UNMARRIAGEABLE

A historical romance

By Laurie Alice Eakes

Published by Awe-Struck E-Books, Inc.

Copyright 2002

ISBN: 1-58749-123-0

CHAPTER 1

Christina dashed away the tears that insisted on clouding her vision. She'd already turned the night into a social debacle without adding eye-reddening tears to her transgressions.

"As if standing here at midnight isn't one more foolish act," Christina addressed her moonlit reflection in the lake.

Beside her, Bella whined as though she agreed.

Christina stroked the retriever's head. "Hush, love, I need to think."

Bella's whines rose to a crescendo. She pawed at Christina's skirt, then lunged into the water.

"No." Christina hauled back on the leash. "You mustn't be wet in the morning. Bella!" The dog yanked free of Christina's hold and raced toward the woods, her barks shattering the midnight stillness.

Christina sprang in pursuit. "Bella, come back. Bel -- "

Flame stabbed through the darkness of the trees. Weight slammed against Christina's back, knocking the breath from her, knocking her face first in the water, the weight atop her, a body far heavier, far stronger, far larger than her own.

She couldn't breathe. She couldn't see. She couldn't move. All she heard was blood roaring through her ears and her own need to scream echoing inside her head.

With all her strength, she shoved against her captor. The lakebed gave way beneath her. Her captor remained as immobile as a marble slab, a gravestone.

She was trapped!

Heaven help her, she was going to drown. She, who swam better than the brother who taught her, was going to end up a corpse in six inches of water.

Fool! she upbraided herself. This is what comes of disobeying your parents. If only you'd accepted Sir Roderick!

His face flashed through her mind, florid, puffy, wet-lipped.

If marrying a man like Sir Roderick was her choice of a future, drowning might not be so bad. If only the end would hurry, freeing her. She needed freedom!

A hand slid beneath her chin, lifting her face from the water. She gasped for air. Lights danced before her eyes, and Bella's barks dwindled into the distance.

"Bella!" Her cry was instinctual.

Her attacker's hand slid from her chin to her lips. "Shh." The command came as soft breath across her ear. Satiny hair and a slightly prickly cheek touched her face, warm against her chilled skin.

The gesture might have felt reassuring had the man not continued to hold her captive with his hard thighs against her legs, his broad chest against her back, and one hand gripping her shoulder. He was too big, too strong, too confining.

"Let me go." She wanted to sound commanding. She knew she sounded frightened.

"Shh," he repeated. His lips moved against her ear like a lover's. "Don't move yet."

Yet. She caught that word and clung to it. It sounded promising, as reassuring as the cheek he laid against hers. He intended to release her.

Before she lost her reason? Before Bella reached the neighboring estate of Belton Abbey?

All too aware of the disaster that would arise if Bella reached the home of Sir Mark Shields, she commanded, "Let me up."

She would run the instant he did.

To her surprise, to her relief, the man rolled away. "I believe she's chased him off." Though he spoke in an undertone, his voice was clearer than when he'd murmured in her ear, and his speech held an odd, foreign cadence she didn't recognize.

His remark made no sense to her either.

"Him?" Slowly, so he wouldn't guess her intent to bolt and hold her down again, she raised herself on one hand and stared at the blurred image of the man's features. "Him who?"

"The man who shot at -- the man who fired."

"Fired? As in a gun?"

"Yes, ma'am. A rifle I think, though it was hard to tell over the dog."

Christina forgot her intention to run. She forgot she lay in six inches of cold water. She remembered the stab of flame from the trees, and a shiver racked her body. "You knocked me into the water to get me out of the line of fire."

"Yes, ma'am. Now, let me help you out again." He curved his hands on either side of her waist and lifted her to a sitting position on the grassy shore as though she was no larger than a child. "I'm sorry I nearly drowned you."

"Sorry!" Christina fought back nausea as a chill racked her body. "Don't be sorry. You saved my life."

"I don't know if I'd go so far as to say that. It's a long shot, even for a rifle." He spoke aloud for the first time, his voice deep and gentle, the cadence much like the drawl London gentlemen affected, but more natural.

Christina caught her breath. "You're an American."

"I am." The words conveyed hauteur and defensiveness.

"Then no wonder someone shot at you."

The stranger's hand closed over hers. "The war has been over for seven months."

"Not here in Devonshire it hasn't. We lost too many sailors and too much money to you Yankees."

"And what about -- " He removed his hand from hers. "I don't think this is the time or place to discuss the recent conflict. There's a madman out there with a gun."

"My dog!" Christina scrambled to her feet. "How remiss of me to forget Bella!"

"You can't go after her." The man's tone was uncompromising. He stood, and his size was uncompromising too.

Standing in front of her, he looked even larger, a broad-shouldered silhouette against the now misty moonlight, a full head taller than her above average height. Too long for English fashion, his hair framed his face in a dark tangle, making him look barbaric.

Her arms crossed over her breasts, Christina took an involuntary step backward. "I must go after her."

"I'll look for her after I escort you home."

"Escort me home?" Later, she might find the notion amusing. "Sir, you're already trespassing on my father's land. I'm not about to lead you to our house." Realizing she sounded churlish, she added, "You'd likely get lost on the way back to wherever you're staying. And I mustn't leave Bella out there alone."

"I can't leave you alone. Is there a gamekeeper who'll investigate the ruckus?"

"No, he won't -- " Christina wished she had bitten her tongue rather than divulge that bit of information. She tried to cover up her error with another truth. "They won't go to Belton Abbey land, and I think that's where Bella went."

"Then I'll go look for her." He curved his hand under her elbow. "But after I take you home."

Was he dull-witted?

She spoke slowly through teeth clenched to keep them from chattering. "I will not go home without my dog. There'll be the devil to pay if I do."

He was silent for a moment, then nodded. "I thought you talked like a lady. You shouldn't be here any more than I."

Christina bowed her head in admission of the truth.

"Then wait here while I go find your dog." He glanced toward the summerhouse, rising in white marble splendor beside the lake. "That has a deep foundation. Is it a room?"

"A boat house, but I don't have a key." That was a lie. She knew where the key lay hidden, but she wasn't about to lock herself into the dank, dark chamber. If she did, the man with the gun wouldn't be the only bedlamite out that night.

"I'll go with you. Bella won't come to a stranger."

"But, ma'am, you're soaked through. You must be freezing."

"Rather freezing than locked in my room for a month." She made it sound like a jest, but it was too liable to happen to be amusing. Her parents had done it before. They had threatened to do it again. Their threats would be reality if her parents caught her outside.

Conscious of her folly in coming to the lake under the circumstances at home, she hastened toward the Belton Abbey end of the lake.

The American reached her side and laid his hand on her shoulder gently, yet firmly enough to stop her. "At least take my coat."

Christina wanted to refuse. But she was cold. Still, she couldn't take it, then elude him in the woods.

Before she made up her mind, he laid the coat over her shoulders. It was warm from his body, a little damp on the sleeves and sides, and smelled of fresh air, a tangy- scented soap, and man. The lining was silk and the wool soft.

Snuggling into the warmth, Christina appreciated the man's generosity. Except now she had to stay with him, and even if he had pushed her out of the line of fire, she didn't trust him. He was an American in Devon only thirty miles from Dartmoor Prison, where many of his countrymen were still confined, waiting for transport back across the Atlantic. Undoubtedly, he had led the gunman straight to her.

What kind of man got himself shot at? Surely not the kind she wanted to be alone with in the middle of the night, far from a house, far from safety.

She would have to find safety in her greater knowledge of the countryside. Once she had Bella in tow, she could toss down the man's coat and slip away to the kennel, then her chamber with no one the wiser.

So where had Bella gone? Christina heard no barking. She barely heard the stranger's footfalls on the path leading around the lake and into the woods. His silence made her nervous. Yet conversation was out of the question. She needed to listen for Bella or any sound that might mean danger.

All at once, the folly of wandering through the woods swept over Christina. Panic sucked air from her lungs, and she paused to lean against an ancient oak and take several deep breaths. "I shouldn't be doing this. He could have eluded Bella and come back to look for you."

"For me?" The man sounded skeptical.

Christina glared at him, though she knew he couldn't see her in the darkness beneath the trees. "Of course he was shooting at you. Who else? Me?"

The man didn't answer immediately. When he did, he spoke with care as if translating from another language into English. "I thought he was a poacher."

"Poachers in England don't use guns, especially not if you're right and it's a rifle."

"But you said you don't have a gamekeeper to investigate."

Christina took a steadying breath. "We have a gamekeeper. I pay him part of my allowance to let men poach."

The stranger remained silent for several moments, but Christina felt him staring at her as if he could see in the dark. Then he took a step closer to her. "Was that wise when you go to the lake alone in the middle of the night? Or is it uncommon for you to do so?"

Christina gave out a little laugh. "Oh, it's common. But I thought it safe. At least I thought the slight risk worth helping out all those sailors and soldiers left on the roads to starve now that we're done fighting Bonaparte and Yankees."

"What kindness." His tone held tenderness. He stood close beside her, close enough to touch.

He did touch her, his fingertips light as thistledown against her face. For a dizzying instant, she thought he intended to kiss her. She thought she would let him.

Then he dropped his hand. Sanity returned. She spun on her heel, then headed down the path with more speed than care.

He moved right behind her. She sensed him more than heard him. Her entire body reacted to his nearness, wanting him closer and wishing him back in America.

Her upsetting evening was playing havoc with reason. She, Lady Christina Marlowe, courted by half the eligible men in the kingdom since she'd left the schoolroom, felt drawn to a man about whom she knew nothing. At least she knew nothing to recommend him except that he was taller than she was.

"How do you intend to find your dog?" he asked.

Though his voice was smooth and gentle, the suddenness of the question made Christina jump. "I'll whistle."

"You can whistle?" His surprise was apparent.

Christina grinned. "For dogs and horses. Less identifiable than a voice, don't you think?"

"Yes, I suppose it is." He sounded thoughtful.

And speaking of voices, she thought, his was something else to recommend him. Thick and rich as Devonshire cream, it glided over her senses as his fingers had glided over her skin.

She had to find Bella and get away!

She paused and raised two fingers to her lips. The whistle that issued forth was piercing enough to be heard throughout the wood. Above their heads, a bird gave out an indignant chirp. Nothing else stirred.

Christina drew in a breath to repeat the whistle.

"Wait." The stranger grasped her arm. "We should move before you whistle again."

"But Bella won't -- oh, you think the gunman may come to my whistle instead."

"He's probably far away by now, but we should be careful."

"Yes, we should." A shiver passed through Christina, and she hugged the man's coat around her. "But the consequences of letting Bella stay free are worth the risk."

"Not worth your life."

"Life?" Christina laughed, hearing the bitter ring. "My life will be worthless if I'm caught out here." She took a few steps forward. "Even if that weren't so, I'm not leaving an aging dog out alone." Placing her fingers to her lips, she whistled again, then waited, straining her ears for a sound that might be Bella racing to her.

She would have called, but they were too close to Belton Abbey, and if he were awake, Mark would recognize her voice. She had called to him often enough in the old days.

She started to take another step forward. The snap of a twig ahead brought her up short. Her breath snagged in her throat. The stranger slipped his arm around her waist, taut as if he prepared to fling her from harm's way.

Underbrush rustled further away. Another twig cracked in the distance. Then the woods fell silent once more.

When air expelled from her lungs in a whoosh, Christina realized she'd been holding her breath. She welcomed the stranger's arm around her. She wanted so much to lean against him.

The power of her desire for solace kept her upright. She stepped out of the shelter of his arm. "Perhaps it was a poacher after all. A man who meant you harm wouldn't run."

"Unless he doesn't wish to shoot at two people again."

Christina turned on him. "So you do think someone was shooting at you? You trespassed on my father's land and brought danger to me?"

He took his time answering. "I only arrived in the neighborhood this afternoon, and England itself day before yesterday. It seems unlikely someone could have learned of my presence and followed me through the woods with the intention of shooting me within so short a time."

"It's more believable than the poacher idea. Even if he were bold enough to fire a gun, he wouldn't aim at people."

"I suppose there's no other explanation."

"Do you think I was the intended victim?"

An inkling of doubt rocked Christina for a moment before reason returned and she dismissed the idea with a quick shake of her head. Of course no one would fire at her. She had wounded the pride of a few men, but that was no reason to wish her harm.

Christina gathered her composure around her. "It doesn't matter why. I'm staying until I find Bella. But you don't have to come with me. Go back to the Twin Towers Inn or wherever you're staying."

"The last I heard your dog, she was heading to Belton Abbey, and that's where I'm staying."

Christina nearly groaned with dismay. Of all the inns and estates between Clovelly and Plymouth, where this man could have stayed, he had to be friends with the one man who would delight in bearing tales to her father.

She hugged her arms across her chest. "I suppose I can't trust you not to tell Mark you met me tonight?"

"I haven't met you tonight," came the swift response.

Christina smiled. "And you've never seen my face."

"No, ma'am, but I think I hear your dog."

"Oh?" She cocked her ear toward another distant crackle of dead branches and rustle of last year's fallen leaves. It had to be Bella. Surely no one bent on harm would make that much noise.

Christina gave a soft whistle. The crashing grew louder faster. Then Bella hurtled through the trees and flung herself into Christina's arms.

"Oh, you darling. You lovely girl." Christina knelt and squeezed the retriever's wriggling body. "You chased off the bad man and came right back. Now, down." She smiled up at the stranger. "You may return to Belton Abbey now. Bella will keep me safe."

"Maybe she will, but I'd feel better going with you."

"I'd rather no one at my house -- " Christina broke off her protest. Stranger or not, she already knew him well enough to guess that he would come with her whether she wanted him to or not. "All right, a compromise. Walk me to the edge of the parkland. It's open from there to the house. You can stand in the trees and see me safe inside. Bella, heel."

Obediently, Bella fell into step beside Christina. The stranger walked behind them. Christina sensed each of his movements as clearly as she would have had he held her against him. Warming her body, his coat wafted his scent to her more strongly than it had at first. She inhaled something of the man with every breath.

She wanted to fling the coat away from her, and she wanted to snuggle into its folds. She wanted to wish the man to Perdition, and she wanted to meet him again. She wanted...him.

No, impossible! The idea was absurd. The idea was more frightening than being shot at. Gunshots ended quickly. When they missed their target, they were harmless. Attraction in itself was a blow, striking home, binding the one who wanted.

She walked faster as they left the woodland separating her father's land of Torr Keep from Belton Abbey land, then rounded the lake and entered the parkland. Bella raced along the path ahead of them. Behind them, mist rose from the lake like smoke, dimming the moonlight.

Christina paused. "Sir, leave me now before the light's gone or you'll lose your way."

"I won't. But even if I did, it would be worth the risk to see you safe home."

Christina gave an exasperated sigh. "Sir, I'm safer on this land than you are."

He tucked his hand beneath her elbow. "Indulge me."

Would he tighten his grip and hold her back if she ran?

Once again, she increased her speed.

He kept pace with her. "Have a care."

"I am. I'm getting home as swiftly as possible." She caught sight of Bella sitting at the end of the path, and, beyond her, the towering stone bulk of Torr Keep.

At that moment, it didn't look like the prison she considered it most of the time. It looked like a refuge.

She paused a score of feet from the edge of the trees. Facing the stranger, she held out her hand. "I'm safe from here. Thank you for your assistance."

His fingers clasped hers. "My pleasure."

His pleasure? No, it was her pleasure to feel his hand curved around hers, gripping it, holding it longer than politeness required. She didn't want to let go, but she had to remove his coat.

She held the garment out to him. "I hope it isn't ruined."

"Better that than you catching a chill." He took the coat from her, then inclined his head.

She knew the motion was a courteous gesture, a half bow of a gentleman bidding farewell to a lady. Yet she held her breath, anticipating the brush of his lips against hers.

He straightened without making contact. "Goodnight."

Glad darkness hid her disappointment, she gave him a brusque nod and spun on her heel to stride across the garden toward the kennel. Bella ambled beside her. Christina's mind raced with impressions of the past hour -- a shot, confinement, an attractive voice and thrilling touch.

Danger!

Oh, the stranger was dangerous. More than likely, he had an enemy in England and had led danger straight to her. Thank heaven she would never see him again, especially since he was a friend of Mark's. She could put her nonsensical attraction to the American and the incident with the gunshot behind her.

She couldn't put the incident with her parents and her latest suitor behind her. The lake hadn't provided her with the openness and peace she needed after her father's threats and her mother's blow. If she or Bella had been injured, her parents would have learned of her midnight escapes, and what they would have done about it...

That didn't bear thinking about. She mustn't take the risk again. She might not be lucky enough to elude detection next time.

With a sense of relief, she locked Bella in her kennel. With a greater sense of relief, she stepped into the tower with its winding stairs leading straight to her bedchamber.

The door closed without her assistance, and a hand clamped across her mouth.

CHAPTER 2

Wade Montrose stood inside the tree line and watched the lady slip across the garden with the squat, black dog padding beside her. Almost dry, the lady's pale, muslin gown alternately clung and floated around her, emphasizing the grace of her walk.

No, she didn't walk; she glided. Her muscles didn't flex; they flowed. Her joints didn't bend; they rippled. She carried herself like a queen, invincible, invulnerable.

Yet she was vulnerable. He had felt it in the tension of her body and heard it through breaks in her clear, English voice. He had wanted nothing so much as to hold her and assure her she needn't worry about a thing.

He had wanted more, too. When she told him about paying the gamekeeper to allow wandering, unemployed soldiers to poach, he'd wanted to kiss her. Then, again, he'd wanted to kiss her, when she gave him her hand in farewell. He regretted not taking advantage of both opportunities.

Taking advantage was exactly what it would have been had he given into temptation. She was alone and frightened. That fear, he suspected, wasn't entirely due to finding herself in the line of fire. She had made that comment about being locked in her room. Her anxiety over her dog's disappearance seemed unwarranted considering how easily she brought the animal back to her.

So why had she gone to the lake?

It was none of his concern. She was a stranger who aroused an interest he had no business feeling. As soon as she entered the stone monstrosity she called her house, he would never see her again. Surely she had learned her lesson and would remain safely inside at night from now on.

Across the garden, she disappeared into an outbuilding shaped like a cottage. A cacophony of barks suggested it was the kennel. Indeed, a minute later, she appeared without the dog and strode across the lawn to a door set deep into the stonework.

The door opened. The lady stepped inside. The door closed, and she was safe, out of his life, no longer his responsibility. Experiencing an irrational pang of regret, Wade turned his back on the house and headed away from the lady.

Then he heard her scream.

Wade spun toward the sound. He caught movement on the lawn, a dark shape sprinting toward the trees.

Wade leaped into a run. The man crashed through the shrubbery and set out on a course between the regimented rows of beech and pine. Wade followed the sound of footfalls pounding on earth. His own footfalls thundered beneath him, too loud for secrecy, too loud for safety.

Trees gave way to a clearing. A fountain gurgled in the center, masking other sounds. Wade skidded to a halt and glanced around for his quarry.

Was that a man or a wind-stirred tree? A shadow?

A flash!

Wade dropped and rolled a heartbeat before gunfire blasted across the meadow. Then he was up again and running.

Useless. The man was gone. Away from the fountain's chatter, the trees lay silent.

Wade stood on the path, thinking. He only needed a moment to reach his decision. Even though a stranger wasn't safe, that no one was safe in the park at present, he wasn't about to return to Belton Abbey without knowing what had happened to the lady.

Cautiously, he found his way back to the main path and stood on the edge of the trees, watching the manor. He heard nothing. He saw nothing. Family, servants, even the gamekeeper despite his payments, should have converged on the tower to discover why the lady had screamed, and the park to investigate the shot.

Not a soul stirred.

Uneasy, Wade crossed the garden and approached the tower door, where he'd last seen her. Dare he open it? If anyone found him there, he might be mistaken for the intruder, and he doubted Englishmen would give an American a fair hearing. Yet how could he leave without the certainty that she was all right?

Knowing he could not, Wade rapped on the door.

Silence. Too much silence. Dare he lift the latch and walk in if the door was unlocked?

He raised his hand to knock a second time.

"Mr. Yankee, is that you?" Her clear, aristocratic Englishwoman voice cut through the silence like a silver blade.

Wade glanced toward the sound. She leaned over a windowsill twenty feet above him, her face hidden within the veil of her long, dark hair.

She reached out a hand as though she could touch him. "Rather foolish of you to come knocking on my door, don't you think?"

"Yes, ma'am, but I needed to know if you're all right. You screamed."

"Ye-es." Her voice quavered. "He was here." She raised one hand to her face. "I believe he took refuge in the tower, since I'd left the door unlocked. I don't know what he'd have done. But my maid was waiting up for me...She heard something and came to see, and he fled. Perhaps he didn't realize the tower was occupied."

Or perhaps he knew who occupied the tower?

The idea appalled Wade. How could any man wish to harm her?

"I tried to catch him," Wade told her.

"Unarmed? You dear, foolish man. I'd hate to think what would have happened had you caught him." Her voice held a smile. "Now, go, before someone finds you here. And have a care."

"Yes, ma'am." He felt oddly reluctant to leave her. "As long as you're all right."

"You're the one in danger walking back to the Abbey."

"He'll be long gone by now."

"We said that before."

"You didn't scream inside the house before."

"As to that...Thank you for chasing him off." She drew back inside the window frame. "Goodnight." The sash dropped.

Wade stared at the blank panes of glass for several moments. Then, with unreasonable hesitation, he retraced his steps across the garden and into the park.

Conscious that the man with the rifle might not be long gone, he moved with care, his senses alert to danger. The concentration was good. It kept him from thinking about the lady alone in the tower, alone, when she should have had family, friends, someone there to comfort her. Someone should have responded to her scream.

The entire incident was wrong.

His response to her was wrong. He had no business dwelling on her. She wasn't his responsibility. He had wandered onto another property and helped prevent disaster. It was over. Done with. As soon as possible, he would conclude his business in England and return home to his plantation, River Terrace, and wed Mary Beth Randall, the sweetest, loveliest lady in the Tidewater. He didn't need thoughts of another woman cutting up his peace.

In his room at Belton Abbey, lying in bed wide-awake, he focused his mind on Mary Beth Randall. "We'll talk about marriage when you bring my brother back to me," she had promised, first in the garden at River Terrace, then again the day he set sail. "I can't consider making myself happy until I know Cedric is safe."

But Cedric Randall might not be safe behind the walls of Dartmoor Prison. Three months earlier, guards had fired upon American prisoners they suspected of trying to escape. Dozens fell in the assault. With Wade's initial inquiries at the prison yielding no information, he feared that Mary Beth's brother lay among those killed.

Wade flinched at the thought of gunfire and the sensation of lead against flesh. He knew the experience, the flash, the explosion, the pain. It had come too close again tonight.

There she was again, the lady vivid in his mind, though her face was a mystery. She was a mystery. What had a female, whose cultured speech declared her a lady, been doing out alone at night? Mary Beth would never do such a thing. She never went anywhere unchaperoned. Even when he proposed to her, her maid watched from the terrace above them. But then, Mary Beth would have fainted at the very suggestion of someone shooting at her.

There it was again -- the notion that the gunfire had been meant for the lady.

"Not very gentlemanly of you, Montrose," he chided himself aloud. "Who do you think it was, a jealous husband thinking she was meeting a lover? Or was it a jealous lover?" The idea made him laugh outright. Except it wasn't a laughing matter.

Rolling onto his side, he punched the pillow into a more comfortable shape and commanded his mind and body to sleep. He could resolve nothing in the middle of the night. In the morning, he would talk to Mark about English poachers and English sentiment against Americans on the off chance that he had, after all, been the intended victim.

He wished he could talk to Mark about the lady. But he had as good as made a promise not to tell anyone he'd met her.

You didn't meet her, he reminded himself. You don't know who she is. You may never know who she is. That was fortunate. He had no right feeling attraction for another woman.

He conjured an image of Mary Beth, her pale blue eyes fringed in gold-tipped lashes, her delicate features and honey gold hair, and the luscious body she never allowed him to touch.

Despite his efforts, he remembered touching another woman's body. It was firm and curvaceous beneath his. Her legs were marvelously long and firm. Those thighs were a marvel. They would feel so good...

With a curse for his personal vow of celibacy until he wed Mary Beth, Wade climbed from bed and lit a candle. Mark's wife, Felice, had provided him with a selection of reading material. One heavy volume, Waverley, by Walter Scott, looked sufficiently interesting to distract him.

It failed. Scot's rambling prose digressed his thoughts straight back to gunfire and glorious thighs; guilt for his disloyalty to Mary Beth even if it was only in thoughts, and concern over the lack of response to the lady's scream and the second gunshot.

No lady under his protection would be so neglected. Didn't Englishmen know that females should be cherished and sheltered from harm?

He wasn't doing well cherishing Mary Beth with his thoughts straying to another lady, with his body remembering...

Gladly, he welcomed the sound of others waking. Hoping it wasn't too early to do so, he rang the bell.

His own manservant, Sumner, arrived with amazing speed, bearing a pot of hot coffee. "You did not sleep well, Sir?" He spoke with the lilting accent of the West Indies. "It is strange here?"

Wade rubbed his eyes. "Too much on my mind. Is it strange to you? I hope they're not unkind to you in the servants hall."

"No, sir, they're very kind. They have no liking for Yankees, as they call them. But they do not consider me an American."

In Virginia, Sumner wasn't considered an American either. He was no longer a slave, but his dark skin, especially when he was in the company of a white man from a southern state, led people to think he was. Sumner would be better off remaining in England. When he returned home, Wade intended to encourage Sumner to seek employment and stay.

How he wanted to return home and put his life in order!

The sooner he started this day, the sooner his return voyage would arrive.

"Do you know what time Sir Mark eats breakfast?" Wade asked.

"Cook is making it now. She said Sir Mark likes to rise early since he was in the army." Sumner poured coffee into a fragile, china cup, and handed it to Wade. "Lady Shields joins him on mornings she is feeling well enough."

Considering that Felice Shields' condition looked far more advanced than the five months she and Mark had been married, Wade thought her bouts of morning illness should be passed. But he didn't say so as he moved to sit on the dressing table stool for Sumner to shave him. Whether or not Mark and his wife had anticipated the wedding was not something to discuss with a servant, or anyone else for that matter.

Wade sipped at his coffee. "One of the nice things about Lady Shields being a Creole is that she drinks coffee, not tea."

"There are many nice things about Lady Shields. She brought Cook, her personal maid, and a gardener with her from Louisiana, and freed them without Sir Mark making her do so." Sumner went to the wardrobe and pulled open a door. "When I heard you go out last night, I took the liberty of coming in to unpack your things. Sir Mark's man tells me that buckskin breeches and top boots are acceptable daytime wear for the English countryside."

"Good. I hope I can do some riding today too. Do you know if Sir Mark has much of a stable?"

"No, sir, he doesn't. Seems he's been using Lady Shield's inheritance on improving the estate to make it profitable again. But there is a hack that will carry you for a mile or two."

Wade grimaced. "I need a gallop after six weeks at sea and two days in a coach riding around Devonshire. Maybe I can rent a horse in the village."

Sumner carried garments to the bed. "I inquired about that, too, sir, knowing you would want to ride. Seems the village is too small for renting horses. Cook said it's a pity Sir Mark doesn't get on with the Earl of Torr. He has the finest stables in the county at Torr Keep."

"Torr?" Wade's mind skimmed back to a lesson in school. Torr meant tower. The lady's home was a tower. If that was Torr Keep, and she took advantage of those fine stables, it would explain the firmness of her thighs.

"Good God!" Wade dropped his forehead onto his palm.

He had good reason to believe someone tried harming her, but instead of deciding what to do about it, he kept thinking of her thighs. Thinking about them, remembering how they felt under his...

He speared his fingers through his hair. "I should have stayed in Virginia where I belong."

"Now, sir, you know you need to find Mr. Cedric." Sumner's tone was gentle, fatherly. "You couldn't do that from Virginia. You go down and eat some breakfast. Cook makes a fine version of the English kedgeree."

Wade couldn't imagine any version of the egg, fish, and rice casserole as fine. "Fruit and coffee will do as usual."

Sumner shook his head, but said nothing more until Wade was dressed and brushing out his own hair. Then Sumner spoke up again. "You need a haircut, sir."

Wade gathered the heavy waves at the nape of his neck and secured them with a black, grosgrain ribbon. "If long hair is good enough for President Madison, it's good enough for me."

"But the English -- "

"May go hang if they don't like it."

Sumner grinned. "Right, Sir." He opened the door. "They take breakfast in the same parlor you took dinner in last night. Seems the other rooms are in a state of disrepair."

"A four year absence will do that to a house," Wade said, thinking of his own house beyond the Blue Ridge Mountains in the Shenandoah Valley that he hadn't seen in three years. Only half built then, it was probably not worth finishing now. Mary Beth wouldn't wish to live there anyway.

With a sigh of regret, he started down the corridor toward the front stairs. The rug beneath his feet was almost warn to the backing in places, and the wallpaper curled at the corners. Contrasting sharply, the oak staircase and great hall below gleamed with a fresh coat of varnish. Hammering in a distant room on the ground floor explained why -- the public areas were being repaired first.

The parlor used as all-purpose room lay to the right of the front door. Windows facing both east and south and its cream and yellow decor made it a charming morning room. The aroma of fresh coffee that wafted to Wade's nostrils the instant he opened the door, proved the most charming aspect to the room at the moment, for little sunlight penetrated into the chamber from an overcast sky.

"Well, good morning, Wade," Mark called out. "Didn't expect you up so soon. Felice, find him a chair."

"Biensur." Felice, looking too small to bear the burden of her expanding middle, started to rise.

Wade shook his head. "I can fetch my own chair." He couldn't keep the censure from his tone, though he tried.

"Felice needs to get up to ring the bell for more rolls," Mark said.

"No," Wade returned, "I'm already up. I'll ring the bell." After doing so, he retrieved a chair from its position against one wall, and carried it to the table.

"May I pour you cafe, Monsieur Montrose?" Felice inquired.

"The word," Mark bit out, "is coffee, and this is Mister Montrose."

"Wade, if you please," Wade said.

"Merci-I mean, thank you." Felice blushed under Mark's fulminating glare.

Pretending not to notice, Wade busied himself pouring his own coffee and selecting several strawberries from the dish before him. He didn't like being caught in the middle of marital discord, and hoped he could get his business over with and be gone as soon as possible. If he witnessed too much of Mark's unkindness to his lovely, pregnant wife, Wade feared he would say or do something that would lose him Mark's friendship.

Yet Wade wasn't sure he wanted Mark's friendship now. Mark Shields wasn't the same heartsick but polite man with whom Wade had explored the Western Mountains of Virginia four years earlier. That Mark had never been rude to a lady or man, not even when a few people had made rude remarks about Englishmen as the United States and Great Britain careened toward war.

Mark had served in the conflict, and war changed a man. It had changed Wade's younger brother, William. Will was far more serious than he had been before spending three years fighting the British at sea.

The arrival of a pretty, round-cheeked maid broke the silence in the parlor. Felice ordered more brioche, calling them "bread rolls" in true British fashion, which should have won her at least a glance of approval from Mark. But Mark seemed engrossed in his newspaper.

"I think it will rain today," Felice said, when the maid had withdrawn. "We do not have the entertainment here, but Mark has had sent many books from London. You must help yourself."

"Before it rains," Wade said, "I'd like to take a walk."

Mark lowered the newspaper below the level of his moss green eyes. "I'll be inspecting the new drainage ditches if you'd like to come with me. Perhaps you can give me some advice."

"Maybe I can," Wade said. "But there's something I'd like to look for in the woods."

Mark's newspaper settled across his empty plate. "What the deuce would you think to find in the woods?"

Wade glanced at Felice. He didn't want to mention the shooting in front of her.

Apparently understanding, she rose, made her excuses, and left the room with a rolling gait.

"Cow," Mark muttered.

Wade shot him a glare. "I believe she's no less graceful than any other lady in her condition."

Mark's upper lip curled. "No less is exactly the difficulty. She's too much more."

"I believe it takes two to get a lady in that condition." Wade's tone dripped ice.

Mark laughed. "My wife's morals must shock you, when I know your lady is as pure as new snow and just as lovely. But tell me why you wish to go to the woods."

Wade refilled his coffee cup. "I went for a walk last night and came out by a lake."

"Shouldn't have done that. That's Marlowe land, and I'm not welcome there."

"I wasn't made welcome either. Someone shot at me."

"Good God!" Mark slammed his fist onto the table, making dishes rattle. "I have no doubt the Earl of Torr has commanded his gamekeeper to shoot at anyone coming from this direction."

Wade couldn't tell Mark it hadn't been a gamekeeper, so he asked, "What about someone who hates Americans?"

"Not likely. You haven't been here long enough for anyone other than my servants to know you are a Yankee."

"Virginian."

"Yes, yes, I remember you don't like being associated with New Englanders. But it doesn't change the fact that my servants wouldn't shoot at you and no one else knows about your presence."

"I thought that too. Poachers?"

"Not with a gun." Mark scowled. "Got to be mischief from Torr. The man despises me."

Wade raised his brows.

"A lady in the picture, of course," Mark said.

"It too often is." Wade drained his coffee cup and rose. "I'd like to have a look. I may discover something you can use against the man."

Mark stood also. "I'll come with you. It'll be like tracking in the Virginia wilderness."

England was nothing like western Virginia. It was too crowded, too tame. But Mark became good company out of the house, away from his wife, and striding across the half-neglected fields to the line of trees.

"Wish I could have sold this wood during the French wars," Mark said. "Oaks like these were going for a high price with all the ships we were building. But it's entailed to the title, and I can't sell. Besides that, Torr would have given me trouble about removing the natural boundary between our properties."

"You can't blame him for that."

"No, not for that. As for the rest -- " Mark ducked beneath a low branch across the path. "It's devilish hot in these trees. Not a breath of wind. How do you manage to look so cool?"

Wade smiled. "I am."

"I suppose you are after living in that God-awful swamp. Now, what -- oh, yes, the animosity between Towering Torr and Serf Shields. It's simple, actually. Remember my drunken ramblings about a lady?"

"Not much, considering I was in the same condition."

"Good thing, that. Always hoped you didn't." Mark paused to mop perspiration from his brow. When he continued, his step was jaunty, his tone blithe. "You might have let some of your more belligerent countrymen at me if you'd known then that I had the audacity to cry off from my engagement to Torr's daughter."

Wade stopped. "You broke it off? I thought -- "

"That a gentleman never breaks a betrothal?" Mark grimaced. "He doesn't if he knows what's good for him." Mark's voice grew hard, bitter. "But what else could I do after catching her in flagrante delecto with another man?"

"You caught your fiancée being intimate with another man?" Wade shook his head with disbelief. "A lady?"

"Lady?" Mark's laugh was as harsh as a seal's bark. "Christina Marlowe is only a lady by virtue of being born the daughter of an earl."

Christina Marlowe. Was she the lady with the cultured speech, jasmine scent, and those thighs? Wade remembered her tone of voice, when mentioning Mark, and knew she was.

The idea that she was not an innocent lady seeking a little private adventure by the lake at midnight, disturbed Wade. She seemed too kind-hearted to have hurt Mark.

"Did her father make the man marry her?" Wade asked.

Had she indeed intended to meet a lover at the lake? Not that that was any of his concern, of course.

"No, Torr wouldn't have him for a son-in-law," Mark explained. "He's a second son, a libertine known for his propensity for seducing virgins. I knew they were friends, but I thought Christina above falling into his trap..." His tone lost its earlier blithe note. "I hear she's still unwed. But enough of females. We'd better find whatever you're looking for or we'll get caught in the rain."

Having received more information than he wanted, Wade lengthened his stride. In minutes, he stood just inside the tree line trying to guess from exactly where the man had fired. Satisfied he was close, he began searching for signs of the man's presence - - broken branches, boot heels, threads of cloth.

He found the carving first. It lay beside the path, gleaming pale against rich, dark earth, drawing his attention like a beacon.

Crouching, he held it in his palm and studied the lines, the workmanship. Someone with considerable time and patience had carved pieces of bone with such skill they fit together to form a nearly seamless whole.

"It looks like the keel of a ship," Wade mused.

Mark took the carving from him. "Yes, it does. But dashed if I can think how it got here."

"It's possible the gunman dropped it. See how clean it is? It hasn't lain here for long." Wade traced a fingertip along the top edge. "Look at this. It's ready for more pieces."

"Devilish odd bit of work." Mark lifted it to the fast-fading light. "But it looks familiar. Can't think where."

Wade held out his hand. "I'll keep it by me."

Shrugging, Mark dropped the object into Wade's palm, then stooped to scrutinize the ground. Wade did the same on the other side of the path.

Mark gave a shout of triumph. "Look here."

Wade looked. There, imprinted in the damp soil, lay the clear outline of shod feet with one heel deeper cut than the other. In the hazel bush ahead of the place, several broken branches testified to a heavy object having lain across them -- heavy like a rifle.

"He crouched here a good while," Mark said.

"Yes." Despite his suspicions, Wade disliked seeing evidence of being right.

"Couldn't have shot at you just for coming from Belton Abbey," Mark observed. "He'd have had to have known ahead of time you were coming this way."

"Not likely," Wade agreed. "It must have been a poacher."

"A madman if it was."

Wade didn't remind Mark that the signs pointed to planning and deliberation, not the impulsive action of a madman. He could say nothing without admitting he hadn't been alone at the lake.

He needed to say a great deal to the lady. Somehow, he must meet her and show her the carving. It might mean something to her, give her a clue to the identity of whoever wanted her dead.

CHAPTER 3

Shortly before dawn, Christina had the nightmare. Her own screams woke her and brought her maid, Nanette, stumbling into her chamber. But no one else came. They never did, when she screamed. In the tower, her room was too far away for her cries to penetrate massive stone walls.

"You are ill, my lady?" Nanette asked, sleep thickening her French accent. "You wish for the laudanum?"

"No, I don't want to sleep." Twisted around her, the bedclothes felt like chains. "Some tea."

Some air. She needed air.

Nanette left for the kitchen.

Christina went to the window and leaned across the sill, gasping for air. It didn't help. Outside, the atmosphere was sultry, stagnant, waiting for a storm. The oppressiveness weighed on Christina's chest. She couldn't breathe.

She was in the lake again, the man's body holding her down. Darkness, suffocation. Then the tower closed around her, the other hand cutting off her breath.

"No!" She fought back the waking nightmares. "They didn't harm you. You're alive."

She repeated the words like a litany until Nanette returned with tea and, as always since her arrival at Torr Keep four years earlier, a sympathetic ear. "You would not talk of it last night. Perhaps now you should?"

"Perhaps last night I should have." Christina perched on the windowsill sipping the fragrant bohea. "I went to the lake to think after -- you know I turned down Sir Roderick's proposal."

Nanette's gamine features lit with amusement. "I know you said some harsh words about his character after he took the vulgar liberties with you."

"And got my face slapped for it." Christina smiled to cover up how much her mother's blow had hurt her heart more than her cheek. "I'm afraid I'll have to pay the piper for it. They want me wed, and I -- " With the nightmare fresh in her mind, she couldn't talk about even the symbolic fetters of marriage. "I went to the lake to think what to do," she continued, "and there was a poacher, a madman..."

Telling the story to Nanette, though not trusting even the young woman who was friend as much as maid, with information about the American, diminished the affair into insignificance. The man was a poacher, a vagrant, who'd taken shelter in the tower, mistakenly believing no one occupied those chambers. As for the American, he was too chivalrous for his own good. Her attraction stemmed from being the recipient of that chivalry after Sir Roderick's crude advances.

"No wonder you had your nightmare," Nanette said, when Christina concluded her explanation. "But you feel better for talking?"

"Much better, thank you."

She felt even better, when she learned that the headache that followed her nightmare, gave her a perfect excuse for not joining her parents, Sir Roderick, and her younger sister, Suzanna, on an excursion to Clovelly. For a few hours, at least, she had a respite.

Within a few hours, rain washed the sultriness from the air and the final vestiges of distress from Christina's head. Her headache gone, a note having arrived to inform her the Clovelly party had taken shelter from the rain at Leyward and wouldn't return until the following day, Christina donned a riding habit and descended to the stable yard.

Ned, the head groom who accompanied her when she rode, already had her white mare, Rhiannon, saddled and waiting. "Thought you'd be down, m'lady," he explained.

Christina smiled. "I don't know if I approve of your...friendship with Nanette. You seem to know too much about me."

"Milady, I've known you all your life." And he would let nothing happen to her. Nor would he be anything less than discreet about what she did when out riding.

"Then you have a good horse saddled for yourself?" she asked. "I need a gallop, and you'll need to keep up."

"Already done, milady." Ned nodded to the stable door, where an under groom appeared with a saddled gelding of almost as good breeding as Rhiannon.

"Then let's be off." Christina touched her heel to Rhiannon's side. She kept the mare at a canter until they passed beyond the tall, iron gates of Torr Keep. Once on the open road, she gave Rhiannon her head, urging her to the fastest speed safe on a public road.

Wind straight off the sea whipped into Christina's face. Her hat threatened to come off, and tendrils of hair danced around her face. She laughed aloud at the sheer exhilaration of speed and power. Flying along the road on the finest Mare in Devonshire, Christina knew freedom far too rare in her life. She wished she could ride out one day and keep going, across the moor, across the Tamar into Cornwall, across the ocean.

If only her father would give her the money he intended to give the man she married, she could travel at will, or stay home if she pleased. She could seek a purpose in life far more important than playing hostess and producing heirs; at least lengthen the chains of being a noblewoman.

She determined to find a way around her father's tyranny. Until she did, she contended herself with a few moments of freedom like slipping away to the lake at midnight and galloping along the deserted, country road.

Her ride ended at Hartland Point, one of the wildest areas along the English coastline. With the incoming Atlantic narrowing to form the Bristol Channel between the north coast of Devon and the south coast of Wales, the sea raged against the rocks, flinging spray to the cliff top two hundred feet above. The noise was thunderous, the waters treacherous. Anything caught in the pounding surf would be smashed to powder.

Several yards from the edge, she reined in, slid to the ground, and waited for Ned to catch up with her. When he did, she tossed him the reins and strode to the edge of the cliff.

After the storm, the waters were wilder than ever. Spray arced into the air, dampening her cheeks and forming a thousand rainbows in the slanting sunlight. Her hat gave up trying to cling to her head and sailed off somewhere behind her. Laughing, she removed the pins from her hair. It cascaded around her face and shoulders in an unruly, black tangle and streamed out behind her as if it, too, wished for freedom.

Engrossed in the pleasure of raging sea and streaming hair, she didn't hear the approach of other riders until she heard a horse's whinny that did not belong to either her mare or Ned's gelding. Suddenly recalling that the night before someone had come too close to shooting her, accident or not, she whirled, took a step forward away from the cliff edge, and froze.

One of the riders was Mark Shields. The man with him was a stranger. Yet he was not a stranger. Christina knew his identity all the way to her bones, though she had never seen his face and didn't know his name.

He turned toward her. She saw his face then, sunlit, tanned skin over lean cheeks and clearly defined bones. His eyes were the color of the sea before a storm, deep, gray-blue with a hint of green. Features and eyes made him as attractive a man as she'd ever seen. But his mouth caught and held her attention.

With its firm, full lips and width the exact rightness for his face, that mouth would have been too perfect in shape, too serious in aspect, save for a cleft in the center of the lower lip. That cleft softened his mouth without weakening it. She wanted to kiss that mouth, slide her tongue across that cleft...

No wonder she'd thought him dangerous the night before.

Mark Shields was a different kind of danger. His face taut, he dismounted and stalked toward her. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

Christina widened her eyes, feigning cool innocence to cover up the sting of his hostility. "It's lovely to see you too, Sir Mark. I do enjoy being friendly with the neighbors."

"I use whores. I don't befriend them."

"I'm sorry American lead didn't find its way to your heart," Christina shot back. "But then, I don't know how they'd have killed you since a ball aimed for your heart would have passed through empty space."

Mark's hands balled into fists, but Christina knew her salvo hadn't hurt him as much as his had wounded her. He looked angry. She wanted to weep over one of the greatest errors in her life -- accepting his proposal, turning friendship into enmity.

Not wanting him to know he still held the power to hurt her, she looked past him to the stranger. "We should at least try for civility, when we have an audience. Will you introduce me to your friend?"

"He doesn't deserve the misfortune," Mark responded.

"When is being introduced to a lovely lady a misfortune?" the man asked in his soft summer night voice.

"When the lady," Mark answered, "is Lady Christina Marlowe."

Christina held out her hand. "Now you know who I am..."

"Wade Montrose." His fingers curled around hers.

The warmth of his hand penetrated through their gloves. Her mouth went dry, and her chest tightened. Yet it wasn't that suffocating feeling of being trapped. It was pleasure.

It was madness.

"A pleasure to meet you," he said as if he meant it.

"Not if you knew her," Mark grumbled.

Christina looked into Wade Montrose's eyes. "How is it that Mark has an American friend, when he was an English officer?"

"We met before the war." Slowly, as if reluctant to do so, Wade Montrose released her hand. "He wanted to see the Virginia Mountains, and I was heading to the Shenandoah Valley to my horse farm, so I took him with me."

"You have a horse farm and you're riding...that?" Christina glanced at the drooping nag beside Mark's rather nice mount, and long-suppressed anger bubbled up into a vicious inquiry. "Mark, can't your new wife buy you a second horse?"

Montrose looked startled. Mark appeared as though he wished to give her a good, hard shove over the cliff. Instead, he spun on his heel and stalked toward Ned.

Already ashamed of herself, Christina almost apologized. But apologizing to Mark Shields was something she had vowed she would never do.

She turned her attention to Montrose. "I shouldn't have said that in front of you."

"If you'll forgive my boldness, you shouldn't have said that at all. Mark is using the money his wife brought him to improve his land. He could be wasting it on horses or gambling."

Contrite, Christina conceded, "Mark never did gamble."

"But you do?"

Christina's head shot up. "What do you mean?"

Montrose moved closer to her. Wind-whipped, her hair blew across his cheek, tangling with loosened strands of his hair. The image was intimate, wanton, and she liked it far too well.

Montrose looked at her with those storm-sea eyes cool and intent. "You're out practically alone after what happened last night."

"That was nothing -- a poacher."

"Maybe not." Montrose looked grim. "Would it be improper for me to call on you? I found something in the woods that might be a clue to our gunman."

"Improper? Lud, no." But she feared her behavior toward him might be improper in the right circumstances. "Is it a key to his identity or what he was about?"

"I thought maybe you could tell me that."

"I'll do my best." She needed to do her best to stop her unruly senses from drawing her near him. "Call tomorrow morning. I'll see you have a better mount than Mark can provide."

He nodded. "May I help you mount?"

Not many men offered to assist her into the saddle. She was too tall and too proportionately built for most men to want to risk dropping her.

"I'd like that," she said with too much feeling.

She didn't like this yearning to touch him and have him touch her. She knew his name and his face now, but he was still a stranger. She wouldn't want him near her if he were a friend. Desire was a weakness to be avoided at all cost. It might lead to love, and love had no place in her future. It was another prison to make her conform to a role she didn't want to play.

Hastily, she strode toward her mare. Taking advantage of her long legged stride was pointless with Wade Montrose behind her. His legs were longer, his stride able to catch her up and take him to the mare's side, where he waited for her to take the reins from Ned.

She glanced down at herself, then up at Montrose. "You don't have to assist me. There are rocks over there I can use."

His glance followed hers downward and swiftly returned to her face. His eyes glinted with amusement. "I'll endeavor not to drop you face-down in the dirt."

"Better that than face-down in the water."

He laughed. "That was badly done of me. But I assure you, I'm not in the habit of either dropping or drowning ladies." Cupping his hands on one bent knee to make a step, he gave her an encouraging smile.

One foot in the stirrup and one hand holding the reins, Christina placed her other foot in his hands and found herself lifted atop Rhiannon's back as if she weighed ten pounds instead of ten stone. The sensation was heady delight. Impulsively, she reached out and rested her hand on his shoulder.

The gesture was instinctual, the kind of casual affection she bestowed on Nanette. But his hair lay across his shoulder, and the satiny richness of it invited her fingers to stroke just an inch or two.

Quickly, she turned away. "Until tomorrow then."

"Yes, tomorrow." She heard rather than saw him walk away.

Still not daring to look in either his or Mark's direction, she headed Rhiannon back up the road toward Torr Keep. Not a half-mile along, she heard hoofbeats coming fast behind her. Despite a surge of anticipation, she knew it wasn't Wade Montrose, not on his sorry nag. It would be Ned catching up with her.

The rider drew up beside her. A hand encased in a worn leather glove shot out to grasp her reins and draw Rhiannon to a halt. "What game are you playing with Wade?" Mark demanded.

Christina stared at him. "Game?"

"Don't act innocent, Lady Lillith. I know you're not."

"Neither am I the Whore of Babylon or anywhere else simply because I preferred another man's attentions to yours."

Mark's hand jerked on the reins. Rhiannon sidled.

"Release my horse." Christina brought her fist down on Mark's forearm. "You're distressing her."

"And the world couldn't be lucky enough to have you thrown and break your neck," Mark bit out.

Christina swung her riding crop toward his face.

Jerking out of harm's way, he released the reins and bared his teeth at her like a maddened dog. "I'm warning you, Christina, you stay away from him. He's too good a man to have you trample over his feelings as you do everyone else's. Besides that, he has a perfectly lovely lady at home."

"He's married?" she asked before she could stop herself.

"No, but -- "

"Betrothed?" She managed to make the question a taunt.

"No, but -- "

Christina gave him a sugary smile. "Then perhaps he's lonely. And he's such a man, Mark. Did you notice how effortlessly he lifted me into the saddle? Is that your difficulty? You weren't man enough for me and he is?"

With her shot fired, she touched Rhiannon into a canter, then a gallop, and didn't slow until the gates of Torr Keep loomed ahead of her. Her heart still raced when she dismounted in the stable yard, tossed Rhiannon's reins to a groom, and charged up the stairs to her bedchamber.

"I should have let my brother kill him four years ago," she cried, throwing her riding crop onto the bed.

"Or used that quirt on him yourself?" Nanette inquired from the dressing room doorway.

Christina smiled. "Something like that."

"May I ask of whom we speak?"

Christina dropped onto the dressing table stool and picked up a hairbrush. "Sir Mark Shields. He happened to be riding in the same direction as I." She yanked the brush through her hair. "He called me a wh-whore." Her voice broke on a sob. "Nanette, he had a friend with him. He said it right in front of him. If he continues saying things like that in front of people, stirring up that old scandal, my parents will force me to the altar."

"They can force him to silence too, n'est-ce pas? Is that not why he dislikes you so?" Nanette took the brush from Christina. "Allow me. You are making it worse. Besides, it will calm you to have your hair brushed."

With Nanette's skillful fingers working the tangles loose, Christina closed her eyes and felt the tension drain from her.

"Much better," Nanette said. "From what I hear in the servants' hall, Sir Mark is not kind to his new wife."

"Is she a harpy? I hope he married a harpy."

"She is kind-hearted and looks more enceinte than the five months they've been married."

"The insufferable cad." Christina gnashed her teeth. "Likely seduced her so she'd marry him and he could get her money."

"Does he hate you because he couldn't do the same?"

"That's close enough to the truth." Christina was glad her eyes were closed so Nanette couldn't read more of the truth from her reflection in the mirror.

Nanette, bless her, didn't press for more details. She brushed in silence. Her nimble fingers, so talented in weaving lace from gossamer thread, were equally as talented in unweaving snarls from Christina's fine, abundant hair.

Nanette finished with the tangles and began a steady rhythm of brushing. "What has he done today?"

"Mark warned me away from his friend," Christina said.

"And you disliked the objection?"

"I dislike being told what not to do."

Nanette chuckled. "You dislike being told what to do."

"Too many rules."

"Do you wish to flirt with his friend more?"

"No, I -- yes." Feeling like purring under the soothing brush strokes, Christina asked, "When you first met Ned, did you wish to...touch him?"

Nanette's hand stilled for a heartbeat. "How could I not? He has the strength in his arms and chest."

"I've noticed." Christina smiled. "What about his mouth? Have you ever looked at his or any man's mouth and wanted to kiss him then and there?"

"Yes, but you? This astonishes me."

"It disturbs me. But he's...beautiful. No, that makes him sound like a fop. He isn't. He has eyes like a stormy sea, and the most incredible bones, and his mouth!"

"Ahhh." Nanette continued brushing. "And you wish to kiss that mouth?"

Christina rubbed her eyes. "Yes, more fool I."

"No, no, it is not foolish to desire a lovely man."

"It is when he's friends with Sir Mark. He heard Mark call me a whore. I disliked that more than I disliked Mark saying it. And that's the difficulty. I shouldn't care what some American stranger hears about me. But I do."

"Not all men are -- forgive me, my lady, for I should not say this of the man who pays my wages -- but all men are not like my lord, your father."

"No, but the same laws govern them all, laws of nature and the land." Christina rose and paced to the window. "How do you stop yourself from wanting what you don't want yourself to want?"

"That is simple. You avoid that person."

"Yes, but I cannot." Christina stared at the park without noticing the trees. "I invited him to ride with me."

Nanette chuckled. "That is no way to avoid a man you're afraid to be with."

"No, but he wants to talk to me. He seems to think -- " Christina tried to banish the thought, but it spilled out like poisoned matter from a lanced wound. "He knows about what happened last night and has intimated that it wasn't a poacher, but someone who intends me harm." She faced Nanette. "It's nonsense, and yet, he is friends with Mark."

Shaking her head, Nanette said, "Forgive me, I do not quite understand the relationship."

"I said it was nonsense." Christina tried to laugh, and failed. "But Mark was so awful today. He's still angry with me and wasn't afraid to show it. Nanette -- " Christina swallowed. "Nanette, if anyone means me harm, it's Mark Shields."

CHAPTER 4

A manservant in powdered wig opened the Torr Keep front door. He looked more like a planter heading to a ball than a butler, but the man's demeanor was far from festive as he gazed past Wade's shoulder. "Deliveries are made at the kitchen."

Wade stared at him. "I beg your pardon?"

The door half closed. "This door is for family and guests."

For a heartbeat, Wade was tempted to accept rejection and return to Belton Abbey. But he was damned if some snooty, English butler was going to get away with fobbing him off like another servant.

Wade slapped his palm against the door, holding it open. "I am here to see Lady Christina."

The butler tipped back his head so he could look down his rodent-like nose. "The family is not at home."

"You must be mistaken." Wade smiled. "Maybe it's the size of this house that keeps you from knowing your employers' business. But I am here at Lady Christina's invitation."

The man's colorless gaze swept Wade from head to toe. His nostrils pinched.

Wade imagined the man's thoughts. He'd received similar looks in Plymouth. Unlike the butler, many of those who looked their disdain also spoke their feelings aloud. "Colonial riffraff," was one of the nicer remarks.

No doubt the butler of a great house added the fact that Wade's hair was too long, his coat not made by a London tailor, and his neckcloth a simple, knotted kerchief, to the country of his birth and counted him unworthy of visiting the family. His breeches, Wade knew, were as fine as any in England, and his boots shone with mirror brightness. Of course, his accent was all wrong. Nevertheless, he was a guest and expected to be treated like one.

Calmly, he looked down his own nose at the butler. "I suggest you inform Lady Christina that I am here."

Not intimidated, the butler returned, "It is my responsibility to see to the welfare of the family."

"And this is concerning their welfare." Wade shoved on the door hard enough to push it out of the man's hand, then stepped through the opening. "I'll wait here while you inform her ladyship that Wade Montrose has come to call."

"Montrose indeed." The butler sniffed. "Upstart colonials taking a noble name."

Since taking a noble name for their own was exactly what his ancestors had done, Wade let the man's remark pass. He wouldn't lower himself to engaging in a word battle with a butler.

Apparently thinking it beneath his dignity to continue the debate, the butler closed the door and stalked toward a staircase wide enough to accommodate at least two ladies in farthingales abreast. Despite its immense size, the stairs took up only a tenth of the hall from which they rose to a surrounding gallery. At the far end, loomed a fireplace large enough to burn six witches on stakes. In-between staircase and fireplace, someone had attempted to make the hall comfortable with islands of carpets set with groupings of delicate, gilt and silk furniture.

Wade walked to the nearest island, but did not sit. His hand on the back of an uncomfortable looking settee, he studied a painting on the opposite wall. Unlike the spindly furniture, the picture suited the cold, stone hall.

It was the image of a sailboat foundering in a stormy sea. Lightning lanced toward the mast. A wave threatened to engulf the boat, smashing it into the trough of the preceding wave.

"Not very restful, is it?" The voice came from above him, clear and light. "It suits this room."

Wade looked up. Her hand on the banister, Christina Marlowe stood halfway down the stairs, leaning toward him. Though the narrow windows allowed little sunlight into the hall, she seemed to glow. Her eyes were so bright a blue they were almost purple. The paleness of her skin and frame of curling, dark hair emphasized the quality of her bones, the high-bridged nose and pronounced cheekbones that would be beautiful all her life.

She came down the stairs, her fingertips skimming the rail as they had skimmed his cheek the evening before. His insides felt like that wave-tossed sailboat.

He shouldn't have come. He should have taken Mark's advice and stayed away from her. Simply looking at Christina Marlowe made him feel unfaithful to Mary Beth.

Except, a devil inside him pointed out, he wasn't even engaged to Mary Beth, so how could he be unfaithful? And Christina Marlowe was such a pleasure to watch with her statuesque figure and unselfconscious carriage. Unlike many tall women, she wasn't at all bony. Her bosom was generous, her waist was narrow, and her hips the kind a sensible man looked for if he wished her to bear children safely. Then there were her legs...

Wade wouldn't let himself think about her legs. He focused on her face as he moved forward to bow over her hand. "I trust I'm not too early, my lady?"

"You couldn't be too early for me. Besides, I couldn't have waited another moment to see what you have to show me."

"Nor should you." He slipped one hand into a coat pocket.

She glanced toward the gallery. For the first time, Wade noticed someone standing in the shadows.

"Not here," she said, her voice almost a whisper. Aloud, she added, "We mustn't keep the horses waiting. I sent a message to the stable to have them ready." Sweeping the train of her riding habit over one arm, she headed toward the door, displaying a shapely calf in a silk stocking and supple, leather boot.

Intent on gazing at that calf, Wade nearly forgot to follow her. When he recalled himself, he hastened to catch up and almost tripped on the edge of the rug.

He was acting like an adolescent.

Think of Mary Beth, he commanded himself.

A footman materialized before them and opened the door. In the carriage sweep at the foot of the front steps, grooms held the horses, and for a while, Wade didn't think of females at all.

One of the horses was the white mare Christina had ridden the night before. Wade passed her with a light stroke on her velvety nose, then turned his attention to the second mount. It was a bay stallion of seventeen hands, only six inches less than his own six feet two inches. The horse's lines were the clean, strong conformation of the combination English horse and Arabian now being called the Thoroughbred. Tugging at the reins clutched in the groom's hands, the stallion swung his head toward Wade and lifted his upper lip.

"Don't even think about biting me," Wade said. "I eat horses who bite me."

The horse continued to sneer.

Wade turned to the groom. "What's his name?"

"Cel," the lad answered.

"Ah, the Celtic sun god."

"Yes, sir, all the horses are named for Celtic gods. Her ladyship's mare is Rhiannon."

How suitable! Christina was a bit of a goddess herself.

Annoyed he'd allowed his attention to stray back to Christina, Wade reached out for the reins. The stallion's teeth snatched for his arm. Before they closed on their target, Wade leaped out of range. In the next instant, he was in the saddle. The horse braced his feet is if he intended to buck. Wade didn't give him a chance. He touched his heels to the stallion's sides. Cel shot forward and raced down the drive.

His power was incredible, a sun god's indeed. The gait felt so smooth he seemed to fly over the ground. His mane, flaxen against his red-gold coat, streamed out behind him like a sail propelling him along. Wade's hair tie slipped loose and his own hair drifted free. His mind drifted free. This was what he needed, a gallop on a fine horse to drive away the guilt over Mary Beth's brother, the disappointment of not gaining her acceptance of his proposal before he left, and, most of all, his attraction to Lady Christina Marlowe. Flying along on the back of a good horse could make a man forget consciences and women.

Until one or the other reappeared.

Although the gates were open, Wade slowed the horse before turning onto the road. Then he held his mount to a trot, while Christina caught up with him. She reached him in a few moments, riding easily, as confident and graceful in the saddle as she was on the ground. A groom followed at a discreet distance.

Christina turned a glowing countenance toward Wade. "Oh, but you do ride well!"

The unaffected compliment gave Wade a thrill of pleasure that flustered him.

"I'll leave word at the stable that you may ride Cel any time," Christina added.

"Is he yours?"

Christina shook her head, looking almost sad. "No, he's my brother's. But Robert isn't here much any more, so he'll be pleased to have Cel exercised."

Wade was surprised. "You don't exercise him yourself?"

"No." Her mouth twisted in a grimace that should have made her unattractive, but didn't. "I'm only allowed to ride mares."

Wade barely refrained from remarking that he was surprised she didn't ride the stallion anyway.

As if she read his thoughts, she said, "If I'm ever caught riding a stallion or even a gelding, my father has threatened to dismiss all the grooms."

The flash of selfless kindness, much like her paying the gamekeepers to turn their backs on poachers, belied many of the nasty things Mark said of her, and made the notion that someone had intended to shoot her seemed ridiculous. Her morals might be lacking, and she had certainly been vicious toward Mark, but inside her dwelt a consideration for those less fortunate than she. That warmed Wade far more than he wished.

Mary Beth was kind too, he reminded himself. Marriage to him would elevate her from poor relation to plantation mistress. Yet she thought of her brother's welfare first.

If only the prison warden would respond to his enquiries, he could hasten home to Mary Beth.

"Mr. Montrose?" Christina's voice cut into his thoughts. "What brings you to Devon?"

Wade stared ahead. "I'm here to ensure the release of a man from Dartmoor."

"The poor man. A friend?"

"He was...once."

She remained silent until they rounded a curve in the road that led them between rolling, green pastures. "Which colony -- " She laughed. "Which state do you come from?"

"Virginia."

"Oh?" Was that coolness in her tone? "Do you own slaves?"

Wade squeezed his eyes shut. He hated that question from northerners and Englishmen. They simply didn't understand. But they did demand an answer, so he may as well get it over with. "I wish I could say no."

"If you wish it, why don't you make it so?"

"It's not that easy."

"I suppose it's not that easy to sleep at night knowing you own another human being."

"Sometimes it's not."

"Then why don't you change it?"

Wade sighed. "It's a problem I inherited, not chose."

Christina shot him a withering glare. "I didn't choose to be a female but I'm doing my best to limit my restrictions."

"By compromising your virtue?"

"And I suppose you've been celibate all your life?"

"I'm a man."

"Oh, you -- " A flash of pain tightening her features, she wheeled her mount around and rode too fast at a low, stone wall. For a heart-stopping moment, Wade feared the mare wouldn't make the jump. Then she was up and over with inches to spare and racing across the meadow.

Wade groaned aloud. He had hurt her, struck at a delicate matter, and sent her racing away.

If not for that glimpse of her anguish, he might have let her go. All his instincts warned him his interest was wrong, dangerous to his conscience, an act of treachery to his future. But he couldn't wound her spirit, then leave her alone.

Torn between the right and wrongness of his actions, he followed her into the field. Her mad dash scattered a flock of grazing sheep. They lumbered toward him, surrounded his mount, slowing his progress. Cel balked and kicked. Sheep scattered, baaing in protest. The field cleared before him, and Wade gave the stallion his head.

Across the field, Christina charged toward a line of trees. She had several hundred yards' lead on him. Given freedom, the stallion gained on her with little effort. Soon, Wade came close enough to call to her. As he opened his mouth to do so, she wheeled her mount to the side and rode straight across his path.

Cel reared, front hooves flailing the air. Wade grasped a handful of mane to keep himself from being unseated. Using his knees and other hand firm on the reins, he brought the stallion under control and, as much to calm the horse as to cool his own temper, he walked his mount over to a tree with a branch low enough to serve as a hitching post.

Once on the ground, Wade stalked to where Christina stood pale and shaken against her mare. "What did you do that for? Trying to get me killed?"

She shook her head hard enough for several curls to tumble onto her shoulder. "No, I was trying to save your life. Look."

Wade walked to where she gestured and looked. His stomach landed somewhere near his boot heels, for there in front of him stretched a steep-sided ditch six feet deep and four feet wide. "It's a ha-ha," Christina explained, coming to stand beside him.

"And the joke is on whoever doesn't make it over," Wade returned, his tone dry.

Christina inclined her head. "That's supposedly how it got the name. The landscape artist, William Kent, designed them about thirty or forty years ago to separate fields without breaking up the landscape with walls. Cel can make it over just fine if the rider knows enough to be prepared for the jump."

"Which I wasn't."

"No, I'm sorry. I lost my temper. What you said -- "

"Was uncalled-for." Turning to her, Wade clasped her hands in his. He thought he felt them tremble, and clasped them harder. "My lady, forgive me."

"No. I mean, yes, of course I do. I was jabbing at you about slavery." She lifted her gaze to his and her eyes were bluer than the sky. "Females aren't treated much differently than slaves. From the cradle, men control our lives."

"Isn't it protection, not control?" Wade thought he should let go of her hands, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. Nor could he look away from her incredible eyes.

"Do slave owners justify their actions by saying they're protecting a weaker race?"

"Persons of African descent are not a weaker race."

"As females are not necessarily weaker."

"Could a woman fight in a battle?"

"Could a man bear children?"

"Um, no." That subject made Wade uncomfortable.

The corners of her mouth quivered. "I've embarrassed you. But you deserve worse than embarrassment."

"I do not." He let his indignation show. "Ladies should be sheltered from having to fight. And as for slavery, my family has thought it was wrong for generations. But there are laws in Virginia that almost force us to keep them. Before we can free them, we have to find them work that will take them out of the parish in which we live. That takes money, and, although we are land rich, we have been cash poor since my father poured all our wealth into the Revolution. It's only been in the past few years that my brother and I have managed to replenish our wealth."

"By capturing British merchantmen?"

Wade grinned. "It seemed like justice."

"You could have sold some of the slaves. But you didn't."

"Could I break up families and live with myself?"

"I'm sorry." Suddenly, her eyes shone with unshed tears. "Sometimes I think I deserve all the names Mark calls me."

"Surely not all of them." He smiled at her. "You're quick to judge, but not heartless." Releasing one of her hands, he touched a fingertip to her cheek where a tear shimmered in the sunlight.

It was a touch he shouldn't have made. It brought them closer together, physically, emotionally. Jasmine scent and a lovely woman's nearness wove a spell around him. He tried to think of Mary Beth to break the spell -- and failed. She was a dream, unreachable, untouchable.

Christina was a presence, too reachable, too touchable. He stroked his hand down her cheek. Then he traced a fingertip across her lower lip. Her lips parted. The tip of her tongue peaked out to meet his fingertip, and no amount of willpower could stop him from bending his head to kiss her.

CHAPTER 5

The contact was brief, a mere ghost of sensation, gone in the space of a breath. Christina thought she would remember it the rest of her life. It was far from her first kiss. She didn't want it to be her last -- from this man. She wanted more. She raised her hands, ready to place them around his shoulders and draw him close.

He stepped back, out of her reach. "I'm sorry."

Christina ran her thumb across her lips. "I'm not."

"I had no right to take such a liberty."

"You didn't take anything. I gave." His gaze somewhere past her shoulder, his lips curved in a half smile. "I don't think that's the way these matters work. The man is responsible -- "

"Stuff and nonsense." Christina nearly stamped her foot. "When two mouths come together, who's to say who's kissing whom?"

"Yes, well -- " He rubbed his knuckles across his chin. "As a gentleman, I take full responsibility."

"And since Mark has no doubt informed you that my right to being called a lady is by birth alone, I won't let you do the gentlemanly thing and take full responsibility." She closed the distance between them, laid one hand on his shoulder, and kissed him again.

She intended the kiss to be a light peck, a "so there" gesture. The feel of his mouth under hers, firm yet soft, warm and receptive, changed her mind. Opening her own mouth, she traced the tip of her tongue across the cleft in his lower lip until he parted his lips and his tongue grazed hers, retreated, returned to meet the challenge of her teasing caress.

She broke the contact then, stepping back to stand an arm's length away from him on legs far less steady than she would like them to be. "There now," she spoke in a voice she barely heard above her racing heart, "I take full responsibility for that. Now you know what Mark says is true and you needn't feel guilty."

"I wish it were that easy." He sounded dazed. He looked stunned. "I confess this isn't a situation I've encountered before. I don't go around kissing single ladies."

Christina smiled. "Do you go around kissing married ladies?"

He laughed. "That was ridiculous to say, wasn't it? What I mean is -- "

"You're too much of a gentleman for your own good," Christina told him, "and I'm not enough of a lady for mine. Society, of course, says my transgressions are far worse than it would make yours -- if anyone knew, which they won't."

Wade gave her a concerned glance. "Your groom?"

Christina glanced to where Ned walked his horse a discreet fifty yards off. "Ned is loyal to me."

"Loyalty. God help me." Wade raised his hand to his brow and turned away as if his head ached. "I seem to have forgotten the meaning of loyalty."

"Oh." Suddenly, with more pain than she liked, Christina remembered his lady in Virginia. "You mean your fiancée."

"She isn't that yet, but I offered her marriage. That's as good as a commitment on my part. That makes me doubly wrong."

"Do you truly believe she's never kissed another man?"

"Yes, I do believe it."

"How old is she? Sixteen?"

"She's twenty-two."

"Oh, good -- " Christina stopped her exclamation of disbelief. That wouldn't help him at all, and he looked so sad she wanted to make him feel better.

Sitting with her feet dangling over the edge of the ha-ha, she patted the grass beside her. "Sit beside me and tell me about her. I've known two American ladies, and they're both quite charming."

He hesitated a moment, then joined her on the turf, seating himself no more than two feet away. A curious lamb wandered near, and its mother lumbered after it, her baa of admonition, the chorus of birds, and the occasional thud of a horse's hoof the only sounds in the clear, morning air.

Christina studied Wade's profile as she waited for him to speak. It was worth studying. His nose was as perfect as her own, his chin firm and definite, but not too pronounced. Hatless, his hair shone in the sunlight, not true black like her own, but the rich, deep brown of pure cocoa. With the tie gone, it hung in soft, thick waves around his face and shoulders like an old-fashioned periwig.

She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them to stop herself from reaching out and stroking his hair. She had to stop this madness. It would get her nowhere but hurt.

"Is this man you're seeking so important," she asked, "you left your lady to find him?"

He looked at her, his eyes full of an emotion she couldn't define -- pain, anguish? "The man I seek is Cedric Randall. He's Mary Beth's brother. She won't marry me until I bring him home."

"A loving sister," Christina said.

"They were always close before Cedric had to -- before Cedric went to sea. Last we heard, his privateer was captured and he was sent to Dartmoor. That was more than a year ago. When he hadn't come home by June and our letters went unanswered, Mary Beth asked me to come find him."

"And you've had no luck?"

Wade grimaced. "The prison wardens are less than cooperative."

"Have you tried crossing their palms with silver?"

"My brother and I have sent a veritable fortune to Cedric once the war ended -- hidden of course." He smiled. "I can't tell you how many nights Will and I sat up devising schemes for concealing coin. Book spines worked the best."

"American coins, or English?"

His smile widened to a grin. "English. Will kept a fair bit of captured coin for emergencies."

"Don't be so smug. We'd have beaten you Americans if we hadn't been fighting Napoleon, too."

"I doubt there'd have been another war if you hadn't been fighting the French. But then, maybe our countries will always be adversaries as England and France are." He slipped a hand into his coat pocket. "Speaking of adversaries and sea wars, look at this." He held out his hand. On the palm lay a curved piece of bone about four inches long.

Christina picked it up, and felt the warmth of his body in the smooth carving. She spent several moments stroking the piece as if it were his face instead of an inanimate object. Gradually, the intricacy of the thing sank in, and she examined it with care, then bewilderment.

"Where did you get this?" she asked.

"In the woods near where I believe the gunman waited."

Startled, she glanced at him. "Waited?"

He nodded. "It looks that way."

"Then it was a poacher?"

"Possibly." He wouldn't meet her eyes.

She turned her attention back to the carving. "It looks like the keel of a ship."

"He's prepared it for more pieces."

"He?" Feeling a little queasy, she stared at him. "Do you think the gunman dropped it?"

"It seems likely. It hadn't been there for long. If it had been, some animal would have carried it off or the elements would have marred it. But it's clean and unharmed." He reached out a hand and traced one finger along the edge where a gunwale would go. "Have you ever seen anything like it?"

"I don't think so."

"I thought maybe it meant something to you."

"To me? Why? I -- " her hand closed convulsively around the object and his finger. "Deuce take it, you think he shot at me."

"I think -- " He curled his hand around hers. "Yes, I'll be honest. The possibility occurred to me."

"It's preposterous!"

"Yes, ma'am, as preposterous as someone shooting at me or a poacher using a rifle."

Christina glared at him. She wanted to scream at him, pummel him for even suggesting someone meant her harm. But his hand held hers tightly enough for her to feel her own pulse galloping like a runaway mare. Part of her believed him. Too much of her believed him.

"I think," she said between clenched teeth, "I'm going to be sick."

"Not on my best buckskins, if you please." He laid the back of his hand against her cheek. "But then, maybe you do please. It wouldn't be the worst that's been done to me. Far less painful than being shot or stabbed."

Her eyes widened. "You've been shot and stabbed?"

"Yes, ma'am. Mary Beth stabbed me with her embroidery needle when I pulled her pigtail. I was eleven. She was five."

Christina's lips twitched. "And the shooting?"

"Oh, well, that -- " The humor left his face. "That was quite deliberate. Tact, as you well know, is not always one of my virtues. I offended a man and he called me out."

"Was it serious?"

"Took a considerable chunk out of my pride. Whenever I need humbling, I take off my shirt and look in the mirror."

"Aaah." The image of Wade Montrose shirtless warmed Christina to her toes.

He smiled. "Much better. You're no longer green as grass, which is good. It clashed with your blue eyes."

"Thank you. I feel quite well." She felt too well and too warm. "I think we should place the incident the other night down to a person who's disgruntled with the aristocracy. I don't think we're in danger of a revolution, but outbreaks of discontent have occurred in the past decade or two. And I am an earl's daughter." Regretfully, she thought of her family coming home soon, and rose. "Speaking of earls, I'd better go."

"Yes, you'd better." Though he rose also, he made no move toward his horse. Instead, he stood gazing down at the carving that had found its way back to his hand. "My lady, about what happened this morning...You're so lovely and I -- it's difficult being in a country where one isn't wanted and I -- devil take it, I'm making excuses for inexcusable behavior."

"It's forgotten," Christina lied. She wouldn't forget kissing him. But he needed to think she had.

His smile made the falsehood worthwhile. "Maybe you should forget the other incident, too. I do recommend you should stay away from the lake at night until your gamekeepers start working again." He tucked the carving into his pocket. "Shall I help you mount?"

She wished she could say no. Being close to him was too disconcerting. His scent, his strength, his gentle, honorable nature turned her insides to a roiling mass of desire and apprehension. But her alternative was to walk all the way across the field to the outer wall. He would walk with her. It was the right thing for a gentleman to do. It was the wrong thing for her to let him do. She needed distance between them -- distance like an ocean and forever -- before she did something irrevocable like want him more than she already did.

As if understanding her hesitation, he said, "I don't blame you for wishing me to Perdition. I'll fetch your groom to help." Leaving her standing beside Rhiannon, he strode to Cel, loosed the reins and mounted. He rode toward Ned and paused long enough to exchange a few words before trotting off across the field.

Oh, but he was splendid on horseback!

Ned approached her with his face bright and his blue eyes twinkling. "I could extort a year's wages from you to keep this little scene to myself, milady."

"You do and I'll ride Cel so you'll lose your position."

Ned grinned. "Then we're even. I keep mum and you stick to your mare."

"You forget your place, Ned Downs."

"Aye, and that makes us even again."

Christina scowled at him. "I did nothing wrong. He's a stranger who did me a good turn, so I returned the favor."

"Aye, m'lady." Ned nodded vigorously. "I s'pose Sir Roderick would like a favor or two like that one."

"Sir Roderick should be far away by now."

But Sir Roderick wasn't far away. When Christina and Ned returned to find Cel safe in his stall and Wade Montrose long gone, she found Sir Roderick sitting in the garden with Suzanna.

"That was an awfully long ride," Suzanna greeted her.

Slight and blonde, Christina's sister was her opposite in physical appearance. "Mama and Papa are utterly annoyed with you. They didn't like you riding out when we weren't home."

"You should have waited for me, m'dear." Sir Roderick stood and bowed with an alarming creak of the stays he wore to confine the results of too many sugarplums.

When he straightened, she noticed his lip was still puffy from the other night. She would have felt guilty if not for the way he'd treated her while under the impression she wouldn't dream of turning down his proposal. Remembering, she shuddered.

"I'd planned to take you out in my curricle," he continued.

Christina gave him a false smile. "Thank you, sir, but I prefer riding to sitting still. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Sir Roderick caught her arm in his fleshy hand. With him so close, she caught the odor of linens he should have changed days ago, and wrinkled her nose. "No, m'dear, I won't. We have unfinished business to discuss."

Gently but firmly, she removed his hand from her arm. "No, we don't. I finished it night before last."

"Not according to your parents."

"They have no say in the matter. I am one and twenty."

That was a lie, and he knew it. Her parents had all to say in the matter they pleased.

She drew herself to her full height. In her riding boots, she was nearly a head taller than he. "I won't discuss it here and now. It's between my parents and me." She turned on her heel, then stalked to the tower door.

"You're supposed to go to Papa's study as soon as you're home," Suzanna called after her.

Christina fought the sinking sensation in her belly -- and lost. The confrontation was inevitable, and she'd be best off to get it over with now. Except she feared the consequences of facing her parents' wrath when her emotions were in turmoil.

She wasn't given a choice. Before she reached her bedchamber, a footman met her, bowing politely and looking smug. "His lordship wishes to see you, milady. At once."

Suppressing a sigh, Christina stalked past the man and wended her way to the staircase leading down to her father's study. Another footman stood outside the door. At her approach, he flung open the portal and announced, "Lady Christina, milord, milady."

Both her parents were there. That didn't bode well since Mama had been far angrier the other night than Father had.

With her head high, Christina sailed into the study as if she owned it and the occupants waited upon her. The looks on her parents' faces nearly took the wind from her advance; her father's color was high and a white rim surrounded Mama's lips.

Christina stopped behind a chair that faced both her father behind his desk and her mother seated at an angle to him.

"Sit down," her father commanded.

Christina folded her hands on the high, curved back of the chair. "I prefer to stand."

"But we don't prefer to look up at you." The hardness of Mama's voice contrasted with her soft, blond prettiness.

Christina smiled. This was an easy battle to win. "I might make the fabric smell like horse."

Mama's nose wrinkled. "You should have changed."

"I wasn't given the opportunity," Christina pointed out.

Her father glared at her. "You shouldn't have been out riding at all. Especially not with a stranger."

A fist squeezed around Christina's stomach, but she remained outwardly cool. "Ned was with me the entire time. Nothing improper occurred." That was an exaggeration of the truth.

"Riding with a stranger is improper enough." Mama spoke in her lecturing tone. "You know perfectly well -- "

"Not now, Lady Torr," Her father interrupted.

Christina cringed. She couldn't bear the way her parents addressed one another as if they were strangers.

"Who is this man?" Her father demanded.

Christina barely refrained from closing her eyes and screwing up her face. "Wade Montrose, a friend of Sir Mark's."

"What?" Her father nearly rose from his chair.

Mama's entire face grew pale.

"What are you doing with a friend of his?" Her father shouted.

Mama clamped her hands over her ears. "My lord, please."

"A chance encounter," Christina explained with perfect honesty. "He was riding a horse that should be drowsing in a pasture, so I thought he could exercise Cel for Robert."

"The stallion does need to be exercised," her father conceded.

"But you won't see this man again," Mama added.

Christina's fingernails pressed into the brocade upholstery. "It's unlikely." Did they catch the wistful note in her voice?

They both relaxed so visibly, she doubted they had.

"Then we may move on to the important matter at hand," Her father said. "Regarding your marriage."

Suddenly, Christina wished she had sat down. "I don't have a marriage."

Her father's blue eyes, so like her own, flashed with temper. "That's the difficulty. You prefer to make a fool of me before my friends."

"And you're hindering Suzanna's chances at making a good match," Mama added. "She can't wed before you."

"Of course she may," Christina said. "I don't mind."

Her father's fist crashed onto his desk, making her and Mama jump. "We do mind. I managed to stop you from creating a scandal when Shields broke your betrothal. But incidents such as your performance the other night are not kept quiet for long."

Christina gave her father an exasperated glance. "Do you expect me to believe Sir Roderick will tell anyone I knocked him down with a single slap across his face?"

"You had no right to strike him," Mama said. "Especially after you invited his advances."

"After I what?" Almost too late, Christina stopped herself from flinging the chair across the room. As it was, the legs rocked off the floor and thudded down again with a boom like distant cannon fire. "How could you think I'd -- how could you imagine I'd-I'd - - " Stammering to a halt, she inhaled in an attempt to calm herself. "You believed him." The accusation emerged as an unladylike shriek.

"Of course we do." Her father sounded and looked maddeningly calm. "He has no reason to lie."

"And your behavior in the past is proof," Mama appended.

Afraid she might weep, Christina turned her back on her parents and stumbled across the room to lean her brow against a windowpane. The glass felt cool against her heated skin. She wished she could open the casement and breathe fresh air. But Mama hated fresh air.

Almost choking with her need to escape, Christina said, "Sir Roderick had no right to touch me as he did regardless of my past. I said no to his proposal and no to his advances. He didn't seem to understand, so I slapped him. He fell."

Her father cleared his throat. "We do not intend to discuss the matter further. Because we have a mutual desire for political advancement, Sir Roderick will keep silent if you do not humiliate him again."

"And we can't have another scandal with Suzanna making her debut at the Little Season in October," Mama put in. "And now Bucks wishes to remarry. He's courting Lady Jane Whitelaw, and we'll travel to Brighton in August to discuss the contract."

Despite the stuffy room and weight of her broadcloth habit, Christina shivered. She knew where her parents' remarks headed. Suzanna's debut was one difficulty she might have overcome. But now that her widowed brother -- address by his courtesy title, not his given name -- intended to remarry, she might be trapped.

"This is the end of July," her father said. "I'll give you until the end of October to either accept Sir Roderick or find another husband, if anyone else would think to offer for you."

"Three months?" Christina faced her parents, though she had to brace her hands behind her on the windowsill for support. "Only three months to find someone other than Sir Roderick?"

"You've had four years," Her father said, not unkindly.

"You're an embarrassment to us," Mama added unkindly.

"I'm sorry." Christina swallowed against the rising panic in her throat. "I don't mean to hurt any of you. I simply don't wish to marry anyone."

"Marriage is a woman's place and duty," Mama said.

"A daughter's first duty," her father added, "is to obey her father. I command that you find a husband within three months, or the consequences will be unpleasant."

Dragged kicking and screaming to the altar or locked away? The idea of either prospect made Christina ill. Feeling like a moth trapped inside a lamp chimney with the flame licking higher, she bowed her head in acknowledgement of her parents' ultimatum, and asked to be excused. Granted permission, she blundered from the study with her father's words ringing behind her like a death knell, "Three months."

Three months to find a husband? No, Christina determined as she raced up the stairs to her bedchamber; she had three months to make herself unmarriageable -- regardless of the cost.

CHAPTER 6

The handwriting was almost illegible, but the meaning of the misspelled words was clear. Still, Wade read the brief missive again, his gut tightening with each line.

"It is the sick news?" Felice asked from across the table.

"Bad news," Mark corrected her.

Wade glanced at Felice. "The worst." Folding the letter, he concentrated on fitting the broken pieces of the wax seal together again as if doing so would revoke the message within. "Cedric Randall is dead. They found his grave. Being a ship's officer and, I've no doubt, having the money Will and I sent, he has a separate grave."

Felice gave out a cry of protest. "Ah, Wade, I have the sorry most great for you. It is...is..." Her voice trailed off in a muddle of French and unintelligible English.

Mark responded to her with a French phrase whose meaning Wade guessed was less than polite judging from Felice's blush.

After more than a week watching Mark snipe and Felice withdraw, Wade was more than ready to return home. On one of his two journeys to Dartmoor Prison, he'd even taken the time to travel south to Plymouth and inquire about ships to America. One sailed for sail in two weeks, and Wade planned to be on it.

Except it wasn't going to be a pleasant homecoming with the news he carried. Mary Beth would insist on at least a year of mourning before she considered marriage. She might not consider marriage at all, not with the man responsible, however indirectly, for her brother's death.

If only he'd gotten her promise before he came to England!

"Did you think he was still alive?" Mark asked. "After all this time?" His tone sounded almost as scornful as it did when he address Felice.

Wade clamped down a flare of annoyance. "There are still Americans waiting for transport home. It was possible."

"Hope is always the good thing," Felice said.

Mark snorted. "You should know -- wife."

Disgusted, Wade shoved back his chair. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to write some letters."

"I'm going into Clovelly in a bit if you'd like to join me," Mark offered.

Politely, Wade declined. He'd gone into Clovelly with Mark once only to discover that the other man's idea of an afternoon's entertainment was getting drunk and going off with a doxy. Not caring for the aftermath of the former or the experience of the latter, Wade refrained from going again.

"It would be good for you," Mark persisted. "Take your mind off Randall and your lady too, for that matter."

Wade stared at Mark, unable to believe he would talk that way in front of Felice. "No, thank you."

"You've been in England a week and a half," Mark continued. "You were at sea for - - what? -- five weeks before that? Isn't good for a man to deprive himself."

"Oh!" Her face a ghastly shade of green, Felice surged to her feet and lumbered from the room.

"How dare you talk that way in front of a lady?" Wade lashed out with all his pent- up anguish. "It's bad enough that you're unfaithful to your wife. But to shame her in front of me, too! My God, Mark, that's unpardonable."

Mark glared at Wade for half a minute, then, his face reddening, he dropped his gaze. "I seem doomed to ally myself with whores. Or perhaps all females are faithless below their pristine gowns and sweet smiles."

"Mary Beth isn't," Wade declared.

Mark shoved his hand through his hair. "Then you're fortunate. I've always wanted females who want other men first."

Sympathy softened Wade's demeanor, though he doubted Felice wanted another man. Christina was another matter. After the way she'd kissed him, he believed Mark spoke the truth about her morals if not her heartlessness. Of course, he had kissed her the first time, an unpardonable act. But that second kiss...

The memory made him uncomfortable and ashamed, especially now that he knew Cedric was dead. He had so much to make up to Mary Beth. He couldn't add unfaithfulness to the list.

He stared down at the letter crumpled in his hand. "If Felice had another man before you, she wants only you now."

"Truth or not," Mark grumbled, "I've gotten well-paid for giving her my name."

"And being wise with the money." Deciding he'd had enough of the discussion, Wade went to the door. "Enjoy yourself."

Mark didn't tell Wade to enjoy himself, which was good. Wade didn't enjoy himself. He sat at the desk in his room trying to compose a letter to Mary Beth. The mail packet left Plymouth the day after next. It had no room for passengers, but could take a letter to its destination in Alexandria that might reach Mary Beth in Richmond before Wade reached River Terrace.

After two hours, he gave up trying to compose the right words to express his regret for the past and hope for the future. Telling her on paper was cowardice anyway.

The day stretched before him, too long, too empty. He wished he could go for a ride on Cel. But he hadn't felt right visiting Torr Keep to take advantage of Christina's offer of the horse, when he preferred not to see the lady herself. Accepting her generosity and not her company seemed dishonorable.

As if you have any honor left, he chastised himself.

He'd never known remorse could be a physical pain. Five years earlier, he'd thought his actions were just. Cedric got only what he deserved. But Cedric didn't deserve death for his youthful indiscretion, for his attempt to make life easier for Mary Beth. She didn't deserve to lose her home and brother.

Wade didn't deserve her.

He left the house, then he headed across the lawn. The day was hot, even for Wade's southern blood. Knowing no one save workmen would see him once he left the house, Wade pulled off his coat and neckcloth and left them lying on a rustic bench in the bedraggled garden. Then he set off across the fields.

He considered walking the five miles to Hartland Point. The ferocity of the sea would suit his mood -- too well. He should seek peace and quiet, someplace to grieve undisturbed.

No, he didn't want to be undisturbed. He wanted a distraction.

Even before he entered the woods, Wade told himself not to seek the companionship of Lady Christina. Staying away from her this past week was the right course of action after kissing her, being kissed by her, desiring her. He should keep staying away from her. Besides, he couldn't call on her wearing only breeches, shirt and boots. He would spend a few minutes by the water, then leave.

Yards before the woods ended, he heard water splash, then women's laughter and a child's squeal of delight. Without seeing her, Wade knew she was one of the revelers by the lake. He must turn back now before he saw or was seen.

His feet carried him forward. Around the last curve in the path, he found her in the lake. Her pale muslin gown gathered up in one hand, she stood knee-deep in the water bent over as she attempted to grasp something bobbing just below the surface. Two women, one young, one older, dressed in servant's black, stood by the summerhouse laughing, while a small boy jumped up and down.

"You need two hands, my lady," the older maid said.

"Two hands. Two hands," the lad chorused.

"I need one hand to hold up my skirt," Christina protested.

"You can pull it between your legs and hold it with your thighs." The younger maid made her scandalous suggestion with a decidedly French accent. "Like so." She proceeded to demonstrate, giving Wade a fine view of slim ankles and calves.

"Nanette," the older maid scolded.

Nanette giggled and dropped her skirt. "You'll lose the ball if you don't use both hands."

"You'll lose if you lose the ball," the boy proclaimed.

"I can't do that, can I?" Straightening, Christina drew the folds of her skirt taut between her legs. Then she leaned forward, both hands outstretched for the ball.

Wade suppressed a groan. With her skirt tight around her hips and thighs, her bent over position allowed him too fine a view of firm curves.

Mary Beth would never display herself in such a way. Did she ever play? She had when they were children -- hadn't she? He tried to remember.

He couldn't think with Christina a hundred feet away, striding toward shore, holding the ball aloft in a show of victory. Once again, she held her skirt in one hand and didn't release it until she was several feet from the water. He didn't think he'd ever seen such long, graceful legs.

Knowing it was wrong to see them now, he started to turn away. He would go to the cliffs after all.

The laughter held him back. They were having such a pleasurable time he wanted to be with them. Maybe it was wrong to play, when Cedric was dead and Mary Beth would soon be grieving, but he hadn't played in years.

Slowly, shyly, he left the woods and rounded the lake, his gaze focused on the players. He knew when the French woman spotted him. Her eyes widened with surprise. Then she kicked the ball to the child and grasped Christina's arm.

Christina spun toward him. "Wade! I mean -- " Her hand flew to her mouth. "Mr. Montrose."

He reached her side. "Forgive the intrusion. I felt the need of a walk and heard the laughter, so I..."

"Wanted a laugh, too?" She clasped his hand, drawing him forward. "You're welcome to join us. Let me present you. This is Nanette, Mrs. Goss, and the Honorable Robin Marlowe, my nephew. Robbie, make your bow."

Robin, a lad of four or five, made a surprisingly graceful bow, then looked up at Wade from eyes as blue as his aunt's. "You may play on my team, sir. You're big enough to make up for me being small and there being three of them."

"I'll certainly do my best."

The game wasn't one he'd ever played, but the rules were simple. One person rolled the ball to a kicker. When the ball had been kicked, the kicker ran around a rough circle, touching designated places along the way, while the other team tried to catch the ball and throw it at the runner.

Declaring herself too old to run, Mrs. Goss volunteered to roll the ball for both teams. At first, Wade felt self-conscious racing around the circle while the boy cheered and two young women tried to hit him with a leather ball. He felt even stranger when their rolls reversed. In a shorter time than he would have thought possible, however, he'd abandoned dignity in favor of enjoyment. Then he abandoned chivalry in favor of helping robin win. Besides, it was great fun watching Christina and Nanette hike their skirts to their knees when they ran.

The men declared undisputed winners, they all flopped inelegantly on the grass, breathless and disheveled. Mrs. Goss brought them sweet biscuits and lemonade cooled in the lake.

"Have you decided we English are mad?" Christina asked Wade.

He smiled. "I already knew that. Now I know you aren't always starting wars in your madness."

"We starting wars?" Christina cried. "You forget your history. I do believe you Yankees started both wars."

"Yankee?" Nanette asked. "You're a Yankee?"

"No, I'm a Virginian."

"There's a difference?" Nanette pressed.

Robin yawned. "I think Virginian's nicer."

Wade ruffled the boy's dark hair. "Smart lad."

"Unless you're a Yankee," Christina murmured.

"Hmpmm." Robin's head lolled.

"Someone needs a nap," Mrs. Goss said, rising. "Come, Master Robin. Back to the house."

"I'm not sleepy," Robin protested, then yawned.

"Mrs. Goss is right," Christina said. "You'll be cross as a crab in a trice if you don't get some rest."

Robin began to protest, but his nurse led him up the path with a firm hand on his shoulder. When she was out of sight, Nanette scrambled to her feet, caught up the picnic hamper, and scampered off with a mischievous wink.

Wade faced Christina. She sat with her knees drawn to her chest and her bare feet in plain view. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders, free and wanton. The urge to touch her almost overpowered his reason.

His legs stretched out before him, he leaned back on his hands to keep them where they belonged. "Thank you for this afternoon. I needed...diversion."

"I'm please we provided it. My nephew gives me great joy."

"I see why. He's charming."

"My brother has done well by him. Robin's mother died in childbirth. But Robert spends a good bit of time with him. At least he did until a few weeks ago, when he decided to start wife-hunting." She grimaced. "We have to go to Brighton to approve the chosen bride soon."

"You prefer it here?"

"I have more freedom here than at our other estates, and certainly more than I have at Brighton."

The conversation lagged, but the silence between them wasn't uncomfortable. Peace settled over Wade, and he had the strange desire to lie back on the grass and sleep.

"Go ahead," Christina said.

Wade jerked upright. "Go ahead and what?"

"You look ready to sleep. I gave you permission to do so."

Wade rubbed his temples. "I'd rather be able to sleep tonight. I wouldn't if I slept now."

She didn't respond, but she watched him. Under the intensity of her gaze, he felt himself grow warm, then uncomfortable, then restless. It was past time he left.

She stopped him from rising with an outstretched hand that didn't quite touch him. "What's wrong?"

He concentrated on dissecting a blade of grass. "What makes you think something's wrong? Because I forgot manners and propriety and chased two ladies around like a five-year-old?"

"Because you were desperate enough to need such a diversion." She rose then moved to kneel beside him and lay a hand on his shoulder. "But mostly because you look as though you're carrying a burden as big as the summerhouse on your shoulders."

"I feel like it." He covered her hand with his. "Cedric Randall is dead."

"Oh, I am sorry! And Mary Beth? Will she take it hard?"

Wade nodded. "Other than an aunt she doesn't really like, Cedric was all the family she had."

"But she has you."

Wade lifted his gaze to Christina's and spoke his fears aloud. "She may not want me now."

"Now that's a foolish remark if I ever heard one." She smoothed his hair back from his brow like a mother soothing a fretful child. Except she smelled like a desirable woman, and she didn't make him feel like a child.

Seemingly unaffected by the closeness, she continued speaking. "If she wants to marry you, her brother's death has nothing to do with the matter."

"I'd like to think that. But she wouldn't promise to marry me until I brought Cedric back." He sighed. "I'll be bringing him back all right -- in a casket."

"And she'll have to go into mourning. That'll delay the wedding. But if she cares for you, it won't matter if her brother is dead or alive. It's sad he's dead, but you kept your word to find him. Why wouldn't she keep hers?"

Because I as good as killed Cedric, Wade cried inside his head. But he couldn't tell Christina that.

He smiled at her. "Forgive my fit of the doldrums. It seems I've waited all my life to marry her, but something's always getting in the way."

"Will you go home soon to make certain nothing else gets in the way?" Christina asked.

"There's a ship leaving Plymouth in two weeks."

"A lifetime living with Mark and Lady Shields. From what I hear, that household is enough to put anyone in the doldrums."

"Mark was a good friend to me in the past, but I must admit, they're almost enough to convince a man not to marry."

"Mark alone was enough to convince me not to wed."

"I forgot." Wade was embarrassed.

Christina laughed. "Don't look like you've offended the Prince Regent. I was making a jest. I'd decided not to marry long before my betrothal to Mark ended so ignominiously." She sat back on her heels. "But my opinion of marriage is neither here nor there. What matters is you being trapped in the Shields household for two more weeks with no entertainment. And that, I'm afraid, is partly my fault. My parents made certain Mark was no longer received in the neighborhood. Since no one dares cut me and no one wants me and Mark to meet face to face in a drawing room, that won't change until I leave the county. So I must make amends and find you some entertainment."

Though touched, Wade protested, "You don't owe me anything."

"You saved my life."

"And I shamelessly beat you at the game today."

"But it was my pleasure to lose to see you laugh." She ran the tips of her fingers across his cheekbone, making him want to squirm, to lean closer, to run for cover.

He remained motionless, inhaling jasmine and woman strong enough to almost drown his guilt for enjoying both.

She cupped her chin in her hand. "Tomorrow, Ned assures me, will be a perfect day for sailing. He usually takes me out with Nanette. If you like the water, you're welcome to join us."

He would have said no if she hadn't included her groom and maid in the group. But nothing was improper about sailing with the four of them together. And to sail on the open water sounded like the exact entertainment he needed.

"I'd like that."

"Good." Rising, she touched one fingertip to the center of his lower lip, then glided across the grass to the park.

Her touch tingling on his lip, Wade watched her go and wondered if sport with the ball was the only game Christina Marlowe was playing that afternoon.

***

Christina bolted upright in bed. Her legs thrashed, trying to kick off the bedclothes. Sheets tangled around her calves. The feather mattress billowed around her thighs. She was sinking. She'd be trapped, unable to breathe.

She couldn't breathe. Attempts to inhale brought the resistance of a constricting band around her chest. A scream echoed in her head, but she couldn't drag in enough air to cry for help.

"My lady." The voice seemed distant, but, suddenly, the sheets moved from her legs. A hand clasped hers, tugging her out of the smothering folds of the mattress.

On feet that felt numb, Christina followed the guiding hand through darkness. Then cool stone met her hands and cooler air washed across her face. She gasped, coughed, began breathing. Darkness gave way to the gray light of dawn.

Her elbows on the windowsill, she dropped her face into her hands. "God help me. That was bad."

"The nightmare?" Nanette asked.

Christina nodded.

"What made it happen?"

Christina shook her head. She feared if she tried to speak, sobs would emerge instead.

"Would you like some tea?"

"Please." The single word emerged in a whisper.

"I will not be long. There will be hot water for the servants." Nanette departed.

Alone, Christina allowed herself a few moments to weep, to wash away as much of the nightmare as she could. Already, the nausea and headache had begun to plague her. Chamomile, mint, and lavender leaves mixed with the Bohea would diminish the effects, but so did tears, though she rarely let herself indulge.

The dream was always the same -- confinement, blackness, an inability to breathe. The events triggering the dream were also much the same -- marriage proposals, new restrictions from her father, and, the week before, being held face down in the lake. This last time confused her. None of those events had occurred. She hadn't even endured a nightmare after her father informed her she had three months to find a husband or else. So why now, when a single bird call, the harbinger of the dawn chorus, promised fine weather and a sail with Wade?

Because you want him, a voice taunted inside her head.

She'd gone to sleep thinking about the way his white cambric shirt clung to his broad shoulders, the way his eyes shone more blue than gray when he laughed, the way he smelled and felt and talked. Her body pulsed with the need to be close to him.

But why would simple, shameful, aching lust cause her nightmare? He was the last man on earth who would entrap her in marriage. He considered himself promised to another lady. He wouldn't break that promise regardless of what his body wanted. Even if he indulged in response to her -- a touch, a kiss -- he expected nothing more from her, no commitments. Talking with him the previous afternoon had convinced her of that.

So why the terror of the nightmare?

Shaken, Christina staggered to a chair and sank onto the cushions to wait for Nanette. She arrived in a few moments bearing a pot of tea and the advice that Christina remain home.

"I will send Ned to the Abbey with a message."

Inhaling the soothing blend of herbs, Christina shook her head. "The open sea and fresh air is precisely what I need."

"But you may be sick on the boat."

"I'll be sick if I stay here."

"True. True." Nanette lit the candles on either side of the dressing table mirror, then crossed to the wardrobe to remove Christina's gown and pelisse. "But perhaps you wish to change your plans and have Ned and me stay with you?"

"No, I'll be all right, and Mr. Montrose may feel awkward with the two of you along. He's a little bashful."

"He's much bashful. But magnificent, no?"

"Magnificent, yes!" Christina smiled, feeling better.

"I understand why you wish to kiss that mouth."

"I have kissed that mouth."

"Mon dieu!" Christina's jean boots clattered to the floor.

Christina laughed. "Nanette, your face! You'd think I told you I made love with him."

"I would have fainted at that. You never let men touch you."

"That's because I don't want one to. But Wade -- " Christina pressed her thighs together. "He's enamored of a lady in Virginia, so I'm safe to indulge with him, I've decided."

"But, my lady, you may be hurt."

Christina turned the teacup in her hand and stared at its contents as if she read the future in the swirling, amber liquid. "Unless I discover a way to make myself unmarriageable, my parents' actions will hurt me. So I may as well choose the source of my sorrow, if he does hurt me. Besides, he'll be gone soon, so the hurt won't last. In the mean time, I like his company. He's almost a friend."

Nanette looked dubious, but said nothing more.

"Did you ask Cook to prepare a picnic?"

"It will be waiting in the stable yard."

"Thank you." Setting her cup aside, Christina rose. "Then I'd better dress. We must be off before everyone awakens or Sir Roderick and Suzanna may decide to join us."

Christina and Nanette hastened to dress and descend to the stableyard where Ned waited with the landaulet and picnic hamper. Christina would have preferred riding after her nightmare, but Nanette didn't ride. Nor could they leave with an extra horse for Wade without causing difficulties. At least the landaulet was open.

Driving to Belton Abbey seemed to take forever. When they arrived, Wade wasn't in sight. The house looked deserted as well as decrepit. To her dismay, Christina felt a stab of guilt at the signs of recent poverty. If she'd married Mark, the house would be in good repair and the land prosperous. Men and women would have work -- and she'd have been miserable.

At seventeen, Christina hadn't been prepared to sacrifice herself for anyone. She still wasn't willing at twenty-one. Yet how could she let someone suffer if she was able to stop it?

Before she tread further down that path, the front door opened and Wade emerged looking rather like a pirate in his leather breeches and long hair. Christina's heart tumbled over. A flash of pain stabbed behind her eyes.

"What's wrong?" Nanette murmured.

"Too much right, I think," Christina answered.

"La, yes!" Christina thought Nanette was going to drool.

Wade reached the carriage and sat in the backward facing seat. "Sorry to keep you waiting. I didn't expect you to be on time, let alone early."

Christina and Nanette both glared at him.

He laughed. "Should I sit up front with Ned?"

"No," Christina said, "you should remain back here where we can teach you the error of your ways. Nanette, being French, is too practical to keep someone waiting. I, being recalcitrant, am always on time because it's de rigueur to be late if one thinks oneself important."

Wade's eyes twinkled. "Was that your way of saying you're important or I think I am?"

"I'd feel disloyal to England to claim an American is important, sir," Christina returned. "So, I being an earl's daughter, must have been referring to myself."

"You are unkind," Nanette protested. "A country that can defeat England in war must be of the importance."

Wade laughed.

Christina frowned at Nanette. "Would you like to apply to Mr. Montrose for a position in Virginia?"

Blushing, Nanette pointedly changed the subject. "This ride to Clovelly, it is tedious. I wish Lord Bucks had a closer anchorage."

"Lord Bucks?" Wade asked.

"My brother," Christina said. "The sailboat is his. My parents don't care for the sea."

"And, like Cel, the boat needs exercise," Wade said.

Tension easing, Christina nodded. "Something like that. It's only thirty feet and single-masted. He wanted something he could use with friends and not need a crew."

"On voyages to France on dark nights?" Wade inquired.

"But he'd be hanged for a spy," Nanette protested.

"More like a smuggler," Christina said.

"I suspect he's made more than one run for brandy. But that was after his wife died. He needed diversion."

"I should think," Wade drawled, "getting hanged for smuggling would divert a man from his sorrow. I'll settle for sailing -- today anyhow."

"Have you the sorrow?" Nanette asked.

"Not in such fair company, ma'am." He smiled at Nanette with a sweetness that shot an uncommon emotion through Christina's heart -- jealousy.

Why would she be jealous of Nanette receiving a smile?

Her answer was a stab of pain behind her eyes. She pressed her thumbs to her temples under the pretext of shielding her eyes so she could gaze at the scenery. In truth, she saw nothing of hills and pastures, woodland and the cliffs dropping to the sea.

"My lady?" Nanette caught Christina's attention.

Both Wade and Nanette looked at her with concern.

"You are pale," Nanette said.

"Do you wish to return home?" Wade asked.

Christina curled her upper lip. "To a day of bowls with the Bennets and Sir Roderick? I'd have to have the plague."

"I should not say so," Nanette said, "but Sir Roderick, he is the plague you have."

Wade arched his brows.

Christina and Nanette laughed.

"Don't look so shocked," Christina said. "If you knew him, you'd understand why we are not polite in our speech. He's..."

"Unwashed," Nanette finished, wrinkling her nose.

"But such a good match," Christina added. "Rich and member of Parliament to counter the minor title of baronet. I'm a fool to turn him down. Now, to stop me from being any more rude, here is Clovelly."

The carriage rumbled onto the streets of the village, picturesque with its houses marching down the cliffs in staggered rows to the sea. The harbor was small, thus so were the boats. Most belonged to fishermen. A few belonged to smugglers pretending to be fishing boats. Like a princess reclining amongst hardworking peasants, the Robin bobbed pristine white on the deep blue swells.

"She does well up to four or five foot waves," Christina said. "After that, it gets a bit uncomfortable."

"None of that today," Ned predicted as he drew up the team and leaped from the box. "Just enough wind to keep you going."

"She's fine," Wade said. "The size of my favorite boat."

"You have a boat?" Nanette inquired.

"You have more than one?" Christina asked at the same time.

Wade gave them an indulgent glance. "I have three. Since our roads are so poor, we use the river and the bay instead."

"Ridiculous of me not to think of that." Christina rose and held her hand out for Ned to assist her down. Striding toward the dock, where the Robin was moored, she decided she wasn't thinking of much of anything beyond the man and the day ahead.

Would he be angry when he discovered her mischief?

Her stomach feeling as though she were aboard in a rough sea, she reached the Robin and waited for the others to catch up with her. She couldn't board unaided, not in a dress.

Wade reached her first. Giving the mooring lines a tug, he drew the boat against the dock and swung aboard without effort.

"If only I could wear breeches," Christina said.

Wade looked startled for a moment, probably shocked she would mention wearing breeches, but then he smiled. "If you ladies take to wearing men's garb, we gentlemen won't have the opportunity to be chivalrous." He held out his hands. "May I?"

"Yes, you may." Placing her hands in his and allowing him to half balance, half lift her aboard, Christina concluded wearing a dress had its advantages. She liked the feel of his hands holding hers and the sight of his muscles visible even beneath his jacket. Once on the deck, she savored a few moments enjoying his height, his nearness...him. Then Ned appeared with the picnic hamper, and the moment passed.

"Do you know how to sail?" Christina asked.

Wade looked at her, blank-faced. "No, ma'am, I let my...servants do the work."

"Then you'll have to learn to -- " Christina caught the glint of amusement in his eyes, and laughed. "I should have known you did the sailing yourself. Go loose the mainsail, then. I'll steer us from the harbor. Ned will get the moorings."

"And Miss le Rue?"

Christina shrugged. "She isn't a sailor."

That, at least, was the truth. That neither Nanette nor Ned were coming aboard, Wade, busy with the sails, wouldn't notice until they were amongst the other boats leaving harbor on the morning tide and unable to turn back.

Her hands felt damp inside her gloves. She couldn't remember the last time she felt nervous around a man. They were always so anxious to seek out her company, she held the upper hand. Though he had sought her the day before, Wade was different, friendly, but self contained, polite, not eager. He was too dashed competent at everything.

The boat jolted. Ned shouted something unintelligible, and the Robin crept into the channel between three boats reeking of their night's catch of fish, and a revenue cutter from which wafted the aroma of fresh coffee and the bellow of an officer berating a hapless seaman. Next came a line of craft to follow or pass as opportunity arose. Then the harbor lay behind them. The sea stretched around them, sapphire blue banded with ivory and gold where sunlight caught the crests of the waves. Wind puffed from the southeast, smelling of new mown hay, still chilly in the early morning. It lifted the mainsail, and they were on their way, sailing west toward Cornwall.

A shadow fell across the compass glass behind the tiller. "Your maid and groom didn't join us." Wade's voice was as cool as the wind.

Christina kept her gaze on the compass and the sea to keep herself on an even keel. "So I lied when I said they'd be here to chaperone. I knew you wouldn't come otherwise. And I thought you'd feel more comfortable without them around."

"More comfortable alone with -- " He stopped.

One hand holding the tiller steady, Christina turned to face him. His expression of concern bordering on alarm made her smile. Only with an effort did she refrain from smoothing the crease between his brows.

She chose words to sooth him instead. "Nanette and Ned are loyal to me, but they would tell my father of my activities before they allowed me to do something foolhardy. In other words, Wade Montrose, they trust me alone with you. Or you alone with me."

"What if someone finds out?"

Christina bit the inside of her lower lip. "I'll find myself married by special license to a man I despise."

"My lady...Christina." He touched her then, his fingers light and cool against her jaw. "Rebellion isn't usually worth the risk."

"That's an odd remark coming from an American."

"Who knows better than an American about the risks of rebellion?"

"I do. The risk of discovery isn't very high." She returned her full attention to the sea before she laid her head against his shoulder and gave him a sobbing account of her nightmare terrors. "I need this outing. So please, don't ask me to turn back. If you do, I will, so don't."

Wade remained silent for several moments, then brushed his hand across her shoulder. "I'll go set the topsails."

The last burden from the nightmare slipped off Christina as if Wade's hand had pushed it aside. Wind and water, salt spray and sunshine filled her senses. For a few hours -- perhaps the last few hours of freedom she would have -- she needn't worry about finding a husband or making herself undesirable for one. This was her day to enjoy with a man she enjoyed too much.

Above her, the topsails soared to life, white against the cloudless sky. Wade returned and offered to take the tiller.

Christina turned it over to him. "I'll go below and see what we have in the way of breakfast. Cherries -- " A metallic ping stopped her prediction.

Wade cocked his head to one side. "What was that?"

"Something striking the bottom. It's copper sheathed."

"I should do that with my boats. It's probably worth the expense not to have to careen them every few months."

"I think so." Christina crossed the deck and dropped down the short ladder into the cabin.

Though small, it contained the essential amenities of bunk, table and cupboard for a chamber pot. The basket sat on the table, held in place with fiddle boards, pieces of wood set into grooves on the table's surface. Christina pulled off the lid and reached for the bowl of cherries -- and froze.

Beneath the dish lay the bone-pale carving of a ship's bulwarks and deck.

CHAPTER 7

"Wade!" His name tore from her in a cry of horror. The carving in her hand, she scrambled up the ladder, caught her toe in the hem of her gown, tore loose the bottom flounce and landed on her knees.

Wade abandoned the tiller and leaped to catch her beneath the elbows. "What's wrong? Did you -- " His gaze dropped to the carving. Convulsively, his hand tightened. "Where did you find that?"

"The picnic hamper. The hamper from the Torr Keep kitchen. My own -- " Feeling panic rising, Christina made herself take a deep breath. "It was under a dish."

Wade held out a hand. "May I have it?"

"Please do." Christina dropped the object into his palm.

He examined the piece for moments that felt like hours, tracing the joins with a fingertip, holding it up to the sky. At last, he shoved it into his breeches pocket and rested his hands on Christina's shoulders. "I can't know for certain, but I'd wager River Terrace it fits with the other piece."

"The man in the woods?" Her voice was a croak.

He nodded. "At least it's the same work."

"But it was in the hamper! How did it get into the hamper?"

"Christina." His thumb stroked the side of her neck where her pulse raced beneath her skin. "Anyone could have hidden that in a picnic basket."

"But no one knew I was coming sailing. That is, no one outside the household. My household. Wade, it was in my house!"

"Shh. Don't distress yourself yet."

"Don't patronize me," she shot back. "You know as well as I do that this is a warning, a taunt."

"We don't know that."

"Then what do we know? This matches the other piece. You found the other piece beside a place where someone waited with a gun and shot at...m-me." Her voice breaking, she spun away from Wade and stumbled to the rail.

The teakwood lay smooth and cool beneath her hands. She clutched it, willing herself not to be sick. She would not disgrace herself in front of a man who treated her like a child needing protection against bogeys. Bogeys didn't exist; the implied threat of that carving was solid, a message as clear as words printed in copperplate script.

"Christina?" The sound of Wade calling her name without the prefix of her title, caught her attention and brought her around to face him. He stood behind the tiller again, looking calm. "I need you to steer. Are you able?"

"Yes, quite." Lifting her skirt so she didn't trip on the torn flounce, she made her way across the gently rolling deck with care. She reached the tiller and grasped one of the spokes for support -- grasped it atop Wade's hand.

He drew his hand free and slipped it around her waist. "How well do you know these waters? Currents? Depth?...Hazards?"

Christina didn't need to ask why he wanted to know. She knew the answer -- He wanted to know their chances of survival if they were attacked or if someone had damaged the boat.

Thinking of the consequences of what an error in her judgement could mean, she welcomed the supporting strength of his arm, but would not allow herself to lean back against him. Now was not the time to act like the heroine in a Minerva Press novel as much as she wished she could.

"The tide will be running out for another three quarters to an hour. That and the wind direction will keep us on a westerly course without any difficulty. After that, we have to be careful not to drift more than a mile north or we could get caught in the current that'll carry us to Hartland Point. I don't need to tell you what would happen to a boat or us if we're smashed on those rocks."

"No." His arm tightened around her waist. "And depth?"

"Ten fathoms."

"Not too deep for an anchor then?"

"No, except the two of us can't possibly manage the anchor. It's a four man windless."

Wade made a noise through his teeth like steam escaping from a kettle, but when he spoke, his voice was as smooth as warm honey. "I'll have to manage without stopping us then."

"Manage what?" Christina asked, then realized the answer. "You can't inspect the bottom of the boat."

"Yes, I can." He smiled. "I swim as well as I do everything else."

"This is no time for levity," Christina snapped.

"I'm not trying to be amusing."

She moved her hand from his lapel to his throat where his skin was smooth, warm, alive, his veins pulsing in an even rhythm. Annoyed that the implied threat of the carving seemed not to perturb him, she demanded, "Does nothing discompose you?"

"Yes, ma'am. Boats that might have been deliberately damaged and...females who look like you do right now." With that cryptic answer, he kissed her with his lips parted and the tip of his tongue grazing her lower lip.

The deck seemed to give way beneath her. She staggered, though she didn't take a step. Before she recovered her balance, he was across the deck sheeting home the mainsail so the Robin's only propulsion was the small topsail. With the boat's speed reduced, Wade stripped off his jacket, then his boots. In breeches, shirt, and stockings, he climbed onto the rail, holding a ratline.

"Don't." Christina meant to shout. She only croaked.

He dove into the sea.

"God help him." Christina kept her hands steady on the tiller and her eyes steady on the compass, ensuring she remained on a straight course. "God help me." The need to maintain the steady course stopped her from running to the rail.

Nothing stopped her mind from thinking of all that could happen to him. He could knock himself unconscious and drown. He could cut himself and bleed to death. He could fall behind the boat and drown from exhaustion.

Balanced on one foot, she leaned as far to the side as possible, seeking a glimpse of him in the sea. Was that a flash of skin, a grappling hand, a kicking foot? No, nothing broke the surface but sunbeams. He'd been down too long. Hadn't he?

"A rope!" she cried aloud. "He needs a rope."

On a boat rigged from stem to stern with hemp lines, she had no idea where her brother kept a loose rope. How could she leave the tiller to search for one?

He was going to drown because she hadn't thought ahead.

Her hands shook on the tiller. The boat fell off the wind a point, but it was enough to make her catch a wave broadside and heel to starboard.

Below, a metallic pop resounded like lead shot against steel -- or copper?

"Wade?" Christina leaned the other way, scanning the dark troughs of the waves. She saw him there, streaming hair and the flash of an arm reaching toward the boat.

He reached toward the boat that drifted away from him.

Frantic, Christina struggled to right the boat again. The tiller fought her efforts. She leaned all her strength on the crossbar. The bow swung northeast.

Dropping to her knees, she pulled down on the bar. The compass needle swung with the boat's response, a sluggish response, but movement the right way. She pulled harder. Then another hand, cold and wet, joined hers on the tiller. The compass needle returned to the proper heading.

"It won't hold for long," Wade said, "but we have a few minutes to plan what to do."

Christina looked up at him, and her mouth went dry. "Silkie," was the only word she could speak.

Wade's smile was a little off kilter. "I wish I were a sea creature who looks like a man on land."

Christina forgot thoughts of how marvelous he looked with his clothes clinging to his muscles. One hand still on the tiller, she scrambled to her feet. "What did you find? How'd you get back aboard?"

"I climb as well as I -- "

"All modesty aside, what did you find?"

"You heard those metallic noises?"

"Yes."

Wade held out his hand. On the palm lay a copper nail with its shaft smoothly sawn in two. "I pulled it loose before it worked itself free."

"The copper sheathing." Christina stared at the severed nail. "Someone has sabotaged the sheathing."

"It looks that way." He acted as though they spoke of someone committing an act no more harmful than leaving the pasture gate open. "Several of the nails were already gone. I pulled this one loose to inspect it."

Christina made herself remain as composed as he. "But we can still sail without it."

Wade gazed toward the horizon for a full minute before turning back to look at her with eyes that were more gray than blue. "All my training tells me that a lady is to be protected from knowledge that may frighten her. But how can I keep the truth from you when your life depends on knowing?"

"I'm glad to know you learn as well as you do everything else, too," Christina said with asperity. "I weather a storm as well as I do everything else, so you may as well be honest."

He smiled. "You're remarkable, Christina Marlowe. I can tell you what I know and what I guess without fearing you'll have hysterics." He made an adjustment to the tiller before saying, "If only part of the sheathing comes loose, it could drag us off course. We've already drifted north. With the sheathing making steering difficult or even impossible, we could too easily end up smashed on the rocks at Hartland Point. Then there's the possibility that the hull was damaged beneath the sheathing."

His confidence in her ability helped Christina remain as cool as he expected her to. "Either way, we're better off abandoning ship."

Wade inclined his head.

"How? We're five miles from shore and the tide's on the ebb or will be soon."

Wade tipped his head back to gaze at a point overhead. "A spar will float. I'll cut one loose and we'll use it to support us." He returned his glance to her and his face tinged with a ruddy hue. "You'll have to remove your dress."

"I -- yes, of course I -- " Christina stopped her faltering speech. She couldn't imagine why she would stammer and -- yes, she felt as though she blushed -- in front of this man. He wouldn't be the first man to see her out of a dress. She plucked at the frog closure of her pelisse. "There's a difficulty. I can't unfasten my gown on my own." After dropping the pelisse to the deck, she took control of the tiller, displaying to him, where dozens of hooks and eyes and pins held her gown fitted to her body.

He didn't touch her. He didn't speak. The only sound was the sigh of wind through the small topsail, the hiss and splash of the sea striking the hull, and Christina's heart. Surely it beat loudly enough for him to hear it. But he didn't move.

Then a metallic popping broke the stillness. This one was louder, longer than before. Under her hands, the tiller moved on its own, dragging against her efforts to keep the boat on a steady course westward instead of northward.

She sensed rather than saw Wade walk away. Then he strode into her line of vision and leaned over the starboard rail, his body taut, his wet hair whipping in the wind. Wordlessly, he returned to stand behind her, and she felt the first touch of his fingers on her back.

He undressed her as well as he did everything else. With cool efficiency, the hooks parted from their eyes and the pins slipped from their moorings. She wore no stays to hinder her movements. Wind caressed her back through the gauzy lace and fine silk of her chemise. Then Wade's hands were there, smoothing across her back, easing her gown from her shoulders.

So easily he could stroke his hands forward, downward and cup her breasts. They ached with shameless longing. She grew so warm, the wind might have come from a blast furnace.

He didn't touch her. The instant her bodice lowered to where she could manage the disrobing herself, he was across the deck and stepping onto the rail to climb the shroud lines.

Beneath her hands, the tiller dragged. The boat heeled to starboard. Above her, one of Wade's feet slipped from a shroud. His back muscles rippled under his clinging shirt as he strove to maintain his hold. Horrified, Christina expected him to shout at her, demanding she hold the boat steady while he hung forty feet above the deck. But he said nothing. He kept climbing.

He kept climbing because he knew she couldn't hold the boat steady. He'd seen something over the rail that had compelled him to set scruples aside and help remove her gown. Remembering the last metallic rumble, she guessed what he'd seen -- the sheathing loosened from the bottom and dragging the sea like an anchor.

They drifted closer to the current swooping toward Hartland Point. If they didn't abandon ship soon, they never would. If Wade couldn't cut loose a spar, if the spar fell the wrong way, if they failed to catch it, if Wade fell...

Her stomach in knots, Christina leaned all her weight against the tiller to hold it as steady as possible. With her free hand, she tugged loose her gown, then untied the tapes at the waist of her petticoat. Her slippers went next, leaving her clad in knee- length chemise, ankle-length drawers, and silk stockings.

The boat gave a sudden lurch to port.

"Christina?" Wade called from the rigging.

Braced against the tiller, she waited for the curse, the accusation of incompetence.

"Go to the rail -- now."

She went. Using a ratline for support, she climbed onto the rail and waited, breathing slowly, deeply, forcing back panic.

This is open space she reminded herself. Open and free.

"The spar's coming down," Wade shouted.

Glancing up, she saw the shaft of wood dropping toward the sea, slowly, end over end, useless if it fell too far away, deadly if it landed too close and struck her.

"Jump!" Wade commanded.

Arching her arms overhead, Christina dove. The water closed over her head, then her body like a frigid blanket, dark green and smothering. Calm, calm, calm, she reminded herself. You can move. You're free.

Swimming came naturally to her. She'd always swum well -- in the lake. Swimming in the sea was different, harder. Waves that seemed insignificant aboard the boat became mountains to climb. They fought her efforts, driving her down when she wanted to rise. Her chemise bound her thighs, limiting movement. For all her efforts, she felt as though she went nowhere.

Then a friendly wave lifted her, carrying her forward, and the spar bobbed only inches from her reach. A powerful kick of her legs, and her hands reached the spar. The weather-roughened wood scratched her skin. She didn't care; she held the lifeline.

But where was Wade?

She looked back. He was in the water, swimming toward her, but seeming not to make headway. She must be in a current, drifting away from him faster than he could swim. She had to keep hold of the spar. Its buoyancy was the only hope they had for reaching shore. But he needed help. Surely he was tiring from inspecting the boat, then climbing to the spar.

"Wade?" She wondered if he could hear her. She wondered if her actions would work. "Grab hold of me." She stretched back as far as possible and not lose her grip on the spar.

Would he take her advice? Or would his code of honor deny him rescue in favor of sparing a lady discomfort? Or from touching a lady's calf?

Apparently honor didn't matter in danger. Just when she thought the wet wood might slip from her grasp, she felt a tug on her ankle, then his arm went around her waist and he was beside her, holding onto the spar with his other hand.

"I'm sorry," he said through panting breaths, "my shoulder -- "He removed his arm from her waist. "We've got to get out of this current. Can you do a swimmer's kick?"

"Yes, of course. I swim as well as I do everything else."

He grinned at her. "You are quite -- " He didn't finish the compliment. Tipping back his head, he glanced toward the sun, then the horizon. "Thank God Devon has cliffs. I can see them."

"Useful unless we end up smashed against them."

They would, too, if their combined strength didn't change their direction. Already Christina heard the distant roar of Hartland Point. Five miles away? Ten? She had no way of knowing. Hearing it was enough impetus to pour all her strength into her legs and start kicking.

The tug of the current made her feel as though she kicked through cold custard. It defied her strength born of a lifetime of riding and running. The roar of the sea pounding limestone cliffs grew stronger as her legs grew weaker.

"Lovely lady, keep going. We'll...make it."

Christina opened her mouth to deny his claim, then realized he was right. The water no longer resisted her efforts; it aided them. The waves lifted them and sent them skimming in the right direction -- toward a friendlier shore than the Point. It was still a long way off, and she could scarcely move for fatigue, but it was a goal within reach.

"Look down," Wade said.

Christina looked. "I see the bottom."

"We're closer to the Point than I'd like to be, but the current carried us closer to shore at the same time."

"Yes. Oh, yes!" Her muscles feeling like half-cooked jelly, she dropped her cheek against her arm. "Almost safe."

Wade's hand rested on her head. "We are safe. I can touch bottom now. Let go."

She couldn't move.

Gently, he pried her grip from the spar. One arm around her waist, he propelled her into the shallows. The instant they reached the flat sand above the surf, her legs gave way.

Folded like a broken fan, she buried her face in her hands and wept. It wasn't the silent release of tears she allowed herself after the nightmare. Sobs broke from her in noisy, shuddering gasps like an abandoned child. Mortified, she tried to stop -- and failed. A lifetime of frustration and regret, sorrow and anger seemed determined to emerge at once.

A gentle hand rested on her shoulder. "Shh. You're all right now. You're safe, dear. Safe."

"I'm...not," Christina said between sobs. "Don't...you understand? I'm...not safe."

He muttered something sounding suspiciously like a curse. Then he slipped his arms around her and drew her to him.

She half lay, half sat on his thighs. Her head buried against his shoulder, she tried to speak. "Someone wanted to hurt me. Ki-kill me. It had to be me. No one knew you were coming. Just Nanette and Ned, and they...wouldn't."

"No, they wouldn't." He stroked her wet hair from her cheek. "But don't think about the danger. Think about being on land, safe. You accomplished a great feat today."

"I couldn't have without you."

"I couldn't have without you either." The suddenly rough timbre of his voice sent a thrill of pleasure through her that stopped her weeping more effectively than his words.

She leaned back against his arm so she could look at him. His eyes were as dark as a smoky midnight. His shirt was gone. Across his shoulders and beneath the curling dark hair on his chest, sunlight gilded his skin except where a jagged, purple scar interrupted the smoothness.

She traced her fingertips down the scar. "You climbed into the rigging with a damaged shoulder."

"It doesn't annoy me often."

"It hurt you today. Oh, Wade." Shamed, she bowed her head.

"Don't." He slid his hand beneath her chin and raised her face. Her eyes were closed against a fresh onslaught of tears, but she knew his intention and parted her lips for his kiss.

It was a real kiss, deep and fervent. Their lips and tongues were cool from the sea, but warmed when they came together in a hunger to taste and explore, twine, part, and meet again. Breathing grew unimportant. Maintaining contact became their sole aim. She laid her hands against his back, marveling at the smoothness of his skin over firm, rippling muscles. Her body ached for more closeness than his mouth mating with hers and his arms around her. She longed for him to caress her, love her.

He did caress her. Tentatively at first, he brushed his fingertips across her shoulder. For the first time, she realized her chemise had torn. A cool breeze chilled her damp breast, puckering the tip into aching hardness. Then his hand covered the bareness, and the ache ran deep inside her.

She murmured her pleasure against his mouth. He responded with a wordless groan. His body responded with a stirring, a tightening against her leg. She leaned further back, wanting him to lie beside her on the sand -- lie with her on the sand.

He released her, almost dumping her like discarded flotsam from a shipwreck in his haste to stagger to his feet and place distance between them.

Christina sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees and watched him pace to the foot of the cliff, stride to where a rough path led to the top, then back to where she sat. His face was haunted, remote, pale beneath his tan. His eyes were gunmetal gray.

"If you apologize," she enunciated with care, "I swear I'll shove you back into the sea."

He didn't smile, but he crouched down so their faces were more on a level. "I won't insult you by apologizing. I'm not altogether certain I am sorry anyhow."

A thrill passed through Christina as great as when he'd stroked her bare breast.

She smiled at him. "That's the difficulty, isn't it? You've committed yourself to Mary Beth in your heart, but she's not here and I am. It doesn't seem like something you should feel guilty about. Mary Beth need never know. I doubt she expects you to go to your wedding pure." A note of bitterness crept into her tone unbidden. "Men never are. You aren't even expected to remain faithful after the wedding."

"I will be." He spoke with a certainty she believed.

With an effort, she refrained from touching him. "I believe you will be. Mary Beth is a fortunate woman. But you've taken no vows with her yet."

"Nor with you either."

"Ah." Light dawning on her, Christina reached out to smooth a lock of tangled hair from his face. "You may set that overburdened conscience aside where I'm concerned, Wade Montrose. I know Mark has told you about me. In the event you don't believe him, let me assure you that had you chosen to go further than you did, I wouldn't have stopped you."

His lips compressed in an expression she thought might be disapproval or contempt. Then his face softened and, taking her hand in his, he raised her fingers to his lips. "I don't believe you, but thank you for trying to make me feel better."

She arched her brows. "You don't believe I'm a wanton?"

"You're too well-bred."

"So is Lady Cowper, and everyone knows her children are not Lord Cowper's."

The shock on his face made her laugh. "Remember, Wade, I'm a lady by birth alone. So don't think for a moment that I'm only trying to make you feel better about a little -- as the servants say -- slap and tickle."

But I'd love to make you feel better in other ways, she thought, and in that moment, she knew how she intended to make herself unmarriageable.

CHAPTER 8

Wade hated leaving Christina behind him, but in the end, they both agreed she could in no way travel across country to Belton Abbey in a torn chemise, linen drawers, and no shoes. Disreputable though he looked with his disheveled hair and wearing nothing but breeches, few country folk would give him a second glance. So he left her his knife that had remained in his pocket with the carving despite the day's exertions, and directed her to hide herself in the bushes at the base of the cliff.

As if she will, he thought with an affection that disturbed his conscience. I should have told her to stay out in the open in case someone came along to rescue her.

Except someone was more likely to come along and attack her. She knew it, and would stay out of sight because it was the right thing to do, not because he told her.

Why would someone wish her harm?

The question plagued Wade's mind all the way to the Abbey. Disturbing though it was, he liked the subject far more than what had occurred between them on the beach. That was dangerous territory, making his body hunger with the merest flash of recollection. She was so beautiful, so brave, so desirably charming, any red-blooded male would want her, especially one like him, deprived of even memories of his lady's affections and suffering under prolonged celibacy.

Wanton or not, however, she didn't deserve to be used as he would have used her if not for supreme self-control. Nor did she deserve to be harmed as she would have been harmed had they not worked together well enough to save themselves from the sea.

Wade reached the Abbey to find Nanette and Ned there looking anxious and Mark and Felice concerned.

"When you did not come back," Nanette said, "we came here. We did not dare go to the Keep, for if the Earl found out we weren't with her, she would be locked away."

"Probably the best course for anyone," Mark grumbled.

"You'd have lost your positions, too," Wade said to Nanette.

She nodded. "But that is of the insignificance compared to what has happened to my lady, n'est-ce pas?"

Mark groaned. "What has happened to English?"

"She's waiting for us to fetch her home." Wade felt warmer than his state accounted for. "She's...deshabille."

"Not you, too?" Mark protested. "Why can't you just say -- "

"We'll take the cart for her," Wade interrupted.

"You cannot," Felice objected. "You have the hair wet and the clothes missing. I will order the bath hot."

He needed a bath cold, Wade thought, but a warm bath would soothe aching muscles and remove the salt-water residue from his skin and hair. If he lingered long enough, he could avoid Christina.

No, on second thought, he could not avoid her. They needed to discuss the accident that afternoon that was not an accident. Whatever the animosity between her and Mark, Wade would encourage Mark's opinion. Mark had been a soldier; he understood strategy. He also knew Christina and many of the persons she knew.

Bringing the two of them together might prove more than a little difficult. Wade realized he would have to hurry through his ablutions and dressing and return downstairs before Christina reached Belton Abbey, or trouble might arise.

Lugging two of the copper cans of hot water needed for the bath, Sumner entered Wade's chamber and began to lecture. "You take your time, sir. That shoulder is none too good if half what I hear you done today is true."

"You mean climbing rigging and fighting the ocean?" Wade shrugged, winced, and managed a smile. "Since I didn't get to fight in the war, I had to make a hero out of myself somehow."

"You had nothing but trouble since you come here. You go back to Miss Mary Beth soon."

"Yes, I intend to. Very soon."

Wade was too weary to discuss Sumner staying in England. He was too weary to stay awake, he discovered once he was alone again and immersed in the bath. The cooling water woke him from a dream that needed colder water to still its effects. Mortified, he climbed from the water and dressed in what came to hand first. He was tying back his hair when he heard the cart rumbling up the drive. Ribbon in hand, he raced down the stairs in time to greet Christina at the door.

She wore a cloak that must belong to Felice, for it hung no further than her knees. Despite short cloak and bare feet, she carried herself like a queen entering the house of a subject.

"You look much better," she greeted Wade. "Except your hair looks almost as bad as mine. Let me help."

Wade glanced at the strand of grosgrain in his hand. "I can manage. You need to take care of yourself."

"I can't until Nanette returns with some clothes that fit." Moving around behind him, she plucked the ribbon from his hand. Her fingers combed through his hair with slow, teasing strokes. "You have beautiful hair. Why do you wear it long?"

So you'll run your fingers through it, he thought.

He said, "It looks better that way."

"Better than what?" Her cool fingers caressed the back of his neck.

He felt his neck warm.

She laughed. "Are you blushing?"

"I don't know. I don't have a mirror."

"Thank heaven for that. I'd have to see myself, too, if you did." She rubbed the ribbon along his nape. "Is it the fashion in America?"

"With...some." Feeling his breathing interrupted, he thought he should snatch the ribbon from her and run for cover. "President Madison wears his hair long."

"And is probably twice your age at least." One end of the ribbon tickled his ear. "Do tell."

Embarrassing though it was, he would tell if doing so would stop her teasing. "When it's short, it -- well, I look like one of those French poodle dogs."

"You mean your hair gets curly when it's short?"

"Like I've spent the night in curl papers."

Her laugh was full and genuine. "I see why you wear it long. Curls wouldn't suit you. Too frivolous. Then again -- Hmm." His hair lifted from his neck. He felt the ribbon draw as taut as his inside felt. "You could use some frivolity."

"And you could use some modesty," Mark snapped out from the parlor doorway. "How can you stand about dressed like a whore. Or have you decided to dress the part as well as act it?"

Wade sensed Christina's sudden stillness. Slowly, he turned so he could see both her and Mark.

They looked like fencers ready to run each other through. Judging from Christina's too still face, Mark's comment was the first hit. She wasn't just pinked; she bled.

"Up swords," Wade commanded. "She's hardly to blame for what happened today."

"No, I'm not," Christina said in a soft, clear voice, "but perhaps Mark is."

"What the devil do you mean by that?" Mark demanded.

Christina stepped forward.

Uneasy, Wade grasped her arm. "Christina, don't."

"Don't what? Ask him to his face if he tried to kill me?"

"My God, Christina!" Mark's face paled. "You can't mean -- I'd never -- you cannot -- "

"Can I not?" She shook off Wade's restraining hand, marched up to Mark, and slapped him across the face. "That's for endangering your friend's life too. And this -- " She raised her hand again.

Wade leaped forward and caught her wrist before the second blow fell. "Stop it," he commanded. "Stop it now. You're accomplishing nothing but making a spectacle of yourself."

"She's good at that," Mark drawled. "Should be on the stage. Flaunts herself like an -- "

"That's more than enough from you, too," Wade cut in. He took Christina's arm and turned her toward the stairs. "Go."

"You scarcely know me and you think you can order -- "

"Christina," Wade interrupted.

She glanced back at him, her face cold and tight. "What?"

"How old are you?"

Her chin quivered. The tension drained from her body, and she smiled. "About fourteen right now."

"I thought so." He smiled back. For a moment, he felt alone with her, bound by an invisible cocoon. "Go," he repeated, his voice hoarse. "You'll find Felice ready to help you."

With a quick nod, she ran up the stairs, the cloak billowing out behind her to reveal the long, muscled curves of her thighs.

"I think," Mark said, "that you are treading in deeper water than the North Atlantic."

"She needs a friend, Mark. She's lonely and scared."

"Then leave it to someone else. You have Mary Beth."

Mary Beth is thousands miles away, Wade wanted to point out. Christina is here, and I'm lonely and scared too.

But what frightened him most was his attraction to Christina. He needed to take Mark's advice. The difficulty was, as much as he wanted to run, he couldn't abandon Christina now they were certain someone wanted her hurt -- or dead.

***

"I owe you an apology," Christina greeted the petite, rounding lady a maid informed her was Lady Shields.

Felice looked at her with wide, brown eyes. "Non, non, mademoiselle, this, it is not the intrusion, I assure."

"Not for intruding, though, of course I am sorry to cause you such trouble." Christina bowed her head, shamed at how she had acted, whatever the provocation. "For slapping Sir Mark."

"You strike -- struck him?" Felice sounded so shocked, Christina glanced at her with concern only to find Felice smiling. "Oh, I do wish to be there. How I wish I could..." Her smile faded. "My English, it is so terrible."

"Then we'll speak French," Christina said. "I think there'll be some difference as I know Parisian French and yours will be Creole, but it'll be easier for you, no?"

"Oui." As if someone had tapped a barrel of sparkling mead, Felice began chattering and exclaiming about the boat accident, about Christina losing her clothes, about bravery.

Sinking into a tub of hot water behind the dressing screen, Christina listened, responded at appropriate intervals, and thought how lonely Felice must be. She had no one but servants and Mark with whom she could converse. Servants' gossip said Mark did little talking to his wife and much criticizing of her.

"Mark, he is so handsome and so charming when we met," Felice confided as she snatched up the brush and began working the tangles from Christina's hair. "He was so pleasurable to be around until we were wed and I told him about the baby. I did not tell him before we were wed, vous comprenez? I did not wish him to feel the obligation."

"But he made certain you wed him," Christina muttered.

"I am twenty-four," Felice pointed out. "Past time to wed."

"But you had a plantation. Your income." Christina shook her head in incomprehension. "Why would you wish to marry if you didn't need to for financial support?"

"I want children. Do you not want children?"

Christina closed her eyes. She pictured Robin, and smiled. "Yes, I want children, but not at the cost of my independence."

"You will change when you love," Felice said.

"I don't know if I can love." The words were out before Christina thought them. Once spoken, she knew they were true.

But she could desire. Oh, how she could desire!

"You will, when you meet the right one," Felice predicted. "And now, I believe your maid has arrived."

Moments later, Nanette tapped at the door and entered bearing Christina's clothes and the tidings that Lord Tory already knew about the boat accident. "A fisherman spotted the Robin going down. This I learned from Ned. He has told his lordship that you are safe and here while you wait for clothes."

"So I must go home immediately?" The idea sent a stab of disappointment through Christina. She longed to see Wade again.

Nanette flushed. "Ned has lied to his lordship. He said you are resting. Since most ladies would be in hysterics, he believed Ned. He is concerned, my lady."

Christina rose from the dressing table and moved behind the screen to don chemise and petticoat. "As long as he knows I'm all right, I won't hurry home though. I need to talk to Mark and Wade."

"Wade is it?" Felice teased. "Informal already?"

Christina was glad she stood behind the screen as she felt her cheeks warm. "Nothing like danger to make two people dispense with the formalities."

Danger twice, she thought. Now everyone would know about the incident by the lake. Mark wouldn't be surprised.

Christina emerged from behind the screen. "Help me with my dress, please, Nanette. We need to put this behind us."

"I will order hot coffee and food." Felice left the room.

Nanette smiled after her. "She is terminate, no?"

"Very. Mark's a fool not to love her." Christina held up her arms.

Nanette dropped the sprig muslin gown over Christina's head and hooked up the back. "Shall I simply braid your hair?"

Shortly, her hair in a single plait down her back like a schoolgirl, Christina descended the staircase to the parlor. Mark and Wade were already there sipping what looked like brandy. Mark lounged in a chair by the empty fireplace. Wade stood in silhouette against the windows. He faced the door at Christina's entrance, and though his face lay in shadow and she could not read his expression, she felt his gaze upon her -- enigmatic, intense.

"Are you trying to look fourteen as well as act it?" Mark taunted, not bothering to rise.

"Don't you start that, Mark," Christina ground out.

"Neither of you start it," Wade drawled with exaggerated calm. "We've a serious matter to discuss and don't need the two of you sniping at one another. I'm too tired to arbitrate."

"And you're drinking brandy on what I suspect is an empty belly," Christina said. She wanted to take the glass from him and taste the spirits on his lips. Her knees wobbled at the thought of kissing him again.

She would kiss him again -- soon. Now, however, they needed to talk of serious matters.

She glanced around the room, then selected a chair half way between Mark and Wade. Moments after she sat, Felice and a maid arrived bearing trays of food and hot coffee.

"I will only stay for the chaperonage," Felice said.

"Like one slut guarding another," Mark muttered.

"That will do," Wade said. "You're a perfect chaperone, Felice. I'm sorry I don't speak French so you can understand."

"It makes no difference," Felice declared. "Lady Christina and I, we had the conversation great already."

"Wonderful," Mark grumbled. "My former fiancée and my wife are friends."

"Who better?" Christina spoke sweetly.

Wade shot her a warning glance.

She smiled at him. "I'll behave, especially after I eat."

Food served, they looked at one another waiting for someone to begin. Neither Christina nor Wade seemed inclined to do so.

At last, Mark leaned forward and addressed Christina. "It seems probable to me that you've offended one person too many over the years. I heard about your exploits all the way across the Atlantic. Nothing quite scandalous enough to remove Torr's daughter from Society, but I wasn't the only man you discarded like a worn out reticule."

Stung, Christina lashed back, "I discarded no one. It's scarcely my fault that men think I'm fair game to pursue. It's not my fault they can't understand the meaning of no."

"Perhaps they could if you said no soon enough," Mark retorted.

Wade held up a hand. "This is getting us nowhere. What I want to know is who knew we were going sailing today."

"Nanette and Ned," Christina said. "And I asked Cook to prepare a picnic for three. I didn't say where I was going."

"And we were alone on the lake shore when you invited me," Wade added. "Right where we were when someone shot -- oh, I am sorry. I never should have -- " He laid his hand to his brow.

He looked so contrite, Christina wanted to hug him. "It's all right. Mark may as well know if you think he can help."

His green eyes glittered with unholy amusement, Mark glanced from Christina to Wade. "So you'd already met before we encountered one another at the Point. I should have guessed."

"Not precisely," Christina said.

"I did know who she was," Wade spoke at the same time.

They looked at one another like guilty children.

Wade smiled at her, and Christina's appetite fled. Her hunger lay lower than her stomach.

"I was walking through the wood," Wade explained, "and saw her by the lake. I thought it peculiar a female would be there alone, so I intended to ask if she needed assistance. Before I could, I saw the flash from a gun, and knocked her down."

"Into the water, face down," Christina added.

"A pity he didn't drown you," Mark said.

"Mark," Felice spoke up for the first time, "you should be careful what you say if you do not wish the accusation."

Mark stared at her as if a chair had spoken. "God help me, an hour with Christina and you're talking back to me."

"I wish to protect you from your anger," Felice said. She smiled at Wade. "I understand the English better than I speak."

Wade looked as surprised as Mark, but he gave Felice that same toe-curling smile he'd given Christina. "I'm glad. Mark has been a good friend to me. I don't want to think any more than you do that he would wish a lady harm."

"Well, of course I don't," Mark exclaimed. "Torr paid me well to leave the country. And I'm far better off even married to Felice than I would have been wed to that hellion."

"Such a pretty compliment to your wife," Christina murmured. "How do you bear such kindness, Felice?"

Backhanded though the compliment was, Felice looked pleased.

Sighing at such folly, Christina set down her barely touched plate and leaned forward. "I could have dismissed the shooting as some leftover Ludite or anarchist deciding to rid the world of at least one aristocrat. But today, with the boat, someone would have had to work in the dark and under water much of the time. That took planning. Someone is angry enough to risk Nanette and Ned and Wade's lives besides -- besides -- " She couldn't say it without weeping. She couldn't weep in front of Mark.

"Ah, mon pauvre." Felice started to rise.

Wade reached Christina first, crouching before her chair to take both her hands in his warm, strong clasp. "Don't. You're safe now. Hear me? You're safe."

Christina squeezed her eyes shut. "For how long?"

"You mentioned going somewhere to meet your brother's fiancée," Wade said. "When do you leave?"

"Two weeks," Christina answered.

"Then you should stay close to home," Mark suggested with unusual gentleness.

"I can't," Christina cried. "I'll go mad if I stay home. I'll have to entertain Sir Roderick, when he thinks I should do so in a horizontal position -- don't look so shocked, Wade. That's why I was at the lake that night. He made unwelcome advances and I struck him hard enough to knock him down."

Wade compressed his lips as if disapproving, but one corner of his mouth twitched suspiciously.

Mark laughed outright. "Sir Roderick Nigh? Is that Tory the best you can do these days?"

Christina glared at Mark. "My father thinks highly of the man. He votes against every bill that even hints of reform, just as Papa does. Can't have the masses getting the vote."

Wade looked thoughtful. "Could it be some -- " He frowned in thought. "Whig, is it? Could some member of the Whig party want to hurt you to hurt your father?"

"It's possible," Christina admitted. "They'd be better off trying to harm Suzanna to hurt Papa. She's the favored daughter. Still -- " She shook her head. "Whoever is behind these attempts to harm -- to kill -- me, I'd rather die free than live confined within the walls of Torr Keep."

Wade studied her with eyes more gray than blue. "You can't mean that."

"She can," Mark said. "She does."

Surprised to have Mark's support, Christina nodded. "I want to move to Italy so I don't have to stay indoors during winter."

"But my dear lady -- " Briefly, Wade's hands tightened on hers. "At least take someone with you."

"Ned's always with me and armed," Christina pointed out. "And if I'd had Nanette with me today, she'd have been more a hindrance than a help since she can't swim. Nor does she ride. Or do you suggest I keep Robin by me in the hope that this madman won't harm a child? No, being a man, I suppose you think I'll be better off at Sir Roderick's side, plodding along at his side and trying not to breathe through my nose?"

Mark guffawed.

Wade smiled. "I think I'd be unchivalrous if I condemned a lady to that fate. Still -- " Releasing her hands, he rose and crossed to the window where he stood with his back to the room. His bent head and the rigidity of his shoulders compelled the rest of them to remain silent while he thought.

Christina did some thinking of her own, wondering how she could persuade him to go along with her plans.

At last, when she thought the silence would go on forever, Wade faced her and spoke as if no one else were with them. "I at least have been more a help than a hindrance to you, even if I seem to have a habit of getting you we -- " His face colored as he stumbled on the word wet. "I seem to force you into cold water, which, I suppose, is better than getting you into hot water."

Christina smiled. "That's debatable." She was so excited she could barely stay still in her chair.

"Um, yes, maybe." Wade rubbed his temples. "I wasn't able to fight in the war, but I'm not a stranger to danger. Mark will testify that I'm a good shot and fair with a blade."

"As good with pistol and rapier as you are everything else?"

"Something like that."

"So are you suggesting you accompany me on my outings?" Christina prompted, her voice breathless.

"I am." Wade looked annoyingly calm.

Christina folded her hands in her lap to hide their trembling. "There are two difficulties with that solution."

"I'm no guarantee against you being harmed," Wade said.

"That, too." Christina ached to go to him. "But I was thinking about the danger to you."

Wade put out his hand as if to stop her from moving. "Don't think about it. I'll be all right."

"Pretending that you will be," Christina persisted, "how will you get away with spending a great deal of time with me?"

"If you say what I think you're going to say," Mark began.

Wade smiled. "I probably am and I know you'll object, Mark, but I can't let Christina endanger herself if I've any power at all to stop it."

"Speaking of hot water," Mark drawled. "You'll be over your head with weights on your ankles."

Ignoring him, Wade moved to stand looking down at Christina. "Would you object to pretending I'm courting you?"

"Object?" Christina applied all her willpower to keep her voice even. "No, I won't object. I don't even think my parents will object if you ask my father's permission. But -- " She had to ask the question. "What about Mary Beth?"

Wade's eyes clouded for a moment, then he shook his head and the sadness passed. "She doesn't need to know." He held out his hand to draw Christina to her feet. "It's growing late. So if you agree to my compromise, I'll take you home and you can introduce me to your father."

CHAPTER 9

"He saved my life today," Christina told her father from across the billiard table, where she'd found him upon reaching home. Because she told as much of the truth as possible, she looked her father in the eye. "He was out sailing with a friend and saw the Robin founder. Without his assistance, we never would have made it to shore."

Torr looked at Wade. "And on such short acquaintance you wish to court my daughter?"

"We've met on three other occasions also, sir -- my lord." He appended the latter phrase when Christina trod on his instep.

"Three?" Torr glared at Christina. "I thought I told you that you weren't supposed to see him."

"Only the riding was deliberate," Christina said. "The others were chance meetings."

"Hmph." Her father looked at Wade again. "I don't like Americans. You're troublemakers."

"I've gotten the impression," Wade drawled, "that you think the same of your daughter. It's one thing we have in common."

The earl scowled. "And I dread to think what else you have in common. My daughter's virtue -- "

"Is safe with me," Wade cut in, his tone cold.

"Hmph." Torr fished billiard balls from the leather bags suspended beneath the table. "Lady Torr won't approve. She lost a brother in Savannah."

"I lost a man once as close as a brother at Dartmoor," Wade returned. "Four months after the war ended."

The corners of Torr's mouth drew in. "That was an unfortunate business. And another reason why I shouldn't -- "

"Papa," Christina interrupted before he could deny his permission, "you said I have three months to choose for myself."

"So I did." Her father sighed. "Come into my study, Montrose. We'll discuss your background and financial matters. I demand that of any man requesting to court her in the unlikely event that one won't go the same way the others have. Christina, you go to your room."

Humiliated to be sent off like a child, not to mention Wade being subjected to the humiliation of exposing his monetary value, Christina opened her mouth to protest.

Wade took her hand and squeezed it harder than necessary. "I'll see you tomorrow morning, my dear lady."

Taking the words as a warning to obey her father, Christina decided to abandon argument. She would not, however, go to her room until she was certain all had been settled. The library lay next to the study, and she slipped in there to find something to read. The door between library and study was too stout for more than the low rumble of male voices to penetrate, but Wade would have to pass the library on his way out.

She selected a volume at random and perched on the edge of a chair and waited. The footfalls she heard coming down the corridor first were too ponderous to belong to anyone other than Sir Roderick.

Overdressed for the country in puce satin, he filled the doorway. "Isn't Hannah More a bit prim for your taste, m'dear?"

"Perhaps I've decided to change my wicked ways." Closing the book, Christina smiled at Sir Roderick. "I believe I have found a man worthy of my devotion."

The baronet's chin almost disappeared as he puffed out his lips in an explosive, "Who?"

"Wade Montrose. He's an American."

"Impossible." Sir Roderick's face turned nearly the color of his coat. "Your parents won't approve."

"He's with Papa right now. Lady Shields tells me that Mr. Montrose owns twenty thousand acres of land and two coastal trading packets. He's also worth an equivalent of fifteen thousand pounds a year. Do you think Papa will approve of that? Think what my eighty thousand pound dowry will add to -- why, sir, you look like you need fresh air."

He looked so much like a fish gasping on a riverbank, mouth flopping open and closed, eyes bulging, she felt sorry for him.

"Perhaps you should step onto the terrace," Christina suggested. "But I hear Mr. Montrose coming. Would you rather meet him?"

Sir Roderick wasn't given a choice. Wade paused behind him in the corridor and looked over his head at Christina.

"I pass muster," Wade said, grinning.

"Of course you did." Christina swept forward, holding out her hands. "Allow me to present you to Sir Roderick."

The men observed the amenities of civility, but eyed each other with cold hauteur.

With a sinking sensation, Christina thought Wade was in truth courting her with the intention of offering her marriage.

***

"I almost wish I were courting you," Wade admitted to Christina the next morning.

After a satisfying gallop, they'd entered the sheep pasture and sat on the edge of the ha-ha. While Ned tended the horses on the other side of a hill, Wade and Christina ate fresh currant buns and shared a flask of tea kept warm in a stone jar packed with coals.

"The man is as unwashed as Nanette said," Wade added.

Unlike you, who smells of sunshine and air, she thought.

Aloud, she said, "You needn't concern yourself about him. He departed for Brighton this morning." She rubbed the mouth of the flask along her lower lip and watched Wade watching her. "I trust Papa was not too difficult last night?"

Wade smiled. "He liked the fact I don't grow tobacco."

Christina handed him the flask with the edge she'd drunk from toward his lips. "What do you grow?"

Wade turned the flask before drinking. "Corn."

Annoyed with him, Christina said, "I know that. What kind of corn? Wheat? Barley? Oats?"

"Corn. Maize. And grasses for hay. Anything that will feed the hogs and cattle I keep at Randall Hall."

The sunshine seemed to dim. "Randall hall? Is that Mary Beth's property?"

"It was." Wade set the flask back in its jar and stared across the ha-ha to the woods. "It passed to my hands four years ago. Cedric wasn't able to pay the taxes. It's upstream from my home, and no one lives in the house, so I raise the livestock there, where the stench doesn't distress anyone."

But something about Randall Hall distresses you, Christina thought.

She groped for the right words to say, but she felt oddly shy with him, awkward and tongue-tied. When she did speak, she made stupid remarks like the one about corn.

It would never do. She had only two weeks to break through his scruples and seduce him. The trouble was, she had no idea how to go about seducing a man. For all her reputation as being barely acceptable to society due to fast behavior, she'd never set lures for a man in her life. They were the ones who tried seducing her. Wade found her desirable, even tempting, she knew from experience. But his damnable honor was as good a physical barrier as a suit of armor.

That same code of honor made him act as though he were courting her. They spent hours together riding, rowing on the lake, driving into Clovelly to stroll along the High Street. During each outing, the only time he touched her was the impersonal assistance any gentleman granted a lady when she climbed into or out of a boat or carriage. Despite her efforts to hold his hand, link her arm with his, or rest her head against his shoulder, he managed to remain cool and remote.

Despite these fruitless efforts, Christina experienced an unfamiliar lightheartedness whenever she was with him. Only once before had she spent time with a male simply talking about anything that came to mind from wild flowers to music, Shakespeare to politics. That friendship had ended when he created a scandal bad enough to have his father send him from England. When he returned, he had a wife.

Wade would have a wife, too. Perhaps that was her fate, to find friendship in men who committed themselves to other women. Sometimes, the idea made her sad. Then she met Wade again and didn't care.

Except she still found herself saying stupid things at the end of the first week. "I can't believe you're so well-read," she said one day as they sat by the lake with Belle playing guard and chaperone. "How did you manage to learn Locke by heart?"

Wade's glance was amused and annoyed. "Locke greatly influenced men like Thomas Jefferson, who started my country, especially his views on religious toleration."

"But to quote him..."

"Christina, I have a college education."

"You do?" She could have kicked herself for sounding surprised. "From where?"

"I have a degree in law from the College of William and Mary." He smiled at her in the way that made her want to throw herself into his arms. "It's not Christchurch Oxford or even the Inns of Court, but we're right proud of it."

Embarrassed, Christina plucked at the grass. "We English are such snobs. We think no one else is educated or civilized."

"Most of America isn't educated or civilized. But it doesn't stop us from beating you in war...twice."

She looked into his eyes, twinkling with gentle teasing, and felt her heart drop somewhere below her stomach. She liked him so much -- too much for complete comfort.

He stood so suddenly she feared her face gave something away. Then he offered his hand to help her up. For the first time that week, he didn't release his hold, but gripped her fingers hard and looked at her with steady concern.

"I have to be gone all day tomorrow and perhaps the next," he told her. "I have to go to Dartmoor to make final arrangements for the transport of Cedric's body back to Virginia. Will you promise to stay close to home for that long?"

Keep looking at me that way and I'll promise anything.

Christina nodded. "I promise."

"I'll return as soon as I can."

And after that, he would only be around for another week.

Walking back to the house with Wade on one side and Belle on the other, Christina experienced a confined sensation, as if some kind of trap were closing in around her. Breathing grew difficult, and she wanted to run and run and run.

She walked sedately to the house. The following day, she kept her promise and remained at home, playing badly on the pianoforte, climbing onto a chair to inspect the topmost shelves of the library for a book she might have overlooked, and wandering without purpose through the garden.

She found Suzanna in the rose arbor scribbling in a book and looking dreamy.

"Love sonnets?" Christina asked.

Suzanna glanced up and smiled. "I've got one just right. Do I dare give it to him?"

"That depends on who the him is."

"Roger Ley."

"Good heavens, Suzie, he's just a boy."

Suzanna shook her head, making her golden ringlets dance. "Not any more. He's down from Oxford now and has grown."

"Is he interested in you, too?"

"I think so." Suzanna rubbed the feather of her quill across her lips. "He's called three times this week, not that you would have noticed."

Christina felt unaccountably warm. "I suppose I've been occupied. I'm happy for you Suzie. He's a good match. There's no title, but a tidy fortune, and he was always nice."

"And what about you? Will you wed Mr. Montrose and go to America?"

Christina smiled. "He hasn't asked me."

"I think he will. He's quite smitten."

"Oh?" Christina arched her brows.

"It's the way he looks at you. Like he's..." Suzanna blushed. "Hungry."

"If only that were true," Christina murmured.

Uncomfortable with the conversation, she asked, "Have you seen Nanette?"

Suzanna grimaced. "She's in the paddock with Ned. I don't know what she sees in him. He's so old!"

"He's only thirty-five and a fine figure of a man, Suzy."

Suzanna looked shocked. "You notice that about a groom?"

"An attractive man is an attractive man regardless of his station," Christina said.

She left her sister to find Nanette perched on the paddock fence while Ned guided Robin around in circles on his pony. Climbing up beside Nanette, Christina asked, "Do you ever wish that were your son?"

"All the time. But we'll never marry or I'll lose my position and my family needs the income."

"If my plans succeed, you and Ned may work for me."

"And what," Nanette asked with a sidelong glance, "are your plans that will accomplish this feat? Surely this courtship of Mr. Montrose's is a pretense."

"Yes, it's a pretense. He's all but promised to a lady in Virginia. But I -- " Christina glanced around to ensure no one stood within earshot. "I'm going to seduce him."

"My lady!" Nanette nearly fell off the fence. "You cannot. Your papa will force him to wed you."

"Not if Wade has returned to Virginia before Papa finds out. I'll wait an appropriate interval and declare I'm increasing."

"Which you could be."

Christina studied her nephew's glowing face. "I would like that. But it's not likely in so short a time. Papa, however, won't be able to take the risk. He'll be more than happy to ship me off to Italy or Andalusia to avoid a scandal."

"You don't think he'll find you a husband instead?"

"When I'd tell everyone the child isn't his? No."

Nanette pulled a lace needle and silk thread from her pocket and began spinning a gossamer web of lace. "This is a great risk you take."

"I know. But I have to do something."

"Oui, and marriage to the likes of Sir Roderick will not do. But what of Mr. Montrose? Will this not hurt him?"

Wishing she, too, had something to do with her hands, Christina concentrated on pleating the front of her skirt between her fingers. "I thought about that. His kindness to me doesn't deserve to be repaid by me using him like that. Except -- well, I wouldn't do it if he didn't have his lady back in Virginia. Since he does, I'll give him a night or two of pleasure. I'll be ruined and he'll no doubt have a happier voyage home."

When Nanette said nothing, Christina added, "It's not as though I'll be his first. Mary Beth will probably be his last, since he's the sort to stay faithful to his wedding vows. But she won't expect to be his first. No man is expected to go chaste to his wedding bed."

"You don't think he would feel obligated to wed you instead of his Virginia lady?" Nanette asked.

Christina shook her head. "He feels bound to Mary Beth. He won't break that vow."

"If you're convinced..."

"I am," Christina declared, though she felt more desperate than certain.

"Then do what you must."

"There's only one difficulty."

"If only one, we can surely find the solution."

"I hope so." Though she felt her cheeks warm from more than the sunshine, she looked straight at Nanette. "I don't know how to go about it."

"And you think I do?"

Christina said nothing.

Nanette's eyes danced. "Peut-etre I do."

CHAPTER 10

Wearing an old gown that stopped short of her ankles, Christina chased a spaniel puppy determined to plunge into the lake. Behind her, Robin cheered her progress and Belle barked advice. In front of her, Robin's wooden hoop lay buried in the grass. Christina caught her toe on the beveled edge and sprawled face down with the other edge of the hoop slammed against her solar plexus, driving the wind from her lungs.

Dimly, she heard Robin scream and Mrs. Goss's cry of horror. Then Belle flopped down beside her and proceeded to wash her face. She tried to protest. No sound would emerge save a wheezing attempt to return air to her lungs. Her arms and legs were incapable of movement.

But she did move. Strong hands rolled her onto her side and rubbed her back. Blinking rapidly, she looked up. Wade gazed down at her with an expression that told her he wanted to laugh.

"Don't...dare," she gasped.

"Are you all right Aunt Tina?" Robin asked, patting her shoulder. "Please say you're all right."

"Yes." She pressed a hand to her stomach. "Air."

"She knocked the wind out of her," Wade said. "Looks like she tripped on your hoop."

"I forgot it when the puppy ran off," Robin admitted.

"Puppy!" Christina tried to sit up.

Wade pushed her down again. "I'll fetch him. You get your wind back before you go haring off again."

Feeling awkward and unkempt in her faded, too tight gown, her hair tumbling around her face, and her skin no doubt an unattractive color, Christina was glad to lie still on the grass. Propped on one elbow, she watched Wade splash into the water and catch hold of the puppy's collar. The spaniel wriggled and whined in protest, thoroughly soaking Wade's jacket and breeches by the time they reached the shore.

"Do you have a leash?" Wade asked.

Mrs. Goss produced the length of hemp. "Master Robin and I will take him back to the kennel. Fetch your hoop, young sir."

Robin hugged Christina before retrieving his hoop. "You are all right?" he asked, anxious.

"Yes, love. Run along."

Bowling his hoop along the ground with the aid of a stick, Robin followed Mrs. Goss and the puppy into the trees. Belle lay down with her back against Christina's.

Wade sat cross-legged in front of her and removed his jacket. "I'll need a new wardrobe if I stay in England much longer. Maybe then your butler won't scowl at me when I call."

"He still will unless you go to London. He's a worse snob than any nobleman." She looked up at Wade and a shy joy settled over her. "How were things at Dartmoor?"

"Bleak." His face reflected his comment. "A prison like that for someone who's committed a heinous crime is one thing. For someone whose only crime is serving his country, it's an abomination. Cedric shouldn't have had to die there."

She laid her hand on his knee. "At least he doesn't have to stay buried there, thanks to you."

"He was there in the first place thanks to me." His hand came down on hers as if he needed something to cling to. "But we don't need to discuss that."

Yes, you do, Christina thought.

She squeezed his leg, loving the feel of the hard muscle beneath her hand. "Is everything arranged?"

"Yes." He moved her hand from his leg. "How have you spent your time other than chasing dogs and landing on your face?"

She grinned. "Looking for more books like Tom Jones and Roderick Random on the top shelves of the library."

"I should be shocked you've read those, but I'm not. My grandmother read them. Mamma didn't approve, though, so they're on the top shelf of our library, too."

"River Terrace has a library?"

"Christina, you're being a snob again. Of course we have a library. It's not as fine as Mr. Jefferson's at Monticello, but it's adequate." He paused, then added, "My family didn't start life in the colonies as bondsmen, you know. The were landed gentry near Carlisle who fought on the King's side during the Civil War and thought it would be more prudent to leave England when the royalists were finally beaten. They nearly starved to death those first few years, but it was better than going to the cane fields on Barbados."

"The name?"

He smiled. "Borrowed from the Marquess of Montrose. The original name was Edred."

"You don't look Anglo-Saxon."

"You don't look Norman either."

Christina tugged at her bodice. "The only thing I look like right now is a ragamuffin."

"You look -- " He stopped and turned his gaze to the lake. "I was concerned about you."

"I promised I'd stay put. It was difficult, but I managed."

"May I ask why you find keeping safe so difficult?"

Was he weary of safeguarding her?

Christina began pulling up grass. "I can't bear being fettered. If I stay in one place for long, I feel like I can't breathe. Especially when I'm inside."

"Why?"

She pulled harder at the grass, the ripping sound loud in the quiet clearing.

Wade closed his hand over hers, stopping her motion. "You don't have to answer. I had no business asking."

Christina turned her hand over and laced her fingers with his. "Thank you."

He didn't draw away. He didn't move or speak.

With her not knowing what to do next, the silence oppressed Christina. She needed to make him talk. "Tell me about your house," she blurted out. "Is-is it large?"

"Not by English standards. It is by Virginia standards. It's mostly brick and quite perfect to me. We have thirty-five rooms in all. One's a ballroom that's supposed to look like the one at Versailles. One's a gun room with weapons going back to your Civil War and our Indian wars. My great-great grandfather who built the original block of the house, dug a tunnel from the gun room to the riverbank for escape in case of attack. We'll never need it, but we keep it maintained."

"You go in it?" Christina felt sick at the thought.

"Occasionally I've been known to -- what's wrong?"

"Nothing. Go on."

"We played there as children, Cedric, Will, and I. It's a hundred feet long and no light -- Christina!"

Without realizing it, she had drawn her knees to her chest and buried her face against her arm. "Don't," she whispered. "Don't say any more."

"My dear lady." He moved closer to her, lifted her head onto his thigh, and stroked her hair. "You're shaking."

"I'll be all right." She wanted him to go before she humiliated herself further. At the same time, she liked his leg beneath her cheek and his hand in her hair.

"It has to do with the tunnel, doesn't it?" he asked, and she liked the timbre of his voice too. "You're afraid of confining places."

She gave a jerky nod.

He brushed the hair from her face. "Tell me about it."

"I...can't."

"I'll tell you something no one else knows." His fingers curved around the side of her neck, the tips caressing the sensitive skin below her ear in an absent-minded way. "Ever since I was shot, gunfire petrifies me."

"You're lying. You acted so fast that night."

"That's why I acted so fast. I'm a coward about guns now. I keep the gun room locked. I never hunt any more." His hand stilled. "I was glad I'm the elder son and was expected to stay home and manage the plantation instead of joining in the war. I couldn't have done it. Instead, I let my younger brother risk his life while I made money off the prizes he sent home and men like Cedric died." The pain his voice convinced Christina he spoke the truth.

Could she return the honor of his trust?

She'd tell him anything if it would keep him holding her. But she hadn't talked about it in years. The thought of doing so made her feel as she had after tripping on the hoop.

She pressed her hand to her chest and forced herself to breathe slowly and talk slowly. "I ran away from home when I was seventeen. I hate London and didn't want a Season. But there's not much a female can do without references. I applied for work in the Axminster and Wilton carpet factories, and as a shop girl in every shop between Exeter and Portsmith. I got that far." A shudder rant through her. "No one wanted me. I'd been brought up useless and that proved it. I knew how to talk right for a drawing room, but not a life earning my own way." Her throat closed.

He caressed her neck again. "Did your parents find you?"

She nodded.

"And punish you?"

She nodded again. With supreme effort, she choked out, "They locked me up. They locked me in the dungeon."

Wade said an expletive she'd never heard a gentleman use in front of her. He apologized, then said, "That was about the time you became engaged to Mark."

"They wouldn't let me out until I agreed to the match." She fought down a spasm of nausea. "It took three days. I was delirious by then."

"Your father should be imprisoned for that."

Christina gave out a mirthless laugh. "It's perfectly legal to lock up a recalcitrant daughter or wife."

"There are statutory laws and moral laws. They aren't always the same." He raised her to a sitting position and produced a handkerchief. "Go ahead and cry."

She did, noisily, embarrassingly. He knelt beside her with his arm around her shoulders, saying nothing, simply holding her.

When her sobs subsided, he took the handkerchief and wet it in the lake. "I don't want anyone thinking I made you cry."

"I feel a fool."

He tilted her chin up. "You don't look a fool. You look rather adorable with your eyes and nose red."

"That's not a chivalrous thing to say."

"And this isn't a chivalrous thing to do either. I shouldn't..."

But he did. His mouth met hers like a starving man seeking nourishment. His hand remained modestly on her shoulder and jaw, but his mouth plundered hers with the intimacy two mouths and tongues could perform. When she thought she would fly apart if he didn't stop kissing her or do more, he released her and sat back on his heels.

"That," he said, his face haunted, "was one of the most dishonorable things I've ever done. In four days, I voyage back to the lady I've intended to marry since I was old enough to think about it. I still want to marry her. But you! God help me, I want to lie here on the grass with you and make you sob with pleasure not pain. Do you hear me? I want to use you to forget about Cedric and my role in his death and how Mary Beth will be crushed. I want you because you're here and desirable and I haven't been close to another woman in six months, because Mary Beth won't let me touch her until we're married. Then I met you, and it's wrong of me to think it, let alone say it. But you deserve to know how I feel."

And you deserve to have what you want.

She couldn't speak the words aloud. All she had to do was say, "Take what you want," pull up her skirt, part her thighs, and she would have what she wanted, too.

The invitation wouldn't come out through words or actions. She stared at him, aching for him in every fiber, and couldn't bring herself to help him on the road to personal dishonor.

"You'll be home soon," she said. "Mary Beth will need you to console her. You'll have her soon enough."

He gave her a sheepish grin. "Soon enough was about April, but thank you. I can't express how much your friendship has meant to me this past week. I've never been able to be honest with a lady before I met you. It's wonderful to have been honest about...everything."

"Have been?" Christina swallowed. "Is this goodbye then?" Her eyes filled with new tears. She was going to turn into a watering pot again."

He laid the back of his hand against her cheek. "Not unless I've disgusted you so much you'd rather not see me again."

"Disgust? Never that, Wade. Will I see you tomorrow?"

"Weather permitting, yes."

The weather was not permitting. Torrential rain fell for two days. Forced to remain inside, Christina prowled the labyrinthine corridors of Torr Keep and missed Wade with her spirit, with her body, and with a part of her heart.

She saw her chance to grasp freedom slipping away like the time drawing Wade's departure nearer. Her decision by the lake had been right for him, but what about her?

When she saw him again -- if she saw him again -- she must make a decision. She must risk hurting him temporarily in order to save herself. Her independence counted on her plan's success. Her life might depend on it. Once he left, she would be more vulnerable to attack if she roamed alone. Soon, the family would leave for Brighton, where the crowds at the seaside resorts would protect her -- if her ill-wisher were not a part of that society.

Restless, frightened of a too uncertain future, she welcomed the sunshine that poured through her window the following morning. "If he doesn't come to me," she told Nanette, "I'll go to him. I can't afford to dither any longer."

"He will come here," Nanette predicted. "He wishes to be with you as much as he can."

Wade proved her right. At nine thirty, earlier than anyone else rose, a footman knocked on her door to announce she had a caller.

With effort, Christina managed to make a dignified entrance. Halfway down the stairs, she leaned over the banister to study him studying the seascape. He wore pantaloons that left little to a lady's imagination and his hair gleamed even in the dimly lit hall. The fingers of one hand idly stroked the fretwork on a Chinese Chippendale table, and her insides foundered like the storm-tossed boat in the painting.

"Not very restful," she said.

He smiled at her, but his eyes were sober. "Am I early?"

"Not at all." She descended the rest of the stairs and moved across the stones to the carpet where he stood. She wanted to take his hand for the physical contact, but her hands remained clasped together at her waist, trembling.

He clasped his hands behind his back. "I've been busy helping Mark keep his new drainage ditches from collapsing."

"I've been busy keeping myself from collapsing."

He didn't smile. "Rainy days must be difficult. It's still too wet to do much outdoors, but I leave day after tomorrow."

"We could have breakfast on the east terrace. Then I can take you to the music room and show you how badly I play the pianoforte. After that..." Where could she get him alone?

"We'll see what comes," he said.

Still not touching, they crossed the great hall and traversed a corridor that brought them onto the east terrace where a maid swept debris from the flagstones. With directions from Christina, the girl dashed off to the kitchen for food and cloths to dry the chairs.

Christina and Wade leaned against the stone parapet gazing out across the gardens instead of at one another. Conversation consisted of small talk, stilted phrases about the weather and plants, then, when breakfast arrived, the freshness of the rolls and plum preserves.

Halfway through a second cup of coffee, Wade shoved plate and saucer aside and leaned across the table to catch hold of Christina's hand. "What will you do when I'm gone?"

Weep, she thought.

"I don't know," she said. "We're supposed to go to Brighton soon. I'll be safe there, I'm sure."

"Will you be happy there?"

"I'll be too busy to tell."

His lips compressed. "That's not amusing."

"Life in Society isn't amusing to me. But I do wish to stay alive, and if that means leaving Devon until this madman has changed his mind, I will. Perhaps he already has. Nothing's happened in weeks."

Wade caressed the back of her hand. "At the risk of distressing you, let me point out that someone who went to the trouble of sabotaging that sailboat doesn't seem likely to give up easily."

"I know that. I think perhaps you have been a deterrent. But unless it is Mark, I can't think of a reason, so I can't think of a person. So immersing myself in the thick of the Top Ten Thousand seems the most likely way to either discover the truth or avoid the consequences."

"I wish -- " His fingers flexed on hers. "I only have today or tomorrow, but if there's something I can do to help...Our friendship has helped me through a bad time, Christina. I'll do anything in my power to repay you."

What she had in mind was definitely within his power. With his gaze as warm as the sunshine and his touch sending ripples of pleasure up her arm to her body, she wanted to tell him. After the incident by the lake, she thought there might be a chance he'd comply. But the words stuck in her throat. Then Suzanna glided onto the terrace, and the opportunity passed.

Wade spent the day at Torr Keep, but he and Christina were never alone again. Suzanna kept him occupied talking about America. Roger Ley arrived in the afternoon, and the four of them played a soggy but amusing game of croquet on the lawn.

The men departed near sundown. At Christina's insistence, Wade rode Cel. "I'll return him in the morning," he promised. "Things should be dry enough for a gallop by then."

As the men rode out of sight, Suzanna touched Christina's arm. "I don't think I've ever seen you look so happy, Tina."

"I don't think I ever have been," Christina said.

It was ridiculous. She'd been too much of a coward to carry out her plans. Wade, her best chance at rescue, would be gone in a day. Yet a quiet joy murmured through her veins.

Until she had the nightmare.

Sick and shaken, she crawled from bed and drew a chair to the open window, where she sat until sunrise and Nanette's arrival with morning chocolate. During the intervening hours, she concluded that the nightmare was a warning, a prompting that she act regardless of the consequences. Wade, she convinced herself, wouldn't suffer. He had Mary Beth to make him forget.

She would remember the rest of her life.

Resolute, she descended to the stableyard to find Wade and Ned leaning against the fence talking like old friends. Wade straightened at her approach and strode rapidly forward to take hold of her hand. The skip of her pulse, the tightening at the center of her body, told her what she'd known all along -- seducing him should be easy. The result would be pleasure. The aftermath would have to take care of itself.

"Where shall we go?" he asked.

Someplace private.

She rubbed her fingertips on the inside of his wrist. "We've never been in the wood on the opposite side of the lake from Belton Abbey. It's the one the ha-ha separates from the pasture. We may find some brambles growing."

He gave her a puzzled glance. "Brambles?"

"Wonderful dark berries. Ned, will the path be dry enough?"

Would the meadow be dry enough?

"Aye, m'lady." He winked at her behind Wade's back. "Bit crowded for three riders. So I'll wait for you in the pasture."

Feeling herself flush, Christina hastened to mount Rhiannon and set off on a circuitous route through the park, then the denser, untamed growth of the Torr Keep woods. The narrowness of the path kept them riding in single file, preventing conversation. She didn't mind. She needed to think. Besides, knowing Wade rode behind her was pleasure in itself. The woods were a pleasure, lush with summer foliage, fragrant with damp earth and life.

When they reached a long, narrow clearing, Christina dismounted and tethered Rhiannon to a low branch.

Wade followed her example, but remained beside Cel. "I'm not certain it's safe to be in the woods like this. It's remote and a bit still for my comfort."

"It's still because birds don't really sing in August. As for being remote? How would anyone find us here without us knowing first?" She moved forward to stand only inches away from him, close enough to inhale his tangy soap and the earth scents of horse and leather. "Besides, I'll never see you again after today, and I don't want anyone else intruding."

"It'll be strange not seeing you. I've gotten accustomed to it." He turned his face away from her and murmured, "Too accustomed. to it. I'm glad to be going."

Stung, Christina didn't try to disguise her sarcasm. "Thank you, sir. That's one of the nicest compliments a gentleman has ever given me."

"You should appreciate a compliment that doesn't include the beauty of your eyes or hair or anything so ordinary."

Christina laughed. "Hoist in my own petard. Shall we look for brambles?"

Slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow, she guided him along a side path leading to another, larger clearing. As she'd hoped, low, prickly bushes ringed the meadow with a necklace of shiny, dark fruit.

"Blackberries," Wade exclaimed, sounding young and eager.

"They're not black. They're purple."

"They're not brambles. They're smooth as -- "

"Skin?"

He ducked his head. "That's close enough to what I was thinking. What do we put them in?"

"Cup your hands." Christina stooped and began plucking berries from the bushes and dropping them into Wade's hands. "I should have brought a basket. There's enough here for several pies. And they're just right." She tipped back her head to look him in the eye while balancing a berry on the tip of her tongue.

His gaze dropped to her mouth. With her lips, she formed an O around the berry before drawing it into her mouth and biting it in two with her front teeth.

"I think," he enunciated with care, "that's enough."

"It's just the beginning." Standing on less than steady legs, she selected a ripe berry from the cluster in his hands. "You haven't gotten to enjoy them yet." She rested the berry against the cleft in his lip.

From the other clearing, Cel gave out a protesting whinny. Christina jumped, crushing the berry against Wade's mouth and sending juice trickling down his chin. Leaning forward, she licked the droplets away.

He jerked back his head as if she'd scratched him with the bramble thorns. "Don't."

"Don't what? Keep you from looking like a messy child?" She offered him another berry.

"Don't tempt me," he said.

"Berries are only bad for you if you eat too many."

"I'm not talking about the berries and you know it."

"Are you saying I could tempt you to do something other than eat brambles?" She laid the fruit on her own tongue, then sucked her sticky fingers.

His gaze was on her mouth again. "You can. You are."

"I hope so." Her hands only shook a little as she began unbuttoning her jacket. "The only other man I called friend gave me a memory I could keep forever, even after he wed. I want the same -- "

Cel whinnied again, high-pitched and frantic.

Wade dropped the berries and strode to the path, his long legs placing distance between them.

Christina wondered if she should shoot Cel or embrace him for the interruption. Concerned that something might be wrong with her brother's horse, she hastened after Wade.

When she reached the clearing, he held the stallion's reins and talked to him in a low, firm voice. Cel bared his teeth, but made no move to bite.

"Some animal probably spooked him," Wade said. "But I'd like Ned to look at him. Will he be in the pasture by now?"

"I'm sure he is. But can you jump the ha-ha?"

"On a three-legged mule."

"Forgive me for asking." She wanted to hug him. "Will you give me a leg up?"

"There's a perfectly good log over there."

"Coward."

"A tactical retreat. I don't like fireworks any more than I like guns." He returned his attention to Cel.

Christina made a tactical retreat too. At Wade's advice, she led Rhiannon to a convenient log and mounted.

Across the clearing, Wade seemed to have Cel settled. When he mounted, Cel swung his head around and tried to take a chunk out of Wade's knee. Wade responded with a rude remark Christina didn't think she was supposed to hear, then prodded the stallion into a trot down the path leading to the meadow.

"You'll need to get him up to speed as soon as you leave the trees," Christina called after him.

Nodding, Wade rode as though eager to be away from her. He rode too fast for an unfamiliar path fraught with the perils of protruding roots and overhanging tree limbs. He rode like a man escaping danger.

Christina followed at a more sedate pace. Let him have his moments of escape. She had the rest of that day.

She emerged from the trees in time to see Wade flying over the grass in perfect harmony with his mount.

The ha-ha was thirty yards away.

Red-gold stallion and dark-hair man seemed like one body. Both showed easy, natural grace.

The ha-ha was thirty feet away.

The stallion arched his neck. Wade shifted his weight in preparation for the jump.

At the lip of the ha-ha, Cel's front hooves left the ground for the lovely, arching power of the jump. But with a whinnied scream, he slammed his hooves to earth. His back arched and his head dropped as he jarred to a sudden, unpredictable halt.

Wade kept moving. Not the best horseman in the world could have prevented the forward momentum that sent him sailing over Cel's head and into the pit of the ha- ha.

CHAPTER 11

"No!" Christina screamed.

She slid from Rhiannon's back, raced to the edge of the ha-ha. Wade lay at the bottom, crumpled and far too still. Cel remained where he had stopped, almost as still as the rider he'd thrown, save for shudders rippling his powerful muscles.

"I'll deal with you later," Christina growled at the horse as she lowered herself to sit on the edge, preparing to drop into the ha-ha.

"Wait," Ned called from the other side of the ditch. "I'll go down."

Christina shook her head. "No, I must. You ride for help."

"I can't leave you alone."

"I said to go."

Not waiting to see if Ned obeyed, Christina slid into the ha-ha. She shook so badly she could hardly make her feet carry her the few feet to Wade's side. When she reached him, her knees gave way of their own accord. She dropped onto the grass.

She touched his head, brushed back loose hair from his face, sought for a bleeding wound, sought for a pulse in his neck. She found no blood, only a swelling lump over one temple. But he was too pale. His skin felt too cold. His pulse eluded her for several moments.

Tears poured from her eyes onto his face. "Don't be dead. Please, my dearest, let me know you're alive."

He lay motionless, silent.

When she found his pulse, thready, weak, she wept harder. He seemed fragile, too vulnerable for a big man. Moments earlier, he'd ridden strong and free.

"You can't die," she told him. "Mary Beth needs you. I need to know you're alive, my friend, my love -- " She stopped cold on that last word.

Her love, Wade Montrose?

She gazed down at him and the truth hit her like one of Cel's hooves against her skull. She knew why she'd been unable to carry out her plans of seduction. She knew why joy bubbled through her when she spent time with him. She knew why she had so readily confided her fear of confinement to him. She knew why the thought of him dying was worse than the idea that he intended to return home to another woman.

She had fallen in love with him.

"What a fool! What an idiot!" The epithets she called herself rang out in a painful wail. "How could you do something so stupid?"

How could she have helped it? It had begun the night she met him, when she recognized his quiet strength, when she knew his will was as strong or stronger than her own.

"Apply that will now, my dearest," she murmured. "Mary Beth needs you. I need to know you're alive."

He didn't stir. Minutes passed like hours. Sheep peered over the edge of the ha-ha, then galloped away. The sun grew hot, yet Christina felt a chill to her bones -- fear. For the first time she remembered, she experienced fright in the open air -- and for someone other than herself.

"Oh, my love! My love!"

She didn't realize she sobbed aloud until a hand settled on her shoulder and a quiet voice said, "It's all right, Christina, we're here."

Startled, she glanced up. For the first time in four years, Mark looked at her with something other than contempt -- pity.

"Is anything broken?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"I'll look. We have to know before we lift him." With efficient motion, Mark felt for broken bones. Apparently finding none, he called to others in the field to lower a litter. "You'd best go back to the Keep with your groom," he said to Christina.

"I want to look at Cel."

Mark raised one eyebrow.

"Don't look at me like I'm daft, Mark. Something made that horse refuse to jump."

"The ha-ha is a big jump."

"And he's made it dozens of times. Besides -- " She gazed down at Wade's still face, and a single tear splashed from her eye to his skin. "I need to do something."

Both Mark's brows raised this time, and he pursed his lips for a low whistle. "So you've gotten your comeuppance at last."

Unwilling to admit anything to Mark, Christina scrambled to her feet and allowed Ned to lift her out of the ha-ha. She glanced back to see two menservants lift Wade onto a litter and up to the pasture. Mark would take care of his friend, she knew, would ensure he received proper medical attention, but she intended to go to Belton Abbey and see for herself that Wade was as all right as he could be -- after she saw to Cel.

"Where's the stallion?" she asked Ned.

"Tethered over there." He gestured to the distant line of trees. Concern creased his face. "He's never thrown a rider before. He bites, but stallions will do that. Throwing a rider is something altogether different, especially a rider like Mr. Montrose, who knows what he's about."

"I know." Her legs still wobbly, Christina covered the distance to the stallion and approached him with care and kind words. Cel glared at her, his lip drawn up, but she persisted, going nearer and nearer until she stood beside him, one hand on his neck, the other on his saddle. "Is there's something wrong, my beauty?" she asked the horse.

He quivered as if being attacked by a swarm of flies.

"Would you like this thing off you?" she asked.

"I'll get it, m'lady." Ned hastened to remove the saddle.

The instant the leather lifted from the stallion's back, Christina saw the blood, a streak of crimson across the red-gold coat. Even she was too short to see the source of the blood trickling from Cel's back, but that something had been shoved beneath the saddle was apparent.

Turning to Ned, she asked him to help her mount Rhiannon so she could inspect Cel's back from a better advantage. Ned was oblivious to her request. His attention lay solely on an object nestled in his broad palm.

"Did you ever see the like, m'lady?" he held it out to her.

Christina took it and gave out a little shriek of horror.

Small though the object was, its creator had placed considerable effort into minute detail, enough detail for Christina to recognize the beautiful features and extended apple branch of Nemesis -- the goddess of justice -- or revenge.

***

"We were wrong," Christina told Mark and Felice an hour later. "No one intended me harm. Wade was the intended victim all along."

"How of this you can be certain?" Felice asked.

For once not correcting his wife's grammar, Mark asked, "She's right. How can we know?"

"This was placed beneath Wade's saddle, probably while we were in the bramble thicket. It was placed there by someone who knows I'm never allowed to ride a stallion."

"And we're supposed to believe you never do?" Mark looked skeptical.

Christina held her retort in check. Now was not the time to renew old feuds, especially since she owed Mark an apology for suspecting he meant her harm. "As much as I would like the pleasure of a larger mount, I won't enjoy my own pleasure at the expense of the grooms' positions. That's common knowledge. It keeps Ned loyal to me if I ask him to step beyond my father's boundary of rules at other times -- like waiting in the field instead of following me into the woods. If only I hadn't -- " Her voice broke.

"Ah, ma chere." Felice wrapped an arm around Christina. "He is the well doing. The physician, he has drawn the blood, and Wade, he has awaked for a minute or two. He has the percussion, that is all."

"Concussion," Mark corrected her with more amusement than rancor. "Though I suspect his head feels like there's percussion going on inside it. About this figurine, Christina, could someone have known you were riding into the woods today?"

Christina rubbed her temples. "I don't know. Could someone have known we were sailing? Could someone have known Wade would walk by the lake that night? I don't have those answers. I only know that Ned and I found this beneath Cel's saddle. It's the same bone as those pieces of ship. And I never ride Cel." She rose. "May I see him?"

"Not if you mean to distress him with this information," Mark said.

"Of course you may, " Felice said.

"He'll need to know when...when he's better." Christina squeezed her eyes shut against the threat of tears. She'd washed her face in cold water during the few moments she'd gone home, and wasn't about to let the weakness have reign again. "For now, I simply wish to...see him."

Mark's green eyes flashed with malicious humor. "He's in love with Mary Beth Randall, you know."

"That is not of the significance," Felice declared. "Come, ma chere, I will direct you up."

Christina followed Felice up the stairs and down a shabby corridor to a bright, airy bedchamber with a bed so large it almost dwarfed even Wade. He lay perfectly still in the center, the coverlet drawn up beneath his arms, revealing smooth, bare shoulders. Amid the tangle of his dark hair, his face looked nearly as pale as the pillow slip, a pallor that emphasized the length and thickness of his dark lashes.

She'd never noticed those lashes before. The changeable hue of his eyes and his kissable mouth had held her attention. Now, fanned beneath pale lids, those lashes made him seem young, vulnerable, far too mortal.

"Wade." Christina breathed his name as she hurried to lean across the bed and take his hand. "My dear friend."

Behind her, the doorlatch clicked with Felice's departure.

Christina climbed onto the bed so she could be closer to him. She sat with her back to the headboard and his hand still and cold in hers. "Will you wake up and speak to me, Wade? Give me a sign, my dearest, my love. Let me know you're all right."

Barely perceptibly, his fingers moved in her grasp.

"Oh, my darling -- " She raised his hand to her cheek, realizing as she did so that she'd failed to restrain her tears.

"Shh." The sound was so quiet it might have been a natural exhalation of breath. Then his fingers moved more strongly under hers, pushing at her hand as if he either wanted her to release him or lean closer.

She chose to lean closer.

"Don't cry," he whispered. "All right."

She wept harder.

"Shh." He rubbed his fingers on her face. "I said -- I said...all right." He breathed heavily as if those words caused physical exertion. Then he spoke two words that sliced Christina's heart in two. "Mary Beth."

She released his hand and slid from the bed as if shoved away. In three strides, she crossed the room and grasped the door handle. The corridor was cool, dark, and blessedly empty. Not knowing where she fled, Christina ran, tripping on worn patches in the carpet, bruising her shoulder on a wall sconce. She didn't stop running until she reached a dingy, narrow staircase and almost knocked a maid backwards.

"You go the wrong way, Missy," the woman said in the musical voice of the islands. "I'll show the way."

Christina turned her face away. "No, please, I'll just go outside to the garden." Before the maid could protest, she raced down the stairs and along a passage that led to what had once been a luxurious garden. Finding a stone bench weathered enough to have been there since good Queen Bess's day, she dropped down, drew her legs against her chest, and dropped her head onto her knees.

Oh, but she'd been right to flee love all these years! Love didn't make one starry- eyed and light-hearted. Love hurt.

A hand touched her shoulder. "Cherie, qu'est-ce ca?"

"What is this?" Christina responded without lifting her head. "Me making a fool of myself."

"Non, non, it is not the foolishness to love," Felice protested. "You cannot help the love. It creeps upon you like the mist and you are the lost vessel without a beacon to bring you home until you are loved back, n'est-ce pas?"

"Yes, it is so." Christina wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "But I knew better. I've always known better than to love."

"I knew better than to love Mark." Felice settled her bulk onto the bench. "He was the wounded British officer after that silly Battle of New Orleans. I took him in. I nursed him to wellness with my own hands. He was so handsome and charming, and I so few men met. It did not take him much of the persuasion to bring me to his bed." She hesitated. "I offend with this talk?"

Christina shook her head.

Felice sighed. "I must have got the child quick. He was gentleman enough to wed me, when he could have run."

Christina barely managed to suppress a snort of contempt toward Mark, who would have wed someone less attractive than Felice, if she had a fortune.

Felice patted her arm. "I know. He has the good bargain. I was my papa's only child. I have plantations in Louisiana and Martinique and properties in New Orleans that bring much income. But it is not enough to make him happy with his Creole wife. He has the English blue blood and thinks he deserves better. And now -- now -- " Felice's voice broke. "Now I grow so large he thinks I tricked him and the baby is not his."

"The cad," Christina muttered. "Couldn't he tell you were..." She trailed off at the thought that perhaps Felice had not been a virgin when Mark bedded her.

Felice sniffled. "I was vierge. He hurt me. He knew he did. There was the evidence. But it can be pretended."

Christina raised her head to look at Felice. "Regardless, he has gotten well paid for giving you his name. He owes you kindness and loyalty if not love. And as far as I've seen, he gives you none of those."

Felice nodded. "It was not so bad before I...expanded. At first, he was the gallantry. I hoped he would love me a little in time. But then, of a sudden, whoosh!" She flung out her arms. "I the whale am."

"Oh, Felice, you poor dear." Christina slipped an arm around her shoulders. "I think you're beautiful as you are, and Mark's an ass for treating you as he does." She wiped her eyes on her sleeve again. "And I'm an ass for feeling sorry for myself. If Wade said he loved me, I'd run like the Hounds of Hades were after me."

"But Dauphine, my maid, she said you were running as if the Hounds of Hades were after you."

"Yes, well..." Christina stared across the ruined garden.

"Did you just now realize you love him?" Felice pressed.

Christina shook her head. "I knew when I thought he might die. But in his chamber, he said -- " The landscape blurred. "He said -- Felice, he called me Mary Beth."

"But mon amie, you should not take this to heart," Felice protested. "He is confused in his head. He cares for you deeply, I am certain."

"Yes, he does. I'm his friend, and that's all I can be. I wouldn't want to be more. But I love him at the same time, and that makes me foolishly sad to be called by the name of the woman he does love."

Felice laughed. "We do make a pair, do we not?"

"We're very silly weeping over men," Christina agreed, rising. "And I should go home before my family misses me."

"Will you return?" Felice's tone held a note of pleading.

Christina hesitated. "I'd like to."

"But your papa does not approve?"

"No, but perhaps I can persuade him."

***

Christina found her father seated on the terrace outside his study, drinking claret and reading a book by the evangelist, Hannah More. At Christina's approach, he glanced up, his face registering first impatience, then disapproval. "You could have at least combed your hair before seeking me out, daughter."

"I came straight here." Christina folded her hands in front of her. "Father, sir, I wish to talk to you."

"If you wish to tell me about your Yankee, I've already heard. Thank heaven Cel wasn't badly injured."

How she'd love to grab Hannah More's book on Christian living and bash him over the head with it!

Reining in her temper, she inquired, "And would you care to hear about Mr. Montrose's condition?"

"Is he going to live?"

Christina clenched her hands more tightly together. "Yes, sir. He is concussed and bruised, but the physician says he'll do well enough with r-rest." Her voice shook as she remembered him calling her Mary Beth. "I-I saw it happen." An unbidden tear slid down her cheek. "It was so awful!"

"Since when have you turned into a watering pot?" her father demanded. "It isn't seemly."

"Forgive me. I -- " She closed her eyes and mouth against an onslaught of tears.

The earl leaned forward. "Good God, don't tell me you've fallen in love with this American."

She bowed her head.

Leaning back in his chair, Torr burst into laughter. "That's rich, daughter. Never thought I'd see the day."

"Neither did I, sir." Christina raised her head and looked straight at him. "Sir, since you perceive my feelings for Mr. Montrose, will you grant me your permission to visit him whenever I wish?"

"With that Creole wench as chaperone? Not suitable."

Christina met his gaze and lied, "But he's asked me to marry him. Surely no one will object to me visiting my betrothed."

"Your mother will, and we leave for Brighton day after tomorrow."

"Day after tomorrow? I thought a week."

"We wish to get Suzanna away from Roger Ley. He's not good enough for her."

A rich, if untitled, Englishman wasn't good enough for Suzanna, but an American was good enough for Christina.

She tried not to wince. It would be hypocritical of her to whine about the inequity. She could have had title.

Right now, she wanted to help nurse Wade, ensure his recovery, protect him, and find out who wanted to harm him.

She sought for the most logical argument she could. "Sir, if I'm in Brighton, how may I continue my suit with Mr. Montrose? And if I remain here, the only chaperones I'll have will be the servants and Nanette. Surely Lady Shields is more acceptable."

"And you're serious about allowing this relationship with the Yankee to continue?"

"To its natural conclusions, sir."

His lips pursed, her father flipped the pages of Hannah More's book. "You should come to Brighton. You must come to Brighton if there is a betrothal for your brother."

"And wouldn't two betrothals be even better, sir?"

The earl sighed. "Under the circumstances, if you're truly serious about this man, I doubt society would object."

"Thank you, sir." She wished she could hug him. She dropped a curtsy instead, then departed for her bedchamber with as much speed as decorum would allow.

In her chamber, she sent Nanette scurrying for a trunk while she washed, changed her dress, and repaired the ravages to her hair. Together, Christina and Nanette packed.

"I must be gone before my father changes his mind, "Christina said, "or my mother hears of my plans and makes him."

"This is not, perhaps, the wisest thing you have ever done," Nanette said. "But l'amour, it makes us unwise."

Christina stared at her. "How did you know?"

Nanette grinned. "You were so happy with him. I have known you for four years, and never were you happy with any man."

"Now I'm happy with the one man I can't have."

"Would you take him if you could have him?"

Christina rubbed her temples as the heaviness of melancholy settled around her heart. "No. I suppose that's why I do love him. I didn't guard myself against caring because I knew he belonged to someone else, so I was safe."

How safe was she? Christina asked herself the question as she rode in the carriage to Belton Abbey. How empty would her life be once Wade left for home? she asked herself as she sat beside his bed pretending to read, but mostly watching him sleep.

That one man, without trying, without intending to, caused havoc in her usually controlled emotions, made her more determined than ever not to find herself entrapped.

Love made a woman weak. Love prompted women to marry, to give up freedom and become chattel.

For the present, though, Christina let herself care -- whatever the risk.

CHAPTER 12

Wade awoke at midnight. He turned his face toward the candle, then raised a hand to his eyes as if the meager glow hurt. "Water?" It was more a plea than a request.

From her seat beside the bed, where she was trying to read, Christina rose and poured water from a carafe into a glass. Mark and Wade's manservant, Sumner, had moved him closer to the edge of the bed so she and the others could reach him more easily.

Slipping an arm beneath his shoulders, she started to lift him so he could drink. He felt so heavy she thought he had lost consciousness again. Then she realized he resisted her.

His hand dropped from his eyes to his side, and he looked at her through slitted lids. "Christina?"

"Yes, I'm here with your water."

"No." His eyes closed altogether. If possible, his skin grew more ashen. "Go...away."

"I cannot. It's my turn to -- " She stopped before saying, "guard you," and finished with, "Make certain you're all right."

"Sumner -- "

"He's sleeping. I -- "

"Get him, please." He pushed her away, spilling water onto the coverlet.

Feeling as though the glass contained vitriol and had splashed onto her skin, Christina spun away from the bed and stumbled to the dressing room door behind which Sumner slept. He responded to her knock so quickly she suspected he had been awake. Not waiting for him to go to Wade, she left the room.

She stood in the corridor, not knowing what to do. Despite dragging fatigue, she doubted she would sleep. She feared too much for Wade, she ached for her own ridiculous feelings, and she felt more than a little apprehension about her future.

She had left her book in Wade's room, so she descended to the library to find another one. Seeing light beneath the library door, she changed her mind and started away.

"You may as well come in, Christina," Mark called.

Curious, she opened the door. "How did you know it was I?"

He looked up from some papers on his desk. "I recognized your walk coming down the hall. Why aren't you on watch?"

Christina turned her back on him to examine the nearest row of shelves. "He told me to leave."

"I didn't think he'd like the idea of you in his bedchamber. He has some mistaken notion that you should be treated like a lady regardless of how you act."

"Yes, it's rather annoying." Christina drew a book from the shelf. "Mary Hays's Female Biography on Historic Women of Achievement? Mark, you surprise me."

After a few moments' silence, Mark spoke in a tight voice. "I bought it for you. I thought you'd prefer it as a betrothal gift to a handful of jewels."

Uncomfortable, Christina shot back, "I didn't realize you understood me so well."

"You didn't give me a chance. You thought I only wanted your dowry."

Christina shoved the book back onto the shelf and turned on Mark. "Do you expect me to believe you didn't?"

"No. You're not a fool." Mark lowered his gaze to his desk top. "I needed it desperately. But I wanted you, too. Not simply the way most men would just looking at you. I dare say I loved you. More fool I."

Something in his tone curbed her tongue. She studied his bowed head, then his desk where a half-full glass of brandy shimmered golden brown in the candlelight. "How much have you drunk?"

He laughed. "Apparently too much. I'd had too much brandy the time I told Felice I loved her, too. Once bitten not twice shy at all, much to my regret."

Christina grasped the safer topic. "You have no proof Felice cuckolded you before or after you met. On the contrary, I'd say she loves you more than you deserve."

"And you're such an expert on love."

Christina said nothing.

Mark raised his head, studied her face fore a moment, then grinned. "So you do love him."

Christina said nothing.

"I suspected earlier," Mark said with something like glee. "Now I know for certain. You know you'll never have him."

"I don't want him," Christina enunciated through clenched teeth. "You see, Mark, it wasn't only you. It was any man to whom my father would have engaged me. I don't want that kind of existence. Wade -- I care enough to help keep him alive until we can see him safely back to Mary Beth Randall. Now I care enough about Felice to attempt to make you see reason where she's concerned. And perhaps I feel guilty enough about what I did to you to attempt to mend the rift."

"I find that difficult to believe, but do as you will." Mark dipped his quill in the ink standish and began writing.

Understanding dismissal, Christina selected the first volume of Mary Hays's history, and went to her shabby but clean chamber across the corridor from Wade's. Within a remarkably short time, she began to yawn. Climbing into bed, she fell asleep quickly and remained asleep until Felice woke her at noon.

"I didn't know if I should," Felice said, "but Wade, he drinks the potion the physician left, and sleeps, and we need you to watch so the servants they can sleep or do their work."

Christina sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Didn't Mark tell you? Wade requested -- no, he ordered me to leave his room last night."

"But of course he did, ma chere." Felice's dark eyes danced. "Sumner tells Cookie that Wade, he was very sick last night. The pounding head, it will do that, non?"

Recalling her own nausea-accompanied headaches after her nightmares, Christina nodded.

"And," Felice continued, "no man wishes a lady to see him malaise, n'est-ce pas?"

"No, he wouldn't." Tenderness washed through Christina.

Felice nodded. "He sleeps now, and we must watch over him."

Taking a volume of Mary Hays, Christina entered Wade's chamber. Thus began fatiguing days of taking her turn sitting beside his bed, watching him, watching over him. At first, she believed he slept. After a few days, when his color seemed more natural and his breathing still, she wondered if he merely pretended sleep to avoid conversation. The third day of these suspicions, a week after his accident, she carried a copy of Tobias Smolett's lighthearted and somewhat racy novel, Roderick Random, and began reading aloud.

As the hero's adventures and misadventures grew more absurd by the second reading session, Wade turned his head and fixed her with a stern look. "That book," he drawled, "isn't proper for you to be reading, let alone aloud."

Christina grinned at him. "I had to do something to wake you up."

"I'm awake." He laid his bare forearm across his eyes.

Muscles showed beneath smooth skin sprinkled with fine, dark hairs. Christina clenched her hands against a desire to curl her fingers around his arm, squeeze and stroke, touch him after a week of looking and not touching.

"It's difficult making conversation," Wade said, "when you've a woodpecker in your head."

Christina grimaced. "Ugh."

Wade smiled. "I thought for a day or two I'd go as mad as King George." He lowered his arm. "Is that why you're all guarding me? Have I acted as mad as your monarch?"

"His Majesty talks too much." Christina swallowed against tightness in her throat. "We've been concerned is all."

He stared at her from eyes more gray than blue. "It's not all unless Cel usually refuses to make that jump."

Christina worried her lower lip. "Wade, I don't think -- "

"That I'm strong enough? What do you think's been drilling holes in my brainbox since I woke?" He rolled onto his side and reached out his hand to her. "Don't lie to me. Did you or Ned find something wrong with that horse?"

Christina laid her hand in his. "Yes."

"What?"

She tightened her fingers around his. "A bone figurine."

"Of what?"

"It doesn't make sense."

He shook her hand as if he wished to rattle loose the truth. "Maybe it will to me."

Christina swallowed. "Nemesis."

Wade's hand squeezed hers. She made an inarticulate sound of protest. Murmuring an apology, he raised her hand to his cheek and stroked it with a tenderness that made her want to lie down beside him and hold him with all her strength.

"So I was the target all along," he said. "I've been trying to think, but that damned -- beg pardon -- that woodpecker's snatched every notion that's come through my head. Guess it just proves I've a skull full of maggots."

"Oh, Wade, I do -- " Christina snapped her teeth together, appalled that she had almost declared she loved him.

"It was easier thinking I was the intended victim," she said instead. "I've not been a very nice person these past years. I've stepped on toes and even bloodied a nose or two in order to have my own way, not to mention the pride I've crushed, and perhaps a heart or two."

"None of which would justify harming a lady."

"And what would justify harming you? Wade, you're the kindest, gentlest -- " Again, she came to an abrupt halt.

Releasing her hand, he rose on one elbow, glanced down at his naked chest, exposed when the sheet fell away, and flushed. "You shouldn't be here. It's more improper than that book you're reading."

"Oh, for the love of Heaven! We're discussing why someone would wish to kill you, and you're concerned about propriety?"

"If I were dressed, it would be slightly less...wrong."

But I like looking at your bare skin, she thought.

She liked it too well. He was thin and paler after a week of sickroom fair, but that didn't make him less appealing to her.

An ache started in her heart and moved downward, so powerful she couldn't find coherent words for argument.

"It's also wrong for you to fatigue yourself on my account," Wade added.

"Twice, you risked your life on my account."

He smiled. "Ah, but it wasn't on your account after all, was it?"

"I wish it had been," Christina cried. "I'd give anything to be the one lying with a pounding head and bruises."

"I couldn't bear the sight of a lady injured." Wade closed his eyes. "Will you read some more?"

He looked so genuinely fine-drawn as if in pain, Christina let the matter drop and returned to Roderick Random. She would let him bring up the subject when he was stronger. Until then, she would protect him with her life if necessary.

It wasn't necessary. Belton Abbey was quiet, for Mark had ordered a cessation of repairs until Wade recovered. When she wasn't watching over Wade, Christina walked in the garden, helped Felice with her English, and observed Nanette teaching Felice how to make lace.

"This lace," Felice said, "it should be sold to the court modistes, n'est-ce pas? It is tres belle."

"It is lovely," Christina agreed. "If I had the opportunity, I'd sell it for her. She'd have more orders than she could fill."

"But she could teach others," Felice pointed out.

Nanette blushed. "I tried to sell in London. They would not even look at it."

"But Christina is a lady," Felice said. "She could sell it."

"Not while under my father's protection," Christina said. "People would think we needed the money. He'd put a stop to it and probably dismiss Nanette."

"A disguise?" Felice suggested.

"A suitable thought," Mark said, coming into the parlor, "Christina is so good at playacting. Nursemaid is the least likely role I've ever seen her in, but our patient seems to be doing well. He insists he'll be up tomorrow."

Soon, he wouldn't need her and she'd have to join her family.

Christina hoped her sadness didn't show, but the amused glance Mark shot her way told her it had.

The next morning, when Wade entered the parlor in time for breakfast, Christina saw Mark's gaze fixed on her, and kept better control over her emotions. Doing so was difficult. Dressed, Wade looked thinner than he had in bed. His pantaloons were no longer skin tight and he had lost the glow of someone who spent most of his life outdoors. But his eyes were bright and clear. He moved with easy grace, a sure sign he suffered little to no pain.

"We must fatten you up," Felice greeted him, speaking Christina's thoughts aloud. "No mere caf -- coffee and fruit for breakfast. You will have an egg and saussi -- "

"Sausage," Christina supplied.

"I feel right weak." Wade dropped onto a chair. "I don't think I felt this bad when I was shot."

"You just don't remember," Mark said. "I met you three weeks after it happened and you looked like the devil."

In the act of scooping eggs and sausage onto a plate, Felice paused to ask, "But who would shoot you? You have the kindness most great."

Wade took the plate from her and stared down at it as if trying to analyze the chemical make up of the food. "It's not important," he spoke at last.

"Isn't it?" Christina asked. "Now we can be fairly certain you were shot at a month ago. You were in a sabotaged boat, and your horse was induced to throw you."

"Christina," Mark snapped, "shut up."

"No, devil take it, he's a guest in our country and his life has been endangered. We have a responsibility -- "

"You have a foul mouth for a woman," Mark broke in.

Christina glared at him. "And why shouldn't a woman be allowed to use the same language as a man?"

"It isn't seemly," Mark and Wade said together.

Christina gritted her teeth and tried not to growl.

"Peace, s'il vous plait," Felice cried. "We are Wade concerned about, not the rest of we."

"Speaking of bad language," Mark muttered.

Christina and Wade glowered at him.

"Right now," Wade said, his voice calm, "I'd like to eat."

Chastened, Christina directed her attention to dissecting, then pulverizing the roll on her plate. From the corner of her eye, she watched Wade eat everything Felice set before him. She didn't think he wanted to, but he was so deuced polite!

How had she, who loved flouting the conventions, fallen for a man so determined to maintain them?

Because he's sincere about them, she answered herself.

After an interminable silence, Wade pushed back his plate and rested his forearms on the table as he smiled at Felice, then looked first toward Mark, then Christina full in the face. "I'm going to say this now, then I want nothing more said about the matter. Nor do I wish to be continually guarded like a lunatic any longer. You may give me a pistol or a blunderbuss if you like, Mark, but now that I'm well, I wish the ladies to stay out of my chamber. And you, Mark, should return to your duties."

"But, Wade -- " Christina protested.

He held up his hand. "Please. I don't wish to discuss this further. I don't know who wants me dead, since Cedric Randall is on his way back to Virginia in a lead-lined casket."

"But why would the brother of your fiancée wish you dead?" Felice demanded.

"C'est impossible!"

"For once, I agree with you," Mark said. "But not for the same reasons, I'm sure. Randall would rather run than fight."

"He's dead," Wade said, his tone as flat as pressed linen. "I'll say nothing more of him and would appreciate none of you saying more of him. Now, if you'll excuse me..." He rose, bowed to the ladies, then left the parlor.

Respectful of his wishes, everyone left Wade alone when he was in his chamber. But, despite the fine, August weather, Christina remained in her chamber whenever Wade was in his room, her door open, her ears alert for any unusual sounds.

When he was not in his chamber, she tried spending as much time with him as possible without intruding on his right to be alone. If he sat on the terrace or in the garden, she managed to be near, waiting for him to acknowledge her or request her company. More often than not, he asked her to sit with him, walk with him, or read to him.

Physically, he looked better each day. His clothes ceased to hang on him and color returned to his face.

A lifetime of rules and regulations told Christina time had come for her to leave. Physically, Wade didn't need her. Yet she couldn't bring herself to pack her bags and order the carriage, for, physically restored though Wade might be, something was missing in his spirit. Always quiet, he was now almost withdrawn, responding to remarks rather than volunteering them, rarely displaying the droll side of his wit, scarcely smiling, never laughing.

Then the letter arrived from Mary Beth.

After dinner one evening, Sumner carried the letter to Wade, where he and Christina sat on the terrace drinking lemonade and playing a desultory game of piquet by the light of the westering sun. The instant Sumner set the vellum packet on the table, the plainly feminine handwriting facing upward, Wade's face lit and, for the first time in two weeks, his smile reached his eyes.

"Sea travel is too slow," Sumner said in his musical voice. "Nearly three months you been gone before a letter comes."

"It came," Wade said. "That's what matters." He drew a pen knife from his pocket.

Smiling, Sumner withdrew into the house.

Christina told herself she should leave him alone, too. Her legs refused to obey her. Self-torture it might be, but she couldn't stop herself from watching Wade slit the wax seal and fold back the pages with loving fingers.

The scent of roses wafted from the paper and into the warm, still air. Christina doubted she would ever enjoy roses again. Wade's nostrils flared as if he enjoyed the aroma.

At last, her legs worked. She would pack now and leave for Brighton. She rose and walked with dignity to the door. About to turn the handle, she glanced back one last time -- and froze.

Wade's face looked paler than it had the day of his accident. His fingers crushed the edges of the paper.

"Wade, what is it?" Christina asked. "Bad news from home? Mary Beth? Your brother?"

"No bad news," Wade answered, "for them. They were married the week after I left and are already expecting a blessed event."

Christina called Mary Beth a name she had never used against another woman. She wanted to scream. She remained by the door, though she wanted to go to Wade and hold him.

He stared at the letter as if doing so would change the message. The color didn't return to his face. Time dragged.

Unable to bear another minute of the stillness, Christina stepped forward. "Wade, if I --"

"Please, leave me." The interruption was gentle but firm. "I wish to be alone."

Of course he wanted to be alone. What man would wish a woman to witness his humiliation?

Weeping for him, she entered the house and found Felice in the parlor. When she heard the news, Felice used a French word Christina didn't recognize, but guessed its meaning.

"I will to him the brandy take," Felice declared.

"I'll send Sumner," Christina said.

"Mais oui, you are right. Ah, the poor man!"

Christina located Sumner in the kitchen bantering with the cook. When she suggested Wade might wish something stronger than lemonade, the manservant looked concerned, but said nothing as he procured decanter and glass.

A quarter hour later, he walked into the parlor still holding decanter and glass and announced, "He is gone. I have looked everywhere. He is not in the house or garden."

"Ah, non!" Felice cried. "He has gone for some walk."

"He's alone," Christina said, "and, I have no doubt, weaponless, when someone wishes him dead. Oh, I wish I could go to Virginia and kill that-that -- "

"Putaine," Felice suggested.

"Whore sounds too nice in French." Christina strode to the door. "Where does Mark keep his guns?"

"Christina!" Felice protested. Then, she sighed. "He has Manton pistols in his study. I bring them." She left the parlor with amazing speed for her expanded middle.

Looking bewildered, Sumner asked, "Should I fetch Sir Mark?"

"No," Christina told him, "I know where Wade will go."

Breathless, Felice returned with a pistol cradled in both hands. "It is loaded and very sensitive."

"Dueling pistols usually are." Christina took the gun, conscious that it could too easily have been used against her brother four years earlier had their father not intervened, and tucked it under her arm with care. Then she left the house and headed toward the woods.

She found Wade where she expected to -- sitting cross-legged on the grass beside the lake. Evening shadows cast a gray hue over his face, and when he glanced up at her approach, his eyes held the barest hint of blue to the gray.

But he offered her a half smile. "Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, I presume?"

"Someone has to look out for you if you won't look out for yourself." Without waiting to be invited, Christina settled on the grass beside him. It was her father's land, after all.

Wade bowed his head. "Surely he can't watch all the time."

"Surely he must be considering what he's already done."

"You may be right. At the moment, I'll take the risk to stay outside. A house would stifle me."

"How I understand." Christina touched his hand where it rested on his knee. "Think all you like. I'll keep watch."

He turned his hand over so their palms touched and their fingers laced. "Thank you."

They remained like that, quiet, holding hands, gazing across the lake to the moon rising above the trees. Save for an occasional rustle, the woods lay in silence.

When the sky darkened enough for the stars to shine, Wade spoke. "I don't remember a time when I didn't expect to marry her." His voice was soft, the timbre rich with emotion. "She's six years younger than I, four younger than Will, six younger than Cedric would have been this month. We boys were always getting into scrapes for tearing or muddying our clothes. She was always clean and smelled sweet. I thought her the ultimate of what a lady should be. I didn't even blame her when she refused to marry me four years ago, though everyone considered us unofficially engaged and the announcement was the only formality left." He sighed and rubbed a hand across his brow as if his head ached.

Christina suspected the ache lay in his heart as it lay in hers. She wished she knew a cure for that kind of pain.

She did the only thing she could -- listen.

"I should tell you about Cedric," Wade said. "Mark knows. When he learns of this -- but I'm getting ahead of myself." His fingers flexed around hers. "It all started five years ago. Cedric and Mary Beth's father died. Their mother had been gone for several years. We all knew Randall had financial difficulties, but none of us knew the depth until he died. He owed years of back taxes and the mortgage payments were in arrears. Cedric came to my father asking for work. We needed a factor, so my father gave him the position."

Wade stretched his legs straight in front of him, but maintained hold on Christina's hand. "When my own parents died in a sudden squall that capsized their boat on the Chesapeake, I discovered that Cedric was cheating us. I've always wondered if my father knew." He sighed. "That's a can of worms I'd rather not open now. What's important is that I managed the situation badly. Instead of taking the evidence to the authorities and letting them see Cedric prosecuted, I confronted him myself. He had quite a temper. It exploded. He accused me of manufacturing the evidence so I could gain control of Randall Hall. Then he made some revolting comments about my feelings for his sister. Then he struck me across the face." He laughed, though it held no humor. "I'd have let the matter drop and taken the proper route, but we had an audience, and honor expected me to demand satisfaction."

Christina stroked his knuckles. "The duel that convinced you to detest guns?"

"Yes." He shook his head, making his hair fall over one shoulder.

With her free hand, Christina brushed it back.

He smiled at her, then continued, "I intended to delope -- fire into the air. Cedric didn't give me the chance. He fired before the signal."

"Oh, no!"

"Oh, yes. Another inch and he'd have gotten a lung." He shuddered. "I was unconscious, so didn't know what happened, but my brother told me. Everyone was so concerned for me, they didn't think about him until he'd fled. We didn't hear from him for two years. That was when we discovered he was in Dartmoor."

"And you blame yourself," Christina said.

Wade inclined his head. "If I'd managed things better, if I'd asked him instead of accusing him -- "

"He might have responded in exactly the same way." Christina moved closer to him. "What he did was wrong -- "

"A man doesn't want to lose his land."

"It's no excuse for cheating another man out of his. You said yourself your family has been money poor until recently. Did you or Will or your father keep your plantation through theft?"

"From an Englishman's point of view, yes."

He sounded so much like his old self, Christina laughed.

He clasped her hand between both of his. "In all seriousness, though, I'm not sure Cedric would have done it if not for Mary Beth. He didn't want her to go to her marriage without a dowry, despite the fact that half the single men in the Tidewater wouldn't have cared if she came in her shift like the old Fleet Street brides. But Cedric had his pride, too."

"And that pride destroyed him, not you."

"Will and Mark have both told me the same thing. But Mary Beth -- "His hands closed on hers like the shell of an oyster protecting the tender flesh inside. "She came to my sickroom and told me she couldn't marry the man who sent her brother away in disgrace and that she intended to go to her aunt in Richmond."

"No wonder you called me Mary Beth after your accident."

He looked at her, his mouth grim. "I'm sorry. You don't deserve that."

"It doesn't matter."

At least it didn't matter for the reason he meant.

"So you and Mark went into the mountains to sulk over the cruelty of females," Christina said, making her tone light.

"Something like that." Wade's thumb stroked the back of her wrist in an absentminded way. "When I returned, Mary Beth had become the Belle of Richmond. I hesitated to approach her, but when I did, all seemed forgiven. I couldn't have been more wrong. I -- she -- " He stopped and rubbed his brow again, then kept his hand there, shielding his eyes. "Many men proposed to her, but, by the end of the war, I was the best prospect."

"You'd have been the best prospect without wealth."

The ceasing of his thumb's motion was the only indication he gave of Christina's remark. "By April, I was her only escort. She came to Williamsburg to stay with a friend's family to be closer to me, I thought. So I asked her again to marry me. She said she'd think about it if I'd go to England and bring Cedric home. But she lied. That lady I thought so pure, so innocent, the lady who would never be alone with me or let me touch her...She was already increasing when she and Will married."

"How could she?" Christina cried. "She led you on, then sent you away while she was having an affaire with your brother? She deserves something awful like...the stocks."

"Christina." Wade's voice was rough, like that of someone who'd been screaming all day. "It's more than that." He leaned forward as though pain bowed his spine. "With Cedric dead, Mary Beth is the person who may wish me dead. She may have sent me to England where a hired assassin could kill me with no blame passing to her."

"Oh, Wade, no!" Even as she voiced the protest, Christina knew it was all too possible. Even more, she suspected today wasn't the first time he had that thought.

"That's why you've been so quiet since your accident. Part of you feared this since we knew you were the target."

Wade nodded. "And felt guilty for each thought."

"Is it worse to have it justified?"

"I'd rather grovel for forgiveness." He shuddered. "Neither being shot nor thrown has ever hurt so much." He pounded their clasped hands on his thigh. "Dear God, I want to feel something other than this pain!" He released her, then he cupped his face in his hands.

She wished he would weep or swear or return to the Abbey and drink himself into a stupor. Anything was better than his stillness, his silence. If the lake was deep where they sat, she would have pushed him in so he would have something to feel -- the icy cold. But the lake was shallow at their end and she couldn't imagine him weeping, swearing, or getting drunk.

Resting one hand against his back, she wondered what could she do to ease his pain? A jest that might make him laugh seemed inappropriate. Raging for him might make matters worse since he'd likely feel guilty for burdening her. All she could do was hold him.

Hold him indeed!

The idea came to her slowly, seeping from his body into hers with each throb of her pulse. It was a gamble, a risk. The worst he could do was reject her. That would hurt. It would also give him something else to think about. If he accepted the gift she offered, that, too, would give him something on which to fix his mind and body.

She rose, then fumbled and twisted until she had released all the pins and hooks of her gown. The light muslin floated to the grass. She stepped out of it and kicked off her slippers. In nothing more than shift and stockings, she sat beside Wade, wrapped her arms around him, and drew his head down to her breast.

CHAPTER 13

Gradually, Wade realized only gauze-fine lace separated Christina's breast from his cheek. Sheer silk met the hand he laid against her back.

She had removed her gown and petticoat.

He couldn't move, could scarcely breathe, for several moments. He couldn't think. The warmth of her body and the fragrance of jasmine entered his head like an opiate, dulling reason, dulling motivation to make the right -- the honorable -- move and pull away from her.

He wanted to stay in her arms. For weeks, he'd resisted the temptation of her nearness. Now, heartsick, adrift, his illusion of Mary Beth's goodness shattered, he wanted the solace of someone's love, even if it came only in the form of passion. Yet Christina had never offered him passion alone. Generously, she had given him friendship, a listening ear, encouragement. That now, through the removal of her clothes, she offered him the pleasure of her body and forgetfulness of passion, seemed natural and right -- almost.

Making love to a woman who was not and never had been married, wasn't right. Even though, according to Mark, she was no stranger to intimacy, she should save herself for marriage.

And why not marriage to you?

The question took Wade's breath away. It was too startling, too sudden to consider. Yet he considered it, sitting there, loving the feel of her soft breast beneath his cheek, the feel of her arms around him, the thrum of her heart under his ear.

He could offer her marriage. From what he'd seen -- and smelled -- of Sir Roderick, her parents' likely choice, marriage to Wade Montrose of Virginia was a preferable choice. And she needed to choose in the next two months. He wanted a wife. He needed a wife. Going home with one like Christina was preferable to going home alone. Knowing he couldn't make a reasonable decision with only a layer of lace between him and Christina's body, he removed himself from her arms and sat back to look at her face.

It shone in the moonlight like a mother-of-pearl cameo, much as it had when he first saw her by the lake. The strong bones that would keep her beautiful even when age lined her skin, appeared as fine and delicate as ivory. His fingers moved on his knee, expressing his desire to stroke her cheek, the skin he knew to be as smooth as Lyons silk.

He curled his fingers into a fist. "Do you realize what you're doing to me?"

She smiled. "Do you think I don't?"

"If I follow my baser instincts, I'll break every code of honor for which I've ever stood."

"It needn't." She placed the tip of her finger in the center of his lower lip. "I'm old enough to make my own decisions. You won't be taking advantage of a green girl who doesn't know what she's about. You haven't tried to seduce me. But you want me. Right now, you need me. You need forgetfulness and pleasure instead of memories and pain. You need to know that you are worth desiring. I can -- I want -- to give you that and more. I want you." Her clear, English voice lapped around him like cool water against the lips of a thirsty man. She raised her hands to the bow at her cleavage. "Look me in the eye and tell me you don't want this."

He couldn't look her in the eye. He couldn't tear his gaze away from her hands untying the bow, allowing her chemise to slide down her breasts. A flick of her fingers -- or his? -- and they would be bare to the moonlight, to his eyes, to his hands, his mouth.

His body responded with a surge of desire so powerful he had to swallow back a groan. She was too right, too beautiful, too tempting to resist.

He looked at her face. "I can't."

Her brows arched. "You can't? I should think you make love as well as you do everything else."

He smiled. "I won't comment on that one way or the other. But you -- you're an unmarried lady, who is -- isn't -- you're not mine to take."

"But I can be, can I not? Mary Beth has removed herself from the path." She leaned forward and kissed him, her mouth warm and welcoming as he knew her body would be. Slipping one hand inside his shirt, she used her other hand to lift his fingers to her breast.

The mound lay in his palm, soft and lush. His thumb grazed the crest. It hardened beneath his touch, and his conscience lost the battle with desire.

He kissed her back, meeting the advances of her tongue with his own, moving his lips in silent words of pleasure and assent. Without breaking the contact, he removed his jacket. She tugged up his shirt, her hands stroking his back, his belly, his chest.

His conscience attempted one more skirmish, crying out a protest, This is wrong. She's too experienced for a single lady.

His body responded, You couldn't have this if she was an innocent.

You shouldn't contribute to her downfall, his conscience stabbed at him.

He would offer her marriage. That was a salve to any number of consciences.

Her hand dropped to the inside of his thigh, and consciences no longer mattered.

He had to break the kiss to pull his shirt over his head. The caress of night air on his bare, perspiration-dampened skin made him shiver.

At once, Christina's arms were around him. Her hair tumbled across his chest in a silken shawl. "Hold me," she whispered, her lips against his scarred shoulder. "Love me tonight."

He held her. They lay back on the grass, crushing it , warming it into releasing the delicate sweetness of green life. He kissed her again. She tasted of sweet-tart lemons and salt from his own skin. He touched her, his fingertips light across her throat, across her shoulder to the edge of her chemise sleeve. "May I?"

"Please do." Her own hands moved to the waist of his breeches.

He stopped them. "Not yet. Slowly."

"You might change your mind."

With the taut crests of her now bared breasts pressing against his chest and his body clamoring for fulfillment?

He smiled. "At this stage, my dearest lady, you'll have to be the one to change your mind."

"And deny myself the pleasure of you?" She laid his hand on her heart. It pulsed with the same accelerated rhythm of his own. "I always thought a racing heart an aberration of bad poetry and prose until I met you."

What about your other lover? Unbidden, the thought pierced him with a stab of foreign jealousy.

He shoved the thought aside. Without that lover, he wouldn't be there, savoring the softness of her mouth with his lips, the smoothness of her skin with his hands.

He stroked her gently, delighting in each hollow and curve of throat and shoulder, the swell of her breast and the valley between. His mouth followed the trail of his hands, kissing, tasting. She responded with his hands on his back, in his hair, murmurs of pleasure in her throat. When his lips closed over the swollen peak of one breast, she cried out, sending a powerful surge of desire racing through his body.

One hand braced on the ground, he raised his head to look at her. "I'd better stop now unless you're absolutely certain."

His hair cascaded over her skin, and she lifted her hands to brush the ends over her own hard-tipped breasts. "Do I look like I want to stop?" She took his hand and slipped it between her thighs. "Or feel like I want to stop?"

With a groan, he lowered his mouth to hers. "If you say 'no', now, I think I'd rather go through torture."

She laughed. "It would serve you right. I've been going through torture for weeks wanting you." She ran her tongue across his lower lip. "Please, my love, make love to me."

Somehow, with hands that weren't quite steady, he managed to remove the rest of his clothes. He saw her watching him through her lashes. Even in moonlight, he thought he detected a flush on her cheeks.

Excitement or maidenly modesty? He hoped it was the former. He wished it were the latter.

"I'm a conceited and selfish ass." He spoke aloud as he lay beside her, resting on his forearm, his other hand beginning a slow, deliberate tracery down her body.

She placed her hand against his cheek. "Why would you say a silly thing like that?"

"To think I have a right to touch you this way." He ran his hand up the inside of her thigh, as smooth and firm as he'd suspected from their first meeting. "Or think I can please you." He reached the apex of her thighs, the soft hair and dewy flesh.

She cried out, pushing against his hand. "I give you the right." She wrapped her arms around him, drawing him down to her. "Give me all the pleasure you can."

He kissed her. "I do try to meet all a lady's demands." His mouth still on hers, he cupped her face in his hands and moved over her. Her legs parted for him. Poised, aching with need he thought would kill him if she gave the answer she should, he said, "This is your last chance to tell me to stop."

For response, she arched her hips toward him, past her opening, into her passage...and through a fragile barrier that should not have been there.

He lay motionless, fighting for control of his need and not a little outrage. "Why?" was the only word he could force past his throat.

She smiled. "It had to be someone. I wanted it to be you."

"No, it shouldn't be a mere someone. It should be precious to you to be given to -- don't move!"

She moved anyway, pushing him deeper. He groaned with the pleasure of being inside her, the torture of holding back, the ecstasy of surrender.

"I shouldn't," he said.

But the damage was done, her maidenhead was gone. The least he could do was make her first time memorable.

Her first time with him? Her first time with any man.

Joy, need, and the sheer wonder of being inside her, proved forces more powerful than will. They flowed through him, then from him in long, ecstatic waves of completion.

His body satisfied, his heart humble, he pressed his cheek to hers. "I'm so sorry."

"For making love to me?" She sounded wounded.

He drew her earlobe between his lips and caressed it with his tongue. "No, definitely not regret. But I -- well, I -- it's been too long, and you're so incredible...It should have been better for you."

"Oh, that!" She skimmed her nails down his back. "I received great pleasure having you find pleasure in me. But if you regret not giving me fulfillment this time, you can make up for it the next time."

The way his body reacted to her wriggling beneath him made him think the next time wouldn't be far in the future. Except her remark, her understanding that a woman could climax too, raised questions too serious to go unanswered any longer.

Reluctantly, he sat up and tugged his shirt over his head, then handed her his coat. "Maybe -- no, there's no maybe about it, you've some explaining, my dearest lady."

She turned onto her side, propped up on one elbow. The spill of her hair was the only cloak for her breasts. The glowed like pale globes behind a black gauze curtain, taunting his desire to forget talk and return to loving.

"Did you explain why you gave up your virginity to your first woman?" she demanded.

He made himself look at her face. "Actually, yes, I did."

She laughed. "I should have known. What did you tell her?"

He began straightening the crushed grass, gazing down as if the act needed his attention. "I said I wanted to be experienced before I married."

"How old were you?"

"I don't think this is a proper conversation..."

"You want me to tell you about Kieran Wonthwaite."

"Touche." He patted the grass down again. "I was seventeen. She was a widow ten years my senior, and had a reputation for initiating college students with the right credentials."

"And you had the right credentials?"

He raised his head. "I am a Montrose of Virginia."

"I beg your pardon."

He smiled. "How do you manage hauteur in deshabille?"

"I'm a Marlowe of Devon, Buckingham, Cheshire...a dozen other places."

"That would all fit into Virginia ten times over." He lifted a strand of her hair and brushed the ends over his lips. "It's your turn now."

"Yes, my turn." She sat up and wrapped his coat around her shoulders. "I told you about my parents arranging the marriage between Mark and me. I didn't have anything against Mark. He wasn't nasty to me as he is to Felice. He claims he cared about me, and perhaps he did. I know he wanted me. But the idea of marriage frightened me more after what my parents did to me than it did before then. I kept thinking how I'd have an entire lifetime of being told what to do, of having the fear that my husband would hold the power to lock me away if I didn't produce an heir or didn't please him or embarrassed him...I didn't know how to avoid it. Marriage is expected of females in my position. But I wanted to buy time. So I used the only commodity I had."

"Your body?" He couldn't keep the horror from his voice.

She bowed her head. "It sounds as tawdry as it was. Let me assure you, I'm not proud of what I did. The only excuse I have is desperation."

"It's a powerful motive." He kept his tone gentle.

She flashed him a quick smile. "It was certainly powerful enough for me. I didn't even know how to go about it, but I had a friend, a male friend, with an abominable reputation for seducing virgins. He never tried with me because we'd grown up together -- well, he's almost ten years older than I, so he thought of me more like a younger sister than a potential bedmate. But when I offered, he didn't put up much of a resistance."

"I can understand why."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

He took her hand in both of his. "It is. Go on. Did Mark catch you too soon?"

"Mark almost didn't catch us soon enough." Her fingers dug into his hand. "This is the awful thing I did. I planned for Mark to catch us. I invited Mark to meet me by the lake. We often sat in the summerhouse. It's built up high to catch the breezes." She looked up at the white marble building. "It's like a stage, and I staged a drama on it that day. I learned exactly how Kieran managed to talk so many females out of their virtue. Before he even touched me, he told me about what he intended to do and what pleasure I could expect. He gave me the kind of lesson mothers should, but don't give their daughters, not at all crude. Simply...vivid. His words made me want...everything. So when he started the practice of his words, I'd actually forgotten about Mark. I hadn't intended any of my clothes to come off, but I didn't protest when he had my gown and chemise around my waist -- "

"I don't need that many details," Wade snapped.

Her grin was positively wicked. "Jealous?"

"No, ma'am, I'd just drown him in the lake if he were here."

"Oh, Wade, I do -- " She gave a delicate cough. "I'm almost to the end. Kieran went a little further. I'll suffice it to say I was on the brink of the fulfillment he promised without actually having him in -- "

"I understand a few methods of that."

She ran a finger along his lower lip. "Do you? Will you show me more successfully than he did?"

He tugged his shirt over the evidence of his reaction to her words. "When you finish this tale."

"I'll talk fast then." She lay her head against his shoulder. "If you'll still want me. I'm truly awful. I lay there thinking of nothing but my body's pleasure and not how it would effect Mark. He almost killed Kieran. He grabbed him and threw him off the summerhouse. Then, of course, it was pistols at dawn, and Mark came close to putting a pistol ball through his head, and I would have been responsible."

"You wouldn't have been responsible for two men shooting at one another regardless of what you did. They could just as easily have fought it out with their fists or used foils with the intent of merely pinking one another for satisfaction of honor."

"Why would it be any different than you being responsible for Cedric Randall's disgrace?"

"Because I -- " He stopped. "I don't know."

"You may think about it later." She curled her fingers around him. "You've a promise to keep to me."

Speaking was difficult, but he managed, "How did your parents react to Mark breaking the engagement?"

"Badly. Since I hadn't lost my virtue, they thought the action unjustified. But he threatened to tell everyone if they didn't release him from a contract with a whore." She stroked him lightly. "So they compromised. Father bought the mortgage on Belton Abbey and told Mark if he left the country until either he or I was wed, he wouldn't have to make any payments on it."

"Clever." He caught her wrist and tugged her hand away. "I'll disgrace myself if you keep that up."

"But I want you."

"Against my better judgment, you'll have me." He cupped his hand under her chin and raised her face for his kiss. His fingertips stroked the soft skin below her ear, felt her pulse rate increase. "Am I boorish to say I'm pleased I'm your first?"

She chuckled. "Montrose pride?"

"Male pride." He moved his hand beneath the coat flung over her shoulders. "Despite the reprehensible behavior of your friend, Kieran, I have considerable sympathy for him." He swirled his fingertip around the peak of one breast. "To begin with you what he could not finish was surely torture. I know. I've been tortured for weeks, wanting you, knowing it was wrong." He lowered his hand to the inside of her thigh, caressing. "It's still wrong. But God help me, I can't help myself."

"But I want you to help yourself...to me."

Laughing, they tumbled back on the grass. This time, he savored loving her. His removal of her chemise and stockings was a sensual delight. He drew them off slowly, making the motion a caress with his hands, following the path with his lips. She responded with her own caresses, with cries of delight, and, finally, a demand for him to enter her, "Now!"

Gladly, joyfully, he complied, easing into her with a slowness that tortured them both. She tried hastening him deeper. He held her back with his hands holding her hips, his lips murmuring in her ear, his body withdrawing to begin the teasing again.

"I think," she declared, "I'm going to explode."

"I hope so. Oh, my dear!"

She did explode, splendidly, gloriously. The pulsing of her body was bliss, her moans of pleasure music, the sting of her nails in his back a joy.

She was a joy, uninhibited and giving, passionate and tender. His own body begged for release. Denying himself became a tormenting pleasure as he explored the places to caress and kiss, the ways to move that brought her the most enjoyment. She told him and she showed him. She asked him how to please him, then did so until he could hold back no longer. She met him in the climax, the tightening of her body doubling his own enchantment.

Afterward, they lay on the grass, too spent to move or speak until the chill of night air cooled their heated flesh. Wade thought he should rise, find some of their clothing and cover them. But he wanted to hold her skin to skin when he said what had to be voiced between them.

"My dearest lady," he began. "We haven't been very wise."

"No, we haven't." She sounded drowsy and content. "Whomever wishes you dead could have walked right up and slain us both before we knew it."

"I'd have died happy in that event." He kissed the corner of her mouth. "But that's not what I'm talking about. I don't know how to say this delicately -- "

"You don't have to be delicate with me. Well, a delicate touch here and there is nice, but -- "

"Hush." He kissed her full on the mouth. "I need to be serious for a moment. I want to point out that I -- well, I -- "

She laughed. "Are you still shy with me?"

"In this, yes, it's -- " He took a deep breath. "I've spilled my seed inside you twice, so I think we should be married by special license. Since you're of age, and I've been in the parish for more than three weeks, it won't be any difficulty -- "

"Except that I don't want to wed," she interrupted.

Cool air suddenly felt like a winter gale. Sitting up, Wade reached for his shirt and pulled it on before he felt calm enough to ask, "How can you not wish to marry now? Devil take it, Christina, you could be with child now."

She stretched, looking like she was about to purr. "That would be nice. I like children."

He closed his eyes and counted to ten. "Christina, you can't bear a child out of wedlock. You'd be disgraced."

"Disgrace," she said, her voice cold, "would be preferable to life with a man who married me out of a sense of duty."

"It's more than that."

"What is it then? A salve to your pride? You want to go home with a rich English noblewoman on your arm to flaunt in Mary Beth's face?"

The lash of her words struck too close to home. He flinched from the blow.

She laughed with a bitter edge. "I thought so."

He looked at her. She sat up, magnificently beautiful in her nudity, and looking as cold and remote as the statues on the summerhouse steps. No matter what he said to her, she wouldn't believe him. Still, he tried. "We share friendship, respect, and passion. Those are unusual qualities in most marriages. It's a powerful foundation on which to build."

"Perhaps it would be...if you didn't love another woman."

He had no answer for that. Despite suspicions, despite her betrayal, he couldn't wipe away half a lifetime of loving in a few hours of passion with another woman. Maybe he couldn't in another half a lifetime. Mary Beth had always stood for everything he wanted in a woman, a wife -- beauty, gentleness, charm, purity. Yet she wasn't pure, at least she hadn't been with his own brother. Her charm tarnished in the face of deceiving him. If she indeed wanted him dead in revenge for her brother's disgrace and death and the loss of her home, she also lacked a gentle nature. Despite that evidence, her name evoked a feeling of tenderness, a warm glow around his heart.

And that made intimacy with Christina doubly wrong.

He lay his hand across his brow. "What have I done?"

"Exactly what I wanted you to do." She stroked his cheek. "My darling, don't go into a brown study over this. It will all work out. In the mean time, we shouldn't stay out here any longer."

He drew her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. "You're right. We should return to the Abbey before we catch a chill."

Or I'm tempted to make love to you again.

Suddenly shy of his near nudity, he rose with his back to her and began gathering up his clothes. One stocking eluded him and a button was missing from his pantaloons. He shoved his bare foot into his boot. His jacket covered the missing button.

Behind him, Christina said, "I'm dressed as I can be."

He turned. She looked both wanton and serene with a smile curving her lips, her gown loose from a lack of pins, and her hair cloaking her shoulders. Unexpected, unwelcome, desire flooded his body to painful tightness. With one touch, one word of encouragement, he would have her on the grass again, consequences be damned.

She took a step closer. Her scent wrapped around him. "Do you wish to go now?"

"I wish -- " He swallowed. He struggled for control of right over need. "We'd best go." He took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm, then started toward the woods path.

"Are we racing?" A laugh colored her tone.

Racing? Oh, yes, away from temptation.

He slowed his steps. "I beg pardon."

She squeezed his arm, but said nothing. Neither of them spoke until they reached a side door leading to a flight of steps that would allow them to reach their chambers without passing either Mark's or Felice's rooms.

At the foot of the stairs, Christina stopped and turned to him and slipped her arms around his neck. "Just for goodnight."

He feared if he kissed her he wouldn't stop. With her arms around him and her body pressed to his, he couldn't not kiss her. The kiss was sweetness and passion, goodnight and promise.

Releasing her, he said, "We'll talk more of my proposal in the morning."

She neither agreed nor disagreed. With a touch on his cheek, she spun on her heel, then ran up the stairs.

***

In the morning, she was gone.

Wade learned of her departure when Sumner brought his morning coffee. Stunned, Wade stared at his manservant. "Did she return to Torr Keep?"

Sumner shook his head. "She's off to join her family."

"So early?"

"It is half past ten, sir."

Wade glanced at the clock on the mantel. It confirmed Sumner's announcement. "I'd better hurry. Is Sir Mark or Lady Shields in the house?"

"Lady Shields be in the parlor, sir. I'll have Cook send you breakfast there."

"To the devil with breakfast. I need to be ready immediately."

He hastened through the morning ritual and all but ran down the stairs to the parlor.

Felice half-reclined on a sofa, looking fatigued and yet serenely beautiful like an artist's depiction of motherhood about to happen. In a flash, Wade envisioned Mary Beth growing round with child -- his brother's, not his. Pain struck fast and hard. On its heels slashed the razor edge of guilt for what he'd done to Christina. She, too, could look like Felice in a few months, and he would be responsible.

"Wade," Felice asked, "you will stand there with the visage of a man in pain? Or do you sit down to have the breakfast?"

"No breakfast. I need to know where Christina has gone."

"She did not tell you?"

"No, she said nothing of leaving."

"Then I cannot you tell either."

Wade compressed his lips.

Felice gestured to a chair. "Asseyez-vous."

Wade understood the gesture if not the French, and sat.

Felice pushed a basket of peaches and plums toward him. "They are picked fresh. Eat some. Or is your head ill?"

"No, my head is fine." Idly, he selected a peach and began peeling it with the silver knife provided. "You must tell me where Christina has gone. It's vitally important."

"To you or to her?"

"To both of us."

"Hmm." Felice watched him with shrewd, dark eyes. "I do not sleep well these days, you understand? I sit by my window and see so much. Sumner with my cook. Nanette with Ned. And Christina with you." She laughed. "You men are so charmant when you blush. It is so rare, but you have the conscience."

Wade set knife and half-peeled fruit in the basket. "You know."

"I make a pattern when I see you return, then Christina this morning looking so happy."

"Happy?" Wade exclaimed. "If she was so happy, why did she run away from me?"

"Do not be a stupid," Felice cried. "What do you expect? She should take the offer of marriage from a man who has just now discovered he has no fiancee? Or do you think the females cannot have the pride too?"

Wade fumbled for an appropriate response. In the end, he conceded defeat. "What can I do?"

"Learn your heart."

Defeat indeed. He trusted neither his heart nor his judgment where females were concerned. He thought Mary Beth was pure, and she proved to be a wanton. He thought Christina a wanton, and she proved to be pure. He'd thought both ladies would be pleased to marry him, and neither one was.

Whatever Felice thought he should do, he wasn't about to sit around pondering his ineptitude with women and feeling sorry for himself. Other than the past two weeks, he'd never been idle in his life. He solved problems with action.

He stood. "If you'll excuse me, ma'am, I'll be on my way."

"To where?"

"To find Christina, where else?"

CHAPTER 14

"We quarreled," Christina told her father truthfully.

Torr drew his brows together. "So he no longer wishes to wed you?"

"Oh, no, he still wishes to wed me -- by special license."

Torr shot up from his chair. "The devil he does." His blue eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Christina swallowed against dryness in her throat. This was the point where the falsehoods began. "He wanted to leave for Virginia straight off. But I'd have none of it, so I left and came searching for you all. I didn't know it would take me nearly two weeks to do so."

"The Brighton staff should have known that you weren't included in the edict not to mention our whereabouts," Torr said. "Your mother issued the order to keep young Ley from following Suzanna." His scowl deepened. "Much good it did. Now here we are in Lancashire with the Scottish border not a day's ride away, and Roger Ley has found Suzanna anyway."

Again, Christina sensed the disparity between her parents accepting Wade for her and not a man who, by English standards, was Wade's superior, for Suzanna. It didn't hurt this time; it annoyed her. If Suzanna wanted Roger, she should have him.

Carefully, she said, "He does know Lady Jane's family. He simply had to conclude that you would be here as did I."

Wade didn't know Lady Jane. If he guessed that her family was in Brighton with much of Society, he would run into the same barricade she had. When the Countess of Torr issued an order, the servants obeyed it literally. She said no one, and they included the eldest daughter in that command.

"I've denied my permission for him to court her," the Earl said. "If he runs off with her, he won't get a penny of dowry."

Christina hoped she didn't look scornful when she said, "He doesn't need her dowry."

"And Montrose doesn't need yours."

Christina leaned forward on the uncomfortable settee of which the Whitelaw household had an over abundant supply. "Is that a warning or a suggestion, sir?"

"I hope your husband beats you every time you use that impertinent tongue. I should have."

"My husband won't beat me," Christina said.

Because I won't have a husband, she said to herself.

A pang of regret pinched at her middle. She suppressed it with a reminder that Wade, kind, intelligent, amusing, and passionate though he might be, bore too many expectations of a wife's role that she despised. Bearing children and ordering his household were acceptable duties. But she wanted more. Wade's idea of a lady wouldn't allow him to give her more.

She sighed against the heaviness around her heart. "May I be excused, sir? Two weeks of travel have tired me. I'd like to rest before the evening's entertainment."

She wanted to send Nanette into Oldham so a letter to Felice wouldn't bear a frank Wade could trace -- assuming he wanted to find her. She would be more surprised than not if he didn't. Honor would demand he did. Honor demanded he press his suit of marriage on her.

Honor didn't demand he love her.

So much the better. Her refusal and flight wouldn't hurt him in the end -- if at all.

Her father looked at her through narrowed lids. "I wish I knew what you were about."

"Sir?"

"Don't look innocently at me. I know you're not."

"I'm up to nothing more than teasing a man into my way of thinking." Christina rose, dropped a curtsy, and departed.

Halfway up the stairs, she came face to face with Sir Roderick. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

He bowed with a creak of stays. "A hint that you and I are about to make a happy announcement ourselves gained me an invitation to the betrothal ball."

Speechless, Christina stared at him.

He smiled, bearing snuff-stained teeth. "You didn't expect me to believe that little game you played with the American did you? A fine jest, but you wouldn't lower yourself."

Christina edged past him and continued up the stairs. At the top, she turned back to say, "It is no game. He asked me to marry him. If not for the need to do my familial duty, I might be Lady Christina Montrose right now."

Her announcement didn't have the desired effect. Instead of looking either shocked or humbled, Sir Roderick laughed. "Do you think those colonial clods would call you Lady Christina?"

"The last I knew," Christina responded, "Virginia stopped being a colony, over thirty years ago." She left Sir Roderick on the stairs and retreated to her room.

The chamber was part of a suite shared with Suzanna. To Christina's relief, Suzanna wasn't there, but Nanette was, tidying away Christina's clothes.

Fully clothed, Christina lay on the bed and threw an arm across her eyes. "Nanette, chere, will you take that letter on the desk into Oldham? I'm certain Ned can drive you."

"Should I not press your ball gown first?" Nanette asked.

"No, please, I want to rest. I'm so tired I'm blue-deviled."

At once, Nanette crossed the room to stand beside the bed. Her cool hand rested on Christina's brow. "Are you ill?"

"No, and no to the other question you're anxious to ask." Smiling, she laid her hand on her belly. "At least it's too soon to tell. It's only all this traveling in a closed carriage."

And the encounter with Sir Roderick had left her oddly disturbed. He had seemed smug, as if he knew something she didn't. Thinking about it, she realized her father had said amazingly little about her leaving Wade and whether or not he would follow her north or wait for her to return to Devon.

Had her father and Sir Roderick seen through her ruse with Wade? Did they still plan for her to wed Sir Roderick?

Of course they did. The union between her and Sir Roderick would form a powerful political alliance, a coup for the Tories and a disaster for the Whigs who wanted reform.

Christina's stomach rolled. She sat up, her hand to her mouth, bile in her throat.

Nanette raced across the room and brought back a basin. "It is the sickness, too soon or not."

Christina shook her head. "No, I'm frightened." She pushed the basin away. "I don't need it. It was the thought of Sir Roderick is all. He seems to think I'll marry him anyway."

"That would make me ill, too. But not to worry if you are enceinte, n'est-ce pas? No man would wish to give his name to another man's bastard."

"Nanette, you know perfectly well that one night is hardly enough time to come to fruition."

"I know perfectly well that one time is enough for a seed to take root and grow. Now, where is that letter?" She took up the sealed packet and departed.

Christina slept. Only after one of her nightmares did she nap. But she'd been sleeping badly for the past two weeks, waking in the middle of the night with her body aching for Wade, falling asleep in the carriage in the middle of a conversation.

Suzanna woke her, bounding into the chamber, flushed and disheveled, quite as though she'd been thoroughly kissed.

"Have you been with Roger?" Christina asked.

Suzanna flushed. "He's staying at an inn in Oldham. Of course he isn't welcome here since Papa and Mama are against the match." Tears starred her lashes. "Why do they wish me to wed someone of their choosing? I love Roger and he loves me."

"He doesn't have a title or the right political leanings." Feeling little refreshed from her nap, Christina swung her legs over the side of the bed. "You'll either have to hold out for three years until you reach your majority, or make a clandestine match of it."

Suzanna's eyes widened. "I couldn't do that. It would be scandalous. I'd be ruined."

Christina patted her sister's cheek. "Not for long. After all, Sally Jersey was wed at Gretna Green, and she's one of the almighty Almacs patronesses."

"I hadn't thought of that."

"You probably shouldn't. Having one barely respectable daughter is difficult enough for our beleaguered parents." Christina stood. "You'd best run along. I think it's time to ready ourselves for this marvelous ball."

The corners of Suzanna's rosebud mouth drooped. "It won't be any pleasure without Roger."

"And of course he isn't going to steal into the garden and waltz with you by moonlight."

"You know I'm not allowed to waltz yet."

"What would it matter in a secret rendezvous?"

Suzanna giggled. "You are so naughty. I wish I were more like you."

"No, you don't. I'm selfish and hurt people while I'm trying to get my own way."

"Mr. Montrose loves you."

"Mr. Montrose -- " Christina turned away. "Have you seen Nanette?"

"Yes, she was carrying your ball gown off to press. It's such pretty blue like your eyes. I wish I could wear something other than white."

Christina thought she would never wear white again. She was a scarlet woman now, and rather liked the idea.

Would she ever have another lover?

Not wanting to tread that road, she was glad when Nanette entered, ball gown over her arm and the information that Suzanna's abigail was on her way up.

A half-hour later, Christina and Suzanna descended to the ballroom together. Christina thought they must make an odd pair, Suzanna ethereal in white, she vibrant in blue, Suzanna pale, she dark, Suzanna petite, she Junoesque, both of them looking more like they were attending a funeral dinner than a betrothal ball. Suzanna wanted Roger. Christina wanted to be anywhere but there.

Dutifully, she kissed Lady Jane on the cheek and hugged her brother. She thought he was making a good match, for she liked the gentle brunette and thought Jane would make a good stepmother to Robin. But Robert had sent his son back to the estate in Buckingham, and Christina missed him. Robin was such a joyous escape from the shallowness of Society.

Of social shallowness, Christina experienced an excess that night and for the next four days. She danced. She walked in the gardens. She took every action possible to avoid Sir Roderick, and took every action possible to help Suzanna meet Roger Ley. Amongst the company, she behaved herself so well she overheard a dragonish dowager declare, "I do believe Lady Christina has decided to settle down. I never thought it. She's been wild all her life."

Christina moved on before she heard the response.

Because the weather was fine for the first three days, she managed to stay outside much of the time, diminishing the effects of overcrowded rooms. But the fourth day rain fell and the only uninhabited room besides her bedchamber was the library.

It was small and not well stocked with anything other than an array of more liqueurs than she'd ever heard of. Two rows of shelves flanking an inner door, held a few books that might be promising. As usual, she reached above the volumes of sermons placed at eye level and drew down a tome bound with wooden covers she knew would prove the dowager wrong about Lady Christina's reformed state. Smiling at a detailed drawing, she thought how Wade would compress his lips as he did when he disapproved.

She hoped he found a wife who wasn't too conformable. Someone like Mary Shelley or her mother, Mary Wollstonecraft.

She grinned at the idea of Wade married to a woman who believed in reforming female education. He was strong enough willed to resist, but with the right touch...

"I never knew books were so amusing," Sir Roderick's voice broke into her reflections.

She slammed the wooden covers of the book shut and glared at him. "I'm not surprised you know so little about literature."

"I know English law. That's what's important." He moved closer to her. "Especially marriage law."

Christina stepped backward, the book held before her like a shield. "I should think only a barrister or solicitor would need to know marriage law. Now, if you'll excuse me." She tried stepping around him.

He blocked her way. "Or a husband with a disobedient wife."

She backed up, realizing too late that she now stood between the two bookcases. Sir Roderick stood before her, inches shorter but nearly twice as wide -- as wide as the space between the shelves.

She was boxed in. The odors of lavender, hair tonic, and sweat caught in her throat. She couldn't breathe. Blood roared in her ears like the ocean. Lights flashed before her eyes.

She was going to be sick. She was going to faint.

"Move," she croaked.

He moved...closer. "You can't escape the inevitable."

She couldn't escape anything.

She gasped for air. "I'll...escape...you." She edged back. Something hard dug into her spine. The doorhandle! Turn the doorhandle.

She turned the handle and pushed. Nothing happened. Why? Doors were supposed to open.

Sir Roderick came so close only the book kept his chest from pressing against her breasts. "Why don't you make this easier for both of us?"

Easier? She was about to collapse on top of him.

Laughter bubbled up in her throat. She swallowed it back. If she let it out, she feared she would cackle like a hen on an egg -- and keep cackling until they locked her away.

Locked! The door was locked.

"No!" she screamed, shoving her hands before her.

The book caught Sir Roderick on the bridge of his nose. With a gurgling cry, he staggered backward, his hands covering his face. Blood spurted between his fingers.

Christina dropped the book and ran.

She took refuge in her bedchamber. Pleading a headache, she remained seated by the open window, gulping in rain sweet air and shivering despite two blankets wrapped around her.

When Nanette brought up a supper tray, she imparted the news that Sir Roderick had an unfortunate accident in the library. "He was taking one of the naughty books off a top shelf when -- whoosh! -- it fell on his nose. It looks like a potato."

"I hope it hurts." Christina picked at her food, but didn't eat. "He's a beast."

"But he is powerful in the government, non?"

"Between his power in the Commons and my father's in the Lords, they can probably stop any hope of reform laws in this country." Christina pushed the tray away. "I'm not hungry."

"Shall I help you out of your gown?"

"Yes, thank you, I'm tired."

Christina fell asleep quickly, but near dawn, she had the nightmare and woke herself up screaming. When she opened her eyes, she saw a sea of faces behind flickering flames, and thought the nightmare continued and screamed again.

A hand slapped her cheek. "Stop it." The voice belonged to her mother. "Do you want the entire household in here thinking you're being ravished?"

Christina sat up. The nausea and headache struck her simultaneously. "I'm sorry. I can't help it."

"You can," the Countess snapped. "You're far too old for these childish frights. Nanette, make her some tea or whatever you do for her. The rest of you may go. No, wait, Bellows, where is Lady Suzanna?"

"In her bed asleep, m'lady," Suzanna's abigail responded.

"With all this tumult?" Lady Torr scoffed. "Get her. I told the rest of you to go."

With obvious reluctance, four females, servants of other guests, shuffled to the door and departed. Sarah Bellows dashed toward Suzanna's chamber.

The Countess turned back to Christina. "I know perfectly well you're responsible for -- "

"M'lady!" Bellows's cry rang from Suzanna's chamber. "She's gone. Lady Suzanna's not in her bed."

***

"If I never see another carriage, it will be too soon." At the foot of the Torr Keep steps, Christina paused to rub the small of her back. "I'm not certain my legs will work after six days traveling on these wretched roads."

"Me also." Nanette, looking pale, stepped down from the carriage. "But this is nicer, no?"

"Much nicer. Simply listen to the quiet. And the air!" Christina inhaled to the bottom of her lungs, caught a footman staringd at her expanded bosom, and laughed. "We'd best go in."

Bracken, the butler, met Christina and Nanette at the front door. "Your ladyship was not expected."

"We should always be expected," Christina returned. "Please see that our beds are aired and hot baths are sent upstairs for Miss la Rue and me."

Bracken didn't move. "That American person called three times while you were gone."

"American person?" Christina arched her brows. "Do you mean Mr. Montrose?"

Bracken sniffed. "I did not tell him where your ladyship has been."

"It wouldn't have done him any good if you had," Christina countered. "The family wasn't in residence at Brighton after all. Do, please, see to my instructions and have the baggage carried up." She headed toward the stairs. One foot on the bottom tread, she turned back. "And you may tell the rest of the staff that Lady Suzanna is now Lady Suzanna Ley."

The expression of horror on Bracken's face made Christina chuckle. The amusement stayed with her all the way to her chamber, where she flung herself across the soft feather mattress and groaned over her aching muscles.

"With that announcement," Nanette said, following her into the chamber, "I do not know when you will get your bath. They'll be so occupied passing the word they won't remember."

"Of course they will. They'll want every detail." Christina rolled onto her back, started to sink too deeply into the ticking, and sat up with a gasp. "This mattress needs refilling. No wonder I have nightmares when it folds up around me and smothers me so. But, oh, Nanette, did I ever have a better timed nightmare?"

Nanette flashed her an indulgent grin, having heard the same ecstatic question at least twice a day since the failure at Whitelaw Manor.

"But I did think Mama would have better wits than to think I pretended that one for Suzanna's sake," Christina said. "Does anyone voluntarily make herself be as sick as I was?"

"Lady Torr was distraught," Nanette said.

Distraught was being polite. Lady Torr had been outraged. She accused Christina of making up the nightmare so everyone's attention would be on her, giving Suzanna time to elope with Roger Ley. Mortified to have two daughters behaving so badly at their brother's betrothal festivities, Lady Torr bundled a still retching Christina into a carriage and sent her back to Devon.

Where Christina didn't precisely wish to be.

Abruptly, she stood and went to the door. "I didn't think to ask Bracken when Wade last called. It's been over four weeks. I should hope he's left the country by now."

"Do you truly think he would?" Nanette asked.

"He should. It isn't safe for him here."

"Then, ma chere, you will have to sail with him."

"You know I cannot and why."

"I know you should and why."

Christina faced her. "I'll see Wade leaves the country before harm comes to him."

Nanette opened her mouth, but a knock on the door stopped her from speaking.

The baths had arrived. Nanette went to her own chamber, and Christina dismissed the maids, who offered to stay and help her wash her hair. For the first time in weeks, she was truly alone. Doors and thick walls separated her from the nearest person. Peace settled over the house. As she soaked in hot, scented water, peace settled over her.

Avoiding Wade until she had a plan for seeing him safe out of the country, would be difficult, if he was still at the Abbey. Seeing him again might be even more difficult. She loved him so much it was a physical ache in her chest. She loved him too much to spend her life with him, knowing he loved a woman not worth one of his thoughts, let alone his heart.

"But I will keep you safe," she vowed. "And you will keep me safe from men like Sir Roderick."

The water cooled as she planned and dreamed. Suddenly chilled, she climbed from the water, donned a satin dressing gown, and sat at her desk to write a note for Felice. Felice, alone and friendless save for her servants, and in a delicate condition, deserved to know Christina was close.

The footman she sent off with the message returned with a note from Felice informing her that she was "tres grose", and too weary to do more than lie about. Mark tells me I look like a whale. Though I never have seen one, I think he must be right if they are very large. She concluded with an almost illegible scrawl, Wade seeks you. He has come back twice, but now is gone.

That information gave Christina a reprieve, time, she hoped, to put her plans in order.

Nature, however, was not cooperative. Rain swept down from north with gale force winds, reminding her that September was advancing toward autumn and she had only six weeks left on her father's time limit. She believed he planned to place every barrier he could in the way of her marrying anyone but Sir Roderick. He wanted that political alliance to shut up the Whigs, who wanted reforms in many unfair, English laws. With each passing day, she was more and more certain neither Sir Roderick nor any other man would want her.

Except Wade, who wanted her out of obligation.

Each time she remembered his proposal, she felt stifled, as if the stone walls of Torr Keep crushed in upon her. Despite the chill, she found relief in the openness of the great hall. Wrapped in a woolen cloak, she curled up before a brazier set in the massive fireplace and read or wrote or simply dreamed.

Lost in a vision of an Italian villa, sunny and warm, she cried out with surprised when the knock sounded against the front door. Her first thought was, Wade's back. I can't let him see me, not here, not now.

She scrambled to her feet. Before she could race up the stairs, a footman appeared to open the door and Sir Mark Shields burst in on a blast of wind-driven rain.

"Mark, what are you doing here?" Christina demanded.

"Christina, thank God." Mark strode forward and grassed both her hands. "I was afraid they wouldn't let me see you."

Frightened, Christina demanded, "What is it? Has something happened to Wade? Oh, God, I told him he should leave England."

"Wade?" Mark looked bewildered, then shook his head. "No, not him. He's all right as far as I know. It's Felice. She's been in her...confinement for more than a day. Christina!" His face contorted. "I'm afraid she's dying."

CHAPTER 15

Christina took Felice's hand in hers. It was cold and thin, every bone discernible beneath the pale skin. At the wrist, Felice's pulse fluttered weak and erratic. She was still.

"Sir Mark says there's nothing can be done," Christina said to Dauphine. "Is he right?"

Dauphine shook her turbaned head. "No, m'lady. It is not true. The doctor, he gave her an opiate to help the pain. Help it all right. It went and stopped her rightful pains. Now she just lies there."

Christina smoothed the damp dark hair from Felice's brow. "Where's the doctor now?"

Dauphine's lip curled. "He's down in the parlor drinking brandy by the fire. Says he'll come back when the pains do."

Cursing the ignorant man, Christina laid one hand on Felice's distended belly. Then she cursed her own ignorance. As an unmarried woman, she wasn't allowed in the birthing chamber. No one told her about childbirth because they didn't wish to frighten her. But several years ago, while visiting friends in Somerset, she'd been exploring the dusty corners of a Taunton bookshop and found a mouse-nibbled copy of Mrs. Jane Sharpe's book on midwifery. She'd only skimmed the pages before getting interrupted, and hadn't dared, at sixteen, to make the purchase. She struggled now to remember what she'd read.

"Stopping the pains seems dangerous," she said more from practical knowledge than information. "How can we start them again?"

"Penny royal, that some do take to be rid of a baby."

Christina stared at Dauphine, horrified. "Even I know how dangerous that is. But she does need a stimulant. Coffee? Very strong? It wakes one up."

"Yes, m'lady. Except -- " Dauphine's smooth features twisted. "The reason why Sir Mark called in the doctor is the baby is not set right. It's got to be turned, and doctors, they can use forceps. But he couldn't get a grip on nothing, and m'lady screamed and screamed 'til the man almost fainted." Tears filled her eyes. "This isn't work for a man midwife. This is woman's work. But me and Cookie can't help 'cause our hands are too big."

"And a doctor can help with that better than a midwife?"

Christina stared down at her own hands. They looked enormous next to Felice's. Next to Dauphine's, though, her hands were narrow, the fingers long. Yet what good were slender hands if she didn't know what to do with them?

Looking at Felice almost as still as death, a death that would surely take the child with her, Christina thought she'd never felt more helpless in her life. She, who prided herself on being able to ride, swim, shoot, and fence as well as her brother, to understand politics as well as her father, and literature as well as any Oxford Tudor, knew so little of things that mattered to women alone, she couldn't help a friend in need.

Two friends in need. Somewhere in the past few weeks, she and Mark had developed a tentative bond of friendship also because of Felice, because of Wade. She didn't approve of the way he treated Felice, but she understood why. She had taught him to distrust the fidelity of women. With no one to teach him otherwise during three years of a senseless war, Mark's doubt of Felice's faithfulness was a direct result of what Christina had done to him. Yet he had come to Christina asking for help.

He didn't want Felice to die. The least Christina could do to repair the damage she had done him and repay Felice's generosity to her, was do whatever she could, whatever she must to save Felice's life and, if possible, the baby's.

"Can you tell me what to do?" she asked.

Dauphine gave her a scornful glance. "Of course."

Under Dauphine's directions, Christina scrubbed her hands with strong, unscented soap and hot water. "The doctor, he does not do this. But we always do in the birthing chamber."

While Dauphine ordered hot, black coffee brought up, Christina used emery to file her nails short and smooth. Then she poured olive oil over her hands and forearms up to the elbow. Physically ready, she stood beside the bed, gazing at Felice, knowing she must help, knowing she was mad to think she could.

"Felice -- " Christina's voice cracked. She swallowed. "Felice, I'm going to do what I can to help you. I don't know if you can hear me, but believe that I want to help even if I hurt you." She started to slip her hand beneath the sheet, then thought of something more. "Felice, Mark brought me here because he's frightened you'll die. Do you understand that? He does care for you. He's bitter and angry and deserves to be boiled in oil for his nastiness, but he cares."

Felice didn't stir.

"Is she still breathing?" Christina cried.

"Yes, m'lady." Dauphine rested her hand on Christina's shoulder. "Do not you worry about my lady. You do what I say."

Christina obeyed, though first embarrassment about intimately touching another woman, then repugnance over what she was doing made her recoil twice. Twice, refusals rose to her lips. Both times, she looked at Felice's face, expressionless in drugged sleep, remembered the kindness and the radiant smile that usually showed there, and made herself go on.

Her first touch of a foot made her gasp with surprise, with wonder. She knew she would find a baby inside, yet the reality sent a thrill of joy racing through her.

"It's real," she breathed.

Dauphine chuckled. "Yes, m'lady, it is real."

"Alive?"

"We can but hope so. Tell me what you feel."

"A foot. Another foot. A -- " Christina caught her breath. She felt again to make certain she, a novice, wasn't making a huge error. Almost certain she wasn't, she spoke in a voice that sounded far away to her ears. "Dauphine, it's twins."

***

Two hours later, cleaned of blood and other matter, and dressed in one of Dauphine's dresses that made up in width what it lacked in inches, Christina found Mark in the parlor swilling brandy with the physician. She looked at the two men, experiencing a contempt she hoped didn't show, and announced, "It's finished."

Mark shot to his feet. "She's dead? I heard her scream."

Christina thought half of Devon must have heard Felice scream.

She glanced at the doctor. He hadn't moved. "Did he?"

Mark glared at her. "Who the devil cares about him? Have you come to tell me she's gone? If she is, don't mince words about it."

"I rarely mince words," Christina said. "So, no, she isn't dead. She's asleep -- without laudanum and will recover, no thanks to that drunken sod you sent for."

"I -- he was closest. Forceps. I'd read -- " Mark stumbled to a halt and shoved his fingers through his hair. "God help me."

"You're going to need it raising your son."

Mark opened his mouth.

Guessing what he was about to say, Christina forestalled him. "And your daughter."

Mark sank onto the edge of a chair.

Christina moved forward to loom over him, her hands on her hips. "Twins usually come early. Of course since there are two of them, they make a woman larger than usual earlier than usual. Too often they kill the mother, too."

Mark looked ill. "I thought -- I didn't realize...Dauphine said she couldn't help."

"Her hands are too big. So are the cook's. Mine aren't."

"You?" Mark stared at her. "How?"

"I followed Dauphine's instructions. Nature helped, and Felice, once we woke her up." She took a step back. "If you can find it in you to climb the stairs, I'd go to her. Right now, knowing you care is the best medicine for Felice. And I'd like to go home."

"Christina." Rising, Mark held out his hand. "I-I can't thank you enough. It's above and beyond friendship. More than I deserve. Though I suppose you did it for Felice."

Christina took the proffered hand, squeezed it. "I did it for Felice and you. I wronged you in the past. Perhaps this makes up for it."

"More than makes up." He raised her hand to his lips in a courtly gesture conveying more than words the depth of his new respect for her. "If I can ever help you...Why don't you stay here and go home in the morning? You look exhausted."

With the possibility of Wade appearing?

Christina shook her head. "Thank you, no."

"Wade isn't here, you know. He's off looking for you." Mark's eyes narrowed. "Don't run off from him again, Christina. He doesn't deserve to be hurt again."

"Neither do I." Christina turned her back on Mark. "I'd rather marry a man who wants nothing more than my dowry than one who loves another woman."

"Give him time -- "

"I don't have time. Now, go to Felice. She needs your caring more than I need your lectures."

Mark sighed. "You're so damned stubborn."

Christina smiled and, wordlessly, left the room.

She found her cloak lying on the settle near the front door where she'd dropped it earlier. She donned it, then let herself out of the house. As the front door closed behind her, she saw Mark climbing the stairs looking more like a man climbing the steps to the gibbet rather than a man heading to the wife who had just borne him twins.

"She should make you suffer," Christina said aloud. "But she won't."

Stepping out from beneath the portico, she noticed that heavy mist had replaced the rain. Not wanting to take horses out in such weather, she elected to walk. The way through the woods was far quicker than the route by road.

She passed fields flat and barren with the harvest mostly in. The woods might have been impenetrably dark save that the rain had battered most of the leaves from the trees. An eerie glow of moonlight shone through the mist and bare branches. Across the lake, the summerhouse loomed, looking insubstantial like a fairy tale castle.

Though she'd never been afraid to be out alone at night, Christina shivered. Mist dulled sound. She scarcely heard even her own footfalls on the carpet of wet leaves.

She felt a presence, eyes watching, a hand reaching.

She ran. Picking up Dauphine's short skirt, she raced past the lake and into the park. A tree branch caught at her flying cloak, and she almost screamed. By the time she reached the Torr Keep garden, she was breathless and feeling foolish for acting like the heroine in one of Mrs. Radcliffe's gothic novels. Disheveled and embarrassed, though no one had seen her, she entered the house by the tower door and climbed the spiral staircase to her room. The ordeal with Felice and her race through the trees made her suddenly so fatigued she stumbled on the last tread and bumped her shoulder against her chamber door.

The door opened. Automatically, Christina smiled. "Nanette, you wouldn't believe -- " She stopped, lips parted, unable to believe her eyes.

Wade stood in the doorway to her chamber. "What wouldn't Nanette believe?" he asked.

"It's none of your concern."

Of course it was. He cared about Felice, too.

Disconcerted, Christina pushed past him and moved like an automaton to hang her cloak on a peg. Without it, she was cold in the thin gown over bare skin. She wanted a hot tisane and her warm robe, her hair brushed and the comfort of her bed. She didn't want to talk to Wade without resting first.

"Go away," she said, gazing at her robe with longing. "You have no right to be here."

"I've made it my right." He sounded cool, too sure of himself or his welcome.

Christina clenched her fists. "Not very chivalrous to invade a lady's bedchamber uninvited, then refuse to leave."

"It's cowardly to run away, too."

"I had to join my family."

"I have to talk to you."

"It's not the same."

"It's exactly the same." She heard the key grate in the lock. "You're not a coward and I'm not rude to ladies. But we do what we must to obtain our goals. You wanted to elude me. I want you to listen to me. So you ran off, and now here I am."

Trembling with fatigue, she braced one hand on the armoire door. "I've listened. Now, go."

"Christina -- "

"I'll call for Nanette. Ned and one or two footmen are big enough to throw you out."

"Nanette is in the stable with Ned. That's how I knew you were back. Your servants said you were gone, but I saw Nanette, so I knew they were lying."

Christina struggled to keep her tone neutral. "Did she let you up here?"

"No. I saw light from outside, so took a chance at this being your room." The timbre of his voice changed, grew deeper, softer, caressing each word like fingers on her skin. "It smells like you."

Desire surged through her with such force she had to brace the other hand on the armoire too. Tears of frustration and need stung her eyes. She wasn't prepared for this assault on her senses. If he came near her, touched her, she might agree to anything to have him make love to her again.

"You look cold," he continued in that sensuous drawl. "I'll turn my back if you wish to put on something warmer."

"How kind of you." Good, she got sarcasm out just fine. "And will you keep your back turned while I go to bed...to-to sleep?" She bit her tongue for stumbling.

"Christina, the sooner we talk, the sooner I'll be gone if that's what you still want."

"I want you gone now." It was a cry of desperation.

"I don't believe that." He spoke with utter calm.

She pounded her fist on the armoire. "I've just had the most arduous experience of my life. I don't need you to...interfere with -- " Her voice broke.

"Oh, my dearest lady." He came to her, stood close behind her, and wrapped his arms around her. He rested his cheek against her hair. "I should have known something was wrong. Have your parents done something? Not Sir Roderick?"

Christina resisted the urge to lean back against him. "No, it's Felice."

His arms tightened. "She isn't -- she's all right?"

Christina nodded. "She will be. But she almost died. She went into her confinement weeks too soon and the doctor was an incompetent ass."

"I thought Dauphine was an experienced midwife."

"She is. But the babies had to be turned and her hands were too big. So were Cookie's."

Wade lifted his head. "Did you say babies? More than one?"

"She had twins. I delivered them." Pride rang through her fatigue. "Dauphine told me how, but I did it."

"But I thought -- you shouldn't have."

Christina elbowed him in the ribs -- hard. "I suppose I should have let her and the babies die rather than impose on my maidenly modesty? Do you know me so little still you think I'm a fragile flower and useful only as an ornament of pleasure? Or is it simply that your precious Mary Beth would never soil her hands with anyone's blood -- except yours?"

Her blow didn't make him flinch. Her words did. He released her and placed distance between them in a few, hard strides as if touching her had become repulsive.

Fueled with anger, Christina yanked off Dauphine's gown and drew on her heavy velvet robe. Her eyes fixed straight ahead, she walked to the dressing table and sank onto the stool. Candles glowed in brackets on either side of the mirror, and in that mirror, she saw Wade and her own reflection in the window.

"Cad," she said with more affection than rancor.

He turned and smiled. "It wasn't intentional. I closed my eyes as soon as you pulled off the dress."

Christina picked up the hairbrush. "It's not as if you haven't seen me without my clothes."

"Only in the moonlight. By candlelight -- I didn't close my eyes fast enough."

"Oh, Wade." She bowed her head, brushing her hair forward so he couldn't see even a hint of her caring in her eyes.

The crackle of boar's hair bristles in her hair and a floorboard creaking as Wade moved toward her was the only sound in the chamber. She smelled horse, leather, and male, scents many women found repulsive. She found them intensely pleasurable. They were strength, endurance, warmth, qualities Wade possessed -- right along with his thick-skulled notions of what was right and wrong for a lady.

The brush snarled in her hair. Muttering an unladylike curse, she began working it free.

"Would you like some assistance?" Wade offered.

"Do you have experience with lady's hair?"

"Does it matter if I do?"

Too much, too much, too much!

"Of course not," she snapped.

"Then, no, I don't. But I have my own."

"Thank you. I'd rather you didn't touch me."

"That's probably wise."

The hiss and snap of brush strokes became the only sounds in the chamber. Unable to continue brushing with her head down, Christina straightened and watched Wade watching her. His eyes were pure storm-sea, deep gray blue with a hint of green, giving nothing of his emotions away. Neither did the line of his mouth. But he held his hands at his sides so tightly fisted his knuckles showed through the skin.

Did he wish to stroke or strangle her?

"I'm sorry," she said before she knew she intended to. "I shouldn't have said that about Mary Beth."

"What I said had nothing to do with Mary Beth. You simply seem to be exposed to too much of life's harsher side, and I wish I could protect you from it."

Christina yanked the brush through her hair. "I don't need your protec -- damn!" The brush caught in another tangle and flipped out of her hand.

Wade retrieved it and, lifting a handful of her hair, proceeded to smooth it with a touch gentler than Nanette's. "You accepted my protection when we thought someone wished you harm."

"That was because -- " She met his gaze in the mirror and couldn't lie. "I wanted to be with you."

Wade dropped the brush. His hands rested on her shoulders, bronze against the deep blue of her robe, making her skin tingle where his palms, his thumbs, and each individual finger lay. She quivered. Her mouth went dry. She touched her tongue to her upper lip, and watched his gaze drop to her mouth.

"You don't want to be with me now?" Neither his face nor his voice held expression.

She clasped her hands between her knees. "I don't want to marry you. I left in the hope you'd understand and leave England."

"You knew I'd come after you or you wouldn't have tried covering your tracks so well." He smiled. "Fortunately, Whitelaw servants are more easily bribed than Marlowe servants."

"So you got as far as Lancastershire?" She was impressed.

He looked smug. "In time to learn of Lady Suzanna's elopement and your convenient nightmare."

"It was only convenient because it got me away from there."

"And inconvenient because it brought you back here to me?"

"Someone has tried to kill you three times in this county," she reminded him. "Or have you forgotten his near success?"

"I think about it far too often."

Of course he did. He suspected Mary Beth was involved.

"I haven't spent all of these past four weeks looking for you," he continued. "I spent a few days drinking some vile ale in a tavern near Dartmoor Prison asking guards questions."

Startled, she looked up at his real face rather than his reflection. "Why?"

"I wondered if maybe Cedric isn't dead."

Christina's chest constricted.

"He is dead," Wade continued. "I talked to a few men who knew him for his generosity in exchange for small favors. They remembered him dying in the riot on April sixth because they missed his gifts." He rubbed his temples. "I wish there'd been a mistake."

"So you can go back to thinking Mary Beth is a pure and innocent angel, whom, of course, your brother ruined without her cooperation?"

Wade's lips compressed. His eyes narrowed. Then he shook his head and bent to retrieve the hairbrush. "I'd rather not think Mary Beth capable of wanting me dead, let alone arranging it." He straightened and met her gaze. "But if I continue thinking Mary Beth arranged for an assassin here in England, I progress to thinking maybe my brother is guilty, too. After all, according to my will, he inherits everything upon my death." He resumed brushing her hair, remaining silent for several moments before adding, "Unless I have a wife."

CHAPTER 16

Wade set the brush on the dressing table. To Christina, the click of silver on wood sounded like the rasp of a lock -- a door lock with her inside. Only a claim of love from him would have made a neater trap than the knowledge that she could so easily help him thwart a plot on his life.

No, it wasn't that easy. Nor would it necessarily save his life. As Christina forced herself to push fear aside and think, she saw the flaws in his logic, and anger sparked.

"Do you think I'm that addle-pated? If Mary Beth wants revenge, she won't care whether or not you have a wife. And as for your brother, you didn't think your brother wanted you dead during the two weeks after your fall. Why would you think it of him now? Because it's another way you can persuade me to this crack-brained notion that I should be forced into marriage with you?"

"Rather me than Sir Roderick."

"Rather neither of you." Shaking with a soul-deep pain she didn't want to explore, she forced herself to be calm, logical. "If your brother is half as honorable as you, he wouldn't go about trying to kill you in this underhanded fashion."

"He married my la -- the lady I thought was mine -- in an underhanded fashion." Wade's voice was cold, his face so expressionless Christina knew she'd struck home somewhere.

If only he loved her half as much as he thought he loved Mary Beth...she would run as though the hounds of Hell were after her -- run for fear of giving in. If she did, she would never be happy. Love hurt too much to be worth the sacrifice of freedom.

Wade was willing to sacrifice his freedom for her sake despite how Mary Beth had hurt him -- still hurt him. Yes, his pain ran as deep as it had when he received her letter. Perhaps it ran deeper, for now he suspected his own brother was part of the scheme to kill him.

She needed to help him, not hurt him further. Yet how could she not hurt him without sacrificing her own desires? That sacrifice would hardly make either of them happy.

She chose her words with care. "The figure I found beneath the saddle was Nemesis, the goddess of revenge. That's why you suspected Mary Beth, because you don't know anyone else who might have reason. But that doesn't mean there isn't someone else. It especially doesn't mean your brother is involved."

"I've been over and over that." Wade rested his hands on her shoulders, conveying his tension to her, though his tone was even. "Will was as enamored of Mary Beth as the rest of us, but he never tried to court her because of me. After Mary Beth wrote me about them, when I could think with any reason, I wondered if my brother had changed. He was different after the war, quieter. He also never would have taken advantage of a lady before he went to sea."

"Take advantage of?" Christina paused to count to ten so she wouldn't scream at him like a harridan. "How do you know Mary Beth didn't take advantage of him? How do you know he isn't perfectly innocent other than the obvious involvement? Mary Beth may think she can kill two birds with one stone. Or should I say, kill one man and gain double bounty -- revenge and fortune?"

Wade's hands shook. He lifted them from her shoulders, tucked them behind his back, and fixed his gaze on a point beyond the mirror's scope. "I'd rather not think either of them capable of planning my death. But I did stay home and make money with the prizes Will won. Maybe he resents it."

"You're the heir. You're expected to stay home."

"That wouldn't stop a younger brother from resenting his expected role." He lay the back of his hand against his brow. "Then you factor in Will's marriage and-and expected parenthood, and the terms of my will..."

"And reach the conclusion that one solution is to marry." Christina clasped her hands on the edge of the table. "That won't satisfy someone bent on revenge."

"It would lower the reward."

"So I'm the lamb to be sacrificed on the altar of matrimony?"

"Christina, don't be angry." His hand returned to her shoulder felt like a supplication. "I asked you before I thought of all this. And by now you should know if it's necessary."

Christina made herself look him in the eye and tell the truth as she saw it. "It isn't necessary."

His fingers flexed. "I'm sorry." He sounded regretful. He looked it, too, with his eyes shadowed and the cleft in his lip more pronounced. "Since I don't seem to be enough, maybe a child would have persuaded you to marry me."

Hearts didn't break, Christina decided. They tore. At least hers felt as though he had just ripped it down the middle.

In another moment, she was going to throw herself into his arms and regret the action the rest of her life. She had to stop him. She couldn't hurt him as badly as he hurt her. He didn't love her as she so foolishly loved him.

She curled her lip. "And you'd enjoy taking an obviously increasing wife back to Virginia. 'See, Mary Beth, I didn't grieve for you at all.' Is that the way of it?"

"No, devil take it, it's not." His tone was harsh. His hands moved on her shoulders. For a moment, she thought he was about to curl his fingers around her throat. They caressed it instead with slow, feathery strokes from her earlobes to her collarbone and back as he spoke in a gentled voice. "I understand why you think that's the way of it. I talked of her for weeks as though she were the way all ladies should be. Even after I began suspecting she wants me out of the way, I couldn't say I no longer love her. I still can't. Neither can I tell you I love you. I made such an enormous error with Mary Beth, I don't know what love is now." He rested his hands on her shoulders again, began kneading the tight muscles. "But I do know that I don't wish to spend the rest of my life alone, and there's no other woman I'd rather be my partner."

Christina closed her eyes. "If only that were true. If only wives were partners -- in areas other than bed."

His hands stilled. "Would you consider marriage if you had a contract making you an equal partner?"

"Not to a man who loves another woman."

She expected him to release her then, perhaps even give up and leave. She wondered if she could watch him go without expression or protest.

He didn't leave. He didn't release her. He resumed massaging her shoulders. "I don't want to love her."

Do you want to love me? If she asked, he would say yes, and she, aching under his touch, might believe him.

"If Mary Beth were here," she said instead, "and proved her innocence, how would you feel?"

He took his time answering -- too much time -- enough time to move his hands from her shoulders to the back of her neck, pressing, stroking, teasing. She wanted him to stop, and she wanted him to find more bare skin to touch.

She struggled against her need for him. "You'd go back to thinking her a perfect angel," she taunted.

"No, I wouldn't." He traced one finger along the front of her collarbone. "She married my brother."

"If she hadn't -- "

He brushed his fingertips across her lips. "Stop it, Christina. If she hadn't married Will, I never would have spent the night with you and we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"You'd be back in Virginia married to her."

"I'm not. I did spend the night with you." He ran his fingers along the inside edge of her collar. "And now I've spent the last four weeks feeling worse than I did during the six months of celibacy that went before you." He moved his hand further inside her robe.

Too late, she realized he was trying to seduce her. No, not trying. He had seduced her into wanting him so much she wouldn't say no if he asked.

"Don't." She only mouthed the word at their reflections.

He stilled. "Don't what?"

"Ask me."

"About marriage? I won't, for now. But I will say I can't imagine the rest of my life without you in my bed."

She tried resisting his lure. "Passion fades."

"Not necessarily." His stroking hands parted her robe.

Bared, her breasts gleamed in the candlelight, the tips already taut, growing tighter under his gaze. His body responded. Leaning against him, she felt his arousal. She read the longing in his face, mirroring her own.

"Will you give me tonight?"

He had asked, and she had only one answer. "Tonight."

Feeling shy and awkward with no idea what to do now that she had made a temporary commitment, she turned on the stool. She thought he would move away, perhaps begin to undress. She would rise from the stool and -- what? How did a demi-mondaine or even a wife act in a bedchamber?

He did move away when she turned. He drew off his jacket. Before she rose, he dropped to his knees before her and lay his head between her breasts. "You're innocence is precious."

"My...innocence? Precious?" She laughed. "You're jesting or bosky or both."

He slipped his arms around her waist inside her robe. "Neither. You try so hard to act like a demi-rep, but it's only on the surface. Inside you're sweet and kind and warm." He chuckled. "Very warm inside."

The insides of her thighs contracted. Her center ached. "Celibacy must make you mad."

"Then cure me." He kissed her cleavage. "I deserve a reward for looking for you as hard as I did." He began a pattern of kisses around one breast, weighing it in his hand to continue the tracery of lips and tongue beneath, moving ever closer to the peak.

She held her breath, anticipating the sweet ecstasy of his mouth suckling.

It didn't. He moved to the other breast and repeated the pattern.

She grasped a handful of his hair, trying to force him to take the throbbing crest between his lips. Gently, he caught her hand and pried her fingers loose with the pressure of his thumb.

"Don't tease me," she commanded.

"Why not?" Raising his head, he brushed the ends of his hair where his lips had been, but not where she wanted them. His eyes were almost pure blue with a light she'd never seen in them before. "You deserve a little torture for making me search for you over half of England."

"That's cruel. You're never cruel."

He stroked his hand across her belly. "Maybe that's my difficulty. I'm too nice." He loosened the belt of her robe. "Though I don't do cruel as well as I do everything -- "

She leaned forward and kissed him with all the hunger she wanted him to satisfy. His lips and tongue responded with a message of his own need. With her arms around him, she tried drawing him closer between her thighs. He resisted, though he kissed her until she thought she would drown, while his hands touched and stroked, fingertips brushing, palms pressing everywhere but where she throbbed to feel him.

She drew back from the kiss. "You do cruel quite well enough, thank you."

He grinned. "I'm just starting."

"Then stop."

"Stop?" He sat back on his heels. The position showed her just how much his teasing her cost him.

Two could play the game.

She stood and wrapped her robe around her. "I'm sorry. I can't do this. It's wrong, too much of a risk."

He gazed up at her with such a stricken expression she had to bite the insides of her cheeks to stop herself from laughing. Then his eyes narrowed. "Sit down." He spoke in a voice as rough as someone who smoked too many cheroots. "If you don't, I might be tempted to do something very, very stupid."

A frisson of delight rippled down her spine. "Like what?"

"Like take you at your word and leave."

"You wouldn't."

"How far do you wish to test me?"

She sat.

He heaved a sigh. "Thank God. For a moment, I was afraid you were serious."

"I was afraid you were."

"Right now, I am serious...about this." He kissed the tip of one breast. "And this." He kissed the other. "And this." He kissed her belly, then moved lower, and lower.

She cried out with the intensity of the pleasure. He started to pull away. She lay her hand on the back of his head. "No, no, you may be as serious as you like about that."

He rested his cheek on her thigh. "But how thick are these walls? If someone hears you -- maybe I should go back to cruel."

"If you do, I will scream." She laughed. "And everyone will think I'm having a nightmare." She stroked his hair. "Please, make it a dream instead."

"I'd rather make it reality."

With lips, tongue, and lightly nipping teeth, hands that suddenly knew all the right places to caress, and the soft sweep of his hair, he brought her to the edge of fulfillment. Then he led her away from the peak, and up, teasing her at the brink until her breaths sounded like sobs and she formed the words to beg him for release.

The words wouldn't form. She wouldn't beg. Though her blood felt like flaming brandy and everywhere he touched made her want more, she wouldn't give him that power.

Her body begged for her. Leaning back, she gave him better access to the places where she wanted him most. The table dug into her spine. She didn't care. She only wanted...wanted...

Pleasure rocketed through her, arching her body off the stool. His hand covered her mouth, and she cried out against his palm, again, again. Before the after shocks of rapture left her, he was inside her, reaching for his own fulfillment. When it came, the heat of his release was fuel to a fire not yet banked.

His arms around her, he laid his head against her shoulder and held her close until his breathing returned to normal. "I'm so glad you didn't object to that. I didn't think I could hold back long enough to give you pleasure this first time otherwise."

"First time? Will there be a second?"

"I certainly hope so."

She struggled to sit upright. "May we use the bed next time? That table doesn't feel as nice as your mouth." She traced a fingertip along his lower lip. "Have I ever told you how much I love your mouth? I knew it was special the first time I saw it. No, I knew it was special the first time I heard you."

"You mean my uncouth colonial drawl?"

"I mean your voice that makes me feel like you're pouring warm honey over me."

"I haven't tried that one, though I hear it's rather nice."

"What have you tried?"

He released her, then stood and turned away. "Probably more than I should, and certainly more than I can show you in one night." He went to the nightstand, poured water from the carafe into a cup, then stood holding it, his head bent as if he held and oracle glass giving him visions of the future. "My conscience is going to feel like the devil in the morning."

"Your conscience works too hard."

"I've put it to rest for tonight." He drank the water, returned the glass to the table, then faced her and held out his hand. "Come to bed with me. I want to hold you."

She went, letting her robe fall to the floor on the way. Climbing onto the bed, she slid beneath the covers and held them back, watching as he removed the clothes he hadn't taken the time to shed earlier. He looked wonderful by candlelight. He had regained the weight and muscle he'd lost after his fall. He was the wild-haired barbarian she'd seen by the lake and the considerate lover she never thought she'd have.

Could she truly give him up?

She didn't like the question. It made her think, and she didn't want to think. She wanted to feel, his body beside her, inside her.

He slid into bed beside her and gathered her close to him with his arms around her. And what she felt was love, penetrating to her marrow, to her soul.

She ran her hand over his belly and down his flank, marveling at the contrast of smooth skin over hard muscle. She loved the smell of him, the taste of him, the way his hair never stayed confined in its tie. A future without him would be bleak until she found a way to fill her days.

A future with him would be worse.

"I'm so glad you don't love me," she declared.

"What a thing to say!" His voice was a rumble beneath her ear like distant thunder. "I wish I could tell you and know it's the truth."

"Then I'd be tempted to accept your proposal."

"Maybe you still will."

"Don't start that up again."

"What about tonight?" He moved his hand from her hip to her belly. "We weren't careful."

"We won't be next time either or I'll have a difficult time explaining things to the laundry maids."

He made an odd noise as if he attempted to laugh while someone held him by the throat.

"Do I embarrass you?" she asked, all innocence.

"Not exactly." He slid his hand up to curve around the side of her breast. "I've never known a lady who was so...uninhibited in her speech."

"Or in bed?"

"The females who've shared my bed only tugged at the fringes of being ladies. You're my first in that respect."

She ran one finger up the inside of his thigh, marveling how such a simple action made him jump. "I won't be your last."

"I'm staying in England until you change your mind on that."

Her hand clamped on his thigh, she raised herself enough to glare into his face. "You cannot. It isn't safe."

He looked unconcerned. "Nothing's happened for weeks."

"That's because you've been traveling. Lud, it took me over two weeks to find my family, so how could an assassin find you?"

"Forewarned is fore -- "

Christina clapped her hand over his mouth. "Someone's coming. I heard the outside door slam."

A moment later, a knock sounded on the bedchamber door. "Lady Christina, are you there?"

"Yes, Nanette, I'm here. All is well with Lady Shields."

"One of the footmen thought he heard you cry out, and I saw your candles still burning."

"These walls must not be thick enough," Wade murmured.

"It must have been when I struck something," Christina said.

Wade turned his face into the pillow. His body shook with silent laughter.

Christina coughed.

"My lady?" Nanette turned the door handle. "You never lock your door."

The lock. Christina stared at the keyhole empty of key, and her amusement died. "I don't know what I was thinking," she said through a constricted throat. "I'll unlock it before I go to bed. I'll tell you about Lady Shields in the morning."

"Bon, a demain," Nanette said.

"Until tomorrow," Christina echoed in English.

She didn't wait to hear if Nanette went across the passage to her own room or returned down the stairs. She clamped her hand on Wade's arm and shook him. "Where's the key?"

"In my coat pock -- "

"Put it back."

"I will -- "

"Now."

He stared at her for a heartbeat, then sat up. "No key. I can't -- " She struggled for breath. "I can't get out without a key."

Wade bounded from the bed, snatched his coat from the floor, and fumbled in the pockets for the key as he strode to the door. He fitted the key in the lock, but didn't turn it. "I'd rather Miss la Rue not walk in on us. Or anyone else."

Christina relaxed against the pillows. "No, it's all right to leave it locked. I simply need-need to know I can get out if I want to."

"Oh, my poor dear." He returned to her and gathered her close. "I didn't do it to frighten you. I just didn't want you running away from me again."

"I won't. I can't." She snuggled closer to him. "I've been banished here for at least the next six weeks."

"Your day of reckoning."

She nodded.

"Then I have six weeks to change your mind. By that time, you'll know whether or not you should marry."

She tensed. "You mention that so often I'm beginning to wonder if you came here to seduce me with the sole intention of starting me breeding."

"I thought it worked the other way." He spoke slowly, as if having to work to keep his tone light. "Isn't it the lady who traps the man...?" When his voice trailed off, Christina knew as clearly as she would have had his mind been a news sheet sold on a London street corner, that his own words brought Mary Beth's specter to lie between them.

It wasn't pleasant having another woman in the bed. That was the way it would be until he settled things with Mary Beth, found out if she wanted revenge, found out if he still loved her.

Trying not to let any feeling other than concern for him show, Christina said, "Wade, be reasonable. It isn't safe for you here in Devon. Whoever wants you dead is here. He tried three times. He almost succeeded the last. But if you return to Virginia -- "

"Not without you." His interruption was quiet and firm.

Christina ground her teeth. "You are trying to force me into marrying you. But I won't." She pounded her fist on his chest. "I won't, won't, won't. Do you understand me?"

He captured her fist, pried the fingers open, and raised the palm to his lips. "I understand." He swirled the tip of his tongue around her palm, then moved his mouth to her wrist. "But I'd like to change your mind."

"No."

"No, what?" He turned onto his side so he could kiss her. "No to this?" His thumb grazed the tip of one breast. "Or this?" He moved his hand down.

She made herself be calm, as if his touch wasn't making her want to writhe with desire. "No to you won't change my mind by staying in Devon or by making me want you so much I want to -- damn you!" His mouth closed over one nipple, and she forgot reason.

Raising his head, he smiled at her. "You were saying?"

"Something I'm certain you'd tell me a lady shouldn't."

"Right now, I won't admonish you for saying anything." He kissed her. "Except no."

"I'm beyond saying no to this." Wrapping her arms around him, she urged him over her. This might be her last time with him -- ever. She wanted closeness, as close as they could be, his mouth joined with hers, his heart beating against hers, his body mated to hers.

He came to her unresisting, ardent, tender. His hair fell around her face in a dark curtain, blotting out the last of the candlelight. Though he rested his weight on his forearms, the mattress was soft -- too soft. Their combined weight in one place made it sink down, billow like walls around her. The mattress, his body, darkness formed a prison, a trap.

She couldn't breathe. She felt nothing other than the pressure of weight on her body, crushing her lungs, cramping her stomach. She couldn't see. Blackness surrounded her. She couldn't move.

She had to move, break free, escape.

With the strength of terror, she shoved at the prison. The weight rolled away. She flung herself in the opposite direction, tumbled from the bed.

The floor was hard and cold, but space surrounded her. Light glowed from a single, guttering candle. Too shaken and weak to stand, she crawled behind the privacy screen to be as sick as someone could be with an empty stomach.

A warm wrap settled over her shoulders. A cool hand rested against her cheek. A gentle voice murmured nonsense like, "Shh, you're all right. There now, precious, you'll do fine."

She wasn't all right. She wouldn't be fine. She was mortified to her core and wished her tower room possessed a trap door through which she could escape.

The hand left her face. The voice ceased its nonsense. Was he going to be a gentleman and leave her alone with her humiliation?

He returned with a glass of water and a wet cloth. Crouching beside her, he offered her both. "This will help."

"Nothing will help." She sobbed into the wet cloth. "Do you see why I can't marry you? I can't even make love with you in a bed without feeling like I'm entombed."

"Yes, you can. Now, drink this slowly."

She drank the water slowly. It calmed the spasms in her stomach, but did nothing for her embarrassment.

"You haven't eaten all day, have you?" he asked.

"It's fortunate I haven't."

"Maybe you wouldn't have felt so bad if you had."

"No, I know from experience -- I don't mean this kind of experience. I couldn't -- I've never -- "

"Your nightmare?" he offered.

She nodded.

Rising, he held out his hands. "Then I suggest we go back to bed."

"I can't."

"You'd rather live with this the rest of your life? Or have you never fallen off a horse?"

"Of course I've fallen off."

"But you still ride."

"Of course. I love the freedom."

"I thought you liked lying close to me." His face was suddenly bleak, his eyes a cloudy gray. "Or is it lying beside me that makes you sick?"

"It was you lying on me that made me ill."

He smiled. "Then we'll have to reverse it, won't we?"

Not comprehending, she stared at him for a moment. Then understanding dawned, and the last of her panic slipped away.

She smiled at him. "Is that why you used the climbing back on the horse example?"

He made that half laugh, half cough noise, and his lips compressed. But his eyes danced.

She rose. "Have I embarrassed you now?"

"I'm trying to decide if I should be embarrassed or complimented."

She laughed and let him lead her back to bed.

Afterward, she lay with her arms folded on his chest, watching him grow drowsy, then sleep. Though her body felt languid in the afterglow of passion, her thoughts kept her awake.

If Wade would spend weeks scouring England for her, he would indeed not leave the country without her. If he stayed, her heart would take her back to him until he discovered she had lied to him about, to his way of thinking, the necessity of marriage. If he stayed, he might die.

To spare them both from making a mistake they would certainly regret, to save his life, she would force him to leave.

CHAPTER 17

Wade thought he had never done anything more reckless in his life than spend the night in Christina's bed. That he had planned to spend the night there made his actions worse than reckless. Immoral, sinful, and dishonorable described how he'd taken advantage of her. Cad, libertine, and scoundrel were the names he called himself.

So where was his sense of guilt? Where was the conviction he deserved far worse epithets than the ones he'd used?

He looked at the woman still sprawled across him as she slept, and found the answer easy. Only a saint could resist the pleasure she gave him. It ran far deeper than physical gratification. It was satisfaction of the kind he'd never experienced. He hadn't known it existed.

Was it that he knew for certain her fulfillment was real? Or was it far deeper, far more serious than physical release?

He hated to admit it, but Christina was right. He could never know if he did -- or even could -- love her until he settled his feelings for Mary Beth. He couldn't settle his feelings with Mary Beth an ocean away. Nor could he leave England without Christina. Good God, he'd left her in a chamber across a corridor and she'd disappeared on him for four weeks. What would she do if he left her in a country across the Atlantic?

She would disappear from his life forever. He knew it as surely as he knew why. Marriage was as much a prison to her as stone walls -- or his own body -- and he didn't know how to change her mind. The only reason he knew for certain that she should marry him was because he had taken her maidenhead. Why else would she ally herself to a man who would take her away from her luxurious life? By American standards, his life was luxurious. Those standards weren't the equal to English country life. Rightfully, she detested slavery, but it was an institution ingrained in southern life. She hated confinement, and River Terrace was a tenth the size of Torr Keep. She would shock most of his neighbors with antislavery speech or even actions, and everyone would indeed think she was nothing more than a trophy bride to salve his pride. Mary Beth had been his choice of a bride because he adored her and because she understood the duties and responsibilities of a plantation mistress. Christina once admitted to him she hadn't been in a kitchen since she was a child begging sweets. How could she supervise the preservation of food to feed two hundred people through the winter? Since she didn't sew, how could she supervise the women in the weaving shed or the seamstresses or the laundresses for that matter? She wouldn't want to learn, would she?

She was a woman comfortable in her female body, eager to explore the pleasures a man's body could give her. Yet she wanted to play a man's role in life. She wanted to work, for God's sake, not be taken care of.

She was the wrong kind of wife for a planter. She was right to refuse his proposal if no love lay between them to strengthen them through the rough times.

Yet she had taken him into her without caution, not one night, but two. Society and most men would consider her ruined. If she were breeding, any man other than he would consider her ruined.

Any man...would...consider...her...ruined. Any man...Any man...Any man...

Gently, Wade slid from beneath her and slid to the edge of the bed. Shivering from cold, he rose and went to the hearth, where he found tinder, kindling, and coal. In moments, a fire blazed. He crouched before it, seeing the truth as clearly as he saw the flames.

She wanted to be ruined. She had planned it all, her attempts at seduction, her success the night he'd been too low-spirited to deny himself any joy offered, and maybe even his return for more of her loving the night before.

He groaned aloud. "Oh, Christina, how could you?"

"What?" Her voice was sleepy.

He glanced over his shoulder. She lay on her side looking at him, looking like the kind of fantasy that gave a man frustrating dreams. His body responded to the sight of her, the reality of her.

Would one more time be any more wrong than those before it?

He struggled for a moment, and this time his conscience won. Tearing his gaze away from her, he rose and began pulling on his scattered clothing. "It's dawn. I'd better leave."

"You cannot go back alone."

"Do you intend to go with me?"

"Of course I do." She scrambled out of bed and darted to the armoire. "If you'll do the hooks and pins, I can be ready in a few moments."

Purposefully, he kept his eyes averted. "You can't return alone. It isn't safe."

"I'm a deal safer alone than you are." The armoire door creaked. "I'll come through the woods. It's so foggy no one will see me."

"Then no one will see me either."

She made a noise that sounded much like a growl. "Wade Montrose, you are the most obstinate, stubborn, pig-headed man I know, and if anything happens to you because you were here instead of safe in your own bed, I want to be there."

He grinned, suddenly, unreasonably, happy. "To help my attacker, I presume?"

"Of course." The armoire door slammed.

He faced her. Nothing covered her except a woolen gown and muslin petticoat draped over one arm, and her hair, that glorious black mantle. She smiled, and he no longer cared why she gave herself to him. She had. She would again.

"Do you want me for more than a way to ruin yourself?" He made himself pose the question.

She looked startled, then posed her own question, "If I say you've caught me out, will you leave England and forget me?"

"No. I'll leave your chamber. But I was a willing participant in your downfall and will stay until I know whether or not you need me."

"I was afraid you'd say that." She sighed. "Even if I refuse to see you, will you do something insufferable like bribe Nanette to tell you whether or not I need you?"

"Nanette is probably bribable. She wants more than a life of servitude helping support her family. I can afford to set Ned, her, and her family up in a far better life in America."

"I don't like that answer either."

He grinned at her. "Then ask me a question you'll like the answer to."

She took a step toward him. "Will you make love to me again before you go?"

"If it's one of the advantages I have, yes."

Leaving her clothes in a heap, she came to him and slipped her arms around his neck. "You have an unfair advantage even with your clothes on."

He ran his hands down her back, feeling the smoothness of her skin, and the coldness too. "You're freezing. Come to the fire. We can test the softness of the rug while I warm you."

The rug wasn't soft and the floor beneath hard enough to make elbows and knees sore. But the heat of their passion warmed them as much as did the fire. Holding them both back at the edge, he cupped her face in his hands and asked, "Is this all you want from me?"

She gazed up at him from eyes almost violet in passion. "I don't know. But right now I'll tell you I love you if you...yes. Oh, my dearest, yes."

He knew why some called the climax of passion surrender. He surrendered doubts, suspicion, and conscience for those moments of ecstasy inside her.

"Will you let me see you again?" he asked later as he hooked the back of her gown.

"Yes." She had her head bent, so her voice sounded muffled. "I'll see you again. But don't come here."

"I suppose it's not proper with your family gone."

"It's not safe for you. I'll come to the Abbey. I want to see Felice and the babies, too."

"Lord, yes, I'd forgotten." He held her cloak for her, though he didn't want her to walk with him. "I can't stay locked away in the Abbey all the time."

"That's why you can't stay in England."

"He could follow me to Virginia. What would I do to get away in the middle of the Atlantic?"

"It's doubtful he would follow you aboard ship if you slipped away unobtrusively."

He caught her hand, stopping her from going to the door. "I'm staying as long as you need me."

She turned away. "Then I've done you a great disservice."

An admission that she had used him to ruin herself?

He waited until they were outside, had slipped through dense fog and the trees running along the drive, and reached the public road before he said, "I know your reasons for not wanting to marry. So why did you lie with me and risk the consequences?"

She remained quiet for several hundred yards, her footfalls nearly silent in their cloth half boots. Then she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and said, "We shouldn't talk. Mist carries sound."

"He wouldn't know what to shoot at. I don't think I've ever seen fog like this, except maybe in the Blue Ridge."

She squeezed his arm, but made no response.

He didn't mind too much. He liked her there, the pressure of her fingers on his arm, the brush of her skirt against his legs, the occasional whiff of jasmine in his nostrils. He envisioned strolling like that along the riverbank at home. She would like the openness there. Lots of trees grew up, oaks and walnut, pines and cedar hundreds of years old, but she didn't seem to mind trees. She disliked walls, and the only walls at River Terrace belonged to buildings. No one would hold her confined.

Except you, he reminded himself.

Devil take it, he didn't want it that way. He liked sleeping with her, waking up with her, walking through the morning fog with her.

Was this how it felt to truly love?

They reached Belton Abbey and the side door they'd used their first night together. He wanted her to stay until full light, but knew she needed to get back to her chamber. So he held her, aching with a need that had little to do with desire.

She kissed him. "I might not be able to come until tomorrow evening. But I will come to you, my dear."

"I don't like the idea of you walking back alone. I never should have let you come."

She pinched his cheek. "You didn't let me. I am responsible for what happens to me, not you." She kissed him again, then slipped away. Within seconds, he could no longer see her through the fog. He thought he heard her cough, and, fearing she may have caught a chill, again chastised himself for not stopping her from coming with him.

And how would you have done that? he asked himself. Locked her away?

No wonder she wouldn't marry him. She didn't want to be coddled and protected. She wanted passion and equality, freedom and, maybe, the certainty that she was loved. If he couldn't give her all of those things, he couldn't have her. He didn't deserve her.

Could he take her back to Virginia without marriage? Then, once he settled matters with Mary Beth and Will, too, he would have a better chance.

Pondering the idea, he went to his room. While attempting to solve the myriad difficulties of a trans-Atlantic crossing, he fell asleep.

He woke to the quiet, but distinct mew of a newborn's cry. The sound filled him with wonder, quiet joy, and the pulse of longing for the infant to be his.

"Christina." He spoke her name like a prayer. "I will love you. Give me a chance."

"Sir?" Sumner appeared in the dressing room doorway.

Wade sat up. "As you see, I've returned."

"Yes, sir, I heard you come back this morning. I'll bring you coffee straight away."

"No need. I'll take it downstairs. Is Sir Mark around? And Lady Shields is well?"

Sumner grinned. "She's a strong lady, for all she's no bigger than a rabbit. And to think she had twins." He shook his head. "Sir Mark's beside himself, and Dauphine is thinking she's queen of the nursery for all she didn't do nothing much." Going to the washstand to prepare shaving things, he continued, "But you don't know how Lady Christina delivered them babies, do you?"

"No!" Wade hoped he sounded surprised.

Sumner shot him a look that said as plain as words, "She told you herself, I'll wager."

Wade felt his face warm. "I'll...have some breakfast, then see if Lady Shields is up to a visitor."

A half hour later, after a solitary breakfast by the parlor fire, Wade made enquiries and learned that Felice was more than happy to see him.

He found her sitting up in bed, looking tired but elated. She held out her hands to him. "Mon ami, you are safe home. I am so worried. But now she has come back anyway. You will see her, non?"

Wade took Felice's hands in his. "If she'll see me."

"Ah, she will see you because she will see mes enfants beaux. They sleep now, but you may have the small look."

Wade looked. They lay together in a cradle before the fire, so small he marveled they could be complete human beings. But they were complete, not beautiful like the perfection of porcelain dolls, but beautiful because they lived.

"Names?" It was the only word Wade could get past his tight throat.

"Angelique and Royden for my parents." Felice yawned. "Pardonez-moi. I have the fatigue."

"Of course you do. I won't disturb you longer." Returning to the bedside, Wade kissed Felice's cheek, then descended to the library to find a book that might keep him occupied until he saw Christina again.

He didn't find anything sufficiently interesting to engross his attention, so gladly welcomed Mark's arrival an hour later.

"You're to be congratulated," Wade said.

Mark attempted nonchalance, but the upward curve of his lips and a shine to his eyes belied his efforts. "It's a marvel to think I sired twins, and more of one to think Felice bore them. God, but we came close to losing her."

"And thanks to Christina you didn't." He felt better just speaking her name aloud.

Mark gave him a narrow-eyed glance. "Yes, she was marvelous. Of course, she told me what an ass I've been and said Felice should make me suffer."

Wade laughed. "I do believe I can hear her saying that."

"And you still care for her, even though she's run you a marry chase." Mark shook his head. "We aren't very wise about females, are we?"

"No, but I keep hoping I'll learn."

"Yes, well..." Mark went to the door. "I'll just run up to look in on them, then I've work to do. Would you care to join me? I'm going to Clovelly to buy Felice something."

"I'd love the diversion."

Wind off the sea had driven away the fog and brought more rain, so they took the carriage. That, Wade thought, should make Christina happy. He was surely safer in a carriage than on horseback.

They took dinner in a smoky, dark tavern with barmaids more out than in their bodices. Mark, Wade noted, gave the women the appreciative glances their endowments deserved, but made none of the pinches nor suggestive comments of previous occasions.

"I'm a sober, married man, now," Mark said. "Being faithful is the least I can do for Felice after...everything."

"She'd forgive you anything," Wade said.

"Which makes needing it worse. Shall we go see what this village has to offer?"

Despite its smallness, Clovelly was a port to which trinkets from all over the world found their way. In a shop as dark, if not as smoky, as the tavern, Mark found a pearl and ruby cross Wade thought would look lovely against Felice's dark complexion. Wade found a malachite and lapis pendant Wade thought would perfectly grace Christina's throat. He had his doubts about her accepting the gift, but bought it anyway. Then they returned to the Abbey, where Wade waited, restless and impatient, for two full days until Christina arrived.

When she came, it wasn't in a conventional ride up to the front steps and knock on the door. After supper, he walked into his room and found her in his bed, sitting with her back to the headboard and a glass of wine in her hand.

She smiled at him. "I'm pretending I'm a demi-mondaine."

Wade wasn't amused. "For a lady who doesn't want to be forced into marriage, you're risking getting caught."

"But being in your bed is worth the risk." She leaned forward, letting the sheet fall to reveal she wore nothing beneath.

Wade's body reacted at the same time his mind told him no.

She set the glass of wine on the table, where a wine bottle and another glass sat, and pushed back the sheet. "After the other night, I doubt it will matter."

"Having Mark or one of the servants catch us will," Wade protested even as he reached behind him to lock the door.

She was right, he thought later. It was worth the risk, even enjoyable to pleasure one another without making a sound. He thought about giving her the pendant, but was too comfortable to move her head from his shoulder and her leg from across his.

She moved. Sitting up, she reached for the wine bottle and filled the other glass, then offered it to him. "A toast."

Wade raised himself on one elbow and took the glass. "Toast to what?"

"Future success." She raised her glass to her lips and drained its contents.

He followed her action, but grimaced. "That's sweet even for port."

"I apologize for that. Couldn't very well take one of my father's better wines. He'd have noticed. This is from the lot he expects the butler to pinch."

"Good heavens." Wade laughed. "Instead, it's his daughter." He yawned. "Forgive me. I didn't sleep well last night."

"Neither did I." Christina set both their glasses on the table and snuggled against him. "I wanted you there with me."

"My difficulty, too." He stroked her hair back from her face and kissed her. "You taste far better than any wine."

She cupped his face in her hands. "Wade, I'm going to tell you this once, and only once. I shouldn't say it at all, but I want t-to." Her voice broke. "I love you."

"My dearest lady -- " He stopped, unable to formulate an appropriate response. Her confession must have shocked his senses to numbness. He should thank her or tell her he loved her too, say something to let her know how much those words meant to him. Instead, he lay motionless, thick-witted, as though all the sleepless nights of the past weeks crashed in upon him.

Valiantly, he tried to focus. Her face blurred before him. Behind her, the wine glowed like the ruby in Felice's cross.

Wine, numbness. Wine, sudden sleepiness. Too sudden for the amount of wine he'd drunk. Too little wine to cloud his reason. Not enough to cloud it completely.

"You drugged me," was the last thing he remembered saying before he slipped into blackness.

***

The Earl of Torr returned to Torr Keep on the twenty-fifth day of October, six weeks after Christina's exile to the country. It was Christina's twenty-second birthday and her day of reckoning.

They hadn't been a comfortable six weeks. With Nanette and Ned gone to America to look after Wade, she was alone in the great house, save for servants who treated her with respectful distance. Mark was furious with her for what she had done. Felice understood, but gave Christina reproachful glances too often for Christina's comfort. Seeing the babies growing, thriving, comforted her and left her eager to hold her own.

Suzanna and Roger were living with his parents at Leyward. They exchanged letters, but Suzanna was already enceinte and too unwell to travel the twelve miles to Torr Keep.

Christina would have visited her, but the coachman had received orders not to drive her there, and she had given up riding. She didn't think it was good for her or safe. Rainy weather kept her indoors most of the time anyway. So she was happy to hear her father's arrival and know the waiting game was over.

He called her into the study within the hour. Confident she held the upper hand this time, she strode into the room with her head high, then stopped, dismayed to see Sir Roderick.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"Christina," the Earl barked. "I will not have you -- "

Sir Roderick waved him to silence. "It is of no importance, Torr. She'll be schooled to proper manners soon enough."

"I most certainly will not." Christina glared at the baronet, noting with satisfaction that his nose had a decided bend to one side. He looked thinner, too, but his linen still reeked of a lack of attention to bathing. "At least not by your hand."

Sir Roderick smiled, and Christina's stomach rolled. Her father raised his upper lip in a sneer, and bile rose in her throat.

"Sit down," Torr commanded. "We have serious matters to discuss."

Christina was glad of the excuse to sit. "At least we agree on that score. I do, however, object to discussing personal, family matters with this man present."

"We will discuss nothing that Sir Roderick cannot hear," Torr said.

Christina gritted her teeth. "I disagree."

"You are not in a position to disagree with me," her father pointed out.

Christina gritted her teeth. In part, he was right. She needed his cooperation, not his antagonism.

She inclined her head. "Yes, sir, I understand. If you insist Sir Roderick remain, I can do nothing to stop you."

"At least you've gotten that much sense," Torr muttered.

Sir Roderick chuckled. "As I said, she'll school."

Christina clasped her hands together in her lap, and waited.

"I understand," Torr began, "that your American suitor has left England, taking your maid and groom with him."

Christina nodded. "He offered them a better life in America."

It wasn't quite a lie. He had said he could, and she had no doubt he would.

"And why not you?" Torr persisted.

Christina made herself look at him. "I didn't want to live in a barbaric place like Virginia with its slaves and swamp fever. He wouldn't remain in England. So we parted."

"A wise decision, m'dear," Sir Roderick said.

"A decision that leaves you without a betrothed." Torr's lips twitched at the corners. "Unless you've fallen in love with someone else unsuitable."

"No, sir," Christina responded with absolute honesty, "I still love Wade Montrose."

"You'll have to forget that sort of nonsense," Sir Roderick said. "Won't have a wife starry-eyed for another man. Passion for another man I can accept. Love, never."

Christina stared at him. For the first time since he'd begun courting her, she wondered if he was mad.

"Are you saying," she asked, "you wouldn't care if your wife carried on a liaison with another man?"

"Not at all," Sir Roderick affirmed.

"You are mad," Christina concluded aloud.

Torr slammed his palm on his desk. "Enough dribble. We've arrangements to make. The banns must be posted in the church at once. I'll have no further delays in this union. I need Sir Roderick's support in the Commons, and won't receive it without your marriage."

"You're trading my future happiness for votes?" Christina had always known it, but it hurt hearing her father admit it. "Votes against reforms like universal suffrage and child labor laws. You think I'll be a party to that?"

Her father gave her a cold look. "You will be or you'll find yourself locked away as disobedient women should be."

A shudder ran through Christina. The time had come for her to play her only trump card.

She chose to look at Sir Roderick rather than her father. "I don't mean to be disobedient. I'm being fair to Sir Roderick. You see, I can't wed any man when I'm carrying Wade Montrose's child."

She expected Sir Roderick to recoil, express disgust, declare the bargain was off. Instead, he smiled. No, he grinned like a man who'd just been told his wife was about to present him with an heir.

"I thought you two were lovers." He almost purred the words. "I was afraid to hope you would breed."

Christina feared she would be sick right there on the Aubusson carpet. "You want a wife who is carrying another man's bastard?"

Sir Roderick nodded. "It's painful for me to admit, but I have a difficulty in that area. I like to look at and touch beautiful women, but when it comes to...er...performance, I am...er...unable." He leaned forward and clasped Christina's hands. "That's why I proposed this alliance. I'll support your father's attempt to block these nonsensical reforms if he would give me his daughter." He caressed her wrist. "The daughter who is known to have a passionate nature. I'll let you have all the lovers you like so long as you are discreet and claim I am the father of any children that result."

CHAPTER 18

From the moment he awoke to the corkscrew motion of a ship well into the English Channel, Wade knew what Christina had done to him. He didn't need nor want an explanation. For a while, with his head aching and his insides pitching with the ship, he wanted to wallow in his misery like a dismasted vessel in a gale. Then he opened his eyes and saw Nanette seated on a sea chest beside his bunk, hooking lace as if she sat in Felice's parlor, and the moment of self-pity vanished on a wave of fury.

"What the devil are you doing here?" His voice sounded hoarse. His throat was parched.

Still displaying infuriating calm, Nanette set her work aside and lifted a flask from the deck. "Water. You must be thirsty after sleeping for so long."

Wade sipped the water with caution, wondering if it could be drugged and still be tasteless. "How long?"

"Eighteen hours."

"Long enough to get me to Plymouth and away."

"Falmouth."

Wade rubbed sleep from his eyes. "What?"

"We sailed from Falmouth. It's less likely you'd be followed into Cornwall."

Wade seethed for several moments before he managed to speak with a semblance of calm. "Who is supposed to have followed me?"

Nanette's eyes widened. "L'assassin, naturellement."

Certain he wasn't going to cast up his accounts after all, Wade sat up. For the first time since waking, he realized he wore a shirt and pantaloons, and was grateful for that concession to his modesty. He'd been naked last thing he remembered. Naked and cuddled up to Christina, the deceitful, conniving, witch!

Pain stabbed his heart. His eyes burned with more than dryness from too long a sleep. "Damn her to Hell." He intended the words to sound vicious. They sounded mournful to his ears.

They must have sounded mournful to Nanette's ears too, for she gave him a sympathetic glance. "It is for your own good, Mr. Montrose. My lady knew you would endanger your life if you didn't leave England."

"It's my life to endanger if I choose," Wade returned.

"But no," Nanette protested, "you would have endangered your life for her, no? And for that she could not forgive herself."

"So she had me crimped aboard a westbound ship." Dizzy again, Wade felt his skull to make certain he had received no blows. He found no lumps or dried blood, but his head ached as though several woodpeckers had taken up residence and were all starving. "Didn't she consider that I would pay the captain to turn his ship around?"

Nanette resumed her lace making with intense concentration. "My lady paid the captain well to keep you confined. You are, you understand, touched with the madness of great sorrow."

She was almost right. The kind of sorrow he felt could drive a weaker man to madness.

Wishing he was less sane, Wade said, "She couldn't have paid him all that much."

"She used your money," Nanette said.

"The devil you say! What the sneaking, conniving -- " Wade stopped himself from calling Christina a name he'd never used against a woman. "I suppose you are my keeper."

"I and Ned," Nanette affirmed. "My lady said you offered us a better life in America."

Wade seized the bargaining tool. "I will if you persuade the captain that your lady is the one with missing pieces to her brainbox."

"No." Nanette's tone brooked no argument. "You see, sir, we agree with Lady Christina. You are safer in America than in England. Besides, the captain, being English, is more apt to listen to an English noblewoman than an American."

"It isn't anyone else's decision but mine to make," Wade clutched his throbbing head. "What did she give me? I've never had a worse head."

"Laudanum in the port."

"She could have killed me."

"She took the precautions." Nanette raised her gaze to his. "Mr. Montrose, you are better off without her. She wanted that I should make certain you understand that. She does not want you for more than you have already given her, so staying in England would have only endangered your life. That is what she told me to tell you."

The words didn't ring true to Wade, but at that moment, he didn't know why. He clung to the part of the speech that made sense, the part he'd already suspected. "She used me to ruin herself." The certainty he felt and the pity he read in Nanette's face, returned the pain back to his heart and the burning to his eyes. "What if she's increasing?"

"She will manage as she wishes," Nanette said. "It is what she wishes, to manage her own affairs."

Wade gave a harsh bark of laughter. "And I was only one affair for her to manage. God help me." He scrubbed his hands over his face. "What a fool!"

He meant himself, the supreme lord of misrule where females were concerned. He loved the wrong one. He made love to the wrong one. If he'd made love to Mary Beth or been able to know if he loved Christina enough to tell her, he might have had one or the other. At that moment, he was gladly rid of both.

But as the first day stretched into the first week, then the month the ship took to sail to New York, Wade knew his sorrow at losing Christina far outweighed his anger over how she had used him for her own ends. He knew, too, that his sorrow over losing Mary Beth stemmed more from his battered pride than from his feelings for her. In his arrogance, he had believed she would be glad to marry the heir to River Terrace. In the end, his devotion and almost worshipful adulation of her beauty and skills as a plantation mistress, weren't enough.

Beneath the cold, autumn moonlight, while the ship waited for morning to enter the harbor, Wade realized that Mary Beth wanted more than his respectful declaration of love. Will had offered her an outlet for passion a "good" woman concealed, where as Wade had expected her to maintain her cool distance. He had accepted Christina's passion for something freely given, when, in truth, she longed for love.

Would she have come with him if he'd given her love instead of passion, if he'd lavished her with devotion and respect instead of giving her the means by which she could ruin herself?

Looking back at what she'd done, more than what she'd said, Wade realized that, if he had been capable of professing love that morning in her bedchamber, she would have married him. There on the deck, with weeks of time to think behind him, he remembered what she'd said before he lost consciousness -- "I love you." That was why the message Nanette had given him didn't ring true. He wasn't better off without her. No man who had won the love of Christina Marlowe would be better off without her.

Except he hadn't won her love. He had given her nothing but disgrace and possibly more trouble than a single woman needed. She deserved a man with no doubts about his feelings for her.

So why did he have doubts, when he knew her worth?

The question plagued him during the two weeks it took to reach River Terrace.

Upon arriving on land, Wade learned he'd missed the coastal packet that put in at Norfolk. The next one went straight to Baltimore and didn't leave New York for a week. So Wade, much to Nanette's horror, purchased three unlovely but reliable looking mounts, and began the long journey south.

In early November, the Tidewater was still fairly warm, but most of the trees had lost their leaves and the fields lay bare of all save bales of hay and straw. Nanette, not a good horsewoman, reverted to French that sounded as disgruntled as she looked. Ned appeared awed and speechless at the vastness of the country. Wade experienced the warmth, the joy of homecoming mingled with apprehension over what revelations that homecoming would lay at his feet.

They spent the night at Shields Tavern in Williamsburg, where the landlord greeted Wade with friendly politeness and sidelong glances. The men seated in the taproom stopped speaking the moment Wade walked in, then greeted him with a heartiness that rang false to his ears.

If Christina was with him, those same men would have looked at him with respect, maybe a touch of envy. But that was the trouble, wasn't it? He asked her to marry him out of a sense of duty and need for a salve to his pride. No wonder she felt justified in using him for her own ends. The way she saw the truth, his proposal was nothing more than using her for his ends.

Not feeling proud of himself, Wade hired a boat early the next morning. He told Nanette and Ned to remain behind if they liked, but they followed like faithful shadows.

"For whom do you work now?" he asked, not without amusement.

"You, sir," Ned assured him.

"But my lady said to see you safe," Nanette added. "And it is our duty to her and you to do so as she let us come."

"As guards or protectors?" Wade persisted.

"Do you need protection at your home?" Nanette returned.

"I don't know," Wade admitted.

That was another question dogging Wade's footsteps. Had Christina removed him from harm's way in England only to send him into danger on his own shore?

With his first sight of River Terrace after five months' absence, Wade couldn't believe anything dreadful could happen there. Perched on a hillside, with lawns and gardens dropping in a cascade of terraces sweeping from front door to water's edge, the house, old by American standards, glowed rose and gold amid it's frame of evergreen trees. Only wisps of smoke, drifting from the chimneys to dissipate into the pale, blue sky, spoke of habitation. All the activity that time of day would be centered around the kitchen, the laundry, and the stables and barns. But a tug at the rope suspended above the boat landing rung a great bell that would bring a servant to tie up the boat and issue orders for refreshments brought for the master and his guests. Mr. Will and Miss Mary Beth would be notified of the arrival.

Not wanting an announcement of his arrival, Wade leaped onto the dock and tied up the boat himself, paid the boatmen, then helped Nanette ashore.

"C'est belle," she murmured with reverie.

Wade smiled. "It's a hovel compared to Torr Keep."

Nanette shook her head. "No, it's a home compared to Torr Keep. It's a place to raise children." She flushed. "But I forget myself in the moment of seeing what I did not expect."

Wade was amused. "What did you expect? A log cabin?"

"A cottage, no more," Nanette admitted.

"That's all you'll find on my property in the Shenandoah Valley, where you and Ned will be going," Wade told her. "But I'm sending men up there to build something better."

Christina would need a bigger house.

When had he started envisioning her riding across the rolling, green hills on the far side of the Blue Ridge? It must have been a dream, nothing more. And yet, couldn't he make that dream come true if he really wanted it?

Not with a death sentence hanging over his head.

With that thought uppermost in his mind, Wade instructed Ned to help the boatmen carry the luggage ashore, then strode off to encircle the wing closest to the kitchens.

"Mr. Montrose?" Nanette, panting, ran up to join him. "You cannot go alone."

"I doubt anyone will strike me down in front of a dozen servants." Wade sounded more scornful than he intended.

He didn't want any witnesses to his first encounter with Mary Beth, but Nanette meant well and her loyalty to Christina's wishes deserved reward, not dismissal.

He paused so she could catch up with him. "Thank you, Nanette, but I'd rather do this alone."

Nanette smiled. "I understand, sir, but I do not feel the comfort over it. May I come if I use the discretion?"

"And have everyone think you're my chere amie?"

She grinned. "You can be worse off, no?"

Wade laughed. "How does a sanguine fellow like Ned manage?"

"He is formidable, n'est-ce pas?"

"And I see I'll have him, too," Wade said as Ned left the luggage setting on the front porch and hastened to join them.

Resigned to witnesses to what was bound to be an awkward situation at best, Wade continued along the crushed shell path leading between house and pines. The wing held the thirty foot chamber grandly known as the ball room. Twice, Nanette paused, raised on her tiptoes, and peered through the curtained windows, then hastened to catch up with murmurs of, "Oui, oui, tres belle, certainmente." When they reached the back of the house, displaying storage sheds, smokehouse, and outdoor kitchen, Nanette stopped and stared, open-mouthed.

"Does the food not get cold in winter?"

"Not enough that it's worth the risk of fire to the house or the heat in summer," Wade answered. "That's why I wanted a bigger house on the Shenandoah estate. It's far cooler and healthier there in the summer than here, especially for someone used to English -- " He stopped, his attention riveted on a woman standing in the kitchen doorway.

Her voice rang soft but clear across the herb garden. "I've told you and told you and told you, Abigail, that if you like your comfortable situation here, you'll start taking my orders."

Abigail's response was unintelligible, but once again the first speaker's words and tone tolled like a slow, swinging bell. "I don't care what Mr. Wade likes. He isn't here. I am, and I don't like chicken tasting of anything but chicken." She stepped onto the path, still speaking. "I'll return in an hour, and if you've put those herbs with the poultry -- oh!" Her threat ended in a gasp. She pressed a hand to her heart. Her features suddenly looked more pinched than delicate.

"Good morning, Mary Beth," Wade said.

***

"You've got to help me." Christina didn't care how desperate she sounded as she faced Mark and Felice. She was desperate and they were her only hope. "I need to leave England immediately, and I don't have the money."

"Immediately," Mark drawled. "Rather like the way you sent Wade off?"

"I had good reason." Christina relinquished more of her pride. "He'd have stayed in England, in danger, waiting to see if I am...enceinte, then would have insisted on marriage. I couldn't let him stay in danger like that."

"Regardless of his feelings?" Felice asked. "Ma chere, that is not the decision for you."

"Whether I was wrong in what I did or not isn't important now. I still need your help." Christina swallowed the last of her pride and admitted, "If you don't help me now, I may not get another chance to get away. I came straight from my father's study, so they didn't have time to stop me. But if I return to the Keep, Father will lock me in my room until I agree to wed Sir Roderick." She didn't need to pretend distress. Silent tears coursed unbidden down her cheeks. "Please."

"Where will you go if we help you?" Mark asked.

Christina closed her eyes, praying as she answered, "Italy, I think. I speak fair Italian and think I can get work interpreting for the English there."

"Your French is good, too," Felice said. "You could go to New Orleans and interpret for the Americans, who now think it belongs to them. And I can give you the reference letters."

"No." Realizing the single word was harsh, Christina added, "Thank you, but I'd rather remain on this side of the Atlantic."

"Why?" Mark demanded. "Have you a reason to stay as far away from Wade as you can?"

Christina feigned incomprehension. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Mark bit out, "that if you're increasing, he has a right to know."

"I have more a right to keep my -- " Too late, she realized the trap. She bowed her head. "It's true. I'm certain of it. But I don't wish him to marry me simply because I'm increasing."

"Cherie," Felice said with gentleness, "he loves you."

Christina shook her head. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. "He doesn't. He still loves...her." She made the last word sound like a curse.

Mark and Felice exchanged glances. In the little she'd seen them over the past six weeks, Christina had noticed how they'd learned the silent communication of couples who understood one another. That mute communication struck Christina with a loneliness she'd never experienced in her life. It was a communication she could have had with Wade. But she'd given it up for a freedom that no longer seemed the bright, shining lodestar for which she'd struggled all these years.

Damn you, Wade Montrose, for being the one man I can love.

"How will you get away?" Mark asked. "Your father will no doubt send men out searching for you as soon as he knows you're gone. He'll look in the ports first thing."

"I know." Christina composed herself. "There are plenty of smugglers going out from Clovelly. If one will give me transport over to Cork or down to Brest, I can take a Mediterranean-bound packet before one of Father's men discovers my direction. But if I book passage on a ship bound for America from Plymouth or Bristol, Father will think I've gone after Wade."

"That will be expensive," Mark said.

Christina met his gaze. "I know, and I may never have the money to repay you, not with a child to raise."

"Bah to that," Felice cried. "You saved my life and the lives of mes enfants. That is more than any money can repay." She scowled at Mark. "And don't you the contradiction give me."

With a rueful smile, Mark stood. "I wouldn't dare. And now we'd better waste no more time. Have you baggage?"

Christina shook her head. "I came away with some necessities, but it's only a bandbox full."

"We have the trunks," Felice said. "And there's the gown you wore the night of the birth. Dauphine has cleaned it. You may have my fur-lined cloak. It will be short, but warmer than that pelisse. And the provisions for the ship journey." She clapped her hands. "Vite, vite, we must hurry."

They hurried. With every sound outside, Christina expected to hear pounding on the door and her father's demand to search the house. He couldn't without Mark's consent, but he could order his men to wait for her to emerge.

Swiftly, Sumner brought a trunk from the attics. Dauphine packed linens, blankets and a gown. Cook stuffed in parcels of tea, chocolate, and preserved fruits. Felice brought the fur-lined cloak. At the last moment, Mark emerged from the library and laid Mary Hays' six volume history of women on the top.

The gesture made Christina cry. For the first time in her life, she flung her arms around Mark and kissed his cheek.

Blushing, he hugged her back, then pushed her gently away. "You'll get more from them than either Felice or I will. Hate to see something wasted sitting on a shelf."

Christina picked up his brusque tone. "I'm glad to see you do have a tender side. Perhaps you won't call me Lillith now."

"That is not a nice name," Felice said. "He will not use it around me. You are my dear friend and I will miss you always."

"And I you." Christina hugged Nanette close, then, gladly, responded to Mark's command to run out to the carriage.

How Mark would find a smuggler in Clovelly, Christina didn't want to know. That he could she didn't doubt for a moment. Nor did he fail her. In a blessedly short time, she stood on the swaying deck of a single-masted lugger heading for France. Mark would, he promised, book her passage on the first America-bound ship leaving Plymouth. Not until he had gone back ashore and out of reach, did Christina realize she hadn't made him or Felice promise not to tell Wade about the baby or her destination.

They would, she did not doubt. But they couldn't tell him where she was going since she didn't know for certain herself. Destination wasn't important. Getting out of England was. Otherwise, she never would have entrusted her safety to smugglers who were likely not the gentlemen they were called in the trade.

Because she knew sailing with freetraders was a risk, she had armed herself with a dagger from Mark's supply of weapons. She kept it concealed beneath her skirt with the belt containing the precious coins Mark had given her. Thus far, however, the crew of the lugger seemed polite enough. As soon as they left harbor, one man suggested she go below.

"It'll be a right bad night, ma'am."

Christina glanced toward the quarterdeck beneath which the cabin could be nothing less than coffin-sized, and shook her head. "I'd rather take my chances on deck. I'm not much for confining spaces."

She caught a flash of white teeth in the darkness. "Me neither, ma'am. 'Tis why I choose the seafaring life. One day I'll save enough for a real ship to sail the ocean."

"That's a good dream," Christina said.

"Ar, he ain't naught but dreams," another sailor said in a Somerset accent so thick Christina could barely understand him. "Who wants 'go see they savages across t'sea?"

"Oh, go on with ya, Norton, they ain't all savages," the first man protested. "Think of our friend -- blast your eyes, man, you made me drop me work."

Having heard the clatter of something striking the deck near her feet, Christina stooped to pick it up. It felt smooth, like highly polished wood, and its shape was oddly familiar.

"I have it," she told the man. "What is it?"

He shrugged. "Naught but a bit of carving."

"It feels like fine carving." Christina placed the piece in the man's hand. "What wood is it?"

"No wood," the Somerset man said. "We learnt t'carve in bone, 'efore we run off from guard duty at t'prison."

"Prison?" Suddenly, Felice's cloak felt like a mantle of ice. "What prison?"

"Dartmoor," the first man said, "where I learned all Americans is savages."

"And we wasn't," the second mans said, "when we shot 'em down like plovers? 'Tis why we left, ma'am. Get hanged if we get caught from leavin' t'regiment, so we've naught to lose smugglin', ya see."

"I do." More than she liked. "So, did many persons in the prison carve from bone?"

"Yes'm." Somerset or Dreamer? Who answered didn't matter. The answers did.

"The guards?" she persisted. "Surely the prisoners weren't allowed knives."

"Aye, but they were," Somerset answered. "Carved they little boxes and they model ships t'sell for ale and meat."

They sold their work, so that meant her suspicions were groundless, didn't it?

She leaned against the rail, gripping its pitted surface with all her strength. "You're so clever to have learned to carve. Did you learn from one of the prisoners?"

"Yes, ma'am, he did." It was a new voice, a new accent, an accent she recognized. "I taught them while I worked on my masterpiece, the Nemesis."

CHAPTER 19

"Wade?" Mary Beth sounded as though she doubted the evidence of her eyes. "What in the world are you -- that is, we didn't expect -- you didn't tell us to expect you." She concluded her muddled speech on a note of accusation.

Wade gave her a level look. "The last I knew, this is my home. That means I should always be expected."

"Yessir, it do," old Abigail said through a broad grin. "I'll be puttin' that rosemary with the chicken I'm roastin' for dinner. Yes, I will." Bobbing her turbaned head, she retreated back into the kitchen.

Behind Wade, Nanette snickered.

Mary Beth shot her a withering glare. "Who are those...persons? Am I supposed to feed and house them at a moment's notice? Wade, this is really too unkind of you."

"And this," Wade responded, "is too uncharitable of you."

Had she always been so rude to servants or those of a lesser social position? His gaze dropped from her taut face to where her high-waisted, full-skirted gown failed to disguise her increasing belly. Or was her irritability due to her condition? Wade glanced at the other servants crowding the kitchen doorway. "Will one of you fetch Mr. Will wherever he might be? Camilla, take Nanette and Ned here to the guest cottage and see they have all they need to make themselves comfortable."

"And you, sir," Obediah said, striding from the kitchen, "go make yourself comfortable and I'll bring refreshments."

"Thank you." Wade turned to Nanette and Ned. "The guest cottage is the original house. It's your log cabin, Miss la Rue, but much finer inside nowadays than it looks from outside. I trust you'll be comfortable. Just ask Camilla for anything you want."

"You are kind to your servants," Nanette said. "It is good. So is my lady."

Wade understood she didn't mean Mary Beth. Her lady was Christina, who had never, at least in Wade's hearing, been unkind to someone less fortunate.

"How can you simply send Camilla off with those people?" Mary Beth demanded. "I need her."

"No, ma'am, you don't," Wade said. "You need to come in to the house and talk to me before you do anything else."

"Well, I never!" Mary Beth's protruding belly robbed her flounce of effectiveness. She didn't look like a young girl any longer, capable of appearing charming even in a fit of temper. She resembled a matron trying to look like an indignant ingenue.

Had her shock at seeing him not compelled Wade's half-dormant suspicions to rear their heads like the Hydra, he might have pitied her. As it was, he only pitied his brother unless...

He clamped his thoughts down on that. Not that again. Christina had persuaded him Will wasn't necessarily involved even if Mary Beth was. Now, walking into the house he and Will had grown up in, he wanted more than ever for Christina to be right.

Ahead of him, Mary Beth opened the door to a first floor parlor where a banked fired glowed on the hearth and new yellow curtains hung over the windows. The sofa and chair cushions were new, too, Wade noted as he paused in the doorway. Cream and yellow striped silk upholstered the furnishings, replacing the faded but comfortable coverings his mother had embroidered to pass the time while his father helped keep the British bottled up at Yorktown a lifetime ago.

"What did you do with them?" Wade demanded.

"Do with what?" Mary Beth settled onto a sofa.

"The cushions."

She grimaced. "It was so embarrassing to entertain with those old things here, I had them burned."

Wade gritted his teeth. "Will let you?"

Something flickered in Mary Beth's pale eyes. "He was away in Richmond when I decided we needed change."

"We," Wade repeated. "You do refer to the three of us?"

Mary Beth lifted her gaze to Wade's face. If he'd seen a hint of guilt once, defiance now replaced it. "I didn't expect you to come back here. After all, it has to be so humiliating for you to have everyone in the Tidewater know you wanted me and I wanted your brother instead."

"And for that," Wade said with the conviction of a revelation pouring through him from heaven, "I can only thank God for my deliverance."

How had he ever thought he loved her? How had he ever thought her beautiful or kind?

The answer was simple -- he didn't know Christina then. In England, far away from everyone he knew and everything familiar, facing the not so veiled hostility of the British people, he had clung to memories of Mary Beth, exaggerated those memories into what he wanted them to be as an aging soldier clings to past glories he never really knew.

He never knew Mary Beth at all, certainly not as he knew Christina. With Christina, more than their bodies had touched. They had known -- how had Shakespeare said it: the marriage of two minds --

If the marriage of two minds in addition to easy friendship and blazing passion wasn't love, then love didn't exist.

"I didn't mean that quite the way it sounded," Wade told Mary Beth. He could afford to be generous with her on this score. "It means that it's fortunate you love my brother and not me because I love someone else." It felt so glorious to say it, he had to reiterate his revelation. "I love an English lady."

Mary Beth narrowed her eyes. "Does she have a name? Or are you simply making this up?"

"The important question is," Will spoke from the hallway behind Wade, "does she love you?"

"Yes," Wade answered with complete confidence. "I'm going back for her as soon as I can. But there are matters here that need settled." He stepped into the room so Will could enter.

His brother looked wonderful. If Mary Beth failed to treat the servants well, she seemed to make her husband pleased with himself. His gray eyes were bright and clear with none of the shadows beneath he'd brought back from the war. Fashionably short, his dark hair lay in crisp wind-swept waves, and his coat and breeches fitted him with the smoothness of good tailoring.

"You look fit to conquer the world." Will held out his hand. "It must be the conquest of an English heart that did it."

"Whereas you've taken the Belle of the Tidewater," Wade returned.

Will's grip was so firm on his hand, Wade couldn't believe his brother wanted less than his safe homecoming and happiness.

"I just wish he'd told us he was coming," Mary Beth said.

"Never you mind no fatted calf, m'dear." Will crossed the room to smooth a gentle hand across Mary Beth's hair. "You know Wade never wants ceremony over anything. And Abigail will see that dinner is a veritable feast."

"With all those herbs that hurt my stomach," Mary Beth complained. "And what people will think about the three of us living here together, I don't know. It seems indecent. He really should go stay somewhere else."

"This is his home, love." Will's voice was steel-lined velvet. "I've always made that clear to you. If anyone must move, it'll be us, not him."

"But I don't want -- "

Will touched a finger to her lips. "Why don't you go upstairs and rest before dinner?" He drew her to her feet. "Come along. I'll play lady's maid." Guiding his wife toward the door, he smiled at Wade. "I'll be right back."

With a hollow ache Wade recognized as longing for his own lady's love, Wade went to build up the fire.

Obediah entered, scolding him for dirtying his hands and placing a tray of refreshments on a low table. "I thought as how Mrs. Will would be off to her bed, so I brought the brandy instead of tea. Thought you'd be wantin' it. There's ham biscuits, too."

"Thank you." At the sight of food, Wade realized he was ravenous. He sat in a chair beside the table and selected a biscuit filled with ham, cheese, and watercress. Munching slowly, he waited for his brother and thought of Christina.

Her three-month deadline would be up by now. But she wouldn't need a husband. He had saved her from her father forcing her to marry Sir Roderick. What would she do? Stay in England? He hoped so. If she left, he would have the devil of a time finding her. Of course, Mark and Felice would know where she was. He could count on them keeping him informed. And when he found her, he would do whatever he must to convince her he loved her, adored her, wanted her more than anything.

How soon could he leave?

Will's reentrance into the parlor reminded Wade he had other business to take care of first. He couldn't marry Christina when someone wanted him dead. He saw that now. She was right in that, too. He needed that matter gone before he was free to offer her a future.

***

"Cedric," the name sighed out between Christina's lips. She forced firmness into her voice, straightened to her full height, at least two inches taller than him. "You're not dead."

"No thanks to Wade Montrose," Cedric responded in that drawl so like, yet unlike, Wade's.

Christina barely managed to keep her voice steady, free from expressing her outrage. "I believe," she said in an imitation of his drawl, "he's still alive no thanks to you. For your sake, it's a pity you're such a poor shot and planner."

To her consternation, Cedric laughed. "Lord, but you're a cool one. No wonder you two survived the sailboat. But there's no hope for him now that I have you."

"I see." She was cool all right, freezing to her marrow. Only with supreme willpower did she stop her teeth from chattering. "And how may I help you, sir?"

"You're the pawn I've needed to finish the game." Cedric caressed her cheek. His fingers felt as cold as she imagined a corpse's would be. "I've been watching you for weeks, waiting for my chance. I got it tonight. Or did you think you'd accidentally stumbled onto my boat?"

She hadn't been wondering about that at all. She was too busy keeping calm, thinking of a way to escape him.

She smiled. "You finally got clever, is that it?"

His hand dropped to her throat in a silent threat.

She made herself laugh. "You won't kill me. A dead pawn won't do you any good, will it? And, of course, you want to tell me exactly what you intend to do with me. Or is it more important to brag about how you got me here?"

His hand relaxed. He moved in close, encircling her waist with his arm. The two smugglers grinned at them, then turned their backs, busying themselves with lines and tiller.

For days, Christina believed the nausea of her condition was behind her. Cedric's nearness brought it back with a vengeance. She swallowed hard, unwilling to let him see any weakness or guess she carried Wade's child.

"So how did you find out about tonight?" she made herself ask. If he talked, she would have more time to think, to plan.

He chuckled with the timbre of supreme, self-satisfaction. "Wade only believed the story I'd died because he wanted to. I was the biggest mistake he ever made, and he's hated me for it. But not as much as I've hated him since you damned English locked me in that hell-hole at Dartmoor. I've had two years to plan. Him coming to England made it so easy. But you got in the way too often, so now you'll pay by making things easy again."

Christina clutched her churning stomach. "Please, sir, make sense. You can't possibly know anything about me. And you couldn't have known about the sailboat. We were alone."

"Ha!" Cedric laid his hand over hers. "You two weren't alone as often as you thought you were. When I wasn't on this boat I purchased with money Montrose sent me, I was living in your summerhouse, watching." He moved his hand down. "Watching everything. I could have killed him then, but I thought you might be capable of shooting me before I reloaded. So I waited and watched."

Christina remembered feeling eyes watching her the night she returned home through the woods after Felice's confinement. It hadn't been her imagination. Cedric had been there in the boathouse she wouldn't enter because it was too small and dark, like a cell. He had been there when she and Wade made love by the lake. The thought of a witness to those private moments banished her illness with a surge of outrage.

"You're disgusting." She spat the words at him. "Do you have to watch other's loving because you can't get any for -- "

He slapped her across the mouth. "Shut up or I'll get it from you."

Christina licked blood from a split lip and managed a sneer. "But then Wade won't want soiled goods."

With the words, she understood her role. Cedric had waited for the opportunity to take her and use her as bait to lure Wade. He would come to her rescue, Christina knew as well as Cedric must. Wade would come and step into a trap unless she could find a way to prevent that trap from closing on him.

"Maybe I'm the one who doesn't want soiled goods," Cedric said. "Especially not Montrose's leavings."

Christina projected all the contempt she could into her tone. "Leavings is right. He left me after he tired of me."

"Oh, no, you don't, m'dear. I know what you did to him. And you'll regret taking him out of my way so easily."

"It couldn't have been so easy since you failed to kill him three times. What makes you think you can use me to draw him and kill him? He might kill you instead."

"Barehanded?" Cedric snorted. "He's not that much of a man."

"More of one than you are."

Cedric raised his hand to strike her again. Prepared, Christina ducked. Cedric's arm swung past her head. Christina shoved her shoulder into his gut. It felt like striking a board, hard and unyielding, a mistake. His other hand slammed onto her shoulder, shoving her to her knees.

"Norton, Fitz," Cedric commanded, "bring a rope."

Like obedient hounds, the two smugglers leaped across the deck. One seized her hands and tied them. She pretended not to resist, holding her wrists limp in the hope the man wouldn't tie the line too tightly.

"Put her below," Cedric directed.

Below. The hold or the cabin? Either would feel like a tomb. The cabin might give her access to escape.

And how will you do that? she asked herself as Norton dragged her backward toward the companionway ladder. You can't go into the sea. The cold will kill you. You've got to stay awake for Wade's sake.

She stumbled down the short ladder, landing on her knees. Her head struck the table. Dim lantern light, dark furnishings, a curtained stern window spun past her vision. She didn't need to pretend a faintness that collapsed her onto her side.

The man left her there. She heard no door close. Cold air rushed into the cabin, assuring her she wasn't trapped. She wasn't too much of a prisoner. Only her hands were tied. The ropes felt tight, but any binding felt tight to her. She could work the rope free -- somehow.

Slowly, she rose to her knees. When she tried to stand, her skirt got in the way. Without her hands, she couldn't free her feet from the folds. She was trapped after all. No wonder they didn't bother to tie her ankles. Her own clothes imprisoned her. She couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. Icy wind sucked air from her lungs. The cabin spun again as if the boat lay in a whirlpool and she remained motionless, a captive at the vortex.

She screamed.

"Stop that noise," the command came from a long way off, barely audible.

She kept screaming.

A pounding noise sounded -- where? Inside her head? Above her head?

Pain lanced through her temple. Pounding came from inside her head. Silence reigned everywhere else. No screams, no whirling cabins, no voices. Blackness. Cold. A single thought, Wade, I've failed you.

***

"I do apologize for Mary Beth's behavior," Will said, sitting opposite Wade. "She isn't sleeping well now that she's in her seventh month."

Wade arched his brows. "Seventh? I asked her to wed me in May. Surely she must have known by then."

"Well, yes." Will flushed. "I didn't realize she -- that is, she only intended to -- don't look at me like that."

"Like what, baby brother? What you sound like, a schoolboy explaining why he hasn't done his lessons? Or maybe one who's done the wrong lessons?"

Will rose and poured himself a generous measure of brandy. "I feel like the worst kind of clod. What I did was unforgivable. It's just that one tends to think with one's nutmegs more than with one's brain, when around a beautiful woman."

"I understand that weakness."

Will gave Wade a sharp glance. "You do?"

"Do you think I'm celibate still at twenty-eight?"

"No, but -- Lord, I don't know what I'm saying."

"You don't need to say much," Wade assured him. "You saw in Mary Beth what I failed to see and take advantage of. She wanted passion, not politeness."

"But I should have told you!" Will sank onto his chair. "I knew how you felt. But it had been going on for months, and I couldn't figure out how to do it. I thought Mary Beth would tell you when you offered for her. Instead, she sent you off to England with the idea she would marry you on your return. The day you left, she informed me I was going to be a father. Of course I married her, not that I hadn't been asking her since the first night. But she wanted to wait for Cedric's return. But the baby changed all that. Then she used you to go fetch Cedric. She said it was the least you could do for her after ruining her brother." He shook his head. "I tell you, she's fortunate I'm not a violent man."

But was she a violent woman? Or one who condoned violence in the right situation for the right reason?

A chill running through him, Wade poured himself brandy and drained the glass in along, shuddering swallow. It burned down his throat, but failed to dissolve the ice in his belly.

He forced himself to speak as if nothing was wrong. "I never had a chance with her after Cedric's...behavior."

Wade hadn't realized how tense his brother was until he saw Will relax. "I'm so glad you figured that out for yourself. It's damned awkward. But she says she'll forgive you for my sake."

Wade scrutinized his brother's face. "Are you sure?"

Will scrutinized him back. "I don't think I like your tone. What are you implying about my wife?"

"Nothing, I hope." Wade meant every word. "It's just that she seems...hostile to me."

"Uncomfortable's probably a better word." Will's laugh sounded a touch forced. "None of us likes being faced with someone we've wronged."

So much so that the wrongdoer would get rid of the wronged?

Wade hated the question. He hated what he had to say, to ask, to discover whether true or not.

Wade took a deep breath, feeling as though he was about to plunge head first into freezing water. "I'm a touch edgy these days." He paused, choosing his words with care. "There've been some incidents lately. While I was in England, someone made three attempts on my life."

"Holy God!" Will shot to his feet. "Wade, you should have told me at once. What happened? Those damned English. Haven't they killed enough of us? I'm writing Senator -- "

"Hold up, Will." Wade raised his hand in a staying gesture. "I don't want an international incident made of this. We've had enough trouble with England without more starting over me." He hesitated only a moment before adding, "Especially when I have no proof it was an Englishman acting out of spite."

"What else would it be?" Will demanded.

Wade met his brother's gaze. He read only concern in Will's eyes. Relief achieved what the brandy had failed to do -- partially. The rest would depend on whether or not Mary Beth was involved. And how did he ask his besotted brother if he thought his wife capable of planning murder?

"What is it?" Tension had returned to his brother's body.

Wade set his glass down, picked it up again, drank, set it down once more.

Will leaned toward him. "Wade, what's wrong?"

Will's concern bludgeoned Wade's conscience. How could he hurt, even alienate his brother with suspicions that had no basis in proof?

Because now that he loved Christina, he wanted to live. Will would recover from hurt. Wade wouldn't recover from murder.

"I'm the clod for thinking it," Wade began, each word an effort. "Forgive me, Will. After I received Mary Beth's letter saying you'd married, I couldn't help wondering if she might have sent me to England for more than her brother's sake...I'm sorry." He couldn't continue.

Had Will flown into a temper over Wade's implied accusation, he might have been able to continue. But not now with Will staring at him with horror and a white line around his mouth.

"And I'm your heir if you're not wed," Will said. "Holy God, you must have gone through Hell."

Wade was going through Hell at that moment.

"Christina told me I shouldn't think it of you," Wade said, then realized how it sounded.

Will turned his back on Wade and stood before the fire, head bent. "No, you shouldn't have thought it of me. But I understand why you did. I'd taken your lady, why not your lands and wealth...and life." He shoved his finger through his hair. "It wouldn't be the first time a brother killed a brother." He sighed. "Or a brother's wife perpetrated the murder, I imagine."

"I shouldn't have accused her either," Wade exclaimed, feeling his brother's pain.

"But maybe you should have." Will swiped his hand across his face. "It makes too much horrible sense. She wouldn't wed me. She sent you to England. She was so obviously disappointed at your homecoming. And now Cedric's latest letter says he has unfinished business in Eng -- "

Jumping up, Wade grasped Will's shoulder, spinning him around. "What did you say?"

Will straightened. "I said Cedric -- "

"Cedric is dead. The guards -- "

"Were wrong. We heard from him just days after you left. He'd bought his way out of prison and got a lugger to earn more money smuggling and get to his prize money in France somewhere. He said he'd return when his business was finished. Now that business -- "

"When did you hear from him last?" Wade demanded.

Will rubbed his chin. "Two weeks ago."

"Two weeks?" Wade reeled with shock. "It's not possible."

"I can show it to you."

A letter. Two weeks ago. Four to six weeks in transit.

"He likely sent it before I left England," Wade mused aloud. Dear God! Was Christina right after all in forcing him to leave?

Wade sent her a silent apology for all the names he'd called her.

He returned his attention to Will's stricken countenance, to his own danger. "His business could have been seeing me dead first."

"Surely not." Will looked away. "Though he does hate you. And Mary Beth -- " He raised a hand to his face again, but not before Wad caught the shimmer of moisture in his eyes. "You think Mary Beth sent you to him, don't you?"

"No, Will, she couldn't have known." Wade didn't believe his own protest, but he couldn't bear to see his brother suffer.

Will smiled. "Still trying to protect everyone, aren't you? Well, brother, now it's someone else's turn to try to protect you. I'll take her away."

Wade started to agree, then shook his head. "No, I'd rather she remains here. If she's innocent, we'll know. If she's not, I'll know exactly what she's about."

"Wade, you can't -- holy God!" Will's gaze flashed past Wade's shoulder.

Wade turned.

Mary Beth stood in the doorway, all color drained from her face, her hand gripping the frame. "If my brother wants you dead, Wade Montrose," she said in a voice as hard as Blue Ridge limestone, "I'm glad I did send you his way."

CHAPTER 20

Christina woke to motion, light, and pain. The motion was gentle, more like that of a boat at anchor than at sea. The light was dim, misty morning gray through a small, round opening. Noise permeated the air like a miasma of sound, clangs, bangs, and raucous shouts, intensifying the pain radiating throughout her body.

Reflexively, her hand went to her belly. The thickening she doubted anyone but she noticed, was still there, firm and, yes, pain free. Assured her baby was safe for the time being, she focused on the source of the pain.

Her head, of course. Someone had struck her head with what had surely been an anchor, but was probably a fist or belaying pin. An inspection told her she had a bruise the size of a lemon behind her right ear. Blood matted her hair.

The blood was dry, the wound scabbed over. She must have been unconscious for hours. Long enough to get the lugger where?

Cautiously, she sat up. Her entire body rebelled at the movement. She forced back the discomfort, the agony, and pushed herself to her feet. Only when she stood gripping the edge of the porthole did she realize her hands were no longer tied.

Nor was she aboard the lugger. Through the thin mist, she caught sight of choppy, gray water, the ghost image of another ship, a longboat full of sailors rowing toward her.

"So where have you brought me, Cedric Randall?" Her voice was a croak. She swallowed against the dryness.

England had so many harbors. She could be in Bristol, Plymouth, Falmouth, Helston. The harbor didn't matter; the ship's destination did. No, what mattered most was getting free, getting to Wade first.

Could she call to the longboat?

No, the porthole was a circle of glass not made to open. Of course not. Cedric wouldn't have left her alone and unbound if it did. She could break the glass. That would draw attention. But if she failed to make the sailors hear her or if they ignored her, she might freeze with the air blowing in. With the porthole appearing to drop her straight into the water, she couldn't go that way either, even if she could squeeze herself through.

Above anything, she must stay alive, even if that meant biding her time.

"Wade, how can I wait, knowing you might die because of me?"

Her legs shook. She wanted to lie down on the bunk and weep. She couldn't waste the time. Now, in harbor, might be her only chance for escape.

She examined her surroundings. She wished she hadn't. With escape on her mind, she hadn't noticed the cabin's smallness. It was worse than the lugger's cabin, a prison cell, a tomb.

A scream rose in her throat. She forced it down. She had light. That must be enough. Focus on the light.

She staggered to the door. The handle was smooth, cool, and solid beneath her fingers. She gripped it like a tiller steering her to safety, though she knew it wouldn't turn.

Except it did. The handle pushed down. A latch clicked. The door opened.

Stunned, Christina stared at the passageway beyond. Narrow, it boasted two other doors and an open companionway ladder. Something had either gone wrong with Cedric's plans or he was playing a dangerous and cruel joke on her.

Not daring to hope something had gone wrong with his plans, Christina stepped over the coaming that prevented seawater from spilling into the cabin, and, fighting the dizzying pain in her head all the way, half walked, half crawled up the ladder.

Cold mist washed over her face the instant she stepped from beneath the protective overhang of the quarterdeck. The chill blast felt like a tonic, clearing her head, dulling some of the pain. Swaying, she clutched at the ladder leading to the quarterdeck and stared around her.

Sailors swarmed through the rigging, tightening or loosening lines according to directions a man shouted from above her. More sailors stood at the capstan. She saw nothing of Cedric Randall, though she might not recognize him in daylight.

With a command through a speaking trumpet, the men at the capstan began a rhythmic march around the huge, wooden spindle. Their voices rose in a chanting song. Their feet slapped the deck. Ropes creaked. The ship listed as the anchor rose. Sails fluttered from their spars.

They were setting sail.

"Wait!" Christina tried to shout. Her voice was no more than a whisper amid the racket. She tried again without success.

She had to climb to the quarterdeck. The captain or supercargo would be there, an authority figure to listen to her.

Slowly, painfully, she climbed the ladder. When her head rose above the quarterdeck, she glanced around, half-afraid she would find Cedric waiting to grab her and lock her in the cabin. She saw two men slightly better dressed than the sailors or the man at the wheel. Which was the captain, she couldn't tell. She didn't care. With her last vestige of strength, she heaved herself onto the deck and moved toward the two men.

"Please help me." She tried projecting her voice with all her aristocratic accent. "I'm here against my will."

Both men looked at her with pity. "We understand, ma'am," the elder of the two said in an accent Christina recognized as American. "Now, you return to your cabin and lie down."

"But you can't understand," Christina protested. "I was abducted. A smuggler -- "

"That will do, ma'am," the same man interrupted. He laid his hand on her arm. His touch was firm. "We're busy now, leaving harbor, but we'll see you comfortable in a few minutes."

"But, sir -- "

"Ah, Mr. Randall." The man's glance shifted past Christina's shoulder. "Your wife has awakened. Will you see to her comfort?"

"Yes, Captain, I'm very sorry." Cedric's drawl grated on Christina's ears like a steel file. "Sorry to bother you."

"We understand," the captain said.

"No, you don't," Christina protested.

Cedric's arm clamped around her waist. With gentle force, he propelled her back to the ladder to the maindeck, then down the second ladder to the minuscule cabin. He didn't speak until the door closed behind them and she dropped onto the bunk more from need than compulsion.

"He won't listen to you, you know," Cedric said with maddening calm. "They all think you're mad."

Realizing how she must look with her crumpled, dirty gown and matted hair, Christina supposed they did believe her mad regardless of what Cedric had told them. Disturbed, she glared at the man she would have recognized in a minute in daylight from Wade's description of Mary Beth. His ice-blue eyes and golden hair were startling against his tanned face.

"I'd have locked you in the minute we reached Bristol, but the captain won't let me," Cedric continued. "It's a matter of safety in the event of a wreck since the porthole doesn't open. But your only escape is jumping overboard, and you won't do that, will you? Not in your condition."

Reflexively, Christina's hand went to her belly.

Cedric laughed. "So, I was right. I'd only guessed that's why you were in such a hurry to leave England. How wonderful for my plans. Wade won't hesitate to rescue his pregnant lady."

Christina flinched at the vulgar word. She'd never heard it spoken in her life. It made her expectancy crude, not wonderful.

It made her situation sound as desperate as it was.

"You look awful," Cedric said. "Why don't you rest? That was a nasty blow Norton gave you. We're the only deck passengers, so I'm across the passageway. But it doesn't matter. You can't escape at sea."

"I will," Christina vowed.

Laughing, Cedric left her alone.

Christina lay back on the bunk. Her head spun less in that position. She could think. But of what? Cedric was right. A ship offered no means of escape. She would have to wait the four to six weeks it took to cross the Atlantic. Once on shore, she might have an opportunity. Her dagger no longer hung from her belt, but the belt was still there, concealing her only wealth in the world. Those precious coins might buy freedom.

But Cedric would be careful on shore. So she must make a plan now, before landfall.

It took her a week to find a solution. For the first two days, she slept, ate what a lad brought her, and slept again. By the third day, the dizziness faded and she went on deck for exercise. She wanted to keep up her strength. She wanted to be able to run when the opportunity arose.

Walking on deck wasn't pleasant. Ice-touched wind blew constantly, flinging salt spray over the rail in a frigid torrent. Sailors looked at her with contempt, pity, and even fear. She responded with a smile and friendly word. Most of them smiled back.

One day, when calmer weather allowed her to sleep later than usual, she went for her first walk of the day around noon. But a sailor stood at the top of the companionway and wouldn't let her past.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but the steerage passengers are having their noon meal."

"Steerage passengers?" Christina peered over his head to where four score men, women, and children gathered around braziers. "All those people are below decks?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"They must want to emigrate badly to suffer confinement." The idea brought her dizziness back with a vengeance.

"There's land for them in the Northwest Territory around the Great Lakes," the sailor explained. "Better than what they had."

"Yes, I'm certain it is. But the darkness! And some of those men are tall. They can't stand up straight, can they?"

"No, ma'am. That's why I'm glad to be short. Now, if you'll go below, I'll let you know when they're gone."

Christina thanked him and descended to her cabin.

The next day, she purposefully remained on the quarterdeck to watch the emigres. That night, she suffered her nightmare for the first time in weeks. It likely confirmed Cedric's accusation of insanity to everyone else aboard, but to Christina, it made her understand what she had to do.

The next day, when the steerage passengers came on deck for the one hot meal they were allowed to prepare each day, she told the captain she intended returning to her cabin. Instead, she gathered her cloak around her, making sure her bundle was safely concealed, and descended the ladder to the maindeck. Within moments, she stood in the midst of the reeking throng of emigres.

At first, no one took notice of her, then a boy about Robin's age tugged at her cloak. "Pretty lady, may I touch your fur?"

Christina looked down. He had huge, blue eyes like Robins. Tears filled her own eyes. She stooped to his level. "Of course you may, love. It's from a silver fox."

The lad stroked the fur collar with a grubby hand. "I ain't never seen a fox," the lad admitted. "Don't have 'em in Bristol."

"We have too many in Devon."

"We don't have no grass, either, but Da says we will in 'Merica. I want a goat."

Christina took a deep breath and plunged. "If you do me a favor, I'll see you have that goat. Go fetch your Da for me."

Eyes round with excitement, the boy raced off.

Christina remained in a crouch, shivering with the cold and what she was about to do.

"What are you about, Madwoman?" a loud, crude voice demanded.

Christina rose. Her eyes were on a level with the man's. "Look into my face and tell me you believe I'm mad, sir. I can assure you I'm not, even if that fool of an American captain chooses to believe it. He's been paid well. But I can pay you well to believe I'm as sane as you."

The man grinned, though his eyes were narrowed with suspicion. "You pay me well, and I'll swear you're Mary Magdalene."

Christina pressed one of her precious guineas into his outstretched hand. "I am Lady Christina Marlowe of Torr Keep, Devon. The man calling himself my husband has abducted me. He's going to use me to lure my lover to his death if I don't escape."

The man closed his fingers around the coin, but made no move to slip it into his pocket. "How can I help with that aboard ship?"

Christina's chest tightened so much she could scarcely breathe. "Take me -- take me below and keep me there. Say-say I have the fever or I'm...in female trouble, whatever you like to keep them away."

The man's brows arched. "That all?"

Christina gave him a jerky nod. Her heart raced so fast she couldn't speak.

"Another guinea if there's trouble," the man said.

Christina nodded again.

"When the word comes, then, your down. No word who helped you if it don't work."

Christina shook her head.

The man peered into her face. "You sure you ain't mad? There's children there. I won't have my boy hurt."

Christina forced herself to speak. "I love children."

"All right then." The man seized her elbow in an iron grip. A moment later, the command came for the steerage passengers to go below. "Tuck in that fur."

Christina obeyed. In what should have been one heartbeat, but what felt like half a dozen, she stood at the brink of the hatchway staring into a black hole. Hell, she thought. This is Hell.

But if descending into Hell was the only way to save Wade, she must do it.

The man lifted her over the edge. She dropped down, then down again. It wasn't far enough. She couldn't stand upright. She couldn't breathe. The deck smelled as though the lad had gotten his goat many times over. Above her, the hatchway slammed down. Darkness enveloped her.

She screamed, again, and again...

"Stop it." The man's hand closed over her mouth. Her guinea clicked against her teeth. She bit down on it, fighting for control.

But the screams continued.

"Stop her too," someone shouted. "Y'know we're t'be quiet. They'll not let us up tomorrow if she don't shut up."

"Yeah, Billy Thomas," a woman jeered, "and you try delivering' a baby in silence."

"Without a midwife," another woman said.

Delivery. No midwife. Bad luck for the woman. Possible salvation for Christina.

She pushed the man's hand from her mouth and returned his coin. The scream still hovered in her chest, waiting to explode. She pushed it back and said, "I've delivered two babies. Difficult births. Let me help."

***

Life at River Terrace was far from pleasant over the next several weeks. Wade hated watching his brother torn between love for his wife and outrage over her open hostility to himself. Mary Beth treated Wade as if he were a pariah, refusing to eat with him, leaving a room the moment he walked in, countermanding his orders to the servants. That the servants ignored her dictates, despite her position as mistress of the house, in favor of Wade's only made the situation worse.

Worst of all for Wade, however, was the fact he couldn't find a ship traveling to England. "Weather's too unpredictable this time of year," was the usual response to his enquiries. No captain bound for trading in the West Indies, especially now that the end to hostilities between England and France and England and the United States were ended, would accept no amount of money Wade was willing to pay to change their plans. Wade simply couldn't offer enough to counter what those captains could make trading along the Windward Passage, not to mention the milder weather during November.

As November slipped into December, Wade grew more and more restless. The estate kept him occupied as well as making plans with Ned for the horse farm and house along the Shenandoah. Work was no substitute for his desire to see Christina, tell her he'd been a fool, and that, most importantly, he loved her.

He worried about her, too. With her deadline passed, he didn't know what her father might do to her. Torr's political ambitions didn't include a wayward daughter. Might he lock her away instead of giving her freedom? If so, she might lose her reason before Wade reached her in the spring.

Then there was the problem of Cedric Randall. Wade wanted to find him too. Now that he knew Cedric was still alive, Wade didn't doubt for a moment that Cedric was behind the attempts on his life. He had the scar on his shoulder to prove Cedric wanted him dead. Why Cedric remained in England concerned Wade, too. Why, once Wade returned to Virginia, would Cedric have remained on the far side of the Atlantic? Twice, Christina had come too close to dying because of Cedric's ineptitude.

In the dark hours before dawn, lying wakeful in his lonely bed, the fear came to Wade that Cedric might want her harmed if he knew of her involvement with Wade.

Of course Cedric knew of it. If he had been lurking, watching, planning his next attack. He knew how much time they spent together. If he thought Wade would marry her...

"The way I see it," Wade told Will one afternoon in early December, when the blustery weather defied the fact that the Tidewater was hotter and steamier than a laundry house only three months earlier, "I will have to purchase a ship."

"That's a right good idea," Will said. "We have the three smaller boats. Why not start the Atlantic trade? If we took risks with the ice in the winter, we could do more than well."

"But it might take me months to find one."

"Maybe not. I'll make inquiries of my Yankee friends in Maine. They build good ships, those New Englanders."

Will sent inquiries to men he'd met while privateering during the war. Wade chafed under the inactivity. By the second week in December, he was ready to seek a ship himself, anything to be doing something other than the routine of planning next year's crops or studying horse bloodlines.

The letters arrived the day he packed to begin his quest in Baltimore. Obediah brought them to Wade's chamber with a flourish.

"Looks like they did come from a long way, sir."

"So they do." Concealing his excitement, Wade held the stained packets. He didn't quite recognize the handwriting on either missive, though the script on one appeared vaguely familiar, and the imprints on both red wax seals told their own tale -- a shield and a tower.

"This one's from Mark. And this one..."

Christina? No, the handwriting was definitely masculine.

Wade snatched up a letter opener from his desk and slit the tower seal in half. As he scanned the single page, part of his mind registered that Obediah left him alone. The rest of his brain tried to absorb the information his eyes took in.

If you ever return to England, I'll see you incarcerated for what you did to my daughter...Your philandering caused me to lose the best political advantage I ever hoped to gain...Without this alliance, those damned Whigs will get their reforms...

So her plan had worked. She had evaded an alliance with Sir Roderick.

But what had Torr done with her, to her? Incarceration for defying him?

Ready to resort to pirating a ship if Christina needed him to rescue her, Wade slashed through the seal on Mark's letter.

Wanted you to know, Mark wrote, Christina has left England.

Mark outlined the situation with maddening brevity. It was enough to tell Wade he might never see her again. If he reached England quickly, her trail might not be obliterated. But the longer he took to cross the ocean, the harder tracing her would be, especially since she'd escaped in a smuggler's boat of all things.

Lord, but that was just like her!

He smiled even as he felt like crying out in frustration. "If only I'd realized how I felt sooner! So much can happen to a female alone. And those smugglers!"

Realizing he'd crushed the letter in his fist, he smoothed it out and caught a line scrawled in the margin. I'm sending this by an American ship leaving Bristol for Baltimore in the hope you will receive it as swiftly as possible and come after that bothersome female.

Baltimore! An easy journey down the Chesapeake if a boat could sail in the current weather, which, of course, it could. A boat had gotten to River Terrace with the letter. One could get back. It was a faint hope the ship would return to England, but was certainly worth an attempt.

Wade snatched up his valise and headed to the stairs. As he started down, the front door burst open on a blast of wind-driven sleet. Three people tumbled through the opening, ragged people, a man, woman, and child, whose unwashed stench reached Wade twenty feet away.

Wade dropped his bag and sprinted down the steps. Obediah raced from the parlor. Will charged from the library. Shouts, a wail, expostulations erupted like gunfire, incomprehensible save for one line.

"Wade, thank God!" The woman flung herself against him.

Reflexively, Wade's arms closed around her, then tightened, recognizing the feel of her body and changes too, though her grubby face and matted hair belonged to a stranger. "Christina, I'd never imagined you'd come to me."

"I had to."

"But why are you -- "

"No time for explanations." She pushed herself away from him. "These people helped me escape Cedric. But he's coming. He wants to kill you."

Suddenly, silence fell over the foyer like a shroud.

"He's mad," Christina said as cool as river water.

"Ain't he just," the strange man muttered.

"My brother isn't mad," Mary Beth cried. "Not if he wants to kill Wade. He deserves it if -- "

"That's enough," Will barked.

"No, it's not." Mary Beth's voice rose to a shriek. "He's destroyed everything I ever wanted." Turning with amazing speed for her size, she trundled down the hall.

"The gunroom." Wade tried remaining as cool as Christina. "I need a weapon." He raced down the hall. As always, the door was locked. As always, Mary Beth held the key to all the house's rooms.

He glanced around, searching for her.

"Across the hall," Christina called.

Wade grabbed the knob of the library door. Locked. He pounded. "Mary Beth, let me have the keys."

"You won't kill my brother," she shouted back.

"Not if I can help it," Wade assured her.

Across the hall, Will kicked the gunroom door. It remained immobile, solid as the military magazine their father intended it to resemble.

"Mary Beth," Will called, "You can't help your brother harm Wade."

"I can stop him." She spoke between sobs audible through the door. "I tossed the keys out the window."

"I'll look for them," Will said.

"Not enough time," Christina protested. "When I say he's right behind me, I mean we could see his boat." She reached Wade and laid her hand on his arm. Her blue- violet eyes held shadows, and her hand shook. "The tunnel."

"Yes." Wade didn't know how safe the tunnel was, but he had to risk it. He covered her hand with his. "You stay here with Will -- "

"No, I've got to come with you." Her chest heaved under her torn cloak. "He'll use me to hurt you if I don't."

CHAPTER 21

The tunnel was her nightmare, a living, breathing monster waiting to swallow her whole. Not even four weeks on the lower decks of a ship prepared her for the maw of the underground passage gaping behind the screen of ivy Wade pushed aside. Wade's hand squeezed her waist, reassuring, tender enough to make her weep. "You'll be better off hiding."

How she wished it!

She shook her head. "No, I won't. I'll take no chances with that man. He's no fool."

"Even though I am. Oh, my dear -- "

She pushed him toward the tunnel opening. "No time for that now. We've got to protect ourselves."

"I wish you weren't right." Wade stepped into the tunnel, then held out his hand to help her over the rocky outcropping that served as a doorsill. "I don't even have a torch for you."

"I'm all right." She wasn't. The idea of stepping into darkness made her feel sick. Doing it drained the blood from her head. She swayed, reached out, touched a slimy wall, and didn't quite manage to stifle her scream.

Wade's arms closed around her again despite her stink and filth. "My dearest lady, this must be impossible for you."

"How touching," Cedric drawled from deeper inside the tunnel.

Wade spun away from her. "Don't do it, Cedric. You'll hang, you know."

"But you won't get to see it, will you?" Cedric moved closer. His dark clothes blended into the blackness behind him, but light from the opening glinted on his face and bright hair, making him appear like a floating, disembodied head. "But I'll make it fair. No guns this time. A shot might bring this tunnel down."

"He's unarmed," Christina protested.

"Too bad." Cedric lunged. Steel glinted in gray light.

Wade dodged the slashing blade, kicked, struck Cedric's belly. With a howl, Cedric swung again. He was slow, weakened from weeks at sea. Wade was fast. Not fast enough. Not against a ten inch blade. Not unarmed himself.

He needed a weapon, a fair chance. What? Her belt? Not heavy enough with the money mostly gone.

A roar of pain. Whose? Cedric's or Wade's?

Steel rung on stone. The knife lay at Christina's feet. She snatched it up. "Wade, here!"

Both men charged toward her, Cedric first in the narrow passage. She slashed at him. He caught her wrist, squeezed. The knife fell -- into his other hand.

Oh, God, she'd failed her one chance.

Cedric tried grabbing her again. She leaped away. Rock caught her calves. She fell back, caught at anything to stop herself. An ivy branch tough and supple slid into her hand, breaking her fall. She tugged. It remained fast.

Another cry of pain erupted from the tunnel. Frantic, Christina pulled again. Ivy was weak against a blade, but better than nothing.

The branch sprang loose, tumbling her to her knees. She pulled herself up and raced back into the tunnel. They were further in, visible through hints of light on blade, faces, Wade's white shirtfront. The blade lanced toward that white blur. Christina charged, whipping the leafy branch across Cedric's face. He howled and jumped back. She followed him, flailing the branch again, again. He struck out at her arm. Pain scored from her shoulder to her fingers. Her weapon fell. Sobbing, she dropped to her knees to retrieve it. A blow struck her head. Blackness enveloped her deeper than the tunnel.

"Wade, I've failed you again," she thought she cried out.

It became a litany in a maelstrom of pain, noise, cold. She wanted peace, comfort. She had to fight back the darkness -- get up, help Wade.

Hands stopped her. How could Cedric hold her down and fight Wade? Because he could hold her and Wade would do whatever he told him to do.

"Wade, I failed you." She sobbed like a child.

"Hush now." A strange voice murmured somewhere above her. Warm crockery pressed against her lips. "Drink."

She tried opening her eyes. They refused to focus. "Poison?"

The strange voice chuckled. "No, child, though it do taste bad. Just drink it and sleep."

She drank. She slept. She dreamed of monsters with tunnel-like mouths swallowing bodies. Wade's body.

She started awake. "Wade?"

"I'm here." His hand closed over hers. "Go back to sleep."

She did, dreamless sleep this time, and woke to sunshine that hurt her eyes and a throbbing pain in her arm. "Wade?" She turned her head on the pillow, seeking him. Her head felt strange, lighter somehow, but not dizzy. "Where -- "

"He fell asleep here, so I sent him to his bed," said a stranger who didn't quite sound like a stranger.

She turned her head the other way and saw a man who looked so much like Wade she knew him. "Will?"

He smiled. "Yes, ma'am. Shall I fetch him for you?"

"No, let him sleep. I just wanted to know. He's alive?"

"With a few scratches that don't amount to anything. But you! No wonder you caught his heart."

"I did nothing."

"Only saved his life nearly at the cost of your own." His face turned grave. "I'm so sorry."

"Why should you be sorry?"

"Cedric was my wife's brother."

"Was?" Christina seized the word. "He's dead?"

Will inclined his head. "Wade got the knife from him when Cedric stabbed you."

"I was stabbed?" Christina touched her throbbing arm and found the bundle of bandages wrapped above the elbow.

"Yes, ma'am. Went straight through. You fainted and struck your head on a rock."

She closed her eyes. "Clumsy of me."

The last thing she heard before sleep claimed her again, was Will's gentle laugh.

When she awoke again, fire and candlelight replaced the sunshine. She caught the cleanness of lavender, the sweetness of a flower she didn't recognize, and the fresh, outdoor scent that belonged to Wade.

"You're back," she murmured.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here when you woke earlier." He took her hand in both of his. "Are you feeling better?"

"My arm hurts."

"It's bound to. But Abigail assures me it'll mend."

She turned her head to smile at him, and again felt that strange lightness. She pulled her hand free from his clasp to see why. "My hair!"

Wade laughed. "You have a hole in your arm and countless bruises, but you're concerned about your hair?"

She struggled to sit up. "Who cut off my hair?"

"Nanette."

"How dare she! I declare I'll dismiss her."

"You can't. She doesn't work for you. Besides, it was necessary."

She glared at him. "You've a nerve saying that when your hair's five times longer than mine now."

"Yes, dearest, but curls suit you better than they do me." He smoothed his hand through the ringlets clustered around her head. "I'm afraid you had some unwanted visitors."

"Oh!" She grimaced.

Wade sat on the edge of the bed and slipped an arm beneath her. "Bly and Dicken told us what you did on the ship."

"They helped me." Christina rubbed her arm. "Will they be all right?"

"Yes. I'm helping them settle on land in the Shenandoah Valley. Ah, Christina!" He sighed as if feeling a heavy burden. "To imagine you, of all people, living below decks for five weeks, knowing how you feel about confinement...How can I ever express my gratitude?"

"I don't want your damned gratitude." She meant to sound belligerent. She started to cry. "I was so awful to you."

"It doesn't matter now. You're here." He lay beside her and drew her against him. He stroked away the tears from her face. "Let me hold you while you sleep."

Sleeping against him felt as natural as breathing. Waking up to more sunshine and an empty bed felt worse than the Hell of life below decks.

"Where's Wade?" she asked of the room in general, not seeing anyone, but smelling fresh bread for the first time in weeks.

"He's gone to do all those morning things men do," Nanette answered.

Christina pushed herself upright with the aid of her good arm. "Where the deuce -- oh."

Nanette stepped from behind the open wardrobe door carrying a gray silk dressing gown folded over her arm. "It is Mr. Wade's. I have shortened the sleeves and hem. You have no clothes, you understand. That awful man threw your things overboard in a fit of temper when those people told him you'd died of the bleeding. You were clever."

Christina's hand went to her belly. "I'm sorry that other woman miscarried and died, but, all wrapped up in an old piece of sail, no one knew it wasn't me. But, Nanette, I delivered a baby that lived. Isn't that wonderfully unladylike of me?"

"Not unladylike in this land. Plantation mistresses are supposed to deliver babies with doctors and midwives so far away. La, but it is vast, this country!"

Christina looked at Nanette through a glaze of tears. "I'm not likely to ever be a plantation mistress."

"But of course he'll ask you to marry him. He adores you."

"Is that enough, when I'm all wrong for him?"

Nanette laid the dressing gown on the bed. "There's the baby."

"He knows?"

"Don't be une imbecile. How could he not when he carried you up here and helped us undress and bathe you?"

"Of course." Christina closed her eyes against a maddening urge to weep. "Duty, honor, and all that rot."

"Ah, bah!" Nanette stamped her foot. "I have brought you tea and fresh bread. You finish those and I'll make you presentable for Mr. Wade. He will be in soon, the poor man."

Christina took the teacup Nanette handed her. "So you've switched loyalties."

Nanette said nothing for several moments, then, her head bowed in abnormal humility, said, "I would rather be your friend than your maid, my lady. It is possible here with Ned and me to be married after Christmas and Ned manager of an entire farm. The class lines are not so thick here."

"But, Nanette, you've always been my friend. I had to treat you like a servant or my father would have dismissed you."

Nanette raised her head and smiled. "Now no one can dismiss me. I will be a wife and mother and sell my lace to bring my family here. There is much land beyond the mountains."

"And you'll be hundreds of miles away."

"But no. You will come to the mountains in the summer, Mr. Wade says. It is much healthier there than here. Now, eat."

Christina ate. Then she submitted to Nanette's ministrations with her cropped hair, the painful struggle into the dressing gown, and a more comfortable position against a mound of feather pillows.

Nanette placed a book on her lap. To Christina's amazement, it was the first volume of Mary Hay's history.

"I thought Cedric destroyed all my things."

"It seems he could not destroy books," Nanette explained.

"There must have been some good in him then. And his sister loved him."

"Oh, that one!" Nanette grimaced. "She is the viper to everyone except Mr. Will. I do not wish to say the nice things about her, but I think she truly loves him." She snatched up the tray. "Now then, I hear Mr. Wade."

Christina heard him too, his voice outside her door, low, indistinct, but his.

Christina's stomach clenched.

"Read your book," Nanette said, then whisked out the door.

A moment later, Wade opened the door and stood looking at Christina. Their eyes met and held. She read nothing but concern in his. "May I come in?"

"It's your house." Now, why did she have to sound so contentious?

He didn't move. "I don't make a habit of walking in rooms uninvited in my own house."

"Only in other people's houses?" The sardonic remark reminded her of the night in her room, the dressing table, the bed, the hearth rug. She forgot the pain in her arm in a wave of desire so strong she nearly groaned aloud.

Her face must have given something away or her words reminded him too, for he closed the door and came to sit on the bed beside her. "You look wonderfully better."

"I can't imagine looking worse."

"Or smelling worse?"

She stared at him. "I can't believe you just made such an ungallant remark. Do you know how impossible it is to keep clean on a ship? Especially below decks?"

"Or sane?" He lay his cheek against hers. "How did you manage?"

"I kept myself busy. I delivered a baby. I taught the children lessons. Oral lessons. Even if we'd have chalk and slate, we couldn't have used them in the dark. But I recited every poem and Bible verse I could remember and had them memorize them too. I told them all the stories I could remember you telling me about Virginia and the rest of America. I thought of you, what I'd done to you, why I was there." She turned her face so her lips met his.

With a low groan, he kissed her, tentatively at first, then with a hunger that matched her own. Gently, not jostling her bandaged arm, he slid his arms around her. When he would have pulled away, she slid her hand into his hair and held his head still, prolonging the contact as if it could last forever.

Laughing he drew away. "I'm afraid this is getting painfully frustrating, knowing I can't have more."

Christina touched her tongue to that cleft in his lip she loved so much. "No, I suppose I'll be inept until my arm heals."

"Longer than that, I'd say." His eyes shone more gray than blue, dark gray. He lay his hand on her lower belly. "Why did you lie to me that night in your room?"

Christina touched her tongue to her own lower lip. "I didn't lie."

He brushed his fingertips over the burgeoning roundness. "I told Abigail you couldn't be more than three months along. She said it was at least four. But you told me you weren't increasing."

"I told you it wasn't necessary for you to marry me."

"You knew what that implied to me."

She turned her face away from him, stared at the fire. "I didn't want you to think you should marry me then simply because I'm enceinte, any more than I do now."

"And of course, in your version of Samuel Johnson's dictionary, there isn't another reason." His voice remained quiet, but anger vibrated through it. He released her, but remained close. "When you ran away from your father and Sir Roderick, were you coming to me?"

Her lips formed the word, "no," but nothing came out. She shook her head.

"Italy, was it? Or someplace further away so I'd be less likely to find you?"

She swallowed. "Away was all that mattered."

"Except away to America."

"No, not here."

With an oath, he left the bed and began prowling the room.

She watched him, loving his grace, loving the shining fall of his hair, loving him. Her heart ached with a thousand things she needed to tell him, but her mind refused to form feelings and thoughts into coherent words.

At last, he faced her, his eyes bright with anger. "Did it never occur to you that I had a right to know about my child?"

"Your child!" Her own ire flared. "Why is it your child, when I spent two months of my life casting up my accounts at least once a day and feeling like I was about to the rest of the time? When I am the one who's had to give up riding and hasn't the energy to do it anyway? Is it the farmer who plants the seed who has a right to the crop? Or does it belong to the one who nurtures it?"

"It was my seed."

"And it's my soil."

They glared at one another for a moment, then, abruptly, Wade smiled. "And do you plan to give birth to wheat, barley, or rye?"

Christina laughed. "Oh, Wade, I do -- "

"Love me?"

"Don't be so sure of yourself."

"Why not? You admitted it the night you drugged me."

"More fool I."

"I don't know about that." His voice turned caressing. "Do you love me?"

"Yes, d-damn your eyes." Her voice broke.

"Since when?"

She stared down at the quilted, satin coverlet. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

"Why? Do you think it makes me more amenable to your honorable proposal of marriage?"

"I haven't offered you marriage since you so definitely turned me down with laudanum in my wine and a voyage back to Virginia."

"So you haven't. How fortunate for both of us." When she wanted sarcasm, it failed her. She sounded petulant.

"Honor hasn't gotten me very far." Wade smiled. "So now you know I don't intend to make you another honorable offer, you can tell me when you first loved me."

Looking at him, so calm, so -- yes, damn him -- self-assured, Christina couldn't lie. "It started the night I met you. But I didn't realize it until you lay in the ha-ha, dying for all I knew. After that, I couldn't -- I no longer wanted to-to -- "

"Use me?" Wade suggested.

Shame burned through Christina for having even tried to use him. "I'm sorry."

"But not sorry enough to not go ahead with your plans?"

"I made love with you that night because I loved you."

"Then promptly ran away." He laid his hand on the door knob as if intending to leave. "You made me disappear the second time. Getting your own way was your only objective, regardless of who you hurt."

"I only hurt your pride," Christina lashed back. "You didn't care about anything from me but an outlet for your lust. You were still head over ears for that witch who almost got you killed."

Wade inclined his head in concession to her accusation. "Yes, well, men tend to be fools about at least one or two females in their lives. But you and Mary Beth have given me a tremendous education in these past few months. I've learned the difference between appearances and reality, and I don't mean looks. I mean the difference between thinking a woman is the right one with whom to spend my life and one I should forget as soon as possible." With a swift, heart-rending smile, he left the room, left her.

To forget her as well as Mary Beth?

As the rest of that day slipped by and the next followed with no sign of Wade coming to see her, Christina decided that must have been what his speech meant. She had pushed him too far. Likely learning that she had intended to keep knowledge of the baby from him had been the final straw, the coup de grace to any hope of his loving her.

The third day he didn't appear, she swallowed her pride enough to ask Nanette where he was.

"He has gone to Williamsburg."

"Where is it?"

"Down river. It is perhaps the size of Clovelly. Charming, I think, in this rustic, American way."

Christina waved her arm to encompass her surroundings of walls papered with Chinese prints, carpeted with a Devonshire Wilton, furnished with delicate, cherry furniture. "You call this rustic? It's far more comfortable than Torr Keep."

Nanette beamed. "Is it not? I said when we arrived that this is a home for raising children. Now, I am forgetting. Mr. Will has invited you down for dinner if you're well enough. They have trunks of fabric in the attics, so I have made you a gown. It is the silk most fine and will show your figure to advantage."

"While I still have one?" Christina asked.

Nanette grinned. "It is not proper, but I think, perhaps, for this household, you will wish to flaunt the signs of le petit enfant, n'est-ce pas?"

Thinking of having to sit at the same table with Mary Beth Randall Montrose, Christina answered with an emphatic, "Yes."

The dress was lovely, too, Chinese silk as fine as gauze in midnight blue veined with gold thread. It didn't show off the small bulge of a belly if she wore her petticoat, so she left it off. Nanette produced a pair of flat, kid slippers from the attic also, and wrapped a strip of the dress fabric over Christina's bandage. With gold ribbon threaded through her curls, Christina descended to the ground floor.

The first floor, she reminded herself.

She wanted to take time to examine the stairway, the rooms she passed, everything in this house where Wade had been born and raised and would probably die. But she heard voices in one of the chambers, so stepped through the doorway.

Mary Beth sat directly opposite the door in a blue cushioned chair that matched her eyes. She looked so much like her brother, Christina recoiled.

"I'd run away too," Mary Beth said, "if my gown showed I should have been married several months ago."

Christina bared her teeth in the parody of a smile. "About two months later than you?"

"At least I am married," Mary Beth returned. "But that's probably because he was certain it was his ch -- "

"That's enough, Mary Beth," Will broke in. "More than enough. Miss -- Lady -- Christina is our guest."

"Wade's guest, you mean." Mary Beth was really too old to pout, but she did and rather prettily.

Christina moved forward to take Will's proffered hand. "Thank you for the invitation to join you for dinner. I need to stop lazing about in bed."

Mary Beth snorted. "It seems to me -- "

Will shot her a glance. "We are always polite to guests, especially ones who save my brother's life."

"I did very little," Christina protested.

Will smiled. "Then I'd like to see what you consider a great deal."

"I had help."

"So did Hercules."

"And he had to perform extra tasks for it," Mary Beth pointed out. "Yours will have to be spectacular if you're to get Wade to marry you."

"At least I'll know he didn't marry me to give my baby a name." Christina faced Mary Beth in time to see the arrow strike home. A touch guilty, she added, "But since he hasn't locked you away for what you did, I must presume he loves you."

A single tear slid down Mary Beth's cheek. If she'd burst into tears, Christina would have believed them false. But that single tear touched her heart, and she dropped to her knees beside Mary Beth's chair.

"I'm sorry," she said with sincerity. "I'm forgetting that Cedric was your brother and you loved him."

Mary Beth nodded. Another tear splashed onto her folded hands. "He was wicked, but he was good to me. I didn't want him to die. I didn't want Wade to kill him. Wade -- " She swiped her hand across her nose like a child. "He came home and made Will think I helped Cedric. I wanted to kill Wade myself for doing that to me."

"Ah." Christina patted Mary Beth's hand. "But you only sent Wade after Cedric so you could marry Will without too much scandal."

Mary Beth's eyes widened. "How did you know?"

Christina sighed against a burden of regret. "I sent Wade away so I could make sure I didn't marry. The poor man. I hope he's gone to Williamsburg to visit another, more worthy lady."

And she'd scratch the woman's eyes out if she ever met her.

"Actually," Will said, "he's home."

Christina would have shot to her feet if she weren't still weak. "Where is he?"

"Dressing for dinner. Didn't Nanette tell you?"

"No, the minx."

"And I didn't go to visit a lady either." Wade strolled into the room. He looked wonderful in blue silk coat and breeches that almost matched her dress. For the moment, his hair lay neat in its queue, and he carried a cloak and a greatcoat over one arm. He came close enough to raise her hand to his lips. "You look cold, Christina. Why don't you wear this." He swung the cloak around her shoulders. It was gray velvet lined and edged with matching fur.

"I'm not in the least cold," Christina said. Having him near, having him touch her, made her warm. "It's almost like summer here."

Wade pulled the hood up around her face. "But not outside."

"Outside?" Christina felt stupid repeating the word. "But dinner?"

"We're going to dinner somewhere else."

"Oh, well..." Flustered, a glimpse of Will's grin making her suspicious, Christina reluctantly let Wade tuck her hand into the crook of his arm and lead her outside.

The air was cold and crisp. Before them, down a cascade of landscaped terraces, the river gleamed beneath a full moon, and a boat bobbed at the landing.

Wade started down the steps.

Christina lagged. "Where are we going?"

Wade said nothing until they reached the middle terrace, where sat a wrought-iron bench painted white. "This is where I proposed to Mary Beth and she sent me to England. It was a nasty trick, but I can't be angry with her for it." He faced Christina and tucked his hands inside her hood. "Can you tell me why?"

Christina looked at him and saw him as she had that first time, a faceless barbarian with his size and his hair already tumbling loose. Longing, hope, uncertainty clashed, rendering her speechless.

He kissed her, a mere brush of his lips on hers. "Shall I tell you?" Before he did so, he led her to the next terrace, then the next, directly above the boat landing. He stopped and took both her hands between his. "If I hadn't gone, I'd have never met you and realized the difference between an overgrown boy's infatuation and true love."

Christina caught her breath. "When?"

"Probably the night I met you. It took me until I got back here to realize it, which proves that men aren't smarter than women."

"So you forgive me for shipping you home?" she had to ask.

"I do, but even if I hadn't yet, I would have forgiven you anything after you went through Hell to save my life."

"I couldn't let my baby's father die."

"So it's your baby now?"

"I'm sorry. It's yours too. It's-I -- " She took a deep breath. "Wherever I go, you may see it whenever you like."

"Wherever you go. That's what I wish to discuss with you."

Christina's heart clenched as if it too squeezed back a sob of pain, of disappointment.

She made herself sound matter-of-fact. "I can go to the Shenandoah with Nanette and Ned. There're towns out there. I can teach."

"An expecting, unmarried schoolteacher? I don't think so."

"I'll pretend I'm widowed. Who's to know the difference?"

"I will." His tone was sharp. "Do you think I repay the debt of my life by sending you into near wilderness? Lord, woman, you almost died for my sake."

"It was my choice. You owe me nothing."

"But I want to offer you something. What you've always wanted -- your chance at freedom."

"I see." He was going to buy her off like any man dismissing a mistress.

The pain in her chest was almost more than she could bear.

"One reason I went to Williamsburg was to see my lawyer. I had him draw up two sets of papers. One set makes you my business partner. You may go to Richmond or a larger city like Philadelphia if you prefer, and set up any business you like. It's not easy for single females here trying to make money in a business, but they've done it since the colonies were settled, so a determined woman like you will succeed. I'll give you all the backing you need and, of course, separately, help with support for the child. In exchange, I'll receive a percentage of the profits. That's negotiable between us."

"That-that's very generous of you."

"But?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You don't sound pleased with that arrangement." He sounded annoyed.

Something inside Christina snapped. Jerking her hands free, she shouted at him, "I don't want your bloody generosity. I want you! But you stand there and tell me you love me, then push me away with your gratitude."

"Christina -- "

"Don't. Don't apologize." She sniffed indelicately. "I've only myself to blame for turning down your first proposal, when I knew I loved you. My pride wouldn't let me and now your pride won't let you make me another offer."

He cupped her chin in his hands. "My love, I never said I wouldn't make you another offer."

"You did."

"No, I said I wouldn't make you another honorable offer. So I'm going about it dishonorably."

She blinked back tears. "What are you talking about?"

"The other set of papers I had drawn up." He kissed her again, less lightly this time. "A marriage contract giving you half my land and wealth -- and half the responsibility for both, I must add -- the day you marry me."

"But -- "

"I haven't asked? That's the dishonorable part. I'm not going to ask this time." With little warning of his intention, he picked her up and headed across the boat landing.

"What do you think you're doing?" she demanded, half-laughing, half-fuming.

He set her on the deck of the pinnace and leaped after her. "I'm doing what I should have done four months ago." He made a gesture and three men appeared to untie the boat and set the single sail. "I'm taking you to the nearest priest. It's not Church of England, of course, but it shouldn't matter."

"It doesn't, but -- I mean -- " She glanced at the grinning sailors, then the minuscule cabin. It looked like shelter, not confinement. She darted into it.

Wade followed, closing the door. "Do you want to refuse?" He wrapped his arms around her and drew her against him. "I'll let you go if you do. The other offer is still open."

He meant it. He would see her into independence if she chose. He would give her as much time as she needed to make her choice. But as she slipped her arms around him, she didn't need time to think at all.

"How far is it to the nearest priest?" she asked.

"An hour downstream." He tightened his hold. "My dearest lady, are you certain?"

"I'm certain." She kissed him, not in the least lightly. "I never thought I'd say this. I never thought I'd even think it. But with you, I no longer wish to be unmarriageable."

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