed as though the whole of his attention was focused on that kiss, as if, for that moment, nothing else existed in his world.

The sheer intensity frightened her. She'd wanted the chance to see if the passion of that stormy night was repeatable, but now she was afraid to learn the answer.

If it were yes…how would she ever find it in herself to leave him?

Not that he would ask her to stay.

The truth brought a pang to her heart. But then he rolled and took her with him, and she ended up on her back with him gazing down at her, his eyes deep green in the hazy dawn light.

She wrapped her arms around him, and he kissed her again, his tongue sweeping her mouth. She found herself a melting mass of sensation, a puddle on the mattress for him to do with as he would. But still he only kissed her, a kiss that drugged, a kiss that precluded all thought.

When he came up for air, that frisson of fear returned. She wasn't having second thoughts—never that—but intentionally loving him in a bed in the morning was so different than impulsively on a rainswept night. A surrender of sorts, and a huge leap of trust, but she was willing to take it. She could only hope the cliff didn't prove to be too high.

Jason's hands went to the tie at her neck, attempting to loosen the night rail's high ruffle. He only succeeded in knotting the bow. "I thought we were going to burn this," he complained, the words tainted with frustration.

"Here, let me do it." Her heart pounded while her fingers worked at the tangle. "I thought you were an expert at removing female clothes."

"Not night rails. I don't believe I've ever removed a night rail. Off-putting garments, night rails. Mrs. Twentyman's in particular."

Impatient, he moved to help, but she pushed his hands away.

"Wait," she said with a choked giggle. "You'll only make it harder."

"Harder." In the gray shadows she saw his jaw tense. "It's absolutely harder," he said, sounding husky and breathless.

"Nay, it's easy now." Her own voice shook, betraying her anxiety. "It's nearly undone."

"That's not what I meant, Cait." Taking her hand, he moved it down to the bulge in his breeches.

"Oh." She seemed unable to breathe properly. "Oh, my. It is hard. How very interesting." Exploring, she forgot she'd managed to untie the night rail's ruffle until she heard his moan and felt his lips nibbling her throat. "Oh, Jase." Her fingers tightened, surrounding him.

"I think…" His muffled words tickled the hollow of her neck. "Not that it doesn't feel good, but I think…I think you'd best touch me elsewhere now." Lifting his head, he reached for her hand. "Now."

His eyes looked rather frantic, so she reluctantly released him. "Interesting," she said again, arching in delight when his lips went back to her throat.

"Interesting?" The question vibrated right into her.

This sweet, melting seduction wasn't anything like last time, nor was it—or Jason—anything like the animals she'd observed around Leslie. "Well, now, I've seen a horse's, you know, but I've never felt—"

"A horse's?" On a choked laugh, Jason's head came up. "I've never been compared to a horse, but I thank you for the compliment. I think. Then you've seen horses, ah…?" His busy mouth went back to work, making a shiver run through her.

"Oh, aye. But our first time, well…it didn't work the same way, did it?" Her hands played restlessly in his hair. "Of course I knew it wouldn't, because Cam told me people do it face to face. I can see why. The kissing is nice."

"Mmm, nice." Settling his mouth on hers again, he kissed her long and deep, as though to prove it.

By the time he raised his head, her senses were spinning.

"Yes, nice," he repeated with a grin. One hand wandered down her body, leaving a fiery trail in its wake.

"H-have I told you that Cameron and I are breeding horses? Highland ponies." Breathless, she sucked in some air. "Lately we've been crossing them with Spanish stock, in an effort to—"

"Are you nervous, Cait?" He spread the night rail's neckline wider and kissed each of her sensitive breasts.

She was going to die. She was going to die right there. "Maybe." An understatement. "A wee bit." A bigger understatement.

His head came up again. "Has anyone ever told you that you babble when you're nervous?"

"Cameron." Through the night rail, his fingers lazily traced the line where her legs met, inciting a tingling current of desire. Trailing her hands down his back, she found the bottom edge of his untucked shirt and worked her way underneath it. The skin on his back felt hot. "But I don't think I've ever been quite this, um…nervous with Cam."

"I'm glad to hear it," he said dryly. "Let's get rid of this, shall we?"

He sat and tugged on the hem of the night rail, but the yards and yards of it only got hopelessly tangled. With a shaky giggle, she rose to her knees to help him struggle her out of it.

"You're supposed to take this seriously," he said, pulling handfuls of the fabric up to blind her.

"Am I?" She gasped when cold air hit her middle, her face completely swathed in white wool. "This entire act is rather absurd, if you think on it."

"Then don't think."

As though she could. Her breasts were bared now, and she still couldn't see a thing.

But she heard his sharp intake of breath. "Sweet Jesus. You're perfect."

She shoved the night rail off her head, blinking in the brightening morning light. The hunger in his eyes made her blush. "Am I not scrawny?" she asked, tugging the quilt up to cover her body. "You keep telling me I don't eat enough."

"You're perfect," he repeated, sweeping the quilt right off the bed.

Speechless, she could only gasp again.

"I was wrong," he added with a wicked grin. "Besides, I so enjoy your leftovers." While she was still tongue-tied, his hands reached out and fitted themselves to her breasts, which she'd always thought were too small. "Perfect," he breathed, closing his eyes momentarily.

She fell back to the pillows, weak with shock. Or something. "This isn't fair."

"No?" His eyes opened and ravenously roamed her body.

She blushed and folded her arms across her breasts. "You should be in the scud, too."

"In due time," he said, moving closer.

"Now."

"Has anyone ever told you you're demanding?"

"Aye." Her hands went to loosen the laces on his shirt. "I'm demanding, and I blether when I'm nervous, and I'm impulsive."

"And you talk too much."

When he kissed her, her fingers faltered. "But I'm perfect," she reminded him.

He nodded solemnly. "Yes, you're perfect."

With a single lithe motion, he stood and pulled the shirt over his head, then made short work of divesting himself of his breeches. Cait swallowed hard, thinking he was perfect, too. Like the drawing she'd seen of Michelangelo's David in one of Adam's schoolbooks. She'd spent hours studying that picture, but she never thought she'd see it come to life.

When he came down on top of her, skin to skin, she sighed loudly in contentment.

Supporting himself on his elbows, he hovered over her. "Now, will you just hush up?"

"Oh, aye," she breathed as his mouth closed over hers. Slow and deep, the kiss left her dizzy when he broke contact. His dark head bent, and his clever mouth moved over a breast, wet and warm and tingling.

"Oh, Jase. I never knew…do all men do this?"

She felt his chuckle. "I cannot speak for all men."

"This is t-taking much longer than horses." She sucked in a breath. "Generally, the male horse bites the female on the neck—"

"Like this?" His mouth trailed up and demonstrated.

She arched in shock and pleasure. "Aye. But…go back to the other."

A low laugh filled the dim room as he lightly bit a nipple. "You like this, do you?"

"Aye, very much." Excitement surged through her when he started suckling away the bite. "But horses accomplish this much faster, aye? It's all over in a matter of minutes, like the first time we—"

When his mouth left her, she wanted to smack herself for blethering

"We aren't horses," he said low. "And this isn't the first time." A hand skimmed down her body, tracing a sensuous path. "It's another time, another place."

Aye, it was different than last time, but no less glorious. Just different.

"I see what you mean." She squirmed and bit her lip to keep from crying out her pleasure. "I-I've never been in this place before."

"Did I not ask you to be quiet?" he murmured. His mouth started following his hand, trailing little wet kisses down her body. When his tongue swept into her navel, a stab of hot desire arced from there to deep inside. She clenched her teeth, her hands fisting in his hair.

She wouldn't say anything more, not even if—

"Oh, Jase!" His lips were tracing her hipbones and down to her thighs. Warm, oh so warm, and teasingly tender, making shivers ripple through her. "I think no horse has ever done this."

Apparently he was finished dignifying her inane comments with responses. His fingers and mouth roamed her body for long, intimate minutes. Her pulse raced faster and faster, until she feared that she might scream. As he coaxed her legs apart, her fingers clutched at his hair, his shoulders, the sheets.

He cupped her with a hand. And stilled.

Matched by her own, his breath sounded harsh in the suddenly quiet room.

She felt an incredible urgency beneath his fingers.

She waited, and waited, and waited…and when at last his hand started moving, she arched off the bed. Slowly he stroked, ever so slowly and for ever so long. Something was building inside her. Just when she thought she might explode from the pleasure, he slipped a finger inside her body.

"By. All. The. Saints." Astonished, she felt herself pulsing around it. "I—I think," she whispered, "I…think no horse has ever done this, either."

His finger retreated, a slide of exquisite sensation, then plunged deep. Again. Another finger joined the first, and the pleasure built unbearably. She called out his name and clutched at his head and shoulders, the only parts of him she could reach.

"Now," she whispered, begging him to move up and over her, craving his mouth on hers, wanting him inside her. "Please, now."

He answered with but a tiny shake of his head before he drifted down—not up, but down. And his mouth closed over her, impossibly hot, impossibly soft, impossibly thrilling.

"Oh, Jase!" She clutched at air, unable to reach him anywhere. She clutched at the sheets. Her eyes drifted closed as she clutched her emerald and hung on tight, trembling uncontrollably, feeling she might explode.

"I'm—quite—certain," she said in short, hard pants, "a horse—has never—done this." She meant also to ask what made him think of such a thing, but then she did explode, into a million wee pieces.

After what seemed an eternity, somehow the pieces all came back together. She found herself shuddering, gasping for breath.

His mouth curved in an erotic, heart-wrenching smile, he crawled up to meet her and put two fingers to her lips. "Hush now, sweet Cait."

And she did, not only because his mouth claimed hers. She didn't think she could force another word out even if she wanted to. She had no breath left in her lungs.

Tenderly his hands stroked her, calming her…

Except it wasn't calming—the excitement was building all over again.

"Not again," she whispered.

"I said hush."

Over the next space of time, there wasn't a spot on her body he didn't kiss or touch or tease into awareness.

His spicy male scent was intoxicating. Her hands wandered all over him, learning the contours of his muscles beneath his warm skin. His low groans echoed her own mews of pleasure, but his movements remained controlled, agonizingly slow, skillfully bringing her to a fever pitch of passion.

When she reached down, he stilled her hand. "Hush, sweet Cait," he whispered. "This time is for you."

"There must be a way to make you feel—"

"Hush." The kiss he quieted her with was so exquisite, it brought tears to her eyes.

The wanting built and built, until she quivered and cried out, and at last he moved over her and slid inside. Wrapping her legs around him, she arched up, taking him deep…deeper, wishing she could hold him captive.

Wishing she could keep him forever.

He held still for a beat…two…three. Then, "Sweet Cait," he murmured, and began rocking against her, slowly at first, then faster. She'd never thought to feel so close to another, as though they were one and the same. She met each stroke in blissful harmony, her entire body pulsing, clutching him with her hands and her legs, with her arms and her heart. Emotions rose within her, overwhelming her body and soul, pushing her up, up…

"Nay." It was too much, too soon—she couldn't stand it. "Not again."

He lifted his head. "Again," he said, his rhythm below punctuating his words. "Fall for me, sweet Cait."

And she did.

"Oh, Jase!" She plunged over the edge, falling faster when she felt him go with her. The cliff was high, but her landing was soft, cushioned by the man she loved.

They lay still for a long, satisfying minute before he rolled to his side, taking her with him. She cuddled close as she fought to catch her breath.

Like the last time, he'd pulled out at the critical moment. Responsible Jason. It made her a wee bit sad, although she knew she ought to be grateful. Being impulsive and independent was one thing, going home with a bairn in her womb quite another.

But she didn't want to think about going home.

He kissed her on the forehead. "Your arm?"

"It's fine. I forgot all about it." She drew back enough to smile into his clear green eyes. "You made me lose my head."

"Not only that, I almost got you to stop talking." He grinned, then groaned as his gaze wandered to the now-bright window. "We'd best grab some breakfast and ride into London to warn Scarborough."

"Aye," she agreed on a sigh. "I hope I can walk. I feel weak as a day-old bairn."

"Before you try to stand, say it again." Smoothing the hair off her face, he kissed her softly. "My name."

She frowned. "Jason?"

"The other."

"Oh." Feeling her heart swell, she raised herself to meet his lips. "Jase."

"It sounds right from you, sweet Cait," he said before his mouth covered hers.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

"Number twelve. Is that it?" Two hours later Caithren indicated a brand new three-story house at the edge of St. James's Fields. "Crivvens, but Scarborough lives well. No wonder Adam aims to be his friend."

Adam. The man's name made Jason's gut twist. Swallowing hard, he helped Cait down—mindful of her arm—and tethered their horses.

"Someone else is here," she said as they started up the gravel drive. "Or rather, leaving."

A fat-bellied gentleman with an unfashionable brown beard turned from the town house's front door and headed down the steps. Jason nodded at him, but the man didn't acknowledge the gesture, avoiding his gaze as they passed.

"Who do you suppose that was?" Jason muttered as the man hurried away.

Cait shrugged. "Why does it matter?"

"I don't know. Just a feeling." The same niggling feeling he'd had when the Gothards were close by. Shaking it off, he led Cait up to the tall, imposing door.

Their knock brought an aging maidservant to answer. She bobbed a curtsy, her gray curls bouncing beneath a dainty white lace cap. "My lord?"

"I've a matter to discuss with Lord Scarborough. Of some urgency."

"Cuds bobs, you're the second in as many minutes. As I told the other gentleman, Lord Scarborough has left town. He's expected back just in time to attend Lord Darnley's wedding tomorrow."

"That's where Adam will be!" Caithren said excitedly.

Frowning, Jason waved her off. "Who was the other man?"

"I don't rightly know," the maid said. "He didn't introduce himself."

The niggle returned. "Could he have been Geoffrey Gothard?"

Caithren made a sound suspiciously like a snort, and the maidservant let out a short bark of a laugh before composing herself. "Not hardly. You wouldn't be asking that if you'd seen him." She brushed at her apron. "Mr. Gothard won't be showing his face around here, in any case. Not if Lord Scarborough has any say in the matter."

"He won't be showing his face," Jason repeated under his breath. The man hadn't looked him in the face, either. "Have you an address to reach Lord Scarborough?"

"No, my lord, we do not. Lord Scarborough will be here tomorrow. That is all I have to tell you."

"I sent him a very important letter last week." His arm stole around Cait's waist. Had it been but a week since he'd met her? Eight or nine days, if he was remembering right, but it felt like a lifetime had passed. "Might you know if Lord Scarborough received it?"

The older woman's expression was implacable. "I'm not privy to Lord Scarborough's personal matters. And his secretary went with him."

Knowing he'd get no more out of her, he sighed. "I thank you."

"My lord." With a curtsy, she shut the door in their faces.

Dejected, he stood there a minute, then turned with Cait to head back to their borrowed horses.

"I wonder if the other man learned more," she said.

"He could hardly have learned less. But I cannot shed the feeling that man might have been Gothard, or maybe Wat, or—"

"Have you eyes in your head?" A giggle burst out of her. "It wasn't Geoffrey or Wat."

"It could have been someone they hired."

"It could have been anyone. Do you know many of Lord Scarborough's acquaintances?"

"None," he admitted.

"Then it could have been a friend. Or a merchant. Or a solicitor. And even if it were someone the Gothards hired, you just said the man didn't learn any more than we did."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Judging from that maidservant's attitude, neither will anyone else."

"True enough. Which means no one will learn where to find Scarborough today, any more than we have a clue where to find Geoffrey Gothard."

Maybe she was right. Sometimes a niggle was only a niggle. "Well, I hope Scarborough got my letter, in which case he's already been warned. But on the chance he didn't, I'll come by here again tomorrow."

"We can do it on the way to the wedding." Toward the end of the gravel drive, her feet slowed, then stopped. "If you're willing to take me, that is? Of course, I could go on my own, but…"

A wave of guilt washed over him. "I'm willing to take you anywhere," he said quietly, coming around to face her.

She had no reason to attend the wedding, and he needed to tell her that. His moment of reckoning couldn't be postponed much longer.

Scarborough's red-brick town house loomed behind her, reminding him that he'd be bringing her to his own town house next—and then she'd discover the truth. How much longer could he hold her heart? Before she could see the trepidation in his eyes, he gathered her close and lowered his lips to meet hers.

A strange little sound escaped her throat. Her mouth opened beneath his, and they kissed for a long, melting minute. A kiss of desperation, a kiss of unguarded lust. A kiss so sweet it made him ache, knowing it might be their last kiss ever. Knowing he had to hurt her.

Their time was at an end. He had to explain that her beloved brother was dead and why—shattering all her new and tentative feelings for him. It would break her heart.

It would break them both.

One more night. Despair made him grasp at the thought—he could shield her heart for one last night. A day remained, a night, before her brother was expected in town.

It would be the most bittersweet night of his life, but for her it would be the most magical. He would make it so, no matter the cost to his soul. Before he confessed the truth and broke her heart, he would give her one night to remember him by.

He broke the kiss. "Cait, I…"

"Hmm?" Her eyes were a glazey blue. What shone from their depths was such loving trust…

A weight settled in his chest.

The time had arrived to come clean with it all. Part of the truth she would learn today, and the rest—the painful part—in the morning.

With effort, he mustered a grin. "As I said, sweet, I'd love to take you anywhere. Would you like to attend a ball tonight?"

Her face brightened with a spark of excitement. "A ball? A London ball? I never thought…" Her eyes narrowed. "How do you know there's a ball tonight?"

"There's a ball in London every night," he said dryly.

"And you can gain entrance?"

Her skepticism prompted a smile. "I think I can manage to get us in."

"Aye," she said so slowly he could almost see the gears turning in her head. Her gaze swept over what she doubtless considered his nobleman's costume. "That maidservant assumed you were a lord. You're a master of disguises," she proclaimed with a grin. "It would be a grand adventure. An impulsive, grand adventure. Am I making you impulsive, Jase?" Her eyes sparkled turquoise, the shade he'd decided meant she was happy.

If only he could keep her so.

"And Adam might be at a ball. He must be in town already." Glancing down at her now-bedraggled gown, she lost some of the sparkle. "I've nothing clean enough to wear."

"My sister keeps gowns at our town house. One of them should fit you well enough."

"You have a town house?" Her eyes clouded with confusion. "But—"

He distracted her with a big, smacking kiss, then took her by the hand. "Yes, I have a house here in town. Come along, and I'll show you."

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

"I've never seen so many people!" As Caithren and Jason jostled their horses through the teeming streets, she found herself astonished at the city called London. It seemed to sprawl forever, building after building crammed together. The streets were clogged with animals, vehicles, and pedestrians. Gaudy signboards hung overhead from heavy wrought-iron brackets, appearing to block the air and the sun.

"London stinks," she added. "And it's so noisy!"

Street vendors cried their wares from every corner and in between, making mundane goods like matches, rat poison, and razors sound colorful and exciting. Customers clustered to purchase eatables and drinkables of every sort from the criers' laden barrows. In a span of less than a minute, Cait's ears were assaulted with invitations to buy hot eels, pickled whelks, asses' milk, and a singing bird. In the midst of the deafening hubbub, performers danced on stilts to the beat of tambourines.

Above it all, she heard a man singing lustily to a gathering. Dazed, she stopped to listen. "What is he doing?" she asked when Jason noticed she was missing and rode back to her.

"Teaching them new tunes. He's a ballad seller." A carriage squeezed by, nudging his horse up against hers. "When he's finished, they'll buy sheets with the words for half a pence."

Caithren was amazed. Songs were old, passed down through the generations. She couldn't remember ever hearing a new song. "What if they cannot read?"

"Then they'll memorize the words. Running patterers sing news ballads to report murders and executions. But this fellow is selling the latest popular songs."

A flower girl strolled by with a basket over one arm, reciting a list of her posies in singsong rhyme. Bewildered, Cait shook her head. "How can anyone think in this city, with this din? Does anyone get anything done?"

Jason laughed, and they rode on, weaving through the tumult. She followed him around a corner and onto a street bordering a busy parkland. When he stopped before a large, four-story brick house, she was confused. "Is he tired?"

"Who?"

"Hamish. Your horse. Why are we stopping?" Looking around, she glimpsed a vendor hawking fat brown sausages in the grassy square across the street. "Oh, of course. You're hungry."

Jason laughed again. "We had breakfast not two hours ago." He slid off his horse and lifted his arms to help Caithren down from hers. "No, I'm not hungry." His hands still resting lightly at her waist, he took a deep breath. "I…have something to explain to you."

She stared up at him. "Aye?"

Releasing her, he swept the red wig off his head and finger-combed his hair. "I've been less than completely honest with you, and—"

At the same time a liveried stableman rounded the corner to take their horses, one of the brick home's double front doors swung open. A tall, thin butler poked his nose out. "Lord Cainewood—what a surprise."

He couldn't possibly be as surprised as Caithren was when Jason answered to the name. "Yes, Goodwin, I've found myself in town for a few days. I apologize for failing to send word."

"No problem a'tall, my lord." The butler eyed Cait with interest. "And the lady—"

"The lady will be lodging here as well."

"Jason?" she whispered.

Jason was…a lord?

And this was his town house?

She'd fully expected his "town house" would turn out to be a garret in a questionable neighborhood. This house had several garrets of its own. Both tall and wide, its face was divided by columns and studded with big rectangular windows, each crowned with a triangular pediment.

Her mind reeled.

Goodwin held the door open wide, and Jason ushered her inside. She stopped dead on the threshold, staring at the home's interior. The enormous windows made it lighter inside than any house she'd ever seen. Carved flowers and ribbons festooned the pale painted plaster walls. A wide staircase curved gracefully up to the next floor.

She turned to Jason. "What kind of a lord are you? A prince?"

"Nothing so exalted." He offered her an apologetic smile. "A marquess."

She blinked, trying to absorb it all. Her legs felt shaky. "You'll excuse me if I need to sit for a moment." Spotting a pair of brocade chairs in the entry, she made her way over and lowered herself to one of them.

A marquess. Her head spun at the mere thought. She certainly couldn't picture her very-Scottish self the object of an English marquess's love. Not that Jason—Lord Whoever—would ever really love her. The blasted man didn't believe a word she said.

She looked over at him, struggling to focus her eyes. The room seemed too bright. "Who are you? The Marquess of What?"

"Cainewood. A castle and lands down south." He set the wig on a small gilt and marble table. "I told you about it, remember?"

The butler discreetly disappeared while Caithren digested the information. And here she'd made fun of Jason pretending to be an aristocrat. Well, he'd deserved it then, didn't he?

"I live in a castle as well," she said, lifting her chin. "And my father was a baronet."

"I know. You've told me."

"You believe me, then?"

He shrugged, a telltale red staining his face.

She wasn't going to feel sympathy for his predicament. To the contrary, she felt like lashing out with her claws bared. "Well, I've always told you the truth. Which is more than I can say for you."

"I never told you anything that wasn't true." He moved close and put a hand on her shoulder, his green eyes begging her to understand. "I just—left out some details."

"Details?" She pinned him with her best disdainful look. "That's got to be the most glaring understatement I've ever heard." She closed her eyes, put her fingers to her forehead, then opened them again and looked up at him. "My mam always said that credit lost is akin to broken glass."

"Pardon?" His jaw tense, he stared at the toes of his black boots. "I understand the words, for once, but the meaning eludes—"

"Broken trust can never be restored."

"Cait…" He went down on a knee before her, and she almost—almost—felt sorry for him.

But she felt too betrayed. "With all the deception we've had between us—"

Glimpsing something over her shoulder, he stood and pulled away. She looked up and back to see a man and a woman trooping down the stairs.

"Jason!" the female exclaimed. She ran down the last few steps and threw herself into his arms, hugging and kissing him enthusiastically. "Are you healing well, then? Any news on the Gothards? My God"—she touched his face—"what happened to your hair and your mustache?"

"Let me guess," Caithren said dryly, rising from the chair. "Your wife."

She wouldn't put it past him, no matter he'd taken her to his bed. The woman was petite and prettier than she was, with dark red hair and a fine complexion.

"Not my wife," Jason said. "Rather my sister, Kendra. And my brother, Ford." He gestured toward the tall gentleman. Ford had long, wavy brown hair and the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. "Ford, Kendra, this is Caithren Leslie."

"Caithren, is it?" Kendra said with a wide smile. "Familiar, aren't we?"

Cait curtsied, but Kendra rushed forward and kissed her on both cheeks. "Welcome to our home. Where did you find her, Jason? Are you two in love?"

"Kendra—"

"You misunderstand, Lady Kendra," Cait broke in. "I'm only traveling with your brother due to…unfortunate circumstances."

"You're Scottish," Kendra said. "I can hear it in your voice."

"Aye, and—"

"Scottish?" Ford interrupted. He examined her with keen interest, his gaze settling on her amulet. "Might you go by the nickname of Emerald?"

"Nay," Cait said firmly. "My name is Caithren." She turned to glare at Jason, half-expecting him to defend his brother. "Not Emerald."

"Emerald?" Kendra scoffed. "As in Emerald MacCallum? Look at her, will you? Does she look like she chases outlaws?" She put a hand on Cait's arm. "Men can be so thick-headed at times. I apologize for my twin. He is more thick-headed than most."

Cait's lips thinned. "No more than Jase."

"Jase?" Kendra looked to him. "You allow her to call you Jase? Now I know you're in love."

Cait blushed so wildly, she could only hope the color would wear off by evening.

But Jason ignored Kendra's cheeky comment. "What are you doing here?" he asked her.

Ford sighed. "I'm sorry to say I've yet to discover the name of the man you…er…"

"Killed," Jason supplied succinctly.

"Um, yes. But I turned Chichester upside down and found a tavern the man had frequented along with two companions. A serving maid overheard the men saying they were going to Lord Darnley's wedding. Tomorrow, is it not? So we ought to be able to find them there and—say, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Jason said woodenly, though nothing could be further from the truth. Tomorrow Cait would learn he'd killed her brother, whether he told her or not.

He should have confessed the minute he'd realized the truth—surely his soul would be the better for it now. But he'd promised her a night to remember, and he wouldn't ruin it for her just to ease his own anguish.

She'd have her evening of happiness before their world collapsed.

"I thank you for making the inquires," he told Ford. "Excellent work."

"And what of Gothard?" Ford asked.

"Still unresolved. It's a long tale, best discussed over dinner." He turned to his sister. "How fares Mary? Is she…"

"Dead? No." Kendra grinned. "The doctor says it's a miracle. She's getting better."

"Better?" A rush of hope coursed through him. "She awakened?"

"Yes. Her speech is slow, and she couldn't walk at first; she has trouble walking still. But every day she improves a little. We don't know if she'll ever—"

"She's alive." Jason made his way to the chair Cait had vacated and dropped onto it. "That's all that matters."

Kendra walked over and took his limp hands from his lap. "You feel a responsibility for her, I know. But it wasn't your fault."

"He feels a responsibility for everything." Cait crossed her arms. "I've been trying to cure him of that, to no avail."

"A worthy project." Kendra dropped Jason's hands and went to Cait, a conspiratorial gleam in her eye. "Have you managed to get him to do anything just for the hell of it? Rather than to accomplish some specific goal?"

"Well, we did chase a ghost. And—"

"Cait," Jason groaned.

"We went to a fair, but that was to buy me some things. And—oh!" She grinned. "He danced with the Gypsies, though not for long."

"He danced with the Gypsies?" A flash of curiosity crossed Kendra's face. "I will need to hear more of this."

Jason rose. "Cait doesn't have time to gossip with you. We have plans. Kendra, there must be a ball this evening?"

"Lady Carson's annual affair." She regarded him with puzzled light green eyes. "But why would you want to know that?"

"Lady Carson's balls are boring," Ford put in.

"They are not," Kendra argued. "And I've heard Charles will be in attendance this eve. But why?" she repeated.

"I've promised Cait an evening of London entertainment. She's never been here before. And no," he added, forestalling her question, "you may not come along." He frowned at her pout, then realized it would be hours until evening and the ball. Too many hours—too much time for his sister to question Cait. "Perhaps we shall attend the theater first. What is playing at Lincoln's Inn Fields?"

Kendra brightened. "Dryden's The Feign'd Innocence. It's hilarious. Ford and I saw it yesterday, but I'd love to see it again."

He smiled benignly, deliberately misunderstanding her. "Maybe Ford will take you again tomorrow."

"I've nothing to wear," Caithren reminded him.

"Oh!" Kendra's eyes sparkled. "I can take care of that."

"Choose quickly," he said, wishing his siblings had stayed tucked away at Cainewood. "We need time for dinner, too."

"It isn't even noon yet." His sister's smile was all too knowing. "We'll eat first and hear your long tale. Your Cait will have plenty of time to dress after that."

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Kendra's chamber upstairs was a confection of mint green decor. She strode to her carved-oak clothes press, threw the doors open wide, and perused the gowns hung inside on pegs. "Green, blue, purple?" She turned to Caithren. "Which do you fancy?"

"I-I don't know," Cait stuttered. "I've never been to a ball."

"No?" Kendra riffled through a few more, then pulled out a gown in a deep, rich rose and held it up to Caithren's cheek. "Lovely," she declared, dragging Cait over to a gilt-framed pier glass. "Look."

Caithren had to admit the hue flattered her complexion, but it was the most elaborate gown she'd ever seen. Gold threads were woven into the fabric in a diamond pattern, and the underskirt was shimmering gold tissue. "I couldn't possibly wear this," she breathed, wishing all the while that she could.

Even though it was English.

"Don't be a goose." Kendra tossed the gown on her curtained four-poster bed. "Not only can you wear it, you can keep it. I cannot imagine what possessed me to order it. It looks hideous on me with this red hair." She reached to lift a hank of Caithren's straight mane. "What beautiful colors. I'd wager you could wear anything with this."

When she let go, Cait watched in the mirror as the wheaten strands cascaded back to her shoulders. Maybe her hair was pretty, down loose like this. She'd never paid it much attention other than to bind it out of the way.

Kendra smiled at her in the mirror. "I'll have Jane in to curl it."

"Jane?" Cait's voice sounded feeble to her own ears. Too much had happened in the past couple of hours—too much had changed.

Her world was off-kilter.

"Jane is my maidservant." Leading Cait to a marble-topped dressing table, Kendra sat her down. She pulled open a drawer filled with little boxes and bottles. "But I won't call her in until after we've finished with the cosmetics."

"Cosmetics?"

"Do you not wear cosmetics in Scotland?"

"Crivvens, nay." Cait felt as though she'd been spirited to a country even more foreign than England. France, perchance. "I've got nowhere to wear cosmetics to."

"What a shame." Kendra clucked her tongue. "I think you'll be happier here with Jason."

"With Jason?" Caithren jumped from the chair. "Whyever would you think I'd be with Jason—I mean, Lord Cainewood?"

"Caithren…" Kendra pushed her back onto the embroidered velvet seat. "May I call you Caithren?"

"Aye," she said weakly. "Or Cait."

"Cait, then. I like that better. Jason calls you Cait, doesn't he?" She plucked a small box from the drawer. "Anyway, as I was about to say, you can protest all you wish, but I've got two good eyes in my head."

"Two eyes?" Cait's own eyes bugged out in the mirror as she watched Kendra fluff white powder onto her face.

She couldn't believe she was allowing this, but she felt too shocked and overwhelmed to protest. Jason was a marquess.

A marquess.

"Two eyes," Kendra said firmly. "And I'd need only one to see the two of you belong together." Setting down the powder, she took up a stick of kohl. "Why, I haven't seen Jason squire a woman to a ball since—since forever. Or at least since we were exiled on the Continent." She leaned closer. "Look up."

"So he doesn't have a…" Cait couldn't think how to put it, and besides, it was difficult to concentrate when someone was drawing under your eye. It tickled. "What I mean is—"

"Heavens, no." Kendra laughed and stood up straight. "Of course he's been known to go home with ladies—he's a man, after all—but he never bothers to take a special one anywhere. Most especially not to a ball. I have to beg him on my knees to chaperone me as it is. He hates the things."

Now, this was interesting information. But Cait found her hopes rising, which wasn't a good idea. Not with all the half-truths and deceit.

She wasn't sure what to think of Jason anymore. "He just feels sorry for all he put me through."

"And what was that?" Kendra smudged color onto Cait's cheeks. "Do tell."

Caithren had never had a female friend close to her age, and though she barely knew her, she reckoned Kendra could be a good one. "He saw me confronting the Gothard brothers," she found herself explaining, "and decided I was some woman named Emerald MacCallum."

"Him, too?" Kendra opened a wee pot. "Is he daft?"

"Exactly what I said. Then, under this preposterous misconception, he tricked me into missing the public coach, to keep me from getting to Gothard first and ruining his chance at revenge."

"Revenge? As in murder?" Kendra bit her lip and swirled her finger in the pot. "He wants to see Gothard put to trial; he has no intention of killing the man."

Caithren shook her head. "You're wrong about that. He wants the reward."

Her fingertip coated with shiny balm, Kendra paused. "Cait, he posted the reward."

"Oh."

Of course.

Cait figured she ought to have been bright enough to put two and two together upon learning his identity, but her brain was still reeling. And Kendra didn't know the whole story. Jason's dinnertime tale had been abbreviated, to say the least.

"Nevertheless," she said, "he intends to see the cur dead."

"Jason? Nary a chance." With a decisive finger, Kendra slicked the gloss onto Cait's slack lips. "Jason would do anything to avoid murder. It's not in his nature to do harm." She capped the pot. "He's out for justice, no more. And to see that no one else suffers at the man's hands…" A small smile emerged on her expressive face. "Like you."

"Like me?" Caithren glimpsed herself in the mirror, then quickly looked away. She seemed a stranger. A mysterious stranger.

At this moment, her feelings were as strange as her appearance.

She swallowed hard. "I'll admit he claimed as much, but do you truly think Jason took me along to protect me?"

"I'd bet my life on it. It's a very Jason thing to do." Kendra rummaged in the drawer again and came out with a burnt cork. "Sit still. I'm going to use this to darken your lashes. It might feel funny."

Nothing could feel as funny as Cait's stomach did now. Could Kendra possibly be right? That would mean she'd been wrong all along. And about more than just his identity. Those qualities she'd glimpsed shining through—

"Look," Kendra said, pressing a hand mirror into Caithren's limp fingers.

She raised it to her face. "By all the saints," she whispered. She hardly recognized herself. Or rather, she did, but she never thought she'd look so…

"Beautiful," Kendra said, though Cait had been thinking English. Kendra flicked through a small box with a fingertip. "Hold still." While Caithren watched in the mirror, Kendra stuck a tiny black heart on her cheek. "There," she said. "You're perfect."

"What is it?" Cait lowered the mirror and felt for the little heart.

With an indulgent smile, Kendra pulled away Cait's hand. "Careful, or you'll dislodge it. It's a beauty patch." She shook the patch box. "Would you like another?"

Cait felt foreign enough as it was. English. "Nay, though I thank you."

When her hand went to her amulet, Kendra's gaze followed. "My, that looks old."

"It is."

"It won't match the gown." She lifted the lid of a lovely enameled box on the dressing table. "Would you like to borrow some rubies?" Jewels flashed as she delved inside.

Cait reached to shut it. "I appreciate the offer, but nay. This belonged to my mother, and I never take it off."

"Are you certain?" A frown creased Kendra's forehead, then she smiled. "I can see that you are. I'll just get Jane, then. I've no talent with hair." She walked from the room, leaving Cait alone.

Again she took up the mirror. English. She looked very, very English. She put a hand to her quaking stomach.

Jason was a marquess. Jason had been trying to protect her.

Kendra rushed back in with a plain-faced woman at her heels that Caithren assumed was Jane. "It's past two o'clock already. The play will start in less than an hour, and we must dress you before Jane does your hair." She swept the gown off the bed while Jane put curling tongs to heat at the edge of the banked fire.

Cait's fingers shook as she detached her purple stomacher and loosened the laces beneath. What was she doing in London, dressing in English clothes, planning an evening out with an English marquess? Who would have thought, less than a month ago in Da's study—

Her thoughts were interrupted by Kendra's impatient hands drawing the turquoise gown down and off. She touched the bandage on Cait's arm. "What happened here?"

"I was cut. And then I failed to care for it properly, so it festered and had to be stitched."

"Ouch." Kendra's face scrunched up in sympathy, then turned speculative. "And I've a feeling there's more to the story. But it will have to wait for tomorrow. You won't want to be late."

Jane came to help, and together they lifted the rose gown and dropped it over Cait's head, settling it carefully to avoid damaging the artfully applied cosmetics. The top was a wee bit loose, but the cloth-of-gold stomacher took care of that, pushing her breasts up to fill it. She could only wonder what Kendra's more generous bosom looked like in the low, square neckline. Scandalous, she imagined.

The gown was stiff and heavy. Very English.

By the time Jane was done with the curling tongs, Caithren's hair looked English as well. Long curls draped to her shoulders in front and gathered in back, entwined with rose-colored ribbons.

With Kendra standing behind her, she stared at herself in the pier glass. "I look English," she whispered, watching her glossed lips form the words.

"Is that bad?" In the mirror, Kendra looked worried.

"I don't know," Caithren said. "Last month I would have thought so, but now…I'm only confused."

Kendra stepped around to face her. Familiar eyes, the same shape as Jason's, but lighter, searched Cait's. "We're not evil," she said. "The English."

"Not all of you, anyway." Cait looked down and straightened her overskirt until Kendra, with one strong finger, lifted her chin.

A gesture that smacked of Jason.

"Not most of us," she said. "And certainly not my brother." She pulled Cait into a hard embrace that took her by surprise. "Give him a chance," she whispered in her ear. "He needs you."

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

"You look stunning, Cait," Jason said as they walked catercorner through the square toward the Lincoln's Inn Fields Theatre. "I expect you'll be the talk of the ball."

Cait saw him shoot her a sidewise glance, perhaps the hundredth since she'd come down the stairs wearing Kendra's clothes and cosmetics. When she finally met his gaze, his green eyes smoldered. "Though I must say," he added, "I think I prefer you barefoot with your hair loose and a daisy chain about your neck."

She nearly tripped, even though Kendra's gown was a couple of inches too short, and she'd thought she was becoming rather competent walking in the absurd English high heels.

He took her arm to escort her across the busy street. "You're quiet," he said, his gaze safely fastened on the traffic. "If it's because I deceived you, I'm very sorry. But I had my reasons. Though damned if I can remember what they were."

"My head is awhirl," she admitted as they dodged a sedan chair. "I never thought to find myself in London at all, let alone attending a play and a ball. I mean to enjoy it. Though I fully intend to be angry with you tomorrow."

"I don't doubt it," he said dryly. He headed toward a flat-fronted brick building with tall, rectangular windows that looked similar to the ones on his house and most of the others around the square.

"The windows are enormous." Cait looked up in awe. "The building must hold a thousand people."

"About right," he said, although she'd been fooling. A thousand people in one building. The concept was mind-boggling. "I don't suppose you see Palladian windows in Scotland. As for the size of the theater, it used to be a tennis court."

"A tennis court, really?" A wooden sign leaned against the wall, advertising the day's performance. Caithren read aloud. "'Sir William D'Avenant presents The Duke's Company in Sir Martin Mar-All, or The Feign'd Innocence, by John Dryden, adapted from Molière's L'étourdi, as translated by William Cavendish, Duke of Newcastle.' Whew. I am suitably impressed."

"Nothing like London pretension." Jason laughed as he ushered her toward the entrance. "Word is the play was conceived by Newcastle, but corrected by Dryden." He counted out eight shillings and handed them to the doorkeeper. "A side box, if you please."

Inside, the large windows allowed plenty of afternoon light to illuminate both the stage and the patrons. "We must make haste." Jason sought out their box. "The play will begin momentarily. They have to finish before dark."

A symphony played onstage, but Cait could barely hear the tune over the theater's noisy assemblage. People in the middle gallery were seated for the most part, but those in the pit were milling around, talking and laughing, some of them even fighting. Scantily dressed orange girls circulated among the crowd, offering their sweet, juicy treats in a singsong chant. Caithren suspected some of the young bucks were buying more than fruit.

The upper tier had no seats—it was crammed with people leaning over the rails. Jason led her up a flight of stairs and into a quite-civilized private box that sat off to one side, equipped with four chairs. No one else had been seated there yet, so they took the two in front.

"Never did I think to see so many people in one place," Cait said as she adjusted her skirts. "And so many sorts of people as well. I imagined only the wealthy would attend the theater in London."

"At the price of one shilling"—Jason gestured toward the top—"many can afford to be entertained. Footmen and coachmen are admitted free near the end."

"Who would want to come at the end?" she wondered. "You wouldn't know what was happening."

He took her hand. "Most folk don't seem to pay attention anyway."

He was right. Despite a lot of hush-hushing that rippled through the crowd when the curtains opened, no one seemed to quiet down much when the play began. The patrons in the pit scrambled to take seats on the backless benches, and Cait was distracted by more than one brawl before everyone was settled.

The play was a piece of humor, a complete farce from one end to the other. Caithren found herself laughing not only at the actors, but also at the comments and suggestions shouted to them from the audience. "Look behind you!" someone yelled, and she dissolved in mirth when the performer did just that. The spectators' robust criticism was entertaining as well.

A few minutes into the performance, a couple entered their box and sat behind them. When Jason and Cait both turned around and smiled, Cait's jaw dropped open at the sight of the haughty lady's gown. Fashioned of screaming yellow satin, the gown's train was so long it trailed into the corridor, and the neckline was so low, Cait half-expected the woman's ample bosom to pop out. Jason saw the look on her face and began to laugh, but she squeezed his hand until he settled down.

The stage was unlike any she'd ever seen. The first time the painted background moved, she gasped.

"I take it there's no moving scenery back home," Jason whispered.

"There's no scenery at all. Traveling players come to Insch sometimes and perform in whatever place is handy. I've never been in a real theater."

She watched, fascinated, while stagehands manipulated the scene. The curtains weren't closed for this, and actresses sang and danced at the front of the stage to entertain the audience during the change. Many people whistled and cheered, apparently enjoying the between-scenes acts more than the play itself.

Though she laughed at all the buffoonery, Caithren's attention wandered between the play and Jason's hand in hers. After a while, he moved his chair closer, and the press of his thigh against her skirts was distracting. She could feel his warmth. When he draped his arm across the back of her chair, she laid her head on his shoulder and sighed, wondering if she'd ever see him again.

Tomorrow she'd find Adam, and then it would be time to head back home. Adam might even attend tonight's ball, in which case she could start for home immediately.

A tiny part of her almost hoped he wouldn't be there, after all.

All too soon the play was over, and they rose to depart. "I've never laughed so much in all my life," she told Jason. "I thank you for bringing me."

He flashed a smile that sent her pulses to racing. "Nothing could make me happier than seeing you enjoy yourself."

A throat cleared behind them. He swung her around and introduced her to their box companions, Lord and Lady Martindale, who said they were going to the ball as well. Lady Martindale leaned close, her sausagelike fingers reaching for Caithren's amulet. "A lovely, large emerald," she said with a sniff, "but my heavens, the mounting looks like it's been around since the Crusades."

Cait snatched it from her hand and held it possessively. "It has."

The woman pulled back in surprise, her blond curls seeming to shudder along with her. "You're young, so perhaps you don't know that fashionable people have their jewels reset every few years."

"I'm not fashionable. I'm Scottish."

Jason stifled a laugh while Lord Martindale took his wife by the arm. "That will do, my dear," he said, making Cait a small bow. Lady Martindale looked at her curiously as they said their good-byes and left.

Jason took Cait's hand again and drew her to the stairs. "Lady Martindale is wondering what you're doing with a provincial Scot," she commented.

"Bosh." He paused to let his gaze wander her figure-hugging gown. "You look damned English tonight."

"Not when I open my mouth."

He grinned at that and kissed her smack on the lips.

As she laughed and pulled him out of the theater, she couldn't help thinking he was acting mighty strange this eve—as though he were determined to show her a good time even if it killed him.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

"Hmm." As a footman ushered them into Lady Carson's home, Jason glanced around at the many curious faces. "I suspect Lady Martindale has arrived before us."

Before Cait could comment, their hostess rushed up to greet them. "Lord Cainewood? Why, I hardly recognized you without the mustache. You look like your brother." She smoothed her lavender lace skirt. "Do come in. Your attendance is a delightful surprise. And this is Lady…?"

When Jason blinked, Cait wondered if he felt put on the spot. "Lady Carson," he said, "may I introduce—"

"Caithren Leslie," she piped up for herself. "Of Leslie Manor in Leslie by Insch, Scotland." Though she'd made up the manor part, her father had been a baronet.

"Lady Leslie," Lady Carson gushed. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Lady Caithren." Jason corrected the name, but not, Cait noticed, the unwarranted title. "My companion is yet unmarried."

"Ah, I see."

Cait thought Lady Carson saw all too much. "I'm glad of your acquaintance," she told her, her gaze wandering the crowded entrance hall. Many people were looking their way, the ladies rather obviously gossiping behind fancy upheld fans. She wondered if they were discussing Jason's new look, or her, his mysterious companion.

She was certain she'd find Adam here. He must be in London by now, and he'd never miss a social occasion like this.

"Lady Carson," she ventured. "I am wondering if my brother is on your guest list. Adam Leslie?"

"Adam Leslie? Not that I'm aware of. Though my balls are often attended by many uninvited." Her tone said she proud of that fact. And she seemed thrilled to have a new face at her party, because the next thing she said was, "Come, let me introduce you to some of my guests."

Cait could only gawk as the tall, elegant woman led them through an enormous entry hall and past a few other large, well-lit chambers, one set aside for card playing, another for the ladies to freshen up. In yet another room, long tables groaned with food and drink. If Cait had thought Jason's house was impressive, she was positively bowled over by Lady Carson's abode. It could only be described as a mansion.

They were ushered into a chamber that Caithren thought looked out of a fairy tale, where the ball was in full swing. Illuminated by hundreds of candles in chandeliers overhead, masses of glittering guests danced, ate, and conversed. The ballroom's glass-paned doors opened onto a vast garden that Cait was shocked to find in the middle of London.

"Ah, Lady Haversham." Lady Carson snagged a pale, elfin woman by the arm. "May I present a guest of Lord Cainewood's, Lady Caithren. From Scotland," she added in a conspiratorial voice, as though that fact alone should be of significant interest.

"I'm glad of your acquaintance," Cait said again with a little curtsy. "I'm wondering if you've seen my brother, Adam—"

"If you'll excuse us," Jason interjected smoothly, "I've someone I need to see. Ladies." He nodded politely, took Caithren's arm, and dragged her all the way back to the entry hall, which was all but deserted now that the most-anticipated guests—Jason and Caithren, apparently—had arrived.

Pulling her into the shadows behind a large column, he gathered her into his arms. Before she could voice a protest, his mouth came down on hers, and anything she might have said was smothered by his lips.

Caithren's heart raced as his tongue plundered her mouth. She kissed him back with wild abandon. He truly was a changed man tonight, and she wasn't sure she wanted to know why.

She'd rather just enjoy it for now.

When he finally drew back, she stared at him, dumbfounded. Her knees felt like pudding, but his strong arms held her up when she would have slumped against the tapestried wall. "I've been wanting to do that since we got to London," he said.

"Oh, aye?" She blinked at him, confused. "You had ample opportunity in your carriage on the way across town. It took forever to negotiate the traffic."

"I had other things on my mind." His fingers traced her jaw, then he tapped the little black heart on her cheek and leaned to kiss her forehead. "Come, let's dance."

As quickly as he'd dragged her away from the ballroom, he pulled her back in. The musicians were playing a sedate tune, the melody accompanied by scrapes and taps of dancers' shoes and the soft swish of ladies' gowns as they traversed the polished-wood floor in an elegant configuration.

Caithren licked her lips and cast a worried glance at Jason. "I-I cannot dance."

He smiled down at her, prodding her closer to the dance floor with a hand at her back. "I seem to remember you dancing with the Gypsies."

"But not like this!" she exclaimed, tripping over the blasted high heels.

He caught her. "It's a simple pattern. I'll give you two minutes to watch. Two," he warned with mock severity.

The music was eight beats, and the dancers balanced on their toes. Short gliding steps, a change of balance, a pause every third and seventh beat. Cait thought she had it figured out—until suddenly the women ran around the men and they all did a little hop.

"I cannot tell what they're doing," she complained. Just then the dancers bowed and curtsied. "Anyway, it's over," she said with more than a little relief.

"Ah, but there will be another."

Following some discordant re-tuning, the musicians launched into a country dance, not so different from those Cait was used to at her village dances in Leslie. "This one I can do," she declared and let Jason swirl her into the crowd.

All her reservations melted away. It was heaven being in his arms, and it didn't even seem to bother him in front of all society.

Though the dance was energetic, she couldn't keep her eyes from his clean-shaven face. "You don't look like Ford."

"Ford?" They crossed arms and switched sides. "You have the most disconcerting habit of starting a conversation midstream. Where did that come from?"

"Lady Carson. She said you look like your brother."

"Ah." He twirled her around. "She referred to my other brother, Colin. And yes, I expect with my hair cut and without my mustache, we do look somewhat alike. Green eyes and black hair. He's always kept his shorter. Prefers convenience over fashion, in all things."

"I like him already." The music came to a close, and she curtsied. "What other siblings are you hiding?"

"Only a sister-in-law. Colin is married." He led her from the dance floor. "Her name is Amethyst, but we call her Amy."

"The woman who gave you the watch."

"That's right." Another country dance followed the first, and he swept her back out and into the double line, leaving her with the women while he stood across from her with the men. "Amy used to be a jeweler. Or rather, she still is a jeweler, but without a shop. Colin is building her a workshop at Greystone, their home."

"Greystone," she murmured, clapping her hands and then touching them to the women's on either side of her. She remembered him chuckling at seeing that name on an inn. "Your brother married a commoner?"

Coming closer, he smiled down at her. "We Chases don't play by the rules."

"I've noticed." The dance separated them for a moment before they came back together. "You certainly don't play backgammon by the rules."

"I'm not a cheater. If I'm ahead five matches, that's only proof of my skill."

"Ha!" Linking arms, they skipped in a circle. "You distracted me with your bare chest. That is hardly playing fair."

She was getting breathless by the time a portly gentleman tapped Jason on the shoulder. "May I claim the pleasure?" he asked.

Jason didn't look very happy. But he pulled Caithren from the dance and introduced her to the man, a Lord Berkeley.

"It's glad I am to make your acquaintance," Cait said. "And by any chance, have you seen my bro—"

"Beg pardon," Jason interrupted. "We must be off." And he propelled her back to the entry and the shadow of the post.

"Wait." With two hands on his chest, she stopped him when he would have kissed her again. "Why don't you want me to ask after my brother?"

"I only want to kiss you," he protested, drawing her close. His warm breath washed over her face, and she felt dizzy. "I don't know what's come over me, but I cannot keep my hands off you." To demonstrate, he ran them down her back, all the way to her bottom.

Her pulse sped up, but she wasn't going to fall for this seduction. "Do you think my head laces up the back?"

His hands froze on her. "Pardon?"

"Don't take me for a fool. You're trying to keep me from Adam, and I want to know why."

He caught her gaze with his. "I want only to be with you tonight. Besides, do you really think you'd fail to notice your brother were he here?"

He had a point. And when his lips captured hers, she was afraid he made that point completely. So much so that she was tempted to drag him down to the floor and make him follow through.

Oh, how she wanted that. One more time before she found Adam and headed back home.

The footman opened and closed the front door, admitting a new guest, but Caithren barely noticed the footsteps or low murmur of the servants' awed acknowledgments. Jason's tongue was tracing her mouth, his teeth were nibbling her lower lip. She wound her arms around his neck and twined her fingers in his thick hair.

"Cainewood, is that you?" The voice was deep, the words drawled and amused. "Od's fish, I cannot wait to see the lady who's taken your fancy."

Caithren pulled away and stared up at a tall, dark stranger. Heat flooded her cheeks, and arousal and embarrassment made her feel weak as a newborn bairn.

Jason turned her to face the man square on.

"Egads," the man said. "What happened to your hair and face?"

"A long story, best told another time. Sire, this is Caithren Leslie." The fact that he hadn't called her by the invented Lady title was not lost on Cait, even in her confused state. "Caithren, King Charles."

King Charles? She felt the blood drain from her face. Jason supported her with one steady arm. "It-it's pleased I am to make your acquaintance," she said by rote. She caught herself before reciting the "have you seen my brother" part. "Your Majesty," she added instead with a tremulous smile.

The king reached down to take her hand and raise it to his lips for a kiss. His eyes burned into hers, a sensual, compelling black. "A pleasure to meet you, my dear. The lady who captures Cainewood's heart is a special one, indeed."

He was still holding her hand. Her heart was beating like it wished to escape her chest. She wanted to drop into the intricate parquet floor. Which was ridiculous. He was but a man.

"Love's wan e'e and ower deef," she blethered.

The king dropped her hand. "Pardon?"

"Caithren likes to quote her mother's favorite sayings," Jason explained. "Scottish wisdom."

"I'm of Scottish descent, but sorely lacking in wisdom." In a gesture that reminded her of Jason, Charles stroked his thin mustache. "And this saying means…?"

"Love is almost blind and a bit deaf," Cait interpreted.

With that, he threw back his head and laughed, a great roar that all but rattled the enormous chandelier overhead.

"She's a gem," he told Jason. Peering over their shoulders, he frowned. "Od's fish, Barbara and Frances are at it again. I'd best be off." And he made his way toward the ballroom, a commanding figure in dark red velvet trimmed with some sort of fur instead of ribbons.

Cait all but collapsed against Jason's chest. "Barbara and Frances?" she asked weakly.

"His two mistresses of the moment." When she looked up at him in shock, he just laughed. "Come along, I think you could do with some wine." He guided her down the hall toward the refreshment room.

"I didn't mean to imply there was love—I mean, that you—that line just popped into my head, and—"

"Think nothing of it."

She halted in her tracks and turned to confront him. "And why didn't you tell me the king might be here? He must've thought I was sodie-heid"—at the look on his face, she translated—"feather-brained, aye?"

"Kendra did say Charles would be in attendance." He led her to a table and picked up a cup. "If you'll remember."

Caithren wracked her brain while he handed her the cup and lifted a gigantic, solid silver ladle that must have weighed ten pounds if it were an ounce. "Aye, that is exactly what she said. Charles would be in attendance. As though he were a personal friend of the family or some such—"

"He is."

She dropped the cup, jumping back as it splashed and rolled under the table.

"We spent years together with him in exile, after the Civil War. In abject poverty, I might add. The Restoration restored more than Charles's throne—he saw our property restored as well. And he settled titles on my two younger brothers, who otherwise would have—"

"How was I supposed to know such a thing, you daftie? The longer I'm around you, the more confused I get." She looked down. "And now I've gone and ruined Lady Kendra's fancy gold shoes."

Jason only smiled. "So I'll buy her another pair or three." He filled a second cup and curled her fingers around it. "Here. Drink."

Served from an enormous silver punch bowl shaped like a swan, the wine was spiced and delicious. She drank two cups of it, danced with Jason, then drank another. Her eyes never strayed too far from King Charles. But he didn't stay long. When he left, she sagged against Jason in something akin to relief, tempered with a healthy dose of awe.

She had actually attended the same ball as King Charles. Cameron wasn't going to believe it.

Jason introduced her to Lady Castlemaine and Lord Arlington and the Duke of Buckingham. Everyone she'd ever heard of seemed to be here.

Everyone but Adam.

She couldn't bring herself to be too sorry, though. Much as she wanted to see Adam and ask him to deed her Leslie, this night was too magical to really wish such mundane matters would intrude.

Jason followed her when she staggered off the dance floor and over to a wall, leaning against the mantel of one of the immense fireplaces that flanked either end of the ballroom. They weren't lit tonight, which was a good thing, because the chamber was overly warm as it was.

A giddy little giggle bubbled out as she looked up at Jason. Surely no one in the room was as handsome as he. He wore a dark green velvet suit that brought out his eyes, and his own glossy black hair skimmed his shoulders. The hair that she'd cut. She'd cut the hair of a marquess.

She giggled again at the memory. "Will you fetch me another cup of wine?"

"I think you're tipsy enough as it is," he responded with a good-natured grin.

Now that he mentioned it, her head was reeling a wee bit—not that she'd admit it. "It's only this glorious night. I will remember it forever, my lord."

"I won't have you start 'my lording' me now. Not after what we've shared between us."

The thought of what they'd shared made her blush. "The wine? Please?"

He heaved an exaggerated sigh. "As you wish. But we'll get you something to eat as well."

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Jason guided Cait back to the refreshment room and handed her a knot biscuit. She nibbled on the braided, anise-flavored bread while he wandered down the buffet table, loading a plate with light fare: asparagus, cubed cheese, an assortment of luscious fruits. Handing her the plate, he filled two more cups with the heady spiced wine.

Cait looked around for two open seats.

"I've another idea." Jason inclined his head toward the door. "Come along." Munching a cube of cheese, he led her back through the ballroom and out into the formal garden.

Burning torches were set about. Cait breathed deep of the night air, refreshingly cool compared to inside. Here and there a couple strolled the garden paths, but mostly it was quiet and serene.

She followed him out beyond the bright light of the torches, where he sat himself on a low brick wall. Handing her a cup, he took the plate from her and set it down.

"We cannot see out here," she complained, seating herself on the other side of the plate.

"Ah, but we cannot be seen, either." He plucked a raspberry from a small pile and popped it into his mouth. "Your eyes will adjust."

"They're adjusting already," she said, feeling lightheaded. The hand holding her cup was trembling a little, but she raised it and took a sip.

He selected another raspberry and brought it to her lips, running it back and forth across her mouth before he slipped it inside. Sweetness burst on her tongue as she bit into it. He watched her swallow, then leaned across the plate to take her lips in a gentle kiss.

He pulled away an inch. "Shall we move back near the torches?"

"Nay." She leaned closer, bringing her mouth to his again. With a satisfied chuckle, he brushed her lips, and his tongue flicked out to taste them.

He sat back and sipped from his cup.

An asparagus spear made its way toward her mouth. She opened, and he fed it to her slowly. "Lovely night, is it not?"

"Mmm." Anything more intelligible was beyond her at the moment.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather go back inside?"

She shook her head. "Mmm-mmm."

When the asparagus was gone, he leaned to kiss her again, taking her chin in one hand, plundering her mouth till she was breathless. He tasted of fruit and spiced wine, lust and man. A most heady combination.

"I cannot go back inside," she whispered. "I don't think my legs would carry me."

"Are you cold?"

"Nay." But she was shivering. "Aye. I don't know."

He took her hand and drew her off the wall. "Come here, then. I'll keep you warm." And spreading his knees, he eased her to stand between them.

With him still seated, their mouths were on a level. It wasn't surprising when they met, hot and urgent. His hands wandered to her back, pressing her closer between his legs. She could feel the hardness of him beneath his breeches and her layers of skirts, and also an ache, a throbbing, low in her own belly.

"I'm not cold now," she murmured against his mouth.

He drew back and sipped from his cup, then tilted it to her lips so she could sip, too. Reaching for the plate, he selected a ripe strawberry, bit into it, and fed her the rest. Then another one, but this time he bit off a piece and covered her mouth with his, transferring it to her with a flick of his supple tongue.

Never had a strawberry tasted so delicious.

"Hmm…" He watched her, holding up the half-eaten berry. Though his eyes looked gray in the half-light, she didn't miss the speculative gleam.

He set down the berry, and his fingers moved to her stomacher, detaching the tabs at the top.

She licked her lips, tasting strawberry and Jason. "What are you—"

"Hush." He bent down on the stiff stomacher, and something snapped.

"Jase!" It hung drunkenly away from her chest, folded in half and dangling.

"Kendra's seamstress can make another." Working to loosen the laces beneath, he bent to kiss the swell of her breasts.

His mouth, warm and damp, made her heart lurch—she was certain he could feel it pounding. Something melted inside her. Her hands tangled in his hair.

He pulled away, lowering the delicate chemise that shielded her breasts from his view. "Christ," he bit out, watching her chest heave. A tense moment passed, the only sounds those of their harsh breathing.

Then he lifted the half-eaten berry and rubbed it over one taut nipple.

Immediately his mouth moved to cover it, suckling off the sticky sweetness with a low groan that made heat curl in Caithren's middle. Lest her other nipple feel neglected, he doused it and fed off it, too, his teeth nipping the hard bud until a little moan escaped her lips. Then his mouth was on hers, wild and demanding, and his arms went around her, tugging her against his hard body.

The blood rushed through her veins and straight to her head, and she was dizzy, but he was holding her up. One hand groped back to find the berry, and it was in their mouths, first hers, then his, until the pulp was gone and only a tart-sweetness was left on their fencing tongues.

A woman's high-pitched laugh startled Cait as a couple meandered close. She jerked away and held the stomacher up to her chest, panting.

Jason sat straight and calmly fed her another spear of asparagus. She didn't think she could chew and swallow, but somehow she managed, and he handed her a cup of wine to wash it down. Hers, his…it didn't matter. He drained the other cup himself.

Music tinkled from a distance then abruptly ceased, telling them a door had opened and closed, and the couple had reentered the ballroom. Jason unbuttoned his surcoat and spread the sides to envelop her, and Caithren dropped the stomacher and leaned in, pressing her breasts against his chest. She wedged her hands between them to loosen his cravat and work at the laces it hid, frantic to get to the warm skin beneath.

The slap and scrape of shoes told them more people were approaching.

"Bloody hell." Jason pulled away and hopped down from the wall. Straightening his disheveled clothing, he took the plate in one hand and Caithren's hand in the other. Holding the stomacher up to cover her bosom, she teetered on Kendra's high shoes while he drew her through two small formal gardens and into a long, arched arbor, the lattice entwined with flowers and climbing vines.

Halfway through, he stopped and fed her a raspberry. And another. Laughing, holding the dress up with both hands, she chewed and swallowed. Some juice ran down her chin, and he leaned to lick it off. The plate between them, he nuzzled her neck, and a warm shiver rippled through her body. He ran his tongue up to her ear. "You're delicious," he whispered there.

"You're very sleekit," she returned.

"I'm what?" His lips grazed her forehead.

"Very…charming."

He pulled back and fed her another raspberry. "I thought I was exasperating and unimaginative. Black and white."

"Exasperating, aye. But unimaginative…" She leaned forward to tongue one more raspberry from his hand. "You're causing me to reevaluate. You seem to be changing. Or perhaps I was wrong."

"You? Wrong?" His laughter rang through the fragrant tunnel. He selected a few raspberries for himself and tossed them into his mouth. "Besides," he said around them, "the Gypsy woman said that you were supposed to be the creative lover. And beguiling, if I recall aright." He waggled his eyebrows at her.

"It was my lover she was talking of, not me. And will you never let that go? I told you, she misjudged me."

"I think not." Before she could disagree, he pushed the last raspberry between her lips. "You're beguiling as hell, Caithren Leslie."

Her hands and the plate were all caught between them when he yanked her against him and sealed his mouth to hers. He was a new man tonight, she thought blissfully. Something had changed him. And if that something was her…could he love her? Because she knew in her heart she loved him, no matter that he'd deceived her, and although she'd been unable to admit it, even to herself.

Until now.

Her senses careened at the thought, and his kiss, and the intoxicating fragrance of the flowers overhead blended with his distinctive scent. Just when she thought her knees would give out, yet another couple came sauntering down the arbor.

Jason pulled back with a muttered oath. "What are all these people doing out here?"

"I imagine they're wondering the same thing." Clutching the stomacher with one hand, Cait used the other to rub the spot where the plate had pushed into her abdomen. "Why don't you put that down?"

"This?" An astonished look on his face, he held up the plate. "There are still three strawberries left."

"You can get more inside."

"Ah, but I want them outside." His eyes glittered suggestively while a fingertip lightly traced her lips.

"Please, Jase." She shivered, but not from the cold. "I don't think I can stand up any longer. Not…not when you do that."

"Hmm." Looking over her head, he craned his neck to see the back of the garden. "I spy a solution. Come along." And once more she found herself hurrying after him, holding both his hand and the top of her disheveled dress.

Through the arbor, a white wooden summerhouse shone in the moonlight. The only opening was in the back, so he walked her around, pulled her inside, and they were alone. Crickets chirped beyond the latticed walls, but other than that, the only sounds they heard were their own uneven breaths.

"Sit," Jason said, waving her to the bench that ran along the circular structure's walls. "Better?"

"Much. I was…feeling weak there, for a minute."

"Good." He set the plate aside and sat close by her. "I hope to have you feeling weaker still in a minute more." And he lifted her and sat her straddling his legs, facing him.

She gave a little start of surprise, then looked around, although she knew they were alone. "This feels wicked."

"Mmm." He gave her one slow kiss. "That's the idea."

It was wicked but good. It gave her access to his face, which she covered with little kisses. And her hands were free to roam his body, although he was entirely too clothed to make her happy.

He laughed at her frustration, then tilted her head back. His mouth played in the sensitive hollows beneath her chin and along her throat. She reached under his surcoat to pull the shirt from his breeches. His skin beneath felt warm and taut, his back smooth and muscled.

When his hand sneaked below her skirts and played along one thigh, her own hands stilled on his body. "Is something wrong?" he asked, bending his head to draw the tip of his tongue along her bared breasts.

"I—not here—you cannot…oooh," she said when he lifted her skirts and rearranged them, drawing her closer so she could feel him straining against his breeches. "This is very wicked."

"You think so?" He eased his hand from beneath her skirts and started loosening his laces.

"Jason, you cannot—"

"Watch me." His hands moved to her waist, lifted her, brought her back down slowly, slowly…and she felt him sliding inside her.

At the same time he pierced her with his body, he pierced her eyes with his, holding her gaze as tightly as his hands held her steady. With a moan she couldn't quite believe came from her own throat, she felt herself opening, welcoming his warmth into hers.

She licked her lips, closed her eyes, threw back her head. "Oooh, this is very, very wicked."

Laughing low, he licked a shivery line up her throat to her mouth, then settled a soft kiss on her lips. Pulling away, she looked down. He'd arranged her skirts carefully around them.

"No one can see," he whispered. "Even should they stumble upon us. Can you move?"

She did, slowly, feeling him slip out and then back in. "By all the saints." Had anything ever felt so good?

"Excellent. Now stop." He held her hips in place with his hands. "I've a craving for a strawberry."

"What?" She tried to wiggle, but he wouldn't permit it.

"Hold still."

"I cannot!"

"Yes, you can." He lifted a berry, licked it slowly, bit off half. When he offered her the other half, she shook her head. With a shrug, he finished it, then brought his mouth to hers, kissing her long and deep until all the strawberry flavor was gone and her whole world tasted like Jason.

Involuntarily she shifted her hips, but he stopped her and deprived her of his mouth.

"Not yet. Two left."

Feeling an incredible urgency where his body met hers, she let out a wee bleat of frustration. He took up the second strawberry.

She lurched forward and took it in one bite.

"Tsk, sweet." He eased her back down on him, grinning when she moaned at the forbidden friction—a grin so lethal, she wondered it wasn't illegal. "Now we'll have to make the final one last that much longer."

He drew the scratchy tip of the berry over her cheeks, her chin. Down into the valley of her cleavage. Around her bared shoulders to her back, where he traced a tickly pattern.

"What am I writing?" When she whimpered her impatience, his face hardened in a mock frown. "Concentrate."

Around, up, down…"Caithren!" she breathed with relief.

"Um-hmm."

A curve, up, down, a squiggle…"Jason?"

"Excellent. Now…"

A big, swooping line that enclosed all he'd written. Could it be…"A heart?"

"Brilliant. I shall have to reward you."

But their names in a heart were reward enough. Could it mean—

He bit into the berry then and smeared its juice across her chest and up her neck, his tongue following the sweet path all the way to her mouth. "Now," he murmured against her lips. His hands tightened on her hips and lifted—

And another couple stumbled into the summerhouse, mouth to mouth, locked in a torrid embrace.

With a groan Caithren's head dropped to Jason's shoulder. It was all she could do to keep tears from springing to her eyes. Jason stifled a strangled laugh. The couple didn't notice. They fell to the grass in the center and started tearing at each other's clothing.

"How could they?" Cait whispered. "Don't they see us?"

"I suspect they're in no condition to care." A pained look came over his face. "I expect you don't feel the same?"

Doubtless her shocked look told him all he needed to know. "I was afraid of that," he whispered dryly, lifting her with a mighty heave and setting her on her feet.

She smoothed down her skirts and spread them wide, doing her best to hide his efforts to lace his breeches, though the other couple was half-undressed now and completely oblivious. Their panting moans filled the air, striking Caithren as sounding rather comical. Surely she and Jason didn't sound like that when they made love.

Did they?

Giggling, she followed him out of the summerhouse.

"This isn't funny," he muttered, buttoning his surcoat in a partially effective attempt to hide the bulge in his breeches. When she giggled again, he looked up and grabbed her by the shoulders, hushing her with his lips.

That move, at least, was very effective.

"Shall we make for home?" he asked against her mouth, the words teasingly warm. "I believe I've had quite enough of this ball for tonight."

With a mastery that made her pulse pound, he deepened the kiss. For a long exciting minute, she was caught in his spell. When at last he pulled away, a soft sigh escaped her.

"I've a bed at home," he said low in her ear, nibbling on her lobe. "And…" He looked up and raised a brow. "Privacy."

CHAPTER FIFTY

They ran through the gardens, laughing all the way, Caithren struggling to keep her clothes on as they went.

A few feet from the door, Jason pulled her behind a hedge and turned her to face him. Together they got her chemise into place, her bodice laced, the stomacher attached—although it had an odd crease in the middle. She crossed her arms over it.

"There." Jason adjusted the curls on her shoulders and kissed her on the lips. "You look perfect."

"So do you." Her gaze wandered down his body and back up. He pulled the surcoat tighter around his middle. "Almost." She giggled.

He loved the way she could go from hot passion to laughter in a split second. Though that meant she could be as quick to anger as well, it was worth it. It was what made her Caithren. It was what made him want her. If only she could still love him after this night.

He knew he was asking for the impossible.

"But that other couple," she said, "they will have grass in their hair. They're not nearly as creative as you are—as the Gypsy foretold you would be." Her teasing grin caught at his heart. "That other couple won't look perfect."

"And Charles's courtiers will think nothing of it. So long as they're not man and wife." He drew her from behind the hedge, toward the glittering ballroom. "In these circles, men expect only their mistresses to be faithful."

"Is that so?" she said, a challenge in her voice. Her eyes also told him she wouldn't put up with that sort of marriage.

If only it mattered.

Well, there was nothing for it. All he could do was make the rest of this evening as perfect as it had been so far, and then hope against hope…

He took a deep breath and opened the door to the music and the dancing and all the people who'd done their best—albeit innocently—to keep him from loving Caithren this night.

Grabbing her hand, he strolled through the crowd, a single purpose in mind: to get her into his arms again and finish what they'd started.

"Cainewood! Haven't seen you in ages! Will you introduce me—"

"Later."

Later. Later. Later. Always one more interruption, one more excuse. It seemed an hour before they escaped out the front door and stood waiting for his coachman to bring the carriage around.

Jason drew Cait near and wrapped her in his arms.

She snuggled closer. "Crivvens, it was hot in there."

"Hot?" He took her lips in a deep kiss, his hands wandering down to squeeze her bottom. "Right now it's hotter out here."

She giggled. A sweet, sweet—bittersweet for him—giggle.

When the carriage arrived, they hurried inside, and he pulled her to straddle his lap. "Can we do it in a carriage?" she asked as the door slammed shut.

"I mean to find out." His hand went beneath her skirt and wandered up her shapely legs to find her slick and ready. With a little gasp, she moved to unlace his breeches, a seductive, impatient gesture that made him bite his lip. The carriage started with a lurch, hampering her fumbling efforts. When he finally burst free, he couldn't remember ever being so relieved.

She wiggled close, wound her arms around his neck, fastened her lips on his, her tongue a warm promise in his greedy mouth. Then—bump!—the wheels hit a rut, and their noses mashed together.

"Sorry," he whispered, adjusting her on his lap.

"Mmm," she murmured, going again for his lips, but missing and grazing his cheek instead. "It's all right. I think." A little giggle sounded by his ear.

Steadying her head in his hands, he tried once more, managing naught but a couple of fleeting baby kisses. The carriage bucked over the cobblestones as though it had no springs, never mind how much he'd paid to outfit the damned contraption.

They jounced in and out of a pothole with a bone-rattling jolt that brought their mouths colliding together with enough force to nearly crack their teeth. "I don't think this will work," she whimpered.

Ruefully he rubbed at his lips. "I'll make it work."

Nuzzling her neck, he concentrated below instead, moving his hands to her hips in a feverish effort to guide their two bodies together. But the bench seat was hellishly narrow, and she shifted and swayed on his lap.

No matter how hard they tried, they couldn't connect. Rounding a corner, Cait bounced right to the floor and stayed there, convulsed in laughter.

"It's not going to work." Coming up on her knees, she steadied herself with her hands on his shoulders. Her skirts were twisted around her legs, the bent stomacher was skewed, and her tangled curls bounced on her shoulders in the same uneven rhythm as the carriage. "How long to your house?"

This late, traffic was negligible. With the exception of aristocratic carousers, Londoners kept inside at night. "Five more minutes."

"Five minutes." She sighed as though it were hours and hours. Then she reached to lace him back up, weaving on her knees while she tried to keep her balance.

He pushed her hands away, knowing he couldn't take her fingers on him now. Quickly he did it himself, loosely, then pulled her up and across his lap.

"It's sorry I am, Jase." She burrowed into his neck, her breath warm there, her mouth moist. "Do you think you can wait?"

"I reckon I'll have to."

Her only response was another sweet sigh.

"You know," he said with a self-deprecating chuckle, "my brother brought a woman to this house last year and took her to his bed. And I was terribly righteous and told him he'd have to marry her."

She sat upright, steadying herself with an arm across the seatback. "You mean Colin and Amy?"

"Yes." He grunted when she bounced in his lap. "Last month they had a beautiful baby daughter."

"That's very nice. But you don't have to marry me, Jason. In fact, I wouldn't countenance it." Her voice dropped until he could hardly hear it over the wheels rattling on the cobblestones. "My home is in Scotland."

With a hand on her chin, he brought her gaze to his. "Caithren?"

"Hmm?" In the soft glow from the sidelight, her eyes looked hazy blue.

"Are you enjoying yourself this night?"

She nodded seriously. "More than I ever thought possible."

"Even though you're in England?"

"Even though." Managing to guide her lips to his, she kissed him softly. "Maybe especially so." Her words were almost shy, surprising him. His Cait was never shy. "Because you're here. In England."

A heaviness weighted his chest. "Will you remember that tomorrow? No matter what happens?"

Her gaze was steadfast—and perhaps a bit curious. "I'll remember it forever."

"Good. I'm counting on it."

He was praying for it as the carriage drew to a halt. Because when the sun rose in the morning, what he had to tell her would surely break her heart.

The house was dark and still when they entered. He eased the door shut and found her lips with his as he felt for the candle that was kept on the nearby table. Pulling away, he went to light it, fumbling when her hands streaked under his surcoat. He cursed softly, and Caithren giggled.

"Hush," he whispered. "We cannot wake Kendra. I'm half-surprised she didn't wait up to hear all about our evening."

With a soft hiss, the flame came to life, and she snuggled against him, her eyes a deep blue in the sudden light. Beneath the coat, her arms tightened around him. A choked sound escaped his throat, and he fused his mouth to hers. His breath quickened at her indescribable flavor, the way her soft curves molded themselves to his harder body.

She angled her head, deepening the kiss, then suddenly broke contact. "Where is your room?" Her eyes blazed, full of impatient promise. "Hurry."

The candle in one hand, he slung an arm around her, and they scrambled up the stairs, both of them stumbling in the mad rush.

The minute his bedchamber door closed behind them, Caithren was on him, her mouth pressed to his. "Now," she demanded. "No food. No teasing. Here. Now."

He reached blindly to set the candle on a table, teasing the farthest thing from his mind. It was all he could do not to rip her clothes or his in their haste.

They tumbled onto the bed, all arms and legs and hot, wet mouths. "Now," she said again, and he drove into her, groaning at the sheer perfection of her body taking his. She climaxed with a sharp cry that met his own deep moan. He felt her tighten around him, and gusts of pleasure overcame him, stunning his senses.

In seconds it was over. This time. There would be more time before the morning, time to be slow and caring, time to taste and touch.

Time to savor the last hours before the truth destroyed everything between them.

At the thought, an ache overwhelmed him. He nuzzled her ear, then words spilled out in a whisper. "I love you, Cait."

Beneath him, she seemed to stop breathing. "I—"

"Hush." He didn't want to hear it, not from her. Not when she wouldn't be able to say it again on the morrow. "I love you, and I want you to remember that. No matter what happens tomorrow."

"Why do you keep bringing up tomorrow?" she asked in a voice soft and sated. "What is happening tomorrow? Besides the wedding and finding Adam? And hopefully apprehending Gothard?"

He pulled back and captured her gaze with his. "We will wake to the morning sun, wrapped in each other's arms. I will bring you breakfast in bed." The candlelight seemed to flicker in her passionate, hazel eyes. "And then—then I have something to tell you. And I want your promise that you'll remember I love you."

She struggled up on an elbow. "That is something," she whispered, "that I will never, ever forget."

"Then show me," he said, and she melted into his arms once again.

In the gray light of dawn, Jason jerked awake.

He'd forgotten his head last night.

Bloody hell, what if he'd gotten Cait with child?

He lay stone still, a fist pressed to his heart. A few hours of mindless passion might have ruined both their lives.

If the worst came to pass, what would she do? What would he do? He wasn't a man to force a woman to the altar, nor was he one to want his child raised in another country, far from his love and influence. But the decision wasn't his, that he knew. If she carried his babe, Caithren wouldn't even know until after she'd returned back home. She wouldn't have to tell him. He might never find out he had a son or daughter living in Scotland.

How would she cope, a never-married woman with a child? Here she would be shunned. He was admittedly ignorant of the social pressures where she lived, but he'd wager it was the same. For the rest of her life, she might suffer for his lack of responsibility.

He could only pray his seed hadn't taken. And though he was not a religious man, he did pray, fervently.

Beside him Caithren slept, looking happy and peaceful. Though he ached to touch her beloved face, he wouldn't risk startling her awake. She would waken soon enough, and then it would be over…because then he would tell her the truth. Any feelings she had for him would die. And now she might be carrying his child—the child of their precious, fleeting love.

Could things get any worse?

Beneath his window, Jason heard the bellman call the hour of six, followed by muffled conversation. His skin prickled with a sudden, foreboding awareness. He slid from the bed and over to the window, parting the drapes just enough to see between.

Through the morning fog, he could barely make out the bellman, his lamp held high, casting a yellowish glow. Beside him, talking to him, sat a man on a horse.

A man with a squarish head.

Apparently things could get worse.

Letting the drapes drop closed, he dashed for the stables, pulling on his clothes as he ran.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

We will wake to the morning sun, wrapped in each other's arms. I will bring you breakfast in bed…

Caithren woke to the morning sun, but Jason wasn't wrapped in her arms. Her heart plummeted. Then she decided he must be off getting her breakfast in bed.

Until two hours later, when he still hadn't appeared with it.

Tears stinging her eyes, she finally gave up and rose to get dressed. Everything in Jason's chamber reminded her of him. His personal style was evident in the solid, masculine furnishings. His scent clung to the bedclothes, the very walls. She cleaned up at his washstand, rinsing away the traces of his body on hers. But not the impression he'd made on her heart.

After a night of blissful loving, she'd fallen peacefully to sleep, certain he was going to ask her to wed him this morning. She'd been sure that was what he'd meant—that she should remember he loved her when he asked her to be his wife. And he hoped that his declaration of love would persuade her to agree, even though she'd already told him she belonged home in Scotland.

She had yet to decide what her answer would be. But she'd been sure of the question.

But now she realized she'd been wrong. He'd only meant she should remember he loved her when he told her they couldn't stay together. That he loved her, but it wasn't enough. There were too many obstacles, too many differences. Her family was too low-ranked. Something.

She could live with that, if she had to—it wasn't as though she hadn't been expecting it all along. But after promising the morning together to straighten things out, he'd gone off somewhere and left her alone to wrestle with all her wrenching doubts.

So much for his promises not being given lightly.

The pain and uncertainty were crushing. But Caithren Leslie could bear it.

She should have known not to take an Englishman at his word.

Jason held his nose as he rode past a ditch that had been used as a communal grave for more than a thousand bodies during London's last great plague. Though the remains had been covered with dirt, after two years it still seemed to reek.

Everything in his life seemed to be reeking right now.

Damnation, he'd lost Geoffrey Gothard's trail.

As he turned the corner into the secondhand-clothing market on Houndsditch, Jason found himself wishing again that Caithren really were Emerald. Emerald MacCallum knew how to track a man. Emerald MacCallum would have captured her quarry.

It had cost him precious minutes to saddle a horse and take off, but Gothard hadn't ridden away until he'd glimpsed Jason rounding the corner of the town house. Yet he'd never managed to catch up. And now the man had seemingly disappeared into the maze that was known as London.

Once again they were playing hide-and-seek, but Jason couldn't figure out the rules of the game. Gothard had chased him all the way to London—why didn't he come after him now instead of running off? It couldn't be that Gothard feared confronting him on a public street, because Jason had followed him halfway across town. The man had had ample opportunity to lead him somewhere more private.

Cursing his ineptitude, he kept one hand on his pocket watch as he jostled his mount between two unkempt riders. If Cait were Emerald instead, he wouldn't have panicked and left her, terrified for her safety. Not to mention he might have done a better job of following the man if he hadn't been swamped with guilt. Guilt that muddled his mind. For more than thirty-six hours he'd known the truth, known that Caithren was searching for a brother she'd never find. Every one of those hours had taken its toll on his soul.

Piles of garments cluttered the street, guarded by watchful owners. Barking madly, a dog skirted the mounds and darted under Jason's horse, making him shy. A wagon splashed mud as it careened on by, its driver ignoring several vendors who angrily brushed off their soiled goods, yelling obscenities after him.

Once again Jason had proven himself a failure, unworthy of his father's name.

He'd failed to catch Gothard. He'd failed to tell Caithren the truth yesterday, he'd failed to keep her safe from pregnancy, and he'd failed to be there for her this morning. She had no reason to attend the wedding, yet by now she was probably getting ready, excited to see her brother. He pictured her choosing a gown from Kendra's clothes press, carefully painting her face, sticking on another adorable heart-shaped patch. All for nothing.

He craned his neck. Was that Gothard's sandy head he glimpsed through the mass of haggling customers? Thinking it just might be, his hopes lifted. He dug in his heels, racing after the man, then caught up to find himself disappointed yet again.

It wasn't Gothard, after all. But the man had to be nearby…somewhere.

He would give it one more hour. Then, if he were unsuccessful, he would go home. And—no matter that it would be the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life—he'd tell Caithren the whole truth.

"He'll be back, Cait."

Caithren looked up from her feet, which were trodding a path through Lincoln's Inn Fields, and over to her new friend Kendra. "I know he'll be back. He lives here." With a sigh, she made her way over to a stone bench. "You just don't understand. He promised me we would be together this morning. He said he had something to tell me."

Kendra sat beside her, her features lit with intrigue. "Any idea what?"

Slowly Cait drew her hat off and set it on the bench. Raking the long hair from her face, she watched a dove flutter from the sky and peck around in the grass, foraging for food. A fresh scent in the air hinted at coming rain, reminding her of home, but the thought did nothing to raise her spirits.

"You're hiding something," Kendra insisted. "I can tell."

"Are you always so observant?"

"Always," Kendra said smugly. "So what is it?"

"This is going to sound daft." Cait licked her lips and smoothed the skirts of the blue day dress she'd borrowed from Kendra. Until the Gothards were caught, she felt safer disguised as an Englishwoman. "I realize we've known each other less than ten days, your brother and I, but I thought…well, I thought maybe he'd be asking me to marry him."

Kendra clapped her hands. "I knew it!"

"Nay, you don't understand." Tears sprang to Caithren's eyes—oh, how she hated that. She brushed at them angrily. "He made such a point of saying we'd talk in the morning. Then he disappeared." She turned on the bench to face Kendra. "I was wrong. He only wanted to tell me we cannot be together. But he lost his nerve, or just decided something else was more important."

Her new friend reached to take her hands. "Maybe you misunderstood about this morning."

Cait shook her head. "Impossible."

"Then something unexpected came up." Kendra's fingers squeezed tight. "I'm sure of it. Didn't you say you needed some papers for your brother? I'll wager he wanted to take care of that before he talked to you. And when he does, it won't be to say you cannot be together."

"It doesn't matter what he went to do or what he's going to say." Caithren pulled her hands from Kendra's and hugged herself. "I hadn't made up my mind, anyway."

Jason's sister fixed her with a penetrating stare. "Oh, yes, you had." She smoothed her own apple-green skirts. "Whether you know it or not."

Uncomfortable under that gaze, Caithren rose and resumed walking.

Kendra jumped up to follow. "How is your arm today?"

"It's healing." Cait shook her head in disbelief. "After English doctoring. I never would have thought it."

"They say never trust an English surgeon. Quacks, one and all." Kendra grinned. "How was it cut? You said you would tell me."

A small smile threatened to burst through her melancholy. "I never said anything of the sort. You said you would ask." She took a deep breath. "Wat Gothard nicked me with his sword. We think he was going after your brother."

"He was?" Kendra stopped dead on the path, her face a mask of concern. "Maybe Jason went after Gothard. What if he's not here because he's hurt?"

"Hurt?" Cait echoed numbly. "He was going to warn Scarborough today, but he said nothing about chasing down Gothard. He doesn't know where to find him. We don't know if he's even in London."

She couldn't bear to think of Jason hurt. He didn't want her, and he didn't want to tell her, either. That was all there was to it. He would have said something were he planning to go after Gothard.

Kendra was still watching her, as though waiting to be reassured. Suppressing her own unease, Cait touched her friend's arm. "Your brother didn't go chasing after Gothard this morning." When Kendra still looked wary, Cait forced a smile. Surely there was nothing to be worried about. "I'm certain of it. You yourself said he wasn't after revenge."

Kendra nodded, apparently placated. "Still, I cannot believe you were injured. It sounds so romantic, being saved by the man you love." She leaned against the rail that edged the path, her eyes lit with envy. "My life is so boring. What sort of adventures have you two been up to?"

So much had happened, Cait didn't know where to begin. And she couldn't bear retelling all the events that had brought her to admire and love Jason in such a short time. It hurt too much. "Your brother brought me from up north to here. A long, tiring journey. Things happened."

"Things." Kendra's voice sounded speculative, but she let the matter drop. "At least tell me what you meant last night when you said you hadn't cared properly for your cut. What could you have done that the doctor didn't?"

"There are healing plants, but—"

"You've knowledge of healing?" When Cait nodded, she looked excited. "Could you teach me, then? I visit the sick at Cainewood, but sometimes I don't know what to do for them, and—"

"It takes years to learn." Cait reached to pluck a leaf off a low-hanging branch overhead. "I cannot teach you in an afternoon."

"When you come to live at Cainewood—"

"I don't think that will be happening." Walking again, she shredded the leaf and avoided her friend's eyes. "Your brother doesn't love me, Kendra. Or at least not enough. I'm naught but an annoyance to him."

She knew that wasn't precisely true, but she didn't know how to put it. She only knew that if Jason wanted her, he would have been with her this morning as he'd promised.

A Chase promise is not given lightly. If he'd ever considered marrying her, he must have had serious second thoughts. Now, even should he return and ask her to wed him, she couldn't say aye. Not knowing as she did that he had doubts.

Maybe this "adventure" had changed her mind about what she wanted from life. But for her, it was all or nothing. She knew he bore guilt for taking her outside of marriage, but that was no reason to wed. A half-commitment would never do. Even should she be pregnant—a possibility after last night—she wouldn't marry him unless she was positive she had his love.

She adored children, and she'd feel blessed to have one, in or out of wedlock. Cameron could stand in as a father figure. People would whisper, but she'd never been conventional anyway.

It was a gray day, to match her mood, even darker along the paths where the trees met overhead and cast their shadows. She walked beside Kendra, listening to her own thoughts and snatches of conversation from passersby. When they scooted to the side to let a wizened old vendor pass with his barrow, he nodded to them and recited a little verse.

Buy marking stones, marking stones buy,

Much profit in their use doth lie;

I've marking stones of color red,

Passing good, or else black lead.

"Thank you, no." Kendra smiled, and the aged peddler went on. "Marking stones," she mused. "That man will be scrambling for business soon, if Jason has his way."

"Aye?" Caithren could barely muster interest, but she couldn't be rude.

"He's set some cottagers at Cainewood to making pencils from the graphite mined on the property."

"What's a pencil?"

"A long strip of graphite encased in wood. You write with it, like a quill, but you don't have to dip it. You just sharpen it, instead. Jason heard they were being made in Cumberland and traveled there to see. There is nothing he won't do to make Cainewood profitable. The Roundheads ran it into the ground while it was in their hands—when Charles restored the title and lands, Jason had to start from scratch." Her heels clicked on the hard dirt path. "My brother is an admirable sort, don't you think?"

"All this new knowledge of Jason is a wee bit much," Cait admitted. "I spent our whole journey trying to puzzle him out, and then when I finally reckoned I understood him…yesterday I discovered he's a completely different man than I thought."

"No, he's not." As they walked, Kendra ran a hand along the low fence beside her. "You may be surprised to find him titled and a man of means, but inside, he's exactly the man you saw. Or what you've made him to be." She stopped and leaned against the rail. "You've changed him, Cait. In good ways."

"I don't know…"

"Come, they sell lemonade on the other side of the square. I'll treat you." Kendra linked her arm through Cait's. "With or without brandy?"

"Definitely with," Cait said dryly.

The lemonade was cool and bracing. They walked around the fields for a spell, drinking and chatting, and after a while Cait started to feel better. Children ran circles around them, their harried mothers not far behind. Street balladers were there to entertain, as well as violinists and one lone bagpiper that made Caithren's heart swell.

She touched her amulet, rubbing her fingers over the smooth rectangular emerald. Tonight was the wedding. She'd best head back to the house to ready herself.

"May I borrow another gown for tonight?"

"Of course." Kendra eyed her assessingly. "I've a lovely one in yellow that I think will just fit."

"I'm sure it will do. Whether Jason returns or nay, I must go to Lord Darnley's wedding to meet up with Adam." By force of habit her hand went into her pocket, to feel for his portrait and pull it out.

"Ford and I can take you. We're invited and were planning to go anyway, in order to find out who Jason killed." She squinted at the miniature. "What is that?"

"Adam's picture." When Kendra reached, Caithren handed it over. "Do you see a resemblance?"

"Oh, yes." Kendra grinned, looking from the wee painting back to Cait. "You've the same eyes and chin and hair."

"That's all we share," Cait said. "We couldn't be more different." She sighed. "I'd best get back and prepare to leave."

One more night dressed as an Englishwoman to find Adam, then she would head back home where she belonged. Her hair would go back into plaits, and she would be herself again. Hopefully without these devastating pangs of unrequited love.

Her hand went up to stroke the foreign English curls—and she felt something missing. "My hat! I forgot my hat! I must've left it on that bench." She started running.

"Wait!"

At Kendra's shout, Cait turned back.

"Have you no sense of direction?"

"Nay." She laughed at herself. "Where was it, then?"

"There. Behind that big tree, and back along the path a bit."

"Aye. Bide a wee. I mean, wait here. I shall be right back."

She hurried along the shady path, relieved when she spotted the bench and saw that no one had taken her hat. Running the last few steps, she grabbed it and jammed it on her head.

Just then, a horse came thundering through the park. Someone scooped her off her feet. Her heart hammering, she found herself facedown across a man's lap, his hand tangled in the chain around her neck in an effort to wrestle her upright.

She kicked and twisted, trying to find freedom, but his grasp tightened and the chain bit into her throat. Finally it snapped, and her amulet fell to the grass, her heart plummeting along with it.

Her protection, gone. Her hope, gone.

"Let me go!" she wailed, her eyes filling. The emerald looked smaller and smaller as they rode away, her last glimpse of it blurry through her tears.

Something cold and thin pressed into the back of her neck.

"It's the dull edge of a knife," Geoffrey Gothard growled, "but one more move, and it'll be the sharp side instead."

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

"What do you mean, she never came back?" Jason paced the drawing room, then came to stand beside Kendra, staring down at her. "Where could she have gone?"

"I looked all over, then I figured she must have come back here." Her gaze kept straying to the window, as though she expected to see Cait emerge from the park across the street. "Lincoln's Inn Fields is not that big. How could anyone possibly disappear in it?"

"You don't know Caithren." He tried to steady his erratic pulse, reminding himself how easily she tended to get lost. "She has a terrible sense of direction."

"So she told me. But I thought she was fooling." At Jason's glare, she flinched. "I looked, Jason. Everywhere. I'm sorry. It's not as though I lost her on purpose. Come, I'll show you where we were. Perhaps she's waiting there now."

Calm. As he followed Kendra out the door, he struggled for calm. Geoffrey Gothard couldn't have gotten her. He'd spotted him less than an hour ago.

He hoped.

Suddenly he wasn't sure. He pulled out his watch, but his hand was shaking, so he shoved it back into his pocket. Dodging the traffic that always surrounded the square, he trailed his sister across the street and into the park. Together they hurried along a path.

The gray day was his enemy, its shadows tricking him into thinking he saw Cait everywhere. "What color is she wearing?"

"Blue. The gown with the puffy sleeves that I wore to Lady Stanhope's house party."

"I haven't memorized your wardrobe, Kendra."

Wisely saying nothing, she slanted him a glance. "Here." She stopped before a stone bench. "She left her hat here. It's gone. So she must have found it."

"I've eyes in my head," he snapped.

"Your face is turning red. You never get upset. Or you never used to, until this whole thing with Gothard started. Even then, you weren't this short-tempered."

Until he'd fallen in love. "You two had no business walking here alone."

"Everyone walks here alone." The sweep of her arm encompassed plenty of unescorted women.

"Not everyone has a deviant after them." When her pale green eyes filled, he drew a deep breath. Patience. "Show me the path you were on when she left you."

Once again he followed her, scanning the square while he tried to reassure himself it wasn't possible Gothard had Cait. Or could he have his timing skewed? How long had he wandered the streets of London, berating himself for not coming clean with Caithren yesterday or the night before? He pulled out his pocket watch again and flipped it open, but for the life of him he couldn't remember what time it had been when he last saw the man.

"Wait." When Kendra stopped, he snapped the watch closed and whirled to face her. Her brow knitted, she motioned off the path. "Is that Cait's?"

A white feather fluttered near the ground. He ran closer and saw it was attached to the hat he'd bought in Wansford. "God. Yes." He plucked it up and clutched it to his chest.

"Look, there was a horse here." Hampered by her high heels, Kendra came along more slowly. "The grass is torn up. By hooves, I think." She bent down and scooped up a glint of gold. "And what is this?" She handed it to him. "It's Cait's as well, isn't it?"

As his fist closed around the emerald pendant, his heart plunged to somewhere in the vicinity of his knees. "I've lost her," he whispered, staring at his clenched hand.

"She's lost, yes. But that doesn't mean you've lost her."

"You don't understand. This amulet is ancient—it's been in her family for centuries. She believed something bad would befall her if ever she was without it."

A sudden wind whipped Kendra's skirts. "Don't tell me you believe that nonsense."

Stricken, he slowly looked up at his sister. "I don't know what to believe anymore."

"I'll explain this one more time, numbskull. Now, pay attention."

Listening to the Gothard brothers argue, Caithren nervously wandered the small chamber they were in, the back half of a two-room suite at an inn that had seen better days. Besides the sagging bed, a table and two plain chairs were the only furniture. The brothers must be as short of funds as Jason had guessed.

"Thanks to Cainewood doing just as I expected of him, things are right on schedule."

"What things, Geoffrey?"

Geoffrey's gaze flickered to Cait. A lascivious gaze. Swallowing bile in her throat, she moved around to the other side of the table and feigned unconcern, running a finger across the bare wood.

"Things." Geoffrey blew out a perturbed puff of air. "I'll be going to the wedding alone."

As he talked, he donned padding to bulk up his body. He'd also worn it to inquire at Scarborough's house, Cait realized. Jason had been right.

Still speaking to Wat, he jerked his squarish head in her direction. "You will wait here and guard the chit."

In reflex she backed up and sat on the bed. The ropes creaked, and a musty smell wafted from the mattress.

Geoffrey glared at his brother. "Think you can handle that?"

Wat shrugged.

A heavy sigh escaped Geoffrey's whitish lips. "I'll lock the two of you in, then. She won't be going anywhere unless Cainewood breaks down the door. If that should happen, you know what to do?"

Wat just looked at him questioningly.

With a huff, Geoffrey marched over to Cait and pulled her off the bed.

"Ouch!" She yanked free. "I will thank you to keep your hands off my arm. It hurts where your brother cut me."

Without answering her, he prodded her in the middle of the back and sent her sailing into the small anteroom, shutting the door behind her.

She stumbled over to sit on an unpadded wooden settle. This room was even more austere than the first. Fuming, she got back up and pressed her ear to the door, but try as she might, all she heard was unintelligible murmurs.

What was he saying? What was he planning? Her mind raced with possibilities. Was he telling Wat to detain Jason? Kill him? Kill them both? No, somehow she thought not. The way Geoffrey had been looking at her, she suspected he had plans for her before doing away with her.

She shuddered.

At the sound of footsteps approaching, she raced back to the settle. Geoffrey opened the door between the rooms, and she watched through the frame. He returned to the table and pulled a cracked mirror from a bag, along with a fake beard and some adhesive. Then he set to work, turning himself into the man she'd seen yesterday morn.

Rising again, she positioned herself on the threshold. "Why would Cainewood be breaking down the door?"

Her words came out a challenge, maybe not the smartest thing to do. But she'd never been good at controlling her emotions.

A nasty grin appeared in the bushy brown beard. "Cainewood will receive a note explaining your whereabouts. Any minute now, I expect."

"What makes you think he cares for me?" she asked, almost hoping Jason didn't care, so he wouldn't walk into a trap.

"Cainewood hasn't let you out of his sight." He settled the wig on his head. "Nor far from his lips, I might add."

Had he seen them, then, those times they'd kissed to hide their faces?

As though reading her mind, Geoffrey let loose a sinister chuckle. "He'll be coming after you. Conveniently keeping him from the wedding."

"I wouldn't be so sure." She wished she could put more conviction into that statement. Jason had said over and over he felt responsible for her, and he'd charged in on his silver horse to save her more than once. Just because that particular horse was stabled miles away didn't mean he wouldn't be arriving this time.

Still, she couldn't count on it. She walked to the window and looked out. Four stories down. Her first thought had been to open the window and jump. But even when Geoffrey left and she had only to deal with thickheaded Wat, it would still be four stories down.

She wouldn't be jumping.

Pressing her forehead to the cold pane, she strained to see the wall below. Vines. Old, gnarled vines, the stalks as thick as her forearm. She could climb down the vines.

But only if she incapacitated Wat somehow.

Her gaze darted around the room and into the next one. There must be something here that could help her. Whatever it took, she had to get to the wedding. It was her best—maybe her only—chance to find Adam.

And if she could save Jason from risking his life as well, so much the better.

Somehow Jason managed to dress for the wedding, though he didn't know how it happened. His heart pounded so hard his fingers shook. He was torn in three directions at once.

One, find Cait—absolutely his first priority, but the least likely to be successful. London was the biggest city in England, a veritable rabbit warren of streets and buildings. She could be anywhere. Anywhere.

Two, get to Scarborough's house and warn him.

Three, go to Lord Darnley's wedding, where he might capture Gothard once and for all.

Since Scarborough was expected at the wedding, he had a strong hunch Gothard would be there, too. For the bride and groom and wedding guests, he hoped he was wrong, but at least it would be done.

Scarborough and Gothard. Those last two he could handle. He hoped.

He frowned at himself as he tied his cravat in the mirror, messing the knot for the fourth time. He couldn't think about past failures. He had to pull himself together and do what needed to be done.

Save Scarborough and apprehend Gothard.

Or go after Cait—

A knock came at the door. Giving the cravat a final yank, he went to open it.

"A letter, my lord." Goodwin proffered a neatly folded square.

The note was obviously scribbled in haste. Eleven words that made up his mind. Your woman can be found at the Bull Inn on Bishopsgate.

A clue. A direction. Relief coursed through him, though he knew it was premature.

He nodded at Goodwin. "Have the carriage brought round immediately."

He hoped Scarborough had received his warning letter; if not, the man would have to fend for himself. Or—

"Ford!" Grabbing his velvet surcoat—black, to match his mood—he bolted from the room and down the stairs.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Wat sat slumped in a chair in the back room, his shifty brown eyes watching Caithren pace back and forth while she did her best to ignore him.

She was envisioning Lord Darnley's wedding. There they were, walking down the aisle, Lord Darnley and his bride. Her mind conjured up a bonnie image of a man in a dove-gray velvet suit and a woman in a lovely pink gown. Very English. The kirk, of course, was enormous, this being London. Dressed in every color of the rainbow, guests filled row after row of pews. On one end sat a man wearing bright blue satin bedecked with gaudy ribbons.

Adam.

She had to get to Adam. She'd come all this way, and it was her one and only chance—

"Sit down, wench. You're making me barmy."

She sat. Geoffrey had given Wat a pistol.

Congealed food sat on a pewter plate before her, making her stomach roil. There was a spoon, but no knife. No weapons at her disposal.

When she closed her eyes, a vision of Jason's smile seemed to hover behind her lids. What was it about him that made her miss him so fiercely all this day, the first day she'd spent without him since he'd kept her off the coach? Certainly not his blanket judgments, his innate stubbornness, his overdeveloped sense of responsibility. But whatever it was, he had changed her life. Changed an essential part of Caithren Leslie.

She could no longer imagine living all her life without a man. In truth, without Jason in particular.

But somehow she would have to.

Now she knew what her answer to his proposal would have been. But he wouldn't be asking. Once he captured Geoffrey Gothard, he'd be leaving for his home in the country. She'd been telling him to leave her all along, after all.

It was painful, knowing he cared but not enough. If she could even believe he'd been telling the truth when he said he loved her. Wishing the three words had never passed his lips, she reached to touch her amulet and splayed her hand across the bareness there instead.

So much ill luck had befallen her lately.

She had to get to Adam. Everything had gone wrong, but this one thing—this one thing—must go right. With her emerald or without.

"What does Scarborough look like?" Kendra whispered as she and Ford quietly entered the church.

"How the hell should I know?" Scarborough had already left his house when they'd arrived there to alert him of his brothers' plans. "We'll have to ask around after the service. Surely there will be time to warn him."

The ceremony hadn't started yet, but everyone was seated. At the far end, a harpsichordist played a gentle tune. Ford drew Kendra along one wall, so they could view the assemblage. "Jason thinks Gothard won't show up until the reception—"

"Look! There's Cait's brother, Adam!"

"Silence!" a matron warned, turning in her seat to give them a cold gray glare.

Kendra ignored her, reaching into her drawstring bag for the miniature that Caithren had left in her hands in the park, when she'd run off to find her hat. She thrust the little painting at Ford. "He looks taller than I expected, but of course you can't tell height from a portrait. It's him, is it not?"

He frowned at the picture. "This fellow looks oddly familiar."

"Because he's Cait's brother and looks like Cait."

"Makes sense." Ford looked back and forth between the man and the small oval portrait. Though his clothing was less flamboyant, the gentleman in question did indeed share the same wheaten hair and hazel eyes as the man in the painting. "Could be," he mused. The features weren't exactly the same, but close. Perhaps the artist wasn't very talented.

"Go back outside," Kendra said. "I'll bring him."

"We can't. It's about to begin—"

The music had changed to a sedate march, and the groom was taking his place, but Ford's protest was futile. Kendra was already down the aisle and tapping the man on the shoulder.

When he looked over, startled, she leaned close to whisper. "May I speak with you a moment?"

Looking confused, he nodded and rose to follow the twins outdoors.

They'd barely reached the steps when Kendra turned to him and began babbling. "I realize you don't know who we are, but your sister is—"

"I don't have a sister," the man interrupted.

Kendra and Ford looked at each other. Ford handed him the miniature. "Are you not Adam Leslie?"

"Nay." The man stared at it, then looked up. "Where did you get this? Adam is dead."

Kendra gasped. "Adam is dead?"

"I'm his cousin, Cameron Leslie." Cameron stuck out a hand. "And you are…?"

Ford grasped and shook it. "Ford and Kendra Chase. We got the portrait from Adam's sister, Caithren. Our brother has gone after her. She meant to come here to find Adam, but she was—"

"—delayed," Kendra finished for him. No sense alarming the man right off.

"I received word of Adam's death and came to fetch my cousin back home." Cameron's hazel eyes filled with concern. "Wore out four horses getting here, because she said he would be at this wedding today, and it's the only place in England I knew for certain I could find her."

"If she doesn't make it here for the ceremony, she'll be at the reception." Kendra reached to touch him on the arm. "My brother will make sure of it."

Caithren rose again and walked slowly around the chamber, pacing off her nervous energy.

How could she get to Adam?

"Sit down, wench," Wat growled from the front room.

She sat back at the table.

Jason hadn't arrived. Maybe he'd never gone home to get the note Gothard sent—assuming Gothard had told her the truth about that. Or maybe she'd been wrong about Jason altogether.

He'd ridden halfway across the country chasing after Gothard, and he was determined to find him. Saving Scarborough's life also figured into the equation. Maybe those goals were more important to him than she was. She wouldn't have thought so, but she didn't know what to think anymore.

Well, if he didn't show up, at least he couldn't be detained—or worse, shot—by Wat. And if he did show up, he could probably defend himself. Especially against Wat. Geoffrey's attitude toward his brother might be exaggerated, but it had base in fact. Wat was definitely missing something upstairs.

That weakness of Wat's should be a boon to her as well. He was still in the other room and didn't seem to be watching. Slowly she stood, sliding the pewter plate off the table as quietly as possible.

Hiding it behind her skirts, she drifted to the window, reached out and turned the latch, pushed it partway open—

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" In a flash of fury, Wat came up behind her. She whirled and raised the heavy pewter plate, smashing him atop the head with all the strength she could dredge from her body. The spoon went flying, along with putrid bits of dried meat and gravy that rained down on them both.

Wat yowled, but he didn't go down. Evidently he was stupid and hard-headed.

Red with rage, he came after her. She scooped the spoon from the floor and aimed its handle for his face, hoping to get him in the eye. She missed, grazing his sunburned cheek. Bright blood beaded up in a ragged line.

With a growl, he wrested the pistol from his waistband.

Dim-witted or not, he could kill her. She was already braced to bring up her knee when she heard the click of the flintlock being cocked. Icy fear gripped her heart. She shifted, thrusting both hands to force Wat's arm toward the ceiling.

As she tried to wrestle the gun from him and bring it butt-down on top of his hard skull, a blast tore through the air. Her ears ringing, she felt his body go limp and slump to the floor.

Panic rose in her throat as she stood there, the pistol in her hands, watching blood well from a neat round hole in Walter Gothard's head.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

"They've got to be here," Ford said. "Hell, there are just too damn many people."

The wedding celebration was in full swing. Lord Darnley's house was lit with hundreds of candles. Wine and other spirits flowed freely, and the resulting raucous laughter rang through the halls, the ballroom, and into his garden beyond.

"They?" Cameron asked. "I thought we came here to find Cait."

"We also need to find the Earl of Scarborough." Kendra's gaze scanned the glittering room before she turned back to Cameron and frowned. "But we don't know what he looks like."

"And two other men," Ford added, his words directed into the milling throng. "My brother accidentally killed someone, and we don't know who he was. These two men were witnesses. I've seen them and think I remember what they look like, but I've yet to spot them here. A serving maid in a tavern told me one of them might be named Balmforth."

"Balmforth?" The blood drained from Cameron's face.

"Yes." Ford craned his neck, still looking.

Kendra's gaze was riveted to Caithren's cousin. "Whatever is wrong?" she asked.

"Balmforth—"

"There they are!" Ford took off, threading his way through the crowd of revelers.

"Are you all right?" Kendra stared at Cameron. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Nay. It's only—" His mouth opened, but no more words came out.

She gestured toward the silk-upholstered chairs lined up against the tapestried wall. "Would you like to sit down?"

"Nay." He shook his head as though to clear it. "Lady Kendra, I don't know how to…" He blew out a breath. "Here they come."

Ford walked up with the two men, his face as white as Cameron's. Whiter, even. Kendra clutched his arm. "What is it?"

Her whispered words failed to carry through the din that surrounded them, but it didn't matter. Ford knew what she was asking. "The man Jason killed…" he started, then just looked helplessly at the other men.

"He was Adam Leslie," Cameron said. "Cait's brother."

Caithren heard the door latch rattle in the other room. Geoffrey was back. Somehow he realized his brother was dead.

While she waited for him to burst in and murder her, she knelt for the tenth time in as many minutes to feel Wat's neck for a pulse. Nothing.

The rattling stopped, but she felt little relief. Tears flooded her eyes. Trembling, she sat back on the floor and hugged her knees to her chest. For long minutes she stayed that way, rocking herself, a human ball of misery.

Her head jerked up when the window moved, a disembodied hand shoving it open the rest of the way. Through a blur of tears, she watched a second hand clench the ledge. A head and shoulders appeared—wide shoulders and unruly red hair beneath a man's hat. A woman hoisted herself up and through the window, landing on the floor with the grace of a cat.

Her heart pounding in fear and confusion, Caithren rose. The woman topped her by a good foot—she was taller than Jason or any man Cait knew. A sword hung from her belt, and a pistol peeked from the top of one boot. She was dressed like a man, but no one would have taken her for one. Ever.

Cait dashed her tears away and blinked. She heard another rattle of the door latch, but she was too stunned to react. "You…you're…"

"Emerald MacCallum." The woman stared pointedly at Wat. "I take it he's dead?"

"I-I reckon so."

Emerald reached to touch Cait's hand. "Don't fash yourself, dear. I don't normally hold with killing my quarry, but these brothers…well, the world is better off without them."

"B-but I've never killed a man! And I didn't mean to, even though he was such a bad one. I swear on"—she reached for her missing amulet, then let out a sob—"on my mam's grave." She searched Emerald's golden eyes, tears falling from her own. "Will I ever get over it?"

"Nay." The single word was blunt, yet kind. Emerald patted her on the back. "But others will thank you for it, and some day, you'll realize it wasn't really wrong. You'll never get over it completely, but you will learn to live with it." She backed away toward the window. "It will, however, change you, maybe even for the better."

Her hand on the sill, Emerald stilled. "A wee keek back keeps you on the right path."

For a moment, Caithren could only stare. One of Mam's sayings. Let life's experiences guide you forward.

"You came for the reward," she said softly, remembering Jason accusing her of the same.

The other woman nodded, then shrugged and turned to duck out. Their gazes both flew to the ledge when another hand appeared beside hers, larger and squarer, with a light sprinkling of black hair across the back. Caithren gasped. A second hand settled next to it, then a face rose into the frame.

Jason's face, though so colorless Cait feared for his life.

Emerald reached down a hand and pulled him up and into the room.

He stood there, visibly shaking, looking back and forth between Caithren and the woman he'd once thought her to be. Before he could say anything, Emerald climbed out the window and was gone.

He looked back to Cait, his face still pale, his eyes wide. "Was that Emerald MacCallum?"

"Aye."

He shook his head, then pierced her with an intense green gaze. "Are you all right?"

Tears threatening, she bit her lip and nodded.

"Caithren." Her name was a harsh whisper in the air. He held out his arms, and Cait rushed into them, fresh tears flowing at the feel of him crushed against her. She drew deep of his familiar, comforting scent, underlaid with a trace of the sharp smell of fear. He was warm and solid in her arms, his body still shuddering with residual tremors.

With a long sniff, she pulled back. "I…I cannot believe you climbed up the wall. Four stories, with your fear of heights."

"What do you take me for?" For a split second he looked angry or hurt, she wasn't sure which. Then his eyes softened. "I love you, Cait. I would move heaven and earth to see to your safety. Climbing that wall was nothing." At her look of disbelief, he released a shaky laugh. "Well, not nothing, but I would do it again. For you. But give me a few days first, will you? I need some time to recover."

She laughed through her tears, reaching forward to clutch his hands in hers. "Geoffrey went to the wedding to find Scarborough. You were right, Jase—he was wearing the fat man disguise, with the beard—"

She broke off at his gasp. His gaze was riveted over her shoulder.

"It's Wat." Her lids slid closed, but the tears leaked through them anyway. "I didn't mean to kill him, I swear it." She opened her eyes, willing Jason to believe she hadn't done such a terrible thing deliberately. "I hit him over the head, but he didn't fall, and then he pulled a pistol, and it went off, but it was pointing up in the air. I don't know what happened!"

Jason looked up at the ceiling. "It ricocheted, Cait."

She followed his gaze and saw the molded Elizabethan pattern was damaged. "I only meant to knock him out so I could go find Adam—"

At her brother's name, she froze. With a mighty effort, she pulled herself together. She had no time to feel this wrenching regret; not right now. She'd allow herself that luxury later.

"Adam. I have to find Adam. I must get to the wedding. It's sorry I am to leave you now, but I've come all this way, and—well, you'll be wanting to go, too, will you not? Gothard is there."

"Cait. There's something I need to tell you. I meant to this morning, but Gothard—"

"I know. There are reasons you don't want to stay with me. We'll talk of it on the way."

He took her by the shoulders. "That's not it, Cait." His eyes and voice were frantic. "Not at all. You mustn't think such a thing—"

She pressed her mouth to his, to silence his proposal. He'd scaled the wall for her. She'd been wrong, and he loved her enough, after all. Her heart sang with joy, but she hadn't time for such things now.

She put her answer into her kiss, a caress of such fiery possession that he had to know how she felt. Regretfully she pulled away, her lips clinging to his for a last moment, savoring the sweetness of his love. A love she would be sure of the rest of her life.

He'd climbed four stories for her. The equivalent of a mountain for other men.

"I love you, Jase. We'll talk of it later. I must get to the wedding."

"You don't understand—"

At the sound of pounding she tore her gaze from his and hurried into the front room, Jason at her heels. He yanked her back just as the door slammed in, barely staying on its hinges.

Beyond its frame, Kendra and Ford stood in the half-dark of the corridor. And behind them, rubbing the shoulder he must have used to break down the door—

"Cameron?" Confused, she stared at him in disbelief. He looked pale. As Jason moved behind her to shut the door to the bedroom, she took a wooden step forward.

"Cait." Her cousin pushed his way between the twins and wrapped her into a hug. Smelling of home, he rubbed her back in a familiar, comforting rhythm. "Cait—I'm…" Laced with sympathy, his voice faltered. "I'm so sorry."

"Why?" Her gaze flickered to the door shielding the other room. Could the news of Wat's death be spreading already? "It was an accident, Cam."

He pulled away, searching her eyes with his. "You knew it before now, then?"

She only looked at him, baffled.

Jason peeled away Cameron's arms and took her by the shoulders. "Caithren. The thing I've been trying to tell you…"

He looked down at his boots, then back up and straight at her. His eyes held such pain, she was taken aback.

A cold knot formed in her stomach.

He drew a strangled breath. "Adam is dead. At my hands."

She was speechless. Adam was dead? It didn't seem possible.

His green gaze implored her, but she couldn't get past the shocking news to figure out what he was asking of her.

"There was a duel. Geoffrey Gothard pulled your brother from the crowd and used him as a shield. I wasn't fast enough—or skilled enough—to control my blade. And Adam died for it."

"Adam is dead?" Her words were barely a whisper. "And you knew it and didn't tell me?"

Jason stared at her for a long, silent moment. Then he turned and walked out through the empty doorway, into the emptier world beyond.

Ford chased Jason down the corridor. "You cannot just leave!" He plucked him by the sleeve. "How long have you known?"

"Almost two days. And every minute I didn't tell her was agony. But I knew it would be like this." He wrenched from Ford's grasp and continued walking down the hall.

Ford ran after him. "You knew it would be like what?"

"Whatever feelings she had for me died. Couldn't you see it her eyes?"

It had even been worse than he'd thought it would be. Much, much worse.

"I couldn't stay and watch that. I love her. God damn it, Gothard's ruined my life." He started down a narrow flight of stairs.

"You never would have met her without Gothard." Ford's voice came from behind him. "She's in shock. She might need some time to absorb it all, but if she loved you before, she still will. It was an accident."

At the bottom of the steps, Jason whirled. "I killed her brother. Her brother. Do you reckon I'd find forgiveness for the man who killed you, or Kendra, or Colin? It was bad enough when the man was nameless. This isn't easy to live with, Ford."

The pain was excruciating, but he had to put it aside for now. He had other responsibilities.

"Just leave me alone," he said. "Go back to Kendra and Cait. And—her cousin, is he?" Ford nodded. "She loves him—he will comfort her much better than I could. She killed Wat, you know."

"What?"

"Wat's in the back room. You'll need to send for the authorities. I take it you warned Scarborough?"

"Bloody hell." Ford's eyes widened. "No. We ran into her cousin and learned the truth and—damn, I forgot. We came straight here to tell Cait what we knew, and—"

Jason was already running for the exit.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Jason strode through Lord Darnley's front door, past the gaping footman and into a swarm of glittering guests. Scarborough. Where was Scarborough? What the hell did the man look like? He'd seen him once or twice at court, but, damn it, he'd never paid much attention, and—

With a jolt of relief he spotted him. Sandy-haired, like Gothard, but taller and sporting a broad mustache. Dressed in deep blue velvet and apparently unconcerned, Scarborough stood in a circle of men, discussing the shocking news that Clarendon, the Lord Chancellor, had resigned earlier in the day.

"Barbara was leaning from her window, cheering at his departure," Scarborough said as Jason walked up. Barbara, Countess of Castlemaine and the king's longtime mistress, had always hated Clarendon. "So do you know what he said to her?"

The men leaned closer into the circle. "What?"

"'Pray remember, my lady, that if you live, you will grow old.'"

Amid their laughter, Jason touched Scarborough on the arm. "I apologize for interrupting, but there's a matter of some urgency."

Scarborough turned, a look of confusion on his face. "Yes?"

Just as Jason was about to respond, a flash of silver caught his eye.

He spun around, shoving Scarborough from harm's way as he drew his rapier from its scabbard. "I arrest you in the name of the king," he said in a booming voice, startled to hear how it carried. "You will put down your weapons and wait here for the magistrate."

The music stopped, and as one, the wedding guests turned to watch. Jason's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. "Now, Gothard."

The disguised man's gaze held hard and unwavering. "We meet again," he drawled through the bushy brown beard. "My nearest and dearest enemy."

Words familiar to Jason. Familiar and enraging. "Once and for all, why should you call me your enemy?"

Gothard's sunburned features went tight with resentment. His blue eyes narrowed. "You have what should rightfully be mine."

"Rightfully yours?" Again Jason had the feeling he'd seen those eyes. Befuddled, his head swam. "I have nothing that is yours. And because of this misconception, you've been chasing me, trying to kill me?"

"I never wanted to kill you," Gothard said with a smile—a cold one. "Only to enjoy some of your riches. They should have been mine. Including your woman." The familiar eyes turned as cold as the smile. "I'd have had her long before now if you'd ever left her alone."

Jason ignored the threat to Cait. She was safe. But he swiped at his missing mustache, infuriated.

All the disguises and hiding, and Gothard had never been out to kill them. Just playing hide-and-seek.

"And Scarborough?" He nodded in the man's direction.

"Him I want dead." The wild sheen in Gothard's eyes said he wasn't sane. "With him dead, Wat inherits and I get what I deserve."

What he deserved was questionable at the moment. He was well and truly mad. "What about what I deserve, Gothard? What do I owe you and why?"

"Damn you to bloody hell." Gothard moved forward, then pulled back when Jason brandished his sword. "Both you and the father we share."

Pain and confusion shooting through him, Jason advanced a step closer. "We share nothing!" He slowly circled the tip of his rapier, then sliced it hissing through the air in a swift move that brought a collective gasp from the wedding guests.

The blade's thin shadow flickered across the candlelit parquet floor. His mind whirled with thoughts of little Mary, her mother Clarice, Cait and her brother Adam…all the blood, the irrational violence.

With a roar, Gothard lunged, and the first clash of steel on steel rang through the ballroom.

"I was born first," Gothard yelled. "It should be mine, all mine!"

He slashed wildly, catching Jason's sword across the middle. The vibrations shimmied up Jason's arm. Muscles tense, he swung and thrust, and again steel bashed against steel. His heart pounded; blood pumped furiously through his veins.

What Gothard was saying couldn't be true. No way in hell was he this evil man's half brother.

They scrambled onto the dance floor, and the crowd scurried back. Gothard was cornered, but Jason was incensed. He would never believe it, never. He edged Gothard back against the wall. Gothard took sudden advantage, and Jason found himself retreating as their blades tangled, slid, broke free with a metallic twang.

His arm ached to the very bone. Perspiration dripped slick from his forehead, stinging his eyes. But the other man's breath came hard and ragged.

Measuring his foe, Jason put his all into one determined swipe of his sword, and Gothard's went clanging to the floor and skittered into the crowd of gaping spectators.

"I came not to kill today, Gothard, but merely to see justice done." Jason sucked in air, smelled the other man's desperation. "There are those here who will see to it you won't escape."

An affirming murmur came from the crowd, and men jostled forward.

He waved them back. "Tell me what you said isn't true."

"As God is my witness, it is true. And you won't live to enjoy what should have been mine!" Gothard went into an all-too-familiar crouch, coming up with a pistol in his hand.

In a flash of blue velvet, Scarborough leapt forward and knocked the gun from his brother's grasp. It went flying, barely missing a matron's head as it sailed though the window with a startling crash. "You won't live to kill again, brother."

Scarborough nodded at Jason, who moved closer, his sword still outstretched.

An unearthly sound escaped Gothard's throat before he shoved past Scarborough and ran through the crowd. Rainbow shades of satin and silk swirled in a colorful kaleidoscope as wedding guests darted to avoid him. He burst through the doors that lead to the garden, broken glass crunching beneath his feet as he disappeared into the trees.

Within a heartbeat Jason was after him, chasing him along a graveled path. Footsteps pounded behind him; he assumed they were Scarborough's and ran faster. This time he wouldn't prove himself less than a man. Even should he have to do the unthinkable, Gothard wouldn't get away.

But first he needed answers.

His lungs burned with the effort to catch up. Damn, Gothard was fast. But not fast enough. Gothard might be running for his life, but Jason was fueled by fury and a resolve borne of weeks of frustration. His muscles pumped with determination; his jaw gritted with iron will.

His quarry was nearly within reach.

He pulled up short when Gothard staggered to the ground.

He hadn't registered the sharp report of the bullet. But he turned to see the pistol that had shot it. And the woman on the other end of it.

Emerald MacCallum.

It hadn't even occurred to him that she was after the reward when he saw her at the inn. He'd thought only of Cait. Now he looked to the ground and Gothard's still, lifeless form. He dropped to his knees and felt for a pulse.

Dead. Gothard was dead. He frantically searched the limp body, for a letter, a miniature, anything. Anything that would prove or disprove what the man had claimed.

"He was telling the truth," Scarborough said quietly from behind him.

Jason sat back on his heels, feeling the unmanly sting of tears in his eyes.

A crowd was gathering again, people pouring through the doors and out into the garden. Scarborough turned and conducted a hasty, whispered conversation with Lord Darnley. Together they hustled the guests back inside. It took some minutes, and by the time Scarborough returned, Jason had composed himself.

The gray day had finally delivered on its promise, and a light drizzle fell from the sky. Silently Scarborough walked Jason down the garden path, away from the sight of the body.

Their brother.

Jason dropped onto a stone bench, his hands dangling limply between his spread knees, his eyes blindly perusing the wet gravel beneath his feet.

Scarborough sat beside him. "My mother had an affair with your father before either of them married." His voice was low, his words matter-of-fact. "When he fell in love with your mother, he left mine pregnant. Eventually she was offered to my father as a widow with a young son. She was beautiful, and her family had land that bordered his. Her dowry. He didn't know the truth at the time, but when he learned it later, he forgave her. Their marriage wasn't bad, all things considered."

Jason's father—the valiant war hero—had had an illicit affair. Had left a pregnant woman. Had left behind a child.

"Geoffrey was the oldest," Scarborough continued, "but he would never inherit. He resented it. He made my life a living hell."

"I'm sorry," Jason muttered, feeling somehow as though he were to blame.

"He never knew who his own father was until our parents died. While going through their things, we found—a letter. From your father to my mother. From that moment, Geoffrey…" Scarborough seemed at a loss for words. His fingers curled into fists. "He lost his mind. It's the only way I can put it. It was as though he finally had somewhere to channel all that hatred. I'm sorry I threw him out, though. If I'd known he would come after you, I'd have coped with him somehow. I feel a substantial burden of responsibility here, and for that I apologize."

"It's not your fault." Jason shoved the damp hair from his eyes. It was his father's fault. His not-so-perfect father. A human man after all, selfish enough to act in his own interests, a man who had made mistakes.

Mistakes that Jason had paid for. And little Mary and her mother. And Adam and Caithren, and who knew how many others?

"I thank you for being so candid." He rose and held out a hand.

Scarborough stood and grasped it tightly. "I'm sorry."

"And for jumping in to save me from Gothard's pistol."

"I was only evening the score. You saved me from his sword. I would never have recognized him in that disguise."

Their eyes met, man to man. Two men who both did what needed to be done.

"I'll leave you to your thoughts." With a nod, Scarborough backed away, then turned and walked toward the house.

"Pardon me, but are you the Marquess of Cainewood?"

The voice was light and musical, and Jason swiveled and rose to see Emerald MacCallum. By God, she topped him in height. How had he ever insisted that Cait was Emerald?

Taken aback, he blinked. "Where is your emerald amulet?"

Her eyes looked puzzled. "My what?"

"Your…" He shook his head to clear it. "How did you get your name?"

She grinned. "My birth name is Flora. The first time I went tracking, I recovered a large cache of stolen emeralds. The news sheets called me 'Emerald' MacCallum, and the name stuck."

Of course. It made perfect sense. Another misconception that had stubbornly lodged in his head.

"Lord Cainewood…" When she swept off her man's hat, the drizzle beaded on her bright red curls. "I believe you had offered a reward…?"

He measured her, unblinking. He sensed she was a good woman, drawn to desperate measures. Something he understood now more than ever before.

And he remembered a man saying she was a mother.

"You have children?"

"Aye." Her eyes saddened, and he knew what to do.

The pouch in his surcoat was heavy. He drew it out and handed it to her.

Frowning, she spilled the contents into her hand and slowly counted a hundred pounds, then put the rest back.

"Keep it," Jason said. "All of it."

"But…there's more than two hundred pounds here! Maybe three. The reward was a hundred." Her expression said she thought he'd lost his mind.

Perhaps he had. "Keep it," he repeated. "I didn't exactly want to see justice done this way, but perhaps it is for the best." He shrugged. "As for the money…I would just as soon not picture you chasing men all over England. Go home to your family."

She smiled, her face transforming. Her eyes brimmed with tears. And once he'd thought that a woman like her would never cry. Another thing he'd been wrong about.

"Take it and make a life for yourself," he said. "And your children."

"I will," she breathed. "God bless you, Lord Cainewood."

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Caithren could barely lift her feet to mount the steps to the town house.

Her father was gone, and now her brother. And, dear God, she'd killed a man. And Jason was gone from her life.

It was all too much to absorb.

Ford shoved open the house's front door. "Why is it that anything the authorities are involved in seems to take forever?"

A sound of derision came from her throat. "I expect they've nothing better to do than be bothersome."

"Hush, sweet Cait." Cameron patted her arm. "The question was rhetorical. It's been a long day and night, but you can rest now." Stopping short on the threshold, he turned to Kendra and Ford. "Good Lord. You people actually live here?" Clearly aghast, he stared into the plush interior.

Kendra beckoned him inside. "Father bought it in the pre-war days, before our family's capital was depleted in defense of the king. Jason is cash poor, but he has…things."

"Jason seems to have plenty of money," Cait disagreed.

"It's all relative." With a shrug, Kendra started down the corridor. "Come, we'll sit and talk."

"I don't want to talk," Cait said to her back.

Cam lifted a brow. "She wants to wallow."

Reaching the drawing room, Kendra turned with a sympathetic look. "Go on in. I'll stop by the kitchen and ask for some refreshments."

Cait set her jaw, but followed the men into the room and plopped onto the burgundy brocade couch. Cameron sat beside her, and Ford settled into one of two matching carved-walnut chairs.

Kendra took the other chair a minute later. "Cait. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." Her hands tried to find her amulet, then her laces, and finally fell into her lap. "It was an accident. I didn't mean to kill him."

"I'm not speaking of Wat Gothard." Kendra's eyes mirrored everyone's concern. "I'm asking how you feel about your brother. And…about Jason."

"I'll miss Adam. We weren't close, and, truth be told, I didn't hold him in high regard. We hadn't seen much of each other in years. But he was my brother, my blood, and I loved him." She struggled to swallow the lump that had been lodged in her throat since Jason told her the truth. "As for your brother, he knew Adam was dead, and he didn't care enough to tell me."

Ford rose. "That isn't so." As he paced the Oriental carpet, the butler walked in with a large silver tray. "I talked to him before he left the Bull Inn. He'd known for but two days, Cait, and he failed to tell you because…" He turned, and his blue eyes sought hers. "…not because he didn't care, but because he cared too much. He was afraid you would hate him once you knew."

"Hate him?" She accepted a cup of warm chocolate from the butler, but shook her head at the proffered plate of cakes. "Whyever would I hate him?"

Ford's brow knitted. "For killing your brother."

"That's the most absurd thing I've ever heard." Stunned, she sipped from the cup, grateful for something to do with her hands and mouth. Other than yelling or throttling Jason. "The killing wasn't intentional, and he knew I believed that. We discussed it days ago. Before either of us knew it was…Adam." At her brother's name, her vision blurred, but she took a deep breath.

"He thought that wouldn't matter to you." Ford took a cake, then just held it, as though he wasn't sure what to do with it. "Whether it was intentional or not."

The butler set down the plate and left.

"He was your brother, Cait," Ford said softly.

"It was an accident." She sat a while, open-mouthed, then said, "Now I do hate him."

But the thought that Ford could be right brought a thread of hope.

She held on to it like a lifeline.

"If not for killing your brother, why hate him, then?" Kendra frowned into her cup. "Because he left you at the Bull Inn after telling you?"

"No. Never that." The chocolate wasn't sitting well in Cait's stomach. "I had all of you, and Gothard and Scarborough were both at that wedding. He had to go." Setting her cup on a low table, she drew an embroidered throw off the back of the couch and wrapped it around her shoulders. "He had no choice."

"Then why?" Rising, Kendra came close and knelt at Cait's feet. "I want to understand. If not because he left you, why do you hate him?"

"I don't hate him." Tears flooded her eyes. Tears she wouldn't shed for Adam—not in so public a place—flowed freely at the thought of Jason's betrayal. "I love him, and he doesn't trust me to forgive him. That hurts."

Beside her, Cam took her hand. "Do you really love him, Cait? A man you've known for but days? An…Englishman?"

She nodded, afraid what he must think, yet unable to deny it.

But he surprised her. "Then you must forgive him for thinking such of you." His hand squeezed hers. "It goes two ways, aye? Remember what your mam used to say: Gae it oot and get it back."

"Pardon?" Ford said.

Kendra shot him a lowering glance.

"What we give, we have," Cait translated quietly. She took a deep breath. "Forgiveness. And trust. Jason and I…we haven't seen a lot of either between us, but maybe it must come from me first."

Kendra reached for a cake and turned it in her hands. "Make him suffer, Cait. God knows he deserves it." She looked up, and they shared a wan smile. "But then you'll marry him, yes? Because—"

"Nay." Fresh tears leaked out. "I love your brother, but I cannot marry him."

"Why?" Kendra breathed. "I thought—"

Cait shivered, but not from the cold. "Upon marriage my property would become Jason's. The land that goes with the title is worth nothing without the larger portion, the many acres that came through my mother. To me, now that Adam is gone." Swallowing against the sadness, she tightened the wrap around her. "Cameron deserves it, and I love him too much to see him lose it."

With a gasp, Cam pulled his hand from hers. "It was never meant to be mine, Cait! Any of it!"

"Aye, it was and it is." She blinked back the tears. "You were next in line. Eldest son of my father's brother. Sir Cameron Leslie, now that Da and Adam are gone. You knew that, surely?"

"Nay." He looked stunned. "I mean…Good Lord. Of course I knew I was next in line, but I never thought about it. I thought only of you, Cait. Within an hour after hearing the news, I was on my way here to fetch you back home. Knowing you wouldn't find Adam."

"See? You thought of me first. It's always been that way between us, Cam, and it won't be changing now."

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

After telling his story to the authorities, Jason walked the streets for hours, far past the time it was safe to be outside without linkboys to light the way. Midnight had come and gone before he mounted the steps to the town house and threw open the door.

"Jason! Where have you been?" Kendra must have been watching by the window, because she flung herself at him before swiftly pulling back. "You're soaking wet."

He hadn't noticed. "I have something to tell you and Ford. Please fetch him. Now."

"Shouldn't you dry off first?" Her gaze trailed from his face down to the marble floor, where a small puddle was collecting at his feet. "Cait's upstairs—"

"Now."

"All right. I'll go get Ford."

He strode to the drawing room, lit a fire, wrapped himself in the costly embroidered throw that was wadded in a corner of the brocade couch. And waited, pacing the dark red and blue carpet.

"Sit down," he said when the twins came in.

Obediently Kendra perched on one of the chairs, but Ford walked to a small inlaid cabinet. "I could do with a brandy. And you?"

Jason nodded his assent and took the goblet when Ford had poured. He waved him into another chair. "How is Caithren?"

"She's all right," Kendra said carefully. "Disappointed and grieving, of course, but all right. Jason, she—"

"Good." Concern etched his sister's wholesome features, but he couldn't muster the energy to comfort her or listen to this now. Cait was important—the most important thing of all. But his world had turned upside down today, and he had to work that out.

He sipped the brandy, feeling it burn a path to his empty stomach. "Geoffrey Gothard was our brother."

"He was what?" the twins said in unison.

"Our brother." He tugged the throw more tightly around his shoulders. "Our half brother, to be more precise. As well as Scarborough's. Our father impregnated their mother before he wed ours," he said, almost mechanically. He was still having trouble wrapping his mind around that fact. "And he left her, with child, knowing she was with child. Our father."

An uneasy silence reigned over the room. No one moved. Jason could hear the clock ticking on the mantel.

Ford blew out a slow breath. "You said he was our brother."

"He's dead." When Kendra rose as though to come to him, Jason waved her back. "At Emerald MacCallum's hands. But I do believe I was pushed to the point where I might have done it myself."

Ford nodded his understanding. "He threatened the woman you love."

"No. I mean, yes—that would have been enough. But it was more than that." Shivering, Jason moved to put his back to the fire. "All these years—"

He broke off.

The words simply wouldn't come out, wouldn't align themselves in his head.

"All these years," Kendra repeated gently, "you've tried to live up to the legend of our father—the brave, honorable man who gave up his family to fight for his king. To fight in a losing war, to die in a losing war, the ultimate sacrifice."

He drew a deep breath. "That vision of him was wrong."

"Yes, it was. But you weren't ready to see it." Kendra reached for Ford's brandy and took a fortifying sip. "You were left as the head of the family too young. Too tender an age for so many responsibilities. But our father—and our mother—left together due to love for each other and the monarchy, not lack of love for us."

"I've always known that," Jason said, his voice rough to his own ears. He cleared his throat. "Unlike Colin, I never took it as a personal affront. But now we know he left another family, too. And…"

He paused to take a sip of his brandy—a gulp, truth be told—and stared into the goblet.

"Responsibilities. It seems I've always had responsibilities. I resented the senseless deaths that left me with those responsibilities, and I avoided any violence that might remind me of those deaths." He looked up. "And I hated myself for that."

When Kendra rose and walked over to him, he didn't stop her this time. Her light green eyes burned into his. "Our father hadn't been so brave and honorable, had he? Or responsible. He'd been a man. Human."

It was the same conclusion he'd come to while walking in the rain. And it was time to give himself permission to be human as well. Free of the overwhelming shackles of his father's expectations. Free to live his life with his own set of values. In his own way.

With Caithren—if only she'd have him.

If only she'd forgive him.

At long last, he had internal peace—but he didn't have the woman he loved.

"Cait and we…" His voice cracked. "We all lost brothers today."

"But ours was not worth claiming." Ford stood up. "Go to her, Jason. She's hurting."

Kendra's mouth gaped open at her twin. "When did you get to be so compassionate?"

He shot her a scathing glare, then turned back to their brother. "Go to her. She's in your chamber." His lips turned up in a hint of a smile. "You'd better hope that tall cousin of hers doesn't have it in his mind to protect her."

Jason couldn't smile, not now. And just let Cameron Leslie try to stand in his way.

His heart ached as he climbed the stairs to his chamber. He eased the door open and slipped inside, his knees going weak just at the sight of her lying on his bed. Her cousin sat in a chair alongside, murmuring soft words of comfort.

He swallowed hard. "Caithren."

She rolled over to face him, her eyes brimming with tears.

Cameron rose and walked to the door. "Remember what I told you, Cait, I beg you. Your happiness comes before—"

"Leave us, Cam." Her voice sounded breathless, uneven, doubtless from hours of crying. "Please."

Wordlessly, Cameron slipped through the door, and it clicked shut behind him.

Jason stepped closer. His fingers loosened. The embroidered throw slid from his shoulders to the floor.

"You hate me, don't you?" he whispered.

She sat up. "You're all wet. You should dry off."

He took another hesitant step closer. "Cait—"

"You hurt me," she said.

He'd go to his knees if he thought it would make a difference, but he stood frozen in place. "I'm so sorry. More sorry than I could possibly express. If I'd known earlier it was your brother I'd killed, I'd have told you immediately, I swear. But I loved you by then, Cait—I couldn't bear to bring you the news that would make you so unhappy. That would tear you from my side forever. I wanted that last night with you more than I wanted to live."

Her eyes widened through the tears. But she hugged herself, effectively shutting him out. "You didn't trust me." She swiped miserably at the wetness on her cheeks. "And you still don't trust me. How can you say in one breath that you love me, and in the next that I would be so shallow as to hold an accidental death against you?"

"But—"

"I know Adam's killing wasn't intentional, any more than my own killing of Wat."

A trickle of relief coursed through his blood. Guilt slowly began to fade, replaced by a tremulous hope. "But would you feel the same way if you hadn't killed Wat?" he wondered. "Would you have understood regardless?"

She shook her head, looking thoroughly disgusted. "See, there you go again. I'm devastated you don't think better of me. Do you remember that night in Newark, when you had the bad dream?"

He remembered. A gruesome nightmare and an angel that soothed him. Wearing a ridiculous white night rail. "You said you didn't fault me. You said you understood."

"And just what do you think would ever change that?"

He was afraid to believe, but he could see she harbored no anger, no resentment. It wasn't in her.

"I shall expect more respect from you from here on out, Jason Chase."

He blinked, and his breath caught in hope. "Does that mean—"

"You've left me alone all night, with little to do but think. And I think I will marry you, Lord Cainewood. Never mind that you haven't asked. But only on two conditions."

His heart soared. "Anything."

She climbed from the bed, and he reached to pull her into an embrace. But she wrenched away. "You will hear me out."

"Very well." Though his arms ached to hold her, he crossed them instead. "I'm listening."

"One. You will not underestimate me again."

"You can wager on that." He risked a small, hopeful smile. "And two?"

Blowing out a breath, she locked her gaze on his. "Cameron must have Leslie. The part that came through my mother, I mean. With Adam's death, he's already come into the title and small entailed lands. But those lands alone cannot support a man."

"Cait—"

"Nay. You will hear me out. Cameron hasn't asked for this, and he would likely strangle me if he knew I was asking for him. According to my father's will, the vast majority of Leslie becomes my husband's should I marry. But Cam deserves all of Leslie, Jase—it should have been his in the first place. He was a better son to Da than Adam and then some. So even though Kendra told me you need money, I won't see Cam go without his due—I won't take my happiness at his expense. It wouldn't be fair."

"And Caithren Leslie is always fair," he said softly. "Now, you will hear me out."

She sat on the bed, apparently reserving judgment.

"I was only going to say, back when you interrupted me, that Cameron can have the property—the only part of Leslie I need is you. And I do need you, Cait. More than I ever thought possible."

"Oh." She looked properly chagrined, but a tiny smile tugged at her lips.

"And I have something for you." He reached into his pocket. "Hold out your hand." She did, and he gazed into her eyes as he folded her fingers around a flash of green. "When it changes hands, a change of heart," he quoted solemnly.

"My amulet?" She looked at it, then back at him. "Where—how did you get this?"

"I found it in the square. When I went looking for you. The chain was broken, so I put the amulet on this ribbon until I have time to get it repaired."

She stared down at it for a moment, fingering the narrow black satin ribbon, then slowly held it out to him. "Keep it."

"Pardon?" He didn't reach for it, just gaped at her in disbelief.

"I thought that if I wore it I'd be safe. But it brought me more luck when you had it. Then I found the strength to save myself from the Gothards. All by myself, without the emerald to depend on. And it brought me your offer of love and marriage. At least I think it did—you haven't asked me yet, and I've been waiting nearly two days already."

He dropped to one knee and took her hands in his, the emerald trapped between their fingers. "Will you marry me, Caithren Leslie?"

She pulled her hands away. "Lick your right thumb."

He was speechless for a moment. "Pardon?"

"It's a Scottish custom. Lick it."

"I cannot believe—"

"Lick it." For emphasis, she licked her own.

Shaking his head, he did the same.

She took his hand and pressed their wet thumbs tightly together. "It's a bond. Now ask me again."

He captured her eyes with his. "Caithren Leslie—" His voice broke, and he sucked in a breath. "Will you marry me?"

With a look so intimate it tugged at his heart, she pulled him up and slipped the necklace over his head. When he touched it, almost as reverently as she always had, she smiled.

"Jason Chase, I thought you would never ask."

And her lips gave him his answer.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

"Hurry," Kendra urged. "It's about to begin."

"I think not." Her sister-in-law, Amy, grinned. "They won't be starting the ceremony without the bride."

Caithren turned from the window, where she'd been watching a small cluster of people gather in the bright sun that flooded Cainewood Castle's quadrangle. Blinking in the chamber's relative dimness, she walked to Kendra's four-poster bed and slid the gold brocade robe from her shoulders.

"There's no need to rush." Amy held up a sheer chemise. "Dressing for your wedding should be a calm, soothing experience." She shot Kendra a warning glance as she slipped the garment over Cait's head.

"Like yours was?" Kendra returned with a lift of one expressive brow. "I seem to remember you shaking in your—excuse me, my—red-heeled shoes."

Amy's eyes sparkled. "That was different. I was terrified. A shopkeeper's daughter marrying an earl. It seemed wrong." She smiled, tossing one long black ringlet behind her plum velvet-clad shoulder. "But it was right."

Kendra smoothed her mint satin skirts. "Cait has nothing to be nervous about."

"Nay." Caithren rolled her eyes. "Daughters of provincial Scottish baronets wed English marquesses every day of the week." The other women laughed. "But I'm not nervous. This is right, too."

She believed it, with all her heart and soul. Still, it was no small step to be taking. Cait drew a deep breath and pulled her wedding gown off the bed—the first English gown that had been specifically made for her. Fashioned of sky blue silk, it had a silver tissue underskirt and real silver lace edging the scooped neckline. The sleeves were double-puffed with a spill of silver lace at the wrists, the stomacher embroidered with scrolling silver designs.

She held it up. "Marry in blue, love ever true."

"Is that what they say?" Kendra helped her wiggle into it, watching appreciatively as it settled into place. "Oh, it's lovely! If ever I fall in love, I want a dress just like this, but in green."

"Oh, you wouldn't want to wear green." Cait glanced up from tightening the laces. "Green is unlucky. The choice of the fairies."

Amy handed her the stomacher. "You believe in fairies?"

"Well, nay," Cait said, working the tabs. "But it's not worth taking a chance now, is it? Not on your wedding day. Besides," she added, looking to Kendra as she sat to draw on her stockings, "Jason told me you have no wish to wed."

"Not any of the men he chooses." Kendra handed her a pair of blue ribbon garters trimmed with silver lace. "Stodgy old dukes, ancient rich earls, widowed marquesses with children. I'm not looking to marry a boring, acceptable man. I'm waiting for peerless passion. And not," she added, "a duke. I won't be 'your graced' for the rest of my life." Tossing her red ringlets, she held out a sky blue satin shoe.

"I need the right shoe first." The shoes were straight, not made for one foot or the other, but Cait had worn them yesterday to break them in. No sense getting blisters at her wedding.

"For luck?" Kendra frowned at both shoes, then handed her the other one.

"Aye. And that silver coin I left on your dressing table goes in the left shoe."

"I'll get it," Amy volunteered.

"Do you hear that?" Cait froze. Haunting notes floated up through the open window. "Could it be bagpipes?"

"Jason's surprise." Kendra moved to shut the window. "Don't tell him you heard."

"Please leave it open. I won't tell." Cait's heart swelled as she slipped the coin into her shoe. "Though how he thinks anyone within ten miles could fail to hear a bagpiper is beyond me."

"I have something for you." Amy slipped her hand into her pocket and came out with gleaming gold. "The first thing I made in my new workshop. May I pin it on your dress?"

Cait nodded and stood, her gaze riveted to the gorgeous oval emerald stomacher brooch as Amy pinned it in place. Surrounded by diamonds and pearls in a delicate filigree bezel, it glittered through the sudden tears that filmed her eyes.

"Jason told me you gave him your own emerald," Amy said, "so I thought it would make a perfect wedding present."

Cait's fingers moved to caress it. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever owned," she whispered. "I will never be able to thank you."

"Marry come up!" Amy laughed. "You have just thanked me already." Stepping back to view her handiwork, she examined Cait from head to toe. "God in heaven," she breathed. "You look beautiful. Come to the mirror and see."

"Nay. I cannot see myself fully dressed for my wedding." Cait played with the ends of her long, straight hair, which Jason had requested be left free and uncurled. Self-conscious, she fanned it to cover the cleavage exposed by the gown's low neckline. Touching the wee heart patch on her cheek, she sent both women a tremulous smile.

"Another sister." When Kendra gathered them all into a group hug and they bumped foreheads, Cait giggled through her tears.

A knock came at the door.

"Are you ready?" Cameron's voice came through the sturdy oak. "Colin said you're taking so long you must be eating in here."

"Quick," Kendra said loudly. "Hide the food."

They all laughed as Cait went to open the door.

"Cait?" Dressed in a borrowed deep-blue velvet suit, Cameron looked almost as English as she did. "Good Lord," he said. "Cait, you look lovely."

"Thank you." She blushed, looking down toward large cornflower eyes and a head of bright blond curls. "And who is this?"

"Her name is Mary, and she and her mother are very special guests." When Cam lifted his hand, Mary's little hand came up with it. "She, uh, attached herself to me." He gave a sheepish shrug, but Cait didn't miss the pleased glow in his eyes. "She may be walking down the aisle with us."

So this was the Mary that Jason had run off to avenge. Caithren knelt, her silk skirts pooling around her. "Good day," she said.

"Good day," Mary returned in a small, polite voice. "I am pleased to meet you, my lady."

"I'm not—"

"You'll be a lady within the hour," Cam interrupted with a teasing smile. "You may as well get used to it." He blew out a breath, ruffling his straight, wheaten hair. "I, on the other hand, will never get used to being a sir."

"Aye, you will." Cait rose and linked her arm though his. "Shall we go?"

Luckily the three of them fit side by side down the corridor and wide stone staircase, because Mary still clung to Cam with an iron grip. The only remaining evidence of the lassie's ordeal seemed to be a slight catch in her gait and a wee slur in her speech. Cait had taken Kendra foraging around Cainewood yesterday, showing her which plants were useful, and tomorrow she would teach her how to make an infusion to help Mary regain her strength.

The bagpipe music swelled when they reached the double front doors and stepped out into the sunshine. Kendra wandered off to find her twin. Colin was waiting outside for Amy, their infant daughter Jewel cooing in his arms. The bairn between them, he bent to give his wife a sweet, lingering kiss, and Caithren smiled at the three of them together.

A family. Although she now knew she wasn't yet pregnant, she smiled at the thought that she and Jason might be starting a family soon.

It was a glorious day to be wed, the quadrangle redolent with the scent of newly cut grass, the sky blue as her gown and dotted with wee puffy white clouds. Cait's gaze swept the castle's crenelated walls and the ancient keep built on a motte—reminding her of the one outside Stamford. Beyond it was an area where the grass grew high and untamed.

"Gudeman's croft," she murmured.

"What is that?" Mary asked.

Cameron knelt down to her. "A place allowed to grow free as a shelter for brownies and fairies."

"Oh." Mary's eyes widened. "Do you know stories of brownies and fairies?"

"Many. But they'll have to wait for later." With his free hand, Cam ruffled her golden curls, then he stood and faced Cait. "It's really the old tilting yard. Colin told me they don't groom it since it's long been in disuse."

"I knew that." Her lips curved in a soft smile as she scanned her new home. A hundred rooms, she remembered Jason telling her. "Can you believe this place, Cam?"

His hazel eyes met hers. "You always were meant to live in a castle, sweet Cait."

"Aye," she said, thinking of Da's tiny castle at home—Cameron's castle now. "But who'd have ever guessed it would be such an enormous, historic one…and in England?"

Her head reeled with the impossibility of her new life. Nothing Jason had told her could have prepared her for the sheer size and grandeur of Cainewood Castle. She could scarcely believe she would be living within its four-foot-thick stone walls. As the Marchioness of Cainewood, no less.

"You'll do fine." Cam leaned to kiss her forehead, then looked up. "There's your man now."

Her gaze flew to Jason, and suddenly what had seemed impossible was gloriously real. She was going to live here, in this castle, with the man she loved.

Clearly comfortable in this place, he walked beside the gray-haired parson, deep in conversation. He wore a forest-green velvet suit that brought out his eyes, trimmed in gold braid that matched the stiff ribbon bows on his formal heeled shoes.

When he looked over at her and smiled, her heart did a slow roll in her chest.

A pretty woman in a clean but simple pink dress came up to take Mary by the hand. "It's time," she said gently, and reluctantly the wee lass released her grip on Cameron. The girl looked over her shoulder, her blue eyes lingering on him as the woman led her away.

"Her mother?" Cait guessed.

"Aye." Cameron's gaze followed the two as they walked toward the gatehouse on their way to the family's private chapel. The woman's rich brown hair gleamed beneath a pink-ribboned straw hat. "Her name is Clarice Bradford. You'll like her." He turned to take Cait by both hands. "Are you ready?" he asked.

"More ready than I ever thought possible." Smiling at him, she squeezed his fingers. "You know, Mam always said it's better to marry over the midden than over the muir."

"I've heard that said, that it's wise to stick within your own circle." Did she only imagine it, or did his gaze flick toward Clarice? "But I'm not sure I believe it."

"I don't believe it, either." Her own gaze trailed to Jason, waiting for her by the barbican. She was sure she'd never glimpsed so romantic a vision as her husband-to-be standing with the soaring castle behind him, his blue-black hair ruffled by the slight breeze, his clear green eyes locked on hers. "I reckon even mothers are wrong sometimes."

The parson cleared his throat. "Caithren Leslie, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love him, comfort him, honor, obey, and serve him, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him so long as you both shall live?"

Beneath the hammerbeam roof of Cainewood's ancient chapel, dappled by the multicolored light that filtered through the stained arched windows, Jason squeezed Caithren's hand. She looked around her at the people gathered there to see them wed.

Cameron, who'd insisted on staying for her wedding before going home to his new life in Scotland. Kendra and Ford, who'd stood by her side that wrenching night in London. Colin—like Jason, but different—and Amy and their beautiful bairn. Mary and Clarice, whose tragedy had set Jason on the path that led him to find her.

They were all looking toward her, so expectantly.

"I will," she said. "All except the obey and serve part."

Cameron snickered. Kendra smiled. The parson appeared stunned.

"I accept those conditions," Jason said loud and clear.

The parson still looked confused.

"Go on, will you?" Jason prompted. "Before she changes her mind."

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

Most of the wedding party sat around the dining room table, waiting for Colin, who had gone to settle the baby in her cradle, and Ford, who had told them he wanted to fetch something. A stack of marzipaned wedding cakes sat in the middle of the long mahogany table, which was set with the sort of fine china and crystal that Caithren had only read about in books. She kept looking down at the wedding ring that Jason had slipped onto her finger during the ceremony.

"Do you like it?" he murmured from his seat beside her. "Father sold off most of the family jewels to help finance the war, but I could have found something, or had Amy make—"

"It's perfect." She smiled at the gold band studded with emeralds, remembering when he bought it from the Gypsy woman without dickering. "There's no other ring in this world I'd rather wear."

"Whenever I see it, I'll remember your dance," he said low. "And the moment you stole my heart."

Her own heart melting, they shared a smile.

"I'm starving," Kendra announced. She reached for a cake, then froze. "Did you hear something?" She sat up straighter, twisting her head toward the high, arched windows.

Cait turned to look, too. But the dancing flames in the fireplace reflected off the beveled glass, making it difficult to see anything.

"Hear something like what?" Cameron asked.

Kendra frowned. "Like…scratching."

"I was sipping." Jason rolled his eyes, draining his crystal goblet with a prolonged slurp. "There. Was that the sound?"

"No…wait! Listen…"

"I hear it too," Amy breathed. "It's—"

"The ghost!" Kendra's eyes widened. "The Parkinson ghost!"

"What's this about a ghost?" Clearly unshaken, Cameron swirled the wine in his goblet appreciatively.

"There's no such thing as ghosts," Jason declared.

"Well, now." Cam paused for a swallow. "You won't be finding a Scot admitting to that."

Kendra glared at her brother. "Just because you cannot explain ghosts doesn't mean they don't exist. The Parkinson ghost is hardly a new legend. And haven't you heard about all the sightings in the week since we've been back?" She turned to Caithren, apparently looking for support. "Did you know this room was once a private chapel, built by Henry II when the castle was in the hands of the Crown?"

Cait's gaze swept the stone arches overhead, fit between with a centuries-old oak barrel-section ceiling. "Tonight it feels like it still belongs to the spirits, aye?"

Cameron's goblet hit the table with a little clink. "Tell us about this ghost." Little Mary climbed onto his lap and wrapped an arm around his neck, sticking her other thumb into her mouth. He shifted to hold her close. "What are these stories?"

Kendra sat forward on her lattice-backed chair. "Just this week Cook saw him twice, once in the quadrangle and once walking across the drawbridge, and Haversham saw him on the drive, and Sally saw him on the roof—"

"—and Carrington saw him under the barbican," Jason interrupted, "and Mrs. Potts saw him on the wall walk. Our servants have very impressionable imaginations." He reached for the wine decanter. "Let's suppose there were such a thing as ghosts—just for argument's sake, you understand. Why would this Parkinson fellow show up now, after all this time?"

"Could it be my fault?" Cait wondered.

"No." Kendra shook her head. "He died exactly twenty years ago this month. And he was killed by a Royalist—not that he didn't deserve it, the Roundhead cur, presuming to live in our castle—"

"Wheesht!" Cait whispered. "There it is again!"

Kendra moved to Colin's empty chair and grabbed Amy's hand. "It's him, I know it," she whispered.

Caithren took Jason's hand as well.

"It is not him." Unlike his sister's whisper, Jason's voice was loud and sure. "She's famous for jumping to conclusions," he said to no one in particular. "It's a bush being blown against the window."

"It's not windy," Clarice murmured, her cheeks turning red at having said something aloud. Her daughter let out a little whine, burrowing into Cameron's shirtfront.

"Not to mention," Kendra whispered more fiercely, "there are no bushes under those windows."

Caithren turned to see the windows and gasped. Something white floated beyond the leaded panes, dipping and bobbing eerily.

Like the monk she'd seen in the tunnel beneath Newark.

Jason turned too, and, despite himself, drew in a sharp breath.

"What? What?" Kendra whispered frantically, her eyes shut tight. "What is it?"

"It's…I'm not sure." Calmly Cameron sipped his wine. "But a ghost isn't necessarily something to be afraid of, aye?"

A sudden clatter from the chimney echoed in the high, arched chamber. Cait gripped Jason's hand harder, and Clarice grabbed for her daughter and somehow ended on Cameron's lap. They all swung around, their gazes riveted to the rattling fireplace.

"Oh, my God!" Kendra breathed. "He's up on the roof, just like Sally said! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!"

They all flinched when the dining room door swung open. A rush of wind sent the tapestries fluttering against the stone walls. Evidently forgetting he was supposed to look fearless, Jason clutched Cait, and she let out a high-pitched squeak. When Kendra screamed, the rest of the females joined her.

With an unnerving suddenness, mad laughter burst forth to accompany the rattling. Colin rushed in, whipping off a white sheet with a grand gesture.

They all stared at him, dumbstruck, as he strode to the fireplace and bent to shout up the chimney. "Ford! Come on down!"

"Bloody hell." Jason disentangled himself from Cait and sat back.

Amy extracted her fingers from Kendra's and flexed her hand, shaking her head at her husband. "I cannot credit that I fell for that."

Colin grinned wickedly, raising one black brow.

"Fell for what?" Caithren asked.

"Colin," Kendra said ruefully, "is famous—or perhaps I should say infamous—for his practical jokes."

"Oh." Cait's gaze flickered to Jason. "Well," she told Amy, "if it makes you feel any better, Jase fell for it, too."

"I did not."

"Then it was someone else's heart I felt pounding beneath my hand?"

She giggled when he sputtered.

Red-faced, Clarice slid off Cam's lap and onto her chair. "There's no ghost, then?"

"None." Colin's green eyes sparkled with mischief. "The staff was quite obliging with the mysterious sightings. I wouldn't be surprised if they're about now, waiting to see how it all turned out."

The door opened, and they all looked into the corridor expectantly, but it was only Ford returning from his chain-rattling responsibilities. He took one look at Cait's good-natured pout and burst into peals of laughter.

"On our wedding night!" she chided, but she couldn't help laughing along with him.

Cam rose and, settling Mary on her own chair, walked over to shake Colin's hand. "Well done, I must say. This is my kind of family."

"Then welcome to it." Colin looked to Caithren. "You, too."

He went to the door and signaled, whereby more servants than were necessary paraded in carrying the many dishes that comprised the wedding supper. They smiled conspiratorially as they set down platter after platter, slanting sidewise glances at Colin and each other before parading back out.

Steaming dishes of chicken cullis, fricandeau of beef, and artichoke pie wafted their scents toward Caithren's nose. She did feel like part of this family. Jason's hand squeezed hers beneath the table. One of his feet moved to tangle with hers, and his leg pressed against her thigh, making her face heat with thoughts of their wedding night to come. When she turned to him, she felt so warm and happy she couldn't quite believe it.

A grand sallet sat on the table, a bed of young greens with mandarin oranges, eggs, and long sprigs of rosemary standing tall, stuck into lemon halves and hung with cherries. But Kendra went for a cake.

"She always eats dessert first," Ford said at the look on Cait's face.

Kendra smiled, licking marzipan off her lips. "I might not have room for it later." She took another bite. "Would you like some?"

Cait shook her head and reached for some chicken. Toasts were drunk and good-natured teasing abounded. An hour later, when the meal was finished and everyone still sat around talking, she pushed back her chair and rose.

They all turned to look at her.

"A Scots funeral is merrier than an English wedding," she declared. "Whatever happened to that bagpiper?"

Jason shrugged. "I think he's eating in the kitchen."

"Well, would somebody fetch him already?" She moved from the table and shook out her skirts. "I'll be wanting to dance."

While Ford went off to do her bidding, she gave the others instructions. "Hold hands in a circle, lads and lassies alternating. That's it. Now, who has a handkerchief?" When Colin produced one, she handed it to her cousin. "Cameron, you take the middle since you know what to do."

When the piper arrived, Caithren surprised everyone by kicking off her shoes, then running to scoop up her lucky silver coin when it rolled across the floor. Laughing, Kendra and Amy doffed their shoes as well. Although they couldn't cajole Clarice into dancing in stockinged feet, at least her shoes were flat and sensible. Wee Mary wore flat shoes, too, but she was perfectly happy to get rid of them and her stockings, besides.

"Very well." Cait turned to the piper as Ford took his place in the circle. "We'll have a reel first, if you please."

Around and around they went in time to the rousing tune, until Cameron came from the center to Cait. The circling stopped, and he laid the lace-edged hankie in a neat square at her feet. They knelt on either side, and she bestowed him with a kiss on the lips. This met with mixed laughter and gasps until Cait snatched up the handkerchief and took her place in the middle.

Around they went again, dancing until she chose Jason. Their kiss was long and deep, causing much throat-clearing and finally applause. After Jason bowed and went into the center, the circling resumed.

Jason chose Amy, and Amy chose Colin, and Colin chose Kendra, and Kendra chose Ford, and Ford chose Mary, and no one was surprised when Mary chose Cameron. By the time Cam chose Clarice they were all worn out, and Cait signaled the piper to take a rest before Clarice had to go to her knees.

Just in time—as Clarice's cheeks had gone even pinker than her dress.

"A kissing dance!" Kendra said, breathlessly making her way to a chair. "I've never heard of such a thing!"

"There's much kissing at Scottish weddings." Cait winked at Cameron, still hovering close by Clarice. "A kiss can be claimed at the beginning and end of each and every dance. Now, get up, all you lazybones. We'll have a strathspey next, and a hornpipe after that."

The piper played those and more, and some English tunes as well, and if the familiar notes sounded a bit odd wafting from the pipes, nobody cared. It was past midnight before Cait let the poor musician go and the wedding party began stumbling off to bed with a lot of final kisses and good nights.

While Ford went off to fetch a footman to see Clarice and Mary home, Cameron kissed Cait on the cheek. "Lang may yer lum reek—an' may he huv the coal tae fill it."

Jason's brow creased. "What is that, Gaelic?"

"Nay." Cait laughed. "We don't know the Gaelic. After all this time with me, you still cannot understand plain English when you hear it, aye?" She smiled. "He was wishing we live long and well."

"I thank you, then. I think." Jason clapped Cameron on the shoulder. "And I wish you a good night."

"He wants me to leave you," Cam said to Cait.

"Aye, and I second the request." Minutes earlier she'd felt exhausted, but her body came alive at the thought of the night ahead. "I'd thank you to escort our guests to the door and then take to your bed."

"Good night to you, then, sweet Cait." A little drunkenly, she thought, her cousin lifted little Mary from the chair where she was sleeping and beckoned Clarice to follow him from the chamber.

As she turned to Jason, Cait's heart thumped in anticipation. Locking his gaze on hers in a way that set the pit of her stomach to fluttering, he waited until Cam's footsteps had faded, then grabbed her hand and pulled her running up the staircase.

When he stopped before his bedchamber door, she wound her arms around his neck and went up on her toes to press her mouth to his. "You must carry me over the threshold," she whispered against his lips. "It's bad luck if I trip."

"Well, we wouldn't want to start with bad luck." Her eyes slid closed as his tongue swept into her mouth, hot and exciting. His lips still sealed to hers, he caught her up and brought her inside. When her feet hit the plush carpet she reluctantly opened her eyes, then blinked.

And blinked again.

The chamber was lit by candles, seemingly hundreds of them. They marched across the dressing table and along the windowsill, their flames reflecting off the beveled diamond panes. They graced the bedside tables and the massive headboard beneath the cobalt blue canopy. They sat on stands, on the floor, atop the tall, carved clothes press. But the brightest concentration flanked both ends of a wee table with a chair on either side…and their backgammon board in the center.

He swept the hair off the back of her neck and planted his lips there, warm and cherishing. "You've pulled even," he murmured, the vibrations on her nape making her arch in pleasure, "but not for long. I intend to win this eve."

"You want to play backgammon?" With a gasp of disbelief, she turned to him. "On our wedding night?"

"Um-hmm." He nodded solemnly. "I remembered this morning that when I bought the set, we agreed to come up with something to wager. Then we never did. So I've settled on a forfeit."

Warily she backed up, not certain she liked the look in his eyes. "And what might that be?"

His smile made her skin tingle. "Our clothing."

"What?" She took another step back and sat on the bed.

"Our clothing." Coming close, he took her by the shoulders and raised her to stand. His voice turned low and silky. "Whoever loses will have to remove an item of clothing. Until we are both…how do you put it?" A trace of eroticism in his smile made her breath catch. "In the scud?"

This was not her idea of a wedding night. "Can't we just take all our clothes off now?" She molded herself against his hard body and kissed him on the chin, which was as high as she could reach without his cooperation. "I'll play backgammon with you tomorrow. I promise."

"Hmm…" He bent his head, and his mouth took hers in a kiss that was desperately intimate, but short and unsatisfying. "I think not."

"But I've got the stomacher and the gown, a chemise and stockings and garters." As well as she could in such close quarters, she eyed his velvet-clad form. "And you're wearing that much or more. This could take all night!"

"Mmm." He nodded thoughtfully, and his next kiss was long: a nibbling of the lips, a persuasive caress, and finally a fiery possession that left her mouth burning for more. "I intend it to take all night."

When she tried to pull him onto the bed, he only resisted with a husky chuckle. Weak with need, it was an effort to cross her arms. "This isn't fair."

"You think not?" He stepped back, seeming to consider it. "Very well, then, I'll give you an advantage."

She frowned, wondering whether to be relieved when he stripped off his surcoat and dropped it to the floor.

"You're terribly untidy," she scolded quite ineffectively. She couldn't seem to control the tremble in her voice.

"But I have you now." He shrugged, working on the knot in his cravat. "And you always pick up after me."

"That's a reprehensible attitude, Jase. I shall have to reform you." She bent to pick up the coat and laid it neatly over the back of a chair. He was taking off his clothes—it looked like she had won—yet his demeanor wasn't one of defeat. It was all so very confusing.

When her fingers moved to the tabs on her stomacher, he shook his head and reached out to still them. Flashing a devilish grin, he handed her the cravat, then silently unlaced his shirt and stripped it off over his head.

"There." The grin widened more. "Surely now you can win. Unless…" He raised a brow. "Unless you find yourself distracted again by my bare chest."

The lacy cravat dangled from her fingers as she stared at him. Against that very tempting bare chest, her amulet nestled, winking in the candlelight. She swallowed hard, her hands itching to touch him, her tongue wanting to taste his salty skin, her body aching to meld itself with his and convince her once and for all that he would be hers, forever.

Her exasperating Englishman.

Dark as sin, his gaze captured hers as he pushed her into a chair and handed her the shirt, still warm from his body. From the folds of fabric, his distinctive scent rose to envelop her, quickening her pulse, spreading the familiar melting weakness through every fiber of her being.

Helpless to stop staring, she slowly wadded the shirt and cravat in her lap.

"How very untidy," he chided, seating himself across the narrow table. Their knees touched, and one of his slid between hers at the same time one long arm sneaked underneath and tossed up her skirts. Warm and tormenting, a finger trailed her thigh…

And he tossed the dice.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Dear Reader,

I always like to see the places I'm writing about, and I had great fun researching this story and visiting all the inns that lined the Great North Road—formerly the Roman road called Ermine Street—back in the 1660s. Which ones mentioned in the story are real? All of them! If an inn was mentioned by name, you can assume it was a real place that Jason and Cait could have stopped at during their travels. But a few of them have fascinating histories and deserve more than a mere mention.

In Newark, the Saracen's Head inn dated back to 1341 and was indeed run by the Twentyman family from 1590 until 1720. As told by my fictitious Mrs. Twentyman in the story, their name really was originally Lydell and changed when one of them pole-axed twenty men. And the true tale of the little drummer boy saving Newark from capture is still told today. A frequent visitor, Sir Walter Scott mentioned the inn in his novels and his diary, calling the landlord "a man of the most gentlemanly manners." The Saracen's Head finally closed in 1956, and the building is now used as a bank, but a "Saracen's Head" bust on the facade attests to its previous use.

As for the tunnels under Newark's marketplace, the one supposedly haunted by the ghost of a monk does not actually lead from the Saracen, but rather from the 16th century Queen's Head inn. There are no recent sightings of this ghost, but the last landlord did complain of strange noises coming from the cellar and a door that seemed to open itself in the middle of the night. Employees claim that bottles have been moved and hesitate to go into the cellar on their own. And one customer swears he saw someone "not of this world" standing on the stairs. Although the distinctive round Queen's Head sign still swings beneath the eaves of the building, it is currently operated as part of the chain of Hobgoblin pubs. A nice place to stop for lunch and—who knows?—maybe a bit of a scare!

Although it was just The Angel during the 17th century, Grantham's oldest inn is now called The Angel and Royal. The grounds originally belonged to the Knights Templar, and from 1212 until the dissolution of their order in 1312, it was a hostelry for royal travelers, merchants, and pilgrims. King John and his train of courtiers held court at The Angel in 1213, Richard III signed the death warrant of the Duke of Buckingham there in 1483, and the inn enjoyed a royal visit from Charles I in 1633. In 1866, Edward VII paid a visit to The Angel, and it was then that it became known as The Angel and Royal. One of the inn's most-told stories is that in 1707, the landlord Michael Solomon died and left a legacy of forty shillings a year to pay for a sermon to be preached against the evils of drunkenness every Michaelmas Day. To this day, the annual payment is made and the sermon preached. This handsome and historic inn is still a popular place to eat and stay.

The Bell Inn in Stilton dates back to 1500, and the current building from 1642, the year in which the Civil War began. There is still a Roman well in the courtyard, topped by a charming thatched roof. Alas, the inn's black cat was invented, but inspired by one who roamed the grounds during my visit. One popular 18th century tale has infamous highwayman Dick Turpin hiding at the Bell for nine weeks while hunted by the law. Supposedly, when surprised by a raid, he threw open the window and jumped onto Black Bess to gallop up the Great North Road. But the Bell Inn is most famous for Stilton Cheese and the man who popularized it, Cooper Thornhill, the inn's landlord during the mid-1700s. The cheese was first made by Thornhill's sister-in-law, a housekeeper in Leicestershire. Mites and all, he served it at the Bell and named it after the village. Soon the cheese's fame began to spread, and by the time Daniel Defoe wrote his Tour Through The Whole Island of Great Britain (1724-27), he could say he "passed through Stilton, a town famous for cheese." In the 1980s, the inn was restored using the original plans. Today it is a charming place to stay or take a meal while absorbing some of its history, and a frequent host to politicians, actors, and pop groups.

Caithren's home was inspired by the real Leslie Castle in Scotland. Sadly, the charming little castle is no longer open to the public, but I was fortunate to stay there when it was still being run as a luxurious B&B. Set at the west end of the Bennachie Range, thirty miles from Aberdeen, Leslie was the original seat of Clan Leslie. The current castle, a turreted 17th century baronial house, is the third fortified building on the site since 1070. By the time of my story, the property had fallen out of Clan Leslie hands…but, fanciful as I am, I like to imagine that perhaps a minor Leslie family such as Cait's might have lived there. In 1979, the decaying roofless ruin was acquired by a member of the Leslie family and restored to its former fairy-tale beauty.

To see pictures and learn more about the real places and real people featured in Emerald, please visit my website at www.LaurenRoyal.com, where you can also enter a contest, sign up for my newsletter, and find recipes for some of the seventeenth-century dishes that Cait and Jason enjoyed in this book. My favorite is the Mushroom Pie that Caithren ate at the Saracen's Head in Newark, but if you try any of the recipes, I hope you'll e-mail me at Lauren@LaurenRoyal.com and tell me what you think!

Do you suppose Cait was right when she thought a romance might be brewing between her cousin, Cameron, and little Mary's mother, Clarice? To find out, read my novella, Forevermore. And Ford's story is in Violet, the first book in my Flower Trilogy. You'll find an excerpt in the back of this book.

To hear about my upcoming releases, my contests, and other news, please sign up for my newsletter, friend me on Facebook, or follow me on Twitter (@readLaurenRoyal) or Pinterest. I love to keep up with my readers!

I hope you enjoyed Emerald—thank you for reading!

Till next time,

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My heartfelt thanks:

To my husband, Jack, for loving me in spite of this madness called writing.

To my children—Brent, Blake, and Devonie—for putting up with a mom who lives half her Waking Hours in a different world.

To my critique partner, Terri Castoro, for wisdom and patience and always being there to laugh with instead of crying.

To Joan Royal and Karen Nesbitt, for driving me all over England and stopping at every village and hamlet and pile of rocks without too many audible groans

To Irm Jawor, for the book of Scottish granny sayings that inspired Cait's annoying—um, endearing—habit.

To Amy McBay Stiles, for incredible two-way brainstorming.

To Ken and Dawn Royal, for feedback on first-draft synopses.

To Della Floyd, RN, for expert medical information.

To the UK contingent of the Opposite View e-mail list, for answering all my very off-topic questions.

To my foreign fan club "presidents"—Karen Nesbitt in Canada and Jane Armstrong in England—for seemingly telling every single person in their respective countries about my books.

To my free-but-worth-it-at-ten-times-the-price publicity team: Debbie Alexander, Dick Alexander, Robin Ashcroft, Joyce Basch, Elaine Ecuyer, Dale Gordon, Darren Holmquist, Rhonda Johnson, Taire Martyn, Cindy Meyer, Lynne Miller, Amanda Murphy, Romain Nayal, Karen Nesbitt, DeeDee Perkins, Nancy Phillips, Jack Poole, Herb Royal, Joan Royal, Ken Royal, Wendi Royal, Sandy Shniderson, Diena Simmons, Connie Story, Julie Walker, and Stacy Volpe (whew! do I have a lot of wonderful friends and relatives, or what?).

And, last but certainly not least, to every reader who has ever written me a letter or e-mail.

Thanks to one and all—your friendship and support make it all worthwhile.

For my children

Brent, Blake, and Devonie,

who have eaten too many frozen pizzas

so that Mom could write

With love and thanks

for enabling me to see the world

again through a child's eyes,

and for always being there

to remind me what's really important

CHAPTER ONE

Sussex, England

June 1668

Kendra Chase adored her brothers, except when she wanted to kill them.

"Jason is right," Ford told her as they rattled down the road in a shabby public coach. "You're twenty-three years old, and it's high time you take a husband."

Kendra slanted a glance at the plainly dressed stranger sharing the coach with them. "Not the Duke of Lechmere," she said with an exasperated glare at her twin. "I won't be 'your graced' for the rest of my life."

Kendra's oldest brother, Jason, tried unsuccessfully to stretch his long legs. "And what, pray tell," he drawled in an annoyed tone, "would be wrong with that? I've never understood what you have against dukes." Crammed onto the bench seat between Kendra and his wife, Caithren, he sighed. "I only wish to see you live a life of comfort. Would you prefer to travel this way all the time?"

As if to drive home her brother's point, the springless vehicle lurched in and out of a rut, rattling Kendra's teeth. She gritted them. Though Jason was careful with money, he was, after all, the Marquess of Cainewood, and they did own a rather luxurious carriage. But one of its wheels had broken on their way out of London, and they'd been forced to take public transport—or else risk missing an urgent appointment back home at Cainewood Castle.

An appointment to introduce Kendra to the latest "suitable" man her brothers planned to foist upon her.

"My comfort isn't the issue here—"

"This is your last chance to make your own choice," Jason interrupted her, gathering the cards from the hand of piquet they'd just played. "If you won't marry Lechmere, you'll have to select one of the other men who have offered for you. Or I will do the selecting."

"The other men." Kendra tossed her head of dark red curls, not believing her brother's ultimatum for a moment. The wretched day had put him in a bad mood, but he was generally the most reasonable man she knew. "Old but well-off, or widowed and settled with children, or young but just plain boring. Stable, wealthy men in the good graces of King Charles, every last one of them."

Her brother's green eyes flashed. "Yes, perfectly acceptable, every last one of them."

"As it should be," Ford put in.

Mournfully shaking her head, Kendra sent Caithren an imploring glance. "They'll never understand."

Cait's eyes filled with sympathy and a bit of shared exasperation. She laid a hand on her husband's arm. "I've told you before, Kendra wishes to marry for love, not—"

"Stand and deliver!" a deep voice interrupted from outside.

With an unnerving suddenness, the coach ground to a halt. Stopped in mid-sentence, Cait's mouth gaped, and Kendra's stomach clenched in fear.

Ford leaned forward and pushed open the door. A man on horseback—a highwayman!—poked his head inside.

The most compelling head Kendra had ever seen.

"You?" Jason and Ford said together.

They knew this man?

Since Kendra hadn't heard that either of her brothers had been hurt—or even robbed, come to think of it—most of her fear dissipated, and her heart lifted with excitement instead.

Nothing like this had ever happened to her!

Looking slightly disconcerted, the highwayman dismounted. "Aye, it's me," he said slowly. Beneath the mask that concealed the upper half of his face, a grin emerged. An engaging slash of perfect white.

Well, not precisely perfect. One of his front teeth had a small chip, but she found that tiny imperfection endearing. And he was dashing, not to mention forbidden. If any of her hopeful suitors had been like this man, she'd have married him in a trice.

She wanted to say something to make him notice her. But for the first time in her memory, her mouth refused to work.

His gaze swept the coach's dim interior as though she weren't even there. "You," he said succinctly, motioning to the whey-faced businessman seated beside Ford. "Get out."

"There be five of us in here, three of them men, likely with pistols," the man said stiffly. From his haircut, plain clothes, and the short, boxy jacket beneath his cloak, Kendra knew he was a Puritan. "Perhaps thee had better think again."

"Oh, it's violence you threaten, aye?" The highwayman's voice was deep and a little husky, with, curiously, the barest hint of an accent. "Perhaps you had better think again. My friends," he drawled, gesturing toward the hill behind him, "would make certain you cease to exist within the minute. Get out. Now."

Kendra looked out the door and up. Sure enough, there were a dozen or so men at the top of the hill, their guns trained on the coach.

The Puritan must have recognized the threat, for he reluctantly climbed down. Kendra shifted within the coach, the better to see out.

The victim was a good foot shorter than the robber, who looked impossibly tall and elegant in a jet-black velvet surcoat. Close-faced and resigned, the Puritan emptied his pockets and handed over his money, then turned to reenter the coach.

The highwayman reached to grab the victim's sleeve. "Not so fast."

Visibly shaken, the smaller man stilled but said nothing.

The highwayman shook him a little. "Surely a...man of business, such as yourself, will be carrying more gold on his person than this. Where is it? Sewn into your cloak? Hidden in your luggage?"

Though Kendra could see the rise and fall of his agitated breathing, the Puritan turned back boldly. "Surely thee has no need of gold," he spat out, tugging his sleeve from the bigger man's grasp while eyeing his groomed appearance and expensive, tailored suit. "A...gentleman such as thyself."

The highwayman's eyes were amber, edged in a deeper hue—bronze, Kendra decided—that now spread in toward the center as his expression hardened. "Your luggage and your cloak, then—seeing as you won't cooperate."

He swung his pistol in the coachman's direction. The driver scrambled down and fumbled with the ropes securing the passengers' belongings. A shove sent the Puritan's trunk to the rutted road with a decisive thunk.

"Your cloak." The highwayman held out his free hand, almost as though he were bored, while his victim struggled out of his plain mantle.

"What about them?" he sputtered, handing it over. His gaze swung toward the Chases.

The highwayman glanced inside and flashed Kendra's brothers a conspiratorial smile before answering. "They're friends. Good day."

"Good day? Good day?" The poor man was as red as a squalling newborn, and Kendra almost felt sorry for him—until she reminded herself that it was his ilk who had killed her parents during the Civil War.

Her brothers indeed carried pistols—and swords and knives and God knew what else—and had the man not been a Puritan, she was sure one or both of them would have jumped to his defense. But because of men like this one, Jason had been left to raise his orphaned siblings, all of them forced to spend the Commonwealth years in poverty and exile.

She turned to watch the amber man remount and make his way down the road and up the hill toward his cohorts. He'd been superb. Magnificent.

Romantic, she thought on a sigh.

Amber. His clean-shaven, suntanned complexion. His eyes, a deep gold the color of the finest liquor. The black plume on his cavalier's hat fluttered as he rode, and beneath it he wore a long, crimped brown periwig that rather reminded her of her twin Ford's hair. But she was certain the highwayman's real hair wasn't brown. Though many men had shaven heads under their periwigs, he wouldn't. His own hair would be cut short, but not off, certainly—she shuddered at the thought—and it would be golden. Amber.

"Are thee going to let him get away with this?" the Puritan demanded, clambering up and glaring at her brothers with their rapiers at their sides.

One of Jason's black brows rose, and he spoke for them both. "I expect so."

The coach lurched and they continued on, but the atmosphere was decidedly strained, and the Puritan got off at the next stop.

Kendra moved to sit in the now-vacant spot beside Ford. "A highwayman," she breathed as soon as the carriage resumed moving.

"Why didn't he rob us?" Caithren asked. "How is it you know him? He called you a friend."

"He uses the term lightly." Jason's smile was enigmatic. "We've run into him before. But he's never robbed us."

"He didn't look like he needed to rob anybody," Kendra pointed out. "His suit was nicer than yours."

He'd looked nicer than Jason all around, she mused. Not that Jason wasn't handsome, but he had the general look of her family, a look she was inured to, to say the least. This man, on the other hand, had looked...exotic. All golden and dressed in black—black suit, black shirt, black boots, black mask—not the look of your typical scruffy felon, that was for sure.

Jason shrugged, absently running a hand through his wife's straight, dark-blond hair. "Almost anyone can afford one nice suit of clothes, if he makes it his priority. You cannot judge a man by his looks, Kendra."

But of course she had. Judged him, and liked what she saw.

Jason raised Cait's hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles, earning a soft smile in return. "Perhaps we should turn him in," he suggested playfully. "This is getting to be somewhat of a nuisance."

"You wouldn't dare!" Kendra burst out. "He's...well...he'd fit in at court. And he robbed only the Puritan. I'd wager he's a Royalist."

"There could be a reward for him. And Lakefield House is in sad shape," Viscount Lakefield, otherwise known as Ford, lamented half-seriously. "I cannot live with Jason forever."

"Oh, yes, you can," Kendra said heatedly.

Jason turned to her. "Is it that important to you, then? I didn't realize your Royalist loyalty ran so deep."

"Well...it does," she declared, thinking about the highwayman's broad shoulders.

"Well, then." Ford's deep-blue eyes gleamed with mischief. "I suppose we'll have to leave him be. At least it provides him with a stake for the card games."

Jason glared at their brother.

"What?" Kendra asked. "What card games?"

"All highwaymen play cards," Jason said firmly. He picked up their own deck and shuffled it expertly, then dealt out new hands.

Kendra arranged her cards slowly, her mind not on the game.

She remembered the highwayman's voice. He'd spoken cautiously, as though he were considering each word. Not like her family. The Chases, as a rule, blurted everything that came into their heads, generally at the tops of their lungs.

"What was his accent?" she asked. "Did you hear it?"

"Scots, aye?" Cait said, exaggerating the burr she was born to. "Though I'd guess he hasn't been home for many a year. I'm surprised you even noticed."

When Jason looked up sharply, Kendra pretended to study her fan of cards. He frowned back down at his own hand. "Why do you want to know?"

Why? She could scarcely comprehend such a stupid question. She wanted to know everything about the mysterious highwayman.

"Just curious," she said lightly, leading with a jack of hearts. "Your turn."

CHAPTER TWO

The Duke of Lechmere turned out to be everything Kendra had feared and then some. He was the epitome of what she did not want in a husband.

His skin appeared to have never seen the sun. Only God knew what color his hair was, since it was hidden beneath a periwig dusted with enough powder to choke a horse. She suspected he was bald underneath, anyway. His eyes were a pale, lifeless gray.

Not that looks were paramount, but his suit was peacock satin, adorned with so much dangling ribbon and lace that it seemed to quiver when he breathed. No matter the current fashion, Kendra wasn't drawn to men who wore prettier clothes than she did. A simple, dark velvet suit—like those her brothers favored—was far more to her taste. Not to mention the expense of Lechmere's apparel could probably fund an orphanage for a month.

Having been orphaned herself at the age of seven, she would much rather have seen the money spent there.

And he was a duke.

"Kendra plays the harpsichord like an angel," Jason said, sending her into a coughing fit. While it was true she was a competent musician, she couldn't remember ever hearing her name and the word angel in the same sentence. At least not from her oldest brother, who had seen her through more than a few rebellious stages.

"An admirable accomplishment." The duke waved a hand bedecked with gaudy rings. "I should like to hear her play later."

"And she's a brilliant conversationalist," Ford added, focusing on the drawing room's carved wooden ceiling.

Interesting description, brilliant conversationalist, given that her brothers spent much of their time telling her to hush up. She would have to call Ford on that later.

After she figured out how to get rid of this mullipuff.

"Though she seems rather tongue-tied now," Jason put in dryly. "First time in my memory."

Sitting beside Jason in a salmon velvet armchair, Kendra could barely resist kicking him. Maybe she should. Perhaps bad manners would send the duke running.

But no, she needed something more drastic. Failproof.

"In circumstances such as this, a bout of speechlessness is only to be expected," Lechmere quipped in a haughty tone. "Though I assure you, my dear, I'm not looking for conversation." His cold gray gaze seemed to heat as it swept her from head to toe. "I admire a quiet, biddable woman."

Dear God. She'd better think of something quick. When Jason asked her to pour the wine, she rose quickly, deliberately tripping on the edge of the patterned black-and-salmon carpet.

"Watch yourself," Jason warned under his breath. He smiled at the duke, who held out his goblet in one limp-wristed hand.

"Oh, I'm so clumsy," she lied. At her brother's glare, she only giggled, prompting a frown.

Kendra never giggled.

With exaggerated force, she pulled the stopper from the decanter, then giggled again when it went flying across the room and hit a portrait of one of her solemn ancestors square on his painted forehead.

Her great-great grandfather. She looked to his image for help, but no advice was forthcoming.

"Quite all right, my dear." Lechmere raised his chin. "It's natural to be nervous when meeting a man of my stature. When you're a duchess—"

"When I'm a duchess, I shall open lots of orphanages," she babbled. "There are so many disadvantaged children who would blossom with a proper education in a caring environment. And speaking of blossoms, have you extensive gardens, your grace? Because I've theories on crossbreeding flowers—"

"I told you she's a good conversationalist," Ford interrupted.

"Here, your grace, let me just take this goblet." She grabbed it from his hand, cringing when her fingers met his cold, clammy ones. "My, what a lovely ruby." Unbelievably, the ring she was speaking of was lodged on his thumb. Evidently his fingers weren't numerous enough to properly display his wealth. "Amy would adore seeing it, I'm sure."

"Amy?"

"My sister-in-law. My brother Colin's wife. She's a jeweler." Kendra set the goblet on the table with a bang that made everyone jump.

"Your brother's wife is a jeweler?"

The duke looked positively scandalized. Since Kendra could hardly control a grin, she giggled again to cover it. "Oh, yes. Colin found her on the streets of London." Which was true, in a sense—since he'd rescued her from the Great Fire two years earlier—but more than a tad misleading. Though her family had been commoners, Amy was educated and wealthy in her own right. "Of course, she's a countess now as well, but a jeweler all the same."

"Hmmph," the duke sniffed.

"Yes, your grace. It's an admirable thing for a woman to be more than just a lady, don't you think? Well, let me just pour, then."

And she did—right into his lap.

He jumped up, watching in horror as a red stain spread on the turquoise satin in a very embarrassing place. "I think I've had enough, my lady, of both the wine and yourself. If you'll excuse me." With his pointy nose in the air, he strode awkwardly from the room.

"Crossbreeding flowers?" When her twin's eyes met her own, they both burst out laughing.

But Jason wasn't amused. "Very charming, Kendra." Deliberately he placed his elbows on the arms of his chair, then steepled his fingers, pinning her with exasperated green eyes. "That's one prospect off your list. Need I remind you who is left? I'll expect a decision after the weekend, and you'll be wed by the end of the summer."

CHAPTER THREE

Kendra awoke the next morning with a massive headache.

Jason couldn't be serious.

He and Ford and Colin were off to a monthly house party they attended—no females allowed—and, as usual, she and Caithren would be joined by their sister-in-law, Amy, and her baby daughter, Jewel, for the weekend. Usually they had something of a house party of their own, playing with the babe and gossiping until the men returned.

But when the men returned this time, they'd be expecting to hear whom she'd decided to marry.

She stared up at the underside of the mint-green canopy she'd begged for in her youth. Although their parents had depleted the family fortune financing the king in the Civil War, Jason had always seen to it that she'd never wanted for anything. To the best of his abilities, he'd indulged her every whim. He wouldn't force her to marry now.

Would he?

With a huff, she rose and pulled on her new hunter-green riding habit. She ran a comb through her hair, not bothering to call her maid in to curl and pin it. Amy would be here within the hour, but she needed to think. Alone.

In no time at all, she was mounted on Pandora, her mare, galloping across the Sussex Downs. Her brothers would be mightily vexed if they knew she was riding unescorted, but the three of them could go hang for all she cared right now.

Besides, they were away all weekend and would never know.

The fresh country air eased her aching head, but just thinking about that weasel Lechmere made her shiver. And the rest of her prospects weren't much better.

The Earl of Shrewsbury came complete with a meddling mother—the "shrew" in her title was all too fitting. The Marquess of Rochford was a widower and kind enough, but his hair was completely gray—doubtless from dealing with his seven unruly children. Viscount Davenport didn't talk, he whined. The Duke of Lancashire lived in, well, Lancashire—which was entirely too far from her family. The Earl of Morely was wealthy and wise, but nearing fifty. Lord Rosslyn was young, handsome, and fun loving, but lacking somewhat in brains. She wondered if he could read.

Jason couldn't be serious.

Coming out of her thoughts, she slowed to a stop. She hadn't realized how far she'd ridden. In fact, she noticed with a start, she was at the same spot where they'd seen the highwayman yesterday.

His friends had been atop that hill, lying on their stomachs, their hats pulled down to conceal their faces, training an impressive assortment of pistols on the hapless Puritan.

This morning, the hill was deserted and the highwayman nowhere in sight. In an attempt to judge the time, Kendra glanced at the sky, but it was all clouded over. The day was turning beastly. Not cold, but muggy, with a definite threat of rain. With no sun to confirm it, she guessed the time to be about ten o'clock. Perhaps highwaymen slept in.

Plainly, highway robbery wasn't a full-time occupation. Not that she had any idea of what she'd have done if the highwayman had been here. Run for her life, in all probability. But she drifted into a vague fantasy of herself riding down the road at breakneck speed, her long, dark red hair floating on the breeze, impressing the hell out of him with her horsemanship and her grace. In her fantasy he stared after her, openmouthed with surprise and appreciation, struck temporarily dumb by a bolt of...love at first sight.

Well, second sight, actually—but he hadn't paid any attention to her the first time, so surely that didn't count.

Then she would turn around, ride back, stop in the middle of the road, right in front of him, and slide off Pandora slowly...so slowly. Still gazing at her, he'd come forward, reaching her in two or three of his long strides, his large, strong hands spanning her waist as he eased her to the ground. And then...

She had no idea. Inexperience didn't make for detailed fantasies. And she certainly wouldn't have anything to do with a highwayman, anyway. Her fantasy wasn't only boring, it was absurd.

But instead of turning back, she rode along the crest of the hill a spell, then turned away from the lane. And there, perhaps a hundred feet distant, was a very mysterious mound.

It wasn't sculpted by nature, Kendra realized immediately. Its shape was angular, its surface dirt, not grass.

A grave. A fresh grave.

Her hands tightened on the reins as she approached the tomb. Who could be buried there? The highwayman? A victim of his? Either one was unthinkable. She bit the inside of her cheek, worrying the soft flesh with her teeth.

A single raindrop fell on one of her clenched fists, and a gust of wind whooshed as she reached the mound. From her perch atop Pandora, she saw the loose dirt blow across it, revealing a sheet of canvas underneath. Her heart hammered at the sight. Was the man not buried properly, then—just covered with a spot of fabric?

She slid off Pandora and led her forward to investigate. Leaning down, she took a corner of the canvas, just a corner, in two shaking fingers and lifted it...

If her brothers had been here, they'd have told her, as usual, not to jump to conclusions. And this time, they'd have been right. Her shout of laughter rang across the Downs as she threw back the canvas.

Twelve blocks of wood. Twelve narrow pipes of various gauges. Twelve hats with different colored plumes and a variety of hatbands.

She tethered Pandora to a tree. Atop a nearby hill, she set a hat on a block of wood with a pipe sticking out from under it. When she ran back down and glanced up, it looked for all the world like a man lying on his stomach, pointing a gun at her.

He was clever, this man. Very clever.

"What do you think you're doing?"

She froze. She hadn't heard anyone approach, and for the barest second she thought the voice was in her head. But he was standing behind her. She could feel his presence, maybe three feet away.

"I'm..." Words failed her. "I'm..."

"You're letting my hat get wet."

"Oh." Kendra put a hand to her head, feeling the mass of her hair curling with dampness. She hadn't noticed the increasing drizzle. "It's raining."

"Very observant of you."

She turned then and gazed up at him, and he looked exactly the way she'd known he would. His hair was golden—thick, silky, and straight. It was cut short, not chin-length like a Puritan's, nor cropped like a wig-wearing Royalist's, but somewhere in between, and the front was hanging in his eyes. She wanted to reach out and sweep it off his forehead, but she seemed rooted in place, and she wouldn't have dared to touch him, anyway.

His snug black breeches were wool, not velvet, and his shirt was white, not black. He wasn't here for business, then.

"I've come to save my props from the rain. Will you help me, seeing as you're here?"

Help him? She ought to be bolting for Pandora at this very moment. "Of course."

Had she said that? She knew she shouldn't have. He ran up the hill and snatched up the three props, then turned and strode back to the rest of them. Windblown, his golden hair bounced in time with his steps as she followed.

She concentrated on his broad back, watching the play of muscles beneath his thin shirt as he flipped over the canvas and piled the hats on top, bundling them up and tying the four corners in a neat knot to make a parcel. He hefted it, testing its weight, then turned to her. "You can carry this, aye? Before you, on your horse?"

He didn't sound angry at her, more like he was simply resolved to complete his task in the most efficient manner possible. Kendra was somewhat relieved, but she moved in a haze of unreality.

She managed to find her voice, however. "If you'll hand it up to me, yes, I'm sure I can carry it. Where are we taking it?"

"A cottage over the next hill, not too far." He gathered the pipes under one arm and lifted the bundle by its knot. "Let's be off, before it starts raining in earnest."

His horse was tied by hers—amber, of course, his glossy coat a tawny tan color. Pandora's hide was a deep brown, and Kendra thought they made a handsome pair.

It was difficult to see over the bundle in front of her, but it was a short ride.

The cottage was unlocked, and the highwayman made short work of tethering their horses before depositing the pipes inside and returning for the bundle. After handing it to him, Kendra slid off Pandora slowly...so slowly...and a second later he was back, and his large, strong hands were spanning her waist as he eased her to the ground.

His fingers rested on her waist a little longer than necessary, and she felt their warmth through her habit. She looked up at him. He had a wide mouth, the full lower lip perfectly straight across the center bottom edge. She wanted to touch him, just there.

Her eyes locked on his, and her breath caught in her throat.

A crash of thunder rent the air, and big raindrops began pelting to the earth. He jumped back, motioning her to follow him inside.

She should leave. Now. But it was pouring...

The cottage looked more like a well-appointed hunting lodge, warm and cozy and very masculine. He shut the door behind them and wandered to a leather-upholstered couch, throwing his long form onto it with a surprising grace. "Close, aye? Five more minutes, and my hats would have been ruined. I thank you for your help."

"You're welcome," Kendra said from just inside the door where she still stood in a daze. She couldn't believe she was in a hunting lodge with this dangerous man. It was incredible—and, all of a sudden, incredibly scary. She couldn't remember ever having been alone with a man, save her brothers. And she didn't know the first thing about this one—except that he was an outlaw.

The fear must have shown on her face, because he sat straight and patted the cushion beside him. "Come here—I don't bite. You'll stay till it stops raining, aye?"

"Aye—I mean, yes." Outlaw or not, she loved the way he talked, the words slow and melodic. Though her heart was pounding, she screwed up her courage and moved to sit gingerly beside him. "I'm Kendra. Kendra Chase."

"Trick Caldwell."

"Trick?" she echoed, startled. She turned to him, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to be frightening. "What kind of a name is Trick?"

"Ah, and that's a story." He smiled at her, a wide white smile that lit up the cottage and belied the dreary day. Leaning forward, he reached out a hand and placed it on her wrist, just lightly, but a tingle raced up her arm and throughout her body, warming her in the strangest way. Something snapped inside her, and the sense of unreality was gone.

She was here, really here, with the amber highwayman—no, Trick, she corrected herself—alone, and he wasn't scary at all.

Well, not very.

CHAPTER FOUR

"Are you hungry?" Trick asked suddenly.

She shook her head, wondering if he actually had food here. Surely he didn't own this cottage. Well, maybe he knew where the owner kept stores, and she shouldn't be surprised he would use them.

He was a thief, after all.

"Thirsty, then? Aye, I'm guessing a spot of wine would do you. You look tense."

Tense didn't begin to describe how Kendra felt. She glanced down at his long fingers ringed lightly around her wrist. "A...spot of wine would be nice, if you have it. Thank you."

Releasing her, he rose with a leonine grace and sauntered over to a cabinet without hesitation, as though he knew every nook and cranny of the place. Crystal goblets and a matching decanter were hidden behind the doors. He filled two glasses, and she took one, hoping he didn't see her hand shake.

"I'll just settle the horses and return, aye?"

"Where...?"

"There's a small stable in the back." He set his goblet on the mantel. Taking a heavy cloak that dangled from a peg on the wall, he shrugged into it and was out the door with a whoosh of wind.

She sat on the couch, listening to the rain on the roof and sipping the sweetish Madeira. Though she wasn't cold, she shivered. Looking around, she wondered how he could describe this as a cottage.

The cottages in the village of Cainewood were generally tiny and dark, single-room buildings with rough plastered walls and trodden earth floors. This cottage was impeccably clean and boasted large glass windows. The wooden walls and floors were polished to a gleam, and her feet rested on a lovely Oriental carpet. Besides the couch, there were two chairs and several small tables, two marquetry cabinets, and a desk in one corner.

She walked over to it and ran a hand along the smooth, rich wood. Everything on top was neatly arranged. Setting down her goblet, she slid open the top drawer to find a stack of paper and bottles of ink. Her hand went to the bottom drawer and tugged, but it was stuck closed or locked. She frowned at it, then turned to survey the rest of the enormous room.

A beautiful carved dining table and chairs sat on another patterned carpet, obviously imported from lands far away. A peek through an archway revealed a spotless, quite modern kitchen, the shelves heavily stocked with victuals. Another archway opened onto a corridor, which apparently led to several more rooms.

Some cottage, Kendra thought. All furnished, food and drink...Trick seemed quite at home. Maybe he lived here, after all. She'd never thought much about where a highwayman might live, but she hadn't expected it would be a hunting lodge, or a cottage, or whatever he wanted to call it. She'd assumed they slept in inns or the like.

When the door opened and Trick walked in and swept off his cloak, she rushed back to the desk and reclaimed her goblet.

"It's not letting up," he announced, stomping the rain off his boots.

She was relieved that he didn't seem to care she'd been nosing around. "Is this...yours?" she blurted, making her way to sit on the couch. "I mean, do you live here?"

"Um...close enough."

Kendra felt her face heat. She really shouldn't be so curious. It was none of her business whom the cottage belonged to, and now she'd put Trick on the spot.

Of course he didn't own it. Many highwaymen had a reputation for being gentlemanly, but that didn't mean they were actual gentlemen. Men of property didn't turn to the roads for sustenance.

Thankfully, he looked amused rather than annoyed or embarrassed. He swiped his wine off the mantel and sat beside her.

The room was quiet except for the soft pit-pat of rain. She sipped from her own goblet, peeking at him over the rim. He gazed at her through the ends of his damp golden hair, and she saw his eyes darken. But surely he had no reason to be angry.

No, it was something else.

Her heart sped up, and of its own accord her hand rose to sweep clear his forehead. Horrified at herself, she snatched it back just in time.

With a sudden grin, he gave a toss of his head that flung the hair from his eyes. "We were speaking of my name," he reminded her—or himself.

She gulped more wine. "What did your parents name you, really?"

"Patrick Iain Caldwell." He settled back slowly. "But my father was away when I was born—Father was always away—so my mother named me. Scots–Irish, she was. In any case, he was appalled when he finally ventured home to meet me. Said she'd tricked him good, giving his English son two barbarian names."

Kendra grinned. "Trick...since she'd tricked him?"

"And short for Patrick, though he'd never admit it. They hated each other, they did. It was an arranged marriage."

"That sounds rather old-fashioned. Why?"

"Damned if I know." He drained his goblet and stared at it pensively, twirling it by its stubby stem. "Neither of them would talk of the other long enough for me to find out."

"How sad," she murmured, the sincere tone of her voice drawing his gaze.

CHAPTER FIVE

Trick looked up to see Kendra shaking her beautiful head. Sweet Mary, she was lovely. And regardless of the dreary, rainy day, she smelled of sunshine and lavender. It was all he could do to keep from leaning close and burying his nose in her burgundy curls.

Damn. Why couldn't she be a bloody serving maid? It had been a long time since he'd bedded a woman—a long time since he'd felt attracted to one—but Cainewood's sister was not the female on whom to slake his pent-up lust.

He shouldn't have asked her to the cottage, shouldn't have encouraged her to stay. Jason Chase would have his head if he knew she was here, unescorted. But with the rain and all, it had seemed the gentlemanly thing to do. And he hadn't seemed able to help himself.

Still, the last thing he needed was her sympathy regarding the childhood he'd just as soon forget.

"Not so sad," he said, tearing his gaze from her face only to have it land on her chest. Pert breasts were molded within her riding habit's collarless jacket, in perfect proportion to her small stature. His eyes moved down to her waist, and his palms itched as he remembered his hands spanning it. He forced himself to look out the window. A raindrop trailed in a slow, crooked line. "Arranged marriages are common enough."

"For some, perhaps. The peerage is often compelled to wed for alliance."

God's blood, she thought he was a commoner. She really had no idea who he was. Trick smiled to himself, then sobered. Considering yesterday's encounter, if she knew nothing of him, her brothers were even more protective than he'd thought.

He rose to set his empty goblet on the mantel, then turned and leaned back against it, crossing his arms and ankles. "Your folks were different, then?"

"Oh, yes. They had a perfect, romantic marriage and loved each other very much. Too much, according to one of my brothers. He says they loved each other and the monarchy, and there was nothing left for us."

"But you don't agree."

A statement, not a question. He watched her eyes as she considered it, noting the bright intelligence. "No," she said at last. "I never knew them well, as they left to fight in the war when I was yet a babe. But I always felt they loved me."

"Love." Once he would have said the word with derision, but now, twenty-eight years old and wiser, he managed to say it with only dispassion.

Still, she caught his ambivalence. "You don't believe in love?"

"No."

"You don't love anyone? No one loves you?" Her light green eyes looked incredulous. "Not anyone, in any form?" She colored suddenly and stood up. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I'm...we don't know each other. I shouldn't ask such questions."

He watched her amble to the window, her steps sure, not the mincing progress that passed for walking among the tittering ladies at court. He couldn't picture her whispering behind a fan, though he was sure she attended balls and the like, and probably had a wonderful time.

Not a social animal himself, he shuddered at the thought, his gaze following her graceful hand as she traced the path of a raindrop with one finger.

"Ask away," he assured her. "I've nothing to hide." It wasn't the truth—it wasn't even close to the truth—but it sounded nice. "No, I don't love anyone."

He saw her watching his reflection in the windowpane. "Your parents...?"

"Made my life miserable."

She turned to face him. "Brothers or sisters?"

"Ha! Not a chance. I reckon my folks came together once, and once only—and lived to regret it, I'm sure."

At his frank words, a becoming pink bathed her skin. He wanted to make her flush even more, with the pink glow of passion. But Cainewood's stern face hovered in his mind, along with those of the man's formidable brothers, and Trick knew it would never be.

She didn't deserve to be used, and he had no wish to bear the consequences.

"You love someone, then?" he asked.

"Oh, yes." The sunshiny smile was back. "My brothers, all three of them. And my new sisters—my sisters-in-law, actually—and my niece. When I first held her tiny body in my arms and she looked into my eyes...it was love at first sight." Her gaze focused on him and darkened. "I guess you don't believe in love at first sight, either?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "I don't believe in love at all. Maybe I did once...but not anymore. Love's only an illusion."

Her mouth dropped open, then closed. It looked soft. "It's no illusion," she stated in a tone that brooked no argument.

He grinned, enjoying her naïve confidence. "Love for a babe in arms, well, perhaps. Love between rational adults...not bloody likely."

"You've no plans to marry, then? Not ever?"

"Of course I do." Lifting his goblet, he crossed to the cabinet to pour himself more wine. "Perhaps a decade from now. But love won't have anything to do with it."

"Someday," she said, "someone will change your mind. Someday you'll fall in love."

"You make it sound like a promise," he said, amused.

"Then you can take it that way. And a Chase promise is never given lightly."

He seemed to remember hearing one of her brothers use those words. "Hell, lassie, I hope you're right. But I'm not going to lay money on it. Would you care for more wine?"

With a glance out the window at the pounding rain, she nodded and came forward to hand him her goblet. He poured, then handed it back. Their fingers met, his warm, hers cool.

Between them the goblet slipped to the floor.

She gasped, staring as a dark stain spread on the cream background color of the patterned carpet, then dropped to her knees to collect the broken crystal and dab at the blot with the hem of her riding habit.

Trick stared down at her bright head. "Stop," he pleaded, hard put to keep from laughing at her panic. "You'll ruin your skirt."

"I'll ruin my skirt?" Worried green eyes glanced up at him. "Then will the stain not come out of the carpet, either?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," he mused. Surely one of the servants would know how to remove it. If not, he could always bring another rug from his London warehouse.

"But...I'm not usually clumsy." She gazed at the stain, then sat back and wrapped her arms around her bent knees. "And I've gotten you in trouble, then."

"In trouble?" he repeated stupidly.

"The crystal and the carpet..." She bit her lip, then her eyes cleared. "Tell the owner I'll pay for it all. Or rather, my brother will. It won't be a problem."

Tell the owner. Oh, she was a precious one. She thought he was a criminal, yet she worried about his carpet and angering his supposed landlord.

She'd be more on target worrying about her maidenhead, he thought wryly, reaching down a hand to help her rise.

At her full height, the top of her head came just to his chin. She tilted her face and fastened her gaze on his. Their hands seemed fused together, and he could hear her slightly uneven breathing over the patter of rain on the roof.

Slowly, her free hand came up to sweep the hair from his eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered, then she touched a fingertip to his lower lip, exactly in the center, so lightly he wondered if he imagined it.

Real or imagined, his body quickened. He stared at her soft mouth. "Don't you worry," he said low.

She blinked and pulled her hand from his.

He almost made a grab for her, but reminded himself who she was.

Damn, it had better stop raining soon.

"Come, there's water in the bedchamber." He swiveled and headed for the corridor, knowing she would follow. "We'll rinse the stain on your skirt before it can set."

Composing himself, he poured water into the washbowl and set it on the low table by the bed, then turned to beckon her near and hand her a towel.

She wetted it and leaned down to dab daintily at her hem. Frowning, she dipped again and dabbed harder. Finally, she sat on the bed, rucking her skirts up about her knees so she could plunge the offending stain into the bowl. She stared into space, holding the fabric in place with one hand.

Thinking she had very shapely calves, Trick sat beside her and grinned. "You're going to sit there till it comes out?"

She turned to look at him. "It won't take long this way."

He watched the water soaking her skirt. A dark circle grew to encompass much more than the stain, but she didn't seem to notice. Her gaze was riveted on his eyes.

She swallowed and licked her lips.

Despite his best intentions, he moved closer, then closer still when he caught a whiff of her sun-fresh skin and flowery hair.

From the main part of the cottage, he heard the door fly open and bang against the wall. He thought it must be the wind. Though he knew he should get up and close it, his arms stole around Kendra's waist, and he bent his head to hers, toward that soft, tempting mouth.

She swayed closer and raised her face. Her breath came sweet and warm from between her parted lips.

"Hey, are you here? We need your help to find our..."

Jason Chase arrived in the doorway, his brothers Colin and Ford close on his heels.

"...sister," he finished weakly.

Kendra and Trick jumped up and apart, taking the porcelain bowl with them. It fell to the polished floor with a loud crash.

"Not again," Kendra groaned. "I never drop things."

"This isn't what it looks like," Trick hurried to say.

"No?" A muscle in Jason's jaw twitched. "You mean to say I didn't see you on a bed with your arms around my sister and her skirts pulled up around her waist?"

"My knees," Kendra corrected.

Jason just glared at her.

"What were you doing, then?" Colin asked.

Trick wondered why he felt so uneasy. "Rinsing a stain from her skirt."

Ford rolled his blue eyes. "You expect us to believe that?" He turned on Kendra. "What the devil are you doing here?"

"I was...riding. And it started raining, and Trick came along—"

"Trick, is it?" Colin's eyes bore into hers, and Trick saw her flinch. "Exactly how well do you know this man?"

"For God's sake, Colin—we just met."

"And you let him put his hands beneath your gown."

Trick leapt to her defense. "Hell, no, Greystone—I told you, we were rinsing out a stain."

"A bloodstain, would that be?"

Kendra's eyes narrowed with puzzlement. "No," she said. "Why would you ask—"

"How can you think such a thing?" Trick interrupted.

"How could we not?"

"I'm disappointed," Jason said, stepping closer to Trick. "Very disappointed. Kendra has never acted particularly wisely, but she's been very sheltered and you ought to know better." He gazed at Trick with doleful eyes. "At least tell me you didn't know who she was."

"Of course I knew who she was!" Trick exploded. "I saw her with you in that bloody coach."

Beside him, Kendra gave a surprised gasp.

"Ah, yes," Jason responded, looking resigned. "That will have to stop, you know."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"The highway robbery. You don't need the money, and Kendra doesn't need to see her husband strung up at Tyburn."

"Her husband?" Trick's heart pounded. Her brothers didn't know the truth. Or rather, they knew he wasn't posing as a highwayman for the money, but they weren't likely to learn the real reason anytime soon.

He'd given his word to King Charles.

And now they thought... "You think I bedded your sister? You must be mad!"

"They are mad!" Kendra railed. She turned to Jason. "You have to listen." And to Colin. "It was only a stain. A wine stain." And to Ford. "You're always telling me I jump to conclusions—"

Ford's hand shot out to grasp his twin's upper arm. "Come along, Kendra." With a murderous look at Trick, he pulled her from the room.

"We'll call on you when the banns have been posted," Jason ground out.

"No," Colin said. "It will have to be by special license."

"Bloody hell, you're right." Jason rubbed the back of his neck. "She could be with child."

With child? Trick couldn't believe what he was hearing. One minute he was washing out a wine stain, the next he was accused of fathering a babe. With a woman he'd never even kissed.

Never mind that he wanted to.

CHAPTER SIX

Kendra was soaked to the skin. Water streamed from her hair into her tear-blurred eyes. She was shivering. But she'd rip her own tongue out before asking her infuriating brothers for one of their cloaks.

Riding behind them, she heard the murmurs of a deeply involved conversation. She took slow, fortifying breaths, wishing she could make out their words. She couldn't let them make her go through with this. But they wouldn't, would they? Surely they didn't intend for her to actually wed a highwayman. A highwayman she hadn't so much as kissed!

Which was a pity. Because she'd wanted to kiss Trick more than she'd wanted to do most anything else, ever.

She knew full well he'd been about to kiss her, and she'd been ready—no, not just ready, thrilled—to cooperate. But the kiss hadn't happened. Not to mention a mere kiss didn't warrant a forced marriage.

But, dear God, he'd turned out to be everything she'd fantasized and more. She'd melted just looking at him, and when he'd wrapped his arms around her, her whole body had felt on fire. She'd been dying for that kiss.

It would have been the first time she'd kissed anyone.

Oh, she'd been kissed, of course—she was twenty-three, after all, and not unattractive—but she'd never kissed anyone back. She blamed those brothers of hers. Every time a gentleman managed to pull her into an alcove or onto a balcony and press his lips to hers, one of her brothers would materialize, staring daggers into the unfortunate swain's eyes. And until now, she hadn't been enamored enough of any man to make an issue of it.

Why did her brothers always have to show up and ruin it all?

At long last, Jason sent the others ahead, then halted until she caught up. "I cannot believe you did that," he said.

"It was raining." She was seething inside, but somehow she managed to sound calm. "All I did was come in from the rain."

"That's not the way it looked," he said as though that were the end of the discussion.

She stared at his determined profile. A highwayman...her brother was letting—no, making—her wed a highwayman. Regardless of whether Jason thought she'd lost her virtue to the man, the fact that he'd as good as pledged her to a robber was beyond belief.

Her stare turned to a glare that drew his gaze. He blinked. "What were you thinking, riding out alone?"

Ignoring that, she drew breath. "I cannot believe you expect me to marry a highwayman. You, who wouldn't let Lord Harrison near me because he was only a baron!"

For a moment, Jason just looked at her. Then his lips quirked into a smile, and he threw back his head and laughed.

Incredulous, Kendra watched, wishing the rain pouring into his mouth would drown him.

"You—you—you don't know who he is, do you?" he choked out.

"Trick Caldwell. Patrick Iain Caldwell," Kendra returned through clenched teeth. "Do you think you would have found me in a man's bedchamber—never mind that nothing happened there—if I didn't so much as know his name?"

Jason only laughed harder. "Patrick Iain Caldwell What?"

"What? What do you mean, what? That's not his name?" Kendra bit the inside of her cheek. "I should have guessed he'd lie to me," she muttered, more to herself than her brother. "He's a bloody highwayman, after all."

"You don't know who he is." Apparently failing to notice her unladylike language, Jason actually snorted. "You really don't know who he is." With another shout of laughter, he dug in his heels and raced up to meet their brothers.

Kendra could hear their loud guffaws through the distance and the driving rain.

She rode behind them for another few minutes, listening to their whoops of laughter, hoping they'd expire from lack of air. A buzzard circled lazily overhead. Not exactly Ares's bird, the vulture, but close enough. A fury was rising in her that would do Ares, the God of War, proud.

At last she couldn't stand it. She raced up to meet her brothers, nosing Pandora between Jason's and Ford's mounts.

"He's titled, isn't he?" she demanded. "Or you wouldn't even be jesting about this marriage. Who is he?"

Ford looked at her, his blue eyes all innocence. "Who?"

"That man you just betrothed me to! What's his name, damn it?"

"Oh, you mean Trick? Trick Caldwell?"

"All right. Enough is enough." She glared at them one by one. "I did nothing wrong. No matter what you think it looked like, we were washing a wine stain from my skirt. There's no reason for me to marry him."

Her brothers stared at her and then at one another over her head. Individually they nodded.

Then Jason spoke for them all. "Did you choose another of your suitors to marry, then?"

"That again? I don't believe this. None of my suitors are at all suitable, and I won't marry any of them. You're finished ordering me around."

"You're right about that," he said. "I'm finished. It's long past time you wed, and Trick's as good a man as any."

"But he's a highwayman," she wailed.

"Not anymore," Jason snapped. The men closed ranks, and nothing else was said for the rest of the ride home.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Trick paced around the cottage for a good fifteen minutes, huffing in disbelief, wondering how a simple jaunt to save his props from the rain had ended in such disaster.

When pacing failed to resolve anything, he rode home to Amberley House to dismiss the rest of his houseguests.

Compton, his butler, met him at the door. "Good afternoon, your grace."

"Is it?" Trick handed him his drenched cloak. "What happened while I was gone?"

Compton frowned, one of his habitual expressions. "Lords Cainewood, Greystone, and Lakefield have taken their leave. A messenger arrived with word that their sister had disappeared. They went off to find you, to enlist your help—"

"They succeeded."

And turned his life upside down in the process.

Leaving the butler mid-sentence, Trick stalked into his card room. "My apologies, gentlemen, but the party's over."

Peeved, he waved a hand in a hopeless attempt to clear the smoky air. The four remaining guests, all aristocrats from neighboring estates, had apparently passed the time by smoking up Trick's small hoard of expensive Virginia cheroots, literally worth their weight in silver.

He coughed and waved some more. "It seems I'm soon to be wed, and I'm in no mood for cards. Besides which, the Chase brothers won't be returning, so we haven't enough for two tables—"

"Wed? As in married?" David Fielding interrupted in a puff of tobacco, blinking his brown eyes, which always looked a little crossed. "You cannot be serious."

"Aye, as in married." Trick smiled grimly. "And I assure you, I've never been more serious in my life."

The only one without a cheroot between his teeth, John Garrick heaved his paunchy form from his chair. "Amberley, I...I don't know what to say."

Garrick, speechless. Imagine that. In general, the man never shut up, lecturing his hapless companions on the folly of their swearing, drinking, whoring, or any other of a number of activities he considered morally reprehensible, an annoying superior smile on his flabby lips.

He flapped those lips now, rather ineffectively, Trick thought. "I...I just don't know what to say."

"Then don't say anything," Trick suggested.

Striding across the room, he plucked a half-smoked cheroot from Fielding's lips, then did the same with Robert Faraday and Thomas Milner. They sat there, their mouths in little Os where the brown cheroots used to be, while he stubbed out the burning tobacco in one of the crystal dishes he kept on the card tables for that purpose.

"I'll send servants to help you pack," he informed them. "And someone else will have to host next month, as a female will be living here."

"But...Amberley." Robert Faraday finally found his voice. He skimmed the long brown hair from his face and rubbed his stubbled chin. "No surcoats, no shaving, no periwigs, no women. You laid down the rules when you set up the card club. And you said then that you'd marry the day the devil settled in heaven."

"He's arrived, gentlemen."

At Trick's sardonic pronouncement, Garrick narrowed his eyes. The other men rose, and they all drifted toward the door, presumably to collect their things.

"Who will host?" Trick pressed. "I've no intention of spending all my weekends at home. Faraday, Milner? Damn, you both have wives. Garrick?"

"I'm...remodeling. No space at present."

Trick frowned; the man lived in a fifty-room manor house. Old, yes, and in dire need of renovations, but surely there was an area they could use to play cards and enough bedrooms in sufficient shape to accommodate seven guests.

"We'll ask Cainewood," Milner suggested. "Lady Cainewood can go stay with his brother's wife. I'll drop by there later this—"

"Cainewood has that sister," Fielding interrupted. "Er...Lady Kendra, that's it."

"Oh, damn. You're right. He'd have to send her to Greystone, too."

"Nay, gentlemen. Lady Kendra will be here. Though you'll address her as Her Grace the Duchess of Amberley." When the men's mouths dropped open again, Trick shot them a wry smile. "Aye, the Chases will host—it's the least they can do. Till next month, then?"

Before they could ask any questions he'd rather not answer, Trick grabbed a fresh cheroot and left to closet himself in his study, where he went straight to the carved walnut cabinet and poured himself a shot of strong Scotch whisky.

Kendra. He couldn't decide whether he wanted to kiss her or throttle her brothers. Perhaps both, although it probably wouldn't be wise to threaten the Chases. Greystone, especially. From what he'd heard, Colin was deadly with a sword.

Trick sighed and dropped into his favorite worn leather chair. In the six months since King Charles had insisted he take up residence in his father's ridiculously overblown house, this was the only room he'd redecorated to his own taste—classic, familiar, and comfortable. Lifting a heavy silver candlestick, he lit the cheroot and stuck it between his teeth, then sat back, rolling the glass between his palms and watching the candlelight glint off the faceted crystal.

What was he going to do? What could he do? What did he want to do?

The answer came to him, as clear as the flawless crystal cupped between his hands.

He wanted to marry Kendra.

He'd wanted to bed her the moment he'd glimpsed her in the shadows of that carriage. Then he'd thought it impossible—Cainewood's sister, of all people. Cainewood, the last bastion of respectability in a society where morals were meaningless.

No one at King Charles II's court was virtuous; no one, that was, except Kendra. The Chase men had sheltered her for all of her twenty-three years. Even Trick knew that, although he made it a point to keep as far from court as humanly possible.

Having her had been unimaginable, but now it was imminent. Of course, he would have to marry her in order to bed her, but his wedding day might as well come now as later—he had to sire an heir. And Lady Kendra Chase would make as fine a wife as any. She was of suitable aristocratic birth, and Lord knew she set his blood on fire. While it was likely she had no dowry to speak of—Cainewood was as cash-strapped as most of the Royalist nobility—the fact was, Trick didn't need anyone else's money. He had more of his own than he knew what to do with.

He blew out a perfect smoke ring and watched it rise to the Amberley crests carved into the oak ceiling. His vision blurred until he could almost see Kendra's expressive face. Hers was a refreshing, wholesome beauty, and though of course he didn't love her, he did want her. He supposed he was lucky to find that in a wife.

Aye, he would marry her. Smiling at the thought, he stubbed out the cheroot, threw back his head, and downed the whisky. The warmth of the liquor curled in his stomach. Down lower, his body stirred as he imagined Kendra in his bed. The more he thought about that, the more pleased he became.

But that didn't mean he wasn't angry as hell at the situation.

"Pardon the interruption, your grace."

Trick jerked around, still uneasy with the formal address—never mind that he'd held the title for three years. God knew he'd never wanted it; he'd never wanted anything that came from his father. But the damnable cur had died, and now people—most especially his father's old retainers, like stuffy Compton—insisted on addressing Trick formally.

Trick gazed at the middle-aged man, wondering if he'd been born with a pike for a spine. Compton's receding gray hair was combed straight back from his forehead, and his jowls shook when he spoke, making Trick want to laugh.

"Aye, Compton?"

"The Earl of Greystone is here to see you, your grace."

Already? Could this family not leave him in peace for one evening? Trick sighed expansively, causing Compton's nostrils to flare in disapproval of such a show of emotion.

"Bring him in," Trick muttered, rising to pour himself another shot.

"Congratulations, Amberley," Colin Chase said from behind him. "Shall we drink to your wedding tomorrow afternoon?"

Trick paused, then silently set about filling a second glass. "Tomorrow, is it?" He turned to hand the man his drink, meeting his eyes, deeper green than Kendra's but just as lively and intelligent. "Bloody hell, can you not give a man time to get used to the idea?"

Colin sipped before answering, regarding Trick over the rim. "Jason can pull strings if he wants to. And time is of the essence...your heir may be on his way already."

"I didn't bed your—"

"I'm not judging you, Amberley." Colin flashed him a crooked grin. "My own daughter arrived a month early."

Trick's gaze went to the hilt of Colin's ever-present sword. His reply was slow and measured. "I told you, I didn't bed your sister."

"You know, Kendra kept claiming much the same thing on the way home. Did her fighting best to convince us of it, too."

He'd bet she had. "You didn't believe her?"

"Jason doesn't know what to believe. Frankly, I don't think he cares. Kendra's been a noose around his neck for years. She's absolutely refused to consider anyone suitable, so as far as he's concerned, this circumstance is a dream come true. God knows she would never have looked at you twice if she'd known you're a duke. A stubborn one, Kendra is."

"And now that she knows?"

"She doesn't." Colin laughed. "Thinks you're an impoverished minor aristocrat forced to highway robbery, and she's mad as hell at us for condoning the match. To our faces, that is. I suspect that, privately, she's walking on air. The lady's in love."

"Love?" Trick rolled his eyes. He'd forgotten about her naïve ideas on love. "Don't tell me you're another believer in love at first sight?"

"It seems to be the Chase way," Colin mused. "My wife, Amethyst, captured my heart with a single glance across a jewelry counter."

"It's insane," Trick declared, throwing back the rest of his whisky. "You're all insane. This is utterly outrageous."

"You're angry, then?"

Trick considered that for a moment. "Not exactly," he said slowly. "I think your strong-arm tactics are abhorrent, but as to the outcome...I suppose I must wed, and your sister's as good a choice as any."

Before long, he hoped, he'd be back at the London docks, where he could better oversee his burgeoning shipping empire. Just as soon as he'd satisfied the king's demand. Having Kendra here in the countryside, raising his children and awaiting his attentions, was not an unpleasing thought.

"I haven't the stomach for courtship," he added, "so a business arrangement suits my purposes just fine."

"Business arrangement? I know what a man looks like when he wants a woman, and I saw that look in your eyes. You'd better not hurt my sister."

"Hurt her? I'm not the one forcing her into this marriage."

Colin looked astonished at that accusation. "There's no way she'd be forced into any marriage—this one included—if we weren't one hundred percent certain this is right for her. If her happiness weren't our primary concern, she'd have been off our hands years ago—you'd need only see her list of rejected suitors to be convinced of that." He met Trick's gaze. "She wants this."

Trick had to consciously close his gaping mouth. "How do you know?"

The other man sighed. "Pride will keep her from admitting it. But you're the first suitor she hasn't outright refused, whether she realizes it or not. And maybe not all that much happened today, but there's something between you two, Amberley—you cannot deny it."

While Trick reeled under that onslaught, Colin drew breath and smiled. "I'm sure it will work out all around." He raised his glass. "To the groom."

Trick looked at his own empty glass, then shrugged and went to refill it. He might as well get foxed on his last night as a free man. "To the groom," he echoed wryly before tossing the liquor down in one gulp.

Colin drained his own drink and set it on a table. "Well, I'd best get home. Big day tomorrow for all of us, eh?"

Trick nodded.

Nodding in return, Colin stuck out his hand. "Till tomorrow, then. Let me just send the messenger back to Cainewood. Jason will be relieved to hear you've agreed."

"Agreed?" Incredulous, Trick pulled his hand from Colin's grasp. "I thought I had no choice."

"Of course you had a choice. What kind of people do you take us for?"

"But—"

"Did you think I came here to run you through if you failed to cooperate?"

"The thought crossed my mind," Trick said dryly.

"You said yourself it was a sound decision. Coercion was the last thing in our heads. We're not looking to gain an enemy for an in-law. We want Kendra to be happy." He pivoted on a heel, heading for the door. "And you, of course."

"But you made it sound—"

"Good evening, Trick. Sleep well," he said and left.

For the second time that day, Trick found himself wondering what had happened. He was embarking on a new life, his ship about to sail for ports unknown.

For a man accustomed to being in charge, this was not an auspicious start.

CHAPTER EIGHT

"Thank you, Jane." Kendra smiled at her kindly, plain-faced maid and put a hand to her carefully coiffed hair. "You did a lovely job."

Even if it was for nothing, she added silently.

As Jane left, she crossed her bedchamber with a sigh. Pushing the drapes aside, she gazed out the diamond-paned window. In Cainewood's quadrangle below, her "betrothed" chatted with her three brothers and a clergyman—or someone dressed like one, anyway.

"No, poppet." Amy Chase disentangled her eleven-month-old's hands from her ebony tresses and set the baby on her unsteady feet. Jewel had just started walking last week. "Kendra. They're waiting."

"I can see that." Letting the curtain drop, she focused on her sister-in-law. "But what they're waiting for, I can only imagine. To laugh their heads off at me, I'm thinking."

"Laugh?" In a rustle of dusky rose satin, Caithren came close and tweaked one of Kendra's long curls into place. "Why would they laugh?"

"This has to be a jest. Very well done, I must admit, but there isn't a chance they'll make me go through with it."

"No, Jewel, don't eat that." Amy took an ivory comb from her daughter's mouth and set it back on the dressing table. "I'm not too sure they'd joke about this."

Kendra brushed at the silver tissue underskirt that gleamed from beneath the split front of the blue silk gown she had dressed in for her "wedding." "It's so like them to make me get all ready, isn't it? Their idea of justice, having found me in a seemingly compromising position. But they won't actually make me wed a highwayman."

"I don't think he's just a highwayman, Kendra." Cait's hazel eyes looked concerned. "He must be suitable. Jason seemed dead serious to me."

"He's serious about scaring me, making me come to a decision. This will be called off at the last minute, at which point Jason will expect me to happily choose one of the other men who has offered. As for Trick being just a highwayman, I couldn't say. I don't know the first thing about him."

"But you like him, aye?"

"He's...interesting." A vast understatement. Kendra only hoped her sisters-in-law wouldn't ask for elaboration.

"I like the way you say interesting." Amy's grin was too knowing for Kendra's comfort. "Sometimes we find love in unexpected places." Her fine features softened as she doubtless considered her own unconventional marriage, that of a shopgirl and a nobleman.

"Aye, she's right." Cait nodded her agreement. "If you'd told me I'd ever be in love with a man and living in England"—despite her love for both Jason and their home, she pronounced the word with a mild distaste—"I'd have said you were sodie-heid for certain." Her gaze narrowed at the puzzled look on Amy's face. "Featherbrained," she added in translation.

Inwardly, Kendra sighed. While it was true she yearned for the kind of happiness both her sisters-in-law had found, she didn't think she would find it in a sham marriage to a highwayman. No matter how much she burned for his kiss or fancied herself in love.

"Up," Jewel demanded, providing a welcome distraction as she toddled over to her mother.

Amy perched her on one violet-taffeta-clad hip. "Did you know Colin called on Trick last night? He offered him a chance to back out of this arrangement, but he turned it down."

"Or so Colin told you." Could the amber highwayman actually want her? She didn't think so, and she knew for sure that the little leap of excitement she felt was all wrong. "If Colin did call on him, I'm sure it was to plot this absurd, elaborate ruse. Colin is nothing if not the ultimate prankster."

"Maybe you're right, and this wedding is naught but a jest. But just in case"—Cait held out a silver coin—"you'll want to put this in your shoe."

"There she goes with her superstitions." An indulgent smile curving her lips, Kendra took the coin and tucked it into one high-heeled satin slipper. "What other old wives' tales might you be worrying about?"

"I've never said I believe it, mind you, but you know what they say. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue..."

"This gown fills three of those requirements. Old, borrowed, and blue." There'd been no time to have a wedding dress made, so Kendra was wearing Cait's. She brushed again at the shimmering silk skirts. "I always wanted to wear green for my wedding."

"I've told you, you wouldn't want to do that," Cait admonished. "Green is the choice of the fairies."

As though that explained anything.

"And as for something new..." Amy moved closer, trying to maneuver an object out of her pocket.

"I'll take her," Caithren offered, reaching for Jewel. Kendra thought she cuddled her niece rather wistfully. Cait and Jason had been married for nearly a year, yet there was still no sign of a babe.

Amy finally extricated a bracelet from her pocket—smooth-polished ovals of amber set in heavy gold links. Studded with sparkling diamonds, the circlet glittered in her hand. "A wedding gift," she said, "from your future husband. Colin asked me to pass it on to you."

"This isn't a real wedding. And as for new, it doesn't look it."

"It isn't," Amy said in the confident tones of a skilled jeweler. "The cut of the diamonds tells me it's actually very old. But new to you. And it cannot hurt to wear it." The golden stones seemed to glow from within, secrets of past centuries locked inside their translucent depths. "When Colin gave it to me, he said it would be quite fitting."

Amy looked curious, but Kendra wasn't about to admit she thought of Trick as the amber highwayman. How had Colin known? Had she said something inadvertently? She was usually careful about such things.

"I cannot believe the lengths your husband will go to in planning his practical jokes." She reluctantly held out her arm. "It is beautiful."

After Amy fastened the clasp, Kendra turned her wrist, watching the diamonds catch the light. Surely the bracelet wasn't really Trick's, which meant she could make her brothers let her keep it after this farce of a wedding was called off. For putting her through this, they owed her that much.

It would remind her of the amber man, of the passion she'd felt ever so briefly in his arms. It would remind her not to settle for less—not to let her brothers pressure her into a loveless marriage, no matter how hard they tried.

She touched the amber pensively—warm, it somehow seemed—and drifted over to her dressing table. Watching herself in the mirror, she settled a gossamer lace veil over her hair and drew it down, tucking the ends into the sides of her neckline to secure it.

Her brothers wanted her to play the part of a blushing bride, and a blushing bride they'd get. She leaned closer. Pale, too. Which was ridiculous—this was but a game.

"No, poppet," Amy said, reattaching one of the tabs on Caithren's stomacher where Jewel's pudgy fingers had managed to unfasten it.

Kendra turned to the door. "Shall we get this little drama over with?"

CHAPTER NINE

"Nervous, man?"

"Hell, no." Trick shot Ford a smile—a confident one, he hoped. The shakiness in his legs must be a symptom of last night's overindulgence. He clenched his fists to keep his hands from giving him away, then shoved them into the pockets of his midnight blue velvet surcoat.

More fitted than the current style, he'd last worn the suit a few years ago in Paris, for one of those blasted social occasions his father insisted he attend to further the "business." A time in his life that Trick would rather not remember, but he had only one other formal suit at his home in the countryside, and he'd be damned if he'd wed in his highwayman clothes.

His gaze swept over the groomed lawn of Cainewood Castle's quadrangle, then darted away when he spotted the parson, hands clasped behind his back. He seemed a kind enough sort, but the sight of him made Trick's stomach lurch. He looked back to Ford...but, nay, he'd as soon not look at Ford, either. Kendra's twin and most certainly the man who knew her best.

Instead he focused on the ancient keep, the worn stone a comforting reminder of the strength of Kendra's line. Four hundred years the Chases had lived here, save during the Commonwealth. Unlike himself, Kendra knew who she was and what she had come from.

Aye, their children would surely benefit from that sort of security. Lord knew he had nothing of the kind to offer. He'd always thought of himself as a mongrel.

A mangy one.

Distracted by the bang of a thick oak door, he turned to see Kendra descending Cainewood's front steps.

A vision in a sky-blue gown, she glided his way. The shimmering silk overskirt opened down the front to reveal an underskirt of costly silver tissue—he knew the expense, having bolts of the very fabric stacked in his London warehouse. The sleeves were double-puffed with a spill of silver lace at the wrists, which had made its way from Italy, if he didn't miss his guess.

Swathed within the lace, her hands looked small. In fact, everything about her looked small. He hadn't noticed that before.

He hadn't had time to notice much of anything, he told himself, watching the blush creep up from her low, scooped neckline. He met her eyes. A pretty shade of light green, they looked nervous and wary, but as they locked with his, a hint of interest—and maybe desire?—seemed to kindle in their depths.

Answering warmth stole up his neck, and he knew he was turning a dusky red. Deliberately looking away, Kendra walked toward the family's small private chapel, Jason and Colin at her sides. Their wives trailed behind, a tiny, pink-dressed girl holding their hands, tripping along and giggling between them.

In no time at all, Trick found himself mounting the chapel's stone steps. Inside, sunshine streamed through brilliant-colored windows to cast the sanctuary in rainbow hues. Squaring his shoulders, he went to face the parson. Jason and Colin kissed their sister before Ford walked her to join Trick at the altar, delivering her into his care with a kiss and a hug and something whispered into her ear that Trick wished he could hear.

Kendra shook her head and rolled her eyes as she pulled away.

Every inch of Trick was aware of her proximity. Just standing beside her, his body heated. Her fiery hair was covered by a fine lace veil that framed her face, the ends tucked into her neckline. Trick reached for her hand, feeling it cold and clammy in his.

"Wait," he said, and pulled her to the side of the sanctuary, ignoring the questioning looks on her siblings' faces.

"You don't have to go through with this," he told her in a whisper.

She looked even more at a loss than before. "I...I don't think—"

"I'll be asked to take my vows first. When the time comes, if you wish to call this off, just shake your head no and I won't say 'I will.'"

Lifting her hand, he ran his fingers over the bracelet's amber stones, feeling slightly disoriented at the sight of the family heirloom on her wrist. It made this all seem so real, yet unreal at the same time.

He looked up. "I don't expect they can actually force us to marry," he added, thinking of Colin's sword and hoping he was right.

She peeked around at her brothers, then lifted her chin. "If you're willing, then I am, too."

He had his reasons to be willing...he just wondered what hers were. What was wrong with her, then, that she thought she couldn't do better than a robber for a husband? He wasn't really one, of course, but he was aware she didn't know that—doubly aware, since her brothers had made a point of keeping his identity from her, to the extent of asking this afternoon if it would be acceptable for his title to be left out of the proceedings.

She had a problem with dukes, they'd said, and since he didn't care for the title either, he hardly thought it mattered. Married was married.

"Very well, then." He nodded, and they returned to the altar.

The clergyman began the ceremony, and Kendra kept looking around, as though she expected something unforeseen to happen. Not that Trick could blame her. He found this more than a little disconcerting himself.

The preliminaries went entirely too quickly. Nobody showed just cause why they could not be lawfully joined together, and before Trick knew it, the parson was reciting the vows.

"Patrick Iain Caldwell, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"

Trick slanted Kendra a glance, but she didn't shake her head. "I will," he said, and his heart flip-flopped with the enormity of the step he was taking, but also with a sudden realization.

His arms itched to hold her; his mouth ached to take hers. And thanks to her scheming brothers, she had no idea he was a duke.

Whatever her reasons, she wasn't marrying him for his title or his money. She didn't know he had either. She wasn't marrying the Duke of Amberley—she was marrying Trick Caldwell.

Despite the bizarre circumstances, the thought lit a hidden place in his heart.

A few more words, a simple gold band slid onto Kendra's finger, and Trick's arms slipped around her waist, just as they had yesterday. He bent his head toward hers, toward those soft lips that had been tempting him since he'd first laid eyes on her.

As his mouth met hers, she melted against him, her lavender scent surrounding him like a cloud. Every bit as responsive as he'd hoped, she kissed him back, untutored but amazingly eager. And so far as she knew, she was kissing plain Trick Caldwell.

When her brothers cleared their throats, he reluctantly pulled away. He couldn't wait to see what pleasures lay in store when he brought her to the cottage tonight.

She wouldn't discover until tomorrow that she was a duchess.

CHAPTER TEN

An impromptu wedding feast was set out on the mahogany table in Cainewood's dining room. Kendra sat beside her new husband, her head still spinning with disbelief.

She'd been shocked speechless when the priest concluded the ceremony, shook hands all around, and walked through the front door of the chapel, all without her brothers bursting into laughter. Just yesterday she'd been an innocent girl, fantasizing about a man she barely knew, and now it looked like tonight she'd be his woman, body and soul.

But this couldn't be what it looked like.

Apparently the script called for the farce to go on a little longer. Yet she was willing to wager that before night fell, her brothers would be sending her up to her old bedchamber, congratulating themselves on the success of their practical joke.

"Aren't you going to cut the cake, Kendra?"

Startled, she looked to Amy. Her sister-in-law was grinning widely and holding out a knife. Dominating the center of the table, the bride cake was double frosted, sugar over almond icing. Despite her churning stomach, Kendra's mouth watered; she loved sweets.

Very well, then. If her brothers wished to continue the charade, she'd play her part.

Rising and taking the knife, she reached to cut the confection and felt Trick's hand envelop hers. She turned her head, raising astonished eyes to find him leaning over her, bracing himself with one hand on the table. "We've yet to feast, leannan." He nodded toward the servants still carrying in platters.

"Ah, Trick," Jason said, a trace of laughter in his voice. "It's obvious you don't know your wife. She always eats dessert first."

Colin nodded. "And she's taught Amy her unfortunate habit."

"Cake!" baby Jewel crowed gleefully, banging her spoon on the table.

"Second word she learned," Colin informed them dryly. "Right after Mama and before Papa."

"We've other nasty habits, I'm afraid," Ford added with a snort. "Perhaps you moved too quickly in aligning yourself with the Chases, my friend."

Beneath his tousled hair, Trick's eyes narrowed. "I moved too quickly?"

His hand was still on Kendra's, and she stiffened at his words. He seemed to be taking this seriously. Could it be he wasn't in on the joke? Or...

Could it be this was no joke?

Suddenly unsure, she looked around the table at her brothers' faces. Their expressions told her nothing.

When she saw Colin with Amy and Jewel, and Jason together with Cait, she couldn't help but wish for a family of her own like those her brothers were creating. A whole family, like the one she'd been cheated of growing up parentless during the Civil War and Commonwealth years. But a romantic marriage with any of the suitors her brothers had presented would be as likely as Zeus descending from the sky.

This was her life they were toying with. She bit the inside of her cheek. Caithren caught her gaze and returned it with heart-wrenching sympathy.

When Trick moved to pull back the knife, she held steady. He laughed suddenly, then shot her a broad, rakish smile. Noticing the tiny chip on his front tooth, she licked her lips, wishing her tongue were tasting that beautiful mouth instead. And she stopped breathing, shocked at her thoughts.

She'd never put her tongue in a man's mouth—never even thought of such a thing. Wherever had that idea come from? Besides, he'd probably bite it off. If this was no joke, he was due a pound of Chase flesh, and she knew it.

But instead of turning the knife on her, he slipped her a wink. "Come, we'll cut it together."

The man was an enigma, to be sure. Kendra drew a calming breath as they sliced the cake, his hand warm over hers. She placed a piece on Amy's plate, then one on her own.

All the while, Trick remained standing beside her. She could feel his gaze, feel him shifting, but before she had time to react, he'd reached and plucked the veil from her head.

"What!" She turned and snatched it from his hands.

"I wanted to see your...hair," he finished lamely, blinking at her in seeming bemusement. "What the hell did you do to it?"

"Do to it?"

"The..." He waved a finger, drawing spirals in the air. "The..."

"Curls?" Kendra supplied helpfully. She couldn't help but grin at his expression. "Jane worked on it for an hour. Do you like it?"

"No," he said flatly. "I liked it before." He leaned close, whispering to her alone. "Wild, streaming down your back."

"Oh." She felt a blush heat her face. "After this, I'll take it down."

"After this, I'll take it down."

The wispy lace fluttered from her fingers to the soft blue Oriental carpet. Feeling more confused by the moment, she plopped back onto her chair.

"Mmm...porcupine," Trick said, reseating himself with a satisfied smile. "At least I've married into a family that appreciates good food."

The "porcupine" was actually a stuffed breast of veal, larded all over and studded with small strips of ham, bacon, and pickled cucumber. Trick smacked his lips and added a healthy portion to his already-loaded plate.

"Leave room—we've surprise as well," Colin warned. Spearing a bite of cake, Kendra looked up as a servant set the dish called surprise on the table. A stuffed calf's head served up in its original shape, it had bunches of myrtle stuck into its eyes and looked very surprised indeed.

The steam rose off it in tantalizing swirls...and it bellowed.

Kendra screamed. A piece of cake went flying off Amy's fork, splattering on one of the diamond-paned leaded windows. Ford jumped up, his lattice-backed chair clunking to the floor behind him. Trick and Jason froze.

When the calf bellowed again, Kendra rushed from her chair to take shelter in the door frame with Cait, both poised for flight. Stopping only to snatch up baby Jewel, Amy joined them. The women all clung together, staring. Squished between their bodies, Jewel let out a wail.

The calf's head bellowed once more...

No, it croaked.

With a half-amused, half-disgusted groan, Trick dropped his fork, reached to pry the calf's mouth open wider, and lifted its heavy pink tongue. A toad hopped out and looked around, blinking its bulbous eyes, before it leapt off the table and headed toward the door.

The women broke apart to let it pass between them. Amongst gales of laughter from the men, Kendra thwacked Colin on the head as she returned to her seat. "For the love of God! Have you no sense of propriety?"

"A question of propriety from your lips, little sister?" Colin rubbed his head good-naturedly. "Was it not just yesterday we found you—"

"Hush, Colin." Amy dumped their sobbing daughter on her husband's lap. "Here. You made her cry, she's yours." She seated herself and raised her fork, but not before sending him a tolerant smile.

Jewel quieted when Colin bounced her on his knee. "Well, you've seen us at our worst now," he said to Trick around a mouthful of dressed artichoke bottoms. "Welcome to the family."

Trick shrugged noncommittally. Watching him scan the group around the table, Kendra tried to imagine what he was thinking.

It couldn't be good.

It was time to bring this charade to an end. She turned to Jason. "How will you get along without me here to direct the household?"

"We'll manage," her brother said blithely, wrapping an arm around his competent wife. His fingertips played idly in her dark-blond hair. "I set Jane to packing your things."

Trick touched Kendra's hand. "Jane is your maid, I presume? She can follow tomorrow. You'll send her along, Cainewood?"

"Certainly."

"But—" Kendra started.

"Tomorrow," Trick repeated, cutting her off. "You won't be needing her tonight."

At the look in his eyes—the keen hunger—Kendra's spoon clattered to her plate. He was acting as though they were really married, talking of maids and spending the night together.

Did highwaymen even have servants? She certainly hadn't seen any at the cottage. Was she really married to this man? Fingering the bracelet around her wrist, she recalled what little she knew of him.

It wasn't much, and it wasn't good.

"But you're—" Something in his warm eyes made her falter. "—a highwayman," she finished weakly.

Jason reached for the bread. "Yes, we need to talk about that."

Trick tore his gaze from Kendra. "Aye?"

"It has got to stop."

Trick chewed thoughtfully, then sipped some wine. The silence stretched between him and Jason, almost as though it were a palpable barrier.

"I mean it, Trick. You don't need the money."

"Aye? You think not?" A corner of Trick's wide mouth turned up, and Kendra would swear he was about to start laughing.

Did he really not need the money? Had he enough put aside, then? Could highway robbery be that lucrative?

There was something missing here. But she couldn't seem to think straight in his presence; it had been that way since she'd first laid eyes on him. She felt all hot and bothered, and her brain refused to work.

"Why do you do it?" Ford asked.

With a shake of his head, Trick tossed the hair from his eyes and looked straight at her twin. "Maybe it's a pleasant amusement."

"You're finished, Trick." Jason's voice brooked no nonsense. He set down his fork. "Find your pleasure somewhere else."

The golden gaze settled on Kendra again and burned into hers. "Aye," Trick said slowly, softly. "That I will."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The sun was setting, painting the sky in muted tones as they made their way to Trick's home in the impressive two-seater caleche he'd driven to Cainewood. Borrowed, most likely, Kendra thought, along with the matched bay horses...at least she fervently hoped he hadn't stolen them.

A furtive glance to the rear convinced her they weren't being followed—she wasn't being rescued—by any of her brothers. "I cannot believe it," she said.

Trick gave her a long, considered look before responding in that characteristic unhurried way of his. "You cannot believe what?"

"I cannot believe I'm married. It happened so fast."

He raked a hand through his shining hair. "Why did you go through with it?"

"I never thought it was real. Even now, I'm half-expecting one of my brothers to ride up laughing at their masterful joke."

"They're not coming," Trick said.

"I know." And she knew as well that some tiny part of her had wondered if the wedding might be real all along, and even—maybe—hoped that it was. Trick was the only man with whom she'd ever felt a sort of magic.

But that didn't stop her from wanting to sink her claws into her too-clever brothers.

How dare they scheme like this, marrying her to a known outlaw? He could be a murderer, for all she knew! The hard length of his rapier rode in the sword belt on his right. Her brothers carried weapons as well, of course, but they didn't draw and use them on a daily basis.

Her teeth ached from clenching them. Consciously relaxing her jaw, she took a deep breath. "I know they're not coming. I'm so furious with them, I swear I won't speak to them for weeks. But I still cannot believe it. All along, I was certain this was a prank." That desperate conviction had helped her cope all the day, and it was frightening to let go of it. "I thought they were trying to teach me a lesson."

Trick turned to her, a hint of a smile on his wide mouth. "Are you due to be taught a lesson?"

"No!" Why did his tone make her so flustered? "They refused to tell me whether you're titled. Are you? Who are you?"

"I'm your husband," he said carefully. "And I agree with your brothers that that's all you need to know for now."

She glared at him through the growing dark. He was as obstinate as her brothers. Whatever had made her believe, even for a fleeting second, that the magic she'd felt in his arms could be enough to sustain a relationship? "I can vow not to talk to you as well, you know."

"What makes you think I'm interested in talking tonight?"

The question was uttered in a voice so silky smooth, it robbed her of breath. "They manipulated you, too," she said, hugging herself to hide the attack of nerves. "Aren't you angry?"

"Aye, a bit perhaps." He guided the caleche off the main road, onto a less-traveled path. "But not overmuch. And not at you. I know this isn't your fault." When she offered him a tremulous smile, his gaze softened, and his words took on the lilt of his homeland. "It's not such a bad bargain I've made, aye?"

Kendra blushed wildly, thankful for the cover of darkness. A fair bargain, was she? She couldn't think of anything to say in return to such a statement, so she remained silent, tightening her arms about her middle.

Perhaps thinking she was cold, Trick wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She should be terrified, she thought vaguely. She knew nothing of men in an intimate way, and he was a virtual stranger.

But his warmth was oddly comforting. She scooted closer, and when his long fingers rubbed up and down her arm, she melted against him, thinking about when she first saw him and how she'd wanted him to notice her. Remembering yesterday in the cottage, and how much she'd craved his kiss.

And then today, their first kiss in the chapel. Spellbinding it had been, his mouth gentle and demanding at the same time. That single indelible kiss had been everything she'd imagined and more. It had ignited a fire in her blood, making her wonder what might come next.

She'd barely become accustomed to his nearness when the caleche bumped off the path and over a grassy knoll, following a faint trail that led to the cottage. Windows glowed in the distance, the lamps inside already lit.

The cottage looked warm and welcoming, but as they rolled to a stop, she tensed. Too soon he would expect her to become his wife in more than just name, and, despite her curiosity, she wasn't sure she could go through with it.

He helped her down and guided her inside with a hand at the small of her back, touching her where she wasn't used to being touched. Shutting the door behind them, he eased her back against it.

Close. Entirely too close. His gaze locked on hers, his warmth penetrating the small space between them. She could smell the soap-fresh masculine scent of him—sandalwood, if she wasn't mistaken. She wouldn't expect a highwayman to use imported soap, but then, little about any of this had matched her expectations.

Just when she thought she might panic, he turned away. "I'm going to settle the horses, aye?"

The last time he'd said those words they hadn't been man and wife, but now the expression in his whisky-gold eyes left Kendra in no doubt as to his plans for the evening. Before she could react, the door shut behind him.

How could this be happening to her?

Her fashionable high Louis-heeled shoes made a loud, unnerving sound as she walked around the main room, picking things up and putting them down at random. She tried the bottom drawer of the desk again, but it was still stuck tight.

What had she expected? She'd first tried it only yesterday.

This was incredible.

Too soon, Trick blew through the doorway with a smile of anticipation that made her breath catch in her throat. He strolled straight to the cabinet and poured them each a goblet of wine. Yesterday's cups were gone, the broken shards of glass picked up, the stain nonexistent, as though the spill had never happened.

But it had happened, and because of it, she was married to Trick Caldwell.

"Here," he said, handing her a goblet. He tapped his against it, the tinkle of expensive crystal sounding pure and loud in the silence that stretched between them. "Slàinte mhór."

Kendra watched his throat muscles work as he drank deeply. Perhaps he wasn't as cavalier about this as he made himself out to be. Her head spinning even without the wine, she took a cautious sip. "Sl...what?"

With a gentle smile, he set down his glass and moved to her, slipping his arms about her waist. "Good health—a toast," he translated quietly. "And don't be too impressed. It's all the Gaelic I can remember."

"I...I'm..." Feeling dizzy, her heart pounding, Kendra placed one hand on his broad chest and leaned into him, knowing she was giving him the wrong idea but unable to help herself. She felt abandoned and confused, and he was her only anchor. "I'm not impressed."

"Oh, aren't you now?" he drawled, taking the goblet from her other hand. He bent to set it beside his on the table, and when he came back up, his mouth descended on hers.

Hot. Hot and soft. That was all Kendra could think. Then hard and urgent. His lips opened, coaxing hers to do the same. Then his tongue was in her mouth, slick and tender.

Though the mere thought of such a thing had been foreign until this evening, she wasn't surprised to find that her instincts had been right. Tentatively she touched her own tongue to that tiny chip on his front tooth, just the way she had imagined.

It was a catalyst. Her body responded with a tingling flush of pleasure, and her arms clenched around him, lest she drop to her knees.

She felt a low, pleased chuckle rumble from his chest into hers—from his mouth into hers, too—vibrating within her. His hands moved to her waist, to keep her from falling. When he broke the kiss, she fought to catch her breath.

"Still not impressed, lassie?"

Her answer was a low moan as she reached to pull his head back down to hers, twining her fingers in his silky hair. She was trembling again, but not with fear; instead with a need she found thrilling. Their tongues fenced, and Kendra tasted wine and Trick, sweet and tart and so exciting, she thought she might die from the pleasure.

Not one to do anything halfway, she reached inside his blue velvet surcoat to pull at his shirt. It seemed impossibly long—to his knees, she'd swear—but it finally came loose, and she slipped her hands up under it, to feel the warm contours of his torso.

He jumped and pulled back, almost as though he hadn't been aware of what she'd been doing. Kendra's chest heaved as his eyes, darkened to bronze, burned into her own.

"Sweet Mary. You're so..." He gave a shaky laugh. "I almost dragged you to the floor."

Kendra blushed to realize she would have gone right down on the floor with him, no doubt about it. Maybe this wedding night would be easier than she'd thought.

He drew a steadying breath and ran a hand back through his hair, and she watched, transfixed, as the front flopped back down into place. "Why don't you cut it?" she asked.

"Hmm?" His darkened gaze still held hers.

"Your hair, where it hangs down in your eyes."

"Maybe I'm just lazy," he suggested.

"You're hiding," she countered.

"Not tonight." He moved close again and ran his warm hands lightly over her back. "Shall we repair to the bedchamber?"

Kendra didn't think her face could get any hotter, but it did as he took her by the hand and led her down the corridor. The bedchamber had been cleaned up, too; no trace remained of the broken washbowl or its spilled contents. A new one stood in its place.

And, of course, there was the bed. Her gaze locked on it, anticipation and apprehension warring somewhere in her stomach.

"Are you all right?" Trick asked.

She nodded, swallowing hard.

"Sit," he said, dropping onto the room's only chair.

There was no other place to sit but the bed. A big bed, very big for a "cottage," and especially big for this small chamber. Somehow yesterday that had failed to register. It was a plush feather bed, too, not straw or wool. The bed-hangings, of palest ice-blue silk, were free of fussy frills and looked very costly and eminently tasteful.

The counterpane had already been folded back. She gingerly pushed aside an embroidered coverlet and lowered herself to sit on smooth, luxurious sheets.

"Second thoughts?" Trick watched her avidly, a pained half-smile on his face. "I offered you a way out of the wedding," he said on a sigh. "I can also offer you a way out of the wedding night."

Sincere though it might be, she couldn't help but notice the "offer" was uttered in a voice laced with frustration.

"I hope to sire an heir," he added, "but it doesn't have to be tonight. I know this has happened quickly."

A tempting offer, indeed. But his eyes seemed to plead with her. And her own body was pleading as well, her heart still racing in response to his enthralling kisses.

She remained caught in that imploring gaze while he came forward and went down on a knee before her. Silently lifting her hand, he started working the clasp on the amber bracelet.

"It's lovely." She sighed, feeling tingles as his fingers brushed her wrist. "Was it really from you, then?"

"Aye." Slowly he drew it off, hefting the weight in one hand. "It belonged to my grandmother, and her mother before her."

"Then why doesn't your mother have it now?"

"My father never considered her worthy."

Worthy. Trick barely knew her, yet he considered her worthy. She tried to wrap her mind around the significance of that, but found herself distracted when he raised her now-bare wrist and placed a warm kiss to the inside, where her blood ran near the surface.

The gesture seemed more intimate than a kiss on the mouth.

She shivered as he moved to set the amber bracelet on the night table. The little metallic click made her jump.

"Relax," he said, returning to the chair.

But watching him remove his cravat and loosen the laces on his shirt, she felt anything but relaxed.

He removed his boots and stockings. "So...do you want out?"

She shook her head infinitesimally.

"I'll play your maid, since she's not here," he said, moving to her with an easy smile. He knelt at her feet and pulled off her shoes. "Jane, right?"

"Yes, Jane."

He reached beneath her skirts, feeling for the ribbons that tied her garters. No man had ever touched her legs. "Trick, I—"

She broke off, because she didn't know what to say. She had no cause to protest—he was her husband. And he'd offered her an out.

Twice.

"Does your maid not do this?"

"Well, yes." She felt a garter come loose, and his fingers traced down her legs, rolling the stocking off in a way that made little darts of pleasure shimmer through her. "But...with Jane it doesn't feel like this," she managed.

"I would hope not." He raised a brow, making short work of the second garter, then held it up, all lace and satin ribbon. "A lovely little French confection, aye?"

"Madame Beaumont imports them. How did you know?"

He shrugged. "Lucky guess."

She wondered how many other French garters he'd removed over the years. He certainly seemed rather good at it.

Her second stocking came off in a whisper of silk, and he stood, bringing her up with him. He pressed his warm lips to her forehead, and she melted a little inside.

He gathered her close, resting his chin on her crown. "Your hair smells like lavender fields, leannan."

His low, throaty voice went right through her. She'd wondered what being with a man was all about, and now she had a husband of her own.

Determined to calm her quivering nerves, to project an inner confidence she didn't feel, she slipped her arms beneath his coat and leaned back to look up at him. "I thought that toast was the only Gaelic you knew."

"Pardon?"

"What does that mean, leannan?"

"I...I'm not sure." His brow creased. "It just slipped out. My mother used to call me that, I think."

"Maybe it means 'misbehaving young man.'"

His laughter filled the small chamber. "I think not." Still smiling, he moved to detach her stomacher. "Does your maid do this?" He set it on a chest at the foot of the bed. "And this?" His long fingers loosened her laces.

"Yes," she whispered, watching as he worked the gown over her shoulders and down to pool in a shimmer at her feet. The silver underskirt glistened in the firelight.

When...how had it been lit? Kendra wondered vaguely. But Trick's hot mouth was on her neck, doing strange things to the pit of her stomach, and she couldn't seem to think straight.

He lifted his head and gazed down at her. From her vantage point below him, she saw his eyes darken beneath the golden fringe. Then he stepped back, and his gaze traveled the length of her chemise-clad form.

In return, she boldly perused him. Or at least she tried. Unfortunately, the shirt, which did reach his knees, hung from beneath his velvet surcoat, quite effectively concealing him from her view.

She stepped from the folds of her gown to come forward and tug off his coat. The shirt went next, over his head to join the clothes on the floor. At the sight of his bare torso, her knees went weak.

A light sprinkling of blond hair glimmered in the firelight. She reached to touch him, her palms flat against his chest, caressing, learning the indentations, the sleekness of his skin over the tautness underneath, the springiness of the crisp golden curls. Her breath hitched when his muscles twitched beneath her questing fingers.

"Jesus," Trick breathed. "You're no simpering miss now, are you? Are you sure you've never—"

"I'm sure." Kendra's cheeks heated. "It's just...you feel..." She hid her flaming face against his chest, certain he would think her wanton.

But those thoughts didn't stop her hands from continuing their exploration, moving around him to feel the hard, smooth planes of his back. His chest hair tickled her nose, and without thinking, her tongue flicked out to taste his skin, warm and just the tiniest bit salty. She licked again and inhaled his scent, sandalwood and Trick, musky and exciting.

"Goodness, I want to eat you up," she whispered under her breath.

A low chuckle rumbled through his chest. "Be my guest." His voice came rough as his hands moved to pull the pins from her hair. "This marriage seems more suitable by the minute. I never dreamed—what is this?" He jerked back, holding up a long red curl, his face registering utter disbelief.

"It's a false curl. To make my hair plumper."

"Plumper? Who the hell needs plump hair?"

He raked his fingers through her tresses, coming out with two more curls and...

"Wires? Why wires?"

"To make the curls stand out." Kendra shifted on her feet, suddenly feeling like Medusa. She tugged her own hands through her hair, plucking out several more wires and three additional curls. "That's six? I think that's all."

"Where do you get these? Wait—I'd rather not know." He tossed the curls away in disgust and combed the tangles from her hair with his fingers. "Have you any more surprises for me, then? Is your pretty nose your own? Maybe some false hips are hiding beneath that lovely chemise?"

"No." Her hands went to her hips. "These are mine. You don't...they're too wide, you think?"

"Nothing about you is wide." He settled her hair over her shoulders, a curtain down her back. "Except perhaps your smile, and that hair, but we won't be seeing that again now, will we? Or should I have thrown those curls into the fireplace?" He laughed as his hands covered hers, his thumbs tracing her hipbones. "Ah, the better to bear my children, aye?"

"Trick, the things you say..."

"Ah..." He leaned over her. "The things I say are nothing compared to the things I'll do." His hands moved to cup her face, and he bent her back for a long, deep kiss.

Her knees buckled. Trick caught her, laughing low, and swung her into his arms to deposit her on the bed. She felt dwarfed in its middle, the bedposts and ice-blue damask towering around her, but when Trick came down next to her, the bed was the last thing on her mind.

"Does your maid do this?" he asked, working the gossamer chemise up her legs.

"N-no. At least, not like that," she breathed, feeling his fingers skim the sensitive insides of her thighs. "No one has ever done—" She gasped.

"It's glad I am to hear it." Refocusing his attentions, he moved up to tease her breasts, and she watched her nipples pucker beneath the filmy fabric. It was scandalous, but wonderful all the same. He drew the garment off her shoulders, then bent his head and fastened his lips on one rosy peak.

Kendra shuddered. Hot and wet, his mouth elicited a melting sweetness within her. She arched with pleasure, tangling her fingers into his hair. A low hum of satisfaction vibrated from his throat into her body, and she arched again when he licked his way to her other breast and lavished it with little kisses and gentle bites whose mild sting he suckled away.

Her senses spun, and an ache started building deep inside her.

Just when she thought she couldn't take any more, he sat up and helped her out of her chemise. Sucking in a breath, he stared down at her, then broke into a grin that had her heart lurching.

Far beyond embarrassment, she only reached for him, desperate to feel him again. With a strangled laugh, he dodged her grasp and hurried out of his breeches.

She stilled at the sight. Dear God, he was beautiful.

But there was no way he could fit.

"Leannan." Clearly unaware of her distress, he lowered himself to the bed and molded his body to hers, drawing up the coverlet to lock in their warmth.

"Trick—"

A smile curved his lips before his mouth descended to meet hers. And then he was kissing her, skimming her body with worshipful fingers, driving every coherent thought—and worry—from her brain.

Almost. She froze again when he reached to part her legs. "You're wet," he whispered.

She was. And his touch felt exquisite. For long minutes he skillfully teased her to pleasure, until she writhed against him with a strange, marvelous feeling so urgent she wondered how she could bear it.

Her hands dug into his shoulders, her nails raked his back, her fingers clawed at his hair. And all the while he kissed her, his mouth fused to hers, hot and tasting of the forbidden.

She felt melted inside, too weak to protest when he shifted over her. "Leannan," he breathed, pushing into her, slowly at first. Then harder when he seemed to hit a barrier—a quick thrust that seemed to tear her apart.

The melting feeling died instantly, and she stiffened, every nerve in her body screaming with fiery pain.

"Oh, my God! Get off of me, Trick!" She'd known he wouldn't fit. "Stop it! Now!"

"Just wait, lea—"

"No!" She pushed at his chest, biting her lip to stop the tears that flooded her eyes.

"Hearts wounds, Kendra. Just wait—it'll get better—"

"No," she sobbed out. "Please, just get out of me." She twisted under him. "Please!"

He shifted off her body. "Hell, I don't believe this." He lay there, breathing heavily for a minute, then rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up, rubbing his face with his hands. "I just do not believe this."

She didn't believe it, either.

He dropped his hands and turned to her, reaching for her face. "Sweet Jesus, I'm sorry," he murmured, caressing one tear-stained cheek. "I should have been slower, more gentle. I thought you were ready. You were so passionate. So wet..."

"You won't fit."

"What?" His fingertips stilled on her chin.

"You don't fit. We shouldn't have been married." Sniffling, she pushed his hand away and swiped the wetness from her cheeks. "Just leave me alone."

"Kendra—"

"Leave me alone."

She lay rigid as a sugar stick while he rose and drew a dressing gown from the wardrobe, tying it at his waist with a jerky motion borne of frustration. Without saying another word, he left the room.

Still shaking, she sat up and threw off the coverlet, staring between her spread legs. Dear God, she was bleeding.

Did any women actually like to do this?

No wonder her brothers had married her off without telling her what would happen. She'd have run in the other direction as fast as her legs would carry her—and well they knew it.

Trembling, she made her way to the washbasin and cleaned up, then climbed back into the bed and lay waiting. There was nothing else she could do. For better or worse, she was wed to Trick Caldwell.

It certainly couldn't get worse.

It wasn't long before he came back into the room and stood over her. His golden hair gleamed in the firelight. A muscle twitched in his clenched jaw.

Her own jaw set in response. "I told you to leave me alone."

"You're my wife."

She flinched under his steadfast gaze; then her spine stiffened. "I'm bleeding, Trick. You hurt me. For God's sake, you cannot expect me to do that again."

He stared at her, incredulous. "Hurt you?" he repeated slowly. "I know some women feel pain the first time, but—"

He broke off, looking to the ceiling—for patience, she supposed.

"Sweet Mary, I've never seen a woman so responsive, until—"

"That's because I didn't know what it was leading to," she muttered miserably. "Didn't you hear what I told you? I'm bleeding."

He dropped onto the mattress. "Did you come to this marriage a complete innocent? Did your brothers not tell you anything? Anything at all?"

"My brothers always stuttered when I brought up anything of the sort. I believe they each think one of the others took care of this matter."

He shook his head, clearly sympathizing with her brothers' predicament. But his voice gentled. "Do you know nothing of mating, then, my virgin bride?"

"Of course I know something! I've lived in the countryside most of my life. I've seen animals in the fields—" Quite suddenly, she sat up. "Why didn't you go from behind? The animals never seem to feel pain—"

"From behind?" In a complete reversal of mood, Trick collapsed into a heap on the bed and laughed until tears leaked from his eyes. "It's possible, and I suppose we'll get around to trying it eventually, but I don't think—" Pushing himself up, he put a hand on her arm. "Look, it's sorry I am that you weren't prepared, and even more sorry I didn't take our...courtship...more slowly. I knew I should have, or I would never have offered to wait, never mind that I didn't really want to. But it won't hurt the next time, I promise."

She jerked her arm away, trembling all over again. "You're right. Because there won't be a next time."

He raked a hand through his hair. "You think not?"

As she watched it flop back into place, she licked her lips. "I know not, Trick. I mean it. I won't let you."

He stared at her for a good long while; she was sure he could hear her heart pounding in the stillness. Then his gaze lit with determination.

He took a deep breath and blew it out before leaning close.

"You'll let me, lass." One of his fingers trailed, achingly slow, from her forehead along the bridge of her nose, past her lips, her chin, her neck, and all the way between her breasts, dragging the covers down as he went. He tossed the hair from his eyes and captured her gaze with his, his finger trailing lower, dipping into her navel and stopping there, pressing lightly.

"You won't only let me," he said, his voice low, his accent so thick she had to strain to catch the words, "you'll beg me."

He paused for so long, so still, that Kendra wondered if he'd ceased breathing. Then he drew away and turned over, leaving her staring at his back and quivering from head to toe.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The next morning, Kendra was more than relieved when Trick awakened her with a breakfast tray and told her he had "things to take care of" and would return late in the afternoon. She guessed he'd gone out to play the highwayman again and didn't quite know how she felt about that.

Or him.

Never mind that he knew how to make a decent cup of chocolate with plenty of sugar to satisfy her sweet tooth, she hadn't any idea what to say to the man.

It felt a mite ridiculous to put on the wedding dress again, but she had nothing else to wear until her maid arrived with her luggage. She washed up and used Trick's comb to neaten her hair, then clasped on the amber bracelet, pausing for a moment to appreciate how the diamonds caught the light. Though she had little doubt Trick no longer considered her "worthy," the bracelet was beautiful, and she intended to enjoy it.

She munched on bread spread with orange butter as she wandered about the cottage. There were three more rooms off the corridor, but Trick had apparently found no use for them. The few pieces of furniture were covered in sheets, the floors and walls clean but unadorned.

Her work was cut out for her, but at least it would give her something to occupy her time. She was used to caring for an entire estate and found it hard to imagine what she would do with herself here. Looking forward to Jane showing up with her things, she anticipated the two of them spending a pleasant couple of days rearranging furniture and unpacking before she went stark raving mad with inactivity.

She chose a room for Jane and another she thought would suffice for herself, since she didn't plan to share with Trick anymore. The fourth and last room would make a nice nursery, except she had no intention of doing what it would take to fill it.

No wonder Caithren had yet to conceive.

Finished with her survey in a depressingly short time, she briefly considered going home to yell at her brothers, but remembered she wasn't speaking to them. She wandered to the bookshelves that lined the corridor. Noticing an abundance of poetry, she chose a book of Shakespeare's sonnets and the first two volumes of Milton's Paradise Lost, then sat herself in the main room to await her maid's arrival.

She was bored silly by the time Trick showed up, instead.

He'd said he wanted to give her a "tour of the countryside," as though she hadn't lived in the countryside half her life. He'd brought an elaborate supper for them to share in the caleche on the way, though she couldn't imagine where he'd obtained it.

They'd driven through miles of rich farmland and a country village called Amberley that bustled with prosperity. All the while, he'd kept up an entertaining travelogue but raised no personal subjects. Nor had he responded to her discreet probing, skillfully turning the topic back to the scenery instead.

Three hours later she knew nothing more about him than she had when she said her vows. And after all his threats last night—"you'll beg me" echoed in her head—he hadn't even touched her.

Not that she wasn't relieved, but nothing about this man added up, and that in itself was disquieting.

The sun was low in the sky when she dropped her napkin into the picnic basket and licked roast chicken off her fingers. "What if Jane and my trunks arrive and we're not home to meet her?"

"Relax, leannan. Don't worry yourself. We'll be there soon." He put his hand on her knee, then looked down and snatched it back, flexing it before gripping the caleche's reins.

Her knee tingled where his fingers had lain. "But—"

"Don't worry," he repeated. "We're almost home now."

"No, we're not." She had an excellent sense of direction. Though their meandering journey had brought them back near the cottage, he was now driving the opposite way. "It's—"

"There." He inclined his head as he guided the caleche off the road and onto a well-groomed drive. A very long drive. Tall trees lined the way, and an enormous mansion stood at the end.

Built of russet brick with more windows and chimneys than she could count, the mansion had to be at least the size of Cainewood Castle. Except Cainewood was mostly ancient, damaged, and closed-up, while this home sparkled with newness.

"There?" She frowned at an ostentatious clock tower atop the building. Eight o'clock. Little more than a day since she'd been wed, and she'd never felt so lost in her life. "Whatever do you mean? What is this?"

"Your new home." His wide mouth quirked in a half-smile. "Do you like it?"

"L-like it?" she sputtered. "I don't understand." Her hands twisted together in her lap, her fingers finding the amber bracelet and worrying the smooth, polished stones. "Do you work here?"

He blinked, then smiled wider. "Why, yes, I do."

"What of the cottage?"

"No, I don't work there. Not usually, in any case. It's more a place to escape, get off by myself for a while—ah, here we are."

Puzzled, Kendra turned from Trick to the house, where the double doors were flung open and a steady stream of crimson-liveried servants poured out and down the wide marble steps.

"Welcome home, your grace."

"Our congratulations!"

"Such a lovely bride!"

"Your grace." A straight-backed, gray-haired man extended one white-gloved hand to Kendra, presumably to help her down.

She paused before putting her fingers in his, looking about in utter confusion. "Your grace?" she repeated under her breath.

"Your grace," Trick confirmed, helping her to the gravel. Two grooms appeared from nowhere and took the caleche while more servants scurried to join the double line that flanked the tall, carved front doors.

Trick grasped Kendra by the elbow and guided her toward the steps. "May I present my wife, the Duchess of Amberley. I trust you will all do your best to see she's happy here."

Happy? She nodded and smiled stiffly, all the while planning Trick's murder.

Which would come right after her brothers'.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"You're a duke! The Duke of Amberley, no less!" It was unbelievable. No wonder Colin had said the amber bracelet was fitting. She hooked two fingers through it, barely resisting an urge to rip it off.

"Such venom. God's blood, you say it as though a duke is the worst sort of knave."

"In this case, he is." Kendra paced the red-velvet-hung bedchamber. "How dare you keep such a secret from me!"

"I don't hold with lying, Kendra. But your brothers asked me not to tell you, and I reckoned it was harmless enough, in the scheme of things."

"Harmless? You tricked me! I would never have married you had I known—"

"Rubbish. You were in love with me."

Kendra wanted to slap the smug look off his handsome face. "Love, hah! Why, I don't even know you. Wherever did you get such an absurd idea?"

"Your brothers told me."

"They knew nothing about it." Feeling color creep into her cheeks, she hastened to add, "It wouldn't matter, anyway. Whatever I may or may not have felt for you was destroyed by your lie, not to mention last night."

"Hearts wounds, not that again." Trick sighed and dropped onto a tufted brocade chair. "I told you, it was only the first time. It won't hurt from now on."

She only looked at him, her jaw set.

"And what, pray tell, is so bad about being a duchess? Most women would be thrilled beyond words."

"I am never beyond words."

"Why does that not surprise me?" Trick returned dryly. He crossed his long legs at the ankles. "I really don't understand this, Kendra. How can marrying a duke be such a disastrous occurrence?"

"It's too hard to explain."

"Try." He crossed his arms. "I'm listening."

With a huff of impatience, she sat on the red velvet bed. She parked her hands behind her and looked up, trying to think. Above her loomed the underside of a gathered silk canopy fit for a king.

Or a duke, ranked above everyone but royalty.

"Your grace, it isn't the title itself that sets my teeth on edge, but what it symbolizes. To me. To the world in general. All the good people who weren't lucky enough to..."

This wasn't working. Feeling beyond words after all, she sat straight. But the dazed look in Trick's eyes only frustrated her further.

"Just look at this!" She leapt up and gestured wildly at the room: the padded, satin-lined walls, the carved and gilded ceiling, the four-poster bed crowned with garish poufs of red-dyed ostrich feathers. "See what I mean? Who wants to live in a place like this? I swear, it puts Whitehall to shame!"

He gave a short bark of a laugh at what she knew must be a look of utter disgust on her face. "I know women who would kill for—"

"Kill for this? That's the first thing you've said all day that makes any sense."

"I don't care for this decor, either," he said evenly. "But why do you hate it so much? I want to understand."

"Oh, I knew this would be impossible to explain! It's long, and it's convoluted, and it doesn't seem to make sense to anyone but me. It's certainly never made sense to any of my brothers."

"I'm not your brothers. Tell me, however long it takes."

With a sigh, she sat back down and thought for a long minute, then clasped her hands in her lap before beginning.

"I won't pretend I don't enjoy balls and pretty clothes and the other things money can buy as much as the next woman. But I think I know what's important beneath all the trappings. I told my brothers again and again that I don't care about titles. I wanted to marry a man I was wildly in love with, but even more, a man I could admire. For who he was inside, not a false honor that society had settled upon him."

"I didn't ask to be a duke—" Trick began.

Waving him off, she jumped up again, not at all ready to listen yet. "During the Commonwealth," she said as she resumed pacing, "my family's title was a liability, not an asset. We hadn't the choice to stay home and go about our business like normal people. Instead we were exiled paupers, dragged from Paris, to Cologne, to Brussels, Bruges, Antwerp—wherever King Charles and his court wandered. It was then I learned it's what's inside a person that counts. Some people were kind to us, and some were not. And their rank had nothing to do with it." Her voice dropping, she stopped and turned to him. "And..."

"And what?" he asked softly.

She knew this would sound ridiculous, but she couldn't help it—it was how she felt. "As a little girl, I decided the dukes were the worst. The most pompous, the least caring, the most annoyed with orphaned children underfoot. Because of that, to me, they represent the worst of humanity. The worst of everything."

He swept the hair from his face, his expression clearing. "That's why your brothers asked me to marry you under my given name only," he murmured. "Because you would have refused."

"Probably," she conceded. "And now I'm stuck in this gaudy museum."

He looked heavenward—or rather, gilded-ceilingward. "Come now, it's not that bad."

"I would rather live in the cottage."

"Come to think of it, so would I." Evidently it was his turn to pace now, because he rose and did so before the carved stone mantel. "My father built this bloody palace, not I," he said contemplatively. "Let's move to the cottage. I'll alert Cavanaugh to pack my things, and Jane needn't even unpack yours. We'll make haste for the cottage immediately."

She swallowed hard. "Are you sure?"

He turned to her and raised a brow. "Are you sure?"

A long silence stretched between them before Kendra sighed. "No," she said, unsure of anything at the moment. "I don't want to live in that little cottage. Well, actually, it's a big cottage, but you know what I mean."

She dropped to sit on the bed. "I'm accustomed to directing a large household, and I'll do you proud. It's only...when I think of all the money it takes to run a place like this—all the servants and goods—for just the two of us...can't we close up some of it? Close up most of it? Most of Cainewood is closed up. We could take the money and put it to good use, maybe help some orphans or something."

Trick sat beside her, smelling of sandalwood soap. He must have come here and bathed, the wretch, while she'd yawned her way through the day, reading poetry.

He took her hand. "If we close up most of the house, think of the people who will lose their jobs. My father hired them, not I, but I cannot find it in my heart to put them them out on the streets."

"Oh...I hadn't thought of that."

His smile, crooked but genuine, did much to thaw her icy anger. "And I've something to show you tomorrow. Something I think will please you."

"What?" She leaned closer to his enticing scent.

But then she caught herself and pulled her hand from his grasp. He'd still lied to her, tricked her, and that was hard to forgive. Especially now, with all the years that loomed ahead...years and years.

"What do you want to show me?" she asked.

"Patience, lass. Let's get you settled first. Tomorrow will be soon enough." His smile faded when she yawned. "Sleepy, are you?"

"Thanks to you." She glared at him, then fell back to the pillows. "I know it's early still, but I'd like to just call it a night."

"Excellent idea. Yesterday was a long and difficult day." Trick rose, shrugged out of his surcoat, and started unlacing his shirt. "I believe I'll join you."

She leapt from the bed. "Oh! I thought this was my chamber."

"It is." The shirt came off over his head, and her palms itched as she remembered how he'd felt against her hands last night. All warm and firm.

She swallowed hard. "Then where is your chamber?"

"It's mine, too." He sat to pull off his boots. "We're married. We're allowed to sleep together. I've a piece of paper to prove it."

"But..." She glanced around wildly. "This is a suite, isn't it? What's on the other side of that door?"

"A dressing chamber. Feel free to use it. Your clothes are inside." At her look of astonishment, he added, "Jane has been here all day, arranging your things. I gave her the evening off."

"I thought you said she hadn't unpacked yet. And she's my maid."

"I believe she's in my employ, now." His second boot hit the floor with a thud, and he began unlacing his breeches.

"You're a duke, for God's sake. Don't you have a valet?"

"Cavanaugh. But I prefer to undress myself, much to the poor man's constant chagrin." He looked up. "Actually, I'd prefer to have you undress me, but..." A wry grin revealed that rakish chipped tooth, and the twinkle in his eye was unsettling. "No, I thought not. But I can play your maid again tonight, if you wish."

"No, thank you." She stalked over to the dressing room and shut the door behind her, then had to duck back into the bedchamber for a candle. Gritting her teeth against his laugh, she closeted herself again and began hunting for a night rail.

Every bit as fancy as the bedchamber, the dressing room had a delicate wood table and two upholstered, fringed stools in the center. One wall was covered with an enormous gilt-framed mirror, another wall was lined with wardrobe cabinets, and there were two walls of those newfangled chests of drawers.

The first drawer she opened was filled with Trick's folded things, and she slammed it shut. She found her own clothes in the third chest she tried. Quickly she stripped out of the wedding dress, diving into the thickest, most voluminous night rail she owned. Her fingers fumbled with the clasp of the amber bracelet, but she finally managed to remove it and set it on the little inlaid table.

The bracelet sat there, taunting her. Amber. The Duchess of Amberley...

Dear God, however had she ended up in this predicament? Exactly where she'd sworn she'd never be.

When she reopened the door, Trick was in the bed, and—from all she could tell—stark naked. She paced beside the carved gilt monstrosity, hoping he was already asleep.

His hand shot out to grab hers, stopping her in her tracks. "I won't ever take you against your will. You needn't worry."

She bit her lip, eyeing his bare arm and shoulders. "Is that so?"

"Aye. You're safe, I assure you."

"Can...can I not have another room?"

"Is something wrong with this one?"

"It's...too masculine."

"Too masculine?"

"Yes." She accompanied the word with a brazen stare, since nothing could be farther from the truth. The red chamber was satin and velvet, feathers and lace—altogether too fussy for her tastes. It looked like a brothel. Or what she imagined a brothel might look like, in any case. "This was your father's chamber, wasn't it? I believe I'd be more comfortable in your mother's chamber. Where is it?"

"In Scotland," he said shortly, patting the mattress beside him. "Come, Kendra, enough of this. I'm sleepy, and you look ready to drop."

With a sigh, she walked around the bed and gingerly lay on top of the covers.

Sounding exasperated, his voice drifted over his shoulder. "Get under the blanket. It's drafty in this gargantuan house."

Giving in, she scooted beneath the coverlet. The feather bed was soft and comfortable. Lying flat on her back, she could feel the rise and fall of Trick's breathing next to her, the warmth of his body even across the space that divided them.

When he rolled close and laid an arm loosely across her middle, she flinched.

"Shh, leannan. Rest." He raised himself to kiss the tip of her nose, his lips soft and temptingly damp. His amber eyes burned into hers, making her stomach flutter. Against her will, her arms ached to wrap around his neck and pull his mouth to meet hers.

But she knew what that would lead to.

"Aye, you're right." His whisper was husky with meaning.

Had he read her mind?

His mouth brushed hers; his tongue came out to trace her bottom lip. Despite her reservations, her body melted beneath his.

He chuckled low. "Aye, you'll be begging soon enough," he said, then turned away to blow out the candle.

Shaking, from vexation or unwelcome lust—for the life of her, she wasn't sure which—Kendra stared into the darkness and wondered if she'd ever get any sleep while she was married to Trick Caldwell.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"Wake up, milady. I mean, your grace."

Kendra forced open her eyes to see Jane standing over her.

"I've brought you some breakfast, or should I say dinner?" The maid set a tray on the bed. "It's late, and his grace is waiting to take you somewhere. A surprise, he said."

"A surprise?" Struggling into a sitting position, Kendra reached for a cup of chocolate. "He said he had something to show me today, but—"

"A surprise, yes." Jane's tall, thin figure disappeared into the dressing room. "He suggested you wear your simplest gown."

The sound of wardrobes opening and closing came through the open door. "Why would that be?" Kendra asked.

"Well, if you're not knowing, then how could I?" The maid came in with a peach-velvet gown. Other than a narrow edging of lace around the neckline and some wider matching lace that spilled from the wrists, the dress was plain. No overskirt, no jewels or embroidery on the stomacher. "Do you suppose this will do?"

"I'm sure it's fine."

Kendra slapped a slab of cheese on a slice of bread while Jane ducked into the dressing room again. Her sweet voice drifted back out. "Brown shoes rather than gold, I'm thinking."

Kendra chewed and swallowed, not thinking at all. Her brain was now fuzzy from too much sleep.

"And a chemise, and...lud, would you look at this lovely bracelet? Where'd this come from, milady? I mean, your grace?"

"Milady will more than do," Kendra grumbled. "And leave the bracelet there."

Jane appeared in the open doorway, her plain face marred by a puzzled frown. Winking in the noon sun that streamed through the window, the amber bracelet dangled from her fingers. "Was this a gift from your husband?"

"A wedding gift, yes."

"Then for certain he'd want you to wear it."

Setting down the bread, Kendra caught a glimpse of the gold ringing her finger. Enough of a reminder that she was married to a lying duke. "I don't care for it, Jane."

Her maid's mouth hung open. "But it's so beautiful. And his grace is so handsome and kind—do you not want to please him?"

Of course Jane would think Trick was kind—he'd given her half a day off. And he hadn't lied to her, either. "I really don't care for it," Kendra repeated. "Put it away for me, will you? I expect his grace will forget all about it—you know how men are."

"Very well." A doubtful look in her gray eyes, Jane disappeared back into the dressing room. She came out carrying the shoes and chemise and set them on the foot of the bed. "Are you happy here, milady?"

"Of course I'm happy." Gesturing at the rich, garish chamber, Kendra forced a smile. "How could one not be happy here?"

"Mr. Caldwell!" A dozen children bounded down the steps of the sprawling Tudor manor house and clustered around Trick. Laughing, he reached to squeeze shoulders and pat heads, leaving no child untouched.

Kendra stared in utter disbelief. "Mr. Caldwell?"

"Part of your surprise." He shot her a sheepish grin before turning back to the young ones. They'd focused their attention on Kendra, gaping at her with frank curiosity. Trick waved a hand in her direction. "This is my new wife. Er...Mrs. Caldwell."

"Please, just call me Kendra," she rushed to say, smoothing the skirt of the peach gown. Goodness, a new name was a hard thing to get used to. It felt downright strange.

As a duchess, she had no proper surname anymore—she'd be signing letters with her husband's title, as Kendra Amberley. She didn't feel like a duchess, but neither did she feel like Mrs. Caldwell.

"I'm glad of your acquaintance, Mrs. Kendra." A tall, skinny lad held his hand out to her, looking toward Trick for approval. At her husband's nod, the boy reached to grasp Kendra's hand and kissed the back of it fervently.

"Ahem. Andrew." When the boy looked chagrined, Trick ruffled his dark, stick-straight hair. "Not to worry. A man cannot help but admire a pretty lady, aye?"

"Oh, yes," Andrew said reverently, and Kendra watched Trick bite his lip to keep from laughing.

"Mrs. Jackson, there you are." He waded through the sea of children, making his way toward a matronly woman with gray curls and a pleasant if nondescript face. He fished a black pouch from his surcoat pocket and handed it over. "Here you go. I apologize for being late. I've been...busy."

"I can see that." The woman smiled at Kendra.

"Mrs. Jackson, may I present my wife—"

"Mrs. Kendra," Andrew supplied in a worshipful tone.

Kendra didn't have the heart to correct him. "I'm glad of your acquaintance, Mrs. Jackson." She executed a tiny bow, for all the world as though they were at Whitehall Palace.

Mrs. Jackson's plump cheeks flushed with pleasure. "Likewise, your gr—Mrs. Kendra." Kendra heard the metallic clink of coins as the woman sifted through the pouch. "So generous, Mr. Caldwell! The children are grateful."

"The orphans of Sussex won't starve so long as it's within my power to help them."

"Starve?" Mrs. Jackson's belly jiggled beneath her apron as her laughter rang through the heavy summer air. "They're better fed than half the parish. Why, I daresay some villagers pray nightly to be orphaned and find themselves at Caldwell Manor."

Caldwell Manor? Did Trick finance this entire operation, then? Kendra looked toward her husband, his golden hair glinting in the late afternoon sun, and her heart melted a little.

He laughed. "Let's hope not. A hearty meal is a sad substitute for devoted parents. How is little Susanna?"

"Much better. Her fever is down and she's sitting and taking milk. I trust she'll be up and about in a day or two."

"I'm pleased to hear it. Maybe I should pay her a visit."

"By all means. She'll be cheered to see you."

"Kendra? If you'll excuse me?"

Without waiting for her agreement, Trick climbed the six front steps in three strides and disappeared into the house. Wearing only breeches and a shirt, no cravat and no coat, he looked decidedly unduke-ish. Through that battered oak door passed a man who had accomplished Kendra's own dream, opening an orphanage.

Stunned, she stared after him while the children scattered through the garden, picking up balls and hoops.

Two girls tugged shyly on her skirts. "Will you play with us, Mrs. Kendra?"

She smiled down at them. "What would you care to play?"

They settled on blindman's buff, and the game went on for a while, other children joining in the fun. When an impish lad named Thomas stole the blindfold and ran away laughing, the others raced after him. Kendra tried to follow but got halfway around the house and stopped. Thanks to her high Louis heels, the merry chase had far outstripped her ability to keep up.

Trick had been right to suggest a plain gown—next time she'd wear flat shoes, too. Wondering what was taking him so long, she made her way over to where Mrs. Jackson was hanging laundry.

"Have you an idea where my h-husband"—her tongue tripped over the word—"might have gotten himself off to?"

"Of course," the older woman said, tossing a nightshirt back into the basket. "I'll show you the way to the sickroom."

She led her around the corner of the house and up the front steps. "I bless your husband nightly for saving these children."

"Bless you for caring for them," Kendra returned, glancing around the entry. Though the house and its furnishings had clearly seen better days, it was clean and cheerful. "Are the children receiving an education?"

"Mercy, yes. His grace has seen to it that tutors attend to that. All but the youngest can figure and read and write—"

"Girls, too?"

"Yes, indeed. Your husband has some odd ideas."

They skirted a few wooden toys on the floor as Mrs. Jackson led her down a corridor. "Are they instructed in the classics? Latin and—"

"Nay, not as yet. I cannot imagine what children like this would be needing with Latin. But with the duke directing things, you never know what will happen next at Caldwell Manor." The woman's ample bosom quivered with a good-natured if slightly befuddled chuckle. "Here we are."

In the room Mrs. Jackson indicated, a young girl, perhaps five or so, sat propped among pillows in a four-poster bed that looked as though it had rested on the same spot for a century or more. Kendra paused in the doorway.

"They're busy," Mrs. Jackson whispered.

Trick sat in a straight-backed chair by the bed, an open book in his lap. The girl leaned forward, apparently engrossed in whatever he was reading. Feeling like an eavesdropper, Kendra listened as well.

"'Then have I gained a right good man this day,' quoth jolly Robin," came Trick's throaty voice. "'What name goest thou by, good fellow?'"

"And what did he say?" the child asked.

"The stranger answered, 'Men call me John Little whence I came.'"

The girl's blond curls bounced as she shook her head. "No, it's Little John!" she corrected, her brown eyes wide with delight.

Trick glanced up from the leather-bound book. "Aye, but that was Will Stutely's doing. He loved a good jest and said"—he looked back down at the book—"'Nay, fair little stranger. I like not thy name and fain would I have it otherwise. Little art thou, indeed, and small of bone and sinew; therefore shalt thou be christened Little John, and I will be thy godfather.' Then Robin Hood and all his band laughed aloud until the stranger began to grow angry..."

Kendra could only gape. She felt like the one of the Graiae, three sisters who had but one eye between them. What was she seeing? A highwayman, telling a story to an ill orphan? Or a duke? Right now, he looked like neither.

She backed away from the doorway. She didn't know this man, not in the least.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"Robin Hood," Kendra said on their way home, in that forthright way of hers that never failed to make Trick smile. "It's fitting, I'll credit you that."

"Oh?" The caleche's wheels crunched on the dusty road as he wound the horses through the gentle hills toward Amberley House. "Whatever makes you think so?"

"Don't jest with me. It's obvious!"

"Aye?" He looked over at her, but she was gazing straight ahead, her bright hair glistening in the slanting late-afternoon sunshine.

"I do believe I'm beginning to understand you."

"Pray, enlighten me," he said dryly. "I've been struggling to understand myself for years."

She snorted. "You are playing Robin Hood," she said with that same cocksure confidence that had drawn him to her the first time they'd spoken.

Sweet Mary, was that but three days ago?

"Only instead of stealing from the rich," she continued, "you're robbing the Roundheads, who are no doubt responsible for making most of those children orphans anyway." She sighed. "I do believe I could love you for this."

It was his turn to snort. "The man you think you see, sweetheart, isn't me at all. I wish I could be that man," he added under his breath.

"Balderdash. It's well done of you, Trick."

"Nonsense. My father wanted to build himself a bloody monument, so he spent every shilling he'd ever made on the mansion and abandoned that perfectly good manor house. I wanted to see it put to use. Filled with children, as it might have been had he ever made something of his marriage."

She turned to him, her heart in her eyes. "That's why you play the highwayman, then, isn't it? To pay for the children, since your father spent all his money on the mansion and left you without adequate funds."

"Not precisely." He was about to add that he'd turned his father's illicit enterprise into a prosperous legitimate shipping company, but thought better of it. Not that he wanted to hide things from her, but damn it, his hands were tied.

It was no fault of his he was stuck in this situation. He'd been wracking his brain for a believable excuse to continue playing the highwayman, and she'd just dropped one in his lap. Never mind that he could support Caldwell Manor ten times over. She didn't have to know that. Not right now.

"When I tell my brothers—"

"Don't. Don't tell them anything. I promised them I'd stop the highway robbery."

"No, you didn't. You ducked that issue cleverly." She was entirely too perceptive for his comfort. "If you stop, the children will suffer, and I couldn't bear to be responsible for that. I was an orphan, myself."

"Aye, well, any feeling human being would be sympathetic to their plight." Trick's mind raced, searching for a way to avoid these secrets and lies. But he saw no choice. He'd promised King Charles he wouldn't breathe a word of the real purpose behind the highwayman ruse.

He sneaked Kendra a guilty glance. She twisted her hands in her lap, and the imported lace fell back from her wrist, leaving it bare. "Why aren't you wearing the amber bracelet?"

"It doesn't go with this plain gown."

He wondered why he found her flip answer so disturbing. "Are you still mad at me for being a duke?"

"I'm not sure what I feel. I don't like being lied to." Though she directed those words to the sky, she soon looked back to him. "Did you feel abandoned as a child?"

"In a sense," he said slowly, wishing he could go back in time and start this marriage right. He didn't want it to end up like his own parents'. "My father took me from my mother when I was ten. I'd seen him but a few times over the years, and I'd never been more than a dozen miles from our home in Scotland." The caleche bumped over a particularly rocky stretch of the path, and he reached to steady Kendra. "He took me to France. A cold man, was my father. He wanted me only to further his business dealings."

"His business dealings?" She subtly shifted away from his touch. "He was a duke, was he not?"

"An impoverished one. He lost everything, including Amberley, helping finance the war. Upon the restoration, King Charles returned his title and land to him. But believe me, Father could never have abandoned the old manor house and built that mansion without the enterprise that sustained him through the Commonwealth years. He was ruthless, underhanded—not a man one would be happy to claim as a relation."

"What was this enterprise?"

"He traded in spirits, among other things. Madeira was his ticket to riches. Every bottle that graced the tables at the courts—French and English alike—passed through his hands." He hesitated, then decided to come clean with it. Enough secrets stood between the two of them already. "He was a smuggler."

She gasped. "A smuggler?"

"Aye. One doesn't amass a fortune paying import taxes—at least not on the scale that he managed. You can see now why I elected not to continue his enterprise, no matter that it was highly lucrative." And since that half-truth caused him no small discomfort, he added, "As I was only a pawn in his game, you can see as well why it is I felt orphaned as a child."

Some small measure of honesty, at least.

"But your mother—"

"She let me go," he said, the words calm and unemotional though he ached with an inner pain that would never ease. "Any warmth or love she showed me was naught but a facade. Elspeth Caldwell is a wicked woman. A Covenanter, plotting against king and country." Crickets chirped as they drove beneath a canopy of trees silhouetted against the cerulean sky. "And a loose woman, besides."

"How would you know all that? You were ten when you left."

"In eighteen years, she never once tried to reclaim me, or even make contact. In all that time, I haven't seen so much as one letter. Blackguard that my father was, I believe what he told me where she was concerned."

The details were hazy; no matter how much he'd pressed, his father had refused to discuss his marriage. But Trick had pieced enough of the man's rantings together to figure the gist was true.

Still, he'd never approved of the way his father hadn't tried to make something of the union. Even when Trick was young, his parents had lived completely separate lives. Sadly, he could now see all too easily how such a thing could happen.

"Tomorrow I need to go to London," he said.

Her eyes danced. "I love London. Have you a house in town?"

"Aye. And I'm sure you'll find it every bit as disgustingly opulent as Amberley House." He smiled on the outside, but cringed internally. "I'll be going alone this time, though."

"Oh." The light in her eyes died. "Why?"

He had to leave—he'd actually, before this whirlwind of a wedding had come up, been planning to leave today. His shipping company needed his attention. The shipping company that he'd decided to keep secret from her for the time being, lest she figure out he could well afford to support the orphanage without resorting to robbery.

"I had arranged it, he said dismissively, "before we met."

As he guided the caleche onto Amberley's long approach, he ran a hand through his hair and shot her an appraising glance. Her expression had turned contemplative. He could almost see the wheels turning in her pretty red head.

"Perhaps we can put aside some money and invest," she said. "In the future, with careful planning, playing the highwayman might become unnecessary. God willing, before you ever get caught and"—her voice dropped—"strung up at Tyburn." She turned on the bench seat to face him. "I'll help you."

"You will not. I won't have you endangering yourself—"

Her laughter rang through the deepening shadows. "I didn't mean with the robberies, but with the investing. I've quite a knack with finances—you can ask Jason."

"He lets you invest his money?"

She stiffened beside him. "Not independently, but I've helped him make decisions, yes."

"Whoa, there." He put a hand on her arm, pleased when she didn't pull away. The scent of lavender wafted on the breeze to his nose. "I wasn't disapproving, just asking."

"All right, then." Her expression softened. "It's only that I don't know you, and—"

"I don't know you, either."

"True enough." After a considered pause, an unmistakable glimmer lit her green eyes. "As for the highway robbery, I have a good aim—"

"You won't." Hearing his accent broadening, he winced. What was it about this woman that could drive him to such emotion? Pulling up before Amberley House, he tugged on the reins with more force than was necessary before taking her by the shoulders. He brought his eyes to within an inch of hers. "I mean it, Kendra."

"I was jesting," she whispered, her smile sweet. Something melted in his gut. It was such a small space to bring his lips to hers; he did it without thinking. Her mouth was soft and yielding, and he felt her breath quicken, her pulse race beneath his fingers on her neck. Their lips clung for a long, sweet minute; then he deliberately pulled away.

"Oh," she whispered. "I cannot keep my head when you do that."

"Aye?" He couldn't help but grin as he handed the reins to a groom and hopped down from the caleche.

Perhaps he would enjoy this marriage after all.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Seated at Trick's desk, Kendra frowned at the ledger in front of her. "So you've been living here at Amberley for six months?"

"Aye. And I fired Rankill after two." Trick took a sip of bracing whisky, then set the glass on the table beside his favorite leather armchair.

He'd returned from seeing to his London interests to hear his wife had spent the past week examining his books and inspecting his property. After recovering from the shock, he'd decided he was pleased. With that part of their marriage, at least.

Now that he was back home, he'd work on the physical part. He'd made progress before he left—he was sure of it. Though he'd as soon strangle her brothers for being right, he had to admit he and Kendra were a damn good match...the rest would come in time.

"Were my suspicions about Rankill's dishonesty on target, then?" he asked her, feeling more than awkward requesting his wife's opinion of his own estate business. But between the king's mission and the demands of his shipping company, he had precious little time to see to Amberley. "Was I right to let him go?"

"You should have done it earlier." She glanced up. "Your father died three years ago. What brought you back now?"

He couldn't tell her he'd moved home at King Charles's request to track down a problem in the region. Or that he'd agreed to do so in exchange for a pardon from old smuggling charges. The threat of losing Amberley and the title had been veiled and, truth be told, unnecessary. Caring little for that legacy from his father, Trick would have agreed to the mission out of patriotism and friendship alone.

But, nay, he couldn't tell Kendra any of that.

"I decided Amberley was in need of my attention," he said instead.

"Well, you haven't paid it much," she countered with a dark glare.

Noticing she still wasn't wearing his bracelet, he sighed and sipped again, feigning nonchalance. "What evidence is there that Rankill embezzled?"

"Look here." She waved him over. "Amberley's northwest quarter is capable of producing many more bushels than are recorded. And in the east"—she startled when he leaned over her—"this land will support more sheep than are shown in the records." Slowly she shifted, turning to meet his eyes.

Enjoying her lavender scent, he braced himself with one hand on the desk and held her gaze with his. "Is that so?"

"Y-yes." She drew a deep breath and looked back down. "As a matter of fact, I counted fifty more head than are noted in the ledger. And you should purchase yet more. You're not maximizing your profits in this area."

"Our profits." They were in this together. He didn't think he'd quite realized that till now, or how much of a relief it was to find himself "saddled" with a wife who had turned out to be so competent.

If only he could persuade her to let him show her, physically, how grateful he was, life would be nearly perfect.

"Thank you." He leaned closer, pressing his lips to the top of her head.

She stilled, drawing air in a soft, swift gasp. "You're welcome. You can sit back down now."

Her apparent discomfort was heartening. He didn't sit back down. A long silence stretched between them before she continued.

"The point is, Amberley is quite a bit more profitable than Rankill led you to believe. Run properly, with no one siphoning income, it should be self-supporting and then some. I realize you have a standard of living to maintain—"

"We have a standard of living." With his free hand, he skimmed his knuckles along her cheek.

A pink flush rose where he'd touched. "Well, yes. But, thankfully, it shouldn't be long at all until this mess is resolved and Amberley can support both you—us—and the orphanage." She paused for a breath. "So you can stop the robberies now, except..."

"Aye?"

"There are some matters that need attending. Depending on whether you think they or the children should come first."

"What sort of matters?"

"Repairs and the like. Rankill took money regardless of whether you could afford it. Your people are working with broken equipment, one of the barns needs roofing—"

"You have a list?" He ran a finger down her nose and stopped with it on her lips.

"Y-yes," she whispered against it. She pulled back, her elbow knocking a quill to the carpet.

"I'll take care of it all." He leaned down to retrieve it and tickled the feather under her chin, grinning at her discomposure. "I think I can survive another few highwayman masquerades."

With any luck, that would be all it would take. He'd amassed much of the king's evidence already.

"Weighing your safety against the children's welfare—"

"I'll be fine."

"I hope so," she said.

She really hoped so.

In less than two weeks of being married to the Duke of Amberley, she'd been surprised to discover she liked her life here. Although she adored Jason's wife, she hadn't realized the tension she'd felt at Cainewood—how difficult it had been for her to cede responsibility when Caithren had arrived. Here, the responsibility was her own. The house, the land, the people. And like the extra layer of marzipan on her bride cake, she had her orphanage, too.

"Speaking of the children..." she began.

"Aye?" At last Trick dropped the quill on the desk and went back to sit down and reclaim his drink.

Watching him, she realized this was the one chamber in Amberley House where he truly seemed at ease. Comfortable rather than opulent, it was furnished with the same classic eye to design as the cottage. Polish glinted from the deep grooves in the serviceable walnut desk where she sat, and the shelves behind Trick were stocked with well-read tomes.

"What about the children?" he asked.

"You'll remember, before you left, that I said I wanted to teach them some classical myths." She fiddled with the quill in her hands. "They're excellent learners, all of them."

One sandy brow quirked. "Even Thomas?"

"Well, maybe not Thomas." She smiled, thinking of the mischievous towhead and all the other children, all the fun she'd been having with them. "In any case, we're almost finished with the Greek stories, and before we start in on the Romans, I was thinking I'd like to throw an Olympian party."

Trick looked completely nonplussed. "A what?"

"An Olympian party. I know money is tight, but I've been pondering this, and I really don't think it will be expensive. The children can all dress up as their favorite god or goddess—I came across plenty of unused dress lengths in storage that they can wrap toga style. And decorations needn't be too costly. Phillips has agreed to help me make columns—"

"You've talked to the servants about this?"

"They think it's a fine idea. We'll eat ambrosia and drink nectar, and the children can each retell their favorite myth...it would be such a treat for them, don't you think? And reinforce what they learned, so they'll be even more eager for the next—"

"It sounds brilliant."

"It won't cost much—"

"Kendra." He set down his glass. "Have your party with my blessings."

"Really?"

The Duke of Lechmere would never have allowed it. Neither would he have allowed her a hand in the finances, which Trick had accepted with an easy grace. Hang her brothers' method of pushing them together, but she had to admit that, other than the physical mismatch, she and Trick did suit.

If only he hadn't refused to tell her why he'd gone to London and declined to take her along. Well, not refused precisely, but dodged the question as skillfully as he did many of her others. Then again, she supposed she could hardly expect him to tell her the truth, since she'd decided he must be hiding a mistress in London.

A man has needs, she'd heard her brothers say, and she knew full well she wasn't fulfilling Trick's. So it was best all around if he filled those needs elsewhere, even if the thought did rankle. This way, she could have Amberley and her orphanage and Trick's companionship, without worrying about the other.

Marriage was better all around than she'd anticipated. She couldn't imagine why she'd fought it so long.

Life was nearly perfect.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A week later, Kendra waved to the children gathered on the steps of Caldwell Manor. "Good-bye! Take care, Mrs. Jackson!"

"Good-bye, Mrs. Kendra!" they called. "Good-bye, Mr. Caldwell!"

Yawning, she wheeled Pandora around to join Trick, mounted on his favorite horse, Chaucer. "They're excited about the party," Trick said as they started down the lane.

"Two days. I can hardly wait. But there's still much to arrange."

"You're very organized. With everything else you find to do, I cannot believe you threw this together so quickly."

She shrugged. Planning the party had been the easiest part of her week. It had been much harder to resist her husband.

His offhand touches and occasional fleeting kisses never failed to weaken her knees, igniting her curiosity and desire for more. Yet she know that more would only lead to disaster again, since they simply didn't fit properly.

She presumed he understood that too, as he never touched her in bed. Though he insisted on sharing, he left her alone, which, in its own way, she found every bit as frustrating. He was still sleeping naked, and though she refused to so much as take a peek, she was as aware of his body beside hers as she'd been from the first.

She hadn't found much sleep since he'd been home.

"I think we should check on the barn," he said. "See how the roof is coming along."

She yawned again, then shook herself awake. "I'll race you."

He was off without another word.

She kicked Pandora into a gallop after him. His tawny gelding had a head start, but she slowly gained on him until they were neck and neck. She took gulps of the rushing air, feeling it revive her, enjoying the pace, the wind in her hair, the thrill of competition. When Pandora passed the barn first, ahead of Chaucer by a nose, she laughed triumphantly.

"Good girl, Pandora," she cooed, patting the mare's deep-brown neck.

"You won," Trick conceded with a grin. He slid off his horse, coming close. "Why did you name her Pandora?"

"Simple." Craftily Kendra dismounted on the far side. "Like the Greek goddess opening her box of problems, she leads me into trouble."

She started toward the barn, but he rounded Pandora and easily caught up to her. "Leads you into trouble, does she?"

"All the time. She led me to you, didn't she?" With his hand on her arm, Kendra had little choice but to stop. She turned to meet his eyes. "Trouble."

"That was her fault, aye?"

"Yes, it must have been. I certainly didn't head for Amberley on purpose."

"And are you sorry?"

Trapped in his amber gaze, she shook her head. "No," she whispered.

"Neither am I."

Kendra's heart beat double-time when he took her face between his hands. His fingers were warm, and so was his breath as he leaned close, bringing his mouth down to hers.

"Amberley!"

Trick's hands dropped from her cheeks, and they both looked up to see a carriage approaching. A florid man stuck his head out the open window. "We've come to pay our respects," the man called. "To you and your lovely bride."

"Garrick," Trick muttered under his breath. "And Fielding, Faraday, and Milner, I'm guessing." The carriage rolled to a stop, and sure enough, four men climbed out.

Kendra recognized all of them—minor aristocrats who lived in the vicinity. Though they weren't important enough to have been on her brothers' list of potential husbands, country life was insular, and she'd met them at various entertainments over the years. Just last summer she'd danced with Fielding and Milner at Jason and Cait's wedding celebration ball. She'd found Fielding rather charming in a bumbling sort of way, but Milner's breath had smelled like overaged cheese.

"Good day, gentlemen," Trick said. "Welcome."

He didn't sound like he meant it.

Garrick walked over to pump Trick's hand. "Congratulations, congratulations."

He had a big round head and a belly to match. Apparently he needed to fill it, because when he took out his pocket watch and flipped it open, his flabby lips broke into a grin.

"We're just in time for supper, are we not?"

"Trick?" Kendra murmured, awakened by the soft sounds of her husband moving about the bedchamber. Her eyes fluttered open to glimpse his gold hair haloed by the morning sun that streamed through the window.

Turning, he smiled and came close, leaning down to brush a delicate kiss across her lips. "You fell asleep on me last night," he accused, straightening and disappearing into the dressing room.

"Did I?" She stretched beneath the covers. "I don't remember a thing past supper."

"You nodded into your chicken cullis." His voice sounded muffled, then stronger as he strode back into the room, carrying a pair of boots and a surcoat. "And I'd thought you were enjoying our impromptu party."

"And the cullis was so good," she recalled.

He grinned. "You only liked it so much because it was sweet."

"I don't expect I made a good impression. Are those men really your friends?"

"Aye, and your brothers' friends, too." He sat on a tufted velvet chair to pull on the boots. "We all play whist once a month."

"The mysterious weekend house parties." More secrets. This man was so evasive, she wondered if she'd ever truly come to know him. "Why do men have to be so secretive?" she said more darkly than she intended.

But he didn't seem to notice. "Harmless games," he answered with a shrug. "Did you not like the fellows?"

"Faraday is a terrible flirt, especially given he's married. Fielding is agreeable enough, but never quite seems to know what he's about. Garrick is rather strange, is he not? He couldn't seem to stay seated, always seemed to be poking around. I wonder what he could have been looking for? And Milner wears entirely too much scent. He should think about taking a bath instead."

His gaze on her, Trick rose. "You're very astute. I couldn't have summed them up so succinctly, and I've socialized with them for months. You were with them naught but a couple of hours."

"It was enough." She watched him shrug into the surcoat. "What do you see in those men?"

"Money. They always lose." He grinned as he slid his sword into his belt, then took a pistol from atop the dressing table, hefting it before arming himself with it as well. "I'll see you this afternoon." He came to her, bending for one more kiss, soft and lingering. His tongue traced the seam of her lips before he straightened once again. "Rest up, leannan."

With a muted click, the door closed behind him, and she listened to his footsteps retreat down the corridor. It wasn't until a few minutes later, when she replayed his words—and his kisses—in her mind, that she realized he'd been wearing all black.

He was getting close. With any luck, this would be the last time.

He'd pulled two robberies this week while Kendra was reading to the children at Caldwell Manor. He wished he'd escaped unseen today, but she'd lain abed late, and it had been necessary to leave.

He'd seen a pattern occurring, every third day mid-morning, and today was day number three. He could only hope his wife had been sleepy enough that she hadn't noticed what he'd been about.

She'd been losing sleep. Over him? The thought made him smile.

He was making subtle progress, in more areas than one.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Her pulse pounding, Kendra dismounted and tethered Pandora to a tree, then made her way on foot to the hill.

As she neared the crest, she dropped to her knees. One hand snaked out and snatched a hat, a handsome brown one with a bright yellow plume. She perched it on her head and slithered forward on her belly, tossing the wooden block behind her and lying low, hopefully at the same level as the other hats. Maneuvering a pipe before her, she propped her chin on it and focused on the road below.

Oh, God, Trick had someone already. Mounted on Chaucer, he aimed his pistol into the gaping blackness of an open coach door. Her heart thundered in her chest as a gray-garbed man emerged and climbed reluctantly to the road.

"Oh, aye?" Trick's drawl floated up to her. "You may want to reconsider. My friends would think it great sport to put a bullet through your chest. Or a dozen, maybe. Ah, a contest. Target practice on your sorry hide."

The man would have been quaking in his boots, except he was wearing ugly thick shoes with dull silver buckles. His eyes flicked nervously up toward Kendra, and she held her breath when Trick's gaze followed. It took every ounce of her will to keep from flinching or ducking as her husband squinted in her direction.

The victim's eyes narrowed. In seeming slow motion, Kendra watched as the man backed away, one hand deliberately rising. He stared at Trick with a tight expression that made a cold knot form in Kendra's stomach, especially because her husband's concentration remained fixed on the place where she hid.

Oh, God, why had she come? Recognition lit Trick's eyes along with clear displeasure, and she knew he would kill her—if he didn't die first. As the stranger's hand inched beneath his coat, her fingers clenched on the pipe, vainly searching for the fake gun's nonexistent trigger.

Why wasn't Trick taking heed?

And why wasn't the Puritan afraid of Trick's "friends"? In her peripheral vision, she could see the hats and pipes lined up in a soldierlike array. An explicit threat to anyone below. But the stranger's edginess was obvious, his gaze glued to Trick, who in turn was still focused on her.

The victim wasn't thinking clearly, Kendra realized—distracted as he was, he couldn't be counted on to act rationally. Which made him dangerous. As his hand delved even deeper, she found it increasingly hard to hold still, and Trick, damn him, wasn't paying attention.

Silver flashed—a pistol or a knife? It happened so quickly, Kendra couldn't be sure. Her heart seemed to stop, and her mouth opened to cry out a warning. But before it could pass her lips, her husband burst into action.

A blur of flying arms and legs, Trick leapt from his horse. He landed and twisted the Puritan's hand up behind him, all in one smooth motion. The next thing Kendra knew, a gun had thudded to the ground, and the man was facedown in the dirt with a knee in the small of his back.

Her heart stuttered and restarted. Where on earth had Trick learned to do that? Most of the men she knew trained with pistols and swords, and quite a few were proficient in boxing, besides. But those were gentlemen's sports—nothing like the skills Trick had demonstrated here. She'd never seen such lightning-fast reactions.

Evidently, neither had the Puritan. Fear was etched on his face, and she could see his legs shaking when Trick finally allowed him to rise, still holding one arm twisted back and high.

Relief singing through her veins, she collapsed flat on her belly. The hat fell off, rolling a foot before it slipped over the edge and tumbled to the road below with a muted plop that made her grimace.

But her husband didn't spare it—or her—a glance. At his bidding, the man managed to empty both pockets with his one free hand, defeat evident as he hurried to comply. When Trick demanded his coat as well, he relinquished it without argument.

After a short glimpse into the cabin and a circuit around the coach seemed to convince Trick no more booty was forthcoming, he released the stranger and shoved him inside. Motionless, he held Chaucer's reins while the coach rumbled off down the road.

Dust puffed in its wake, settling slowly to earth as the carriage disappeared into the distance. Nothing but the calls of blackbirds filled the air when Trick finally turned to the hill.

His voice wafted to Kendra, calm, yet dangerous. "What the hell do you think you're doing up there?"

He led Chaucer forward, stopping to retrieve the victim's gun and the fallen hat before walking around and up the hill. He removed his mask as he went, then stood gazing down at her.

She dropped her head to the grass. Though her face was mashed into the springy blades, she felt his eyes boring into her back.

"Well?"

"I was spying on you," she squeaked.

His breath huffed out. "Sit up, Kendra. I cannot talk to you like this."

She pushed up and sat, her gaze on her hands clenched in her lap. Her pale yellow gown was damp, the area around the knees stained bright grass-green.

"Look at me," he said, unmistakably exasperated. "It's not like you to hide. Not how I envision you at all." As she glanced up, he flicked the long, crimped brown periwig hair over his shoulders.

"I came because I was afraid you'd get hurt," she said.

"What made you think I'd get hurt?" His eyes narrowed, appearing naked without the mask and their usual veil of blond hair. "Do you...care?" he asked slowly.

"Of course I care!" She couldn't remember ever having been more frightened in her life. "I saw him pull the pistol. He could have had a knife, too."

"He did." He drew a long, lethal blade from the man's coat and dropped both to the grass, moving closer. "But I can handle myself, aye? So long as you don't show up and interfere."

"I didn't—"

"Your very presence broke my concentration. And had he seen you up here...do you imagine he'd be put off by a pack of women?"

"Were it women with guns, I'd hope so!" she shot back.

Blinking, he reached a hand to help her rise. She was surprised to find her knees trembling.

His gaze searched hers. "Do not ever, ever do that again," he said very quietly. He moved closer, so close his breath whispered over her face. "You could have gotten me killed."

Tears sprang to her eyes.

"Never." She saw a muscle twitch in his jaw. "You understand, aye? Never."

"Oh, Trick." Her arms came up and wrapped around his neck, of their own volition, it seemed. She buried her face in his shoulder, chagrined at her tears. For what? A man she barely knew, never mind that they were married? A man who kept secrets and mistresses? A man who lied to her?

None of it made any sense.

"Shh, lassie." His own arms stole around her and held her tight. "It's all right. No harm done." He kissed her hair. "You care, aye?"

"I don't want you to do it again, Trick. But the children—the children will suffer..."

His grip tightened. "I've yet to be hurt—"

"You've been lucky. And luck can change."

"Not luck." He pulled back and fixed her with a calculated grin. "Talent."

Having seen that talent demonstrated, she had to offer him a shaky smile.

"Maybe just a few more times," he said, "and then—"

"There will be enough to invest. And you can stop?"

"Something like that," he murmured.

His eyes searched hers, their amber depths holding her hostage. Summer sun glinted off the roughness on his unshaven cheeks. Her breath caught as his mouth came down on hers.

Warm and tender, his kiss was both a silent apology for the harsh words and a promise for their future. His tongue traced her lips, then plunged inside. None too solid already, her knees turned to pudding as his mouth demanded a response she seemed helpless to deny him.

When he broke off, her breath came loud and ragged. "Yes," she whispered.

"Yes, what, leannan?" His smile caught her off guard.

"Yes, I mean, no, I...won't come here again."

"Thank you." He nodded solemnly and kissed her again, a light brush of the lips that left her wanting more.

She leaned closer.

"Hell, lassie, you tempt a man to go back on his word." He raised his brows suggestively. "Unless you've changed your mind?"

"N-no." She took a step back, nearly tumbling down the hill.

He caught her, laughing. "Let's get you out of here."

"Are you finished?"

"It would seem so," he said wryly, gathering the hats. He tossed them onto the canvas spread nearby. "Come to the cottage, and we'll see what we got."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"Not very much." Kendra frowned at the few coins spread on the cottage's dining table.

Trick laughed. "A greedy thief, are you? It's mostly gold, not silver."

"True." She lifted one. "How about in his coat? Anything there?"

He dug into the pockets, felt the collar, the seams, the hem... "Ah."

"Was he hiding something?"

With a quick flick of his knife, he slit the stitches. One by one, more bright gold coins dropped to the table with satisfying little clunks.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Clink.

"I'll be damned." Trick scooped up the latest addition. He walked to the window, held it to the light, bit into it. "Eureka," he said softly, then rushed back to the table and opened the rest of the hem, flicking the coins to the surface.

Clunk. Clunk. Clink. Clunk. Clink.Clink.Clink.Clink. Clunk. Clink.

"They're larger denominations," Kendra pointed out.

"Aye."

Clink. Clunk. Clink.Clink. Clunk.

"Good?"

"Nay." He pulled the last one from the ragged hem, then sorted them swiftly on the tabletop. "They're counterfeit."

"Counterfeit?" she huffed. "Why, that's criminal!"

He pinned her with a pointed look.

"Oh..." Heat rushed to her cheeks.

He moved to her and took her chin. "You're not guilty," he said.

"You're not, either," she countered loyally. "They're Roundhead scum. They deserve it, and it's for a good cause."

"The end justifies the means?" Trick walked to the stone fireplace. "I think not, leannan." He reached up, sank his fingers into a crack in the mortar, and coaxed out a small key. "Now, can you tell me what the man looked like? Whatever you remember."

"What he looked like?" Kendra watched as he opened the desk's top drawer and slipped the key into a hidden lock. The bottom drawer—the one she'd been unable to open—sprang free. "He was shorter than you, by a good six inches, I'd say." She shut her eyes, trying to remember. "Thin, pale, pale eyes I think, too, although I was at a distance." She opened her eyes as Trick pulled a sheet of paper from the top drawer.

"Hair?" A bottle of ink and a quill came out next.

"His hat covered most of it, but his hair was brown, wasn't it? Gray-brown."

"Just as I remember." He scribbled it all down. "His clothing?"

"Gray, all gray. Plain—well, he was a Puritan. Nothing to distinguish him there. Oh, his shoes had very ugly dull buckles. Square. Pewter, I'm guessing." She frowned as he wrote. "What does this matter?"

"Wait." He held up a hand, still writing. "Any scars?"

"Too far to see."

"I think he had a healing cut on his chin. And a wart alongside his nose." The quill scratched some more. "There," he said, ending with a flourish. "Job well done. You really are quite observant." He shoved the page into the bottom drawer and slammed it closed.

"Trick?"

"Aye?" He returned to the mantel and reached to replace the key.

"Will you stop doing this? For me?"

He whirled to face her. "I cannot promise that, Kendra."

"We'll find another way to support the orphans. I'll ask my brothers—"

"I cannot stop." Coming closer, he put his hands on her shoulders. "Soon, but not yet."

"It frightens me." Her voice came out a whisper.

"You do have a way of melting a man's heart." He tilted her chin to meet her eyes. "I'll be careful," he said softly.

"Promise?"

"Cross my heart."

She smiled faintly and touched him lightly on the chest. "This one?"

"That one exactly." He placed his hand over hers and bent to take her lips in a slow kiss.

She leaned against him, sighing into his mouth.

When he finally pulled back, it was with a chuckle. Playfully he tugged on her hand, pulling her toward the corridor. "Shall we try the bed again, do you think?"

She stood her ground. "Not on your life. You think your kisses are good enough to tempt me to try that again?"

"I'm betting on it." He scooped up the coins and stuffed them into his surcoat pocket. "And I'm not a losing man."

They rode across the Downs, taking a leisurely route to enjoy the warm day. Trick felt better than he had in months. Odds were he had enough information now—he would send a message to the contact the king had provided, meet with the man, and hopefully be done.

Premature though it might be, relief flowed through him in heady waves.

His gaze drifted over to Kendra, her hair bright in the midday sun. A grass stain on her knee brought a smile to his lips. Though she was a challenge, he found it impossible to stay angry with her. She was the helpmate he'd never thought to have. As soon as word came that his mission was complete, they could start anew.

Their marriage was suspended on a fragile web, but without this secret between them, he could begin to spin it stronger.

"Trick?"

"Hmm?"

"Why did you want a description of that man?"

He shrugged uncomfortably, suddenly questioning the wisdom of allowing her to have seen him do that. But he'd always made his notes immediately, while the vision was still fresh in his mind.

"To send to the authorities," he said in an offhand manner. "Anonymously, of course, so they can identify the blackguard without my being involved."

"Why do you suppose he's counterfeiting?"

"To get rich, I imagine."

"I imagine there's another reason. Something tied in with his being a Puritan." Her eyes unfocused, she stared right through him, clearly lost in contemplation. "I don't think he's acting alone," she said.

"What makes you say that?"

"He didn't seem bright enough."

Not as bright as she was, Trick thought, that was for sure.

"I'm thinking he's part of a bigger operation," she continued, "and if the members are Puritans, perhaps in league with some other Parliamentarians, they might be acting against the king's interests. Passing worthless currency in an attempt to undermine the economy and the people's confidence in the monarchy. A plot to regain the power they once had, the power that died along with Cromwell."

She stole his breath. Both the strength of her reasoning and the fact that she'd hit it on the mark—the very suspicions that Charles had put forth and Trick was attempting to prove. He'd never considered that his beautiful young wife might understand the intricate linkage of economics and political power.

But it was dangerous, this line of reasoning. Kendra might have a sharp head and atypical interests, but he couldn't allow her to go spreading this idea around, risking the chance the perpetrators might hear and discover someone was on to them.

"Maybe," he said lightly, keeping his face and tone nonchalant. "But I expect he's just trying to get rich."

She studied him, her hands tightening on Pandora's reins. "How easily you dismiss my ideas. Are you still angry that I followed you earlier?"

"Nay," he said, relieved to be on a different subject. "No harm was done." They turned up Amberley's drive, the trees on either side throwing cool shadows across the pathway. "I think you'll find me more forgiving than most. The only thing I won't stand for is infidelity, and I've nothing to worry about on that account, have I?"

Yet. Someday soon he would initiate her into the joys of physical love...and then maybe he'd have something to worry about.

"Infidelity?" A challenge in her voice, Kendra jostled Pandora closer to Chaucer's side. "Most men expect fidelity only from their mistresses."

Most men hadn't found their betrothed wife in bed with another man. "You will learn, leannan, that I am not like most men."

She shot him an arch look. "And what if I'm not like most women? What if I expect the same fidelity from you?"

"Turning the tables, are you?" He risked leaning from the saddle to chuck her under the chin. "You surely know how to try a man's patience."

Her green eyes flashed. "That was no sort of answer."

"I wouldn't ask something of you if I weren't willing to offer it myself."

Her expression said louder than words that she didn't believe him. But she dropped the topic, her gaze drifting to Amberley's impressive facade. "My brother Ford will want to go up the tower and see how the clock works."

"He already has."

Her pretty brow creased in a puzzled frown.

"The house parties, remember? He seems much taken with clocks. Stayed up there half an afternoon, while we twiddled our thumbs waiting to play cards. Here we are." Trick slid to the gravel and handed his reins to a groom. With a gentle hand at her back, he urged Kendra up the steps of Amberley House.

"Dinner," he said as Compton opened the door. "I'm fair starving. And then—"

"A letter, your grace." The butler proffered a silver tray. "It arrived while you were out."

Frowning, Trick snatched it up. Wrinkled and grubby, it looked as though it had traveled quite a distance. "Thank you, Compton. We'll just take it to the study. Let us know when dinner is ready."

"Certainly." Compton's jowls wobbled with the nod of his head. He took himself off to the kitchens, and Trick ushered Kendra into the study, tossing the letter on the marquetry table that sat between two leather chairs.

Kendra sat while Trick poured himself a shot of whisky. He dropped onto the other chair and threw back a gulp. Setting the glass on the table between them, he lifted the letter.

Kendra watched him worry the seal with his long fingers. "Open it," she suggested.

"Not just yet." He turned it over and stared at his name written on the back.

"What is it?" Wondering why he seemed so pensive, she hitched herself forward and frowned at the parchment. "Do you know who it's from?"

He looked up at her, his face set in unfamiliar lines. Not teasing, not angry, not thoughtful, not seductive—not any emotion she'd seen there before. Not even evasive—another all-too-common mood she was learning to distinguish.

"It's from my mother," he said softly. "After all these years, I still recognize her hand." He blinked, then suddenly thrust the letter at Kendra. "Here. You read it."

She almost dropped it, but caught it in time. "No," she protested. "It's addressed to you."

"I'll listen. Then I willnae hear her voice, but yours."

Her heart ached at the pain in his tone, at the telltale Scottish word that had slipped into his careful English speech.

"Read it, please." He slumped down in the chair and took a long sip of spirits, then leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

She smoothed the parchment against her skirt and slipped a fingernail under the seal. When it lifted off with a little snapping sound, Trick winced.

"Go ahead," he said huskily.

The paper crackled as she opened it and held it to catch the light from the window. "Her writing is beautiful," she said.

He said nothing.

She took a deep breath. "'My dear Patrick Iain,'" she read. "'My heart is heavy with sorrow for all the years we've been apart. Now I am dying, and it is my fondest wish to gaze upon your beloved face once more. Though I know you're a man grown, my bonnie lad you'll always be. Come to me, Patrick, come make an old woman smile as she greets the next world. With all the love in my heart, Mam.'"

Silence. Kendra took one long breath, two...three.

Trick opened his eyes and sipped slowly from his glass.

"Can I go with you?" she asked.

"Where?" He shifted to face her. "You don't think I'll go to her, do you?"

"You must!"

"She cannot ignore me for eighteen years and then expect me to jump to her command."

"She's dying, Trick."

He shrugged.

"You must make your peace. It's your only chance."

"I don't care to give her the satisfaction."

"It's your own satisfaction at stake here. If you fail to go now, you'll always wonder. Always. Go to her and find your answers, before it's too late. Close your heart if you must, but go. Say good-bye."

He drained the glass and rolled it between his palms. "You think yourself wise for your years."

"I didn't get to say good-bye." The letter crackled as she folded it and set it on the table. "In my dreams, awake and sleeping, I've accused my parents of leaving me and I've told them I loved them. I've been angry at them, and sad. But face-to-face, I never got to say anything."

He took a deep breath, and the crystal stilled between his hands.

"Go, Trick. Now. Tonight." She'd have to postpone the children's party, but so be it. "I'll come with you."

"No," he said slowly. "I'll go alone. Tomorrow."

CHAPTER TWENTY

After supper, Kendra found herself mounted on Pandora, heading toward the cottage for the second time that day.

She slanted a glance at Trick riding beside her. She'd tried halfheartedly to talk him into taking her along to Scotland, but he was absolutely against it.

Well, perhaps it would be a relief to be free from him for a while. Free from those disarming kisses that made her lose her head. Free to catch up on her sleep. Free to think about whether she wanted to try again, because the agony of that first night was becoming harder and harder to remember clearly.

Still, part of her was reluctant to see him go, so she'd clung to him like a sticky bun all the afternoon, while he completed the tasks that stood in the way of his leaving.

The full moon reflected off the cottage windows as they approached. "I had no idea of the extent of your responsibilities," she said through a yawn.

"I just want to drop off some papers."

Her eyes felt gritty. "And after that?"

Trick slid from Chaucer and reached to help her down. "I still have much to do before I can sleep."

She tethered Pandora and followed him inside. "You're pushing yourself." She closed the door and leaned against it, watching while he lit a single candle. "I know you must be worried for your mother—"

"I'm not particularly worried." Finished, he felt for the key above the fireplace.

"She's dying!"

He shot her a look as he unlocked the desk. "You said yourself her writing is beautiful. A woman on her deathbed would have a shaky hand, or dictate to someone else." He pulled a sheaf of papers from his surcoat and slid them into the bottom drawer.

"Perhaps she did dictate it."

"It was her own hand—I'd bet my life on that. Aye, she's up to something." He shut the drawer and relocked it. "I'll play along with her game, just in case I'm wrong, but she's a conniving—"

"You cannot know that, Trick. Not after all these years."

"Time will tell which of us is right. But I won't live in hope that she's changed." He shoved the key back between the stones and began to blow out the flame, then suddenly stopped. "Damn, the hats and pipes. I wonder what else I'm forgetting? Wait here—I'll be back." He set the candle on the mantel, and before she knew it, the door had slammed behind him.

She stood still for a moment in guilty indecision before walking slowly to the fireplace. Teetering on her toes, she reached for the key, finding Trick had placed it too high for her reach. She dragged the desk chair close, climbed atop it, and nudged the key from its hiding place.

Jumping down, she rushed to the window. Moonlight illuminated the grounds. Trick was nowhere in sight. Seconds later she had the bottom drawer open and was pawing through its contents.

On top were the notes he'd just dropped off and those he'd concealed there earlier today. Not to keep them from her, obviously—he'd made no secret of the drawer. Surely he wouldn't care if she looked.

Or so she told herself.

She swept the candle off the mantel to examine more pages of descriptions like the one she'd helped Trick make of the Puritan today. She smiled at his writing: very bold, the letters scrawled, clearly written in haste.

Carefully she set the candlestick on the desktop, then put the papers back in the drawer and peeked beneath them. An accounting of some sort. A record of his takings? Quite detailed, including descriptions of individual coins. Today hadn't been the first time he'd run across counterfeits. Underneath that...

She pulled out another stack of papers, some of them older and yellowed. Written by the same hand, but more carefully, the words painstakingly formed, neat and even. They reminded Kendra of the letters she used to send to her parents as a child, letters written and rewritten before a final, perfect draft was carefully copied.

Choosing one at random, she read.

Pain and sorrow forevermore dwell

Inside the deepest bowels of hell.

Betrayal has yet took from me

What love and trust had once set free.

Poetry. Kendra sat abruptly on the edge of the desk. Trick, a poet? She never would have thought it; in fact, had someone suggested such, she would have laughed herself silly.

She didn't know her husband at all.

He'd been hurt by someone, terribly. Her heart clenched as she suddenly understood his words: I don't believe in love at all. Maybe I did once...but not anymore. Love's only an illusion.

Who had done what to him to make him feel this way? Was he never happy? The paper seemed brittle when she set it down—as brittle as the words upon it. But the words on the sheet underneath did nothing to soothe her sympathetic ache.

Twixt fathers and tyrants

a difference is known:

Fathers seek their sons' good,

tyrants their own.

With a sinking heart, she riffled through the pages, pausing to read here and there. The touching verses hinted at events in Trick's life that had shaped him into the man she saw today. Pain, anger, disillusionment...ah, there it was. Love, happiness. His hand was lighter here; the words fairly leapt off the page in their exuberance.

Sweet day, happy, calm and bright

Love has brought me to this light

The sun that sits in yonder sky

Today can shine not more than I

And if tomorrow it should rain

Her smile will make sun shine again

She bit her lip. Was this written of the same love that had later turned to betrayal? Could this carefree Trick live somewhere beneath the cynical man who shared her home? If trust had been shattered by one woman, could another restore it?

Hoofbeats. Oh, God, he was on his way back. She stuffed the poems beneath the other papers and locked the drawer, then jumped to the chair to replace the key. She was just pushing the chair back to the desk when the door flew open and Trick sauntered inside with the bundle of hats under one arm, the pipes under the other.

He dropped it all in a corner. "Ready to go?"

His crooked grin made her heart leap; he was so unsuspecting. She flushed, unbearably guilty just looking at him after reading his private compositions.

"I suppose," she said. "Though I was hoping we could talk."

"Now? About what?"

"Life. Yours." She met his gaze, willing him to share some of his past. "And mine, of course. All the years that led to now. The people who loved us—"

"None."

"—and hurt us."

He only shrugged. "None worth talking about."

"And what we like...for instance, do you like to write? I keep a journal, and sometimes I've written poems."

"Poems?" His gaze flickered down to the drawer. "No, I don't like to write." He leaned past her to blow out the candle. "Come along, will you?" he said, going to the door. "I've much to do."

Crushed that he refused to even consider confiding in her, Kendra pushed by him and outside. Before she could mount Pandora, he caught her by the arm.

"I know you mean well," he said softly.

Silent, she searched his eyes, gray in the darkness.

They went darker still. "I'm sorry you're so unhappy," he said.

"I'm not unhappy. Just confused. I'm worried for your life, and I don't like keeping the truth from my brothers about what it is you're doing. There are parts of you I admire—your compassion for the children. And more parts I don't understand—parts I think you've locked away. And now you're leaving."

"I'll be back." The words were a low, husky promise. "Maybe you'll miss me while I'm gone." His hand slid down her arm until his fingers were laced with hers, and he leaned to press a soft kiss to her mouth.

When he pulled back, she stared at him helplessly. Her lips tingled. She heard his low chuckle before he turned away to lock the cottage, and it drove her to a decision.

Once, in jest, she had promised he'd find love, and a Chase promise was never given lightly. She would bring back to life what another woman had killed; she would make him believe in love once again.

Accomplishing that while avoiding his bed was not going to be easy.

But then, worthwhile things rarely were.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Trick eased through the bedchamber door and closed it quietly behind him. He carried the candle to the bedside and set it on the table by Kendra's head, where it would illuminate her face.

She looked angelic in sleep, her long, dark lashes feathery against her sun-pinked cheeks, her bright hair tumbled on the pillow, glistening in the candlelight. When he bent and kissed her on the forehead, a faint smile curved her lips, then faded away.

Something softened in his gut. She was more compassionate and forthright than he'd expected, this new wife of his. And distressed. Responsibility for that fell squarely on his shoulders, sparking his guilt along with tender feelings he'd long since learned to suppress. But he had much to hide, and good reasons for doing so. At least for now.

As soon as the job for King Charles was completed...

He felt so close to uncovering the truth. Were it not for this summons from his mother, he would soon have this behind him. Maybe, without secrets between them, he and Kendra could begin to establish some sort of trust.

But first things first. He undressed swiftly, checking off the list in his head to make sure he'd taken care of everything before he left for Scotland, a journey that might take a month or more, up and back with time spent there.

Letters of instruction to the various people who ran the estate—done.

A purse of gold for Compton to see delivered to Mrs. Jackson at Caldwell Manor—done.

A note to King Charles explaining the delay of his mission—done.

While his staff had been scurrying about, readying to leave—because a duke, no matter his personal preferences, didn't travel unattended—he'd checked a dozen tasks or more off his private list. Everything, in fact, but the one he'd have found most pleasant...teasing his bride into willing submission.

From all evidence, Kendra had been busy as well. Goods for tomorrow's party were stacked neatly against one wall. A pile of colorful folded fabrics would make unique togas and doubtless thrill the wee wearers. Small baskets overflowed with sweets and treats that would make the recipients think they had died and gone to heaven. Or Olympia, in this case.

How clever his new wife was.

He blew out the candle and crawled into bed, cuddling against her sleep-heavy form. Slipping an arm about her waist, he pulled her closer, inhaling the faint lavender scent of her freshly bathed skin. Flickering light from the fireplace danced over her face and brought out golden glints in her dark-red hair. Brushing soft curls from her face, he leaned up to kiss her cheek.

She shifted, emitting a tiny moan that brought a smile to his lips.

He kissed her ear.

She stretched beside him like a contented cat, with a low-pitched purr to match.

What time was it? Three in the morning? Four? No matter, he wouldn't waste these last hours with her by sleeping. He rolled her over and kissed her full on the lips.

"Mmm," she breathed into his mouth. Her arms entwined around his neck, and her lips opened beneath his. He swept his tongue inside. Lord, she tasted so sweet.

He nibbled her lower lip, feeling her truly awaken. Her breathing changed, and her mouth answered his, making his pulse speed, the blood rush faster through his veins. He'd never had a woman affect him so, not even...

Nay, he wouldn't think about her. After all these years, whatever had brought her to mind? She was long out of his life, and Kendra was here instead.

Sweet Kendra, writhing beneath him now. She was the only woman he wanted. He moved to caress her breast through the pristine white night rail she wore—then stopped cold.

He was man enough to be patient, and he'd been patient so far. He'd ruin everything by moving too soon.

Her eyes fluttered open, a question in their fathomless depths. She reached a hesitant finger to touch his bottom lip, the sensation as light as a whisper.

And he nearly exploded.

But he wouldn't go back on his word. Though the thought of weeks apart made him physically ache, he wouldn't risk what little trust he'd built between them. He had a lifetime ahead to touch her, to make love to her—when she was ready. And he had no doubt she'd be ready eventually, maybe even soon...

But bloody hell, it was so hard to wait.

For long minutes, he just kissed her. His own hands remained still while hers wandered his back, skimmed his sides, frantically tried to wedge themselves between their bodies. His nerves rippled in response, but still he only kissed her. Forever, it seemed, until he felt her straining toward him and a mewling sound of want escaped her lips.

"Trick?" she asked breathlessly, the name warm against his mouth.

"Hmm?"

"Can you not...touch me?"

He pulled back and gazed into glassy light-green eyes. "Nay, I cannot," he said, though he had to force the words past his lips. "Should I touch you, I may not be able to help doing more. And I promised I wouldn't seduce you in bed." He teased her lips with his. "But you like the kissing, aye?"

Her hands tightened in the hair at his nape. "Oh, heavens, yes. I like it. I just want—"

"Hmm?" His tongue traced her trembling mouth. Let her ask for it. "What do you want, leannan?"

"I...I don't know," she whispered, burying her face against his neck.

"You know," he said softly. "We both know. Say it, Kendra."

Instead of saying it, she took a ragged breath and released it with a shudder.

"It won't hurt, lass. It was just that first time, I promise. It won't ever hurt again."

Kendra felt the words, the promise, vibrate in his throat. She ached for him—truly she did. But what good were promises from a man she couldn't trust? And even if he were right—even if it wouldn't hurt—how could she share her body with a man who refused to share his life?

She was touching him now, but she wasn't really. Her hands were upon his body, but she had yet to reach him where it counted. A barrier stood between them, and she couldn't bring herself to risk the crossing.

He had built it. He would have to be the one to bring it down.

"What do you want?" he asked again.

"I want—" She turned her head away, staring up at the underside of Trick's red silk canopy. Not hers. No matter how many times he insisted that what was his was hers as well, she didn't feel that way in her heart. Not while he kept the most important thing of all from her.

Himself.

"I want to go to sleep," she whispered.

He trailed his fingers lightly across her cheek. "One more kiss?"

"I think...no," she said on a sigh. Another kiss would only make her more sad, and the lump in her throat was hard to bear already. She rolled away from him, turning her back. "Good night," she whispered.

The words seemed to hover in the heavy air of the still room.

After a moment he snuggled against her, and she could feel the hardness that said without words just how much he wanted her. "Do you think you might miss me, lassie?"

A groan rose from a place where she ached deep inside, and he went to sleep with a smile on his face.

She knew, because after his breathing evened out in the pattern of slumber, she turned and gazed upon him, filling herself with the sight of him to hold her through the weeks ahead.

It took her longer than ever to drift off that night, and when she awakened, he was gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"Mrs. Kendra?"

"Yes, Thomas?" Kneeling in the grass by little Susanna, Kendra squinted up at the impish towhead.

"We're athletes in the Olympic games, am I right?"

"That's the idea."

"Well, then..." A gleam came into his sparkling blue eyes as his hands went to the fabric draped over his shoulder. "Shouldn't we be naked?"

"Leave that on, you rapscallion!" She was hard put not to laugh at his pout. "I never said we were strictly authentic."

"Aw, all right." With a mischievous grin, he ran off.

"Stand still, Susanna." Kendra tucked the girl's "toga" more tightly, smiling to herself. Luckily her lessons hadn't covered fashion, so her students were ignorant of the fact that the Greeks had worn solid colors, not brightly flowered calico. "There you go."

"My thanks, Mrs. Kendra."

"You're very welcome." She patted Susanna's blond curls and stood, knowing as she sent her off that the girl would be back in a few minutes to be tucked in again.

She'd learned that togas weren't the ideal clothing for young children.

That was her only miscalculation, though—the rest of the party had gone brilliantly. The children's retelling of their favorite myths had been riotous. Now they were participating in Olympic "games," and the victory wreaths she had woven from laurel leaves might as well have been solid gold crowns considering how much they were cherished. Fortunately, she'd brought enough for everyone, and she was not above fixing the contests to see that each child came out a winner.

The party was a wild success, and they hadn't even feasted yet. Nor had she distributed the favors. Her baskets of goodies were still hiding beneath a blanket in the caleche, and she couldn't wait to see the children's faces when they received them.

Wrapped in stately blue stripes, young Andrew tugged on her toga. "Who are you, Mrs. Kendra?"

"Why, Hera, of course." She looked down into adoring dark eyes—his crush had not abated over the weeks. "Do you remember who she was?"

"Zeus's wife," he said proudly. "And the protector of marriage."

"Very good," she returned, although, for her, the job description seemed an ill fit at best.

Rather than protecting her marriage, she'd sent her husband off alone. She should have argued until he agreed to let her go with him. Surely if she'd put up a fight, he would have relented—her brothers almost always did. But she'd never really tried.

Andrew shifted on his feet, looking shy. "I memorized one of the poems about her."

"Did you?"

He nodded and began to quote.

"Golden-throned Hera, among immortals the queen,

Chief among them in beauty, the glorious lady

All the blessed in high Olympus revere,

Honor even as Zeus, the lord of the thunder."

He finished with an awkward bow that should have brought a smile to Kendra's lips. But in contrast to the Hera of the poem, she was feeling anything but glorious at the moment.

"Mrs. Kendra? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Andrew." Amazed at the young man's perception, she forced a smile. "Mrs. Jackson is organizing a chariot race," she said brightly, glancing over to where the buxom woman was lining up four wheelbarrows. "I imagine a tall, strong boy like you, with little Susanna in his chariot, could come out a winner. Run along now—I'm fine."

But despite how well the party was going, she wasn't fine at all.

Trick should have been here. He was supposed to have been Zeus.

He'd made this happen, repeatedly risking his life to feed and shelter these boys and girls. Her gaze followed Andrew as he joined the other laughing children. None of them, herself included, would be here today without Trick.

Hera had always been zealously covetous of Zeus, and God help her, she missed her man.

When Kendra arrived home, she stopped only long enough to switch her toga for a riding habit and grab a key from Trick's desk drawer. Then she ran to the stables, mounted Pandora, and fairly flew over the Downs to the cottage.

Once inside, she could almost smell him. Since this morning when she'd awakened in his home, something—his vibrancy—had been missing. Instead of feeling free, she'd felt bereft.

But here in the cottage, she could feel his presence. Unlike Amberley House, this clearly wasn't designed by his father. Trick's personal style was stamped on the walls, the floors, every piece of furniture.

It was astonishing the loss she felt, given she'd known him only a few weeks. Just when she was beginning to form a fragile bond with him, he'd left. She strode straight to unlock the drawer and dig to the bottom.

The poetry was gone.

She riffled through all the papers to make sure. Gone, all of it. Her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor, her heart sinking along with her. Not only was her one link to him missing, he was clearly intent on keeping her at arm's length.

Rushed to begin a long journey to a foreign land, he'd nonetheless taken the time to stop and remove the pages. Remove any possibility that by reading his words, she might discover who he was, deep inside.

She couldn't allow him to isolate himself like that. Not if they were to live a lifetime together.

She should have gone with him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"He left," Kendra told Caithren the next afternoon. "He had no choice."

"Of course he didn't." Cait stopped beneath one of Amberley's many arbors and played with the ends of her dark-blond hair. "But why didn't you go along?"

"He didn't want me." Kendra squinted at her sister-in-law in the shadows. "Isn't this the loveliest garden?" Her gesture encompassed more than the vine-covered walkway. "The head gardener told me it was designed by Salaman de Caux himself."

"Salaman who?"

"De Caux. The celebrated Frenchman. Have you not heard of him?"

"Nay. My garden at Leslie was filled with herbs and vegetables." Cait's lips turned up in a self-deprecating smile. "Nary a posy in sight."

Amberley House's gardens were the most extensive Kendra had ever seen. Geometric configurations of flower beds, knots, and borders surrounded a lake where fishes darted beneath the clear water. Avenues lined with painted and gilded stone lions flanked a massive bowling green. Walls of fruit trees divided the charming wilderness garden from those more formal, like the privy garden they were heading toward.

As they strolled from the arbor into the sunshine, her gaze trailed to the massive mansion that loomed over it all. "I'm afraid Trick's father depleted his entire fortune building this place."

"Has Trick said so?"

"Not in so many words," she said, hesitating to say more. Confiding Trick's financial instability might lead to speculation about his continuing highway robbery.

"Then I wouldn't assume so," Cait said. "The estate is very impressive, but then, Trick is a duke. And you're very good at changing the subject."

Kendra flashed her a wry smile. "I was hoping you wouldn't notice." She reached overhead to pluck off a fragrant flower, worrying its soft petals between her fingers. "Part of me still cannot believe I'm married. Do you know, even as we rode away that day, I was sure Colin would come riding after us to say it was all an elaborate joke. I'd convinced myself the parson was in on it—that somehow the ceremony wasn't valid."

"But it was."

"I was furious. I still am. I don't feel like talking to my brothers—any of them." Her voice dropped. "Then I found myself alone with Trick, and still I didn't quite believe it."

"How did it go? The first night, I mean."

"Not well." She looked away, studying the way the light filtered through the leafy canopy of a yew. "Did it hurt you very much that first time?"

"I suppose it did, but only that first time, of course. And I was in no state to take notice of it overmuch."

"Well, is Jason very...big?"

Caithren's eyes widened. "Crivvens, what a question! I've nothing to compare him to, aye? I can only say that to look at him, he seems too big, but he always seems to fit just fine." Her half-embarrassed laugh rang through the garden; then she focused on Kendra, shading her hazel eyes with a hand. "It went better for you the second time, I expect. Surely it didn't hurt."

Kendra bit her lip. "There hasn't been a second time."

"What?" If possible, Cait's eyes widened even more. "You've been married almost three weeks!"

"I won't let him. He...we don't fit. Not everyone does, I expect. In fact, I wonder now why it is that men insist on wedding virgins. You'd think they'd want to try the woman out first and make sure it will work."

"It will work, Kendra." Cait bit her own lip, but clearly not in consternation—rather to keep from laughing. "By all the saints, did your brothers not tell you anything? Jason will hear from me about this."

"Please, no." Kendra felt her face heat. "He'd make fun of me all my days. What is it he failed to tell me?"

"It hurts most women at first. But only the once, aye? Only that first time, when your maidenhead—"

"I may have heard that word." Kendra frowned. "But I never knew what it meant."

"It's a membrane, inside every woman. Every virgin, that is. You could say it guards your entrance. I read once that it's properly called a hymen."

"Hymen is the Greek god of the wedding feast."

"Really? How fitting." Caithren cleared her throat. "Now, the first time you make love it is torn, and you bleed—"

"I did," Kendra whispered.

"But you won't next time. And it won't hurt, either, because the maidenhead will be gone. And he'll fit, I promise."

Trick had been telling the truth, then. A wave of relief washed over Kendra, tempered by a stab of regret. She should have believed him.

And now she really wished she'd gone with him.

In obvious wonder, Cait shook her head. "Almost three weeks."

And another month, Kendra thought, until he'd be back. Remembering his kisses, the way he'd made her feel last night—the way she'd nearly given in—she could barely stifle a groan.

Cait knelt to inspect some bell-shaped flowers. "He must be the most patient man on earth," she murmured. "Even I could see how much he wanted you. However did you manage to keep him away?"

Kendra gave an evasive shrug. "We were strangers. We still are."

"You will come to know each other. Just give him another chance." She frowned down at the plant. "You have dwale growing here!"

"Dwale?"

"Black nightshade. Belladonna. Look." She waited until Kendra knelt beside her, then skimmed a fingertip over a dingy purplish flower with a berry in its base. "Do you see these dark green leaves? They're lethal. It's said that Macbeth poisoned a whole army of Danes by calling a false truce and then offering them liquor mixed with an infusion of dwale."

"Then why is it here in the garden?"

"Used properly, the root makes a good liniment. It's the leaves and berries that are poison." When Kendra reached out, Cait held back her hand. "Don't touch. It's possible to fall ill without even eating it."

"What sort of ill?"

"Shock, fever, slowed breathing, dilated eyes, stomach pain—"

"Enough." She shuddered. In the year since Caithren had arrived, she'd taught Kendra many uses for herbs and plants. But Kendra wouldn't take a chance on misusing this one. "I shall tell the gardener to remove it."

"Make sure he wears gloves." Cait stood and brushed her hands on her rose-colored skirts. "Now tell me about you and Trick. Besides the problem in the bedchamber."

Kendra met her sister-in-law's gaze. "He's just...well, I don't understand him, Cait. We didn't wed under the best of circumstances. For either of us."

"Nay, you didn't. But Jase is convinced you'll be happy. Or so he claims."

"Does he?" Even though she'd come to accept her life here at Amberley, the anger rushed back. "What possible excuse could he have for deceiving me the way he did? Not even telling me Trick was a duke, for God's sake!"

"I asked him the same thing myself after the whole story came out. He claims you would never have married Trick if you'd known he was a duke."

She gritted her teeth. "I hate it when he's right."

"He also said catching you two in a compromising position was a godsend, because Trick would never have consented to court you even if Jason had suggested it. He claimed not to want a wife."

"Not in the near future," Kendra admitted darkly.

"Jason told me his hand was forced, because he knew you two suited perfectly."

"Well, there's where he was wrong." Trick might be a good kisser and tolerant of her non-traditional interests, but a man who refused to share his true self would never suit her perfectly. Regardless of whether they might fit in bed.

For a long moment, Caithren was silent. "You must give Trick another chance in your bed," she finally said. "And I hope you'll forgive Jase. He loves you. He's been watching you. He'd never forgive himself if it turned out you were unhappy."

Kendra's jaw went slack. She didn't know whether to feel outraged or touched. "What do you mean, he's been watching me?"

"Nothing as sinister as you're imagining." Cait laid a hand on her arm. "He asked Jane to let him know if anything seems awry. And every day, he sends a messenger to check with her." She offered a tentative smile. "He cares, Kendra."

That explained why every day, sure as the sun rose and set, Jane had been asking if she was happy here at Amberley House. Kendra released a long, slow breath. "Were you sent here as a peacemaker?"

"Aye," Cait admitted, a faint pink coloring her cheeks. "More or less. But I wanted to see you, anyway. I have news, and no one else to share it with."

"News?" Kendra seated herself on a carved stone bench. "What sort of news?"

Cait sat beside her, lacing her fingers protectively over her middle. "I'm with child."

"Oh, that's wonderful!" Kendra grabbed her hands and squeezed tightly. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine." Caithren laughed. "Motherhood agrees with me."

"Jason must be thrilled."

"He doesn't know."

"He—what?" Kendra dropped Cait's hands. "You haven't told him?"

"Nay, and you mustn't, either. Not until we've gone and returned from Scotland. I don't want to miss my visit home, and I'm afraid Jase wouldn't want me to travel."

"You're right," Kendra said slowly, staring at Caithren's still-flat abdomen. "But won't he be furious when he finds out?"

"I'll tell him I just then discovered it. I've never been pregnant before, so how should I know the signs?" She flashed a conspiratorial smile. "You won't tell him, will you?"

"Of course not. I'm not speaking to him, remember?" Kendra returned Cait's grin. "When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow. That's another reason I wanted to visit. To say farewell for a while."

"For a month, do you think? Trick said he'd be gone a month, up and back and with time spent there."

Cait nodded. "Aye, for a month." She looked around the enormous, quiet estate. "Maybe you would like to go stay with Ford? Or with Colin and Amy?"

"I'm not speaking to Ford or Colin, either." Kendra's grin went flat. "Anyway, I've much to learn around here. By the time Trick returns, I expect to have this place running like clockwork. It's been missing a good financial manager, not to mention a woman's touch. Trick said his father built it, and so far as I can tell, there's never been a mistress here at all." She took Cait's hand and rose. "Come, let's have an early supper together. I've taught Mrs. Chauncey some new recipes, and you can help me see how she did with them."

Their footsteps crunched on the gravel as they crossed the privy garden. They went through the back entrance to the house.

"A letter, your grace." Just as he'd done for Trick yesterday, Compton held out a silver tray. "It just arrived for his grace, but since he is gone..."

"Thank you, Compton." She took the letter and turned it in her hands. Trick's name was written on the back, but not in his mother's beautiful writing, or anyone else's she recognized.

Well, of course it wouldn't be—she still didn't know the first thing about her husband or his acquaintances. Chiding herself, she hurried to the study with Caithren following behind.

"It's probably nothing," Cait said as they dropped onto two chairs. "Open it."

"It isn't addressed to me."

"You said yourself he won't be home for a month. It could be important business."

"I suppose you're right." Feeling more than a little uneasy, Kendra slid a fingernail beneath the black seal. "How odd," she said quietly.

"Aye?"

"It's addressed 'Dear Patrick Iain,' rather than by his title." She read further and released a little gasp.

"What does it say?"

"Listen." She drew a deep breath. "'I don't know if you'll remember me, since eighteen years have passed since I've set eyes on your face. But as a dear old friend of your mother's, I feel honor bound to warn you of possible danger. When Elspeth—'" Kendra paused. "That's Trick's mother," she clarified.

"Go on."

"'When Elspeth wrote the letter to summon you home, she was in perfect health. In the two days since, she has begun a rapid decline that I find inexplicable and alarming. I beg you, take heed. Yours in friendship, Hamish Munroe.'" She looked up. "What could he mean? Why would she write a letter saying she was dying, if she was in perfect health?"

"Maybe she wanted to reconcile, but didn't believe he'd come home for that alone."

"Possibly," Kendra conceded. But her heart was pounding unevenly. "Yet this Mr. Munroe clearly believes that something is afoot. Trick could be in danger."

"I imagine he can defend himself, seeing as he used to be a highwayman."

Although she was tempted to tell Cait that Trick still was a highwayman—and share her concerns about that—Kendra knew he wouldn't want it discussed. Surprised to find herself bound to him by some form of loyalty, she suppressed the urge to unburden herself.

"I think I should go to him," she said.

"Pardon?"

"I think I should go to Trick. He needs to see this letter."

"I don't think Jason—"

"A pox on Jason! He lost his right to tell me what to do when he married me off to Trick. Now I'm duty bound to warn my husband of possible danger."

And she could also give Trick that second chance. In truth, she burned for it, now that she knew it wouldn't hurt.

She rose and began to pace. "I must leave immediately." Her mind raced with possible plans.

"Is tomorrow soon enough?" Cait asked.

"Probably. He didn't seem in much of a hurry, so if I rush—" She turned and looked at Cait. "What are you thinking?"

"We're leaving for Scotland tomorrow. Jason and I. Maybe you can come along. But you'll have to talk to your brother," she added with a small smile. "You'll have to break this vow of silence."

"I suppose I will," Kendra said grimly. "And Mrs. Chauncey's supper will have to wait."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

"How dare you marry me off to a duke!"

Seated at the desk in his study at Cainewood, Jason steepled his fingers atop a leather-bound ledger. "Ah, the return of the formidable Kendra. Leaving your husband already?"

"No, he left me."

Seeing his mouth drop open, Kendra felt a small nudge of satisfaction. "To go to Scotland," she added. "His mother is ill—dying—and she asked to see him. Except she wasn't dying until after she sent the letter. But Trick doesn't know that. I received another letter—"

"Whoa. Slow down." Jason gave a violent shake of his head, then rose from behind the desk and came around it to embrace his sister. "How are you doing?"

"I've been better," she muttered into his chest. "And I hate you, you know."

"I'm sure you do." He pulled back and kissed her on the forehead. "Now sit down and tell me about these letters."

"Ford?" Kendra called softly.

Surrounded by burning candles and dozens of ticking clocks, her twin looked up from the gears in his hands, his gaze going to the dawn-lit window. "Is it morning already?"

"It is." She walked closer, reaching a finger to set a pendulum swinging as she went. "We're leaving."

As he stood and stretched, a clock started chiming, and another, and another, a cacophony of discordant tones. Laughing, Kendra wrapped her arms around her brother. "I'll miss you and all your experiments," she said, her gaze sweeping over beakers and magnets, chemicals and microscopes, and the long, impressive telescope she and Colin had given him as a birthday gift two years before.

"I'm going to turn base metal into gold," he said, returning her hug. "And then I'll restore Lakefield House to a glorious standard."

"And fill it with machinery, no doubt."

"Of course." He pulled away, smiling. "Come, I'll walk you down."

Outside, early-morning sun slanted against Cainewood's ancient stones, bathing the quadrangle in a golden glow. Kendra pressed a kiss to her twin's cheek and swung up to Pandora's saddle.

"I'll miss you, too," he said. "Are you sure you'd rather not stay here with me? Jason can take the letter to your husband—"

"We've been over this already. I'm going."

Ford looked up at Jason, mounted on his favorite silver gelding. "Impossible, isn't she?" he asked his oldest brother. "I'll wager you're happier than ever she's another man's responsibility now."

"Not yet, it seems." The glint of amusement in Jason's eyes offset his sarcastic tone. "But the minute we reach Duncraven, I'll be happy enough to turn her over."

Sitting atop a shiny red-brown mare, Caithren shook her head. "Hush up, you two. You don't mean any of this." She turned to Kendra. "They love you, the both of them."

"I know," Kendra said with both a huff and a smile. No matter that she hadn't yet quite forgiven them, she knew her brothers would always be there for her. Family. That was what mattered.

Would she ever forge one with Trick?

Not if they didn't get going. Toying with the stones on her amber bracelet, she looked over at the three carriages—one for themselves should they tire of riding, one for their servants, and one for everyone's baggage—and knew this journey would be a torturously slow affair. With her husband traveling ahead, blithely unaware of the danger that might lurk at his childhood home.

"Are we not going to leave?" She lifted Pandora's reins, an impatience in her voice she felt helpless to control. "Trick has two whole days on us—let's be off."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Night was falling and Trick was spooning up the last of his soup when his wife blew through the door of the World's End tavern.

It was storming outside, and the room was dark, and for the barest moment, he wondered if he were seeing things. God knew he'd thought of little else than Kendra these two weeks past. She'd consumed his thoughts both waking and sleeping.

But she wasn't a figment of his imagination. She was actually here. He knew that because, had he conjured up his lovely and exasperating wife, he certainly wouldn't have conjured up her brother and sister-in-law along with her.

He stood, nearly knocking over the small square table. "What the devil are you doing in Edinburgh?"

At the sound of his voice, she turned. Then just stood there, halfway out of her cloak, her mouth hanging open.

"Looking for you," Jason answered for his uncharacteristically speechless sister, striding forward to shake Trick's hand. He removed his dripping wide-brimmed hat. "But we had no expectations of catching you. We were planning to bring her to Duncraven tomorrow."

Aghast, Trick dropped back onto the hard wooden bench. "When did you leave?"

"Two days after your own departure. We were already planning a visit to Leslie, and Kendra talked us into tagging along. I can see we made better time than you did. Was your journey unpleasant?"

"It went well." He just hadn't been in a particular hurry. The closer he got to Duncraven, the less he looked forward to a reunion with his mother. Half of him was afraid to hope for a reconciliation—afraid she'd disappoint him again. The other half was hoping too much.

"Finding you here is a timely stroke of luck," Jason added.

Perching her wet cloak on a rack beside Kendra's, Caithren aimed a coquettish glance over her shoulder. "Does this mean we get our own room at an inn tonight?"

Jason's green eyes sparkled down at her. "Just like old times, sweet," he said, referring to their own madcap courtship, conducted mainly on the road.

His wife went on tiptoe to press a kiss to his lips.

"Delicious," he declared, pulling back with a grin. "Speaking of which, I'm going to get us something to eat."

He took Cait's hand and drew her toward the bar.

Kendra slid onto the bench next to Trick.

"How long have they been married?" he asked, moving close.

She smiled. "Almost a year."

"Newlyweds," he murmured.

"We're newlyweds, too," she reminded him. As though he could have forgotten. He moved closer still.

Unbelievably, she leaned against him.

This wasn't the Kendra he remembered—the one who always shied away from his advances. To convince himself she really was here, he ran a hand through her dark, rain-soaked hair. It felt as real as it looked. "I still like it this way best."

She pulled something from her pocket and glanced up at him. "What?"

"Your hair. Wild and streaming down your back. And wet isn't bad, either. I'd like to see all of you wet."

She blushed, then removed his hand from her head and put a letter into it. "I came all the way to bring you this. Read it."

"What could be so important?" Pushing his soup bowl aside, he spread the paper on the table and dragged a candle near. The letter was wrinkled and the ink a wee bit runny, but still readable.

"Dear Patrick Iain," he said under his breath, then scanned the page and whistled.

"It's a good thing I brought it, no?"

He nodded thoughtfully. "It could mean nothing. My mother might have asked him to write it just in case I'd decided not to come. A last ditch effort, if you will. But it's difficult to tell. I'm left to wonder what I'll be walking into."

"What we'll be walking into."

He nodded again, not at all sure he was happy about that.

But he was happy to have her here tonight. Wondering what could have happened to change her attitude, he tentatively laced his fingers with hers, smiling when she didn't pull away.

Conversation buzzed around them, mixing with the sounds of eating and drinking. "Do you remember this Mr. Munroe?" she asked.

"Aye. He was a jolly type, always hanging around, it seemed. A very old friend of my mother's—they grew up together." His other hand gripped his tankard, and beneath the table, he slid his foot against hers. "From what I remember seeing through the eyes of a lad, I wouldn't be surprised to learn he was sweet on her."

"Did that not bother your father?"

"He was never home. In any case, I'm sure nothing ever came of it. Of course, Father accused Mother of all sorts of things..."

Musing, he took a long sip. He didn't like to think of his mother as an adulteress, no matter what his father had said.

Something brushed his boot, and regardless that Edinburgh was teeming with rats, he'd lay odds it wasn't one. It was, incredibly, his wife's shoe. Looking toward her, he gulped more ale.

A faint smile curved her lips. "Now that your father is dead, what's become of her home, then?"

The question jarred him back to his senses. "Why, it belongs to me," he said, surprised at that sudden realization. For most of his adult life, he'd done his fighting best to banish all thoughts of home from his mind. "The castle was her dowry. So it belonged to my father, which means it's now mine. But I won't be selling it out from under her. She may have been an appalling mother, but I won't put her out on the streets."

He drained the rest of his ale, wondering whether to be annoyed or pleased that his wife had materialized in Scotland. Experimentally, he tried to draw his hand from hers, feeling his body quicken in response when she held it tight.

He was pleased, he decided. A long abstinence did much to sway a man's emotions.

Not to mention the apparent change of heart on Kendra's part. Mystifying, to say the least. But he'd be insane not to take advantage. "Are you hungry?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Only tired." Her gaze flew over to Jason and Cait, heads leaned close at another table as they talked while Jason shoveled meat pie into his mouth. "We ate but a couple of hours ago." She yawned, meeting his eyes. "We're too far from Duncraven to travel there tonight in the darkness, I presume?"

"Aye. It's a good day's ride."

"Then will we stay here?" she asked, the words threaded with husky curiosity.

Sweet Mary, she wanted to sleep with him. He could hear it in her honeyed voice, see it in her darkened green glance.

It was too good to be true.

"I've already taken a room," he said, amazed at this new good fortune. He rose, nearly stumbling over his own feet. "Shall we go up?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Trick stopped only for a stack of towels before he rushed Kendra to the room he'd rented. Once inside, he dropped them on the polished wood floor, paused a fleeting moment to set down the candle he was carrying, and dragged her into his arms.

His mouth on hers was hot and needy, and she responded in kind. She found it amazing how much she'd missed him. How much she'd missed this.

His tongue swept into her mouth, meeting hers with a thrilling urgency. Craving his solid warmth, she plastered herself against his body, reveling in the heated kiss, his arms around her, the feel of his hard muscles against her softness.

A long time later they pulled apart, and she leaned back in his embrace, gazing up into his seductive amber eyes.

How could she have put him off so long? Just the scent of him made her head swim.

She swayed in his grasp.

"Are you too tired?" he asked.

She was exhausted, but, "God, no."

His smile was blinding. "You missed me, aye?" Her heart flip-flopped at the sound of the low, throaty words, and when she nodded, he kissed her all over again, his mouth even more demanding, if that were possible.

Her breath was ragged by the time he stepped back. "You're soaking," he said.

Her gaze slid down his now-damp form, and her hands went to her drenched skirts. "I'm sorry."

"I told you, I like you wet." Lazy and persuasive, his grin seemed to touch a place inside her. A warm, melting place. "Come, leannan, let's get you out of these clothes."

She only nodded as, with practiced fingers, he detached the tabs on her stomacher and unlaced her bodice, then drew it down to her waist. His palms reached out and fitted themselves to her breasts. Puckering in response, her nipples strained against the thin fabric of her chemise.

He sucked in a breath. "I've wanted to touch you like this," he said huskily.

A little mewling sound rose from her throat. She'd wanted him to touch her like this, too. He hadn't done so since the night they were wed, and goodness, she'd craved his hands on her body.

If only she'd believed him when he'd said it wouldn't hurt.

She licked her lips, and his eyes darkened. He bent his head, taking the peak of one breast in his mouth, suckling through her gossamer chemise. Her breath caught, and she plowed her fingers into his hair, holding him closer still.

"Trick." His name hung in the air, not a protest this time, but an entreaty. He raised his head, measuring her and apparently liking what he saw. In the next moment, he dropped to his knees, and one hand found its way beneath her wet skirts.

He worked it up, up, and before she knew what was happening, he'd plunged a finger into a place that was wetter still.

Dear God. Her knees felt about as substantial as jellied fruit. Slowly, seductively, he worked his finger in and out, holding her gaze with his. It was shocking and probably wicked, but she couldn't focus on any of that, because something was happening to her. She started tingling and shaking all over.

Just when she knew she would collapse to the floor, he drew away and rose to his feet. "Let's get you dry."

Her breath came out in a rush. She nodded wordlessly, the only response she could manage—but it seemed to be enough for him.

In no time at all he had her stripped, her hair wrapped in one towel while he briskly rubbed her with another. The rough strokes sent her blood coursing like a spring flood. When he was finished, her skin was dry and warm and sensitive beyond whatever she could remember. At his lightest touch, she felt pleasure spiraling through her.

He raised one of her limp hands and ran his fingers over the amber stones that circled her wrist. "You're wearing it," he murmured.

"I—it matched my dress."

He glanced down to the gown on the floor. "Aye. Purple and amber—they go together so well."

She blushed, but he only laughed, a warm sound that rippled right into her.

He started ripping his own clothes off, his gaze on hers commanding her to watch. She backed away and sat on the edge of the bed, unwrapping her hair to towel it dry. Her eyes widened at the sight of him, tall, rangy and lean, with long, ropy muscles.

When his breeches slid down, her gaze slid down along with them. He was still as big as ever. Bigger, even, she would swear. Her breath caught as a tremor of panic took her by surprise.

What if Cait were wrong? What if it worked for most people, but in this case...what if he really wouldn't fit? She remembered the pain, and her lids slid closed.

"Kendra?"

He sounded so concerned. Trying to smile, she opened her eyes. But despite herself, she couldn't help where her anxious gaze was fastened.

His own gaze followed. "I promise you, it won't hurt."

"I know. Caithren told me."

His eyes snapped back up to meet hers. "When?"

"After you left." She bit her lip.

"You didn't believe her, though, did you?"

"Yes." She nodded frantically. "Yes, I did. And I came here wanting..."

"But then..." he prompted, waiting expectantly.

When she didn't continue, he sighed. "I knew this was too good to be true." His eyes slid closed momentarily, then opened and burned into hers. "Listen," he said, reaching to draw her up to stand before him. "The night before I left, you wanted me to touch you, aye?"

Like a simpleton, she stood there with her arms dangling loose by her sides. "Yes, but—"

"I wanted more than that. You know I did. I've thought of nothing but you since the moment I rode away."

Heat rushed to her cheeks—and other parts of her body. She'd thought of him, too, and how he could make her feel. She wanted to feel that again. This fear was irrational, and she had to overcome it.

But that was easier said than done.

"Trick—"

"Look at me."

When she did, he wrapped his arms around her waist. "I've told you I won't take you against your will, and I meant every word. But I'm finished playing games."

Her heart skipped a beat at that, then began racing in her chest. "Trick—"

"Nay. Hear me out." He tossed his head, clearing the hair from his eyes, and his arms tightened around her middle, arching her back, bringing her hips snug against him.

She could feel how much he wanted her.

"I'm done expecting you to beg," he said low. "I still want to take you, but I can wait until you're ready. In the meantime, there are other ways we can pleasure each other, without me entering your body."

She flinched at the frank words, the mental picture. But relief flowed through her veins. And the idea he proposed was intriguing.

"What sorts of ways?"

"I'll show you, lass." His eyes darkened. "Like this."

Her pulse skittered as he moved his hands to her shoulders, then eased her back until she tumbled onto the bed. He came down over her, settling his weight on his elbows. Against her melting softness, his body felt warm and hard as his lips descended to meet hers.

With calculated skill, he kissed her breathless. Senseless. Her world tilted when he rolled to his side and began tracing his fingertips along her heated skin.

"Like this, leannan," he murmured huskily. "We can make each other happy like this." And his mouth followed where his fingers had gone, over her breasts and down her arms and across her waist in a warm, damp dance.

She heard little moans, and they were hers. She reached for his shoulders, tracing her fingers in a way that mimicked his, trying to pull him up so she could touch more of his body.

He raised his head, his breath warm against her belly. "No, lass. Tonight just feel. Lie back and feel what I can do for you." As he talked, his hands caressed their way up her sides. "Then tomorrow," he said, "tomorrow, you'll learn what to do for me." He flicked his thumbs over her nipples, and a jolt of excitement streaked through her. "This can be good for us both."

Rich as velvet, his voice was a sensuous promise, a heady invitation that made her emotions whirl. And while she was still reacting to that, he lifted her knees and moved between them.

He kissed and licked and bit the tender skin of her inner thighs, and her fists clenched, bunching the sheets in her hands. A little cry escaped her lips when his tongue traced the crease where her legs met her body. Then it plunged into that place that was hot and aching, and she let out a gasp of stunned pleasure.

Something was happening to her—something confusing and marvelous. As his tongue continued a rhythmic, sensual assault, every nerve in her body came alight with fiery sensations, sprinting throughout her until she thought she would scream unless something happened—

She exploded, convulsing in wave after wave of pleasure so intense it was almost beyond bearing.

It seemed a long while before she could think straight, before Trick made his way up her body to place one last, gentle kiss on her lips.

"Tomorrow . . ." she whispered.

"Tomorrow is another day," he said. "And together we can make it a wonderful one."

"Wonderful," she breathed, meaning the glory of what had just happened.

"I know." A smile of pure male pride curved his lips. "Now sleep, leannan."

She inhaled deep of his distinctive scent, and another scent that was new to her, the seductive fragrance of spent passion. She sniffed again, smiling to herself, wanting nothing more than to lie awake and replay every moment, relive all the incredible new feelings.

But her earlier exhaustion overcame her, and wrapped in his arms, she drifted off.

It was pitch-black when Kendra awakened sometime in the night, the candle long since guttered out. In his sleep Trick was hugging her, his arms wrapped tightly. When she tried to wiggle free, they tightened more, holding her fast against his warm chest.

She felt smothered, trapped.

But she couldn't fight him, couldn't get away. She was too tired...she would try again later, after she got some more sleep...

Dawn was breaking when next she opened her eyes, feeling inexplicably lonely. Squinting in the faint gray light, she looked over to where Trick lay on his back, apart from her, snoring softly, his hands lax by his sides.

She scooted close, throwing an arm across his chest, but he snored on, still motionless. A stab of hurt, tiny but deep, took her by surprise. Tamping it down, she rolled to her back and stared at the beamed ceiling overhead, replaying last night in her mind.

Wonderful. Full of wonder. But something had been missing.

Everything he'd done had felt incredible, and she was certain she could do the same for him. But she wanted to be closer. Cait had said it wouldn't hurt. And maybe...maybe if she let Trick into her body, he would let her into his heart. Maybe she could start chipping away at the emotional wall he'd built.

And beyond those logical reasons, the naked truth was, she wanted him. Craved him. His body joined with hers, her heart joined with his.

"Trick?" she called softly.

No response.

She poked his shoulder. "Trick?"

"Hmm?" Without opening his eyes, he rolled toward her and flung an arm over her middle.

She snuggled happily into his warmth. "Tomorrow," she said, struggling to keep the tremble from her voice, "tomorrow night, I want to sleep with you."

"Sleeping now," he murmured.

"No. I want...I want..."

His eyes slid open and gazed into hers, so close. "Are you begging, leannan?" he whispered, a tentative note of hope in the words.

"I'm begging," she answered simply.

He raised up to give her a sleepy smile, and she kissed him, running her tongue across the chip in his tooth. When his head dropped back to the pillow, his arms tightened around her, holding her fast against his body.

And she drifted off to sleep again, not feeling smothered at all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

"There's the castle," Trick said after a long day spent on the road. "In the distance, atop that hill. Just as I remembered."

Kendra squinted through the half-light of dusk. "It looks...forbidding." At the end of a narrow, twisty path, twin square towers rose from the hill, thrusting gray and ugly into the leaden sky. "How old is it? Is there no manor house attached?"

"Thirteenth century. It's just the two connected keeps. They're large, though—the distance is deceiving."

"It must be very cold."

"There are fireplaces."

"I'm not talking about the temperature. It doesn't look like a friendly place."

"It isn't," he said shortly.

While two carriages and a luggage cart rolled slowly behind, attended by Trick's servants, they guided their mounts silently past a somber gray-stone church that stood at the edge of a small village. The simple homes seemed eerily empty, however. Though the rain had stopped, no children had come out to play, no women were hanging out wash, no men were at work.

The clip-clop of their horse's hooves sounded loud in the odd stillness.

"Where is everyone?" Kendra asked.

"I'm wondering myself." He glanced up the hill. "Do you hear laughter?"

"Maybe. Far away."

"Up at the castle." As they rode closer, he could hear it better. "They must be holding an entertainment that includes the whole village. Strange...I cannot remember anything like that from when I lived here. Mother doesn't strike me as the type."

"People change in eighteen years."

"I expect you're right." Lost in memories, Trick remained quiet as they made their way to the hill and started up it. The laughter grew louder. When they crested the rise, they saw athletic events in progress on the lawn that bordered the keeps. Five young men were lining up for a foot race while two other lads executed standing jumps and lassies poked fun at their results.

"Will you test your skills?" Kendra asked as they slid off their horses.

"Maybe later." Trick gave her a shaky smile, handing his reins to an Amberley outrider.

A few curious glances were focused their way, but no one made a move to greet them. Shrugging, Trick instructed his staff to find the stables and settle the horses, then took Kendra's elbow and headed inside. Worn stone steps rose to a landing and a small, arched door that stood open, allowing more laughter to drift out into the cool early-evening air.

Beyond the door, a short tunnel led through the twenty-foot-thick wall. At the far end of the passageway they stepped into the first towering keep.

It was every bit as dark and cold as he'd remembered. Iron chandeliers dripped with candles struggling vainly to brighten the great hall, a vaulted chamber of ancient gray stone.

He stood stock still while memories flooded back: having lessons at the old oak desk with his tutor; taking meals at the long trestle table with his mother; playing at her feet while she sat with her embroidery at the far end where flames roared in the immense canopied fireplace, his toy soldiers lined up on the scarred wooden floor. The Cavalier soldiers had always won, of course, since his father had been away fighting among them.

The chamber was teeming with people, and two children chased around him, but he barely took notice even when one bumped his knees. "I remembered it larger," he murmured to Kendra. "It's not nearly the size of Cainewood's great hall."

"It's large enough."

"I recall thinking as a child that it was so big and high a man on horseback could turn a spear in it with all the ease imaginable."

"He'd have to get through the door first," she said with a grin.

Indeed, the entrance they'd just ducked through was shorter than himself by a head or more—precisely to stop raiders on horseback from entering. Even on foot, a grown man couldn't enter without stooping, therefore hampering his ability to attack. He remembered asking about that short doorway as a child, over and over, as children were wont to do.

Kendra's lips moved, but he cocked his head, unable to hear her through the din. "You look pale," she repeated loudly.

"Memories." He shrugged, looking around. "I believe there is a painting of Queen Mary of Scots under there," he said, indicating a rectangle draped in black.

"Why is it covered?"

"To prevent the spirit going in the wrong direction."

He blinked, wondering who had answered.

"You look oddly familiar," he heard Kendra say, and turned to see the man she was addressing.

He could only stare. Several heartbeats passed while all around them people cheered on their favorite of two men playing jump-the-stick.

"I'm Niall," the blond young man introduced himself, bewilderment clouding his golden eyes. "And I thank you for attending my dear mother's wake." He paused expectantly and then added, "Whoever you may be."

"Patrick Caldwell, the Duke of Amberley," Trick replied. "And my wife, the Duchess. And I'm looking for my mother."

"Holy Christ." Niall visibly paled. "I should have guessed. She always said we looked like twins." And he launched himself at Trick, wrapping his arms around him and letting loose a deep, shuddering sob. "You came," he blubbered. "You're a wee bit late, but you came, after all. I told her you would."

At a loss, Trick let the young man hang on his body, wetting his surcoat with heartfelt tears. Hesitantly he placed his hands on the lad's back and gave him a couple of awkward pats. His mind swimming in confusion, he looked to Kendra, sending her a silent plea for help.

She tapped Niall on the shoulder. "Who are you?" she asked.

The young man stilled and pulled back a bit, a frown creasing the forehead above his red-rimmed eyes. He turned to Kendra and blinked hard, swiping a hand under his nose. "I'm your husband's brother," he said slowly.

Feeling blank-headed, Trick gingerly extricated himself. "I have no brother."

"Aye, you do." Niall's gaze trailed to the center of the chamber. "And our mother is in that coffin."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Robbed of breath, Trick woodenly followed Niall to the open coffin. He wanted to protest—in his head, he was screaming this couldn't be his brother, it couldn't be his mother in that box—but words wouldn't come. Words were beyond him just now. Stepping closer, he peered inside.

It was she.

She appeared older than he remembered, though her gown looked as though it would befit a younger woman. Her deid-claes, he realized—the first duty of a new Scottish wife was to sew the funeral clothes for herself and her husband. She'd obviously followed the custom. Beneath the gown, her legs were encased in the traditional white woolen stockings, and upon her feet were sturdy shoes, symbolic of the thorny path she was about to journey.

He'd traveled all the way here to make his peace with his mother, but that was never to be. His mother was dead.

It seemed impossible.

Her serene appearance sat at odds with the churning in Trick's stomach. Why had she written to him? What would have been said between them had he arrived in time? Questions raced in his head, and he wished mightily that she would open her eyes and answer them.

But there were coins on her lids to keep them closed—it was feared that if one looked a corpse in the eye, it would take you as a companion. And he knew that, coins or not, she wouldn't be answering him, anyway.

His mother was dead, and he seemed rooted to the floor.

"Touch her," Niall urged, doing so himself, his fingers gentle on their mother's cheek. "They say it will banish the ghosts of her from your mind."

Trick reached out, then pulled back. "I cannot."

It had been too long since he'd touched her in life. Eighteen years of loneliness, eighteen years of resentment. This journey had been a pilgrimage of sorts, his chance to mend old wounds, reconcile his past so he could start life anew with his wife.

But inside him, the wounds seemed to gape open fresh.

His mother had always failed him, and this time was no different.

He turned and stared into his brother's golden eyes. His own eyes, it seemed. Niall's hair was longer, shoulder-length, but the same shining straight blond as Trick's, and though Niall was quite a bit younger—seventeen, Trick guessed him at—they were of a height.

His brother. He'd never had a sibling. His heart swelling with sudden emotion, Trick gathered Niall close, and Niall hugged him back, hard. Then they pulled apart and looked each other over.

"I have a brother," Trick said, and a small smile ghosted Niall's grief-ravaged face to match the larger smile on Trick's. "Who is your father?" Trick asked.

"Hamish Munroe. His wife died shortly after you left, and he and Mam...well, they'd always..." The younger man drew a shuddering breath. "I'll take you to him."

Niall motioned Trick and Kendra to a turret attached to a corner of the great hall.

They followed him single file up a narrow, twisting stone staircase lit by dangerous, old-fashioned torches set at intervals. The rocks looked ancient, and when Kendra put her hand to the wall for balance, she half-expected it to crumble beneath her fingers. But her hand just came away dirty.

She wiped it on her skirts. "I cannot believe people are playing games down there."

"It's the Scots way," Trick told her.

"Folk were somber early in the week," Niall explained. "But Mam has been gone six days now. All the tears have been shed, all the stories of her have been told and told again. The feasting, the games and riddles—it's all in her honor. The wake is a celebration of her life."

They followed him out into a spacious sitting room that seemed lacking in furniture. Though the windows were small and set back in incredibly thick walls, the stone was whitewashed here and reflected the candlelight, making this chamber much lighter than the one downstairs. A large tapestry hung on one side, looking like it could use a good cleaning, and across from it, four faded red chairs were arranged to face a fireplace.

"Still and all," Niall continued, "this is nothing like Calum MacKinnon's wake last year. They propped up the dearly departed and put a pipe in his mouth, then took turns throwing boiled turnips at him to try to knock it from his lips. I don't think Mam would appreciate that."

"I'd expect not!" Kendra exclaimed.

"Da is in here." Niall pushed open a door. "Come along."

The room was sizable as bedchambers went, with substantial oak furnishings lining the walls and a large four-poster bed in the center. A tall, gaunt man lay beneath the coverlet, snoring softly, and a middle-aged couple sat nearby on two chairs. They began to rise, but Niall waved at them to stay seated.

"Da." He reached to jiggle the man's shoulder. "Someone's here to see you."

Hamish Munroe started and opened his eyes, then blinked and looked again. "Patrick? Is that you?"

"Aye, sir, it is."

To Trick's apparent dismay, the older man's eyes flooded with tears. He held out a hand. "Come here, lad. Let me touch you." With seeming reluctance, Trick gripped his fingers. "Elspeth said you would come. I didn't believe her."

"I received your letter," Trick said, slowly reclaiming his hand. "Or rather, my wife did, and came after me to deliver it." He drew Kendra forward. "My wife, the Duchess of Amberley."

"I'm glad of your acquaintance," she said, reaching for the man's outstretched hand. It trembled in her grasp. "Please, just call me Kendra."

The man's fingers weakly squeezed hers, feeling hot and dry. "Then you must call me Hamish. It's pleased I am to meet you." Dropping her hand, he rolled his head on the pillow, indicating the other couple. "These are my oldest friends, Rhona and Gregor Haig."

"Your grace." Rhona rose and curtseyed, first to Trick and then to Kendra. "Your grace."

Kendra hated the formal address as much as she'd always thought she would. She smiled at the pale woman, wishing she could set her at ease. "I'm glad of your acquaintance," she said.

"Pleased to meet you," Rhona returned softly, not quite meeting Kendra's eyes with her shy blue ones.

Gregor bowed. "Your graces." Blue-eyed and silver-haired as well, he resembled his wife in the way that long-married couples often did. Kendra wondered if she and Trick might end up like that some day, but casting his golden countenance a glance, decided not.

"Sit," Hamish said before turning back to Trick. "They've been keeping me company." He paused and grimaced in pain, then blew out a breath. "I've fallen ill with the same plague that killed Elspeth, you see, and Rhona here is a fine healer."

His friend shook her head. "My possets and infusions don't seem to—"

"Hush, woman. I know you've done your best."

Wiping her hands on the skirts of her cranberry-red gown, Kendra stepped closer. "Your letter said that Elspeth's illness was inexplicable and alarming—"

"I thought so, at first," Hamish said. "But it was only that it was such a coincidence, aye, her sending that letter and then..."

When his voice faded, Niall took over. "It seemed such a coincidence that she should claim she was ill and then suddenly succumb. When Da fell ill as well, the doctor came to visit and"—tears flooded the young man's eyes—"and said they were suffering from a bilious fever. Nothing inexplicable."

"Did he say it was fatal?" Trick asked.

Niall crossed his arms, his familiar eyes radiating a mixture of grief and denial. "That doctor's a bampot if ever I met one. Da is stronger than Mam was. He's not going to die."

Gregor shook his head mournfully. "Last night, a coal in the shape of a coffin jumped from the fire to the hearth. Right there." He indicated the fireplace across from the bed.

"Old beggar-woman tales." Clearly agitated, Niall went to the hearth and grabbed a poker. "I don't believe such nonsense."

As if to contradict his son's opinion, Hamish's face contorted with another pain, and he bent over double in the bed.

Rhona rushed to his side and pressed a cup filled with vile-looking green liquid to his lips. "Drink, Hamish." A tear rolled down her wrinkled cheek. "Have a sip for me, will you?"

He did, and then his eyes closed and he seemed to fall asleep. Niall stabbed angrily at the fire, as though daring another coffin-shaped coal to jump out.

Trick moved closer and took Kendra's hand. "Only at Duncraven," he muttered under his breath, "is it cold enough in the middle of summer to keep a fire burning day and night."

"It's cold within Cainewood's thick stone walls as well," she whispered back.

But that was one of few similarities between the two castles. Though both were centuries old, the parts of Cainewood that had been restored were modern and clean, while this place looked aged and worn out. The white paint was chipping off the walls, and cobwebs lurked in the corners.

As the estate's mistress, she would never stand for such slipshod housekeeping. But Elspeth had been ill these weeks past—perhaps that explained the neglect.

"Come along," Trick said. "Let's leave him to sleep."

"Patrick. Wait. I wish to speak with you." Hamish forced open his eyes. They looked black, until Kendra realized they were light brown but seriously dilated. The older man's voice wheezed through paper-dry lips. "About...about your...your mother's letter."

"You're weary, Da." Niall dropped the poker and crossed to his father. "You're always better in the morning," he said, brushing the straggly gray-blond hair off the man's forehead. "You can speak with Patrick then."

"Elspeth's burial is in the morning," Rhona reminded him in a strangled whisper.

"Oh, aye." The young man closed his eyes for a moment while he recovered his composure. "Then after," he said when he opened them. "Or the next day. You don't have the strength now."

When his father nodded and rolled to his side with a grimace and a groan, Niall ushered Trick and Kendra from the room.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Back downstairs, Niall beckoned to his newfound brother. "Come, you should sit. This must be quite a shock to you both."

Trick allowed himself to be led through the crowd of reveling mourners. Servants passed among them, offering plates of oatcakes and shortbread. Goblets filled with spirits sat waiting on a sideboard, and he snatched one as he walked by, drinking deeply.

Beside the great hall's magnificent canopied fireplace, Niall pushed him into a seat niched into the wall. Trick drank again, then looked around him and leapt to his feet.

"Nay, you belong in the sedile now," the younger man said, gently easing him back down to the fur that draped the stone bench.

Kendra sat beside Trick in the niche and silently took his hand. He gave her a grateful half-smile. Just as he felt uncomfortable in his father's English mansion, neither did he feel that he belonged in this sedile—the seat of honor for the master of the house. Against his back, the stone felt too cold, too solemn.

But he did belong here now—that much was the truth. No matter how awkwardly that truth rode on his shoulders.

Heat rolled out of the fireplace beside them, and torchlight glinted off the armor scattered around the perimeter of the chamber, a reminder of days gone by. Curious glances were slanted in Trick's direction, and people seemed to be edging their way closer.

Oblivious to it all, his mother lay in a box in the center of the room.

Sipping again, he looked away, up to Niall. "I cannot believe she's dead."

"I share your disbelief." Niall hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision. "But unlike Da, I'm not entirely sure there's no evil force at work. I intend to get to the bottom of it." His suddenly narrowed gaze hinted at bravery beyond his years. "Will you help me?"

"I wasn't planning to stay here," Trick said. "I came at my mother's request, and now she's dead." He had pressing matters back home. The king's mission still awaited completion. And a trusting relationship with Kendra was waiting to begin.

"Who is this?" a woman asked, stepping close. Her dull chestnut hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and she looked to be near Trick's age.

"Ah, Annag." Niall's smile failed to reach his eyes. "May I present the Duke of Amberley, my mother's eldest son. Patrick, my half-sister, Annag."

"Pleased to meet you," Annag said, although she clearly wasn't. Her dark brown eyes flashed with some emotion Trick couldn't put a name to, but it was plain enough she didn't like him. Or didn't like him here.

"And Duncan," Niall continued as a man joined their little gathering. Another of Hamish's grown children, from the looks of him. He and Annag bore a marked resemblance to each other, the most obvious being their matching expressions of distaste.

Raising the tankard in his hand, Duncan took a deep swallow. "When are you going home?" he asked, skipping the preliminaries.

Wondering why he felt surrounded by the enemy, Trick rolled his shoulders and changed his mind about leaving so quickly. "When I'm good and ready. I've only just met my brother, and—"

"Oh, him," Annag interrupted, shooting Niall a look every bit as deadly as the one she'd given Trick. "High and mighty Lord Niall."

Apparently Niall had been passed off as the duke's son, and Hamish's other children resented him for it. But the young man only gave a good-natured shrug. "If you cannot be civil, Annag, I will ask you to leave my home."

Duncan took another gulp of his spirits. "It's his home now," he said, indicating Trick with a smarmy, pleased gleam in his eye.

Niall flinched, but recovered swiftly. "And so it is, I suppose."

"I won't be throwing you out," Trick assured him.

"I wouldn't trust him," Annag told Niall, as though Trick weren't even there. "He may have been born here, but he's turned English."

When Niall just glared at her, she continued. "Well, listen to the man speak. English through and through. He's forgotten his Scottish roots, and even you, gowk that you are, ought to know better than to trust a Sassenach."

"Don't the women need help in the kitchen?" Niall asked his sister. "And what are your bairns up to? And Duncan, have you sat some time with Da this day? Rhona and Gregor could use a respite. They're good friends, but you're his son." After that brave speech, he looked down to his scuffed black boots. "Give us some peace, will you? Our mother just died."

"And good riddance," one of them muttered as they shambled away. Trick wasn't sure which, but it didn't seem to matter. So far as he could tell, they both hated him equally. The fact that they'd hated his mother as well came as no surprise.

From what he knew of her, she, at least, hadn't deserved their love or admiration. His father had made no secret of all her faults, and already one had been proven true this night: His mother had been a whore. Perhaps Hamish's wife had been dead when Niall was conceived, but Elspeth's husband had not.

He slumped in the stone niche and extricated his hand from Kendra's, belatedly realizing she'd been holding it in an iron grip.

"Welcome to Scotland," he said, flexing it ruefully.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Although it had grown late, the castle was still overrun with people. Apparently, after his years away had made it clear to Elspeth that her husband was never returning, she'd invited Hamish to live with her and Niall. Hamish's older children had been grown by then and had homes of their own, but since Elspeth's death they'd had been staying here to keep him company. With his grandchildren, too, of course. One big, happy family, as the saying went.

Somehow, Kendra didn't think it applied in this case.

"Are you sure you don't want the master's chamber?" Niall asked.

Trick shook his head. "I wouldn't dream of moving your father. There must be a spare bed here somewhere."

And that was how Trick and Kendra came to follow Niall up what seemed like miles of winding stone stairs, until at last they stepped into a huge, deserted chamber.

Their footfalls echoed off the wooden floor as they entered. A few torches on the walls did little in the way of brightening the place, and the room gave off a musty scent that spoke of long disuse.

Kendra stared up at the gloomy vaulted stone ceiling. "It's spooky."

Niall gave her a wan smile. "Cromwell garrisoned his soldiers in here when he commandeered the castle during the war. A hundred of them, lying foot-to-head on the floor, with a second hundred on another level that rested on those posts you see protruding from the wall." He pressed a key into Trick's hand. "Your staff has moved your things up here already. Shall I have them sent up to attend you? You've a valet, do you not, and a ladies' maid?"

"Aye, my man goes by Cavanaugh, and Jane sees to her grace." Trick's gaze met Kendra's. "But I think we can fend for ourselves tonight."

Though she didn't know if he'd intended to remind her, Kendra's skin prickled as she recalled what she'd promised would happen this evening. Then he looked away, pensively moving off, and she knew that he was no more thinking of such things than she had been.

After all the upheaval today, last night seemed so very long ago.

"Good night, then," Niall said.

"Good night," she returned softly.

Listening to the young man's footsteps fade, she shivered. The candle in her hand wavered, throwing shadows on the gray stone walls. "I dislike to think of Cromwell visiting this place, let alone using it as a headquarters." Oliver Cromwell had been indirectly responsible for the deaths of her parents and her own exile that followed.

"It was against my father's wishes, to say the least. He was a Royalist, through and through." When Trick wandered to one of the deep-set windows, his voice echoed back out from it. "My mother talked him into leaving."

"Did she, really?" Squeezing into the niche, Kendra joined him at the window. In the small space he felt warm and near, yet cold and distant, too. By moonlight, she could barely make out the village below, surrounded by acres of wild pasture and tended fields. "This was her family's ancestral home, wasn't it? Why would she willingly surrender it?"

"She was a Covenanter," he said shortly, stepping back into the room. "Come, our chamber is this way."

He ducked through an arch in the wall and pushed open a thick oak door. On her way inside, she shot one last look at the empty vaulted chamber. The garrison. She wondered if it was haunted by ghosts of dead soldiers.

Not that she believed in anything like that.

The bedchamber was enormous. A four-poster bed in its center looked dwarfed, and after the din of the wake below, the room seemed deathly quiet.

She moved to set the candle on a bedside table, the dull wooden floor sounding gritty beneath her shoes. A fire burned on the hearth, and she wondered who had built it. Jane or Cavanaugh? One of Duncraven's servants? "Are we the only ones up here?"

"Aye. The towers are mirror images. One great room and one bedchamber on each top level." With a rueful smile, he locked the door behind them. "As a child, I was terrified to come up here alone."

"I'm rather terrified now," Kendra admitted. She sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. "After you left the place to Cromwell, how long was it before you returned?"

"Until now." Trick shrugged out of his surcoat, folding it over the back of a chair that sat before an immense carved oak desk. "My father settled my mother with relations and spirited me away to France. I was ten." Abruptly he dropped to the chair. "I never saw my mother again." His voice cracked. "And now I never will."

Kendra rose to wind her arms around his neck from behind. "Surely she knows that you cared, that you came for her."

"Maybe." Sighing, he absently slid open the top desk drawer and riffled through some papers. Dust flew out, tickling her nose. She felt him stiffen. "Sweet Mary, would you look at this."

She straightened. "What is it?"

"A letter. From Oliver Cromwell himself."

A chill ran up her spine. "We were just talking about him. How odd." Irrationally afraid to touch the evil man's writings, she kept her distance while Trick scanned the page. "When was it written?"

"Eighteenth November, 1650."

"So long ago. Almost eighteen years."

"Other than my father, I rarely remember anyone coming up here." His gaze swept the chamber. "Nothing's changed in the interim. The same bed, the same desk. It probably sat here all this time."

"What does it say?"

He looked back down to the yellowed parchment. "'I thought fit to send this trumpet to you, to let you know that, if you please to walk away with your company, and deliver the house to such as I shall send to receive it, you shall have liberty to carry off your arms and goods, and such other necessaries as you have. You have harbored such parties in your house as have basely and inhumanly murdered our men; if you necessitate me to bend my cannon against you, you may expect what I doubt you will not be pleased with. I expect your present answer, and rest your servant, O. Cromwell.'"

"Dear God." Kendra released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Words from the devil himself. Can you blame your mother for wanting to walk away?"

He shrugged uncomfortably. "Father refused at first. He'd fought well and bravely in support of Charles, but when Cromwell opened fire...well, I was inside." He drew a sharp, shuddering breath, obviously remembering.

Kendra was horrified. "He opened fire with a child inside?"

"Aye. The bombardment destroyed the east parapet and tore a large cavity in the stonework—did you not see it as we came in?"

"I wasn't looking."

"At my mother's behest, Father sent word to the Lord Protector that he saw the point, and he walked away, taking me with him and never looking back."

She folded the bed's simple white coverlet back and lowered herself to the plain sheets below. "She wanted to save you."

"She wanted to save her family's castle." He turned in the chair to face her. "If she'd cared for me, she would have come along with us."

"Maybe your father wouldn't allow her."

"Maybe," Trick conceded. "He was certainly mum on the subject." He shoved the paper into the desk and slammed the drawer. "And I wouldn't blame him if he did leave her that coldly. She was no mother or wife to be proud of. Besides being a Covenanter, she was an adulteress, and—"

"You judge her harshly."

A momentary look of self-doubt crossed his face, then disappeared so fast, she wondered if she'd imagined it. "I've told you how I feel about infidelity."

She'd told him how she felt about infidelity as well, but she knew better than to bring that up. Living with three brothers had taught her how to deal with men's moods. Gingerly. "Do you remember her as being that terrible?"

"Nay, but I was only a child."

Kendra glanced down and smoothed her cranberry-colored skirts, then lifted her head to meet his gaze. "If your father and she were at odds, why do you believe everything he told you about her?"

"For the longest time, I didn't want to," he admitted. "But then so much time passed and she never, ever came for me..."

"There are two sides to every story, Trick."

If his sudden silence wasn't agreement, at least he was man enough to consider she had a point. The only sound in the chamber was that of the flames that danced in the fireplace, until at last he said, "But I'll never hear her side of it, will I?"

The pain radiated off him in waves, but she knew that now was not the time to talk about that. It was too fresh. "What is a Covenanter?" she asked instead. "I know English history by rote, and Greek and Roman, but I'm afraid I was never taught much of Scotland's past."

"I cannot say that I'm surprised," Trick said dryly, but the remark didn't sound at all disparaging, merely resigned. He leaned back in the chair and began untying his cravat. "Many men, including my mother's father, signed a document known as the National Covenant. When the Civil War broke out, the Covenanters sided with the English Parliament against the king, in return for Cromwell's promise of a religious reformation in England and Ireland, based on the Scottish Kirk."

"And Cromwell never followed through."

"Nay, he did not. But it took a long time for the Scots to realize they'd been duped."

"They'd thrown their lot in with the devil."

Nodding, he slowly drew off the cravat. "I'm afraid this castle was instrumental in Cromwell's victory. My father never forgave my mother for that."

With a flick of his wrist, the cravat landed on the desk in a flurry of frothy white. She stared at it. He was undressing. Whether or not he'd spent the whole day thinking about it, she was sure he expected to make love with her tonight.

A little ball of anxiety lodged in her middle.

She tore her gaze from the lace-trimmed linen. "My father fought with King Charles, too. And died, along with my mother. He would have sympathized with your father's stance."

His expression hardened. "Father was no saint, believe me. I liked him no more than I did my mother. I'm well rid of them both."

"Trick—" She bit her tongue. Disparaging her husband's feelings was no way to fortify their shaky relationship. She forced a gentle smile. "How does it feel having a brother?"

He smiled in return—perhaps the first smile she'd seen from him that wasn't tainted with a touch of cynicism. "He's quite nice, isn't he?" His eyes softened as his fingers worked to loosen the laces on his shirt. "I find it hard to believe he came from my mother, and—and that man."

She wasn't surprised to find he didn't care for Hamish, either. "Niall looks just like you."

"I know. It's bloody amazing." Leaning forward, he pulled off a boot. "I wish I could stay longer and get to know him. Maybe he'll come visit us at Amberley."

"That would be nice." The more of Trick's clothes that came off, the more her stomach quaked at the thought of what she'd promised last night. Too nervous to just sit there and watch, she stood and wandered over to a small arched door. "Where does this lead?"

"To another staircase, if I remember right." In stockinged feet, he padded over and unlatched the iron bar that secured the door, poking his head into the darkness beyond. His voice echoed back. "Aye, another winding stairwell. To the roof above. Prisoner's Leap."

"Prisoner's what?"

"Prisoner's Leap." He turned to her, the stairwell gaping blackly behind him. "In the old days, prisoners were brought up from the dungeons once a year and allowed a chance to gain their freedom by successfully jumping from one tower to the other. Twelve feet, with their hands tied behind their backs and a hundred-foot drop to the bottom. And no running start."

"My God. Did any of them make it?"

"I expect not." His lips turned up in a half-smile. "Maybe that's why the villagers were practicing their long jumps today."

A little shiver ran through her. "I'm not sure I like this place, Trick."

"Why? Because I had barbaric ancestors?" Although reserved, his grin did seem to lighten the room somewhat. "There's no one in the dungeons today, so far as I know."

"So far as—"

"I'm jesting." He shut the door to the stairwell, and she relaxed a little. "Come here."

"Not until you bar that door."

With a strangled laugh, he did so. "There, we're safe. Come here, Kendra. I need you tonight."

No one had ever said anything like that to her before, and they were certainly words to melt a woman's heart. Frightened as she was, she walked into his arms.

When his mouth met hers, her reservations faded away. If her head didn't remember what had made her decide she wanted him last night, her body certainly did. She knew what he could make her feel now, and she wanted that again, and more. Much more. The tinge of fear in her stomach transformed to a rush of anticipation.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and threaded her fingers in his short, silky hair. Her mouth opened beneath his, and his tongue swept inside, soft and sweet, flavored with the faintest trace of the whisky he'd sipped downstairs.

He eased back to plant little kisses on her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, and finally the sensitive hollow of her neck. He lingered there, suckling gently while his hands went to work on the front of her gown. Her own hands streaked between their bodies to tug the bottom of his shirt from his breeches.

Her stomacher dropped to the floor as she worked the shirt up his torso, his bare flesh warm against her questing palms. She yanked the shirt over his head, and he gave a frustrated laugh when his arms tangled in the full-blown sleeves.

Soon their clothes were gone, and she plastered herself against him. Ah, the give and the take, the heat and the scent, the pure pleasure of his skin touching hers. He bent his head to take her mouth, running his hands down her sides and around to cup her bottom and pull her closer still.

At the intimate contact, she felt a jolt, a flood of excitement that at the same time made her feel heavy and lethargic. Her body trembled. He smelled of soap and sandalwood, and she couldn't tell where he stopped and she started. If he wasn't holding her up, surely she'd melt to the floor in a puddle of sensation.

Slowly he backed her up and eased her onto the bed, coming down beside her. He hesitated, levering up on an elbow, his head hovering above hers. Beneath his shining gold hair, his eyes caught and held her gaze. The faint blond stubble on his chin glistened in the candlelight.

Her heart pounded, and her breath came ragged and uneven. Every fiber of her being ached for his touch, screamed for release. She turned, reaching to pull him close.

The air was rent by a strangled groan.

"I cannot do this," he gritted out and rolled away. "I cannot do this. I cannot do this with my mother lying in a box downstairs."

She felt an instant of stunned disappointment before her head cleared and her arms went around him anyway. She squeezed tight. "It's all right. I understand."

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I just cannot—"

"Hush," she said. Slowly she drew air into her lungs, giving herself time to adjust, time for her body to recover. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

She sat and pulled the coverlet over them both, then lay back down. With a regretful sigh, he turned to face her and gathered her close, his hand warm against her bare back, his head heavy against her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispered once more.

And long minutes later, when her heart had calmed, for the second night in a row she fell asleep in his arms.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Still wide awake an hour later, Trick eased away from Kendra and slid from the bed. Quietly he drew on his breeches and pulled his shirt back over his head, then lit a candle and slipped from the bedchamber, closing the door softly behind him.

The stone steps felt cold and rough beneath his bare feet as he trod carefully down them. A low murmur of voices drifted up the stairwell. Arriving on the ground floor, he stopped and stared.

Annag and Niall sat before his mother's coffin. Behind it, Duncan hid, manipulating a clever arrangement of twine and twigs. A deep, unearthly "Oooooooooh" issued from his throat as he twisted his hands. Elspeth's body jumped and twitched, and Annag jumped and screeched. Rising to his feet, Duncan burst into laughter and lifted a glass of whisky in a clearly drunken toast.

Trick couldn't believe his eyes.

Niall caught his gaze and offered a small smile. He rose and came to meet him at the bottom of the stairs. "Couldn't you sleep?"

"I kept thinking of her lying down here. Cold, in a box." Trick ran a shaky hand back through his hair. "It seems so unreal. I thought I could just sneak down here and...convince myself, maybe. Sit here a while."

Niall nodded slowly, then turned to his half-siblings and raised his voice. "Give us peace, will you? Go on to bed. We'll sit with Mam alone."

Still laughing, they staggered out, taking a bottle of spirits and their glasses along with them.

The candles surrounding Elspeth's casket flickered in their wake. "Why were they sitting with her?" Trick asked after they'd stumbled out of earshot. "It's plain as anything they held her in no esteem."

"Da wouldn't like to hear they've been shirking their duty. Mam must never be left alone—they say that a corpse left alone will find the road to hell."

Knowing his mother's history, Trick imagined Hamish and Niall would worry about her finding the road to hell. He went to the coffin and set the candle he was carrying beside the others, averting his gaze from his mother's waxen face. "I feel like I should be able to talk to her. I came all the way from England to talk to her."

"Then talk to her," Niall said.

Trick sighed, wishing he had some of his brother's calm confidence—wishing he knew where to start. Owing to Duncan's prank, Elspeth's hands were no longer neatly crossed on her chest. Wincing at the sight of the twine still attached, he began to reach, then stopped.

"Fix her, will you?" he asked in a voice rough with frustration. "Get that off her."

While Niall gently did as he asked, Trick dropped into a chair, staring blindly ahead. "I would think you'd rather sit by yourself than with those two. Especially considering they accord her no respect. I cannot believe what I saw when I walked in here."

"I cannot sit alone—there must always be two on guard." Niall took the seat beside him. "And a good prank at a wake is often enjoyed, even encouraged. You don't know our ways here, Patrick. Even though you were born within these walls."

"You've the right of it there." Trick sighed. He'd never felt very English, but he didn't feel Scottish, either. He only felt confused.

"What did you want to say to her?" Niall asked. "You can say it, aye? Out loud, or in your head. Either way, she'll hear you."

"Do you think so?" He turned to gaze at his brother. "You are young yet, but wise."

Niall broke into a grin—straight, white, and as familiar as the one Trick saw in the mirror every morning when he was shaving, except none of his brother's teeth were chipped. "I don't think Annag would agree."

"Nay, I expect she wouldn't. How do you put up with those two?"

The younger man gave a sheepish shrug. "They're not as bad as they seem. I grew up with them, aye? It takes two to fight."

"And you refuse to participate."

"More or less. Of course, once in a while..." The engaging grin reappeared before he sobered. "Annag...well, her husband's dead these two years past. And her with three bairns on her own. She wasn't always so bitter."

Trick hadn't realized she was widowed. "And Duncan?"

"He's never wed—no sane woman would have the bastard." Niall scrubbed his hands hard over his face, then blinked and looked at Trick. "The three days of keening have passed, but if you've no words for Mam, perhaps the traditional ones would help."

Trick knew little of this land's traditions. "I'm listening."

Now that the rowdy mourners had gone home to bed, the great hall seemed larger, yawning huge and dark, much more like Trick had remembered. Niall took a deep breath before his voice rose in song—not the mournful, haunting wail that Trick had imagined a keening would be, but a heartfelt, melodic lament that echoed off the vaulted stone ceiling.

"Oh, Mother, ye have left us! Ochone!"

He paused and looked at Trick, his golden eyes expectant.

"Ochone? Is that some pagan god?"

"Nay, it's Gaelic. Nothing more than an expression of sorrow or regret."

"Ochone," Trick said softly, expecting to feel silly. But he didn't. Sharing the sitting duty with his brother, keening their mother together, felt right.

"Why did ye leave us? Ochone! What did we do to ye? Ochone! That ye went away from us?"

"Ochone!" Trick sang for him.

"'Tis ye that had plenty!"

"Ochone!"

"And why did ye leave us?"

"Ochone! Ochone! Ochone!" The ancient syllables slipped through Trick's lips, and some of the pain along with them.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

When dawn had broken, Trick made his way upstairs to find a gray-garbed woman in his room, her back to him as she stoked the fire on the ancient, blackened stone hearth. At the sound of him entering, she slowly straightened and turned.

He gasped. "Mrs. Ross?"

"Aye, it be me," the tiny woman said in a reedy voice, coming closer. She was shorter than he remembered, but of course he'd last seen her through the eyes of a child. Her face was even more wrinkled, if that were possible, her blue eyes faded but glittering the same as they always had. "Why, I'd recognize you anywhere, even after all these years. Patrick, dear, how fare you?"

"I'm well." The door banged louder than he would have liked when he shut it behind him, and in the bed, Kendra stirred. "How are you?" he asked Mrs. Ross. Sweet Mary, the woman must be eighty years old.

"No complaints. But your mam..." The blue eyes flooded with tears. "I don't know what happened. She went so fast..."

"Trick?" Kendra blinked herself awake. At the sight of a stranger in the room, she clutched the blanket over her naked shoulders and tucked it under her chin.

"My wife, the Duchess of Amberley," Trick introduced her. Smiling to himself, he walked over to smooth her sleep-mussed hair. "Good morning, leannan. No need to blush—it's only Mrs. Ross, my old nurse."

"And his mam's before him," the older woman added.

"I haven't thought of her as Mam in eighteen years," he murmured. "She's Mother to me now."

Mrs. Ross's thin, bluish lips straightened into a disapproving line. "She was never Mother to you, and well you know it. She was much warmer than that. And why did you not write her, aye?" Her expression hardening, the bird-like woman came near and whacked him on the shoulder, although not without a modicum of affection. "Eighteen years and you never once answered one of that poor woman's letters."

Trick rubbed his shoulder. "What the hell are you talking about? She never sent me a letter."

"The devil she didn't. She cried for weeks after your father dragged you away. Then she started writing the letters—"

"I never received any letters," Trick insisted.

But Mrs. Ross wasn't listening. "—every week at first, then every month, and then, when she never heard back, once a year. Until finally she gave up. You broke her heart, Patrick Iain. I knew you were a bairn yet, but I thought I'd taught you better—"

"Mrs. Ross!"

The woman jumped and started twittering, and Kendra clapped her hands over her ears, her eyes wide as round portholes.

He waited until his old nurse quieted before continuing. "I never received her letters. Did you hear me, Mrs. Ross? I never received her letters. Not one."

She stilled, studying him for a long moment. "Did he keep them from you, then?" she whispered and burst into tears.

He gathered her fragile frame into his arms. "There, Mrs. Ross. I know you miss her." Patting her on the back, he silently cursed his father—the blackguard—for hiding the mail. And himself for never considering the possibility. "Mother wouldn't want you to be sad."

"Your mam was like a daughter to me." She raised her tear-stained face. "A woman isn't supposed to outlive her children."

He pulled back and nodded, and they gazed at each other until Kendra shifted on the bed and cleared her throat. "What was she like, Mrs. Ross?"

The old nurse dashed the tears from her wrinkled cheeks and sat herself down. The bulky oak armchair dwarfed her. "She was good. A good woman, Elspeth. She had no easy life."

Kendra slanted Trick a glance, knowing he didn't want to hear this, but also knowing he should. "How is it she came to marry the duke?"

"Him." The woman looked as though she wanted to spit. "King Charles—the first one—arranged the match. Part of his plan to Anglicize Scotland." She twisted her bony fingers in her lap, her voice going softer, as though it were coming from far away. "And my poor Elspeth was so in love with Hamish Munroe...but her father had never liked the lad. Too common for his tastes. A third son, and a businessman besides, buying flax for the weaving and then selling the cloth. He made a fine living, but Elspeth's father was the laird, and he expected better for his daughter. The Stuarts had made him an earl, but that didn't make him English."

"Of course not," Kendra said gently, noting that Trick seemed to be studying his bare toes. "My husband told me his grandfather signed the Covenant."

"Aye, the old earl was a bit of a rebel. It's in the blood. But still and all, he was happy enough when the king matched his daughter with a duke. He forced poor Elspeth into it."

Thinking of her own forced marriage, Kendra bit the inside of her cheek. "How?"

"You don't want to know." The nurse's lips pressed tight, and Kendra knew that her brothers' matchmaking had been nothing like Trick's grandfather's. Unlike Elspeth, deep down she knew a small part of her had wanted to wed Trick. And she also knew her brothers wouldn't have pushed her into the marriage if that hadn't been so.

"She was unhappy all her days," Mrs. Ross continued. "Even after the duke left her alone to reclaim her lost love, she never recovered from the loss of her son." She brushed at her gray skirts and stood. "Well, I'd best be off about my duties," she said, looking to Kendra. "Welcome to Duncraven, your grace."

"My pleasure. I hope we can talk more later."

"Aye, we can. After we bury my Elspeth." With a long, miserable sniff and a swish of her skirts, she sailed from the room.

Kendra waited until the door clicked closed behind her, then released a heartfelt sigh. "Oh, how terribly romantic. Doesn't it give you the shivers?"

"Doesn't what give me the shivers?" Trick opened a cabinet and started pulling out clean clothes.

"Thinking about Elspeth and Hamish, in love all those years. And finally getting to be together." While his back was safely turned, she slid from between the sheets and hurried into her chemise. Relieved, she made her way over to look for a suitable gown to wear to a burial. She wondered what would be an appropriate way to wear her hair. She would have to send for Jane to come up and style it. "Now that I've heard your mother and Hamish's story, I'm so glad she invited him to live with her here. Maybe they found a bit of happiness, after all."

"Maybe my mother sent me letters. But that didn't make her a good woman." He shook out a shirt, then stripped off the one he was wearing, a long pull of his muscles as he drew it over his head. Kendra watched, enjoying the view more than she'd be willing to admit. "She was still an adulteress, and a Covenanter, and she betrayed—"

"Did you not hear a word your nurse said about what happened between her and Hamish?" Pulling out a forest-green dress, she sighed and held it up. "This is the darkest thing I brought. Do you suppose I'll be scorned for not wearing black?" She turned it around and frowned at the low, scooped neckline. "What will Hamish think? I noticed yesterday that the women here wear more on top."

He blinked at her. "Your top looks fine to me. Niall knows you didn't come here expecting to attend a funeral. And I cannot imagine why you'd care what anyone else thinks. Hamish, especially." He put on the clean shirt, then began to unlace his breeches. "I feel sorry for the old man, but that doesn't mean I like him. He lived in sin with my mother—"

"I suppose, then, that you've never bedded a woman without the benefit of wedlock."

His long fingers fumbled on the laces. "Will you stop interrupting me every time I try to make a point?"

Ignoring that request, she stared at him a long moment, until he lifted his head to meet her gaze. "Well?" she pushed.

"You know very well I was experienced when I took you to my bed."

Clearly fuming, he remained silent while he hopped on one foot and then the other to remove the breeches. Half annoyed, half amused, her gaze followed the breeches down, but his long shirt covered the interesting parts.

She blushed when he caught her looking, but he only crossed his arms and leveled her with a glare so fierce that, had he been a Gorgon, she would surely have turned to stone. "I've already told you I don't hold with infidelity. I've never slept with a married woman."

"Congratulations. You're probably the only male member of Charles's court who can say so." She dropped the green gown over her head and wiggled it into place. "Hamish and your mother were victims, Trick. They shared a love that lasted decades—a love the thought of which melts me inside. A perfect love, like my own parents'." Threading the laces across her bodice, she looked up. "How can you think to deny them what little happiness they found?"

"I haven't the choice to deny or allow it, do I? What's done is done. That doesn't mean I have to like it. Or them."

A knock came at the door, and she yanked her laces tight and reached for her stomacher while he stomped over to answer it.

"What now?"

Dressed in a red kilt, Niall took a startled step back. He turned to leave, taking with him an armful of matching plaid wool.

Trick reached to grab his elbow. "Forgive me, Niall. I thought you were Mrs. Ross. Not that I should have been barking at her, either." He blew out a breath before turning to face Kendra. "And I'm sorry I was so short-tempered with you."

"I understand," she said softly. The stomacher safely attached, she smoothed her skirts and put a hand to her disheveled hair.

Niall didn't seem to notice it, however. "Patrick didn't get any sleep," he told her.

"Did you not?" She cocked her head at her husband speculatively. "Any at all?"

"Nay. Niall and I stayed up with Mam." Kendra thought she caught a look of surprise when he heard his own use of the name. "We did some keening."

"Did you?" She couldn't imagine.

"Ochone!" Trick sang, the word vibrating up to the beamed ceiling, and Niall laughed, breaking the tension.

"Come in," her husband said, closing the door behind his brother.

Niall aimed a glance at Trick's bare legs and then held out the length of red tartan. "I've brought you this."

Trick made no move to take it.

"I thought you might like to wear it to the burial."

"My father wasn't Scottish."

"Your mother was." Niall pushed the woolen fabric into Trick's arms, along with a wide leather belt. "Wear it in her honor. Just this once. She'd have been proud to see you in it."

A long silence stretched between them while Trick shifted the cloth in his hands, a range of conflicting emotions playing across his face. "I don't know how to wear it," he said at last.

His brother's smile managed to look sad, pleased, and relieved, all at the same time. "That I can help you with." He placed the belt on the floor and crouched beside it, his own kilt skimming the wooden planks as he folded the plaid into pleats and arranged it on top of the leather. "Lie down on this," he instructed.

Trick's lips quirked. "You're jesting."

"Nay. The only way to get it on properly is to lie down."

Kendra squelched a laugh as her husband looked askance at his brother, then sighed and lowered his big frame to the floor.

"Nay, move up," Niall said. "The belt must be at your waist." After Trick scooted higher, his brother went about wrapping the pleated material around him and belting it securely. "Now you can stand," he said, offering him a hand up.

Trick flexed his knees experimentally while Niall took the large expanse of fabric above the belt and tucked it into the front, crisscrossing it to make what was essentially two big pockets. Then he drew up the extra cloth in back and draped it over Trick's shoulders.

Trick took a few steps, watching the kilt sway around his knees.

"Feels odd," he said. "What is worn underneath?"

Niall glanced down at his own kilt. "Nothing is worn. Everything underneath is in good working order." He looked up with an engaging grin.

Kendra's gaze drifted over to her husband, who looked mildly scandalized. He also looked devastatingly handsome. Better even than he had in his black highwayman garb, or maybe it was just knowing there was nothing underneath.

The very thought of that brought heat to her cheeks.

"Well?" Niall asked, and she glanced up to find both men focused on her. "How does he look?"

She felt her cheeks burn even hotter. "F-fine," she managed.

"I cannot wait to get it off," Trick grumbled.

Neither could she.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Led by a piper with a black pennant tied to his pipes, Trick and Niall headed the eight bearers carrying their mother's coffin from the castle down to the little kirk. Behind them, family, friends, and castle staff followed along in a rather informal procession.

"Why aren't there more women?" Kendra asked in a low voice from where she walked beside Trick, modestly wrapped in a homely brown shawl she'd borrowed from Mrs. Ross. Her hair was constrained in a plaited bun.

"Most of the women usually remain at the home," Niall explained. "They'll be preparing for the return of the mourners. And keeping my father company. It's not customary for a husband to attend his wife's burial."

"And she was his wife in his heart, I'm sure of it."

Her romantic sigh set Trick's teeth on edge. "Hamish couldn't have come along, anyway. Not in his state of health."

"Well, it's nice to know his illness isn't keeping him from something he'd regret missing later." She leaned close to Trick. "Hardly anyone is wearing black," she observed beneath her breath.

"It's unnecessary to wear black in order to pay your respects," Niall said, obviously overhearing her. "Not everyone can afford special clothes for mourning."

After that, she kept quiet. The bagpipe music was loud, the notes sad and lingering. All too soon they were gathered in the small graveyard, and the solemn tune came to an end. The single wreath of heather was removed from atop the oak coffin, and the lid was lifted for one last time.

Stepping closer, Trick peered inside, trying to memorize his mother's features and reconcile them with his faded childhood memories. Had she been the warm woman he sometimes saw in his dreams, or the cold one his father had told him about? What had they said, those letters he'd never read? Had they been written out of duty, or had the pages been spattered with her tears?

Knowing this was his last chance, he reached to touch her.

Her body felt cold and unreal, and touching it did nothing to banish the ghosts of her from his mind, as Niall had said it was meant to do. A shiver ran through him. Their rocky past would always stand between him and what should be happy memories.

Others came forward to pay their respects and touch his mother, then two men moved to replace the lid. Trick bent down with it as it was lowered into place, catching a final glimpse of her face.

"Good-bye," he whispered, and Kendra squeezed his hand.

He hadn't even realized she'd been holding it.

A short service was read, but he didn't hear what was spoken. His mind was numb, the words filtered through a haze. He shuffled his feet on the soft green grass, his gaze wandering the gentle mounds that marked where bodies lay, many of their headstones rendered smooth and unreadable by the ravages of weather and time.

A bell was rung; then the mourners filed past the tree where it hung, dropping coins into the plate below as they went. Burial silver. For form's sake, he imagined—surely the Dowager Duchess of Amberley wouldn't need help to defray her funeral expenses.

Or would she? He admittedly knew nothing of his parents' financial arrangements. Upon his father's death, he'd clearly failed in his duty as a son. And now it was too late.

He cursed himself roundly, if silently.

The mournful whine of the bagpipes rose again, and people began drifting out of the little cemetery. As he turned to leave, Kendra came around to face him and took both his hands. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

He shrugged. "It's not that I'll miss her, precisely."

"But you'll miss what could have been."

She was wise, his new wife. Her fingers tightened on his before she dropped his hands and turned to Niall. Without hesitation, Trick's brother walked into her arms and stayed there, his shoulders hitching while she murmured words of comfort.

She was not only wise, Trick amended, but compassionate. She would make a good mother for their children. If only he could gain her trust.

But secrets stood between them, and it wasn't yet time for the truth.

At long last Niall pulled away and gave Kendra a shaky smile. "Thank you."

"I'm your sister now," she said kindly. "And you've no one here, Niall. Your mother is gone, your father is ill, and your sister and brother—" She broke off. "I'm here for you."

"I'm here for you, too," Trick put in, surprised how good it felt to say that. To be needed by someone, and to need him as well. He hadn't had that in eighteen years, and he'd never thought he'd have it again.

Despite all his father's tales of his mother's treason and treachery, he looked at the stoic backs of the people walking toward Duncraven and knew that once upon a time he'd felt happy in this place. Even living in that forbidding gray keep at the top of the hill.

And now here was a brother, needing him. And a wife, if only he could break down the barriers between them.

Clouds were gathering again, and the air held that elusive scent that meant wet weather was on the way. He pulled the wool tartan around his shoulders as they began following the others.

"What happens now back at the castle?" Kendra asked.

"A draidgie," Niall said. "Entertainment, dancing, drinking, eating. Some tears and some merriment."

"More merriment?" She looked incredulous.

"To celebrate the life of the one who passed on. A time to wish the departed spirit a safe landing on the other side."

She nodded, apparently accepting what Trick was coming to realize: Things were different here. Not bad or wrong, just different.

Still, they were both surprised at Niall's next words to Trick.

"Are you ready for a good fight?"

Niall stomped into the great hall, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and let loose a loud, piercing whistle that had every head snapping in his direction.

The jabbering tapered to an expectant silence.

He drew a deep breath and raised his voice. "It's a sad day when my mother is put into the ground and not even one blow is struck at her funeral!" And without another word, he turned and slapped the nearest man.

Instantly, the chamber erupted in a free-for-all. Colorful tartans whirled in a blur. Food and drink went flying, trestle tables were overturned, and chairs were tossed aside.

Along with the other women, Kendra backed against a wall, not caring that it was rough and probably grungy. She clutched Mrs. Ross's shawl to her chest, unable to believe her eyes. No fists were used, but the sounds of open-handed slaps rang in her ears as family and friends went at each other with enthusiasm.

She watched as Trick delivered a stinging slap to Duncan, who retaliated with a blow across the mouth that had her husband backhanding blood from his lips. But he flashed her a chipped-tooth grin, then pivoted on a heel and slapped a perfect stranger.

He looked to be enjoying himself immensely.

"Men," she muttered under her breath.

The woman beside her shook her head, her gray-brown plaits swishing along with it. "I'll never understand them."

"You want mine?" another woman asked.

A good ten minutes passed before Niall decided enough violence had been done to pay the proper respect to his mother, and finally called for a truce.

Still grinning, Trick made his way over to Kendra. "Could you believe that?"

"No," she said flatly.

"Me, neither. I've never seen anything like it. But it felt good, aye?" He paused for a satisfying breath. "I was angry. I've been angry since I got here. I didn't want to come in the first place, then my mother was dead—"

"But you discovered a brother."

He rolled right over that. "It felt good to whack some people. Cleansing."

With a wry smile, she shook her head, and he smiled back, then winced and put a hand to his mouth. "Are you hurting?" she asked.

"Not enough to care." As if to prove it, he dragged her close and pressed his lips to hers. She tasted the faint coppery tang of blood, and then, as he opened his mouth, the warm, sweet slickness that she was learning to think of as Trick.

Her hands went around him, sliding beneath the folds of his plaid to feel the planes of his back under his fine lawn shirt. He leaned into her, and she felt the clear evidence of his arousal through her skirts and the kilt. The kilt with nothing underneath.

The thought turned her legs to pudding, and she sagged in his arms. "Is something amiss?" he asked with a grin, setting her away. Her plaited bun was beginning to unravel, and he tucked a rogue strand of hair behind her ear.

Mrs. Ross's shawl slipped from her shoulders to the floor. "Goodness." She pressed her hand to her racing heart as her gaze traced down his body. The red kilt seemed rather primitive apparel, and it awakened a matching primitiveness inside her. She'd never imagined a man's bare knees could be so exciting.

She knelt to reclaim the shawl, sneaking a peek beneath the tartan as she came back up, but it was too dark under there to see anything. On this cloudy day, the dozens of candles in the chandeliers overhead were all but useless against Duncraven's gloom.

Trick's lips quirked in a knowing smile as he took the shawl from her and settled it back in place. "I asked Niall what leannan means," he said.

"And?" She reached down, her fingers skimming the kilt's hem.

"Sweetheart." He rubbed a gentle thumb beneath her chin, then bent to brush a soft kiss across her lips. "It means sweetheart."

Something went melty inside her. "I want to reach under here," she whispered.

"Is that so?" Leaning closer to shield her from view, he traced a finger down her throat and into the low neckline of her very English dress. "We'll have to accommodate you, then. But not here."

At the word here, his expression sobered, as though he'd just remembered what had happened here today. He dropped his hand and smoothed down the front of his kilt. "Sweet Mary, I'm tired."

"You didn't get any sleep."

Her gaze followed his as he looked around the gathering. A few thoughtful souls were helping tidy the worst of the brawl's aftermath, but most folk were back to eating and downing spirits. Their chatter seemed to grow louder in proportion to the drink they consumed.

"I think maybe I'll lie down a spell," he said.

"Shall I come with you?"

"Nay." He scrubbed his palms over his face, avoiding her gaze. "I'm really tired."

She tried to ignore the rush of disappointment. "Perhaps I'll go sit with Hamish a while."

"You do that. It's a difficult day for him."

He started to leave, but she snagged him by the sleeve. "It's a difficult day for you, too, Trick."

When he shrugged and pulled away, she let him go.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

"How is he doing, dearie?"

Startling from a doze when Hamish's old friend Rhona came into the room, Kendra bolted upright on her chair. "He slept the whole hour I was here." For the hundredth time since she'd entered the chamber, her gaze darted to the bed and she was relieved to see Hamish still breathing.

Rhona touched a hand to her shoulder. "I thank you for sitting with him. It was a welcome respite."

"I can stay longer."

"Nay, you run along now," she said, settling to her embroidery. "Down at the draidgie, all the young people are telling ghost stories."

Kendra slowly rose. "If you're sure, then." At Rhona's nod, she slipped out the door and closed it quietly behind her.

She didn't want to hear ghost stories—this bleak castle gave her shivers as it was. Deciding to check on her husband, she made her way up the dozens of winding stone stairs.

He wasn't in their chamber.

Someone had made their bed after they'd left, and it was clearly undisturbed. He hadn't come up to rest at all. Disappointed that he'd apparently fibbed to get away from her, she wandered to the room's only window, deep in an alcove set into the wall. Resting her palms on the cold stone sill, she leaned out and looked up at the sky.

Gray, to match her mood. The clouds were moving swiftly; rain was on the way. A blackbird fluttered from the heavens and down to the garden below, spreading its wings to make a graceful landing on a stone bench.

Right next to a figure clad in a bright red kilt.

He was hunched over something in his lap. Something white. Paper. The man who'd told her he never wrote anything was outside scribbling up a storm.

She hurried downstairs, huffing and puffing by the time she reached the bottom, and headed for the door.

Niall caught her on her way out. "Why such a rush, lass? Is something amiss?"

"N-no." Of course nothing was amiss—in the midst of catching her breath, Kendra wondered for a moment just exactly what she'd been rushing out to do. Yell at Trick for not taking a nap? Or for pouring his heart out on paper? He was a grown man, entitled to do as he pleased, especially on a disturbing day like this one.

She forced a smile for her brother-in-law. "Nothing is wrong. I thought I'd just go out and take some air."

The bagpiper was warming up discordantly, and a fiddler was busy tuning. "The dancing is about to begin," Niall told her.

She looked around, noticing the tables and chairs had been pushed against the walls. "There's really going to be dancing?"

"Aye, there is. Mam would have expected us to celebrate her life rather than the death that ended it." The musicians launched into a jaunty tune, and Niall made an incongruously solemn bow. "Are you dancin'?"

She could see that he was trying very hard to keep what he considered to be the proper draidgie outlook, although she was sure he ached deep inside. Her heart went out to him. No matter that dancing today seemed wrong to her, she dropped a curtsy and gave him the answer he was expecting.

"Are you asking?"

With a low laugh that reminded her of Trick's, he twirled her into the center of the room.

The dance was performed by four couples in a circle, and it took all of Kendra's concentration to follow it. Halfway through the complicated pattern, she was already breathless and realized she had little time to think on her troubles, and neither did Niall.

Perhaps dancing on a day like this wasn't such a bad idea, after all.

When the tune ended, he took her by the elbow to draw her from the floor. "My father wants to talk to you and your husband," he said conversationally.

Surprised she hadn't lost it, she resettled the shawl on her shoulders. "He's sleeping."

"Patrick?"

"No, Hamish. Trick is out in the garden."

"Ah, then it was him you were rushing out to see." The music started again, and couples began forming a double line down the middle of the chamber. "Why do you call him Trick?" Niall asked.

"A childhood name. His father called him that."

"But Mam didn't." He sighed. "So much I don't know about my brother."

"He doesn't know you, either. But he'd like to, I'm sure."

He gave her a sad, gentle smile. "He won't be staying long enough to get to know me."

"Not this time. But he'll be back. I'll make certain of it."

"Now, that I don't doubt." The low laugh rang out again. "I saw you two kissing earlier, and I'd wager you could make him do anything."

She felt her face heat. She'd never thought of herself as a woman who could persuade with kisses. With words, yes—having been raised a Chase, she could argue with the best of them. But she'd never been much of a flirt, let alone a seductress.

Pleased at the thought, she grinned. "Thank you for the dance, Niall."

"My pleasure." The second dance was ending, but another would start soon. "Will you do me the honor again?"

"Maybe later. I've a man to meet in the garden." And hopefully persuade to open up and share himself with her...with kisses, if necessary.

"Trick."

Her voice was gentle, but he still startled, quickly flipping the paper facedown on the bench beside him. He'd been so entrenched in his thoughts, he hadn't heard her approach.

Her soft sigh belied her smile. "You shouldn't chew on your quill."

He swept it from his mouth. "I know," he agreed shortly, helpless to stop the annoyance he felt at being caught writing—something he'd hidden all his life. He took a calming breath. "It's how I chipped my tooth. What are you doing out here?"

"What are you doing out here?"

"Nothing." Fiddling with the quill in his hands, he looked up at the sky. "I couldn't sleep."

"Did you try to sleep?"

He was silent a few beats before dropping his gaze to meet hers. "Not really. I...I was writing." Silly that it seemed hard to admit, but there was no point in lying, seeing as she'd found him in the act.

Her expression seemed wary, reserved; then her gaze went to his kilt and she licked her lips. Remembering what she'd said earlier, he bit back a smile as she met his eyes.

Her cheeks flushed a delicate pink. "May I read some of what you wrote?"

His hand moved protectively to the thin stack of paper. "Why would you want to?"

"What you write is part of you, Trick."

True, but not the best part. What spilled out onto paper was often the parts of himself he didn't like.

"Is it poetry?" she asked.

"Aye. It's just poetry. Pretty words that sound good together. Meaningless."

"It wouldn't be meaningless to me."

Hurt dulled her eyes, and he looked away, wishing he had it in him to give her what she wanted. Rolling the sheets into a narrow tube, he tucked it into the pocketed front of his kilt. "Come, let's walk. The garden is quite whimsical."

He took her down a path where dozens of tiny model castles nestled in the shrubbery on either side. "The castle garden," she said with a smile, brightening with a determination that didn't fool him. "How very clever."

"It was my mother's doing. When I was a lad, she spent hours out here every summer. And when winter kept her inside, she designed and built the little castles. Sometimes she let me help." Their footsteps crunched on the gravel path. "Of course, Father thought it was a waste of time."

"What did he want her to be doing instead?"

"I don't know." He'd never wanted to know; not knowing had felt safer. "I was but a child, and I never did understand them or the way they were together."

"Was he a difficult man to live with, your father?"

Difficult didn't even begin to describe the late Duke of Amberley. "I cannot say what living with him was like for her, but for me, it was a living hell."

She slipped her hand into his. "He had high expectations for you, did he?"

"No. At least not in the way you're thinking." He felt as tired as he knew his voice sounded, drained and numb. "I was naught but a means to an end. A pawn in his game. It's safer to send a child to do the dangerous work, you see. Nobody would expect a child to be smuggling goods in his clothing. Nor would they see a child alone on a hill with a lantern, night after long, cold night, and suspect he was there to signal in ships."

"He had you do those things?"

"Those are the tamer examples." Her question sounded so innocent, the sympathy in her eyes so acute, he couldn't bring himself to burst her naïve bubble with any details. Besides, he didn't have the energy to go into it. Or the will.

"And when you were older?"

"He found different ways of using me." He stopped on the path. There were some things best left unremembered. "Must we talk about this now?"

There was a long pause while she seemed to come to a decision. "No, of course not," she said with a smile he suspected was forced. "Your mother's castle garden is charming. It's quite secluded back here, isn't it?"

"Aye, it is that." The trees made a leafy avenue, shielding them from prying eyes. "No one has ventured back here for an hour or more."

"Hmm..." she said speculatively, the smile turning real.

"Hmm? What do you have in mind?"

"Only this." And she backed him against a poplar, leaning up on her toes to crush her mouth to his.

After a stunned moment, he responded, gathering her into his arms, letting her lips and body comfort him the way words never could. She'd rejected him for so long that he found himself wallowing in her sudden acceptance. Her soft fragrance surrounded him, more potent than aged whisky.

A long, intense minute later, he drew his head to the side, still holding her close. "You've never kissed me first before. What's gotten into you, leannan?"

Silent save for the uneven sound of her breathing, she searched his eyes. The wind came up, sending the poplar's white-bottomed leaves into a silvery dance, and she leaned back in his arms. "It's this kilt, Trick. It drives me wild."

Though he was sure it was something more than that, he grinned and tucked a loose curl behind her ear. "I will have to ask Niall if I can keep it."

"The idea is not displeasing."

"But only if you kiss me again," he added, then lowered his mouth to hers before she had a chance.

This new passion of hers made him desperate and demanding. He kissed her again and again, trying to lose himself in her. She leaned into him, slipping her hands under the plaid to rest against his shirt. Beneath her fingertips, the beat of his heart matched hers that he could feel through her gown. Frantic.

Pulling away, he pressed his forehead hard against hers. "Is this wrong?" he asked in a whisper. A strangled whisper, because he knew the answer.

Another gust of wind sent the brown shawl flying, but she let it go. "No, of course it's not wrong." Scant inches away, her eyes looked confused. "We're married, Trick."

"That's not what I meant." How the hell could he keep her at arm's length for the sake of respect, when after all these weeks she'd finally come around? He wanted her to understand. He wanted to understand, himself. "I buried my mother today. And now I want...I want only to be with you. To have you. As though her death, her life, didn't matter."

"Of course she mattered." Her hands clenched on his shoulders; her eyes cleared of the confusion and filled with concern instead. "It's natural, Trick. To want to reach out, reconnect. With people, with living. Like the draidgie, don't you see? Niall said it was to celebrate your mother's life, rather than dwelling on the death that ended it. It cannot be wrong."

She made a sort of sense, and he wanted to be convinced. Powerless to resist, when she touched her lips to his, his shoulders relaxed beneath her fingertips. The kiss turned from sweet to devouring, and for a long, euphoric minute, Kendra was the center of his world.

The only person, it seemed, who had ever really cared.

"I don't deserve you," he whispered, wondering when this would end. Because everything good in his life always did.

A soft smile on her lips, she went on tiptoe to kiss him again.

"Patrick! Kendra!" Niall's voice slashed through the leaves overhead.

Trick tightened his hold around her waist. "What does he want?" he muttered against her mouth. When his brother appeared on the tree-lined path, he dropped his arms and groaned.

"Da is awake," Niall said. "And this seems to be one of his good days. He wants to talk to you both."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

"Elspeth wasn't dying." Though Hamish was still in bed, he was sitting up for the first time since Kendra had met him. "When she wrote that letter, she was in perfect health."

His voice was strong and sure, which Kendra hoped meant he was getting better. Seated at his bedside next to Trick, she reached to touch one of his hands. "Perhaps she was already ill but didn't want to tell you."

"Nay, lass. Elspeth and I kept no secrets."

A look of disbelief crossed Trick's face. "Why, then?" he demanded. "Why would she have written saying she was dying if she wasn't?"

"She wanted to see you," Hamish said simply. "She was hoping the thought of her death would bring you here to Duncraven, even though you'd never answered any of her other letters."

"I never received any of her other letters."

"So Mrs. Ross informed me quite tearfully this morning."

"But you didn't believe her."

Hamish blinked. "Of course I believed her. What makes you imagine I'd think the worst of you, Patrick? If you say you never received the letters, I take you at your word."

A faint pink stained Trick's neck. "My father must have intercepted them."

Kendra took his hand and squeezed, feeling tension coursing through him. He didn't want to be here, talking about this. He wanted to be back in the garden. He'd grumbled as much to her three times on their long trek up the stairs.

"Your father..." Hamish's fingers tapped an irritated tattoo on the coverlet. "I wouldn't put destroying her letters past him, I can tell you that."

Trick set down the goblet of whisky he'd snatched in the great hall and brought along with him upstairs. "I assure you, sir, I didn't hold him in any higher esteem than you did."

Sitting on the bed beside his father, Niall sipped from his own glass of spirits. "Da, do want to tell Patrick why Mam summoned him?"

Trick's gaze snapped to his brother's. "Did she not just want to see me, then? Had she another reason?"

"Aye," Hamish said, "and it's a long story I have to tell you. A story about the first King Charles and his ill-fated visit here to Scotland."

"What could that have to do with—"

"Just listen." Looking toward the closed door to ensure their privacy, Hamish settled back against his pillows for the telling. "Charles was born here, as you know, but left when he was yet a bairn, and we Scots heard tell he rather fancied himself an Englishman." He took a small sip of the green concoction Rhona had left him, then grimaced and held out a hand for Niall's drink. "Still and all, Charles was our king—a Scottish king. The nobles insisted on a second coronation, on Scottish soil with the Scottish crown jewels. Thirty-five years ago, in the eighth year of his reign, he finally assented to the visit."

Intrigued, Kendra leaned forward. "Had he not been home in all that time?"

"He didn't think of it as home, as you will soon see." Hamish drank, closing his eyes for a long, contented moment as the whisky slipped down his throat. "Excitement was rampant," he said after smacking his lips. "Everyone threw themselves into the preparations. Roads were fixed and bridges were repaired. Thatched roofs were replaced with shingles, lest the king should think us poor. All in all, a great deal of money was paid out to improve and decorate the Royal route and show we were as good as the English. We hoped to appeal to his Scottishness, so he'd let up on us and allow us to live as we saw fit."

He paused for another sip. "But it soon became clear that he wanted to forget his origins. He arrived here for a month-long tour with a baggage train two miles long. Fifty wagons, two bishops, dozens of courtiers. Along the way, they stopped to lodge with our Scottish nobles, bankrupting them one by one with all of their costly demands. On a whim, Charles would change his itinerary, bypassing the places that had been so carefully prepared and making it clear he wasn't impressed with the preparations anyway. He treated us as inferiors when we hoped he'd relate to us as the Scot he was by birth."

Trick's thumb kept teasing the palm of Kendra's hand, and his lips quirked when she shivered in response. He didn't seem to be paying attention to the story at all.

"When the coronation finally took place, it wasn't the traditional Scots one that had been planned, but an elaborate religious ceremony instead. A Church of England ritual. The people were aghast to learn such Popishness and blasphemy had taken place in a Scottish kirk."

Apparently listening more than she'd guessed, Trick grimaced. "I expect they were angry as hell."

The older man nodded. "His actions incited a rebellion that eventually led to his end. But I get ahead of myself." He wetted his papery lips. "After the coronation, his last scheduled stop was at nearby Falkland Palace. All the local nobles were invited, and your mother went, of course, along with her family. Every able-bodied commoner was drafted to help with the banquet, myself among them, although I wasn't even Niall's age yet."

"Did the banquet go badly?" Kendra asked, pulling her fingers from Trick's.

"Not at all. We all thought it a roaring success, the entertainment more impressive than any we'd ever seen. But by then Charles had tired of Scotland—no doubt as much as we had tired of him—and at three the next morning, he woke the household and announced that he'd decided to leave immediately. Everyone at Falkland scrambled to ready his belongings for travel."

"What sorts of belongings?" Kendra asked as Trick reached over and took her hand again, resting it on his lap and trapping it there with his own hand on top. Neither Niall nor Hamish seemed to notice, but, scandalized, she couldn't help thinking what was beneath that fabric under her hand.

Nothing.

"You wouldn't have believed what he'd brought along," Hamish was saying, his gaze glazed with memory. "My eyes boggled, they did. Besides clothing and furnishings fit for a palace—he slept in his own Royal bed—King Charles traveled with his household goods, personal treasures, jewelry, and his entire kitchen including the Royal plate. Half a ton of silver and gold. Not for him to be eating off plain Scottish dishes or drinking from plain Scottish cups. It was this we were ordered to help pack for his return to London."

Beneath Kendra's hand, Trick stirred, and her palm tingled. "I-it must have taken you all night."

"The smells of the banquet still hung in the air, and we had but a few hours to get it done. Charles couldn't wait to leave. At first light, he set out. On the journey up they had crossed the River Forth by the bridge at Stirling, but this day the king was too impatient to take the long way around. His men found three boats to cross the firth from Burntisland to Leith and loaded two of them with as much as they possibly could. When it wouldn't all fit, Charles insisted the rest be loaded anyway, till everything was aboard and the vessels rode low in the water."

Trick frowned and shifted, draping an arm around Kendra's shoulders. "Were you there to see it?"

"Nay, but I've heard stories. It was storming something awful, that I do remember. The wind blew stronger and the waves tossed the boats as they piled the treasure chests aboard. King Charles was rowed to the third vessel while his domestics and servants went with his goods. Twenty-five people on one of those boats...but only two lived to tell the tale."

"Oh, no," Kendra said. "What happened?"

"The rest of them ended up at the bottom of the Firth of Forth, along with the treasure. Safe aboard another boat, Charles could see the vessel founder and sink, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. Nothing anyone could do to save any of those lives."

A chilling vision. Kendra leaned against Trick's side, taking comfort from his warmth. "Charles must have been furious."

"Aye, that he was. Folk claimed the sinking was an act of God to avenge his religious misdeeds, but he decided that witches were responsible and rounded up people to punish. It was injustice of this sort that led to our siding with the Roundheads in the Civil War, wrong though we were to do so."

Trick's fingers traced lazy circles on Kendra's shoulder, and her free hand fisted in her lap. The one on his lap felt hot against the wool. Keeping her face passive, she nodded at Hamish. "Were the chests ever recovered?"

"Nay, lass, for the Forth is cold and deep. They lie there to this day."

He briefly closed his eyes. Eyes that looked familiar, Kendra thought and wondered why.

"But the treasure," he said when he opened them, "is not in those chests."

Trick's hand stilled on her shoulder. "Pardon?"

"You must understand, the people were angry well before the witch hunt. After the banquet, your mother stole from her chamber and met me in the storeroom along with Rhona and Gregor—the four of us were best of friends, even then. The Yeoman of the Buttery had been charged with packing the kitchen, which included the Royal plate. John Ferries was his name. Shorthanded, he was, and willing to accept whatever help he could find. So we helped."

He fell silent.

Trick reached for his goblet. Niall put a hand over his father's atop the coverlet. "Tell them how you helped, Da."

Hamish sighed. "First we helped get John Ferries drunk. Then we helped fill the chests, but not with gold and silver plate..." He drew a long breath, a dramatic pause. "With rocks."

Trick choked on a sip of his spirits. "Rocks?" he repeated incredulously.

"Aye." Shifting on the bed, Hamish looked less than proud of what he'd done. "The treasure we spirited away. Poor John Ferries' body washed up on shore shortly thereafter, so the secret remained between the four of us. The Royal plate remains hidden to this day."

"Where?" Kendra breathed.

"If you're willing, I'll send Niall to show you. First thing tomorrow."

Trick failed to see the point. Intriguing as the story might be, he was planning to leave for home tomorrow. He needed to complete the king's mission. And make a fresh start with Kendra.

He gave her hand in his lap an experimental squeeze, smiling to himself when the pulse at her wrist sped up. "It's an interesting tale, but what does this have to do with my mother's summons?"

"She hoped—we hoped—that you'd return the treasure to its rightful owner. King Charles II."

Disappointment scraped a raw place inside him. His mother hadn't been wishing for a reconciliation. Like his father, she'd wanted only to use him for her own ends.

"They never sold even one piece," Niall put in, a transparent attempt to make light of his parents' wrongdoing. "It's all been locked away in twenty-three chests for thirty-five years."

Hamish nodded. "You must believe me, we didn't take it to enrich ourselves. It was a prank, an act of revenge. We were young enough—angry enough—to risk such folly. And although we were fortunate in that our rocks sank and were never discovered, the misdeed has preyed on our minds ever since."

It would, Trick supposed. But the fate of his mother's soul was in God's hands now, and he wasn't responsible for unburdening this old man's conscience.

Without Hamish, perhaps Elspeth would have come to love her husband, or at least learned to live with him, and Trick would have had a family. He owed this old man nothing.

Hamish took a long, bracing sip from Niall's cup. "Charles was beheaded—he paid for his actions. His son is a better man, a better king. We don't want the treasure—we never did. But your mother feared that if we returned it, we'd face arrest. So she was hoping you'd do it for us. You have the king's ear, and he trusts you—"

"How would you know that?"

"Do you think your mother wouldn't keep watch on you the best she could? We—she hired people to report to her. If ever you'd really needed her, Patrick, she'd have been there."

He had really needed her. The times he'd been left alone in a school in France, and the other times, the endless years he'd worked as little more than a slave for his father's unlawful business.

But the past was done. He'd long ago accepted the hand he'd been dealt, and more pressing matters required his attention.

King Charles deserved the Royal treasure, and God knew he needed it. The poor man was reduced to selling titles to make expenses. Even now, his ambassadors roamed the country with blank forms for anyone wanting and willing to pay for a baronetcy. Regardless of whether this ill old man deserved Trick's loyalty, his monarch did.

Charles. His life these days seemed to be reduced to serving Charles.

"I'll do it," he said with a resigned sigh. "Show me the chests tomorrow, and I'll find a way to get them home."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

"If I'm going to lug this treasure home," Trick muttered on the way down the stairs, "I need to make plans."

Behind him in the dark, narrow turret, Kendra sighed. All the sensual feelings between them seemed to have vanished into thin air. She a put a hand on his shoulder. "What is it you have to do? Maybe I can help."

"I must see these twenty-three chests and decide how many extra vehicles I'll need to transport them, how many additional guards I must hire. And what am I going to do with it all during overnight stops? We'll attract attention traveling through the country with an entourage worthy of royalty. The treasure will need to be protected around the clock."

"We'll work it out," she soothed. "Let's see the treasure first, then we'll deal with the logistics."

"My head aches just thinking about it."

"Perhaps it would be best to dispatch a messenger to Charles. He could send a contingent of soldiers to escort the goods."

"And wait here, twiddling my thumbs, for three weeks or more until the soldiers arrive? I think not."

They arrived downstairs to find that the dancing had ended and the trestle tables were back in place. Torches had been lit on the walls to augment the light from the iron chandeliers, and women bustled about, setting out all the dishes they'd brought for the draidgie supper.

Trick handed Kendra a trencher from a stack on the end of a table, then took one for himself. The food smelled delicious, but he was in a devil of a mood, and the offerings he piled on his platter didn't seem to help any.

Odd, he was, for a man, she thought as she chose a piece of spice cake and a wedge of lemon tart. Her brothers had never failed to be cheered by a hearty plate of food.

Niall waved them over to join him at an empty table, filling two more goblets with ale from a pitcher. They'd no sooner settled themselves than Annag and Duncan dragged her young ones over to take the remaining seats.

"What did Da want with you?" Annag demanded, waving a girl onto the bench and plopping a runny-nosed toddler beside her.

Niall filled another goblet for her. "Nothing of your concern."

Duncan sat, lowering his trencher to the table with a thud. "Did he not tell you of a new will, then?" he asked in a voice pitched to sound casual.

"Nay," Trick said flatly. He cut a hunk of mutton with more vigor than was necessary.

"Here, Alastair." Annag shoved a dish of hoch-poch in front of another of her children, a boy who seemed to have a sneer to match hers. "Are you certain there was no mention of a will?"

"Aye." Niall reached for some bread. "And Da seems to be gaining strength. So whatever it is you're hoping to gain upon his death, you shouldn't be expecting it anytime soon."

Kendra found Annag's affronted look less than convincing. "I'm not wanting Da to die, you eejit."

"But now that he's shown up, a duke and all"—Duncan slanted a none-too-friendly glance at Trick before focusing back on Niall—"you won't be needing any of Da's paltry holdings. With a new brother to provide for you."

Niall's mouth opened and closed like a salmon out of water.

Kendra saw Trick's jaw set before he pointed his knife at Duncan. "What makes you so certain I'm willing to provide for Niall? I'd lay odds your father didn't jump to such a conclusion."

Duncan sipped from his ever-present whisky, glaring over the rim. "What do you know of our father?"

"Enough to suspect he wouldn't readily cut his youngest son out of his will." Trick met Duncan's glare with one of his own. "His favorite son."

Sensing violence about to erupt, Kendra bit the inside of her cheek. "Can we not all be civil?"

Annag turned with a huff, her gaze narrowing with disdain on Kendra's low neckline. "You stay out of this."

"You'll address my wife with respect," Trick said through gritted teeth. If Annag had been a man, he'd have been on her, Kendra thought, drawing the shawl tighter to cover the front of her gown. As it was, she sensed he was barely holding himself in check.

When Annag's son started crying, Duncan's face turned red to match. "Who needs this trouble?" he barked at Niall, half-rising to his feet. "Ever since they've gotten here"—he waved an angry hand at Trick and Kendra—"I cannot have a word with you without them sticking in their noses. Keep them out of our family business, or else—"

"Or else what?" Niall stood, his fists clenched at his sides. "I'm grown now, aye? You cannot beat me up anymore. I'll floor you in a minute."

It was no idle threat. Niall topped the older man by a good four inches, and his youthful frame was hard and honed, while Duncan's was softened by sloth and drink.

Apparently not as dim-witted as he was surly, Duncan sat back down. "Just keep them away," he growled. "Both of them."

"They're family as much as you," Niall shot back. "My family."

Annag aimed a pointed look at Duncan. "Blood will tell."

"Blood will run if you don't back off," Trick said darkly. His knife clattered to his trencher, and, as he stood, his hand went to the hilt of his sword.

Clutching the shawl closed in front, Kendra rose. "Have we not seen enough violence here tonight?" Evidence still remained of the earlier brawl. "Come, Trick. I know where I'm not wanted."

She curtsied to Niall but ignored his siblings as she took Trick by his sword hand and led him away. He allowed himself to be dragged, although not before fixing Hamish's older children with a murderous glare.

That was exactly what Kendra was afraid of—murder. Trick was a highwayman, after all, accustomed to violence, and she'd never seen him this incensed.

Wanting to get as far from Annag and Duncan as possible, she led him out the door and around to the garden. The whole long way he didn't say a word, but as they stepped into his mother's wonderland of little model castles, she felt him begin to relax.

Night had nearly fallen, and the branches overhead were black silhouettes against the dark gray sky. In silence they walked up the long avenue of trees and back, up then back again. The crunch of their footsteps on the gravel seemed lost within the sounds of rushing wind and rustling leaves. Trick's grip softened on her hand, and his breathing settled; his gait became looser.

A light mist began to fall, and in mute agreement, they headed back inside.

The door shut behind them, blocking the rain and the noisy wind. In the tunnel that led through the thick stone wall, Trick stopped and put his hands on her shoulders. Illuminated by the torches that lit the entry, his eyes searched her face. Kendra gazed back, wondering what he was looking for.

"I don't like those two," she said quietly. "I wouldn't put anything past them. I don't know what Hamish has to bequeath to his children, but I suspect they'd go to any lengths necessary to see it ends up in their hands. All of it."

Trick shrugged, moving closer, backing her up until she felt the wall, hard against her spine. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "They're powerless, and they know it. They speak from desperation." He skimmed his knuckles across her cheek. "Don't worry your pretty head about them, leannan."

Leannan. It sounded different now that she knew what it meant. "My head is more than pretty," she retorted, not immune to his scent and the sudden spark that lit his eyes.

He nodded slowly. "Aye, that it is." The wind had blown much of her hair loose from the bun, and he tucked it behind her ears, one side and then the other. He glanced into the great hall, sending a quelling glare to some poor soul who dared to look their way. Then, shielding her body from view with his larger one, he lowered his lips to hers.

The kiss was long and gentle, reawakening the stirrings in her belly that had started in Hamish's chamber. Her hands moved to clasp him by the hips; then her fingers worked down to the kilt's hem and edged underneath.

"Hmm." With a low laugh, he swept both her hands into one of his, then raised them above her head and pressed her against the chilly stone. In contrast, his body felt so warm along the length of hers. And his mouth this time was harder and hot, hungry, his tongue demanding. She itched to touch him, but his hand tightened and she couldn't, and it was strange what she felt, the twinge of frustration mixed with the heady thrill of the kiss.

He pulled back and cocked a brow. "That'll teach you to take advantage of a man in a skirt."

"Will it?" she asked. Nervously intrigued, she glanced up to their three hands.

His own gaze followed, and his laugh this time was short and amused as he released her wrists. "Seeing as it's taken you five weeks to come to my bed, I reckon I'll give you a few years before I go hunting for a way to keep those hands tied up and both of mine free."

"Tied up?" she wondered breathlessly. He was always so outrageous.

"Scarves, a pair of cravats"—he glanced down—"maybe a tartan sash?" His expression going from playful to meditative, he met her eyes. "Later, leannan. Much later for that, I think."

She blushed furiously, not at all as put off by that mental image as she thought she should be. Then his mouth claimed hers again, gentle once more, and she wrapped her arms around him, no longer thinking of that or anything while she gloried in his kiss.

As he drew back, a delicious shudder rippled through her. She knew for sure it would happen tonight.

"Are you cold, lass?"

"Maybe a bit." Nervous and excited and backed against the cold stone wall. But the stones were more than cold. "There's something about this place..."

He put a palm to the wall and leaned his weight on it. "What?"

"I...well, I'm just not comfortable here." She tried to look away, but he captured her chin in his free hand, forcing her gaze to his. "Throughout my childhood," she said, "marooned in exile on the Continent, parentless with no home to call my own, I never felt as out of place as I do here in this castle."

One of his fingers traced a lazy line on her jaw. "Then you'll understand why I wasn't in a hurry to return."

Her skin tingling under his fingertips, she nodded. But it wasn't only this place, these people, that contributed to her unease. Although she was physically drawn to her husband, and more so by the moment, he remained emotionally distant. Still a stranger, his essence far from her grasp.

Her hands rubbed up and down the plaid wool, and she swallowed hard, imagining the bareness beneath. He'd made a start, confiding a little bit about his childhood. If she trusted him with her body, would he perhaps return the favor by trusting her with his heart?

There was only one way to find out.

"Come upstairs," she whispered.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

"Good evening, dearies." When Kendra and Trick stepped into their chamber, Mrs. Ross came forward, two goblets in her hands. "I thought you might be wanting a wee sack posset to help you sleep."

Kendra knew that sleep was the last thing on Trick's mind. Or hers, truth be told. She took one of the cups and sipped the warm, thick liquid, sweet and fragrant with the scents of cream and wine. Gazing at Trick over the rim, she watched as he removed the roll of papers from the front of his kilt and tucked it into his trunk.

"We thank you." He nodded and smiled at Mrs. Ross. "And we wish you a good night," he added pointedly.

Kendra sagged against the door after he closed it. "How strange that she would be waiting here for us."

"She was my old nurse." He unbuckled his sword belt and tossed it on the desk. "I reckon she saw us together earlier and figured it wouldn't be long until we were for bed." When she blushed, he pulled her close. "I don't want to be thinking about Mrs. Ross now."

His eyes burned into hers, making heat pool in her middle. She sipped some more of the posset, hoping the wine would bring her strength. And courage. She still wasn't sure he would fit.

Her heart skittered at the thought, along with a rush of warmth low in her belly.

Without another word, Trick pried the cup from her fingers and set it down beside his own. He pulled the shawl from her shoulders, balled it up, and tossed it into a corner. Lowering his head, he teased his lips over her cleavage. "I much prefer these delightful English dresses," he murmured.

The words felt warm against her skin. Until today, she'd never thought twice about the low necklines that had been in fashion since King Charles was restored to the throne. Trends were driven by Charles's love for everything French, which meant she'd worn gowns like this all her life, even as a young girl exiled on the Continent.

But, thanks to her exasperating, overprotective brothers, never before had anyone taken advantage of all the skin such dresses revealed. A shame, she thought now, enjoying the sensation of Trick's mouth against her flesh.

"I like this dress, too," she said breathlessly.

"I'd like it even better on the floor." He licked a shivery line up her throat, all the way to her lips. Just as she'd fantasized all day, she reached beneath the hem of his kilt, her hand making contact with the warmth of his legs and the springy softness of the hair that covered them. So different from her own, so very, very male. Feeling very daring, she reached up, up, until her fingers wrapped around steel encased in warm velvet.

God, she hoped he would fit.

She moved her hand experimentally. He stiffened, then sighed, and a thrill raced through her, that her simple touch could affect him so much.

"Aye," he murmured. "I'll definitely be asking Niall if I can keep this kilt." Then his hands went to work undressing her while he kissed the very breath out of her body.

She pulled her hand from beneath the kilt and reached for his shoulders, pushing the wool tartan off and behind. Under the draped front, she felt for the buckle on the thick leather belt, working it loose with frantic fingers. At last the kilt fell off, all of it, dropping to the wooden planks at his feet, the heavy buckle landing with a satisfying thunk.

He spread her bodice and worked the gown down her body to pool on the floor as well. And there was nothing left between them except his thin lawn shirt and her even thinner chemise.

His hands came around her back, and she leaned in, pressing her breasts against his hard chest and her hips against his hardness below. A hot rush of desire weakened her knees, and she wrapped her arms around him to hold herself up, wantonly reaching beneath the tail of his shirt to clutch his buttocks and press herself even closer.

"Sweet Mary," he breathed, clearly liking it.

But for her, it still wasn't nearly close enough.

At a noise on the stairs, she stilled, her heart beating double-time. "Do you hear something?"

Trick nuzzled her neck. "Something like what?"

"Like footsteps." His muscles tightened beneath her fingers, striking a spark of hungry desire. She arched in pleasure, then froze again. "In the stairwell—can't you hear it?"

"Nay." He raised his head. "Wait. Maybe I can." The sound was faint, muffled, so soft the beat of her heart and her heavy, uneven breaths nearly drowned it out.

Nearly.

She bit her lip. "There are people in there, I'm sure."

"Don't you worry about it." He hooked a finger in the top of her chemise and drew it down, fitting his palms to her breasts. Her nipples puckered in response, sending a hot streak of sensation down lower.

His lips grazed hers, then his tongue flicked out and teased the seam where they met, slick and sweet with the flavor of creamy sack posset. "It must be the ghosts of men going up to Prisoner's Leap," he murmured against her mouth, and she couldn't tell if he was jesting or not. "They won't bother us in here."

"D-do you believe in ghosts?"

His shrug conveyed a mixture of amusement and frustration. "Right now I believe in finishing what we've started."

She twisted away from his kiss. "What if it isn't ghosts on those stairs, but someone much more real and frightening?"

With a strangled groan, he stepped from the kilt at his feet, then bodily picked her up. He walked to the bed and plopped down, sitting her on his lap. "Like who?"

Fear mingled with bawdy thoughts of what she felt against her thigh. "Mrs. Ross, maybe? What if she only used the sack posset as an excuse, and she was really up here as part of a plot, but we surprised her—"

"A plot?" He shook his head decisively. "Mrs. Ross wouldn't hurt a midge." He reached to the bedside for his goblet of sack posset, taking a healthy gulp as though to prove he was sure it wasn't poisoned. "She cared for me as a bairn. Why should she want to do me harm?"

"She cared for your mother more, and she's less than happy with the way you ignored her all those years."

"She was, true enough. But she knows now that it wasn't my fault. I cannot believe she still holds a grudge."

"How about Annag and Duncan? They surely do."

Trick's clever fingers pulled the pins from what remained of her bun. "I seriously doubt Annag and Duncan are hovering behind that door." The gray day had delivered on its promise, and rain slashed against the small window set deep into the wall. "It's the storm you're hearing, leannan."

"Niall, then? He's been passed off as the duke's younger son. If something were to happen to you, he'd inherit it all. The dukedom, Amberley, Duncraven..."

In the midst of combing his fingers through her loosened hair, Trick stopped and stared at her, his jaw slack with disbelief.

"No, I don't believe that, either," she admitted with a sigh.

A flash of lightning brightened the window, and he smiled. "Listen." His gaze captured hers as the answering thunder rumbled. "It's naught but the storm. And a storm I'm feeling inside, right now."

He claimed her mouth once again, and in seconds she forgot the mysterious footsteps, caught up in a storm herself.

His lips opened, his tongue meeting hers, circling hers in a way that drove her wild. She tasted the tiny chip on his tooth, her hands on the sides of his face, her fingers tangling in his hair. One of his hands cradled the back of her neck while the other crept under her chemise, caressing her legs with a skill that sent a shudder ricocheting through her.

He worked the chemise out from under her, and she wiggled farther onto his lap, loving the feel of his skin against hers, reveling in the heat of the hard length of him beneath her bottom. She shoved a hand into the placket of his shirt, gripping his shoulder. The warm skin felt good, but she wanted more. One-handed, she loosened the laces, breaking their kiss to pull the shirt over his head.

With a sigh of contentment, she smoothed a palm across his bare chest. He groaned in return, urging her legs apart with his fingers. One hand delved between them while his other arm curved around her shoulders and he cupped a breast. Above and below, he played her body, his fingers doing an intimate dance that made her quiver and squirm on his lap. Closing her eyes, she threw back her head and surrendered herself to the feelings.

She wanted more, more. A finger worked its way inside her, teasing her to madness, and still it wasn't enough.

"Now," she whispered. "I want you now."

"Look at me, lass."

Her eyes fluttered open to meet his gaze. She'd never seen anything so intense and compelling in her life. "I want you," she breathed again.

He ripped the chemise over her head and, in one smooth motion, twisted her off his lap and onto the mattress. Then he was lying atop her, skin to skin, heavy and warm and exciting beyond anything she'd ever imagined. Instinctively, her legs came up to cradle his hips, and he raised himself, poised to enter her. She felt him there, against her, and let out a little mewling sound of need.

"Now?" he asked.

"Now." She held her breath, still uncertain yet wanting him more than she'd ever wanted anything. As he slid home, she braced for the pain.

Nothing.

Well, not nothing exactly. She felt stretched, and filled, and where their bodies were joined was a feeling so urgent that a whimper escaped her throat.

"Are you all right?" he whispered.

She nodded and arched against him, wanting more, needing more. It seemed an age passed while she held her breath and her eyes slid closed again. "Is there more?"

"Aye, there's more," he said, beginning to move, slowly shifting in and out. Just a bit at first, and then more, and then more still. Little by little the tension built, until her entire world was centered on Trick and what he was making her feel. A glorious whirl of exquisite sensation, and still it wasn't enough.

"Faster," she whispered, and he plunged into her faster and deeper, again and again, more and more, until she couldn't breathe and her body erupted and the world turned upside down.

She heard his groan and felt the hot flood of his release while the tremors still wracked her body. Finally, spent, he collapsed against her, kissing her neck and cheeks and whispering her name over and over.

"Dear God." She struggled to catch her breath. "I just—"

"What?" Trick asked, his voice husky against her mouth. "What is it, leannan?"

She sighed, a sound of regret from the deepest place in her heart. "I cannot believe I deprived myself of five weeks of that."

His reply was a strangled laugh, and another groan, but he clutched her close and kissed her all over again.

She felt languid and drained, and it was a long time before her heart slowed and her breathing quieted. A long time before she noticed the phantom footsteps again and flinched.

"It's the rain," Trick reminded her. His voice sounded low and lazy, satisfied, content. It thrilled her to know she had made him that way. "We're alone here at the top of the tower. It cannot be anything else."

"Annag and Duncan..."

Taking her with him, he turned over and cuddled her against his chest. "Do you honestly think they've climbed up on the roof to come down these stairs and commit murder? On a stormy night like this?"

She shrugged. "I wouldn't put anything past those two. It's obvious enough they don't like you...or me."

"They're bitter. Odds are Niall has always been favored as the duke's son—Lord Niall while they were plain Duncan and Annag. Then their father left them to live here—although they were grown, that had to hurt."

"And now you've returned to claim that father—"

"A bit of his attention, maybe, but I've no claim on the man."

Rain pounded on the roof above them, loud needles of it striking the small window. She met Trick's eyes, remembering other eyes that had looked familiar. Beneath his shining hair, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. Suddenly she pictured Hamish, that same expression on his face.

And it all fell into place.

She reached a hand to graze his cheek, the faint whiskers scratchy against her fingers. So very male. "Do you not see, Trick, how much you're like him?"

"Niall? Aye, I've said how uncanny—"

"Not Niall. Well, yes, Niall, but you must know there's a reason for that, for why you're so very alike." He needed to hear this; he couldn't deny the evidence any longer. "It's because you share not only the same mother, but the same father as well."

"Do you think so?" Some of the puzzlement cleared, his amber eyes filling with a hesitant hope instead. "I suppose the timing makes it possible. Father was last here when I was ten, and Niall was born the next year...I wouldn't expect Mam would have willingly shared my father's bed again, but I wouldn't put rape past the man, either. Maybe Niall is my full brother." He managed to sound bitter and elated at the same time. "Wouldn't that be something?" he added before he suddenly frowned. "But why, then, would he say he's Hamish's son?"

"Because he is," she said gently. "And so are you."

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

The breath left Trick's body in a rush. "That cannot be."

"It is." Kendra's eyes searched his before she scooted up to sit against the headboard beside him, taking the coverlet with her. "No, I haven't asked Hamish about it, nor did he come to me. But I've eyes in my head, Trick, and I'm not as close to the situation as you are. You share his features, I'm telling you, and his manner, and then there's the way he looks at you."

"The way he looks at me? How is that?"

"With longing and pride. Were you the duke's son—a child gotten on his love by another—wouldn't he view you with resentment, instead? He's your father, I'm sure of it."

He couldn't find the words to disagree, mostly because he wasn't sure whether he disagreed or not.

"Isn't it wonderful?" Kendra pressed. "I know you don't hold him in much affection, but that will come, don't you think? Deep down, I believe he's a good man."

"It's much to absorb," he admitted. "Finding a new brother, and now maybe a father, too."

"We found a new brother last year." Looking down, Kendra moved the amber bracelet back and forth on her wrist. "Jason had a run-in with a man who turned out to be our half-brother, the spawn of our father before his marriage. But our brother turned out to be wicked. A murderer, nothing like Niall." She glanced up. "It was a horrible thing to accept."

For a few moments he remained quiet, imagining. "That must have been very hard."

"It was. Although I don't expect accepting Niall and Hamish is easy, either." The amber stones glimmered in the firelight as she slid them with a finger. "An instant family, as it were."

"Niall felt like my brother right off. It's hard to explain." He stared at the bracelet, remembering when she first wore it on their wedding day. It had looked strange on her then, but tonight it seemed like it had belonged there all along. Just the way he felt with Niall. "But Hamish..." He met her gaze. "I feel nothing there. I hear what you're telling me, and it makes sense, but I'm not sure I believe it."

She took their goblets from the bedside table and handed him his. "Just think about it," she said and drained her remaining sack posset.

The drink was cold now, he was sure. The rain coming down sounded cold, too, but she felt warm wedged beside him. He wondered how she managed to smell like sunshine on a blustery night like this.

"There's no need to rush into acceptance," she said softly.

"He could be dying." Trick downed the last of his own drink, cold, yes, but thick and bracing nonetheless.

"He could," she conceded. "But he seems to be getting better."

He took her cup and set them both on the table. "This may have just been a good day."

"Morning will tell." She yawned, then leaned over for a kiss, the sweet milkiness of the posset mingling on their tongues. With a soft smile, she lay down and curled tightly against him, like precious cargo carefully nestled in a ship's hold.

She felt good there, a perfect fit. "It's odd," he said, his voice low, his breath fluttering the downy hairs on the nape of her neck where she'd swept aside her tresses. "They don't know me, really, and yet they seemed to accept me from the first."

"They're family," she said simply. "They love you, Trick. Unconditionally."

And now she was family, too.

Unconditional love.

The idea was so alien to him that he thought about it far into the night as he watched her sleep.

"Wake up, you gaberlunzie." Mrs. Ross poked Trick's shoulder, and he moaned and rolled over. "Lord Niall is downstairs, pacing and waiting to take the two of you off somewhere, aye? So get your bones out of that bed."

"I'll make sure he gets ready," Kendra told her, sitting down to pull on a stocking. Having been awake for an hour, she was getting tired again just watching Mrs. Ross bustle around the room on her morning duties. "Could you send Jane up to fix my hair?"

"Aye. That I can do." With a smile, the wiry woman gathered the empty goblets they'd left on the night table. "Did you enjoy this, then?"

"Very much." Kendra silently scolded herself for thinking the sack posset might have been poisoned. Trick was right; though she sometimes had a brusque manner about her, the old nurse wouldn't hurt a midge. "Do you know, Mrs. Ross, where that corner staircase leads?"

The woman swiped her dust cloth over the table—not that it helped very much. The dirt just flew up and settled right back down. "That turret comes from the dungeons, lass. And goes to the roof above."

"Oh." Just as Trick had said. Kendra glanced at her slumbering husband. He slept like the dead, like he'd spent another wakeful night before succumbing to exhaustion. She, on the other hand, had slept like a newborn babe, dreaming dreams that made her cheeks burn to remember them.

Mrs. Ross was watching her, a question in her faded blue eyes. Kendra put a cooling hand to her face. "Though Trick insisted it was surely the rain, I thought I heard footfalls on those steps last night."

The woman's gray head nodded sagely. "It's been said to happen."

"People go up on the roof?"

"Not people, lass."

"Ghosts, then?" Kendra's breath caught. "The ghosts of prisoners?"

"Not that I've heard."

Kendra blushed as the woman bent to retrieve yesterday's clothes from the floor. Cavanaugh and Jane ought to be doing that—not that she and Trick should have left their garments on the floor in the first place. What could Mrs. Ross be thinking?

But apparently she was still thinking about the stairwell. "Other ghosts," she clarified, shaking out Trick's discarded kilt. "One in particular, a young servant girl who was said to have borne an illegitimate Duncraven son in this room some two hundred years past. Potential threats to the title, they were, and both swiftly put to the sword by an anonymous knight."

Kendra swallowed. "Anonymous?"

"Well, you cannot very well tell who's in a suit of armor now, aye? But legend says it was Lord Duncraven himself. A heartless man, to hear the tales." She smoothed the folded tartan over one arm. "The girl still wanders the spiral staircase, searching for her bairn. Some say they've seen her in this room, watching at the foot of the bed where a cradle may have once rested," she added, laying the red fabric right where Kendra imagined the poor murdered girl might gaze. "Don't you worry now, lass. She doesn't do any harm."

Was it the ill-fated servant girl she'd heard, then? Kendra wondered. Or had Mrs. Ross invented this story to cover her own wanderings? Or had Annag or Duncan been trodding the winding stone stairs?

Or had it only been the storm, mixed with her own imagination?

Her musings were interrupted when Mrs. Ross bustled over to Trick. "Wake up, lazybones." She thwacked him with her dust cloth. "Lord Niall is waiting."

Halfway downstairs, Trick's feet dragged to a halt on the second floor landing. "Bide a moment."

On the step below him, Kendra turned and looked up, tightening Mrs. Ross's shawl across the bodice of her lemon gown. "Niall is waiting to take us to the treasure chests."

"Then he'll wait." She looked so pretty this morning, all cheerful yellow against the dingy stone staircase, her mouth slightly swollen from his morning kisses. He bent down to give her another one, wishing he could take her back to bed. Their lips clung for a long, sweet minute before he straightened with a sigh and stepped from the turret, crossing the sitting room to knock on the master bedchamber door.

"Enter," came a muffled voice.

A voice not unlike his own? Trick hesitated, his hand on the latch.

"Did you not want to go inside?" Kendra asked.

He took a deep breath and pushed open the door. Beyond it, Hamish sat against the sturdy oak headboard, his long, skinny legs looking like stilts beneath the coverlet. Trick gazed at him, a question burning inside him—a question only Hamish could answer.

But he couldn't seem to make himself cross the threshold, nor could he force the question past his lips.

Kendra had no such compunctions. She pushed past him and hurried over to Hamish, grasping the old man's hand. "Goodness." With a flounce of her English skirts, she seated herself at his bedside, a bright ray of sunshine in the gloomy room. "Rhona's vile green drink really worked magic, didn't it?"

Indeed, Hamish was munching on breakfast and looking much better. Younger. Trick was surprised to realize he wasn't such an old man, after all.

"Aye, I expect it did work magic," Hamish agreed. "But although she left a supply, I haven't been able to force myself to drink more." He made a face. "She'll be at me like a screaming banshee when she sees how much remains. Maybe I can prevail upon you to bury it somewhere?"

Kendra laughed. "Where is Rhona, anyway?"

Hamish shrugged. "I'm mending, aye, and she has her own life to attend to. There are people here to help me should I need it." His mouth curved in a smile very like Niall's—and his own, Trick grudgingly admitted. "To tell you the honest truth, it's been pleasant to spend a wee bit of time alone. A man gets cranky with people always fussing all over him."

"I'm sure he does," Kendra said, slanting a glance at Trick. She rose and went to open the shutters, letting morning light flood the room.

Hamish's gaze shifted to the open doorway, and his forehead creased in a frown. "Come in, lad, will you?"

Trick did so, slowly, still gazing at the man that Kendra insisted was his father.

"Have a seat," Hamish said.

He didn't. The question fought to get out.

The older man blinked. "It's uncanny how much you look like Niall. I used to catch your mother staring at him with a sad, faraway look in her eyes."

The same sad, faraway look that Hamish was giving him now. A look Trick suspected was on his own face.

At last, the words tumbled forth.

"Niall and I, we look so alike because...because we have the same father, don't we?"

Before Hamish even answered, Trick knew Kendra had been right. "Why?" he asked. "Why was I never told? And why did my mother marry another man and then have a child with you?"

Hamish licked his lips, not so papery this morning. "It wasn't like that, Patrick. She was already carrying you when she agreed to the marriage. Her only other choice was to give birth to a bastard child." His light brown gaze met Trick's own. "Her father threatened to kill me if she refused to marry the duke."

Kendra gasped. "He cannot have meant that."

Hamish turned to her. "Can you blame Elspeth for not testing him, lass?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "I cannot even imagine..."

"Well, if you'd known the man, the threat wasn't so hard to imagine coming from him."

"Very well, then, maybe she had a reason." Trick ran a hand back through his hair. "But why keep the truth from me?"

"The duke never knew you weren't his child. We didn't mean to keep you in the dark forever, but you left here at ten—too young to be told, to understand the importance of hiding your true parentage from the man you thought was your father. And when you returned..." Hamish's gaze flickered down to his lap, then back up. "I wanted to tell you the moment you arrived. But after all this time, I wasn't sure how you would feel."

Despite a long night spent thinking about just that, Trick wasn't sure how he felt himself. Anyone, even Hamish, had to be better than the duke, but the discovery of a new father left him reeling.

"I'll have to get used to this," he admitted.

Hamish nodded, looking both solemn and pleased. "I've waited twenty-eight years to acknowledge you as my son. I can wait a wee bit longer."

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The day was sunny, the ride toward the town of Falkland pleasant over rolling hills. It felt so good to be out of the depressing castle that Kendra found herself smiling at nothing more than the light breeze, the purple thistles dotting the hillsides, a pair of blackbirds flying by. She chattered to Niall about anything and everything, enjoying his easy company. Seeming as grateful as Kendra to be out and about, Pandora felt warm and frisky beneath her.

Trick, however, was brooding.

Two miles into their journey, he finally turned to Niall. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Pardon?" Niall cocked his head, gleaming blond in the sunshine. "Why didn't I tell you what?"

"That our mother's is not the only blood we share."

Niall reined in at that, turning sideways to block the road. His mount danced under him as he stared at Trick. "What are you trying to say?"

"Did you think I wouldn't want to know we're full brothers?" His jaw tight, Trick studied Niall a moment. "Did you think I wouldn't care to know that Hamish is my father as well as yours?"

The younger man's face went white. "I didn't know." His amber eyes wide, he swallowed hard. "Are you sure? I swear to you, Patrick, I didn't know. Mam and Da never breathed a word."

Kendra, for one, believed him. Nobody was that good an actor.

But her husband, evidently, was blind. "Why wouldn't they tell you?" he pressed furiously. "What possible reason could they have had?"

"Trick!" she exclaimed in irritation. Not unlike her own brothers, he could be thickheaded beyond bearing. "I expect they thought your parentage was none of Niall's business."

"My mother knew how to hold her tongue," Niall added, his amber eyes darkening to bronze. "And my father is the most loyal man I've ever met. A loyalty I thought we'd share, now that we've found each other." With a jerk of his reins, he turned and trotted off down the road.

Kendra glared at her husband until his face turned red and he looked away. "All right," he shouted after his brother. "I believe you!"

There was no response, and looking at Niall's stiff back, she could sense his pain. Trick dug in his heels, motioning impatiently for Kendra to follow.

"You might also say you're sorry," she suggested under her breath as she drew alongside.

He stared at her a moment, then back to Niall. "And I'm sorry!" he called. Maybe not as sincerely as she'd have liked, but the effort was there.

Yet his brother's back remained rigid.

She saw a muscle twitch in her husband's jaw. "Very well, then, I'm not sorry," he growled.

They caught up to Niall and rode three abreast, the men in an obstinate standoff on either side of Kendra. The blowing of the horses failed to drown out their alternating huffs. She felt like Zeus in the Trojan War, stuck between the battling gods, wanting to stay neutral but suspecting she couldn't.

The gates of Falkland loomed ahead, and still neither of them softened. They were most definitely brothers, one as pigheaded as the other. As they entered the town, a few people waved to Niall, calling out greetings and condolences. He nodded his acknowledgments without uttering a word.

They rode past Falkland Palace, two long ranges of gray stone with a charming turreted gatehouse and slanting, moss-covered slate roofs. Kendra turned to her brother-in-law and forced a jaunty tone. "From how Hamish described the banquet, I expected the town of Falkland would be larger. Busier."

She'd known he wouldn't ignore her. "At one time it was more important," he told her, looking straight ahead. God forbid he should inadvertently meet his brother's eyes. "But Falkland today is naught but a small market town, populated mostly by weavers who keep indoors practicing their craft. You can blame the Union of the Crowns for that."

"Why would that make a difference?" she asked brightly. "Trick, you know a lot of history."

"Not of Falkland." She'd never heard him sound quite so peeved, not even when he was fixing to murder Duncan. "For God's sake, I haven't lived here in eighteen years."

As her efforts at conversation ground to a halt, she heaved an internal sigh. The clip-clop of their horses' hooves on the cobblestones seemed loud as thunder against the men's willful silence. As they rounded the market cross, a dray cart coming from the other direction forced them to the side of the narrow street nearer the houses.

"The lintels are all carved," she remarked, prattling on like a featherbrained nincompoop. She pointed to the nearest door, the stone beam above it engraved with letters and numbers. "What do they mean?"

"They're marriage lintels—" Trick began.

"Look there," Niall interrupted. "Two lovers' initials, and 1610, the year they were wed—the year their household was established. And other markings indicate their occupations. See, the crossed mells of a stonemason. And there, a shoemaker's knife."

As they rode past a few more, Kendra started to make sense of the symbols. "I see a butcher's cleaver. But the big '4' with three little x's...what does that mean?"

Niall opened his mouth then clamped it shut when his brother rushed to answer before him. "A merchant—a burgess with trading privileges."

The carvings were lovely, she thought, determined not to let their attitudes affect her appreciation. Lasting memorials to marriages begun in hope rather than deception. She turned to her surly husband. "These lintels are so romantic."

Trick rolled his eyes, prompting Niall to nod—pleasantly, she would think, if she didn't know it was mainly to make his brother look bad. "Some go back a hundred years or more," Niall told her. "Watch for them as you ride."

She peeked down the wynds as they went, but soon they were passing through West Port, the gate that marked Falkland's boundary. Dense woodlands loomed ahead. "The trees are so near to the town," she remarked, sounding inane to her own ears.

"Why wouldn't they be?" Trick asked churlishly.

"Actually," Niall said with a smug smile, "though nearly all of Fife was once covered in forest, the only large tracts remaining are here by Falkland. One of the reasons the Stuarts of old so valued their palace, a place to escape from affairs of state and spend some time hawking and hunting the wild boar."

She half hoped to see a wild boar now—at least such a threat would put an end to this petty bickering. Here they had to ride single file, weaving through the trees, which looked much the same as trees in England. Finding nothing left to comment on, Kendra chewed the inside of her cheek, wondering why she'd bothered trying to get her husband and his brother to talk in the first place. Brothers would be brothers, that she knew—from entirely too much experience with her own.

They were both stubborn as mules, she decided, and they could hate each other for life for all she cared.

Suddenly Niall heaved a sigh and looked back, his gaze reaching past her to Trick. "Full brothers," he said, calm as anything. "Bloody amazing, isn't it?"

"Aye." Aghast to hear Trick's agreement, she twisted in the saddle to see a smile teasing at the corners of his wide mouth. "Bloody amazing."

And just like that, they were best of friends once more.

Men. She wanted to spit.

She was still muttering to herself when they came to higher ground, a sparser wooded area that must once have been a clearing. It was peppered with stone ruins so thick and old, they could be of nothing else but a long-ruined castle. Overgrown with clinging plant life, low broken walls seemed to tumble over the uneven land, and the foundations of a round tower stood open to the sky, a few worn steps leading up to nowhere.

"We're here," Niall said.

They dismounted and tethered their horses. Pulling a heavy key from his pocket, Niall stepped into the circle of stone and reached through a layer of dirt and dead branches that seemed stuck to the hard-packed forest floor.

Not by a quirk of nature, though—by design. His fingers found a concealed padlock and fitted the key inside. It opened with a rusty click, and he tugged it off, hefting a wooden trap door that lay hidden beneath.

"Go ahead," he said.

After staring for a moment, Kendra followed Trick down a steep stone staircase, pausing when the trap door thudded shut and plunged the space into blackness.

Holding her breath and her husband's hand, she felt her way to the bottom.

It was a dungeon, deep in the earth. The only light was a tiny shaft that came through the tall ceiling from behind an iron grille. As her eyes adjusted, the sparse illumination revealed gruesome instruments of torture. A musty smell seeped from the packed dirt floor, making her imagine the ground wet and red with the blood of prisoners.

Hugging herself, she shivered.

Near the center of the chamber a human cage swung, its door hanging drunkenly from ancient hinges. The wooden rack sitting in a corner would have been used to pull a man apart. Along the far wall, four sets of ankle manacles were anchored near the floor, with matching sets for wrists higher up.

I reckon I'll give you a few years before I go hunting for a way to keep those hands tied up and both of mine free.

She heard the scrape of steel on stone, then the soft hiss of a wick catching fire. "They're gone!" Niall burst out behind her, his voice laced with disbelief. She swung about to see him holding a candle high, his eyes wide in the flickering light. "The treasure chests are gone!"

CHAPTER FORTY

Trick reached to put a calming hand on Niall's arm. "Where were they?"

"Here, I tell you. Here, and here, and here." He paced the dim chamber, indicating bare spots where Trick could see that heavy, rectangular objects had once sat. "I saw them but two days ago—the morning of the day you arrived. They were here, same as always. As they've been since before I was born. Before any of us were born."

The dungeon was warm and stuffy. While Trick found another candle and lit it from Niall's, Kendra slipped her cloak off and hung it from one of the manacles on the wall. "Whatever were you doing here two days ago?"

Niall hesitated but a moment. "This was Mam's secret retreat. I came...to feel closer to her. To escape the clamor of the wake for a wee while. How can all that treasure have gone missing since then?" He held out the lock, staring at it. "How did the thieves get this open?"

Trick took it from his hands. "It wasn't forced or picked."

"How can you tell?"

"There'd be marks." He handed it back. "Who else has a key?"

"Only Rhona and Gregor. So far as I know, nobody else is even aware this place exists. It makes no sense. Twenty-three enormous chests, all gone." Niall stepped closer to Trick, his face looking sallow in the light from the candle in his hand. "Will you help me find them?"

Trick blinked. He'd planned to leave for England tomorrow—a search could take days. Weeks. "I must get home. This isn't my responsibility. But of course I will bring the news directly to the king."

"What if the thieves start selling the treasure, aye? Gold and silver platters and goblets? We're a poor country. Should anything so rich as that treasure show up, surely someone will figure out whence it came, and then an inquisition will be made, and Mam and Da could be implicated."

"She's dead," Trick said. "What does it matter now?"

"Hamish isn't," Kendra reminded him.

But he didn't want to be reminded. He still didn't know how he felt about his father, and the last thing he wanted was a reason to stick around and find out while the rest of his life remained on hold.

"He could hang, Patrick." The flame wavered, ruffled by Niall's impassioned words. "Or worse. Stealing the Royal plate is treason."

"Treason," Kendra whispered. "Punishable by hanging, drawing, quartering—"

"I know the penalties for treason. But that doesn't change the fact that I must get home. And, hearts wounds, it's been thirty-five years since the crime."

Surely no evidence remained to tie the misdeed to his parents now. John Ferries, the only witness, was dead. These fears were groundless. Emotional rather than logical.

"Trick." She came close, capturing his gaze with hers. "Even should the crime continue undiscovered, King Charles would never regain what his father lost."

He hesitated but a moment, realizing she knew him better than he knew himself. Always it came down to what would be best for Charles Stuart. "Very well," he muttered. "I'll spare a day or two to help find it." That was the most he was willing to delay his return to England. "But let's not go off half-cocked. There may be some clue here of who took it or its whereabouts."

Niall's breath rushed out in relief. "Da may have ideas as well. Maybe someone else knew of the treasure or had a key to the lock. And in any case, he'll want to hear of this loss immediately."

"Go ahead, then, and speak with him. Kendra and I will remain behind to search for clues."

"You know the direction to Duncraven?"

"Aye. Back through the town, then southwest. Be on your way. We'll meet you later and formulate a plan. God willing, one of us will discover something useful in the interim."

Niall gripped him by the shoulders. "I thank you."

"Think nothing of it," Trick mumbled. "We're brothers, aye?"

"Brothers." The younger man kissed him on both cheeks and pressed the lock and key into his hand. He gave Kendra his candle and was off, the trap door banging closed behind him.

Kendra released a long breath. "That was good of you, Trick."

"He didn't leave me much of a choice."

Hearing his voice hitch, she guessed it was the result of brotherly affection. "Why did you hesitate to agree?" she asked, stepping closer.

He trailed his fingers along her arm. "After last night, I'm suddenly wanting to get home and start anew with my lovely wife."

She sensed that wasn't the whole truth. But, very aware they were alone deep in the earth, his words caused her heart to race anyway. "After we help your family, there will still be time for that."

"You can be sure of it." He kissed the tip of her nose, then took the candlestick from her and set it atop the rack, where it bathed the stone chamber with a faint but welcome glow. He set the lock there as well, an unnerving thunk of metal on wood. "Shall we see what we can find?"

"I really don't like it down here."

"We won't be staying long." Another candle blazed to join the two already lit, and Trick set it into a holder and placed it across the chamber. "There now, it's not so eerie after all, is it? Rather cozy, don't you think?"

Was it her imagination, or had his voice taken on a seductive tone? "Well, I don't expect it's haunted if it was your mother's secret place. But I cannot say I care for the decor, either."

"Early Torture isn't your style?" His easy grin made her feel a little better, but his gaze on the manacles had the opposite effect, even more so when the hot look he shot her made her knees go weak.

Memories flooded: The things I say are nothing compared to the things I'll do... There are other ways we can pleasure each other... Look at me, lass...

She shook away the images playing in her head. Knowing the way his mind worked, whatever he was thinking was most likely wicked, and she had no business being intrigued by that. Her brothers had always warned her that her adventurous nature would lead her to nothing but trouble.

"Kendra?" Her gaze snapped to his. She thought he sounded entirely too pleased with himself as his eyes burned a path down her body. "We'd better start looking."

Maybe she was only imagining it all, but the heat pooling in her center...that wasn't her imagination. In a dungeon, for God's sake. She shook herself again. "What are we looking for?"

"Hell if I know. A clue."

He slowly traversed one side of the room while she paced the other. Gingerly touching the cold instruments of torture worked well to dispel inappropriate feelings. The blackened metal felt evil beneath her fingers, the air thick and heavy with age, not to mention horrific tales.

When he let out a little hoot of discovery, she jumped.

"Footprints," he said.

She joined him, crouching down. "What do these tell us? They could be your mother's, or Hamish's, or even our own. No telling if they're hours old or years."

"But they're concentrated around where a chest once sat, see? As though people were recently here, trying to lift something heavy. And here, this deep line in the dirt. They used a board or something as a lever."

"One set of small prints and three larger ones. Yes, I see." She looked up. "But whose?"

He shrugged. "Just information to bring back to Hamish. Maybe it will jog an idea. Let's see what else we can find."

Half an hour's careful search revealed more footprints clustered around where other chests had sat, and little else. A scrap of dark fabric that Trick pocketed, a curved shard of cheap broken glass. It could have lain there for centuries, for all they knew.

He sighed. "Let's go up. We may find more clues outdoors."

It was a relief to ascend the stairs and see daylight once again.

"More of the same footprints." Breathing deep of the fresh air, Kendra followed the marks. "And wheel tracks," she called. "Here, leading out of the woods. How did we miss this before?"

"We weren't looking." He hurried over to see for himself. "I'll be damned. Multiple tracks from the same vehicle. Many of them. I'm guessing the chests were carted away one at a time."

"Southeast," she agreed. "Around the town. And then where?"

Trick lifted a shoulder. "Shall we go find out?"

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

They mounted their horses and headed through the woods, following the ruts. Once clear of the ruins, the trees grew dense, providing reason for the chests to have been carted out singly. A larger cart wouldn't have made it through.

At the forest's edge, the tracks stopped.

"They loaded them on a wagon here," Kendra said.

"Two wagons. No, three, or maybe four. Look." Wider-set tracks turned south and continued. "Shall we see where they went?"

The tracks were easy enough to follow, leading Trick to believe they'd missed the thieves by not more than hours. Clouds were gathering again, and the trail would soon be washed away. But for now, the air was warm, the day bright as only a Scottish summer afternoon could be.

The colors seemed more brilliant here, slopes of blues and purples, the land's harsh contours brought out by shadow and sun. Rabbits scurried in the underbrush, and a flock of swallows soared overhead. Scotland was beautiful, and Trick had missed it in a way he hadn't realized till now, stuck in the confines of the dingy gray castle.

"What happened back there?" Kendra asked quietly.

"Hmm?"

"With Niall."

"Oh. That." Warmth crept up his neck, his memories of the incident childish at best. "I'm not sure. But it won't happen again."

"It will."

"Nay, it won't. I'm not usually as volatile as you've seen me..." His voice trailed off, because he didn't know how to explain it. The longer he stayed at his crumbling childhood home, the more confused he seemed to get.

He'd learned his early years hadn't been as he remembered—or as the duke had later caused him to remember. His world had tilted on its axis. And though he'd found family, they were too new, too unfamiliar, to possibly lean on yet.

Which left him his wife. He needed her more than he'd like to admit.

Thank God she was here. He gave her a wavery smile, and her lips curved in return. He wanted to kiss them. Hell, he always wanted to kiss them. "I just need to become accustomed to having family. It won't happen again."

"It will," she insisted. "He's your brother."

"Exactly, and so he deserves my best. I'll apologize for disbelieving him, and from now on I need to be more patient. He looks a man, but he's yet a lad, and I must remember that."

"No." Her laugh rang over the hillside, and her smile would lift the most morose man's mood. Sweet Mary, he was lucky to have her. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Trick. This is the way brothers are. Families are. We don't give each other our best, I'm afraid, but more often our worst. We slide into comfort and forget ourselves. It's the hugs after the battles that make it worthwhile."

A concept so unfamiliar it bordered on incomprehensible. It had been so very long since he could reliably expect a hug from anyone, let alone someone he'd hurt.

Lost in thought, he was caught by surprise when Chaucer balked at the edge of a river. Kendra tugged on Pandora's reins. "Look, the tracks disappear. Shall we cross?"

There was no bridge in sight. The water didn't look too deep—waist high, he guessed, at most—but he eyed her long skirts and the sun overhead. "The day is getting away from us. Let's take what we've found back to Hamish and Niall. They may have an idea where the thieves were headed."

"I left my cloak in the dungeon."

"We also didn't lock up. We'll follow the tracks back. I'm not certain how to return from here, anyway."

Kendra's heart felt light as they rode back. She'd heard a warmth in Trick's voice that made her feel perhaps he was finally opening up. When she smiled over at him, he smiled back, raking her from head to toe with those amber eyes. A glimmer in them assured her that he liked what he saw, and her body reacted immediately.

How many more hours until they could sneak up to their chamber at Duncraven tonight? She'd never thought she'd look forward to anything in that gloomy place, but they had five long weeks to make up for.

Back at the ruins, she tethered Pandora and followed Trick into the dungeon, shivering a bit as she descended the narrow, cold staircase in the slanting light of the open trapdoor.

He turned to her at the bottom. "You're not still frightened, are you?"

"Maybe. A little." The candles had all guttered out. She hurried to get her cloak from the manacle on the wall.

He blocked her path and grabbed her around the middle, leaning to give her a kiss.

Just like that, her fear melted away. As his mouth slanted over hers, a dizzying cloud of his sandalwood scent surrounded her, overwhelming the dungeon's mustiness and reminding her of what she'd been thinking earlier. Her senses spun wildly, and before she knew what was happening, he'd lifted her by the waist.

"Oof! What are you doing?"

His only answer was a raised brow as he walked forward, then sat her in the open cage, letting her legs dangle out where the door hung loose. He gave the ugly black thing a push to start it swinging.

The metal felt cold beneath her skirts, and the swinging chain made an awful grating noise. Holding tight to the opening, she gave a shaky laugh.

He grinned. "See? It's not scary down here at all. Not with the sunlight and the company. And it must not have been scary to my mother, either, considering it was her special place."

Trying to be a good sport, Kendra reached her toes to push off again. The chain moaned a protest. "I can imagine her coming here to think," she told him, swaying to and fro. "The way you go to the cottage at Amberley."

He hesitated, then nodded his head. "Aye, just like that."

Pleased that he'd admitted as much, she pressed for more. "You write there, don't you?"

"Sometimes." He gave the cage another shove, sending the chain to its screeching song.

"I wonder if your mother wrote here?"

"I never saw her write anything other than letters. But I'd lay odds she came here with Hamish when they were younger—and not to write." He pushed her again, flashing a grin or a leer, she wasn't sure which. "Aye, I can picture them here, all right. I bet they came here to secretly make love."

A little tingle started in the pit of her stomach. "Make love? In here?"

"It's private enough." He cocked a brow. "I was conceived here. I can feel it."

"That's ridiculous." But intrigued, she looked around. "There's no bed."

"What makes you think we need a bed?"

"W-we?" Her fingers clenched the iron bars. "You cannot be serious. I cannot imagine—"

With his hands on the bars that flanked her head, he stilled the cage. "Ah, lassie, it's not really so hard to imagine." His wicked smile drew her attention to that tiny, charming chip on his tooth, and he took advantage, reaching down to flip up her skirts.

"Trick! What—" He was fumbling with the laces on his breeches. "Oh, my God."

"This would be easier in that kilt," he muttered.

And suddenly she had no problem imagining at all. In fact, her imagination was becoming reality. Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart began to hammer in her chest.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Kendra watched, riveted, as Trick ripped the lacing from its holes and stuffed it into his pocket. The front of his breeches gaped open.

"Oh, my God." She gripped the iron bars even tighter. "You cannot think—"

"Aye, now that you mention it, I am having trouble thinking." Tossing his hair from his face, he stepped close, a lethal look in his eye with a grin to match. "My head feels a bit light."

"Oh, my—"

Cutting off her words, his mouth came down on hers. Hot and frantic, his tongue delved inside immediately, and all at once, her head felt light, too. His hands spread her knees, and he stepped between them, pressing close. His warmth teased hers, and a shimmer of melting sensation rippled every nerve in her body.

Just like that, she wanted him inside. Part of her had been waiting for this from the moment he'd given her that lust-threaded look the first time they were down here. The saner part of her had gone into hiding.

He kissed her chin, her throat, the broad expanse of her cleavage exposed in the yellow gown's low neckline. Down below, she strained against him. "Oh, my God." She wiggled forward, wanting him, craving him. She needed him to fill her. "Now, Trick. Please."

With a low groan, he shoved his hips closer, and the cage swung away.

Suddenly bereft, she hung there in space—such a loss, the heat of his body. When the cage swung back, she released the bars to grip him tightly.

"Hell, leannan, this won't work."

"It has to." A fire burned inside her—how instantly it had flamed! She hadn't known it could happen so fast. She wrapped her legs around him, straining closer, a hot ache in the place she wanted him to be.

As her hands roamed his back, she groaned, irked to find so much clothing covering his body. A surcoat, a shirt, a cravat around his neck where her lips wanted to nip. "Your skin," she whispered, nipping his earlobe instead. "I want to touch you."

She tugged at the knot at his throat, managing to loosen it, ripping at the laces beneath. But the placket wouldn't allow enough access to make her happy, so she tugged the shirt out of his breeches in the back, slipping her hands up underneath.

"Jesus, lass." He rocked his hips closer again.

And the cage moved right out from under her.

The forward force of her body made him stumble back, but he managed not to drop her or fall. She clung to him, arms and legs wrapped tight.

"Hang on," he grated out. Capturing her mouth in a kiss, he walked forward, every movement an exquisite friction in that small unclothed area where her body met his. By the time he sat her on the rack, she was gasping for breath. He eased her onto her back and made to climb up—but the ancient, rickety contraption shuddered beneath them.

At the ominous sound of cracking wood, she twisted and jumped off, having to rip her skirt free of a large splinter. She frantically glanced around. Once this space had been filled with nice, solid chests, but now nothing was left to support them.

"The floor is dirt," she moaned.

"Easy, lass." Reaching for her, he raised a devilish brow. "We've no need to lie down." His hands warm on her shoulders, he backed her up until she was flush against the wall.

She couldn't envision how it would work, but she didn't care, so long as they could finish what they'd started. And when he took her mouth in a heated kiss, thoughts fled her head entirely. As the caress deepened, she raised her arms, intending to wrap them around his neck—and one of her hands hit an unhinged manacle.

At the muted thud, they both looked up, their ragged breathing the only sounds in the deserted dungeon. The expression in his eyes made her heart leap, made her remember him holding her hands above her head in the tunnel at Duncraven. Watching for his reaction, she wriggled her wrist into the open oval.

"Nay." His hungry gaze went down to her raised breasts, then back up, darting between the manacles on either side of her head.

Her own gaze followed.

"Nay," he said again. A more frustrated laugh she'd never heard. "It may be every man's fantasy, but you're not ready for that, leannan."

She was burning for him, and never in her life had she imagined herself fulfilling a man's fantasy. "Please," she whispered. She wrapped her free arm around his neck but left her other hand half-cuffed as she went to her toes for another kiss.

The kiss deepened, and she could feel his heart pounding against her breasts, her own blood rushing to match the wild cadence. "Please," she repeated against his lips.

A soft murmur vibrated from his body into hers, a sound of capitulation mixed with unbridled lust that made her knees threaten to buckle under her.

Lifting his head, he locked his gaze on hers. "Do you trust me, leannan?" His amber eyes fluttered closed and then opened, burning into hers, the most fervent, forthright gaze she'd ever seen. "Do you trust me?"

"Oh, yes," she breathed.

And she did. No matter that he robbed Puritans and didn't seem to trust her, in his own unique way he was the most honorable man she'd ever known. It seemed he always—always—wanted to do the right thing.

She waited, willing him to believe her, until finally he reached up. Cold metal circled her wrist, a grating creak in her ear and a bang as the manacle closed.

"Oh, my God, Trick."

"It's not locked. Just tell me if you want out." When she didn't cry off, he lifted her, fitting her legs around his middle before he reached for her other arm. "The offer stands—I can have the cuffs open before the words pass your lips." His voice turned hurried, frenzied. "Keep your legs wrapped, leannan. I don't want any weight on your hands. I would never, ever want to hurt you."

Snap.

Another bracelet around her second wrist, black iron instead of amber. Pressing her against the wall while he reached between their bodies, he tugged her skirts up and tucked the hem behind her shoulders. And with a quick upward thrust, he drove into her.

"Oh, my God." Her eyes slid shut, and she struggled against the restraints, not hurting or frightened—he hadn't locked them, after all—but just frantic with the need to touch him. In her few lessons on love, she'd enjoyed the giving as much as the taking.

Although she wanted to gift herself over to him, it was so hard to only succumb.

But as his hips initiated the rhythm her body craved, succumb she did. She clenched her fists against that urge to touch, her fingernails digging into her palms. Helpless to participate, she could only feel. Her skin prickled, her heart raced, and her whole world centered where her body met his.

It was agony, but sweet, so sweet.

As his tempo quickened, she felt a throbbing, and she couldn't tell if it was hers or his. Then it grew, until she knew it belonged to them both. Until she felt him pulsing within her and responded in a burst of exquisite glory.

"Oh. My. God."

"Are you all right, leannan?" Panting, he moved to release her wrists. Her legs straightened, reaching for the floor, and she slid down his body, her gown still wrenched up between them.

As she stood there on trembling limbs, he brought her wrists to his mouth and kissed them, one and then the other, so cherishingly that she thought her heart might crack at the tender look in his eyes.

"I think maybe I got carried away there," he confessed in a husky whisper, circling her wrists with his hands. Rubbing. Warm, and so gentle. "Are you all right?"

She gave him a shaky smile. "I don't believe I've ever been better."

His hands stilled, and the beginning of a grin tipped a corner of his mouth. "Are you sure, leannan?"

"Dear God, I've never been more sure in my life."

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

The ride was hardly short, but Kendra was still glowing with aftereffects when they walked through the tunnel and into the great hall. Their hands were joined, and she looked down to her wrist. A bracelet of amber and the faintest pink line, not enough to hurt or even feel, just enough to remind her of the glorious afternoon.

Seated at a trestle table with a hearty meal before him, Hamish's gaze went to their joined hands as well. He smiled, a sigh escaping his lips. "You two put me in mind of my Elspeth, you do. Happy newlyweds you are, and glad I am of it."

It was true they were happy. True for Kendra, and as she met Trick's gaze, she knew it was true for him, too. Perhaps the matter of his parentage was disturbing, and perhaps she wasn't finished climbing the wall he'd built between them. But they'd turned a corner in that dungeon—they had laid the foundation for trust. A foundation they could build on in the days and weeks to come.

"The first time Da's been downstairs in weeks," Niall told them with a grin. "Join us, will you? Da has been trying to puzzle out what happened. Did you find any clues?"

Trick handed him the key. "Not much," he admitted, emptying his pockets. "Just this scrap of cloth"—he gave it to Hamish—"and this piece of glass." He set the shard on the table with an audible clink, then seated himself.

Kendra sat beside him, and plates were set before them. Seeing nothing sweet on the table, she took a wedge of spinach tart while Trick eyed a platter of meat slices swimming in onions and a savory-smelling sauce.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Mutton," Niall told him. "Scotch collops."

"Sounds good." He transferred a piece to his plate.

"Homespun." Hamish fingered the dark fabric. "It could have belonged to anyone, but most likely a common worker. Certainly not Elspeth or myself. As for this"—he picked up the glass—"it looks to be part of an old bottle. Wine, I'm guessing. We broke our share of them down there over the years."

Feeling her face heat, Kendra exchanged a look with Trick. And a secret smile. Maybe he had been conceived there.

And they could have conceived there themselves, she realized with a start.

He turned back to his father. "We also found many footprints—they looked to be of four different people, clustered around the chests as they lifted. Three larger sets of prints and one smaller." He polished off the mutton and reached for another serving. "So more folk than Niall supposed must have known about the treasure."

"More folk know about it now," Hamish corrected. His mouth straightened into a grim line. "After the original folk enlisted their help in this crime."

"The original folk?"

With a sigh, the older man ran a hand back through his thinning hair, a gesture that reminded Kendra of Trick. "Gregor and Rhona," he practically spat. "My friends. Or so I thought."

"Da!" Niall's eyes went wide. "You cannot really mean to accuse them?"

"No one else knew of the place. Or the treasure's existence." Hamish's voice sounded bitter, betrayed. "One small set of footprints—Rhona's. And three larger—Gregor and two men. One of them wearing homespun. Who else could it have been? The thieves had a key."

"Then they borrowed it or stole it—from you or Rhona and Gregor. Someone could have followed you there sometime. All those years..."

"No one followed. And as for all those years, there were things that happened in those years. Things you don't know."

Looking shaky, Niall took a long sip from his pewter goblet. "Such as?"

"Friends do not always get along. The four of us quarreled from time to time. Bitterly."

The spinach pie had turned out to be sweet after all, swimming in butter with cinnamon and sugar, but the last bite turned sour in Kendra's mouth. "What did you fight about?"

"For years now, Gregor and Rhona have wanted to sell off the treasure. The office of Town Clerk of Falkland doesn't pay so well, aye? At least not well enough for the two of them to live as they supposed they should, their best friend being a duchess. But Elspeth and I—we always argued with them, and we always won."

Niall ran his goblet back and forth on the pitted trestle table. "You were afraid if anything were sold, you'd be discovered."

"Aye, that was it in part, although Gregor always talked of carting the goods to London before selling them. Among the riches in that great city, he believed the treasure would go unnoticed, and in any case, not be connected to anyone back here in Scotland."

Kendra ran a finger around the rim of her own goblet. "But you didn't agree?"

"Royal plate is quite recognizable. But the truth is, we had other reasons for not wanting it sold. We only wanted it returned—off our hands."

Trick helped himself to a hunk of bread. "Could you not convince them?"

"We thought we had. Over and over. But always a few years later they would bring it up again." Hamish cut a piece of mutton. "I can only assume, Patrick, then when you arrived, they saw their last chance slipping away. They knew Elspeth had been planning to ask you to return the treasure. So they took it upon themselves to enlist help and make off with it before it was too late."

"Gregor and Rhona." Reluctantly, Niall nodded. "I expect that's why they've been absent since shortly after the burial. I thought they needed rest, but come to think of it, it's odd they left you alone, Da. When they spent every day here since Mam fell ill."

Hamish returned the nod.

Trick pushed his plate away. "So you think they're bound for London?"

"I expect so, son."

If Trick noticed the endearment, he didn't react. "We found cart tracks outside the tower, heading southeast around Falkland, and then more tracks from four wagons that went due south. At the point where they crossed a wee river, we turned back. Where would they go from there?"

"Down and over to Stirling Bridge," Niall said. "It's the only way across the Forth."

"Unless they were in a hurry." Hamish dabbed at his lips with a napkin. "Then they'd head for Burntisland and the ferry over to Leith. Just as King Charles did all those years ago."

"They're in a hurry," Kendra said.

The three men turned to her. "How do you know?" Trick asked.

"They crossed the river instead of heading up or downstream to a bridge. Although it wasn't overly deep, there had to be some risk involved in traversing the water with such a heavy load."

A new appreciation lit Trick's eyes. "You're right. But still and all, even taking shortcuts they cannot have gotten far, not with a burden like that. The tracks were visible, which means they left today." His gaze went to one of the deep-set windows. A light mist had begun to fall as they'd headed back to Duncraven. "I imagine the trail is washed away now. And they're making even slower progress."

Niall nodded. "If we ride out immediately, we could make it to Burntisland before them. And wait."

Kendra could hear the excitement in his voice. Clearly he saw this as more than a mission for right. She imagined he envisioned an adventure—he and his new older brother, off to save the world.

He rose, looking eager. "I don't suppose it will be too difficult for the likes of we two to dissuade one old man and woman."

"Watch your tongue, lad," Hamish put in, a ghost of a smile transforming his grim face. "Who are you calling old?"

With a laugh, Trick stood. "I'll fetch my cloak." He started for the turret steps.

"Wait!" Kendra leapt up to go after him. But he was already far ahead of her, his boots disappearing around the tight curve as he took the steep staircase two steps at a time, while she could manage only one.

By the time she caught up, he was already inside their chamber, spreading his cloak on the bed. Breathless, she caught him by the arm. "I want to go with you."

He spun to face her. "No. We've been over this before."

"You're not going to play the highwayman this time, Trick. I'll worry—"

"And I'll worry more if you come." He caressed her cheek with the backs of his long fingers, then moved away to root through the clothespress. "Stay with Hamish," he said, pulling out a black shirt and breeches. "He needs people around him."

"He has Duncan and Annag, and his grandchildren."

"Aye?" He tossed the garments on the open cloak. "Then where were they today?"

"At their own homes," Niall said behind them, "packing up their lives." They both turned to find him standing in the open doorway, holding a roll of parchment. "They'll return tonight. Seems they're moving here for good."

"Good?" Kendra asked incredulously.

"Bad choice of words." He half-grimaced, half-grinned. "But I don't want to upset Da by questioning this. Not until he's stronger."

"I understand." And she did. But that didn't mean she wanted to stay here with Niall's brother and sister. Left to deal with them alone, she could picture herself tearing her hair out. She'd be bald by the time Trick returned.

Suddenly she realized they were her husband's brother and sister as well. "They're yours, too, Trick," she blurted.

"Pardon?" He buckled on his sword belt.

"Duncan and Annag. They're your brother and sister."

In the act of shoving a pistol into his boot top, he stilled, the gun dangling from his fingers.

Niall leapt into the room to catch it. "Half brother and sister," he corrected.

Trick's face had gone pale. Kendra wished she could see the expression in his eyes, but his hair hung in the way.

"They're my half siblings, too, and I manage to survive," Niall joked weakly. "It's not all that bad."

"I just hadn't thought of it."

"Then have you thought about the fact that you're Scottish?" Niall handed over the gun.

Trick stared at it as if he'd never seen one before. "Scottish?" he repeated.

"One-hundred percent Scots," his brother said in an exaggerated burr. "Both your parents."

"I hadn't thought about that, either." Regaining his color, he shook his head as though to clear it, but the hair fell right back into his eyes. "I thought Mam was half Irish?"

Niall shrugged. "I suppose. But either way, you're not English, aye?"

A small smile tugged at Trick's lips. "I never did feel very English."

"Well, that's because you aren't." His brother returned his grin. "But you up and married a Sassenach, aye?"

"Guess I did, at that," Trick said, reaching an arm to pull Kendra close.

Seeing he was over the shock, she relaxed. He felt warm against her side, and she wished he wasn't leaving. She looked down, twisting the bracelet on her wrist.

Trick jammed the pistol into his boot top. "Are you ready?" he asked Niall.

"I brought a map." Walking to the desk, Niall unrolled the parchment. "I thought you'd like to see the way."

Trick helped him smooth it on the scarred oak surface. "We're here, are we?"

"Aye, and going here." Leaning over the map, Niall traced a finger southward. "Alongside the mountains and through the hills to the coast. Burntisland is directly opposite from Leith, do you see?"

"Across the Firth of Forth, aye." Trick's own finger followed the path. "How long should it take to Burntisland?"

"On horseback, not long. Two, three hours. With twenty-three chests of silver and gold, a whole day, maybe longer. Especially in the rain. The route is far from flat."

"That's in our favor." Trick rerolled the parchment and stuck it into his belt. "Shall we leave?

"I need just a minute to fetch my things. I'll meet you downstairs." Niall left, his footsteps hurrying through the garrison and then echoing as he descended the stairwell.

When the sound faded away, Kendra turned into Trick's arms. "Are you sure I cannot come with you?"

"I'm sure, leannan." He bent his head, his lips apologetic on hers. "This shouldn't take long. A few hours to get there, a day to get back with those chests." His lips brushed hers again, then lingered. His tongue teased her mouth, robbing her of breath, making her want to beg him to stay.

But she wouldn't. Rhona and Gregor had to be stopped. And she wouldn't push any more to go along. She was determined to be better than in the past, the sort of supportive wife he deserved.

"Be safe," she said softly.

"I will." A final kiss only left her wanting more. "I have a plan, so don't fash yourself."

"Don't worry, do you mean?" She squeezed him around the middle. "You're talking like a Scot already, you know that? Before much longer, Caithren will be the only one at home who can understand you."

With a laugh, he was gone.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

"Sit still, milady." Jane's hands curled and twisted. "You're restless this morning."

Feeling like little Susanna at the orphanage, Kendra sighed. Her gaze went to the bedchamber's window. It had rained all night, though it seemed to be letting up now. "I wonder how they're doing. All the night and into the morning."

"I'm sure they're fine, milady." Jane stole a cube of cheese from Kendra's untouched breakfast tray and popped it into her mouth. "They're probably on their way home already."

Kendra fingered the amber around her wrist, a bit sad that the slight pinkness from yesterday was gone. Trick had said he had a plan. She hoped it was a good one. "I didn't say I was worried."

"Of course you're worried." Jane tied a purple ribbon and stepped back. "There you go. He'll be home soon. You're doing well here, are you not?"

Was Jason checking up on her here, too? Kendra wondered. The thought made her warm inside. Though she knew it was unlikely, Leslie Castle being far from here, she also knew that her brother would do so if he could. He cared—just like Jane cared enough to ask the question.

"How are you doing here, Jane?"

"Why, fine." Gathering combs, pins, and ribbons, the maid arranged them in her little traveling case. "I've a room to myself bigger than the one I share at Amberley—why shouldn't I be fine?"

"How is that?" Kendra frowned. "I would expect the servants' quarters to be crowded, what with Duncraven's staff and now Amberley's."

"Didn't you know, then, milady?"

"Know what?" She rose and wandered to the window. The rain had stopped, and she smiled at the scene below, watching a mama rabbit hop after her baby through Elspeth's garden.

"When his grace—not your husband, but his father—left all those many years ago, he stopped providing her grace's allowance. She had to survive on what Duncraven earns, which I gather isn't much. Most of the servants were dismissed."

"My God." Kendra swung from the window. That explained why a nurse companion was doing bedchamber duty. And why the castle was so run down. "His grace—my husband—doesn't know of this, Jane. That I can promise."

"Calm yourself, milady." Jane shut her wooden case. "No one here blames him, and besides, this all happened long ago. The remaining staff are happy to have employment. And since Mr. Munroe moved in, they're even getting paid." She took her curling iron from the hearth and blew to cool it off. "Shall I sit with you and play some cards? The day might pass more quickly."

"Maybe later. I think I may sit with Hamish a while."

Jane's plain face split in a smile of approval. "Excellent idea. You know where to find me."

Kendra followed her maid out the door and down the winding, torchlit stairs, biting the inside of her cheek. She knew Trick wouldn't stand for his father and brother scrimping to the point they apparently were. Estate management was her strength, so she hoped to get to the bottom of Duncraven's problems before he returned. And find a solution that wouldn't involve him playing the highwayman any longer.

Coming into the sitting room, she headed for Hamish's door. Perhaps there were opportunities for income that they'd missed.

"Where did they go off to, Kendra?"

She whirled and, finding herself face-to-face with Annag, stifled a groan. "I told you, I don't know."

And told her and told her. At least a dozen times last night, before she'd escaped the great hall to toss and turn in her lonely bed.

She skirted past her sister-in-law, toward the master chamber's closed door. "Why are you so interested, anyway? Have you some stake in the outcome of today's work?"

Annag came around to block her way, fists raised. "Of what are you accusing me?"

"Go ahead, hit me. I've three brothers, and I can assure you they've schooled me well."

The woman's eyes narrowed, but she dropped her hands. "I'll get Duncan to find out, then." She flounced to Hamish's door, opened it, and slipped inside, slamming it behind her. "Dun-cannnn!" her voice came through the thick oak.

So much for consulting with Hamish—the last thing Kendra needed was another round with Duncan and his sister. So far she still had all her hair, and she preferred to keep it that way.

She headed downstairs and outside, hoping for some peace to appreciate the whimsical world that Elspeth had created. Once it had calmed Trick; perhaps the castle garden would work the same magic on her.

Though the rain had stopped, the day was blustery, the sky still gray and forbidding. She walked the paths, bending to touch a little castle here and there, smiling at Trick's mother's inventiveness. A blue one with little bits of metal to make it sparkle. A yellow one surrounded by miniature trees. She could almost picture Elspeth working on them, a small blond boy at her side. If he'd "helped" as well as the children at the orphanage did, she imagined it had taken the woman twice as long as necessary to build each one.

There was a fanciful one, painted pink, a green dragon guarding its entrance. It looked so pretty surrounded by bell-shaped purplish flowers.

She froze. Bell-shaped purplish flowers.

Black nightshade. Belladonna. Dwale.

She reached out, then snatched her hand back, hearing Caithren's voice in her head. Don't touch. It's possible to fall ill without even eating it.Do you see these dark green leaves? They're lethal.

She saw only a few of those dark green leaves...because most of them had been plucked off.

Like Cait, Rhona had knowledge of plants and herbs. And she'd been feeding a concoction to Hamish. Her "cure" with its dark green hue.

And Hamish's symptoms—likely Elspeth's symptoms as well—had been just what Caithren had described: shock, fever, slowed breathing, dilated eyes, stomach pain...

Rhona had been poisoning them both.

Dear God. She had to warn Trick and Niall. Her husband and his brother were all that stood between Rhona and Gregor and that treasure, and if the two of them had been willing to murder twice, they'd be willing to do it again.

Before she even puzzled it all out, she was running for the castle. Upstairs in her chamber, she ripped off her gown and threw a riding habit on instead. Grabbing her cloak, she lost no time heading for the stables and Pandora, praying that none of the family would see her before she could get on the road.

She'd hung over Trick's shoulder as he and Niall had pored over the map yesterday, and she was sure she knew the way.

Impatiently tapping a foot, she watched the stable boy lift the saddle to the mare's back. "Hurry, would you?"

The stable boy frowned. "You cannot go riding alone, your grace."

She forced a smile. "At home in England, I ride alone all the time."

"This is Duncraven, not England. Allow me to arrange for an escort."

"I thank you, but no." An escort would see where she was headed and ride right back. Then she'd be caught and kept from going altogether. Hamish would want to send someone else—a messenger or, God forbid, Duncan. And she wasn't going to sit here worrying while the men in her life were facing murderers. "I really prefer to ride alone. It clears my head."

The stable boy was backing through the doors, clearly going for help. Taking over where he'd left off, she cinched the saddle tight and swung herself up. "Tell Mr. Munroe I'll be back," she called as she rode off.

It was more miles than it had looked on the map, but Pandora was swift. The hours took her over rolling land nestled against a range of green mountains, then finally on a tree-lined road that wound through the hills shielding the coastline.

Cattle grazed in the meadows, and purple thistles sprouted everywhere. A fine mist fell from the sky, and the clouds were growing darker, promising heavier weather to come. When the twisting road crested and she could see the small village of Burntisland tucked into a bay in the distance, the Firth of Forth tossing fitfully beyond it, she began worrying about how she would locate her husband.

As luck would have it—bad luck—she barreled through a sea of cornflowers, rounded a bend, and nearly rode right over him.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

"Grab her!" Rhona yelled.

In the middle of tying up a man, Trick looked up to see Kendra yanked off Pandora. A heartbeat later, Gregor had a blade to her neck.

Where the hell had she come from?

Stunned, Trick could barely find breath. Empty-saddled, Pandora reared and galloped up the embankment, his and Niall's mounts bolting after her.

"Damn you for a dastardly whoreson," Gregor grated through gritted teeth. "Release my man, before your pretty wife's head is rolling down the road."

"Don't listen to him, Trick!" Tears swam in Kendra's eyes. "He'll only kill you. He's murdered once already, almost twice—"

"Now!" Gregor bellowed.

His gaze riveted to Kendra's, Trick dropped the rope and slowly stepped back, the blood pounding in his ears.

I'm sorry, she mouthed, her heart in her glistening eyes. She raised her clenched knuckles to her teeth while the tears slipped down her cheeks.

"Rhona, get the weapons."

Stalking over to retrieve the pistols Trick had made them drop to the ground mere minutes earlier, Rhona smirked at Kendra. "Thank you, dearie." She handed a gun to one of their accomplices. "For a while there, your husband thought he had us fooled." The man Trick had been restraining struggled out of his half-tied bonds, and she handed over another pistol. "Imagine he and his brother thinking they could hold the four of us up."

Atop the rise overhead, Niall shakily stood, the lone real gunman among a dozen hats and pipes they'd arranged around him. He ripped the makeshift mask from his face. "We did fool you," he spat.

"Until your bonnie sister-in-law showed up and we put two and two together." Gregor tightened his hold around Kendra, and she flinched, making Trick's heart leap into his throat. "Drop your gun, lad, lest you be the next to feel my knife."

"He'll kill you anyway, Niall! I'm telling you—"

Niall's pistol fell to the road with an ominous thud.

Steaming—at Kendra, or Gregor and Rhona, or the world in general, he really wasn't sure which—Trick tore his own mask off and tugged the periwig from his head.

"Don't move!" Gregor growled. A tiny red nick appeared on Kendra's creamy skin, and her whimper took a year off Trick's life. Gregor swung his gaze on one of the other two men, motioning toward Trick with his head. "Kill him first."

"I told you!" Kendra wailed.

"Kill?" Palms forward, his gun pointed to the sky, the man backed away.

A Duncraven villager—Trick had slapped him at the draidgie. Now he wished he'd pounded him into the floorboards.

"Nobody said anything about killing, aye? We were supposed to move some chests and go home with gold in our pockets. Nobody said anything about killing."

"I'm with you, Davie." The second man's pistol dropped to the dirt. "Good day to you people. I don't know what game you're playing, but I'll be heading back to Duncraven now—you may keep my horse with my compliments." Casting a wistful glance to the animal in question, which was hitched to one of the wagons, he started walking.

"Wait!" Rhona's eyes darted back and forth between the retreating men and her husband. "We don't have to kill." Her voice rose an octave. "Damn you, Gregor, I told you from the first that we didn't have to kill!"

The men halted and turned back around, apparently reserving judgment.

"Aye," Gregor barked. "And then you talked me into that milk-livered way of doing it, when we could've been done with the deed and clear to London weeks before he showed up." He aimed a deadly glance at Trick.

"Hell mend you!" the first man said, pivoting away.

"Wait!" Rhona shot her pistol into the air.

Everyone froze. A choked sound came from Kendra's throat.

"We don't have to kill," Rhona repeated, her jaw tight with fury as she faced her husband. Visibly shaking, she gestured wildly at the four loaded wagons. "We cannot do this alone. We cannot let them walk."

Her gaze fell on the rope Trick had dropped to the ground. "We can tie the bastards up, like they were going to do us." He'd never heard such language from a woman's mouth. "We'll be long gone across the Forth before they can follow. The tide will turn, and they'll be stuck here till tomorrow."

Other than his labored breathing, Gregor remained silent. Resolute. The two other men exchanged looks and resumed walking.

A crack of lightning rent the air. "Come back," Gregor bellowed as thunder rumbled and rain began pelting the earth. "I'll hold this one until you tie up the others." His breath came in spasmodic jerks. "You!" he shouted to Niall. "Get down here unless you want to see the inside of your sister-in-law's gullet."

Niall didn't need to be told twice.

Using Trick's own ropes, they tied him and then his brother on the muddy ground, feet together, wrists crossed and bound behind their backs, then lashed to their bodies for good measure. Finally Gregor wrestled Kendra to the ground, and the two men gave her the same treatment.

"Ouch!" she yelled. "Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! OUCH!"

Lying on his side, Trick winced with each tug of the rope, though frankly he couldn't imagine what she found so painful. The entire situation was aggravating as hell, but it didn't hurt so much as to warrant squealing like a pig.

His poor wife must have the lowest pain threshold in history, he decided, remembering her reaction on their wedding night. Should she ever give birth, he would do best to keep clear of the house. Or maybe the county.

He was jarred from those musings when Gregor came to stand over him, murder in his cold blue eyes. "You bleeding bastard!" A swift kick to Trick's side knocked the breath from his lungs. Gregor's jaw clenched, and he kicked again, a blow so hard Trick heard the sharp crack of a rib. Pain knifed through him, exquisite agony that made the worst of his father's beatings seem insignificant.

He shut his eyes, gasping for air, hearing the wagons roll down the road as he waited for the pain to subside.

"Trick? Oh, my God. Trick, are you all right?"

"I'll live." She was too far away to touch, but he opened his eyes and sent her a wan, forced smile. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." The tears welled up again, mixing with the rain. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry. I know you told me not to come, but she was poisoning them, Trick, they were—"

"We'll talk of it later." He was too confused right now, torn between fury that she'd shown up and relief that her throat was intact. The pain was becoming bearable, an insistent throb along his left side. "Niall? You all right, man?"

"Aye. I should have shot him."

"Don't be a horse's arse. It was four against two, and a knife at her throat." His eyes widened when he looked back to Kendra. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Getting out." She gyrated in the mud. "Angus and Davie, they're nice men at heart. I talked to them at the draidgie."

"What?"

"I thought if I could convince them they were hurting me, they'd leave the ropes loose." She wiggled a hand free. "It worked."

"Holy Christ," Niall breathed. "She's a bloody genius."

And Trick was a damned idiot.

Her arm was still tied to her body, and it took another few minutes to work it free. Then more long minutes to unravel the rest until only her ankles were bound. She made short work of those bonds and scrambled to her feet, shaking out the kinks, splattering mud to the ground.

"I never thought I'd say this, but thank God it's raining." She tilted her head back, letting the downpour run into her mouth and wash down her body.

A wry laugh shot from Trick's throat, shortened by the pain in his ribs. "Untie me, wench."

Minutes later, he was free, hugging her like he never wanted to let go, never mind the ache in his side. He dropped kisses on her mouth, her cheeks, her eyes. "Sweet Mary, leannan." He pulled back, running his fingers over the tiny cut on her throat, convincing himself it wasn't serious. "I thought I was going to lose you." Then he kissed her all over again.

Laughing, she drew away. "Don't forget your brother."

He knelt, stifling a groan, and loosened Niall's bonds, grasping his hand to help him up. They embraced hard, then drew back and met each other's eyes.

"Shall we go get them?" Trick asked.

"Hell, yes."

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

The villains were already at the quay in the distance, unloading the wagons into a broad-beamed, single-masted boat. Or rather, the men were unloading. Rhona was wringing her hands. An agitated ferryman was alternately assisting and barking orders short-tempered enough to cut through the wind and the rain all the way to Trick's ears.

"No more, I tell you! She cannot hold it! And the tide has turned—we must leave, or we won't clear the harbor mouth—"

His words were cut off when Gregor turned a pistol on him. "Faster!" he shouted, shooting a shocked and then furious glance to where Trick and the others thundered closer on their horses. "Faster!"

"Enough!" the ferryman cried. "Take the last two off! She'll sink, I tell you!"

As the tide flooded out, the water level dropped between the two great stone piers that thrust east and west, the hundred-foot gap between them the only exit from Burntisland's harbor. In minutes, it would be too shallow and dangerous to navigate.

Trick reached the quay, his wife and brother arriving on Chaucer's heels. In unison they dropped to the dock, throwing their reins over a rail.

Ignoring the warnings, Gregor and the other two men thrust the last chest onboard and shoved off, the boat so laden there was barely room to stand. With a shouted oath, the ferryman jumped to the dock in the last instant, sputtering as the craft pulled away, already taking on water. In mute but panicked agreement, Gregor's helpers abandoned ship as well, leaping into the chilly harbor.

The boat's sails billowed, and it lurched forward, nearing the harbor mouth. Trick untied a smaller boat and scrambled aboard. "You, come!" he shouted to Niall. When Kendra made to follow, he waved her back. "You stay here!"

"A pox on you!" she screamed. With a running leap, she cleared the gap just as the boat pulled away.

Cursing under his breath, he shot a glance at the other boat floundering its way into open water. No time to argue, no time to turn back. "We'll discuss this later, too. Haven't you learned anything today?"

Niall grabbed two oars and started rowing. Before long, the ferryman looked like a tiny toy doll back on the quay, pacing and pounding his fists into the air. Another rumble of thunder ripped through the heavens.

"Look!" Kendra gasped.

From the west, a dense black cloud was sweeping down the firth.

"Bloody hell!" Trick had spent enough time aboard ships to know what that meant. Saying a quick prayer for the souls aboard the already-faltering boat, he snatched up the second set of oars to help row toward the laden ship, his ribs throbbing with every stroke. "If we transfer a chest or two aboard," he panted, planning as he went, "maybe we can lighten the load enough for the ferry to make it back. Niall, help me move them. Kendra, when I pull alongside, take the oars and try to keep her in place."

With the storm bearing down, he hadn't the luxury of being angry with her now. He would use her now, and yell at her later for complicating everything.

Damn stubborn woman. Always doing exactly as she pleased. Riding out by herself and getting them trapped into marriage, showing up at a highwayman raid when he'd expressly told her not to, running after him to Scotland, following him to Burntisland. And now this.

A few minutes later, they bumped up against the bucking ferry. "Now!"

He leapt across, his landing painful but safe. Niall followed and dashed to the nearest chest. Damn, it was heavy—not easily loaded by three men, and Trick was one injured man with a lad. But necessity bred strength, and together they wrestled it to the rail.

Frantically bailing water, Gregor and Rhona failed to notice them until they'd already half-shoved the chest onto their craft. A scrape and a clunk, and it was aboard—and Gregor rounded on Trick with a vengeance.

Trick took a punch to the gut that glanced off his tender ribs. He doubled over, wheezing in pain before he gathered force and returned the favor, smashing a fist into the older man's face. Niall added his own blow to the midsection, and Gregor stumbled backward, landing hard in a foot of water.

The ferry was pitching and yawing, slashing rain pounding its decks. As Gregor struggled to his feet, the vessel abruptly tilted. Thrown against the rail, Rhona screamed. One of the chests skidded past her, missing her by inches, and crashed over the side, taking a section of railing and Rhona along with it.

"Rhona!" Gregor scrambled after her, grabbing for her hand as she slid from the deck, their fingertips grazing but failing to grip. Trick leapt to keep Gregor from going overboard, his arms around the man's waist slamming him back into his abused body, while Niall jumped in to save the man's wife.

Tossed on the roiling firth, Niall's head swung wildly in search, but she'd already slipped beneath the waves. He disappeared after her. Bracing between two chests, Trick grimaced and hung on to Gregor, holding his breath until his brother's blond head broke the surface, the woman draped limp on his back.

Niall fought his way to the vessel's outer ladder, shoving her aboard before clambering up himself, fighting the wind and the rain.

Gregor wrenched from Trick's grasp and threw himself on his wife while Niall lay on deck, panting, water washing over him and into his open mouth.

"We've got to move another one!" Trick yelled. "She's still taking water!"

Niall nodded and pushed himself up.

"Trick!" Kendra's panicked voice came thready through the storm. "It's slipping!"

He rushed to the other side of the ship. Tossing wildly, the smaller boat had drifted yards away. Though she strained against it with both hands and a shoulder, the chest he'd loaded was inching toward one end, threatening to overbalance the boat.

Threatening to drown Kendra.

Faster than the wind, Niall flew past him and into the water. Priming to follow, Trick found himself smashed to the deck by an enormous, roaring wave.

He gasped for air, the deck awash, the rush sucking him over the side.

Freezing black water covered his head.

He fought his way to the surface, only to be blindsided by a plunging chest.

Woozy, he flailed in the lashing surf, battered by waves and debris. Chunks of broken timber, lengths of rigging, thick hunks of rope. He took water into his lungs, and it burned like the fires of hell. His ribs screamed with pain, and he couldn't lift his arms, couldn't swim, couldn't keep his head above the pitching seas that seemed determined to send him to a watery grave.

His last thought was of Kendra, struggling against that chest. Stubborn, willful, beautiful Kendra. Kendra, who put orphans above riches...Kendra, who'd accepted his own family before he did....Kendra, who could make his heart pound with a single glance...

Damn, but he loved her.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

He was freezing.

He wasn't dead, then. Hell was supposed to be hot. And heaven—not that he expected to go there—was supposed to be like floating on a warm, comfortable cloud. Yet he shivered with a bone-deep cold, so cold it felt as though he'd never be warm again. And he was far from comfortable.

A teeth-rattling jounce drove home that last point. Even hell would be better than this, he thought with a groan.

"He's coming around!" The voice was heavenly, the warm lips pressed to his face more heavenly still. "Oh, Trick, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry..."

"Cold," he murmured.

"Just a minute. I'm almost finished."

A tug against his side sent such pain spiraling through him, he decided he must be halfway dead, at least. "Hurts," he grated out.

"I know. This bandage should help."

He forced his eyes open and lifted his head, which felt entirely too heavy—so heavy it dropped back with a skull-jarring bang. But he'd seen her. Kendra. Sweet Kendra. She hadn't drowned, after all.

His heart wanted to fly, but the rest of him insisted on staying earthbound. "Bandage?" he wondered.

"My chemise. Or part of it, anyway."

A bump sent his body into the air and back down with a wracking jolt. Not earthbound. Wagon-bound. He was in a wagon. And his precious wife was wrapping his ribs in a bandage ripped from her chemise.

His brain struggled to put the pieces together. How had he been hurt, but even more intriguing, how had she torn the bandage from the chemise? He pictured her lifting her skirts, her lovely, shapely legs coming into view as she rent the ivory fabric.

Wishing he'd been able to watch that, he realized he must not be half-dead, after all. Parts of him were far from dead, although other parts made him long for that peace. Then she raised her gaze to his, and he was glad, oh, so glad he was still alive.

"He's awake, Niall!" Her hair was a tangled mess, her face smeared with dirt, but her smile enough to brighten the cloudy day. Then her expression fell. "Oh, God, Trick, I'm so sorry." Tears sprang to her eyes.

He wanted to tell her not to cry, but the words were stuck in his throat.

"Brother!" Elated, Niall's voice floated to his ears from somewhere above his head. "How do you feel?"

"Throat hurts," he croaked, still staring at his wife. Even red-rimmed, her eyes looked the most beautiful green.

"You tossed a heap of water," Niall explained. "Jesus, was it disgusting." Something was passed over Trick's head. A flask. "Kendra, give him this."

She cradled his head in one hand, lifting the flask to his lips with the other. He drank greedily at first, then choked when the liquor burned his raw throat.

"Usquebagh," Niall called. "Water of life. Whisky. Take more, it'll do you good."

He did, gingerly this time, feeling the spirits burn a path to his belly. "Warm," he murmured.

Drawing a shuddering breath, Kendra blinked back her tears. "I'll warm you in a minute."

She tied off the makeshift bandage, a blessed tightness that seemed to pull him back together, both his body and his mind. Memory rushed back, and with it some of the anger at her for interfering. But, too, he remembered his thoughts as he'd sunk beneath the water. Thoughts of love, from a man who'd been certain he didn't believe.

Later. He would think about all of this later.

As she struggled to tug down his shirt, he levered up and found himself surrounded by horses. Niall had roped the four dray animals together to pull the wagon, and their own three mounts trotted behind. They were making good time.

Trick's feet were braced against a chest—the single chest they'd wrestled off the doomed ship. One chest saved out of twenty-three. He dropped his head to a makeshift pillow fashioned from his soggy surcoat. The rain had stopped, and the sun was struggling valiantly to peek between broken clouds.

"There." She drew up a blanket to cover him. It felt warm, then warmer still when she crawled beneath to cuddle up to his good side, sharing the heat of her body.

Heavenly. He was in heaven, after all.

"The ferryman gave it to me," she said.

"Gave you what?"

"The blanket."

"After you puked all over his floor," Niall added from the driver's seat up front.

"Nice of him." Trick laced his fingers with Kendra's. "Especially considering he lost his boat."

Fresh, warm tears wetted his almost-dry shirt where her head nestled on his shoulder. "We lost them," she said, the words soft and regretful. "Gregor and Rhona and the treasure."

"But we didn't lose each other." He squeezed her hand. "I think, leannan, we can thank God for that. And Niall."

"Nay," his brother called back. "Thank her. She's the one who pulled you from the water."

Stunned, he gasped. "How?" He was twice her weight, at least.

He sensed rather than saw Niall's shrug. "I managed to get to the boat, was dealing with the shifting chest. The next thing I knew she was leaping over my head."

"That wave." Kendra's voice shook with memory. "It was like a mountain. It came down, and you disappeared for a moment, then I saw you go over the side. It looked like you were riding a waterfall. I've never been more scared in my life."

"I know the feeling," he soothed, remembering the sight of her with a knife at her throat. "Rhona and Gregor? Did you see them, too?"

"No," she said. "We never saw them at all. They were there, they and the boat, and then they weren't. By the time I got you aboard, there was nothing where that ship had been but an eerie calm patch on the surface of the water, dotted with bits of debris."

Slowly he nodded, feeling an overwhelming weariness suddenly swamp him. Sweet Mary, she'd saved his life. Because she'd disobeyed him—because, in spite of his protests, she'd flown into that boat like an avenging angel—she'd been there, and she'd saved his life....

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

But Trick was already asleep.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

It was nearing midnight by the time they arrived at Duncraven, cold, hungry, and—at least on Kendra's part—exhausted.

Trick's long sleep in the wagon bed seemed to have gone an amazing way toward restoring his strength, and Niall clearly found his second wind as they neared the castle, itching to tell his father all about the adventure of a lifetime. But she hadn't slept a wink on the bumpy ride, too caught up in wonder that they were all alive, tempered by a wrenching regret that her own part in the day's events had led to its tragic end.

While Trick and Niall went straight to fill Hamish in, she begged off and dragged herself upstairs, wanting nothing but a hot bath and a good night's sleep.

She'd almost accomplished the first when Trick came in, a platter in one hand and two goblets in the other. Quickly she slid deeper into the water, crossing her arms over her breasts. No matter that he'd seen all of her before—no man had ever seen her bathe. It seemed different. Private somehow. And too intimate, considering what she'd put him through today.

He shouldn't want to see her at all.

"I can take over from here." He nodded a dismissal at Jane, and she left, quietly closing the door behind her. "Hungry?" he asked matter-of-factly.

"Not really." Her eyes filled with tears. "I'm so sorry, Trick, for ruining your plan. If I hadn't arrived and tipped them off as to who you were, none of this would have happened."

"You cannot know that; we cannot know what would have happened." He set the food on the desk, his gaze filled with concern. "Maybe you ruined our plan, but you also saved my life. I thank you for that, lass, from the bottom of my heart."

Her own heart hurt. Oh, if only she could forgive herself as easily as he seemed to forgive her. Then he ran a hand back through his hair, and she blinked, staring, so stunned her own guilt fled her mind.

"You cut it," she breathed. "Your hair."

A wry grin twitched at his lips. "Mrs. Ross cut it. There I was, telling Hamish all about what happened, her fussing over Niall and me both. Moving chairs near the fire so we could warm, pushing hot drinks into our hands. As we talked, she removed Niall's damp coat and ran a comb through his hair. And the next thing I knew she was standing over me with scissors."

"You didn't stop her."

His only answer was a shrug. But he was no longer hiding, not from her. The heart that he'd spoken of thanking her from was right there in his amber eyes.

He came close and knelt by the big wooden tub, setting the goblets on the floor beside him. "No more tears. I hold you blameless for anything that happened today. You must believe that."

When he drew her hands from her body, she forgot to be embarrassed. She squeezed his fingers, gazing into those unguarded eyes. "You blame yourself instead, don't you?"

"Aye," he admitted, toying with the amber on her wrist. "But Hamish—Da"—a fleeting smile curved his mouth—"did his best to set me straight."

"What did he have to say?"

He kissed her fingertips and sighed. "He thinks it's just as well that Niall and I didn't manage to keep his friends from drowning, since it saved him the trouble of having them hanged. As for the Royal plate, he believes it's fate...and only fitting that it ended up where it was thought to be all along."

She heard very little conviction in those words. "You don't agree."

"It's difficult to avoid feeling like a failure when you lose an immense fortune and two lives into the bargain. But I'm working on it."

She'd been working on trying to better herself, too. "I wanted to stay here like you told me to—truly I did—but then when I realized they were murderers, and thought of you out there not knowing that...your lives at risk..." Remembering, she felt her heart pounding all over again. "I tried to obey, but I'm not made that way, Trick."

"I know." He sighed theatrically, but the smile in his eyes told her it was only for show. "I expect I'll have to get used to that."

"I'm so glad you're willing to try." Though she still didn't hold herself blameless, relief flowed through her in heady waves. He was accepting her for who she was. More than anyone ever had in her life. "I was only trying to warn you of their wicked ways, but it all went wrong."

"Your heart was in the right place." His lips brushed her knuckles, and his breath on her hands warmed her somewhere deep inside. "I'm not used to anyone wanting to take care of me," he told her in a deep, husky voice, "but I do appreciate it. And I'm hoping we can make a fresh start, and that some day I'll prove myself deserving of your special sort of loyalty."

Could they really begin anew and learn to trust each other? Her heart soared at the thought. She sent him a tremulous smile, and he dropped her hands, reaching down for a goblet.

She took it, sipping the fortifying wine while he walked over to the desk.

"Midnight supper." Carrying the platter, he dragged the chair over to sit by the tub. "Will you have some bread and cheese?"

She nodded, surprised to find herself suddenly ravenous. "I'm worried, Trick. About Hamish and Niall."

"Aye?" Balancing the platter on his knees, he cut a slice of pungent cheddar. "What makes you worry?" he asked, tearing a hunk of bread and handing them to her together.

"Things haven't gone well here since your father—the duke—took you away." She nibbled on the bread. "Jane told me he cut off your mother's allowance, and she had to dismiss most of the servants."

Taking a hearty bite of bread, he nodded as he chewed. "I guessed as much, noting the state of this place." He swallowed and washed it down with a gulp of wine. "I asked Niall about it on our long trek to Burntisland."

"And?"

"Hamish does well for himself in the cloth trade. But other than allowing him to make up back pay for the servants, Mam refused to take his money when he moved in." In three big bites, he polished off a slab of cheese. "Stubborn woman. She may not have been as bad as the duke had convinced me, but she was far from perfect."

"None of us are," Kendra reminded him. "Will they be all right here, then, do you think?"

"Aye, with Hamish's help. And Niall is planning to visit Amberley later this year and learn some more progressive farming. Scotland is behindhand, it seems. I thought maybe you could help him with that."

His steady confidence did much to make her trust in this fresh start of which he'd spoken. And Hamish and Niall would be fine. She sagged with relief, draining the rest of her wine.

"Feel better now?" he asked.

"Immensely." Everything was working out perfectly.

"Good." He rose and took the goblet from her hands. Was that a gleam she saw in his eyes, she wondered, or was it only that she wasn't used to seeing them so clearly?

She got her answer when he started ripping off his clothes.

"Wh-what are you doing?"

"Joining you, leannan. I'm grubby as hell."

"B-but...together?" She half rose out of the tub.

With a hand on her shoulder, he pushed her back down. "Together."

"You're jesting," she said. "And you're hurt."

But as his gaze held hers, his words that first night in Scotland slipped through her thoughts: I'd like to see all of you wet.

And she knew he wasn't jesting at all.

"Aye, I hurt a bit," he admitted. "But I trust you'll be gentle." Opposite her, he stepped into the water.

"Your bandage!"

"Stop being such a worrywart, lass. I'm more comfortable with it on." As he lowered himself, he nodded toward her tattered chemise. "There's another where this one came from."

She sat motionless as his legs slid beneath her own, then gasped when he grasped her by the waist to bring her up and onto his lap. But his small grunt of pain didn't seem to signal any loss of enthusiasm. His lips went to hers immediately, the kiss deepening while he reached back to arrange her legs around his body.

Lulled by his mouth and his hands roaming her wet skin, she pressed closer. Below, where her body met his, a hot stab of desire took her by surprise.

Dear God, he was right there, almost inside her.

He smiled against her lips. "Not yet, leannan. We haven't washed."

"I've washed already."

He reached for the soap behind her head. "Then you can wash me," he suggested, holding it out.

At the silky tone of his voice, her heart pounded wildly, and when she took the soap, it slipped from her fingers and plunged to the bottom. His knowing smile only flustered her further while she fished in the water for the hard-milled ball. But when she brought it up and its scent wafted to her nose—her lavender fragrance, not his sandalwood—a wicked idea took hold in her mind.

Languidly, she passed the soap back and forth in her hands. "I'll wash you," she told him, "but only if you promise not to move. Not your arms, not your legs, not anything."

"Not even my head?" He lurched forward and stole a kiss.

Her lips tingled as she firmly pushed him back. "Not even. Not even one inch."

Contemplating that, he ran his tongue over the chip in his tooth, and she wished it were her tongue, instead. "Why?" he asked.

"You're injured. You mustn't strain yourself. And besides..." Her lips curved in a calculating smile. "I wish to play Poseidon and rule these waters. Because I owe you. For the dungeon."

"Sweet Mary," he breathed as she lathered her hands. Dropping the soap on purpose this time, she smoothed her palms over his shoulders, tracing circles down his back until her fingers met the binding around his ribs. Then up again, slowly, slowly, as his eyes slid shut and his head tilted back.

"Don't move," she reminded him, a little breathless. Feeling daring, she ran her hands down his chest, skimming the bandage until they met warm skin below. And down. All the way down.

That part of him moved—more than an inch—before his eyes flew open. "Are you sure I didn't drown?" he husked out.

"Hmm?" She brought one hand out of the water, smiling to herself at the glazed expression in those newly unshielded eyes. Dear God, they were beautiful. Moistening a finger in her mouth, she wet his bottom lip, right there in the center where she always thought of touching it.

Thrilling to his soft intake of breath, she licked her finger again and drew it across his top lip. So chiseled, and so talented—oh, what that mouth could make her feel. A third time she sucked her finger, then worked it between his lips, rubbing his tongue while she held his gaze with hers. It was heady, the power of seduction, driving her to try things she'd never even imagined.

A dazed smile on his face, his eyes slid shut when she moved her hand beneath the water, leaning forward for a long, melting kiss. "Don't move," she reminded him when she pulled back.

His hands clenched on the edges of the tub.

"I know I drowned," he gasped, "because I've died and gone to heaven."

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Duncraven seemed lighter the next morning.

When Kendra woke, the chamber seemed brighter, and the walls seemed to hold fewer secrets. Ghosts no longer seemed to be lurking. She found herself almost sorry to leave.

But Trick was in a hurry.

"I want to deliver what's left of the king's treasure. Get it off my hands." He latched his trunk. "And I want to get back to Amberley. Although..."

He watched her look up from tying a garter. "Although what?"

"It shouldn't be mine." He'd been thinking about that ever since he'd had other obvious facts pointed out to him—that Annag and Duncan were his siblings, and that he wasn't really English at all. "Amberley, and the dukedom. By rights, by blood, they shouldn't belong to me."

And the shock of it was, he found that disturbing. Mere months ago he hadn't wanted Amberley at all, hadn't wanted anything that came from the man he'd thought was his father. His shipping concern had been more than enough to support him, the estate and title just another reminder of the life he'd wanted to forget, another responsibility he hadn't needed.

But he needed them now. He needed them for his wife and the family he'd begun envisioning. No sane man would reject something that so clearly benefitted the people close to him.

Loving Kendra had changed everything.

"Who would get Amberley if not you?" Always direct, his Kendra.

"I don't know. The man who raised me had no brothers...some distant cousin of his, I imagine. Someone I've never met."

"And do you imagine he'd use that dukedom for the same good that you do? Do you imagine he'd shelter orphans in the old manor house?" Always straight through to the heart.

"I don't know that, either."

She rose and walked close. "You know I didn't want to be a duchess any more than you wanted to be a duke. But you earned that dukedom, Trick."

"Did I?"

"Yes. With your sweat, and I suspect with your blood and your tears." She leaned up to press a soft kiss to his lips. "Legally, it's yours, and I see no reason on earth it shouldn't stay yours."

Maybe she was right, and there was no reason he shouldn't be able to keep it.

No reason except his monarch's threat hanging over his head if he failed to finish the job he'd started.

He kissed her back, a kiss filled with all the hope he had for their future. "Come, leannan, let's traipse down these endless stairs one last time. Let's go home and get started on our brand-new life."

Kendra held Hamish's arm, thrilled that he was strong enough now to accompany them outdoors along with Niall.

They paused on the drive where the Amberley servants waited. "What will you tell King Charles?" Hamish asked Trick.

"I'll think of something." Trick looked up to the single chest he'd had lashed to the top of the ducal carriage. "At least nobody will suspect I'm carrying anything of special value."

He'd told Kendra that when they stopped for the night at an inn, they'd simply bring it with them into their room. They didn't need all the extra guard he'd been envisioning. Four Amberley outriders stood ready, and that should be enough. They planned to travel directly to London.

Her gaze followed his. "I want to see it," she said.

"See what?" Niall asked.

"The Royal plate that brought about all this treachery and heartache. It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't know." Her brother-in-law shrugged. "I've never seen it myself."

"In all those years?" She hadn't pegged him as being so uncurious. "I would have begged until my parents let me look."

"Oh, I did. But it was pointless. There's no key to the padlock."

Hamish gave her a hard hug. "I tossed all the keys into a loch years before Niall was born. After one of those bitter quarrels. To keep the pieces from disappearing one by one."

So he'd distrusted his friends even then. Unfortunate that he'd failed to take those feelings to heart—it might have saved Elspeth's life. But as the old French saying Kendra used to hear on the Continent put it, "L'amitié ferme les yeux."

Friendship closes its eyes.

Drawing her from those thoughts, Niall stepped forward and planted kisses on both her cheeks. "God willing, I'll see you soon."

She was surprised to feel tears welling up. "I expect you at Amberley before too long."

He nodded. "After the harvest."

Trick embraced his brother. "I thank you for taking care of that for me."

"We—Da and I—thank you for allowing us to stay." Niall's gaze flickered over to the castle's open doorway, where Annag and Duncan stood glaring, her children behind them. "And allowing them to stay, too."

Trick shrugged. "They're harmless." And he was right. For all Kendra's wild imaginings, Duncan and Annag had never done anything to hurt either of them. "Besides, they're my siblings. I won't pretend to like them, but if it makes Da happy to give them a home, then I'm happy, too."

Tears welled in Hamish's eyes as he took Trick by both hands. "We don't deserve you, lad."

He shook his head. "It's I that don't deserve you—a father and a brother that would do any man proud. Family, after all these years." Blinking back his own tears, he wrapped the older man into his arms and held him a long moment. "We'd best be going."

"Aye, I suppose you must." Hamish forced a smile and watched them climb into the carriage.

Trick closed his eyes until they rode away, then opened them and pulled Kendra across the cabin for a soft kiss. "When we get to London, I'm going to ask my solicitor to deed Duncraven over to Hamish, with Niall as his heir."

If she'd had any remaining doubts that her husband was a good man, they vanished then. "That's wonderful, Trick."

"Not wonderful, only decent." He kissed the tip of her nose. "Besides, the last thing I need is an estate in Scotland. My father—the duke," he corrected himself, "left me more than I can deal with as it is."

Maybe he could fool himself into thinking his actions were less than generous, but Kendra knew better.

CHAPTER FIFTY

It felt strange to Kendra to be back in London but at Trick's town house instead of the one she'd always known in Lincoln's Inn Fields. And Caldwell House, a dark monstrosity built before the Civil War, was every bit as disgustingly opulent as he'd said. Standing in the master bedchamber, where she was dressing before attending court, she was reminded of an overdecorated cake.

A blue and orange one.

"Ghastly," she said, kicking off her shoes.

"I told you that you would hate it." Trick shrugged out of the surcoat he'd worn for travel. "Feel free to redecorate."

"I imagine I have better things to do that will keep me busy a while." Peeling off her garters and stockings, she frowned at the lavender gown that Jane had selected. Too insipid for her mood. They'd sent a messenger ahead to request Kendra's London clothing be moved from the Chases' town house, and she hurriedly flipped through the gowns that had been crammed into the master bedroom's wardrobe. "I wonder how all the children are getting along?"

"Fine, I'm sure," her husband said absently while pulling a fresh shirt over his head.

Cavanaugh had laid a blue velvet suit on the bed. Men had it so easy, Kendra thought with a bit of weariness-induced irritation. Brown or green, velvet or satin. Aside from varying quantities of braid, lace, and ribbon, everything looked the same. Their shirts and cravats were always white, their shoes—with the exception of some foppish court dandies—invariably black. High-heeled with fancy buckles for court, low-heeled and plain for every day. There was nothing much for them to decide.

She selected a cloth-of-gold gown and held it up. "What do you think?"

His back to her as he reached for his breeches, Trick answered, "Fine." For a moment she stood there, aggravated, until he turned and favored her with one of his blinding white smiles.

He was right. Everything was fine, after all.

In a few short weeks, their relationship had come a long way—farther than she'd thought possible. The journey to London had been almost blissful. Trick had been the most attentive of lovers, but even more important, he'd answered most of her questions without resorting to evasion. The days on the road had gone a long way toward convincing her their future was bright indeed.

Bless her brothers for bringing them together, she thought, then silently laughed at her reversal of feelings.

"Come here, leannan," Trick said, and she did, letting the gown slip to the floor as she walked into his arms. His kiss was everything she hadn't been able to imagine before meeting him, and she was breathless by the time he finished. "I'm sorry to rush you out of the house when we've barely arrived," he murmured regretfully, his gaze lingering on the garish orange-hung bed, "but I want to complete my business with King Charles and take you home to Amberley."

With a sigh, she moved away and started detaching her stomacher. "I still wish I could see it."

"See what?" he asked, pulling up the blue velvet breeches.

"The treasure. Will we be bringing it along to court?"

Trick's gaze wandered to the massive chest sitting in a corner. He wished he didn't have to deal with this. He wished he didn't have to deal with King Charles or his problems at all.

"I think I'll just meet with Charles tonight to explain, then arrange to send it along later."

She wiggled her gown down and off. "I cannot wait to see his reaction."

Sweet Mary, he couldn't let her be there. He had delicate matters to discuss with the king. Looking down as he tucked in his shirt, he made his voice as casual as possible. "I believe Charles will feel this is a matter best settled between men."

He raised his gaze to hers, expecting to see that look in her eyes. The defiant look she'd given him when he'd told her she couldn't come along to Scotland, again when he went off to Burntisland, and yet again when he'd ordered her not to get on the boat.

But instead he saw a different look. Hurt.

He wanted to hit something. Not an hour in London, and the damn deceptions were coming between them already.

Characteristic of her, though, the hurt look was fleeting, and the one he'd expected came into her eyes, after all. He watched her draw breath, girding for battle. "Charles likes women," she said.

"In his bed, yes."

"No." She caught his gaze and blushed. "Well, yes, but that wasn't what I meant. He listens to women. Really listens, as if he cares what we say. Even about politics."

Lucky him, marrying one of probably three women in England who would think to discuss politics with their monarch. "If I let you see the treasure, will it make you feel better?"

"You cannot do that." She rolled her eyes. "There's no key, and Charles is going to wonder where the lock is if you hack it off."

"Then I won't."

"I knew you wouldn't."

"I mean I won't hack it off."

She glanced at the chest, then back to him, speculation narrowing her pretty green eyes. "Can you pick the lock?"

"You insult me." He swiped his knife off the dressing table, and she followed him to the chest, where he knelt and went to work, delicately probing the keyhole. "There isn't a good smuggler on earth who doesn't know how to pick a lock."

Wearing nothing but the amber bracelet and a flimsy chemise, she sat on the chest. When she crossed her legs right in front of his face, his knife slipped.

"Were you a good smuggler?"

Determinedly, he refocused. "Actually, I was a bad smuggler. My heart was never in it." A satisfying click reverberated in the room. "But I can pick a lock."

Removing it, he stood. With a happy gasp, she jumped up and threw open the lid.

"Oh, my God, Trick. Look at this." She hefted a solid gold charger, running her fingers over the delicately engraved rim. "It's beautiful."

"He'll probably melt it down."

"No," she breathed, dropping to kneel before the chest. "He wouldn't." She set the charger on the floor and reached for a silver pitcher in the shape of a swan. "Oh, I just knew I wanted to see this." One by one, she removed pieces, each more impressive than the last. Plates, bowls, goblets, cutlery, serving utensils, platters. "Hamish was right. The first Charles truly did live like a king on his coronation journey."

He smiled as she delved deeper, her lovely, scantily clad bottom rising as she leaned into the chest. Helpless to resist, he gave her a little pinch.

Laughing, she slapped his hand away. "Oh, what is this?" She drew out an ivory casket inlaid with scrolled gold wire.

He shrugged. "Small items?"

"In a beautiful box like this? And locked?"

Taking it from her, he made short work of that and put it back in her hands.

With a sigh of anticipation, she raised the lid. "Jewels!" She lifted an exquisite sapphire and diamond necklace. "My God, it looks like pirate's booty! How did jewels get in here?" Replacing the necklace, she slipped a gaudy emerald ring on her finger. "I don't understand this," she said, staring at it. Obviously made for a man, it dangled loose. "I thought Hamish and his friends only packed the kitchen."

"Supposedly." He ran a hand back through his hair, still surprised to find the front so short. "I guess somewhere along the way, someone filched this and slipped it inside."

"Rhona or Gregor, I'm guessing. I wonder if Hamish knows?" She dug around some more and drew out another necklace. "Goodness, will you look at the size of these pearls?"

The largest round pearls Trick had ever seen, with one enormous teardrop-shaped pearl dangling from the center. "Fit for royalty, all right."

She dropped it back into the casket. "Oh, Trick, look at this." Her voice turned wistful. "Amber."

"When did you grow to like amber?" he teased.

She blushed and pulled the jewel out, only to find it was a clasp attached to a gleaming string of smaller, pure white pearls. "Oh, it's lovely," she sighed, dropping the strand over her head.

It was so long, he reached to double it, settling the second half around her neck. "Don't you own any pearls?"

"Father sold all the family jewels to help finance the Civil War." Her fingertips danced on the lustrous strand. "Of course, Jason has bought me things over the years. And Colin and Ford. They all know I love jewelry. But pearls are terribly expensive."

And immensely popular. All the court ladies wore pearls, and most of the men, come to that. "You look beautiful in pearls, leannan."

She blushed and took them off. "For the price this trinket could bring, I expect we could feed the orphans for a year."

"A decade, probably." He smiled.

She dropped them back into the box. "Help me put this all away, will you? I still need Jane to do my hair, and if we don't get to Whitehall soon, we'll miss the presentations."

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

"The Duke and Duchess of Amberley!"

Trick shot the puffed-up court usher an annoyed glare. "I abhor this sort of thing," he muttered under his breath as he and Kendra made their way down the aisle to where King Charles and Queen Catharine sat on the dias, dressed in crimson velvet with a swagged canopy overhead to match. "I really hate this."

"Oh, hush," Kendra chided. "A little pomp and circumstance never hurt anybody. And there will be dancing afterward—"

"I cannot wait."

His tone was dry enough that under different circumstances she might be tempted to slap him. As it was, she flashed Queen Catharine a brilliant smile and dropped into a deep curtsy, pressing a kiss to the back of the woman's slim proffered hand. "Your Majesty."

"Lady Kendra," Catharine said in gracious Portuguese-accented syllables, "or have I heard it's the Duchess of Amberley now?"

"You've heard correctly," she said, then leaned closer to her husband. "As long as he behaves himself," she added for his ears only.

Suppressing a laugh, he rose and traded sides with her. King Charles smiled as she kissed his hand. "It's glad I was to hear that two of my favorite families are united."

She only just managed to conceal her surprise. "I'm happy to have pleased Your Majesty."

He nodded, then looked back to Trick. "We'll talk later, yes?"

"Aye. And I've something to give you."

"Do you, now?" The king was not above delighting in gifts. "Did you bring it along?"

"It's rather...large. And it's at my home, but I can have it delivered—"

"Amberley House, or Caldwell House here in London?"

"Here in London, but—"

"I have matters to discuss with you in any case." Charles raised a meaningful brow. "I shall sneak out of my bedchamber this evening and come to you."

"Sneak?" Kendra burst out, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

Charles let loose a booming laugh. "My Master of the Backstairs is quite accustomed to making these arrangements, I assure you."

His eyes twinkled, and Kendra blushed. She knew he meant that he usually sneaked out for assignations with his mistresses, but she felt sorry for his long-suffering queen, who was studiously looking elsewhere.

She would never put up with that from her husband, not now that things were right between them in the bedroom. He'd promised her fidelity, and she expected him to give up his mistress. Just let him try to visit London alone again.

With another bow and curtsy, Kendra and Trick moved away so the next courtiers could be presented.

"Well, I expect we can leave now," Trick said as soon as they were out of earshot.

"I'm not leaving until after we've danced." Kendra flipped open her painted fan.

"Don't tell me you're going to titter behind that thing."

"Me? Titter?" She frantically fanned it at her face. On this late summer night, the Presence Chamber was hot and close, lit by hundreds of candles in wall sconces and liveried yeomen holding flaming torches. "What did Charles mean, two of his favorite families?"

Trick tucked his tongue in his cheek. "Were you not aware the Chases are favored?"

For the second time this evening, she was tempted to slap him. "You know very well what I mean. I've never seen you at court—"

"I do my best to avoid it."

"And I don't remember you from the years in exile, either. So how is it you've come to know Charles so well?"

"My father—the duke—was a major supplier of kingly luxury items," Trick said dryly. "All through the Commonwealth years, we had, uh...dealings."

Kendra stopped fanning. "You're jesting, right? Charles was as poor as we were during those years."

"I'm not jesting. The duke was happy enough to supply him free of charge."

"Out of loyalty?"

He snorted. "Out of greed. Charles promised him the dukedom restored upon his own restoration." He frowned across the chamber, then turned back to her, pulling at his cravat. "If you're not going to fan yourself, you may as well fan me."

"My wrist is tired. I've decided to sweat instead."

Chuckling, he leaned forward and gave her a kiss. "Ladies don't sweat. Ladies glow."

"I'm a duchess now, not a lady. I can do as I please." Suddenly he was staring at a woman across the chamber. "Trick? Who is that?"

"Most people call her Lady Charlotte Waller."

She blew out a breath, her free hand curling into a fist. If this was his London mistress...

"Most people?" she asked carefully.

"Charlotte, Harlot—what's the difference?"

Despite her distress, she laughed, thinking there were very few women present who didn't deserve such a designation. "And what, pray tell, could this Lady Harlot have done to earn such a title at King Charles's court?"

"She slept with the Earl of Danforth."

"From what I understand, so have half the women here."

He raised a brow. "Not while they were betrothed to me."

"Oh." Dear God, not a mistress, but the woman from Trick's poem. The reason Kendra had yet to hear a declaration of love from her husband's lips and despaired that she ever would.

Following his unfocused gaze, she glared at the simpering blonde across the room. Harlot. "I hate her."

"Aye. It was clear enough that despite her protests of love, it was my title she wanted, not me. Of course, I mightn't have been quite so upset had she not refused more than a kiss from me by claiming herself a virgin. And had I not found them together in said virginal bed."

In which case Kendra wouldn't have had an uphill battle to gain her husband's trust. Of course, if he'd married the harlot, Trick wouldn't be her husband. But that was beside the point.

No, that was the point entirely...he was her husband, not the harlot's. And although not long ago she'd never have believed it, she was very happy about that.

Courtiers were gathering around the dance floor, a rainbow of brilliant colors in the blazing light. Jewels glittered on ears, necks, wrists, and hands of men and women alike.

Kendra couldn't help but notice that most everyone wore pearls. With a secret smile, she fingered her amber bracelet. Who needed pearls, anyway? Looking down to her hands, she noticed the plain gold band around her finger. So very Trick. She should have realized from the first that he wouldn't be the type of duke she detested.

And she'd found she didn't so much mind being a duchess, either. Together in those roles, they could do much good. Whether it was fair or not, people listened to what dukes and duchesses had to say. With whispers in the right ears, they could raise enough money to open a hundred orphanages if they wanted.

And he wouldn't have to play the highwayman anymore. In fact, before they got to Amberley, she'd demand he stop. Now.

His attention still across the room, she sneaked a glance at her husband. His golden good looks set her heart to racing, and she knew that she couldn't stand to even think of the possibility that he might be hurt or—God forbid—arrested. She would find some way to keep the children fed and clothed until she could put her new plan into motion.

At the far end of the chamber, musicians were tuning up, and King Charles was leading Queen Catharine through the crowd to begin the dancing.

"Shall we dance?" Kendra asked Trick.

Tearing his gaze from the harlot, he looked down at her. "Am I not supposed to do the asking?" He smiled. "Oh dear, I nearly forgot. You're a duchess now and can do as you please."

Laughing, she turned into her husband's arms and let herself be led to the dance floor, where a minuet was playing.

He bowed to her, then did a small plié in a mirror of her own move. "Do you realize we've never danced?" he said conversationally.

She stepped forward with her right foot, rising on her toes. "I danced with your brother, you know."

"Did you? When?" They both brought their feet together, lowering their heels. "Should I be worried?" Trick asked with a mock-stern frown. "Remember what I told you about fidelity."

Though she was sure he didn't intend it, his gaze went to Lady Harlot, who seemed to be pointedly ignoring him.

She repeated the steps with her left foot, her own gaze going to King Charles. "Remember what I told you about fidelity."

His laugh made her feel a lot better. He dropped her hands so they could both turn. "Niall and I danced at the draidgie," she said coquettishly over her shoulder. "While you were outside writing." His hands felt warm when he reached for hers again. "It was a wild dance, I tell you—we weren't able to talk like this."

"Ah, yes, a Scottish country dance."

"Did someone mention Scottish?"

"Caithren!" Surprised, Kendra turned and threw her arms around her sister-in-law. "What are you doing here?"

"We've stopped in London for a few days before heading for Cainewood. Jase is insisting I see Dr. Willis."

Kendra frowned when a dancer had the nerve to bump into their happy little reunion. "The king's physician?"

"The very same." Cait sighed. "Just what I need—a man poking and prodding me. Wheesht!" she added as a broad-reared matron backed into her. "I've delivered a dozen or more bairns; I think I know what I'm doing."

"Shall we?" Trick asked, motioning them off the busy dance floor. "What's this all about?"

Kendra tried to look baffled. "Did I forget to tell you that Caithren is with child?"

"Aye, it seems you did." With a knowing smile, he turned to Cait. "Congratulations."

"Was Jason angry?" Kendra asked.

"Would you believe I convinced him I didn't know?" Concealed by a lovely rose-colored gown with a silver-embroidered stomacher, Cait's stomach still looked flat. She grinned. "The truth is he's not quite sure, and in any case, his main concern was getting back to England before the weather set in."

"So what was his reaction, then?"

"I'm thrilled." Appearing from out of nowhere, Jason bent to give Kendra a kiss. "How are you doing?" he asked in her ear.

Dressed in dark green and looking wonderfully familiar, the sight of him made her wonder why she'd been so angry with him. "I'm happy," she admitted.

"I'm so glad." He had the good grace not to look smug, although she knew full well he'd lord it over her in the future. He turned to his wife. "You didn't fool me for a minute, you know. I was too pleased to make a fuss...although now the excitement's worn off a bit, I've a mind to make you pay for that deception."

She raised a brow. "I cannot wait."

The stern look Kendra was more accustomed to settled on his features. "Your health could have been at risk. And the babe's as well."

"I've never felt healthier in my life." Cait slipped an arm around his waist, gazing up at him with a brilliant, calculated smile. "You're not really angry, are you?"

His answer was an indulgent sigh. "So what are you doing here?" he asked Trick.

"I have something that belongs to Charles. Long story," he added when Cait went to ask. "I'm sure Kendra will enjoy the telling."

Kendra grinned. "He only says that hoping I'll make him out a hero."

"I cannot wait to hear," Caithren said, snagging her by the arm. "Shall we repair to the garden?"

The music stopped, and dancers began jostling past. His obligations over, King Charles caught Trick's gaze and sent him a significant nod.

"I'm afraid your talk will have to wait," he said. "I believe I've just been summoned home to Caldwell House."

"We'll talk tomorrow, then," Cait said, dropping Kendra's arm and threading her own through Jason's. "And my husband will dance with me instead."

"Nothing energetic," he warned. "You'll stick to the minuet."

"You see what I have to put up with?" she asked Kendra with a roll of her eyes. "Crivvens, you'd think I was an invalid."

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

At Caldwell House later that night, Trick watched as Charles swirled Madeira in his glass and took an appreciative sip. "Amazing."

"The wine?"

The king's lips curved beneath his thin black mustache. "The wine's of admirable quality, to be sure. But then, your late father dealt only in the best."

Trick agreed with a curt nod. The best, aye. The best wine, the best fabrics, the best furnishings, the best books. His gaze wandered to the leather-bound tomes lining the walls in this, the most impressive study in all of London. He doubted the man had ever cracked open even one of them.

"However, it was your gift I was referring to." Charles set down the glass and reached into the chest, pulling out a solid gold dish and turning its heavy weight thoughtfully in his hands. "To think my own father's treasure has resurfaced after all these years."

"Only to end up where it was said to be in the first place." Pensively, Trick played with the lock in his hands—the one he'd hacked off in the king's presence.

"Od's fish—that was none of your doing. It's pleased I am that you recovered what you did, and I'd be pleased as well to see you keep a part of it."

"I couldn't." He'd lost most of it already, no matter that Charles refused to place blame.

"I insist." He handed Trick the plate. "Here. As a memento, if nothing else."

"I appreciate the offer, but I really don't want to keep this." The dish had to be worth a small fortune, and Charles needed it far more than he did.

"There must be something here that strikes your fancy." The king set down the plate and raised a jeweled goblet. "This. Or something else."

"No, really, I—"

"What is this?" Metal servingware clanked as Charles reached into the bottom and brought out the small ivory casket. His black eyes glittering, he lifted the unlocked lid and extracted the short necklace of large pearls. Raising it with a hand, he flicked a finger to set the giant teardrop pearl swinging. "There's a painting of my mother wearing this," he murmured.

"Henrietta Maria will be happy to have it back. It will look lovely on her."

The king looked up. "Yes, it will," he said softly. "I thank you." He fished out the sapphire and diamond necklace that Kendra had held up earlier. "If you won't take something for yourself, then take this for your new wife."

Suddenly inspired, Trick reached for the box, setting it on his lap to extricate a long strand of pearls from the tangle.

"This," he said. "If you insist I take something, this is what I'd like."

Charles frowned at it. "Those pearls are ordinary. And the clasp only amber. That's likely the least valuable item in the entire chest."

"It's the one I want." Trick's tone left no room for doubt.

"You shall have it then, with my thanks." The king shut the casket and set it atop the gold and silver that crowded the trunk. He reached for his wineglass again, his long fingers worrying the stem. "How goes the mission?"

"Very well, but for the interruption." The pearls made soft clicking sounds as Trick shifted them in his hands, thinking about Kendra asleep in the late duke's gaudy bed upstairs. "I have some descriptions that I was preparing to give to Pendregast when I was called away to Scotland."

"Excellent." The king sipped. "I assume, being away, you missed hearing the latest news."

"News?" A tiny chill crept up Trick's spine. Or maybe the chamber was a bit cold.

"There's been a reward posted for the mysterious Black Highwayman."

"Bloody hell." He could only hope his leads would pan out and he'd have no need to pose as the highwayman again. "No one has connected him to me, so I don't expect I have anything to worry about."

"No one?"

"Just my wife. And her family." Damn. "I haven't told them the purpose for the disguise—"

"Good. Let's keep it that way."

Broadsides were likely plastered all over the kingdom, advertising the reward. Kendra would see them and worry herself sick. "I'd like to tell only my wife—"

"If the mission is nearly complete, there's no sense involving anyone else."

"Just her—"

"I've never known a woman who could keep her mouth shut." Charles pinned him with his jet-black gaze. "Have you?"

Once Trick would have agreed, but now he knew he'd been wrong. His wife had kept Cait's secret, and she hadn't told her brothers about his supposed financial trouble or him continuing as a highwayman, either.

"Kendra's not like that."

"I'm happy your marriage agrees with you, Amberley. But I trust no woman to stay quiet, not even your wife. And I'm trusting you to respect my wish for silence. Your loyalty will pay dividends. Your disloyalty..."

The unspoken words hung in the air. There it was, that veiled threat to withhold the pardon.

"I'm sorry," Charles added with a sympathy Trick knew was sincere. It was part of the charm that made the king so popular with the people. But under that genuine kindness hid a streak of determination that was every bit as integral to the man's personality. "I cannot afford to have it bandied about that the king is condoning robbery, no matter the reason or how deserving the victims. They're my subjects, nonetheless."

"But—"

"I'm asking you, as your monarch and your friend, to keep this wholly to yourself."

Trick mentally threw up his hands. Opposing the monarchy went against everything he believed in. And although he'd agreed to this mission out of patriotism for king and country, he needed to finish it for his marriage. For Kendra, and for the children he hoped they'd have. Even now, an heir might be growing in her womb, and that son deserved Amberley.

He sighed. "Of course."

"Return to Sussex and arrange to meet with Pendregast. Fear not, for I've been thinking since I heard the news, and I've a plan to wrap this up. I owe you a debt for solving this little problem, and I won't see you or the Chases implicated in any way."

With a sinking heart, Trick listened to the plan. Despite his intentions otherwise, the deceptions would continue. For a man didn't put his wife before his sovereign.

Not a wise one, in any case.

Kendra woke to a husky whisper in her ear.

"I have a present for you, leannan."

Her head was lifted, and something cool and heavy slid down about her neck. Sleepily she reached for it, her fingers meeting a strand of smooth, hard orbs that could only be pearls.

Her eyes flew open. "Has it an amber clasp?"

"But of course." Standing over her stark naked, her husband smiled. Dear God, he looked gorgeous, every muscle outlined in the low light of the fire. "Charles tried to give me a solid gold platter as a reward, but I would have none of it."

She ran her tongue over her teeth, thinking of that tiny chip in his. "Well, are you going to come down here and let me thank you?"

She sighed as he joined her beneath the coverlet and settled his warm body beside hers, then laughed when he reached for the hem of her chemise and tried to pull it off, needing to draw it through the necklace to accomplish his goal. With a grin, she grabbed the far end of the long strand and slipped it over his head, roping him close.

"I've got you," she said.

"You certainly have." His mouth met hers for a long kiss, and she melted happily into his embrace.

No matter how many times he did this, she still thrilled like it was the first. A shiver of wanting rippled through her as she thought of all the times ahead.

A flush heated her skin, warming the pearls that draped heavily on her neck. When he rolled the two of them to their sides, the strand tangled between them, and she reached to pull it off.

"I'll take those, leannan." He held out his hand. And she gave them over, expecting him to drop them to the night table, as she had been about to do.

But instead, he just held the long rope in the air.

"They're beautiful," she said, watching them swing gently, firelight dancing off the gleaming round surfaces.

"Not half as beautiful as you." She'd never thought of herself as beautiful, and she swallowed hard as he brought the pearls under the covers and started drawing them over her body. Slowly. "Do you know how much I care for you, lass?"

Breathlessly caught in his gaze, she felt each individual pearl, an entire long row of them, skim her sensitive skin. "How much?" she whispered.

"Enough to make me question my loyalties."

Loyalties? Though she didn't quite understand, she could tell the admission was wrenched from somewhere deep inside him, and it softened the pain of not hearing the words she'd so desperately hoped he would say.

I love you.

She should tell him first, she thought, feeling light-headed as the pearls continued their sensual assault on her body. Over her arms, her back, her legs, her hip, her side, making soft little clicks as they went. Then up to trail her breasts, hitching as they caught on a nipple.

A shiver lanced through her. She should tell him first.

But she couldn't. Because he was still holding back.

Not here, though. Not now. He arranged the pearls around her breasts and leaned away. "Lovely," he murmured.

She mustered a weak smile. "I don't think that's the way they're meant to be worn. Rather scandalous, don't you think?"

"At King Charles's court? Not a soul would even take notice." But he drew them off and bunched them in a hand, meeting her lips for a desperate kiss.

There was something about him tonight...something about the way his tongue swept her mouth, the way his hands worshipped her body, the way he molded his flesh to match every curve of hers. Something. Something that made her feel, even though he was more of a man than she'd known existed, that somewhere inside lurked a lost little boy. Waiting to get hurt.

So she was gentle tonight, and he was gentle in return, running the bunched pearls over her skin in a heavenly, softly clicking massage. Guided by his hand, they rolled between her breasts and over a hip and down to her thighs. Her own hands skimmed his skin, soothing, everywhere she could reach. She sighed into his mouth, and his tongue stroked hers, more softly than she could remember, so cherishing that tears welled in her eyes and threatened to slip between her closed lids.

"Open for me, leannan." A thick, velvet-edged whisper, his voice sent a gust of desire shuddering through her. And because she wanted to please him, she did what he asked, parting her legs until she lay there, flat on the bed, wantonly open and ready. Then gasped when he drew the pearls, that long, long strand, agonizingly slowly between them.

She felt every pearl distinctly, felt herself moisten as they slipped. She wanted him there, filling her where she ached. "Oh, God, Trick."

"Hush," he murmured, nuzzling her throat. He suckled her breasts, her nipples rising to hard points that he circled with his tongue. While down below, the pearls continued their exquisite trail along where she wanted him, deep inside.

This was torment, but oh, so sweet, each individual pearl driving her to distraction. "I cannot stand this, Trick. It's too much." She reached for his free hand, clenching it hard in hers.

"I cannot stand it, either," he grated out, and he yanked the pearls away, coming over her to join their bodies together.

Her rush of relief lasted mere seconds before a new sense of urgency overwhelmed her. She wrapped him with her legs, her fingers threading in his hair, little sounds escaping her throat as his hips drove every thought but him from her mind. She rocked against him, wanting him closer, closer, hearing his breath ragged in her ear. Her heart pounded against his as her hands worked down his back and lower to pull him closer still.

If only she could climb the last of that wall and finally make them one.

Then, for one split second of infinity, they were one.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

A long time later, Trick felt beneath the coverlet for the pearls, smiling when he found and snagged them. Drawing them out, he held them to his nose, breathing deep of her sweet scent before he dangled them above her head. "Do you like these, leannan?"

"In more ways than I could have imagined." Her smile, soft and achingly erotic, lit his heart. "But Trick..."

"Aye?"

"I mostly like them because we can sell them."

His fingers tightened around them. "No, lass. They're for you."

She grabbed them from his hands, cradling them against her breasts. "They would feed the children for a decade, you said. No longer will you have to be a highwayman. I was going to beg you to stop anyway, Trick—I cannot stand the thought of you being hurt or caught in the act." If her smile had lit his heart, her words melted it. "It's bad of me, I know, but you're much more important than the children. To me. The most important thing in my life."

She looked pained at that guilty admission, but not as pained as he felt inside. That she could put him above everything else...if only he hadn't the obligations that kept him from doing the same.

If only.

"Do you see the gift that Charles has given us?" She held it up. "We no longer have to choose between your safety and the children's welfare." Looking half-wistful, half-thrilled, she brought the pearls to her lips. "I'll sell them tomorrow. And I have other ideas as well, for how we can help more children. This—this gift—will get us started."

Her enthusiasm was more than he could bear. Soon he could bring her to the docks, show her whichever of his ships were in port, tell her that he could support all the orphanages she wanted. Soon this would be over, and he vowed to himself he'd be honest with his wife for the rest of his life. He would never make another promise that would be this hard to keep.

"You're not selling them tomorrow," he told her, peeling her fingers from the pearls. He lifted the strand and slipped it back over her head. "We're going home tomorrow. And I promise you, the children won't starve."

Back at Amberley the next day, Trick barely took time to see their luggage brought in before readying himself to leave.

Stunned, Kendra stood in their bedchamber watching him knot a fresh cravat. "We just got here."

"I have an errand I must see to," he told her, not quite meeting her eyes.

"An errand?" Although he was standing close, she felt as though he'd physically pulled away. "Are you going out to play the highwayman again? I told you—"

"Nay. I'm done with that."

And he wasn't wearing black—he'd dressed in a simple brown suit and white shirt. She should have noticed that. Her usually sharp powers of observation were dulled by disappointment.

Just last night, she'd felt so emotionally attached. She'd thought that with everything they'd shared in Scotland and since, things would be different now. But no matter that his hair had been cut and his eyes were unshielded—he was hiding from her again.

She backed away to sit on the gaudy red bed, her fingers going to the pearls around her neck. "If you won't sell these and you won't play the highwayman, where will we find the money for the children?"

"I told you last night," he said, even more slowly than usual, "the children will have plenty to eat."

"How?" Her head swirled with confusion. "Did Charles give you more than the pearls, then?"

"You could say that," he said dryly and fell silent.

He gazed at her for a long moment without saying anything more. Without moving. Without even blinking.

Then determination lit his eyes and his jaw tensed with resolve. "It's time that I told you the truth," he said, moving closer. "I have plenty of money to fund the orphanage without resorting to robbery. You've no need to worry for the children, I promise. All right? Can you take my word for that?"

The truth, he'd said. "I don't understand."

He stepped yet closer. "When my father—the duke—died, I took the ships he'd used for smuggling and started importing with them instead. It's all legitimate. I have nine ships now and a London warehouse filled with goods from across the globe that are sold all over the country. I can well afford to support the children and anything else your heart desires."

As though she'd been physically hit, Kendra found it hard to draw breath. "Then why did you tell me you needed to rob in order to fund the orphanage?"

"I never said that, Kendra."

She thought back, frantically running through their conversations in her head. "But you didn't correct me when I assumed it, either. A lie of omission is a lie, nonetheless."

Everything she'd thought she'd gained seemed to be slipping away. She struggled to keep a hint of hysteria from her voice. "This makes no sense. Why is it, then, that you played the highwayman? Why keep doing it when you knew it worried me and my brothers had asked you to stop? For your own amusement, as you once said?"

"Not for my amusement." Taking both her hands, he drew her to stand before him, his gaze filled with silent apology. "I had reasons, good reasons, but...I'm sorry, leannan. There are things I cannot tell you."

"Why?"

"I just cannot. You'll have to trust me." His knuckles skimmed her cheek. "Once you promised you'd trust me. Has that changed?"

Her memory flashed on that day in the dungeon, and she blushed hot. But that had been in Scotland, where they'd spent every day, almost every minute, together. Where he hadn't kept secrets, so far as she could tell, and where they'd grown close and learned to be easy with each other.

Yet literally the moment they'd stepped foot in Amberley, everything had gone back to the way it had been before they left. She'd thought she'd gotten through to him—that his wall was nearly down—but that clearly wasn't the case. Not here. How could they have any kind of marriage when he insisted on holding back?

She wished they'd never come home.

"I'm trying to trust you," she told him. "But it's very hard."

"It's hard for me, too. You must believe that, lass. Just let me finish what I must do to put this all behind us."

And with one kiss, so heartfelt it left her reeling, he was out the door.

It hadn't quite been a lie. Charles had given him more than the pearls—he'd given him orders not to tell his own wife what he was doing.

Bloody obstinate man.

Though Trick never thought he'd be cursing his king, he did so all the way to the cottage to fetch his papers.

From there he traveled two villages over to meet the contact Charles had arranged for, a man going by the absurd name of Zephaniah Pendregast and posing as a Puritan. On the ride, Trick switched from cursing Charles to railing at himself.

What an idiot he'd been to tell Kendra about his shipping company. He'd thought it would help to come clean with as much of the truth as he could, to relieve her mind where the children were concerned, at least. But he'd gravely miscalculated. He'd seen the doubt and confusion come into her eyes, and it had made him sick inside.

He had no experience with being in love, and he was doing it all wrong.

The foundations they'd built in Scotland were crumbling out from under him. He could only hope this mission would come to an end before those foundations eroded entirely. Hope there'd still be enough left upon which they could rebuild trust.

Hope his loyalty to the king wouldn't cost him his future.

Trick had sent a messenger before him, so Pendregast was waiting in back of the blacksmith's shop where Charles's men had arranged for his temporary employment.

"I hope it's damn good news you bring," Pendregast said, dropping his proper Puritan speech the moment they were out of earshot. He was tall and lean, dark haired with a long, hollowed-out face. The blows of hammer on anvil rang in the background as they paced together into the fields behind the town's High Street shops. "I'm bloody bored in this swiving establishment."

"It's sorry I am for the delay. I was called out of the country. In any case"—Trick pulled the roll of papers from his surcoat—"I have your descriptions."

They pored over the pages together, Pendregast asking questions and Trick answering as well as he could remember.

"So do you know these men?" Trick finally asked.

"I've attended enough secret meetings to last a lifetime, I'll warrant you that. This description here"—Pendregast stabbed a finger at one of Trick's pages—"seems familiar. And one other. I'll ask around, see what I can find. I'll be in touch."

Trick walked him back to the smithy, where they shook hands. "I'll be glad to have this behind me."

"No more than I," Pendregast grated out through the fake smile he put on his face as he reentered the shop.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Knowing he'd have to leave Kendra home alone soon, Trick spent a tense couple of days tiptoeing around her, avoiding her hurt gaze while wracking his brain for a plausible explanation that wouldn't cause even more pain and distrust. Mostly he kept out of the house, acquainting himself with his estate—which was a fair enough use of his time, considering he now planned to be here more than he'd once thought.

Life near the docks in London now held little appeal. His new plan was to manage the company through correspondence plus regular jaunts to the City to check up on matters, bringing Kendra along with him. Eventually Niall might become involved as well. Having discovered a family, Trick found himself entertaining grand ideas. Expanding his company to include ships based in Scotland was just the start.

Both nights he delayed coming home until Kendra was in bed, when the darkness would save him from meeting her eyes. In those wee hours, he tried to tell her with his body what he couldn't say with words. And if her blissful sighs were laced with a touch of disillusionment, he could only remind himself that things would be better soon.

A terse message finally arrived: Meet me seven a.m. Saturday at the home of John Garrick. Z.P.

John Garrick? Trick wondered. Was he working for Charles, too? Well, at least this would give him a solid excuse to spend the weekend away. Kendra shouldn't question a card party at Garrick's—a house party her own brothers regularly attended. With any luck, she'd happily send him off.

Evidently, however, luck wasn't on his side.

"So soon?" she asked when he found her going over menus in the kitchen. She turned to the cook. "Will you excuse me a moment, Mrs. Brown?"

Dejection dulled her eyes as she led Trick to the butler's pantry, then, finding it occupied by two maids polishing silver, all the way into the deserted two-story dining room. One foot tapping on the black-and-white checkered marble floor, she stared up at the plasterwork ceiling, studying the painted scenes there as though they might hold the answers to her problem.

Her problem being him, of course.

"We've been home less than a week," she said.

As she lowered her gaze to meet his, he shifted on his feet. "The card weekends have become tradition. It's been months since the last one, ever since our marriage. The men have been awaiting my return."

She ran a fingertip along the carved and gilded mantel. The old duke had really outdone himself gussying up this chamber. "Trick, I'm..." He watched her draw a deep breath. "I feel like I've lost you since we returned home."

"I'm right here." He forced a smile.

"You've been out and about doing God knows what. Why can't we spend some time together? Shouldn't our marriage come before a card game?"

"It's already planned," he said, wishing he could find a way to make her feel as loved and secure as she deserved. He wanted that more than he wanted to breathe.

But first he had to complete the mission. He was so close. He'd already sent a message to King Charles saying the time had arrived to set their final plans into motion.

Soon he would be free.

The next morning found him leaving his sweet wife abed with a gentle kiss to her forehead. When faced with her disappointed sigh, he reminded himself why he was doing this.

These counterfeiters were undermining the economy, threatening the newly restored monarchy. He owed this to his country; he'd made promises to his king.

If a tinge of unease stayed lodged in his gut, he was determined to ignore it.

An hour later, he arrived at Garrick's estate to find Pendregast waiting along the road, he and his horse hidden behind a hedge that concealed them from the mansion.

"What gives?" Trick asked, reining in Chaucer. "Why aren't you inside?"

"We cannot just walk in and make an arrest. We need some damning evidence first. Have you any ideas how to gain entry?"

"We might try knocking on the door." Trick peeked through the hedge. "Is Garrick in on this or not? How many men has Charles roped into this operation?"

"Just we two. Garrick is the suspect."

"John Garrick? A counterfeiter?" When Trick jerked upright at the thought, Chaucer danced beneath him. "Are you certain?"

"Not entirely. He could be just another link in the chain. But that description you gave me that sounded familiar? I asked around, found the man, and followed him for two-and-a-half days, until finally he led me here. Was in and out in five minutes. Then I hid for a while, and another man arrived. Didn't match any of your notes, but he was in and out in five minutes, too."

"So if Garrick isn't doing it himself..."

"I'm assuming he's involved in the distribution at the very least. But we need proof."

Trick's mind reeled, remembering Garrick's preachiness, his edginess, the way he always seemed to be snooping around. A closet Parliamentarian?

Damn. It could very well be. That would teach him to move into an area and start blindly socializing with the neighbors. He could have brought Garrick and the others to the cottage someday. They could have seen his props.

Damn.

"We need an excuse to get in," Pendregast said. "He has too many servants to simply wait until he leaves. People are always around."

"I can gain us entry. I know him. And he owes me a meal."

"Pardon?"

Trick patted his stomach. "Breakfast."

"Mrs. Kendra? Were you not going to tell us about Clytie?"

With a sigh, Kendra flipped the page in the wonderful book of lesser-known myths she'd discovered in Amberley's double-leveled library. At least she'd thought it was wonderful last month when she found it. Today, reading from it, it didn't seem so wonderful at all.

Once she'd thought that attaining her dream, the orphanage, would be enough. But she'd been wrong. Working with the children was fulfilling, but it didn't mend the hole in her heart that had opened when Trick left her this morning.

Dragging her attention back to the children, she smiled at their rapt expressions.

"Clytie loved the Sun God—"

"Apollo?" Andrew asked.

"Excellent memory," she said, trying not to sound annoyed at the interruption. Every little thing seemed to annoy her these past few days. "But for this story we think of him as the Sun God. You see, he found nothing to love in Clytie, and so she pined away, sitting on the ground out-of-doors where she could watch him. And she would turn her face, following him with her eyes as he journeyed over the sky. And so gazing, she found herself changed into the sunflower, which ever turns toward the sun."

"Did he ever love her?" a chestnut-haired girl asked.

Kendra met her big brown eyes. "I'm afraid not." She sighed. "Clytie loved him with all her heart, but he could never return her feelings."

Just like Trick. Her feelings toward him had grown, but she was afraid his hadn't. The lies had started all over again, and so had the unexplained separations. No man could love a woman and treat her like that.

Was she destined, like Clytie, to follow him with her eyes all her life? Never succeeding in claiming his heart?

"Mrs. Kendra?"

She snapped the book shut. No use mooning about for these couple of days he'd be gone. He'd asked her to trust him, and she would do just that until she could force an explanation.

They'd come too far for her to let her marriage go without a fight.

Susanna wandered over to tug on her skirt. "Are we not going to finish the lesson?"

"Tomorrow, maybe." Feeling better already, she smiled. "For now, let's play blindman's buff."

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

"Lord Garrick is not yet awake," a stiff-necked butler told Trick.

"Well, then, rouse him." Without waiting to be invited, Trick stepped into the sprawling, dark manor house and motioned Pendregast to follow. "Tell him the Duke of Amberley is here to collect on a debt."

"With all due respect, your grace—"

"Aye, I am due respect. I believe I shall wait in the dining room until I receive it."

With a jerk of his head to Pendregast, he started wandering in the direction he figured a dining room might be located.

Sputtering, the butler marched up the stairs.

The third room Trick looked into had a dining table. He promptly dropped into a dull-mustard upholstered chair. The rest of the chamber was no less drab. He'd seen no evidence of the remodeling Garrick had claimed was his reason not to host the house party, though the place was sorely in need of it.

Of course, the last thing a counterfeiter needed was construction workers roaming around his house.

"Forgot about this." Pendregast took a folded note from his pocket. "It was sent by special messenger this morning, addressed to you."

Trick broke the red seal and unfolded it. A letter from King Charles—he'd have recognized his distinctive hand even without the "Your loving friend, Charles R." at the bottom.

The king wrote with good news that all was set, the plan to commence today and culminate sometime Monday evening.

Damn. "A day or two," Charles had told him with his usual blithe indifference when describing the plan last week. Trick had latched on to the convenient card party excuse without considering the arrangements might prove too complicated to be carried out over a weekend.

Damn, damn, damn.

He couldn't even go home and try to explain to Kendra. According to Charles's letter, the king's men would be waiting for him when he finished here.

"Is something amiss?" Pendregast asked.

"Aye. Nay." He shook his head to clear it. "I just need to get a note off to my wife. I saw a desk in the sitting room next door—could I trouble you to fetch me quill and paper?"

While he waited, he composed the note in his head. Yet another half-truth. The web his marriage hung suspended on was becoming more and more tangled.

He had the note written by the time Garrick stomped into the room, hastily dressed and bleary-eyed.

"What's this about a debt, Amberley?"

"I seem to remember you showing up unexpectedly at my home, right in time for supper." Folding the paper, Trick plastered on a smile. "I just happened to be riding by this morning and noticed it was time for breakfast."

"What?"

"And you brought friends as well, did you not? This is my friend, um, Harold"—he slanted Pendregast a quick glance—"Gaunt. Sir Harold Gaunt."

"Pleased to meet you, Lord Garrick," Pendregast said.

Garrick gave him a curt nod before turning back to Trick. "The friends I brought were your friends, too."

"And so they were." Trick shrugged and held up the note. "Can I trouble you to have one of your staff run this to Amberley House? It's rather urgent." He licked his lips. "What are you serving this morning?"

When Compton met Kendra at Amberley House's door with his silver tray in hand, her stomach knotted.

Received an urgent message from my shipping company's manager, the note read. Following the weekend, must go to London for a day. Be back Monday evening or Tuesday. Will explain later. My love, T.

Her legs felt leaden as she trudged up the stairs. London. Without her again. Did he truly even own a shipping company? Or had he made that up as an excuse to run off to his mistress?

Arriving in her bedchamber, she leaned against the door and drew a calming breath. Surely her imagination was running wild. As usual, she was jumping to conclusions.

My love, T. She traced the words with a finger. He'd asked her to trust him. She had to believe him.

But three long, empty days yawned ahead, and she didn't have to stay at home pining for him, either. She was no Clytie. If he could spend his weekend in the "traditional" way, playing cards with the men, she could keep her tradition with the women.

In fact, Caithren was probably waiting for her, and no doubt Amy and Jewel would be at Cainewood, too. While the men did whatever it was men did at house parties, they could have a party of their own.

Decision made, she packed a bag and headed for the stables. In no time at all she was barreling toward Cainewood, trying to enjoy the wind in her hair as she coaxed Pandora to go even faster. The miles sped by, the landscape becoming comfortingly familiar.

Amy and Cait would help her put everything into perspective. Surely their marriages had gone through rocky times as well, yet they were both clearly happy.

She thundered over the wooden drawbridge, slid off Pandora, and ran toward Cainewood's double front doors.

A startled butler opened one of them. "Lady Kendra! I mean...welcome, your grace. What brings you here to Cainewood?"

"I wish to visit with Lady Cainewood. And—" Words failed her when she glimpsed her twin over the man's shoulder, pacing the upstairs landing with a contemplative look on his face and a beaker filled with bluish fluid in his hands. "Ford?" she called, stepping inside. "Why aren't you at the house party?"

"Kendra?" He blinked, looked down at her, then disappeared for a moment. Reappearing at the top of the stairs empty-handed, he ran down to catch her in a hug.

"What party?" he asked, pulling back. "Am I missing a party? Damn. Are there pretty ladies there, too?"

She frowned. "The card weekend, or whatever it is you men call it. Why aren't you with the others?"

"We've had no card weekends since your marriage. They were always at Amberley—didn't you know that?" Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, he drew her down the corridor toward the drawing room. "What made you think there was a house party this weekend?"

Once in the chamber, she dropped onto a salmon-colored chair. Familiar, but not nearly as comforting as she'd hoped. "Trick. He told me he was leaving to play cards with the men, and he'd be back at the end of the weekend. Then he sent a note saying Monday or Tuesday." She bit the inside of her cheek. "Are you sure there's no party?"

"As sure as I can be. I'm sure Jason isn't playing cards, or Colin that I know of, either."

You'll have to trust me. Once you promised you'd trust me. Has that changed?

A lump rose in her throat as she hid her face in her hands. "I'm a fool then, aren't I? Over and over I believe what he tells me, but he always turns out to be hiding something."

"Perhaps he has a good reason." Ford sat in the adjacent chair, reaching to pull one hand from her face and hold it between his. "I cannot imagine—"

"No." She leapt to her feet, breaking the contact. Overwhelming sadness turned to bitter anger instead. "There's no good reason to deceive your spouse."

Trick had said there were things he couldn't tell her, and she'd accepted that, if rather reluctantly. But that wasn't the same as telling her an outright lie.

He'd lied to her from the beginning, before they were even married, starting by withholding the fact that he was a duke. Whatever had made her believe he'd change now? He'd implied that he needed to play the highwayman for the sake of the children, then claimed he owned a prosperous shipping firm. Which one of those facts was true?

My love, T. Another lie. A man who loved his wife wouldn't treat her like this. Wouldn't say he was going one place and end up another.

"He's in London with his mistress." She gritted her teeth, pacing the patterned black-and-salmon carpet. "That's why he was in such a hurry to return from Scotland. And afterward, to leave me at Amberley so he could go back to London alone."

And he'd made such a fuss out of telling her how he felt about infidelity. Over and over! The nerve of him, deliberately lulling her into false security with his trumped-up moral standards.

"Men talk, Kendra, and I've heard nothing of a mistress in London."

She looked away from the concern in Ford's deep blue eyes. "You're my brother. He wouldn't tell you about something like that."

"For God's sake, you've been wed less than three months." The concern was gone from his voice, replaced by an impatience that set her teeth on edge. "The last card party was before you even met the man, and I heard nothing of a mistress then. Yet there you go, as usual, leaping to conclusions. Wait to hear what Trick has to say for himself, will you? I cannot believe we misjudged the man so keenly."

She crossed her arms. "Well, you did." She stared at a portrait of some stern, long-dead ancestor. Another controlling man, no doubt. Her brothers had misjudged Trick completely and pushed her into this marriage. It was their fault she was hurting now.

Their fault she had fallen in love.

Dear God. She turned away, bringing her hands to her cheeks. In love—in love with a man who could never return it. Never trust her, never open up and share his life. She'd tried and tried to be the sort of wife he wanted, to no avail. She'd tried to listen, to trust him like he'd asked, only to be slapped with this bald-faced lie.

"Kendra." Ford drew her gaze. "You need to reconsider this in logical terms. I'm sure Trick has an explanation."

She'd come for her family's love and support, to find her own twin was siding with Trick. Tears threatened, but she wouldn't let them fall. Had Ford not heard a word she'd said?

Well, of course not—he was a man. "This is your fault—yours and Jason's and Colin's. You stuck me with this lying adulterer of a husband. Where is Cait?"

"Upstairs, I think, probably napping. But Kendra—"

She was already out of the room.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Garrick's kitchen had clearly been unprepared for breakfast guests. Engaging in desultory small talk with their reluctant host, Trick and Pendregast waited a good hour before an aging maid brought a tray of meat pottage and coffee. Two trips later, the table was also laden with spiced bread, caraway-seeded biscuits, fruited wheatmeal griddle cakes, and currant buns.

Sweets. Kendra would love this breakfast, Trick thought, wincing at the resulting stab of guilt.

The three of them ate until the butler arrived in the doorway. "A visitor, my lord."

Garrick blotted his flabby lips, then stood and patted his even more flabby belly. "Enjoy your breakfast, gentlemen. I shall return posthaste."

"Five minutes, I'm guessing," Pendregast said when the man had left.

"I'm going to follow him," Trick said. "If he returns before I do, tell him I was in need of a chamber pot."

He rose and peeked into the corridor. Thankfully, it was deserted. Slipping out, he flattened himself against the wall, moving along it until he nearly reached the front door.

Having already closed it, Garrick was leading a short man down the other wing of the house. Trick waited, watching, until he saw them enter a room. Then he hurried after them and listened through the door.

There was a scraping sound, something heavy sliding open and then shut. Hearing no voices, he cracked the door open and took a look.

A study. Empty, just as he'd thought. He ducked inside and hid himself in the kneehole of an aging oak desk. It wasn't long before the grating noise came again. He bent his head to see between the desk's claw-footed legs. A section of bookshelves disappeared, then slid back into place as he watched.

Garrick set something down on the desk above Trick's head. "Very well. But I don't want to see you for another month. Send someone else in the meantime—we cannot risk having the same men traveling the roads all the time. Not until that blackguard is caught."

"Yes, my lord."

"I'll see you out."

When the door closed behind them, Trick scooted from the cubby. A pewter candlestick now sat on the desk, and Garrick hadn't bothered to extinguish the taper. How convenient.

Trick felt around the bookcase for a handle, a button...ah, there it was. A latch. Throwing it, he was able to push the shelves behind the ones adjacent.

He grabbed the candle and held it up to illuminate the windowless space beyond. A fair-sized room, if bare of luxuries. Atop a table sat three crucibles, a melting pan, dies, shears, and other equipment Trick didn't recognize. But the coins scattered over the surface were familiar indeed, as were the bars of base metal.

He'd seen all he needed to see.

A couple of minutes later he strolled back into the dining room, adjusting his breeches conspicuously. "Nice place you have here, Garrick." He aimed a discreet nod at Pendregast.

Garrick grunted. "I'm due for renovations."

"So you've said."

Pendregast pulled out a pocket watch. "Damn, I've forgotten an appointment. Garrick, my thanks for the fine food and company. Amberley, I'll stop by to see you later."

More senseless chitchat that lasted an hour, then longer. God's blood, Trick thought, would this never end? What the hell was taking Pendregast so long?

Garrick grew restless, pacing the chamber but unable to politely escape while Trick kept eating and engaging him in conversation. It got to the point where Trick wondered if he could cram in another morsel of food without vomiting, but he supposed the meal might hold him for the long ordeal ahead. Although this had been surprisingly easy, the next few days would be much harder.

But then this would be over. With any luck, by Monday night he'd be joining Kendra in their bed. For the rest of his life, if he had any say in the matter. And no more secrets.

At last the butler announced another arrival.

Trick followed Garrick to the door. "Sir Harold," Garrick said, finding Pendregast on the other side. "Have you forgotten something?"

"I'm afraid so," Pendregast said as a balding man with a scar across his cheek stepped from around the corner. "The sheriff."

"Kendra! Cait! Open up!"

Kendra scurried into the far corner of her old bedchamber while Caithren made her way to the door and opened it a crack. "Your sister doesn't want to talk to you," she told Jason. "Or Ford, either."

"Oh, for God's sake. Tell her it's dinnertime, and we've strawberry tarts for dessert."

Trust a man to think food would solve his problems, Kendra thought. Most especially a Chase man. Well, he wasn't going to coax her by tempting her sweet tooth. "Tell him I'm not hungry," she called to Cait. "Tell him I'm not going to eat until the absurd marriage he arranged is annulled."

"She's not hungry," Cait started. "She's—"

"Forget it." Jason stuck his boot in the doorway when Caithren would have shut it. "Tell her I'll be here when she's ready to talk. Tell her that until then she can starve for all I care. Tell her Cook is baking cherry pie for supper." He paused for a breath. "Are you coming down for dinner, then?"

"Nay. I believe I'll stay here with Kendra."

"Women." Following the single terse word, Kendra heard his boots stomp down the corridor.

Cait closed the door. "Cherry pie later, Kendra."

"Oh, my. I suppose I'll have to save some room." She went back to her dressing table, where a veritable feast was laid out, delivered by Cait's loyal maid, Dulcie. Sitting down, she stabbed her spoon into her second strawberry tart. "I believe I'll skip the sallet and asparagus, then."

"You didn't mean that about an annulment, did you?"

"I'm not sure what I meant." She knew she and Trick had come too far to go back to their old lives, but she was too furious at his deceptions to think straight. "If I were you, Cait, I wouldn't believe a word I said right now."

Not about Trick and not about her brothers, either. After all she'd been through in Scotland, coming to love Trick and deciding her brothers had been right after all, her blaming them made no sense.

But then, her emotions rarely did.

Cait took a bite of roast beef. "Your anger certainly hasn't affected your appetite. For sweets, anyway."

"Nothing ever does." She licked strawberry juice off her lips, looking at Trick's amber bracelet where it lay on the table's marble surface. Her wrist felt empty without it.

Her heart felt empty without him.

She turned to Cait. "Have you ever been this angry at Jason?"

"Don't ask. There have been times, especially when we first met, that I'd have been happy to see the back of him forever. But we always worked it out."

"But you never suspected he was cheating on you."

"Nay, never that. I know the man well enough to feel certain that hasn't happened."

"I thought I was coming to know Trick, too."

No wonder Eros, the God of Love, was often portrayed wearing a blindfold. Love was truly blind.

"There could be another explanation, Kendra. Although I remember a time you wouldn't have cared if he cheated." Cait sipped from her cup of wine, regarding her over the rim. "Things have been getting better for you, then?"

"Things?"

"You know...in the bedchamber." Kendra felt her face heat, and Caithren laughed. "I can see that they have."

She couldn't stand to think about that now, let alone talk about it—not when she wondered if she'd ever feel that close to Trick again. "How was your visit home?" she asked Cait instead. "Is Cameron doing well? And Clarice and little Mary?"

Cait grinned. "Clarice is with child, too. And Cameron walks around all day with a smile on his face."

"I can imagine." Would she ever have children now? It was clear enough Trick would never commit to the sort of marriage she'd dreamed of all her life, but could she learn to live with less? Could she accept only that part of him he was capable of giving? "I'm so happy for them—"

A knock on the door interrupted, and Cait went to answer.

"Are you finished, my lady?" Soft-spoken, her maid entered and began gathering dishes. She refilled their cups with the dregs of a bottle of wine, then smiled, revealing small, child-like teeth. "Would you like another bottle now, milady? I can ask John to fetch one from the cellars." John Foster was one of Cainewood's footmen and Dulcie's latest amour.

"Thank you, that would be nice." Cait set a decimated tart on the tray. "How is Foster today, Dulcie?"

"Oh, fine, milady. He's had a half-day off and been into the village to visit with his mother. Would you know, he came back with interesting news."

Kendra drained her cup. She hoped this Foster fellow would fetch a new bottle soon. She needed more wine if she was going to decide whether to give up on the love of her life. "What news is that?"

"Word has it that the Black Highwayman has been caught and arrested at last. Hauled off to London this very day to be tried."

"Tried?" Kendra's cup clunked to the marble-topped dressing table. "When will he be tried?"

Dulcie's gray eyes filled with confusion. "Monday, your grace. Say...are you all right?"

Kendra woke in her old bed at Cainewood with two of her brothers hanging over her. She blinked at the mint-green canopy above their heads, wondering how she'd gotten here.

Had she fainted? She'd never fainted before in her life. Trick would pay for this.

Then she remembered, and an aching hollowness opened in her heart.

Trick wouldn't pay for this. Trick would be dead.

She struggled to sit, glancing around to make sure no one but family was in the chamber. "Did you hear?" she asked, her vow of silence forgotten.

Her brothers, after all, were not the villains in this tragedy, no matter how much she wanted to blame them. She needed them, and they were here for her, as they'd always been.

"Aye, they've heard," Cait said softly. "I told them."

Kendra's stomach felt leaden, and tears threatened to leak from her eyes. "How can this have happened now?" One tear did leak, running hot down her cheek. "He promised he was finished playing that game."

Though Jason's eyes were compassionate, his mouth was set in a grim line. "I warned him."

"He must have gone out and done it anyway. Stubborn fool." And more fool she, for believing him when he said he'd stop. She sat and swung her feet off the bed. "I must go to him."

Ford put a hand on her arm. "I thought you wanted to be rid of him?"

"I thought so, too," she said, her voice rising in a wail. Her earlier anger seemed to have vanished, replaced with a fear that clawed at her insides. "But I never wanted to see him dead!"

Jason sat beside her and gathered her into his arms, patting her back as she sobbed against his shirtfront, wetting his shoulder. "Perhaps he'll be acquitted."

Accused outlaws were rarely acquitted, but she clung to that thin thread of hope. "I must go watch the trial. Take me to the trial."

"Think, Kendra." Ford crouched by the bed, looking up at her, his bright blue eyes filled with the calm reason that seemed to evade her but come so easily to him. "Why would the Chases attend the trial of a common criminal? What will you tell those who ask? Especially if you look...distraught."

God, he was right. As things stood, no one connected the Duke of Amberley with the Black Highwayman, but if anyone discovered she'd been married to the notorious outlaw, her reputation would be in tatters—along with that of the rest of her family.

But this was Trick. No matter how angry she was at his falsehoods and deceptions, she had to go to him. Had to see what was to become of the lying, cheating rogue she'd lost her heart to.

"I'll wear a disguise," she said. "But I'm going."

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Never in her life had Kendra thought she'd find herself outside the Justice Hall at the Old Bailey. After nearly two days spent in a sleepless fog of wrenching misery, endless tears, anger, and self-doubt, she'd thought that actually getting here and seeing this trial through would be something of a relief.

But she knew now that nothing could be further from the truth.

The courtyard viewing gallery was mobbed with Londoners hoping to get a glimpse of the notorious accused, and even more people stood outside the spike-topped iron fence. Wearing Dulcie's gray skirt and plain blouse, with her telltale red hair stuffed under a mobcap, Kendra grasped Ford's hand and pulled him through the masses toward the front.

A light rain was falling, making the spectators—no polite crowd to begin with—even more surly. "Whyever do they make us stand outside?" she grumbled, dodging a sharp elbow as she made her way to the three-walled open courtroom.

Ford pushed back the straw hat he'd borrowed from a stableman. "It reduces the risk of prisoners infecting the spectators with gaol fever," he explained in his usual matter-of-fact manner.

She returned a tradesman's dirty glare with one of her own, tugging her sleeve down to cover her amber bracelet as she pushed her way to the rail. "Oh, God," she breathed, her heart clenching when she reached the front. She gripped the rail with both hands to keep her knees from buckling. "Oh, God, there he is."

Gazing at Trick, she slowly jockeyed herself over to the right, nearer to where he sat in the enclosed dock, chained to eleven other men.

He was wearing black velvet and the long brown periwig that she hoped would keep any spectators from recognizing him as the Duke of Amberley. But the wig was a tangled mess, the usually immaculate black suit all rumpled, and he looked more exhausted than she'd ever seen him. His head was bowed, and his hands hung limply between his spread knees.

A guard reached a pike through the bars to prod him to stand when the red-robed judge walked in, followed by jury members who shuffled to two long benches. The dock's door swung open with an ominous creak, and the prisoners began making their way to the bar, their chains clanking as they dragged on one another.

Watching Trick, Kendra felt as though her heart might burst. Literally pulled along by the others, he stumbled and had to be righted. Dark blood crusted his wrists beneath the iron cuffs. A sheen of sweat slicked his features, and he seemed to be having trouble simply drawing breath.

He was ill.

She pressed against the rail as though she could reach him. So close, maybe ten feet away, but oh, so far with the law between them.

So very, very far. And ill.

"Dear God," she whispered to Ford. "Can he have caught the gaol fever already?"

"Hush." Her twin's eyes filled with sympathy as he peeled one of her hands from the rail, lacing it with his. "It's starting."

The prisoner's names were called one by one, and they identified themselves by raising a hand. The charges were read in Latin before each of the accused pleaded either guilty or not guilty.

"But they cannot even understand the charges!" Kendra whispered in horrified protest.

With unbelievable swiftness, witnesses were brought forward and evidence was presented by the prosecution. Prisoners were not allowed counsel. Of the eleven men brought to trial before Trick, one was acquitted when no witnesses appeared. The other ten were all sentenced to death, for felonies ranging from stealing an orange, to setting fire to an outhouse, to murdering a neighbor.

By the time Trick's turn arrived, Kendra had lost all hope. Tears swam in her eyes, and her body felt like a single, heavy mass of dread.

"The Black Highwayman," the clerk read, and the crowd hissed gleeful disapproval. They had saved the best for last.

When Trick failed to raise his hand, the prisoner next to him did it for him.

"What be your name?" the clerk demanded.

Trick stared blindly ahead. A long silence stretched.

"What be your name?"

He hung his head, looking too weak to lift it. Too weak to answer.

A speculative murmur rose from the onlookers. The guard prodded Trick with his pike, and Trick stumbled to his knees, taking the prisoners on either side down with him. With a rattle of chains, they hoisted him back up.

"Black Highwayman, what be your name?"

Inside her, Kendra was screaming. He was too ill to defend himself; couldn't they see it? Couldn't they wait for another day?

"Black Highwayman, what be your name?"

"Can you not see he's ill?" she called out. A gasp of disapproval rose from the crowd, and the clerk glared in her direction.

Trick's gaze snapped to meet hers.

Recognition lit his eyes. But from where Kendra stood, they looked black, not golden. Dilated and dark, filled with regret and defeat.

She'd lost her amber highwayman already.

The clerk tried another tack. "Black Highwayman, what do you plead?"

Trick's gaze was still locked on hers. One hand reached into his pocket, and he slowly drew out a piece of paper, crumpling it in his fist. Something was written upon it in black ink, but much too far away to see.

"The press!" The crowd began to chant. "The press! The press!"

"What is that?" Kendra asked, afraid she didn't want to know.

"They call it peine forte et dure," Ford whispered. "Prisoners who refuse to plead are stripped and laid on their backs, a wooden plank placed upon them and piled with stones."

"Stones?" It was even worse than she'd imagined. Salty blood flowed into her mouth, and she realized she was chewing the inside of her cheek.

"Yes, stones." Ford's fingers tightened around hers. "Three hundred pounds or more. And they add another fifty pounds every half-hour until the man agrees to plead."

"The press! The press! The press!"

They couldn't. They couldn't do that to an ill man. How could this mob demand such a thing? What kind of barbarous riffraff were they?

"The press! The press! The press!"

"Silence!" The clerk's bellow rattled the very air, and the chant abruptly cut off.

Soft rain pattered in the sudden stillness as he looked to the man in red robes.

"Guilty," the judge declared, doubtless thinking his decision merciful since the prisoner was too weak to plead.

Ford's hand squeezed Kendra's so tightly, it was a wonder her bones didn't snap. He succeeded in quelling her outcry. But inside, every fiber of her being was howling.

Though Trick had been spared the press, she had no doubt what the sentence would be for a highwayman when she'd seen another man sent to the gallows for stealing a piece of fruit.

"Death by hanging." The judge banged his gavel. "Tomorrow at noon."

Trick's gaze remained on hers, his eyes imploring. His mouth moved, but no words came out. Her fingers worried the amber bracelet, and she could see in his face that he noticed. A single tear welled and rolled down his cheek, making her own tears flow faster.

Suddenly he looked away and started scraping with a fingernail at one of the crusty scabs on his wrist.

Another queue of accused prisoners were brought clanking into the dock, and Trick's group started moving out. She watched in a haze of pain as he drew a red-tipped finger across the crumpled paper in his other hand.

"He's writing something," she whispered in horror to Ford. "He's trying to write something. In blood."

His hand with the paper shaking, he reached it toward her as he was dragged by. She pressed against the rail, straining to get closer, their fingers almost touching. She moaned when he was jerked back, the look in his eyes anguished but unreadable.

Seconds later, he was tugged from the chamber and out of sight.

"He's ill," she sobbed, tears running freely down her face to mix with the miserable cold rain. "He was trying to tell me something, wasn't he?"

"He was too weak." Ford wiped her cheeks. "There's nothing you can do about it now."

"He tried to give me a message in blood." Her eyes burned and her heart was cracking. The man had only preyed on Puritans—the real criminals in her eyes—and for the good of orphan children. No matter that he was a liar and an adulterer, he didn't deserve to die.

She leaned far over the rail and shouted to the guard who was closing the gate. "Where are they being taken?"

"Newgate," the man said as the iron bars banged shut.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

"Kendra, you cannot go to Newgate." At the Chase town house in Lincoln's Inn Fields, Jason pushed her onto the drawing room's burgundy brocade couch and handed her a large goblet of Rhenish wine. "It's a hellhouse. And there's nothing you can do for him anyway."

"I must see him." Maybe she could sneak him out. At least she could say good-bye. "I'm going." She set down the wine and rose.

He took her by the shoulders, his bright green gaze determined. "You cannot go."

Equally determined, she wrenched from his grasp. "You cannot stop me."

"We'll go to King Charles," Ford said.

She whirled to him. "What?"

"We'll go to Charles and ask for a pardon."

Hope fluttered in her chest. "Could...could that work?"

He shrugged. "It's certainly within his power. I saw him pardon Swift Nicks."

"Who?" Her legs feeling weak, she dropped back onto the couch.

"The infamous highwayman, Jack Nevison." Ford began pacing. "Early one morn he robbed a fellow in Kent who recognized him and threatened to turn him in. To give himself an alibi, he rode for York, arriving the same evening—"

"Impossible," she burst out, never mind that she didn't care to hear this since it had nothing to do with Trick. The ride to York took at least four days, more likely a week.

"Apparently not impossible when his life was at risk. He had friends at the taverns all along the Great North Road who supplied him with a fresh horse every hour. When he arrived in the town that evening, he hurried to the bowling green, in time to play a game of bowls with the mayor and other city functionaries. When he was brought to trial later, no less than six dignitaries could honestly swear he'd been in York that day, not Kent."

"Then Charles had no need to pardon him."

"But he had past crimes. The tale made the London rounds, and when Charles heard it, he commanded Nevison to court to tell the story himself. The king laughed until tears came to his eyes and then dismissed him with a signed and sealed pardon for all his prior misdeeds. I'll never forget it. So you can see that Charles can be prevailed upon under the right circumstances."

"Regardless of whether our merry monarch might be swayed by a bit of humor," Kendra said, "you have no knee-slapping story to tell him. There's nothing funny about Trick's situation."

"True," Jason admitted. "But perhaps when he hears only Puritans were robbed, it will soften his heart."

"Possible," Ford said. "And let's not forget that he knows and likes Trick as the Duke of Amberley."

"And Trick just brought him all that treasure." Kendra grasped at a wisp of hope. "But are you really willing to bring all of this up? Admit that my husband and the Black Highwayman are one and the same?"

"We'll do whatever it takes," Jason said. "Considering the alternative, I hardly think Trick will care that the Caldwell name is tarnished."

"And our name?" Trick's life took precedence for her—but he was her husband, not theirs.

Yet their expressions told her, unquestionably, they felt the same. Which melted whatever resentment was left in her heart.

"Thank you," she said softly, knowing they were right. Not only about this, but about how she always jumped to conclusions without giving them the benefit of the doubt. "I know you married me to Trick with the best of intentions, and I shouldn't have blamed you for his lies." She drew a calming breath. "I'm sorry I got angry. It won't happen again, I promise."

Jason released a choked laugh. "Of course it will happen again. We're family."

Ford's blue eyes twinkled. "Besides, those times when you storm off not speaking to us are the only peace and quiet we get around here."

"We're your brothers," Jason said, "and we'll always be here for you to lean on."

"And abuse," Ford added with a smile. "That's part of our being family, too."

Once she'd told Trick something similar. Her eyes flooded at the memory. "But I'm going to try to do better anyway. I love you both."

"We never doubted it," Jason told her. "Shall we go ask for that pardon?"

"It cannot hurt to ask," she said with a sigh.

No matter that the Chases and Trick were all intimates of Charles, she had little confidence they'd get him to pardon another infamous highwayman. One prank on that order made for a rollicking good story—he might feel that twice would make him look like a man with no care for his subjects' welfare. Appearances counted in politics.

Besides, the king might not even be at Whitehall for all they knew.

But they had to try. She began to rise. "Let's go ask now. I have my doubts this will work, but the sooner we find out, the better. Trick is ill."

"You're staying here." The gentle, forgiving smile on Jason's face disappeared as he pushed her down to the couch and shoved the wine back into her hands. "Women are rarely granted audiences, as you're well aware, unless they take place in the Royal Bedchamber. Just sit tight, and we'll be back before you know it."

When her brothers left, Kendra was still wearing her disguise, and she was still determined to see Trick. Having heard that gaolers were fond of bribes, she pocketed some coins and slipped out into Lincoln's Inn Fields to hail a hackney cab.

On the bumpy ride to Newgate, she wondered what she could say to him. Though she was still furious at his lies and infidelity, a man at death's door deserved some peace of mind.

Then the cab jolted and she heard his voice.

I'm sorry, leannan, but there are things I cannot tell you. You'll have to trust me. Once you promised you'd trust me...

A surge of panic overwhelmed her.

Could it be she'd misjudged her husband as badly as she had her brothers? Had she jumped to conclusions there, too?

Her heart raced as all the memories rushed back. The way he'd been slowly revealing himself; the hushed, earnest words; her conviction that he always wanted to do right.

Do you know how much I care for you, lass? Enough to make me question my loyalties.

What had he meant by those words? What if he really did have a explanation for all that had gone on? He'd been trying to tell her something at the trial and been cheated of his chance.

My love, T.

Dear God, she loved him, too.

She could have been wrong. As she'd been many times before, she could have been so, so wrong.

And now it might be too late.

Her brothers had to get that pardon. They just had to. And if they failed...

She would go to the king herself. The hanging wasn't scheduled until noon tomorrow, so she had all night. She didn't care if she had to go into the Royal Bedchamber. Hell, she'd even sleep with Charles if it meant he'd pardon Trick. She was willing to do whatever it took to save her husband from the noose.

But that was for later, after she heard back from Jason and Ford. For now, she just wanted to get into that gaol. She just wanted to see Trick and wrap him in her arms and tell him she was sorry, so sorry...

When the cab rattled to a halt, she unclenched her fists and hurried to get out.

Newgate Prison had burned in the Great Fire two years earlier and was only partially rebuilt. The new entrance was magnificently decorated. Four figures represented Liberty, Peace, Security, and Plenty, but behind the impressive facade, the gaol itself remained as miserable as Kendra had always heard.

After she paid a man at the gate, it creaked open to admit her to what seemed a dark pit of squalor. Her footsteps echoed in a stone corridor still blackened from the fire. Noxious odors of slops, rotten food, and unwashed bodies made her gag before she stepped into the relatively luxurious keeper's house.

"Walter Cowday," a hard, graying man introduced himself. "Who you here to see?"

"The Black Highwayman."

He raised a grizzled brow and held out a hand. Her heart pounding, she put a silver coin in it, and then another and another. When he remained silent, she added the one she had of gold. She clenched her hand around her few remaining coins; she'd never imagined it would cost this much.

"He went straight to the condemned hold. Lucky bastard don't have to wait. Tyburn Fair day tomorrow."

When she failed to show the proper excitement for the public holiday that a execution meant, he pocketed the money and motioned for her to follow him back to the corridor.

He lifted a hatch door and pointed down. "There you go. If you've more silver, a guard will point the way."

Holding her cumbersome skirts in one hand, she descended a ladder and dropped to a damp stone floor.

Bleak gray cells lined both sides of another corridor, moisture trickling down their walls. Each looked about eight feet by six, furnished with a wooden bench and a Bible. The iron candlesticks, one per hold bolted to the stone, apparently were saved for night. The only light came filtered though a tiny window high in each cell, covered by heavy iron bars.

She swallowed hard and started searching down the corridor. It was cold and dark, and she stumbled more than once. Men hooted at her, and chains clanked as they stuck their arms through the bars and grabbed at her in the blackness. Tears pricked her eyelids.

Trick was nowhere to be found.

"Who goes there?"

She couldn't remember ever being as relieved when a uniformed guard appeared in the corridor holding a burning torch. Blessed light.

"I'm looking for the Black Highwayman."

Wordlessly, he held out a hand, and she gladly filled it with the last of her silver. Yet he made no move to show her the way.

Through heartache and fear, indignation rose. "Well, where is he?" she demanded.

"Doctor took him."

Once again, hope fluttered in her breast. Maybe they'd noticed he was ill and brought him to an infirmary. Perhaps they'd let him recover and retry his case. It was possible the pardon would be unnecessary, after all.

"He's not here?" she asked.

The man shook his head.

It was like pulling teeth to get answers from the cur, and this after she'd paid. Impatience and worry combined to make her jaw tighten and her words sound shrewish. "Where did the doctor take him to, then?"

"The graveyard, mistress."

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

"The graveyard?" A wave of apprehension swamped her. Her chest felt as though it might burst, and her breath came in short, shallow pants. She couldn't have heard the guard right. "The graveyard? Are you sure? What happened?"

The uniformed man shrugged.

"Tell me what happened! I paid you, damn it!"

She rarely used such language, but it could be effective. He blinked and took a small step back. "He was ill when he came in, you see. A doctor went in to examine him, came out and said he was dead. Of the plague."

"The plague?" She knew it could kill swiftly, but she'd seen Trick only hours ago. Ill, but very much alive.

And he'd wanted to tell her something.

"Are you sure?"

"Well, I will own up I didn't go in there. One don't mess with the plague, mistress."

"Did you see him at all?"

"Aye, through the bars from a safe distance. He was dead, all right. Blue spots all over him, and he was stiff as a long-trapped rat. Within the hour he was put in a coffin and carried out. I imagine he was buried just as quick."

She sank to the sticky stones, not caring that she sat in filth shared with bugs and rats. Her lids slid closed against the tears that welled, poised to fall.

Trick was dead. Dead and buried. Along with his lies and his deceptions, his soft words and cherishing kisses.

And she was dead inside.

It was over, and she had no emotion left in her.

"Mistress?" The guard shook her shoulder. "Mistress, you cannot just sit here."

She opened her eyes and took a deep breath. No, she could not just sit here. The man reached down a hand, and she let him help her up.

Her brothers. She needed to get to her brothers. Hopefully they hadn't made fools of themselves already by asking the king for a highwayman's pardon.

And she needed to lean on them, too. To let them take her home. They would order up a bath, and she'd wash off the incredible stink of Newgate. Then she'd sleep and escape this nightmare her life had turned into.

She had no money left for a hackney, but when she tearfully asked a driver to take her to Whitehall Palace and promised to see he got paid, he agreed.

The gatekeeper at Whitehall was not about to let a servant girl in.

"I'm Kendra Chase, the Marquess of Cainewood's sister."

"Sure you are." Dressed in red livery, the man looked her over with patent disbelief. "And I'm King Charles himself."

"I mean..." Drawing a shuddering breath, she closed her eyes, opened them, and tried again. "I'm the Duchess of Amberley."

"Kendra!"

The voice, heavy and seductive, came from an open window overhead. She'd forgotten Lady Castlemaine's suite was over Holbein's Gate. Although both of them had spent the Commonwealth years with King Charles's exiled court, Barbara, the king's longtime mistress, had never been her favorite woman. But this wasn't the time to be choosy.

"Barbara!" she called up. "My brothers are here, and this gentleman refuses to let me in."

"Dolt," Barbara said. Her titian head disappeared from the window, and a minute later she was standing on the other side of the scrolled wrought iron gate.

Kendra felt like a guttersnipe beside Barbara's lush, fashionable form, but she couldn't dredge up enough energy to feel properly chagrined. She was so tired.

"Let her in, you clodpoll," Barbara said. She'd never been known for her tact. The gate swung open. "I know just where your brothers are." Before Kendra knew it, she was following Barbara down the maze of halls that traversed Whitehall's two thousand rooms. "And your husband along with them."

"What?" She stopped in her tracks, her heart leaping with relief—until she realized Barbara had to be mistaken.

"You're married to Amberley, aren't you?" Barbara pouted as she took Kendra's arm and hurried her along. "And I wasn't invited to the wedding. You know how I like a good party."

"We didn't have much of a wedding," Kendra said woodenly. Trick wasn't here—he was dead in the ground in a graveyard near Newgate.

Coming to a stop, Barbara threw open a magnificent carved and gilded door. Beyond, Kendra saw a splendid sitting room in shades of gold and black. A fire blazed on a marble hearth. King Charles sat in a tufted velvet chair, his head thrown back in laughter. Jason sat in another, laughing along with him.

And reclining on a black satin daybed, a smile curving his lips and a cheroot in one hand, sat Patrick Iain Caldwell.

The bastard wasn't dead.

If she'd had a pistol at her disposal, she'd have rectified that.

CHAPTER SIXTY

She bolted past Barbara, retracing her steps through the palace and outside. The hackney was still waiting, and when a hysterical woman begged the driver to take her to a town house, he wasn't about to disagree.

She hadn't known it was possible to feel such deep hurt. No matter Trick's reasons, that he could let her go through all that, allow her to think he was dead...

It was the most unforgivable betrayal she could imagine.

He would never, ever measure up to even the lowest of her expectations. She couldn't live with such a man—couldn't live with herself if she accepted such a marriage. Such a lack of basic caring and commitment.

Cold anger. It was the safest emotion to feel, the one—the only one—that would protect her from being ripped apart.

She was going to her house, not Trick's. Caldwell House had never felt like hers, and it never would, any more than Amberley or Duncraven had. When the hackney pulled up in front of the house in Lincoln's Inn Fields, she couldn't wait to get inside.

As always, Goodwin opened the door. "A bath, please, Goodwin. And pay the hackney driver, if you will."

Leaving him openmouthed, she barged past, heading for the wide, curving staircase and the comfort of her feminine chamber upstairs. A chamber no man had ever slept in.

Ford was waiting in the entry, seated in one of two matching brocade chairs. "Kendra."

Not wanting to, she stopped and turned.

His blue gaze swept her costumed form. "When we arrived at Whitehall and learned from King Charles what had happened, Jason sent me back immediately to let you know your husband was well and would soon be free. But you weren't here."

His voice betokened both vexation and distress, but she didn't have it in her to express sorrow for causing him worry. Not now. She had no space left for any more emotions now.

"I sent six servants out looking—"

Turning away from his accusatory eyes, she climbed the graceful stairs, one foot in front of the other, just as she always had.

Her chamber was the same as always, too. A green oasis of familiarity. Nothing in her life had been familiar lately—not her feelings and not her surroundings. Here, in her old room, she could flip back the calendar to last June, when she'd been an innocent virgin going on about her boring life.

Here, in her old room, she could call for a bath and wash away not only the stink of Newgate, but all her confusing emotions. The first blush of love and the subsequent hurt. The incredible joy of fulfillment, the disappointment and disillusion. All of it—the ups and the downs, and the downs and the ups, and the final descent into that pit of despair.

She'd never appreciated how wonderful her old, predictable life had been.

When the bath was prepared, she peeled off Dulcie's clothes and sank into the steaming water right up to her chin, ready to recover that lovely, boring life. Who needed a husband? Especially one who felt so little for her that he would lie to escape her and then let her think he was dead and laugh it off like the world's best joke.

She knew when it was time to give up.

With shaking fingers, she unfastened the clasp on the amber bracelet and let it fall to the carpeted floor. Then she tugged off the plain gold band. When she dropped it, it rolled a few inches from the carpet onto polished wood before landing flat with a tiny plop. Until now, since that fateful day in Cainewood's little chapel, it had never left her hand.

She hardly noticed her tears dripping into the lavender-scented water. Just as she hardly noticed the knock at the door until it opened.

"Kendra."

The expression on Trick's face was achingly apologetic, but she'd been through that before. He wouldn't fool her ever again.

Sinking deeper into the water, she dashed the tears from her cheeks and narrowed her eyes. "Who invited you in here?"

Still dressed in rumpled black velvet and looking more than a little unsteady, he quietly shut the door behind him. His gaze flicked to the amber bracelet, then back to her. "You didn't complain the last time I walked in on your bath."

Despite all the anger and hurt, she blushed to remember. "That was before I left you," she said. "That was a lifetime ago, when I was still blind and innocent."

He walked over, and, wordlessly, handed her a crumpled piece of paper.

Tearing her gaze from him, she unfolded it with wet, shaky hands. The five words were barely legible, thick swashes of rusty red-brown.

DON'T WORRY JUST AN ACT

Leaning close, he turned the paper over in her hands, and her heart turned over along with it. He straightened while she read the words in black ink—the writing she hadn't been able to make out at the trial.

When love on my sweet wife's wings

Comes to hover within my walls

If I turn it away with untruths and deceit

'Tis myself I must blame for the fall

Trust must be earned then earned again

Ere forgiveness can overcome sorrows

Yesterday's errors wiped from the slate

May leave room for joyful tomorrows

Stone walls do not a prison make

Nor iron bars well-turned

While I bear hope, mayhap forlorn

My love will be returned

Poetry written in prison.

Reassurance written in blood.

Tears flooded her eyes, blurring her vision. Instead of her mint-green chamber, what she saw was the damp, crowded courtyard outside the open courtroom of the Old Bailey. Instead of the soft swish of water, what she heard was the jeering crowd. And she remembered Trick's stricken face as he tried to reach her, first with words and then with this very same note—and the expression in his eyes when he failed to succeed.

"Why?" she asked, finally ready to listen. "Why all the lies?"

He stayed riveted in place. "Before I ever met you," he said slowly, "I made a promise to King Charles. I thought that promise, to my sovereign, was more important than my wife. I was wrong. And if I've lost you because of that mistake, I'll never forgive myself."

Oh, God, he was getting to her. Could she allow herself to feel this again? "What was this promise?"

"I was never really a highwayman. That was naught but a ruse to find some counterfeiters who were bedeviling the country's economy, emptying the king's purse and undermining his credibility. I was part of his scheme to uncover it."

"Just as I guessed, only I never completed the connection."

He nodded. "And I'd sworn not to tell a soul. I never considered that the Black Highwayman might become a wanted man. When it happened, Charles devised a plan to get rid of him, so I could live my life as the duke without anyone ever suspecting that the highwayman and I were one and the same. He arranged for the arrest and the public trial. And he had a doctor drug me to make me look ill, and that same doctor visit later and paint blue spots on my body, then declare me dead and carry me away. I suggested we use black nightshade."

"Dwale." The fever, the slowed breathing, the weakness, the dilated eyes. She should have realized. "It killed your mother, Trick. It could have killed you."

"Weeks of it killed my mother, and my father recovered, after all. It was one dose. A calculated risk, and at least I knew what I was getting into."

"It was a perfect plan," she admitted. "Brilliant."

"Not perfect. Because Charles still refused to let me tell you. And I was foolish enough to believe we could pull this off over a couple of days when I could give you another excuse to be gone, and you'd never find out."

"But I did."

"Aye." He took a step closer, then swayed. "I was wrong, leannan. I trusted you even if Charles didn't, and I should have told you everything, no matter that he ordered me not to. I was wrong to think you'd never find out, and I was wrong to lie to you about what I was doing. But most of all, I was wrong to think any promise to a king, or the king himself, is more important than you. Nothing is more important than you."

Disregarding Royal orders was considered much worse than highway robbery. Punishable by hanging, she heard herself whisper deep in a dungeon in Scotland. Punishable by hanging, drawing, quartering...

"Nothing is more important? Not even treason?"

"Nothing. I knew it—I knew it while I sat in that prison awaiting trial, wondering where you were and whether rumors had reached your ears to cause you torment. And then, when I saw you standing at that rail..."

His eyes mirrored the anguish she'd seen in them that moment.

"But by then," he continued, "it was too late. I was too weak, too drugged." He swayed again. "I still am, it seems. They told me I wasn't recovered enough to come home yet, but, like you, I didn't listen. Like you, I couldn't listen, not when my love was at stake." He risked a tiny grin, that chipped tooth peeking through a tentative smile.

It cracked her heart.

She'd been wrong, too. He'd asked her to trust him, said there were things he couldn't tell her. But she hadn't listened. She wanted to say she understood, but her throat closed with emotion.

She looked down to the paper in her hand, the dear words blurring through fresh tears. In his own blood, he'd tried to tell her not to worry. And he'd written a poem for her, admitting his love, promising to earn her trust, asking for forgiveness.

Poetry. He'd shared himself, just as she'd hoped for all along. His wall had finally come down.

Or maybe she'd managed to scale it.

He came forward and took the paper from her trembling hands, setting it aside.

Then he stepped right into the water.

"Your boots!" she gasped.

In the big tub, he knelt at her feet. "I own a shipping line and a warehouse stacked with imported goods from all over the world. I can buy a hundred pairs of boots."

His voice was thick and unsteady, his amber eyes so intense they seemed to spear her to her very soul.

He reached beneath the water to take her hands in his. "Don't you understand, leannan? I can buy almost anything—anything, that is, except your love."

"You have it," she whispered.

EPILOGUE

Six years later

Kendra ran down Amberley's marble front steps, then, waiting for Trick, paused and looked back at the house. She smiled at the incongruous stone lintel over the elegant double front doors—a long, decidedly inelegant rock with symbols chiseled into it: the letters KC and PC, a ship, a heart, and a date. 1668.

"What's that?" she'd asked Trick the day she first came home from the orphanage to see it.

He'd blinked. "Do you not remember Falkland? And the marriage lintels?"

"Well, yes. But this isn't a weaver's cottage in Scotland—it's a mansion in Sussex. And this house wasn't built in 1668."

"Maybe it wasn't," he'd told her, pulling her toward him for a kiss. "But that was the year it became a home."

Remembering now, the same warmth filled her heart that had filled it then. She fingered the stones on her amber bracelet, knowing with a certainty that she'd never take it off again.

Trick finally sauntered out, displaying none of her own impatience.

"Hurry, Trick, or Cait's babe will be born before we get there."

"Slow down, or our babe will be born too early." Walking her over to the caleche, he smiled and ran a possessive hand over the slight bulge of her middle. "Besides, we were there already. It was you who insisted we leave everyone and return home to get the gift you forgot."

"It was you who insisted on the hour we just spent in the bedchamber." Grinning as he climbed up beside her, she leaned to give him a quick kiss.

With a hand on the back of her neck, he held her close, his lips meeting hers in a much longer, warmer caress. His mouth opened, his tongue circling hers, sending a wild swirl of excitement spiraling through her. Her senses reeled, and the soft, paper-wrapped package in her hands slipped to the caleche's boards.

He broke off and, with a low laugh, reached to snag it and set it back on her lap. "Do you want to go back upstairs, leannan?"

"Oh, yes," she breathed on a sigh. "But no."

"Women." He shook his own head, bright gold in the sun, and lifted the caleche's reins.

"Drive fast," she urged, and then, "Faster," until they were racing toward Cainewood at an alarming speed, considering her delicate state. "I want to be there with Cait when the babe greets the world."

But as she was hurrying up Cainewood's carved stone staircase, the thready cry of a newborn split the air. She paused with her hand on the gray marble rail.

Trick squeezed her around the shoulders. "Sorry we're late, lass, but do you not think our little interlude was worth it? We so rarely have time to ourselves these days."

"I suppose." She gave him a mock pout. "Let's go meet the child."

The door to Jason and Caithren's chamber was wide open, the room crammed with cooing Chases. Cait reclined like a queen in the cobalt-curtained bed, a squalling infant in her arms.

"For me?" she asked with a smile, indicating the gift in Kendra's hands. "Or the babe?"

"Both." Kendra handed it to her. "Though really it's from your cousin Cameron. I wrote asking him to send it. Then he wouldn't accept my money." Looking around the noisy chamber while Caithren opened the package, she spotted Jason and Colin, but not her twin. "Is Ford not here yet?"

Jason sat beside Cait. "He sent a message from Lakefield House that they'd be a bit late," he said, helping his wife unfold a green and blue plaid blanket. "Seems to think he's on the verge of some discovery."

"Turning iron into gold? He always did want to be Midas." Kendra laughed, moving closer as a grinning Cait wrapped her child in the Leslie tartan.

Like magic, the babe quieted.

Swathed in its mother's clan colors, the child looked so precious and content. Feeling her heart melt with tenderness, Kendra ran a fingertip along its downy cheek. "Everything went well?" she asked Cait while smiling down at the newborn. "The babe is healthy? And you're fine?"

"Aye. Everything went perfectly."

The baby grasped her finger with tiny fingers of its own. Such a miracle. Beneath the new blanket, it was swaddled in white, not blue or pink. She looked up. "Well, what is it?"

Cait gave a happy sigh. "A lad."

"Another boy?"

That made three. The Chase family had multiplied in the six years since Kendra and Trick were wed.

Cait's two older sons were bouncing on the canopied bed. Thankfully the babe didn't seem to mind the wild ride.

The rest of the chamber was no more calm. Amy and Colin's two boys were racing around the room, chasing Kendra and Trick's two giggling daughters and gleefully careening off the tapestried walls. The oldest of the cousins at seven, Jewel was a bit more sedate. Of course that was because she was busy at the moment, serenading the new arrival with a lullaby—at the top of her lungs.

One of Kendra's young daughters rammed into her knees, the result of a hopeless attempt to escape her pursuing cousins. As she lifted the girl into her arms, Trick moved close. "Chaos, as always," he whispered.

"Yes," she said, turning to him. "But a happy chaos, don't you think?"

He grinned and took her mouth in a kiss, right there in front of her brothers and everyone, like their first kiss in Cainewood's chapel so many years before.

And this kiss left her every bit as shaken.

A glorious thing, true love was, she thought as she pulled back with a smile, their daughter wriggling between them. Once, long ago, she'd promised Trick he'd find true love, and she'd followed through, hadn't she?

A Chase promise was never given lightly.

Thank you for reading The Jewel Trilogy!

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If you'd like to learn more about the

real people, places, and events in Amber,

read on for my Author's Note.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Dear Reader,

King Charles I's baggage ferry really did go down in the Firth of Forth that fated summer of 1633, although—so far as I know!—nobody had substituted rocks for the treasure. Interestingly, the sinking wasn't common knowledge until the early 1990s. Apparently embarrassed by the loss, Charles did his best to keep it quiet, and it was centuries before a historian noticed a footnote and began to look into it. Since then, three accounts have been found that make mention of the sinking. But although all the writers were contemporary to the incident, none of them were actually present, and therefore little is known about what actually lies at the bottom of the Firth of Forth.

We know that one of two wooden ferries went down, carrying a portion of the king's household property, but which possessions were aboard remains to be seen. It is assumed to be mostly kitchen goods—a Royal "kitchen" consisting mainly of solid silver and gold serving pieces—but this is only a guess based on accountings of replacement items that were ordered in the months afterward.

The search for the shipwreck begin soon after discovery of its existence, but progress has been slow, because conditions in the Forth—frigid choppy water, strong tides, poor visibility—severely limit diving opportunities. Early on, an American team searched for several summers, but their efforts proved unsuccessful. Following two years of inactivity, the project resumed, this time under a nonprofit group formed for the purpose, Burntisland Heritage Trust. The search is being carried out in acceptance with strict archaeological guidelines, and Historic Scotland is responsible for assuring that those standards are met and maintained. The world waits with bated breath to see what will rise from the Firth of Forth...here's hoping they don't find chests filled with rocks!

As for the highwayman Jack Nevison (nicknamed Swift Nicks by King Charles II himself), the story Ford told of his ride from London to York was true, as well as the tale of his court visit and pardon from Charles. But alas, not one to learn from his mistakes, the notorious robber continued his life of crime. His escapes from prison were legendary, including the stunt I borrowed where a doctor friend painted him with blue spots and declared him dead. In 1685, he was caught for the last time in York. Brought to a hasty trial before he could devise an escape, he pleaded the king's most gracious pardon, which he claimed covered subsequent as well as prior misdeeds. Not surprisingly, the court dismissed his defense, and at the trip old age of forty-six, Swift Nicks found himself hanged.

The homes in my stories are usually inspired by real-life places, and this book is no exception. Although I put it in a different geographic location, Amberley House and its beautiful gardens were loosely modeled on Hatfield House in Hertfordshire, England. The original palace, built in 1497 by the Bishop of Ely, was the childhood and young-adult home of the first Queen Elizabeth. Two portraits of her can be viewed in the home today, along with some of her clothing and letters.

Elizabeth's successor, James I, didn't care for Hatfield as a home, preferring Theobalds, the residence of Robert Cecil, first Earl of Salisbury. He proposed an exchange, and the Cecils agreed. In 1608, the earl tore down most of the palace and began building the present house in what was then a modern style, at a cost of over £38,000, a staggering amount of money in those times. Though first designed by Robert Lyminge, the plans were modified by others, including, it is thought, young Inigo Jones. This is the house that you can visit today, and the one Kendra saw when she first rode up that long drive.

From the seventeenth century until present day, Hatfield House has served as both a social and political center, hosting luminaries from royalty on down. Well worth a visit, the magnificent house is open for tours from March through October, and most of the gardens are open year-round.

Duncraven Castle was invented when I stayed at Borthwick Castle, twin towers located just south of Edinburgh in Scotland (although, once again, I took the liberty of moving it). Built in 1430 by the first Lord Borthwick, whose sepulchre can still be seen with that of his Lady in the old village church, its virtually impregnable stone walls sheltered Mary Queen of Scots in her last days of freedom. When a force of some thousand men surrounded the castle, her husband, Bothwell, escaped, leaving Mary behind under the protection of the Borthwicks. Disguised as a page boy, Mary then climbed through a window in the great hall, lowered herself by rope to the ground below, and set off through the gate and across the glen in search of her husband. The stuff of romance novels, isn't it? But sadly, their reunion was a short one, and the tragic queen never again knew true freedom.

Nearly a century later, Borthwick Castle was besieged by the forces of Oliver Cromwell, whose letter demanding surrender—the same one read by Trick in my story—hangs framed in today's great hall. Weathered and nobly scarred, Borthwick still stands hundreds of years later. Sir Walter Scott described Borthwick as by far the finest example of the Scottish castles which consist of a single "donjon," or keep. So it was, and so it still is, now run as a bed and breakfast. Do treat yourself with a stay there if ever you get a chance. After a delicious gourmet dinner, you may sit before the immense fireplace, sipping spirits while the caretakers regale you with stories of ghosts and legends. And when you climb the winding staircase to your chamber, don't be surprised if you find yourself looking over your shoulder...

To see pictures and learn more about the real people and real places in Amber, please visit my website at www.LaurenRoyal.com. There you may also enter a contest, sign up for my newsletter, and find recipes for some of the seventeenth-century foods that Kendra and Trick ate in this story. My favorite is the Tarte of Spinage (otherwise known as spinach pie), which my daughter and I make every Thanksgiving. I adore reader mail, so I hope you will e-mail me at Lauren@LaurenRoyal.com and tell me which recipe you like the best!

For a chance to revisit Kendra and Trick, look for Violet, which is Ford Chase's story and the first book in my Flower Trilogy. You'll find an excerpt in the back of this book.

To hear about my upcoming releases, my contests, and other news, please sign up for my newsletter, friend me on Facebook, or follow me on Twitter (@readLaurenRoyal) or Pinterest. I love to keep up with my readers!

I hope you enjoyed Amber—thank you for reading!

Till next time,

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My heartfelt thanks:

To my editor, Audrey LaFehr, for always knowing how to make my stories better.

To my critique partner, Terri Castoro, for her willingness to read it again no matter how many times I decide to Change Everything.

To my husband, Jack, for encouraging this all-consuming career, even though he thought he was marrying a jeweler, not a writer. And also for keeping up with my website with surprisingly little nagging.

To my son, Brent, for designing my website in the first place and formatting all of my books.

To my daughter, Devonie, for the brilliant new blurb.

To Ian Archibald, Project Manager for the Burntisland Heritage Trust, for information regarding the search for the Charles I shipwreck.

To seventeenth-century poets George Herbert, Robert Herrick, Richard Lovelace, and Samuel Rowley, for inspiring Trick's poetry (and generously—if unwittingly—allowing him to borrow a line or two for period flavor).

To my official First Readers—Alison Bellach, Taire Martyn, and Karen Nesbitt—for lots of laughs and invaluable feedback.

To Herb, Joan, Ken, and Dawn Royal, for reading and commenting on the sort-of-spiffed-up version (and, as always, for being willing to make fools of themselves promoting their daughter's/sister's/sister-in-law's books).

To Libby Graham and Andrew Metz, for touring me though the used bookstores on Charing Cross Road and sending hard-to-find research material from the UK.

To my fearless and intrepid Publicity Team—Deb Alexander, Dick Alexander, Jane Armstrong, Robin Ashcroft, Joyce Basch, Alison Bellach, Caroline Ballach, Diana Brandmeyer, Carol Carter, Terri Castoro, Vicki Crum, Elaine Ecuyer, Shirley Feit, Dale Gordon, Darren Holmquist, Lori Howell, Irm Jawor, Taire Martyn, Cindy Meyer, Lynne Miller, Amanda Murphy, Karen Nesbitt, DeeDee Perkins, Nancy Phillips, Jack Poole, Stacey Royal, Wendi Royal, Sandy Shniderson, Diena Simmons, Connie Story, Stacy Volpe, and Julie Walker—for enthusiastically going above and beyond.

And, as always, to all the readers who have taken their time to write and tell me how you feel about my stories, for being my inspiration.

Thanks to each and every one of you—you're what keeps me writing.

BONUS MATERIAL

About the Author

Contest

Books by Lauren Royal

Excerpt from VIOLET

Recommended Reads

Contact Information

ABOUT LAUREN ROYAL

I decided to become a writer in the third grade, after winning a “Why My Mother is the Greatest” essay contest and seeing my entry published in a major newspaper. But everyone told me it's too hard for novelists to get published, so after college I spent fourteen years as the CEO of my own jewelry store chain before writing my first book.

I've been oh-so-lucky to see my books hit bestseller lists all over the world and win awards including the Golden Quill and Booklist's Top 10 Romance of the Year, making this second career a real dream come true. I live in Southern California with my husband, our three young adult children, and one constantly shedding cat, and I still think my mother is the greatest!

I love to hear from readers. You can e-mail me at Lauren@LaurenRoyal.com or via the "Keep in Touch" section on my website at www.LaurenRoyal.com.

ENTER FOR A CHANCE TO WIN

a 54" strand of cultured freshwater pearls,

similar to the pearls Trick gives Kendra in this book!*

To enter, visit the contest page on Lauren's website at

http://www.LaurenRoyal.com and answer a question

to be entered in the monthly drawing.

No purchase necessary. See complete rules on the site.

*Please note: Depending on when you enter, the prize may be another piece of jewelry associated with one of Lauren's books.

BOOKS BY LAUREN ROYAL

The Jewel Trilogy

Amethyst

Emerald

Amber

Forevermore (a Jewel Trilogy novella)

The Flower Trilogy

Violet

Lily

Rose

The Temptations Trilogy

Lost in Temptation

Tempting Juliana

The Art of Temptation

Violet's story,

first in the Flower Trilogy

is also

Ford Chase's story,

concluding the Jewel Trilogy!

Excerpt from

VIOLET

Book One of the

Flower Trilogy

by Lauren Royal

England

July 15, 1673

St. Swithin's Day. Well, it was fitting.

Viscount Lakefield stared out his carriage window at the miserable, wet landscape. According to St. Swithin's legend, if it rained on the fifteenth of July, it would continue for forty days and nights. Normally not a man given to superstition, today Ford Chase found such nonsense plausible.

This was shaping up to be the worst day of his life.

The carriage rattled over the drawbridge and into the modest courtyard of Greystone, his older brother's small castle. Cold raindrops pelted Ford's head when he shoved open the door and leapt to the circular drive. Drenched gravel crunching beneath his boots, he made his way down a short, covered passageway and banged the knocker on the unassuming oak door.

Benchley cracked open the door, then slipped outside and shut it behind him. "My lord, what brings you here today?"

"I wish to speak with my brother." Ford frowned down at the small, wiry valet. What was he doing answering the door? "Will you be letting me in?"

"I think not." Benchley lifted his beak of a nose. "I'll fetch Lord Greystone." And with that, he disappeared back into the ancient castle.

Shivering, Ford stood frozen in disbelief before deciding this treatment fit in with the rest of his day. Rain dripped from his long brown hair to sprinkle on the stones at his feet. Wondering why he should need permission to enter his brother's home, he moved to reach for the latch.

The door opened, and his brother stepped out. He looked haggard, his face a pasty gray, his green eyes and black hair dull.

"Colin? What the devil's going on?"

"Illness. Measles, we think. Thank God you're here."

Ford pulled his surcoat tighter around himself. "Come again?"

"Amy is ill, along with little Hugh and the baby. And half of the servants. One of them died yesterday," Colin added grimly.

"Died?" Ford's gut twisted as he thought of Amy—Colin's beautiful, raven-haired wife—and their bright four-year-old son, Hugh, and the baby, Aidan…all dead.

"It's not so bad as all that," Colin rushed to assure him, evidently reading the concern on his face. "The poor maid was eighty if she were a day, and the disease went straight to her lungs. I'm not expecting my family to perish."

"At least you won't be getting it. If you'll remember, all four of us had it while in exile on the Continent."

"I could hardly forget." Appearing as though he could barely hold himself up, Colin leaned against the doorpost. "But what does that have to do with now?"

"At a Royal Society lecture, I learned one cannot fall ill with the same disease twice," Ford explained.

"I've had measles more than once."

"Not true measles, the one with the high fever. Spotted skin is a symptom of many different conditions."

"Trust you to know something like that." Although Colin looked relieved, his smile was bleak. "Still, the fever is savage, and Jewel has yet to suffer measles. True measles, as you put it. Will you take her from here before she succumbs as well? It would relieve my mind, and Amy's too, I'm sure. The worry is doing her recovery no good."

Alarm bells went off in Ford's head. Take his niece? Where? What would he do with a young girl? "Well, I only stopped by to let you know I've left London and will be at Lakefield for the foreseeable future—"

"Perfect."

"—working on my new watch design. I…I just wanted to be alone for a while. Lady Tabitha has eloped."

"With the rest of the family off in Scotland, I was at my wit's end deciding what to do. I was about to settle Jewel in the village. But this will be much better—"

"Tabitha eloped," Ford repeated, wondering why his brother hadn't reacted to this astonishing news. After all, Tabitha had just upset his entire life plan.

"She eloped?" Colin blinked, then shook his head. "Come now, Ford. What did you expect? After six years of suffering your attentions whenever you deigned to show up in London, and sharing your bed, I assume—"

She had. So what of it? No one in King Charles II's circle was virtuous. Colin hadn't been a monk before meeting his wife, and neither had their oldest brother Jason. The three Chase brothers were all titled and intimates of the king, which naturally meant they were popular with the ladies at court—and none of them had hesitated to take advantage in their day.

"—a lady," Colin continued, "would expect a proposal."

"I told her we'd marry someday. In two or three years." Tabitha had seemed the ideal woman for Ford—stunningly beautiful, always ready to attend a ball or an evening at court. They matched well in bed, and when they weren't together she busied herself with whatever women liked to do, leaving him plenty of time for his work. "For God's sake, she's only twenty-one, and I'm just twenty-eight. Jason married at thirty-two, and no one was on his back."

"I married at twenty-eight."

"You were in a hurry to have children."

"While I'm sure you would as soon do without them altogether." Colin rubbed his eyes. "You really have no idea why Tabitha gave up on you, do you? I hate to tell you this, little brother, but it's time you grew up and realized there's more to life than science and seduction. As the baby of the family, maybe Jason and I coddled you too much."

From beyond the passageway, the patter of rain filled their sudden silence. Colin was obviously weary, so Ford thought it best not to argue. Doubtless Colin had spent sleepless nights watching over his wife and sons—exactly why Ford wasn't ready for a family of his own.

"You look tired," he said. "You'd best get some rest."

His brother heaved a sigh. "I'd rest easier if I knew you had Jewel. You'll take her, won't you?"

What the devil would he do with a girl who wasn't yet six? He loved her, of course. She shared his blood. But that didn't mean he had a clue how to care for her. Bouncing her on his knee or playing a simple card game with her was one thing. A few minutes of fun before returning her to her parents. But to be responsible for a child…

He shoved a hand through his wet hair. "For how long?"

"A week or two. Maybe three. Until the illness has run its course." Colin twisted the signet ring on his finger, narrowing his gaze. "Why are you hesitating? I need you."

"I'm not hesitating," Ford protested. "I just…"

His brother's eyes opened wide. "Did you think I'd expect you to care for her on your own? God forbid." His lips quirked as though he might laugh, but he coughed instead. On purpose, Ford was sure. "I'll send Lydia along with her."

Despite his annoyance at being read so easily—not to mention distrusted—the tension left Ford's shoulders. With Lydia, Jewel's very competent nurse, on the premises, he wouldn't have to care for the girl, wouldn't have to struggle to interpret her mystifying female language and needs. He could just poke his head into her room and say hello every once in a while.

"You won't have to do a thing," Colin added, his tight expression easing into a wry half-smile. "You might try talking with your niece, though. It's time you learned to communicate with the lesser species. You know, those of us of insufficient age or intelligence to grasp the deepest secrets of the universe."

"I don't—"

"Maybe that was your problem with Tabitha."

Ford gritted his teeth. He'd never fooled himself into thinking he understood the opposite sex. His science was what drove him. But he'd had no problems with Tabitha, and he was finished with this discussion.

"Of course I'll take Jewel," he said, consciously relaxing his jaw. "Bring her out—I'll be waiting in my carriage."

"Listen to this." Sitting with her two sisters while their mother worked nearby, Violet Ashcroft cleared her throat. "'To say that a blind custom of obedience should be a surer obligation than duty taught and understood…is to affirm that a blind man may tread surer by a guide than a seeing man by a light.'"

"What is that supposed to mean?" her youngest sister, Lily, asked. Busily stitching her tapestry in the grayish light from the large picture window, Lily probably had little real desire to know what the quote meant. But she was unfailingly kind, and Violet would never turn away from anyone willing to listen.

She hitched herself forward on the green brocade chair. "Well, now—"

"Why do you care?" their middle sister, Rose, interrupted. Rose cared little for anything that didn't have to do with dancing, clothes, or men. Looking up from the vase of flowers she was arranging, she tossed her gleaming ringlets. "It's nothing but a bunch of gibberish, if you ask me."

"Nobody asked." Violet pointedly looked to Lily. "Did you hear anyone ask?"

"Girls." Clucking her tongue, their mother poured a dipperful of water into the kettle over the fire. "I used to comfort myself that when you all grew up, this bickering would cease. Yet it never has."

Lily's blue eyes were all innocence, despite having reached the advanced age of sixteen. "But Mum," she said sweetly. Their mother's proper name was Chrystabel, but as their flower-obsessed father called her Chrysanthemum, they'd taken to calling her Mum. "It's loving bickering."

"And a bad example for your young brother." With a sigh, Chrystabel resumed plucking petals from a bunch of lush pink roses. "What does it mean?" she asked Violet. "And who said it?"

"It means we should understand why we are doing things instead of blindly following orders. Rather like our Ashcroft family motto: Interroga Conformationem, Question Convention. But said much more eloquently, don't you think? By Francis Bacon."

Violet snapped the book closed, its title, Advancement of Learning, winking gold from the spine in her lap. "But I'm wondering," she teased. "When did my Mum become interested in philosophy?"

"I'm interested in all my children's hobbies."

"Philosophy is more than a hobby," Violet protested. "It's a way of looking at life."

"Of course it is." The kettle was bubbling merrily, spewing steam into the dim room. The fire and a few candles were no match for this gloomy, rainy afternoon. "Will you come and hold this for me, dear?"

Violet set down the book and wandered over to the large, utilitarian table she always thought looked somewhat out of place in what used to be a formal drawing room. "Did Father bring you more roses this morning?"

"Doesn't he always?" Chrystabel's musical laughter warmed Violet to her toes. "Sweet man, he is, rising early to gather them between dawn and sunrise, when their scent is at its peak."

Violet's laughter joined her mother's. "Insane man, you mean." Sweet wasn't a word she'd use to describe the Earl of Trentingham—eccentric fit her father much better. But her parents both seemed to be blind where the other's oddities were concerned.

Not that that was a bad thing. For certain, if Violet were ever to wed—an event she considered unlikely indeed—her husband would have to be more than a little bit blind. She didn't have rich chestnut hair like her sisters—hers was a blander, lighter brown. And her eyes were plain brown as well, not the mysterious almost-black of Rose's or the fathomless deep-blue of Lily's. Just brown.

Average, she decided. Neither fat nor thin. Not tall like Rose nor petite like Lily, but medium height. Average.

But, happily, she didn't mind being average. Because average was rarely noticed, and the truth was, she'd never liked being the center of attention.

Rose thrived on it, though. "Let me help, Mum," she squealed, dropping the stem of blue sweet peas she'd been about to add to her floral arrangement. "Violet probably won't get the top on straight."

Tactless, at best, but at seventeen, Rose still had some time to grow up. With an indulgent sigh, Violet stuck a wooden block upright in the big bowl. She held it in place while Mum sprinkled in all the rose petals, then turned to lift the kettle.

In a slow, careful stream, Chrystabel poured just enough water over the fragrant flowers to cover them. Quickly Rose popped another, larger bowl upside down on top of the wooden block, using it as a pedestal. The steam would collect beneath and drip down the edges to the tray below. As it cooled, it would separate into rosewater and essential rose oil.

Distillation, Mum called it.

A rich, floral scent wafted up, and Violet inhaled deeply. As hobbies went, she did appreciate her mother's unusual one of perfume-making.

"Thank you, girls," Chrystabel said when Violet released the bowl. "Would you hand me that vial of lavender essence?"

Violet turned and squinted at the labels, then reached for the proper glass tube. "I read in the news sheet this morning that Christopher Wren is going to be knighted later this year. And he was just elected to the Council of the Royal Society."

Mum took the vial. "That odd group of scientists?"

Violet smiled inside, thinking Chrystabel Ashcroft a bit odd herself. "There are philosophers as members, too. And statesmen and physicians. I'd love to hear one of their lectures someday."

"The Royal Society doesn't allow women at their meetings." Chrystabel pulled the cork stopper and waved the lavender under her nose. "Besides, most of the men are married."

"I don't want them to court me, Mum." On the whole, she didn't want anyone to court her, much to her mother's distress. "I only wish to cudgel their brains."

Frowning, Chrystabel lowered a dropper into the vial. "Cudgel their—"

"Talk to them, I mean. Share some ideas. They're so brilliant."

"Men aren't interested in talking to women," Rose told her, "and the sooner you learn that, the sooner you'll find one of your own."

"Faith, Rose. I'm only twenty. You'd think I was in my dotage, the way you've become set on marrying me off."

"You're expected to wed before I do."

The words were uttered so innocently, Violet couldn't find it in her to hold a grudge. Of course Rose wanted to marry, and convention dictated the girls wed in order.

But Violet was nothing if not realistic. She knew her plain looks, together with her unusual interests, were likely to make it difficult—if not impossible—for her to find a compatible husband. But that didn't really bother her, and she would never want her own dim prospects to keep her lovely sisters from finding happiness.

Besides, when had the Ashcrofts been conventional? They could marry in any order they chose. Or in her case, not at all.

She watched her mother add three drops of lavender to the bottle of fragrance she was creating, then swirl it carefully.

"Is that a new blend?" Violet asked.

"For Lady Cunningham." Chrystabel sniffed deeply and passed the bottle to her oldest daughter. "What do you think?"

Violet smelled it and considered. "Too sweet. Lady Cunningham is anything but sweet." The woman's voice could curdle milk. Violet handed back the mixture, hunting for the vial of petitgrain she knew would soften it.

Nodding approvingly, her mother added two drops, then made a note on the little recipe card she kept for each of her friends.

"Look," Lily said, her embroidery forgotten. She rose and settled herself in the large, green-padded window seat. "There's a carriage about to pass by."

Chrystabel and Rose hurried to join her at window, while Violet returned to her chair and opened her book. "So?"

"So…" Lily brushed her fingers over one of the flower arrangements that Rose left all over the house, sending a burst of scent into the air. "We get so little traffic here, I'm just wondering who it might be."

"The three of you are too curious for your own good." Violet flipped a page, hoping to find another sage insight. Not that she'd bother sharing it this time.

"It's our occasional neighbor," her mother said. "The viscount."

Violet's attention strayed from Bacon's brilliance. "How do you know?"

"I recognize his carriage. A hand-me-down from his brother, the marquess."

"How is it you know everyone's business?" Violet wondered aloud.

"It's not so very difficult, my dear. One need only take an interest, open her eyes and ears, and use her head. I believe the viscount is in tight straits. Not only because of the second-hand carriage, but heavens, the state of his gardens. Your father nearly chokes every time we ride past."

"I'm surprised Father hasn't made his way over to set the garden to rights," Lily said.

"Don't think he hasn't considered it." Chrystabel leaned her palms on the windowsill, studying the passing coach. "Why, I do believe Lord Lakefield isn't alone."

Despite herself, Violet rose, one finger holding her place in the book. "And how do you know that?"

"The vehicle's curtains aren't drawn." Chrystabel gave a happy gasp of discovery. "There's a child inside! And a woman!"

Her interest finally piqued, Violet wandered to the window to see, but of course the carriage was only a blur.

Everything more than a few feet from Violet's eyes always looked like a blur. It was the reason she preferred staying at home with her books and news sheets, rather than going about to socialize with her mother and two younger sisters. She was afraid she'd embarrass herself by failing to recognize a friend across the room.

"Well, well, well," Mum said. "I must go bring the lady a gift of perfume and welcome her to the neighborhood."

"You mean find out who she is," Violet said.

Her mother's second hobby was delivering perfume and receiving gossip in exchange. Not that anyone begrudged her the information. To the contrary, Chrystabel Ashcroft never needed to pry a word out of anyone. Warm and well-loved, she barely walked in the door before women began spilling their secrets.

On the rare occasions her mother had succeeded in dragging her along, Violet had seen it happen, her bad eyes notwithstanding.

"I wonder if the viscount has married?" Rose asked.

"I expect not," Chrystabel said. "He's much too intellectual for anyone I know." As the carriage disappeared into the distance, she turned from the window. "Why, he's a member of that Royal Society, isn't he?"

"I believe so." Violet watched her mother wander back to the table, wishing she'd never mentioned wanting to attend a Royal Society lecture. The last thing she needed was Mum plotting her marriage. "Perhaps he would suit Rose or Lily."

"I think not." Mum sniffed the perfume in progress, then chose another vial. "I cannot imagine whom he would suit, but certainly not your sisters."

"It's just as well," Rose said, "since you know we three have a pact to save one another from your matchmaking schemes."

It was one thing—perhaps the only thing—the sisters agreed on.

"Heavens, girls. It's not as though I arrange marriages behind the backs of my friends." Everyone Chrystabel knew was her friend. Literally. And they all adored her. "All of my brides and grooms are willing—"

"Victims?" Violet broke in to supply.

"Participants," Chrystabel countered.

Lily sat and retrieved her handiwork. "How many weddings have you arranged this year, Mum? Three? Four?"

"Five," their mother said with not a little pride. She tapped her fingernails on the vial. "Only seven months in, and a banner year already. But none, I assure you, against the participants' will."

Rose plopped back onto her own chair. "You're not matching me up, Mum. I can find my own husband."

"Me, too," Lily said.

"Me three," Violet added.

"Of course you all can." Chrystabel's graceful fingers stilled. "I wouldn't dream of meddling in my own daughters' lives."

Like it? Buy it!

Learn more about Lauren Royal and her books at LaurenRoyal.com.

Also available by Lauren Royal:

The Flower Trilogy

Violet

Lily

Rose

The Temptations Trilogy

Lost in Temptation

Tempting Juliana

The Art of Temptation

RECOMMENDED READS

Meet the Jewels of Historical Romance

These are my sisters in historical romance: award-winning, bestselling authors who sparkle! If you've enjoyed my books, be sure to check out these brilliant writers. I've chosen a book by each that I think you might enjoy...

WONDERFUL

by Jill Barnett

UNDENIABLE ROGUE

byAnnette Blair

THE BRIDE WORE BLUE

by Cheryl Bolen

SALT BRIDE

by Lucinda Brant

LADY DANGER

by Glynnis Campbell

THE MacKINNON'S BRIDE

by Tanya Anne Crosby

SANCTUARY OF ROSES

by Colleen Gleason

THE WILD ONE

by Danelle Harmon

SCANDALOUS VIRTUE

by Brenda Hiatt

THE DEVIL OF KILMARTIN

by Laurin Wittig

SILVER SEA

by Cynthia Wright

I hope you discover some new authors to love. Happy reading!

CONTACT INFORMATION

Email: Lauren@LaurenRoyal.com

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