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Almost Taken
by Isabel Mere
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Romance/Historical Fiction

Highland Press
www.highlandpress.org

First published in 2007, 2007

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

Almost Taken

Isabel Mere

Highland Press

High Springs, Florida 32655

Almost Taken

Printed and bound in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system-except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web—

without permission in writing from the publisher.

For information, please contact

Highland Press,

PO Box 2292, High Springs, FL 32655.

www.highlandpress.org

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

ISBN: 978-0-9787139-2-8

PUBLISHED BY HIGHLAND PRESS

Dedication

To Doris Bardon, who spent her life improving our world and challenging all she knew to do the same.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Rich for listening

to my musings.

Senior Editor—Patty Howell

Junior Editor—Linda Fellows

Senior Copy Editor

Monika Wolmarans

Chapter One

London, 1825

I have not come this far simply to drown.

Bursting through the water's surface, her stomach sickened by the foul smell of the River Thames. Her pulse thumped in her ear as she strained to hear if they'd kept up the chase. She reached for the pylon she'd been near, but her fingers closed on nothing but oily water. I couldn't have floated that far from the wharf! Not daring to risk being above the water's level too long, she grabbed another lungful of noxious air, and went under.

Fingers searched frantically, but found no hold. Clinging to the fetid air in her lungs, she kicked and spun around. Hair whipped across her neck, legs tangled with her dress. Don't panic, she thought, scraping the hair away. Makes fighting harder and death quicker. She was a strong swimmer. Her father had taught his children how to manage the rough seas of the Welsh coast. But remaining silent and unseen in murky waters, encumbered by clothing, was a great challenge.

With no choice but to draw in more air, Ava resurfaced. Laughter reached her ears. Behind her. From the wharf? Treading water, she rotated, searching for the source, but the dock's pale lights were cloaked in thick fog. Relief washed over her—if she couldn't see the wharf, then no one could see her. But she couldn't stay in this reeking, cold water much longer. Her skin was numb and her feeble kicks barely keeping her above water. Heavy clothing and aching legs made the effort increasingly difficult. She spun around, gulped another deep breath of air, then submerged. Stroke, kick, kick harder, Ava. Don't panic. Remember what must be done. You will find them.

Her arms dragged her exhausted body through the dense black. Holding her breath, an eternity passed. Still nothing. Nothing but water, bone cold water. She must resurface. Had she gone far enough? In the right direction? Dearest God, how much longer could she stay in...

A hand clamped around her ankle and wrenched her backward. A scream trapped in her throat. No! They'd followed ... all this time ... no! She kicked harder, but the grip tightened. Desperate for air and freedom from her attacker, she punched out, twirled around to face her enemy and slammed into a pole. Nearly gasping in a mouthful of water, she spun away, again colliding with the pole. Furious, she grabbed it with both hands. It wasn't a pole, but a rope. The wide, thick rope of a moored ship. Nor was a hand grasping her ankle—her dress had twisted around the rope. She'd moved farther from the dock, but in the wrong direction. She was in the loading area. She'd either drown from being wrapped around a blasted boat tether or be crushed below a departing ship.

I will not ... will not ... die ... Ava gathered her strength and snatched a handful of her dress and tugged. The cloth clung like a greedy leech. A pair of torches heated her lungs, the need for air immediate.

As she fought to win her submerged battle she prayed for her family's forgiveness.

* * * *

“Not that my opinion matters one whit to you, Atherton, but the woman hails from notoriously dark lineage. She will ruin your good name."

“You are quite right, sir.” Deran's fingers tightened around his glass. His expression remained bland. “Your opinion interests me not the slightest."

The evening would have been better spent at home and he wished he'd conveyed his regrets to his host. But he'd already done so twice. Another would be viewed as impertinent, if not disloyal.

Impertinence would put him further out of favor with the pretentious lot.

Henley, for example, sat here going on about Mrs. Rena Timmons, Deran's participation in the conversation unnecessary for Reginald to maintain it. The man could speak vapidly at length without a rejoinder. Another body sufficed for Henley to proceed.

“Tongues will wag at tomorrow's breakfast tables.” Reginald took a noisy slurp of his drink. “With your name flapping at the tip of each one. Bad enough you danced with her, but to leave with her? Have you no care for your reputation, sir?"

“Apparently not as much as you.” Deran smiled wryly. “I escorted her to her carriage. As any gentleman would if asked.” Being a gracious companion, Mrs. Timmons then extended the request to include a predawn assignation at her home. All in all, a supremely satisfying evening.

“She is a widow, self-made, if you listen to the gossip."

“I do not."

“You might reconsider doing so. Why, just yesterday, Priscilla confided Mrs. Timmons was seen at Regent Park alone and in half-mourning apparel."

Deran swallowed the ire rising in his throat. “Your sister knows a multitude of remarkable characters, Reginald. She's added spies to her list of reprobates, has she?"

An undignified burble filled the private library. “Sir! My good sister's generous, selfless nature aids the penurious citizens of London."

Generous indeed, Deran thought. No good deed of hers went unnoticed. Priscilla Henley would never be reputed for deliberate benevolence without recognition. Tired of this exchange, Deran set his wineglass on the table.

“You must excuse me, Henley. I have an early morning appointment."

“No harm done, eh, Atherton?"

Deran paused, a practiced smile raising the corners of his mouth. “None whatsoever."

* * * *

He couldn't sleep, his mind unable to snuff out Henley's conversation and other gossip. Things said about him didn't concern him, but what was said of the small number of people he considered close acquaintances did. Tarnishing reputations due to an association with him was undeserving and unfair. And very much the way of London's Society.

Deran contemplated studying some documents. Nothing generated drowsiness as well as the tedium of reviewing business accounting matters. The clatter of a carriage and droning voices interrupted his thoughts.

Angry voices.

Deran rose and went to the window. Three, maybe four people stumbled past a hackney cab two doors from his home.

As he considered how best to spend these waking hours, there was a soft knock at his door. He crossed the carpeted floor and swung it open.

“Bickford?"

The man inclined his head. “I am sorry to wake you, my lord, but there is a matter requiring your attention."

A brow hiked. “A matter? At this hour?"

“I fear so, sir. It cannot keep until morning. It could, but doing so would not be beneficial to our continued good health."

“Damn it, Bickford, do not speak in riddles. Out with it."

“Certainly, sir.” Serving his lordship for numerous years, Angus Bickford never had occasion to utter these words and clearly found them distasteful now. “There is a woman, sir."

“A woman? Who?” Not Mrs. Timmons. Although brazen, surely not enough to appear at his townhouse in dead of night. Mrs. Wintry was a possibility, or Chivra Lund. Spectacularly audacious. One of her more tantalizing attributes.

Bickford gave a lamentable look. “No one I know, sir. She appears to have been, er, dredged up from water and is dripping in the entryway. Three men, her escorts, are unwilling to leave until they speak to you."

Anger at his household's inconvenience swiftly replaced anticipation.

“I most certainly will speak to them.” He snatched his dressing gown and stormed from the room. “They have imposed themselves and wrongly so. It's likely they meant to call upon another household."

“They specifically asked for you, sir."

* * * *

At the front entrance Deran pulled in a sharp breath and immediately wished he hadn't. A strong stench filled the hall. The woman watered the fine Asian carpet, hands behind her back. Two men of dubious character stood on either side of her, each holding one of her arms while maintaining considerable distance from her body. A third man behind her peered over her sodden head.

Deran eyed the filthy quartet.

“What is the meaning of this?” He pointed to the taller man in the back. “You. Who are you and who is this woman?"

“Name's Curt, guv'nah,” he replied cheerfully. “'N we sorry for wakin’ ye lordship, but we brung this chit we found tryin’ to steals from yuh, she was."

Deran looked at the woman. Her small stature belied the claim of womanhood. Sopped clothing hung like dank drapery on narrow shoulders revealing little in the way of a feminine figure. With head bent low, chin to her chest, hair hanging to her waist in seaweed-like twists, it was impossible to discern more.

“What do you mean, stealing from me?” Deran felt a dull ache at the back of his head. Bad judgment, having that second glass of port, tonight of all nights. He glowered at the man who'd spoken. “Explain yourself or I shall send for the constable."

The man nearest dragged his cap from his head. “She was ‘tempting ta board one of yer ships, cap'n. By way of the river, she was."

“The river? She was swimming near the docks?"

The taller man shrugged. “Weren't swimming, no. Thrashing like a hooked cod, more like. Got ‘erself tangled in ropes what anchored yer crate."

Deran didn't own crates. He owned freighters and barges. Ignorance and deplorable grammar. His mood grew fouler.

The woman visibly shivered, but kept her head bowed. She shifted slightly, the first reaction to being held captive. The man yanked her back, making contact with her. He grimaced.

“Beggin’ yer pardon fer the smell, guv'nah. The wench sicked up on ‘erself when we dragged ‘er in. That ‘n being in the river ‘n all."

The odor was horrific. Deran's stomach had begun to revolt. The river was a public sewer. Why anyone, much less a girl, treaded through its repulsive depths was beyond him, and he had no desire to know. Yet, for reasons he couldn't fathom, he was reluctant to release her to these men until he knew more.

“You witnessed her attempting to board one of my barges?"

“Dangling from the moorin’ rope, she was. Workin’ on ‘oisting a scrawny leg up and over."

Sputtered laughter rose from the indecorous male trio.

Deran looked at her feet. A boot was missing and the small foot was bare and covered with grime. He skimmed the limited length of her, noting the tattered dress. Made of what appeared to be unadorned muslin, its skirt was torn from one side of its bodice and flapped against her thigh, revealing a transparent chemise beneath. A large tear at the knees exposed pale, bare skin.

Something wrenched at Deran. She could do nothing about her awkward state of dress and he had the sudden urge to cover her, to protect her from the eyes of these men. Ridiculous notion. She was undoubtedly a runaway or a renegade, turned out from a respectable post and had stooped to thievery to support herself. She was the constable's problem, not his.

The decision made, he looked to the grizzled man. A soft moan broke the silence, and the girl raised her head.

Deran's heart stopped at the sight of her face, white as fresh parchment, smudged with mire. Cords of thick hair clung to wide cheekbones. Pleading eyes as green as spring grass gazed at him. He swallowed slowly, suddenly willing to hear the words that would leave her lips, lips that, although a shocking blue-gray, were a lovely shape.

His eyes, focused on her mouth as she opened it, suddenly flared in anger. As he closed the distance between them, she jolted back.

“What is this?” Deran bent to peer at her throat, nearly reeling from the odor. A distinct swath of raw skin ringed the slender column. “You restrained her with a rope around her neck? She's a mere wisp of a girl."

Frantic looks were exchanged. The men denied such action.

“The wench is meaner what you can tells by lookin’ at ‘er, cap'n. Put up a fight, she did. We tied ‘er ‘ands is all. Din't wan ‘er takin’ off ‘for we could get ‘er ‘ere."

The decision Deran now contemplated had his heart beating erratically. It would dramatically change his meticulous life—temporarily.

Temporary loss of reason as well, no doubt.

“Leave her. I will see to the consequences of her offense."

Needing no further encouragement, the men relinquished their hold. For a span of seconds she stood unaided, confusion knitting her forehead, before she sunk in a soggy heap to the floor.

Chapter Two

Mairwen. Dear sweet Mairwen, asking for her. I'm sorry, little one. I tried, please believe me. You think I have abandoned you, but I have not.

Water on her face shocked her enough to gasp. It filled her mouth, clogged her nose. She gasped for air, some relief, some hope.

Ava's eyes flew open, arms whipped in the air. But there was no water, only air so golden it had to be the sunrise.

She stiffened, and quickly closed her eyes again, the dream skittering away as she struggled to assess her surroundings. The smell struck her first. The clothing she'd paddled around the Thames in seemed heavier than before. The tall, angry man, whose home she'd been dragged to, had sent her to the authorities. Yes. Of course. I am in prison.

Ava pulled in a resigned breath. I will endure it. I will get out, I have done so before, I will...

Another scent reached her. Firewood. And the crackling? She'd never been in jail before, but doubted prisoners had the luxury of fireplaces. But the sound...

“You are awake, then."

The guard. He'd come for her. She sat on a hard chair, the heaviness laying on her was a wrap. Wool. Warm. She recalled when she'd thrashed awake her arms were bare. Dear heavens. She'd been stripped naked in prison. She wanted to ask about her situation, but the pain in her throat stopped her. With shaky fingertips she touched her neck.

“I would appreciate an explanation for your behavior and the accusations made against you."

Ava turned toward the voice. The man who'd come crashing down the stairs. He filled the expanse of a wide chair, flickers of light splashing across one side of his face. Dark hair, dark eyes? Impossible to tell in the obscured light. But the unfavorable expression on his brow wasn't difficult to see or judge.

She wasn't in prison, but with the man who would put her there.

Unable to determine what clothing she was or wasn't wearing, she carefully kept the wrap close to her body. She sat up slowly. Her head whirled, stomach lurched. If she could only be rid of this atrocious smell.

The man didn't move. He might have been a statue lounging in the chair, one leg hung over the other, near enough to show a glint of firelight on polished boots. He wore light colored breeches and a white shirt buttoned to the throat.

Despite the casualness of his dress he looked commanding. Ava swallowed carefully and opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't utter a word. Her mouth snapped shut, she pointed to her throat and shook her head.

“What? You cannot speak? Or will not?"

She frowned, made a slashing gesture with one hand.

“Cannot speak."

She nodded.

“A temporary condition. From the...” He stopped, looked into the fire. Ava saw a pulse at his jawbone. He was angry with her.

Ie—yes— she could hear the slam of the prison door.

He spoke to the flames. “Mrs. Larue, my housekeeper, removed your garments. A bath is being prepared in the kitchen. This would have been done sooner had you been conscious. Nearly drowning once today was enough. Only Mrs. Larue will attend you as the hour is late and my staff have been inconvenienced enough. After your bath you will be brought back here to answer my questions. Is that understood?"

Shocked by a man, a perfect stranger, speaking to her about her attire and bathing, she was fairly certain it was bad-mannered. But, under the circumstances...

Ava nodded, but he hadn't been looking in her direction. He did so now.

“I asked if my directives were understood?"

She nodded hesitantly.

He regarded her with neither anger nor interest.

“What is your name? Or is that not something you can voice either?"

She shook her head quickly, raised both hands and with an index finger, drew the letters of her name across the palm of the other hand.

* * * *

The thin, older man who'd opened the door strode several feet ahead of her. Ava hurried after him, tripping over the heavy blanket. She had no time to take in her surroundings and was glaringly aware of her immodest state amidst the sedate fineness of this household. The room she'd been in was larger than any she'd ever seen, with abundant bookcases and dark, imposing furnishings. Her bare feet sunk into soft carpet and cool, polished woods, not the rough planking she was accustomed.

In the kitchen she was delivered to a pointed faced woman with graying hair. She stood alongside a tub in front of a broad stove, a cloth draped over an arm, a bar of soap in one large hand.

The woman's mouth curled in derision, cold blue eyes hardened with annoyance.

“Don't just stand there, missy.” Her voice was as pointed as the rest of her. “The master says you're to have a good scrubbing while he decides what to do with you.” She signaled to the blanket. “Get to it. I've other duties to tend to besides you."

Despite her vulnerable position, Ava felt a rush of anger. She'd survived enough hate in the past month to last three lifetimes. It hadn't been her choice to be brought here, wherever here was. She'd done nothing to warrant this woman's disdain.

Ava hiked her chin and released the warm wrap. The housekeeper gave her another disapproving look and ordered her to take off the chemise. Ava expected her to turn, but she didn't.

“You do it, or I do,” the woman said impatiently. “Makes no never mind to me. Don't think I won't tear it off your hide myself, and lord help you if I do. If there's anyone who needs a good thrashing, it would be you, girlie."

How dare you talk to me like that! Ava's eyes broadcast as she ripped the soiled chemise over her head. Determined to conceal her embarrassment from standing naked before another woman, she stalked to the tub, stepped in and gasped.

“Sit. The scalding'll do you good."

Ava lowered cautiously, the heat prickling her skin. But the pleasure of the warmth nearly melted her. Hot water. Hot, clean water. She longed to soak up the luxury, let the comforting heat seep into her bones and drench her muscles. But Mrs. Larue had other ideas.

“Close your mouth, missy.” A bucketful of tepid water streamed over her head. She sputtered in shock. Her hair was tugged aside and the brush set to her back. Ava gripped the edge of the tub, readying herself for the pain to follow. She heard the woman suck in a sharp breath. Ava waited for questions, but none came. Grateful, she shut her eyes and mind to the inevitable pain of the brush's harshness and Mrs. Larue's certain admonishments, but neither came. The brush clattered to the floor and a soft cloth replaced it. Ava succumbed to the rough washing. When her back, shoulders and arms had been scrubbed, Mrs. Larue shoved the soap in Ava's hands.

“On your feet. I've not washed a woman's privates and not intending to start now."

The humiliation Ava first felt returned. Keeping her back to the housekeeper, she washed quickly, wishing the soap had a scent to it. But clean was clean, unlike the water she stood in which was the color of strong tea and stank of the river.

A towel was thrust at her.

“Out. There's the hair to do yet."

Ava wondered if the woman was always this shrewish. She obeyed the order to kneel at the tub. Head bowed, another bucket of water was poured.

Mrs. Larue tsked and mumbled under her breath as she grated the soap through the thick strands of hair.

“Won't be clean enough with it dipping in the bath water. Ought to take scissors to it."

Ava jerked her head up, eyes wild. She shook her head violently, sending a shower of water across the room.

“Have a care, girlie. ‘T'aint me who needs the bath.” She shoved Ava's head back down. “No one here will harm you."

When finished, Ava was given a dressing gown. A much taller woman obviously wore this. A Mrs.? Mistress? Mrs. Larue informed her there was no comb or brush about.

Strict instructions to sit and not leave the kitchen were given as Mrs. Larue tidied the room.

“Bickford will take you to his lordship.” She departed.

Ava sat on the stool, shivering. The dressing gown was comfortable, but offered no warmth. Mrs. Larue had taken the blanket. Probably to be burned. The heat from the stove was nice.

The anxiety the bath had eased was short lived when recalling Mrs. Larue's last words. His lordship? God help me, I am in the wrong with a man of the Aristocracy. Had the men who brought her here used a title when they spoke to him? Ie, they had. The pounding in her skull grew again. He believed her a thief and would insist she hang for a crime she didn't commit and couldn't disprove.

This was the most dire circumstance to date. Would all she'd been through for her family end here? By her death over a false charge? It could not!

Ava leapt up, her mind grasping at any proposal for escape. But how far could she get? No clothes, no money, no means of travel. Where would she go?

She paced, devising another plan. She'd return to where her search started, but keep better watch this time. Clothes could be found, money earned, travel paid for. Determination would be her constant companion.

Another door was at the farthest wall. Did it lead outside? She sped across the room, stopped and listened for sounds. Nothing. Holding her breath, she turned the knob and nearly screamed when it creaked. With her heart pulsing in her ears, she turned the knob again. It didn't move. Locked! A strangled cry bubbled out. She looked around frantically.

There must be a key nearby, where...

A cough froze her in place. “This way, miss."

She spun to face the houseman, butler, whatever he was called. His face remained as expressionless and inviting as a wall of briars.

* * * *

The straight-back chair was gone. She didn't dare sit on the settee or formal chairs. Everything about the room intimidated her. Even the stone fireplace, but its warmth beckoned her. She knelt in front of it, pushed the sleeves of the dressing gown up and raised her palms to the low flames. The heat was sedative, breathing through her fingers, caressing her face, kissing her shoulders and neck, stroking her hair. She closed her eyes and smiled for the first time in a long while. Welcoming the comfort, she leaned against the chair facing the hearth, and laid her cheek on the padded seat. Delicious heat. She'd been cold for so long.

Deran closed the door forcefully to gain her attention, and crossed to the chair opposite the one she propped against. He sat, prepared to begin his questioning, but one look at her stopped and firmly rooted him. Damp coils of matted hair draped down her back. Some strands had dried, their dark golds enhanced by the firelight. Her eyes were closed, mouth slightly open. Her profile was delicate, but even in repose the jaw reflected a strong will. She appeared no more than sixteen or seventeen, and seemed comfortable curled up asleep on the floor like a contented kitten.

Deran didn't want her to intrigue him, didn't want the entanglements of a mysterious thief, or stowaway, whatever the case. Yet despite his efforts, curiosity and concern crept in. Who was looking for her? The answer to that behind this mystery. Mrs. Larue informed him, in her typical censorious manner, she'd discovered markings on the girl's back and intimated at others lower on her body. If the girl had been abused at the hands of her employer, that could explain her reason for fleeing. Whom she'd flown from was what concerned Deran.

Discreet inquiries could be made. Among the ton, rumors flourished as unhealthily as plagues. Deran had no use for rumors or those who propagated them, but their information could occasionally be useful. Already he'd set plans in motion.

If she were employed by a peer, she'd likely not be welcomed back. If taken back, mistreatment would continue, if not worsen. Deran knew some of his peers had a vile bent toward manipulative submission. Young, female servants were often targets.

If this were the case with his little thief, then returning her to her employer would be an unpleasant task. If mistreatment was at the hands of a member of her family, the matter was entirely out of his hands.

Deran studied the sleeping form. A difficult consequence for her to face, but not one he could alter. Until he had more information to make a just decision, he had to decide what to do with her. She couldn't stay here. What the world said about his personal improprieties mattered little, but he couldn't sully his family's reputation.

She shivered in her sleep and an arm jolted forward causing the robe to slide off the shoulder furthest from him. Deran stared at the strip of creamy skin. The slight fullness of one breast was dangerously and captivatingly exposed.

And unsuitable for him to gape at like an untried schoolboy. Deran adjusted his position, suddenly aware of an unforgivable tautness in his lower body. A revolting reaction to have toward a child. He wasn't a man of advanced years—hell, he was but thirty-three, far from his prime, but even so.

He had to wake her and begin the process of determining her future.

Deran touched her shoulder. So small. Rage jolted him at the thought of her at the mercy of cruelty. A minute alone with whoever had harmed her would be very satisfying. He lightly squeezed her shoulder when she didn't respond to his touch.

Ava jerked awake and faced the man who would send her to prison. He sat opposite her, bent forward with forearms resting on large thighs, broad hands clasped between his knees, looking stern. Dread burrowed into her stomach.

Determined not to cower, but act as dignified as possible, she brushed a strip of hair from her face. She winced when she scraped a large knot on her temple made more sore from the vigorous hair washing. She then noticed the robe was doing a poor job of covering her. She quickly snatched it back onto her shoulder, and wrapped her arms tightly in front of her.

“Perhaps the chair would be more useful if you sat in it. Then I wouldn't have to look down at you and appear as menacing as you are making me out to be."

Ava started to open her mouth to dispute her opinion of him. He did appear menacing, but she couldn't say anything if she wanted to.

She moved onto the chair, self-conscious in his presence in a dressing gown, albeit cleaner than before. Not clean enough for someone so above her and so...

Ava blinked rapidly. She saw him clearly now and what she saw made her stomach flip. He was handsome. No, magnificent. Deep brown eyes, long, dark brown waves of hair casually framing a strong face, and lips, pretty ones for a man, pressed together tighter than a disapproving priest. He'd be even more handsome if he'd stop scowling.

“Tomorrow my sister will bring you clothes. I do not have anything suitable for you and obviously you've had to relinquish what little you had.” A movement Ava supposed was a smile lifted his mouth. “Which brings me to the subject of how you arrived at my doorstep.” He sat back, once again the casual observer, crossing a long leg over the other, hands resting at his waist. He tipped his head expectantly.

Where to start? How much dare she tell him?

She asked a question not even she could hear. He leaned closer.

“Again, please."

She repeated it, the effort like needles in her throat. His face tightened in impatience.

“We cannot converse this way. Is there not—"

Ava waved her hands and drew on her palm.

“Who am I?"

She nodded rapidly.

“I am Lord Atherton."

Eyebrows arched up. “Lord?” she mouthed. He nodded. She drew her name on her palm, and then pointed to him.

“Ava. Yes, I know."

She shook her head, clearly frustrated. She drew her name again, slower this time, pointed to herself, then leaned forward and poked him in the chest.

“Deran. Deran Morissey, Earl of Atherton. But you must address me as Lord Atherton. Or Sir. Never by my given name. While we're on the subject of names, what is your surname?” She frowned and shook her head in confusion. “Family name? What is your father's name?"

The animation drained from her face. Her eyes searched his. How much could he discover if she told him? Was he asking out of politeness or because he'd use the knowledge against her? Perhaps he played a role in all she'd endured. It had been his ship, after all. He may have been the one who'd sent them after her.

This was foreign to Deran, this extended period of quiet from a female. He had much experience with female companionship, and knew none who could be so motionless and hold their tongues still as long as this one could. And none would dare refuse to answer his questions. He felt both admiration and annoyance. Annoyance won out.

“Your full name. If you please, miss,” he added heatedly.

Color returned to her cheeks and her green eyes blazed. She leapt from the chair. Assuming she intended to bolt, Deran reached for her as she swung by. She glared at him, pointed at the desk behind him and pantomimed writing.

Deran looked over his shoulder and saw she pointed to paper and a quill pen.

He turned back, surprised.

“You can write?"

She thrust a hand on one hip and actually rolled her eyes to let him know he'd insulted her.

“My humble apologies, Miss Ava. By all means.” He turned his chair so she could sit at the desk. “Please sit. Communication by written word would be far less painful."

Ava patted her neck and tapped a foot impatiently. Deran had to smile. Despite her muteness, she effectively expressed annoyance and he had no difficulty interpreting it. “Yes, especially for you."

She scribbled furiously. He sat across from her and observed. Concentration lined her smooth face, a hand swatted back hair that kept slipping forward, the rate of the pen changed with quick nods and headshakes. At one point she looked up, her eyes like arrow points. He felt hate pour out of her, felt it scorch his face, as though accusing him of something. He nearly ripped the pages she'd filled in his impatience for answers.

Some thought brought tears to those beguiling green eyes. Deran moved to offer his handkerchief, but her hand dropped and the pen rolled away. She shoved the papers at him and stood.

“We are far from done."

She ignored him and made her way to the drinks table across the room. She plucked up a glass and turned back to Deran with a bottle in hand, her face questioning.

“Are you asking my permission to pour yourself a drink?"

She nodded.

“You may not.” Deran was at her side removing the bottle before she poured anyway.

She tugged at his sleeve and whispered, “Please. I am thirsty."

Deran looked down at the hand crushing his shirt. “This is not water. Tea or lemonade is all you will be allowed at this hour. Or ever, while you are in my home. You are not old enough for anything else."

She stomped a foot and flashed her fingers.

He looked at the angry hands.

“I am to believe you are twenty-three years of age? You are not. Even if you were, you will not have anything but what I have said. Since I sent the rest of the household to bed, we must get your precious drink."

He was graced with another roll of the eyes. Twenty-three indeed.

He retrieved her writings and held the door open. “Shall we?"

The dressing gown swirled wide around bare legs, which Deran pretended not to notice, as she spun past him into the hall. Not knowing where to go from there, she waited for him as patiently as a mare with an ill-fitting bit in her mouth.

* * * *

Following, she was again aware of the elegance of his home. No, it's Lord this, Lord that, my lord and sir. Her mother had insisted she learn the proper way to address nobility and royalty, even though she'd never use what she learned.

She also knew lordly people did not retrieve water for themselves or houseguests, especially ones they intended to send to the clink.

He poured two glasses of lemonade and surprised her when he set them on the long wooden table in the center of the kitchen and pulled a chair out for her. Turning up the flame of the oil lamp, he waited for her to sit before claiming his own chair.

It occurred to him he hadn't been in the kitchen for a long while, years, in fact. All his meals were served to him. Deran took in the clean counters and stove, the numerous cast-iron pots and kettles hanging from large hooks and baskets filled with potatoes and onions. Shadowy light drifted over glass-paned cupboards. Even in the darkness it was a warm, inviting room.

Ava took a long, slow swallow keeping her eyes on him before setting it down. She pressed both hands to her heart and dipped her head slightly.

“You are welcome. Much better for you than the other."

She grinned, creating a tiny indentation at the lower edge of one cheek.

Nineteen if a day, Deran mused.

He began reading what she'd written. Ava toyed with her drink. When he was finished he'd make plans to have her carted away. She'd not revealed everything. That would be far too risky, but she'd written enough for him to think badly of her. She'd be as deceitful as necessary to gain her freedom. Her family was dependent on her and she was no good to them here. Or in jail.

His face revealed nothing as he read. It was difficult to watch him read about her misfortunes, her stupid mistakes, how she'd trusted and been proved a fool. That last she hadn't written, but he would surmise.

A copper bowl filled with apples sat at the end of the table. Ava wanted to ask for one, but his lordship was still reading.

Her eyes darted to the bowl, her stomach speaking loudly at the sight of the fruit. She couldn't remember when she'd last eaten. Not today and not yesterday, that much she knew. Her stomach thundered again.

Deran had met all levels of humanity since assuming his father's shipping business six years ago. Honest traders, treacherous ones, the avaricious, ignorant and the gullible. And there had been stowaways. But none with the story this one spun, one too preposterous to believe.

Almost.

Deran set the papers down and slid the bowl of apples between them.

“Take one. I can hear your hunger from here."

Ava blushed and chose the shiniest green one on top. She bit in, the crunch shattering the silence. Deran sat back, pulled a page from the pile.

“Let us begin, Miss Ava Fychon."

Chapter Three

Deran was at the breakfast table the next morning when the carriage arrived. Through the window he watched the footman hand down the woman and her maid as a second carriage drew up to the curb.

Lady Charnock swished in, tugging off plum colored gloves.

“Good morning, Deran.” Her wide, hazel eyes glittered. “Isn't it a beautiful day?"

Deran followed the movements of the footman who trailed behind his sister with a large trunk.

“She's here for one day, Linny. Transporting half your wardrobe wasn't necessary."

The footman entered with a second trunk and a valise.

Lady Charnock's laugh sparkled.

“This is scarcely half my wardrobe, Deran. A woman must be given choices."

“She's a girl, not a woman, and is in no position to be offered choices.” He scanned her fruit and feather bonnet disapprovingly. “Really, Madeline. Grapes?"

She batted a delicate hand in the air. “It's so like you to observe a lady's attire with boorishness. You said she was rather small and said nothing about her coloring. I could hardly bring one item not knowing if she was fair skinned or dark as a gypsy. What looks good on one shade of skin may not look good on another."

“I repeat, she is a girl, not a woman, eighteen at best. Fair skinned, I think, hard to tell at night, green eyes, dark hair. No, more light brown, like...” he flicked a hand over his bread plate, “these."

Madeline looked down at the golden corn muffins.

“Really."

“Yes, really. A simple dress and undergarments will do."

“She is not to go out, I presume."

He eyed her sharply. “No, she certainly will not be going out."

“And what will you have her do, Deran? Seclude herself in whatever room you've tucked her away? Confine her as though she were a bearded woman at a carnival?"

Deran tossed his napkin onto the table and stood. “Do not make me out to be a barbarian, dear sister. Her situation is of her own doing. She should be thankful I didn't throw her back into the river or hand her over to the magistrate of the jails."

“Oh, I'm sure she is overcome with gratitude at your munificence."

The dark eyes narrowed. “As well she should be. Her fabricated plight extends far beyond believability. If she offered it up in criminal court, she would receive no less than a lifetime of confinement for her mendacity."

Madeline removed her hat and placed it on a dining chair. “You're certain of that, are you?” She poked at the auburn ringlets framing her wide forehead, and smiled.

“Quite."

“What reason would she have to tell an atrocious lie?"

“I have my suspicions, but that is all they are. I have no interest in seeking a resolution to them, however.” Not entirely true. “Enough time has been spent on this absurd charade."

“I see. And the necessity for the dress would be-?"

Deran exhaled impatiently. “The girl has to wear something. She can't spend the day in an over-sized dressing gown."

“And what shall you do with her once I make her presentable?"

Therein lay the dilemma. After the confrontation in the kitchen, Deran had shown Miss Fychon where she'd sleep, then spent the remainder of the pre-dawn hours examining his alternatives. As owner of the barge she'd attempted to board, it would be his legal right to have her apprehended. If so inclined, he could spend precious time validating her outrageous tale. That idea appealed less to him this morning than it had earlier, now that he'd had time to ruminate over it. But he couldn't dredge up enough distaste for the girl to carry out the alternative. In truth, her resolute defense, however false, had struck a nerve.

The little trickster had softened him.

“I have not yet decided. I will know by day's end, however."

“How that must feel, to wield the power that determines another's fate. I would not wish it. But I daresay you seem to be enjoying your role."

“It was thrust upon me, Madeline. I'm not enjoying it in the least. Now, if you have finished rebuking me, would you please see to Miss Fychon."

She smiled thinly. “Of course, Deran. It's not every day I get to dote on a woman who requires my taste in fashion."

“She is not one of your childhood dolls, Linny. This is not the time for dress-up and tea parties."

“Perhaps I will make it so. This may be her last day of freedom. I can at least make it pleasant for her. Don't you agree?” Her brow crinkled. “What type of name is Fychon?"

“Welsh."

Madeline tipped her head. “She's from Wales?"

“So she claims."

“You'd be able to tell from her speech, Deran. The Welsh have a most distinct, rustic accent."

“She doesn't speak.” At her perplexed expression he explained further. “A whisper of sorts is all she can utter. Whether it's a result of mistreatment, I don't know. Several times last night when we were, or I was, speaking her voice would rise above the whisper. Almost as if she could speak, but restrained from doing so. Out of fear or physical inability, I don't know. It seemed to pain her when she tried.” The memory of the request for water flashed in his mind. The delicate fingers gripping his shirt.

“Perhaps we should send for your physician?"

He'd thought of that, but disregarded it. As few people as possible must know she was here. By now his household staff knew about the after-midnight doings. Deran expected his staff to contain their gossip, but was aware of how news passed between households. What members of the ton said didn't matter, but he had the family to think of.

“She'll be fine. I think it's to my benefit she remains mute for the time she's here. Something tells me were she able to speak it would be in words more direct than I'm accustomed to hearing a lady utter."

Madeline giggled. “A woman who articulates her thoughts, then? How delicious. I'm looking forward to meeting her now more than ever. Thank you for thinking of me, dear brother.” She motioned for her maid.

“Linny.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Have a care with her, please. Mrs. Larue informed me of marks on her back as well as, uh, lower. They may be painful when covered with the usual undergarments."

Madeline's face paled. “Why didn't you say so earlier? I would have brought a salve, or lotions, something to soothe tender skin."

* * * *

Deran was in his study when the next round of visitors appeared. One he'd summoned, the other he'd expected. Lord Charnock couldn't bear to be separated from his wife of two years for more than an hour. Since Madeline had arrived, the viscount's visit was presumed.

His brother-in-law preceded Max DiSanto, Deran's long-time friend and solicitor. Charnock's snug frock coat did nothing to disguise his fleshy middle.

“Atherton.” The viscount settled his wide carriage into a chair. “A fine morning, is it not? I enjoyed an early ride and feel quite invigorated. You look as though you could stand to take in some air yourself, sir."

Deran regarded the man's ruddy cheeks, the flush along his prematurely thinning hairline and droplets of perspiration outlining moustache and beard. Dislike wouldn't be the term he would use to describe his sentiments toward Philip Semel. One would have to own feelings for a person before experiencing dislike or a kinship. Deran felt neither. The viscount hadn't been his first choice as husband to his sister, but oddly enough it seemed to be a love match. Naturally he was thankful his only sister was married at all. To be happily so, made the situation even better.

“I plan on doing so later, sir. Thank you for your concern.” Where the hell is Bickford?

DiSanto caught his eye, offered a look of sympathy. The viscount was either too dim-witted or so involved in basking in his own self-importance to realize the Earl of Atherton had a prearranged appointment with his solicitor.

Then again, the viscount might be well aware of it and not care in the least.

A knock at the door interrupted. Deran managed not to sag with relief when Bickford entered.

“Pardon the intrusion, my lord, but Mrs. Weaver wishes to know if you want her to bake a second tin of muffins for your guests."

The viscount greedily snatched up the bait. “It is the perfect time of year for apples, isn't it?"

Deran looked as though he'd just had a sudden insight.

“How indecorous of me. I didn't offer you gentlemen tea, coffee or morsel of any sort. Charnock, if you'd care to partake in Mrs. Weaver's muffins, please, by all means."

Requiring no second invitation, the viscount rushed out the door ahead of Bickford.

“I hope you pay Bickford well, Atherton,” DiSanto said, chuckling.

“I do and he's worth every pound.” Deran moved to the settee and stretched his long legs. “My brother-in-law can be as thick-headed as the wax he stiffens his hideous moustache with."

Max's laugh rumbled. “He is rather fond of the old thing, isn't he?"

Deran grinned. He had many acquaintances but Max DiSanto topped the short list he considered friends. Their bond stretched back twenty years. They met at the Royal Admiralty. Deran had wanted a military life at sea, while Max did the bidding of the Admiralty, content to keep steady legs on dry land.

Max looked better than Deran had seen him look in some time. After the death of his wife and infant daughter during childbirth over a year ago, Max disappeared from society. When he re-emerged, his Sicilian swarthiness had faded, his engaging manner flattened. He still cut a fine figure, however, and never failed to catch the ladies’ eyes with absolutely no effort. His strong frame, dark hair and eyes, and quick smile would never go out of fashion. Deran fully expected his friend to one day seek a similar companionship to the one he'd had with his wife.

“Your request for a visit so early in the day surprised me, Atherton. As did its ambiguity. Were you trying to ensure I would meet with you?"

“No. I knew you would. It was to ensure that should anyone ask questions you would truthfully be unable to answer them."

Max's face puckered with concern. “Are you in trouble, my friend?"

Deran shook his head slowly. “No. Not yet, anyway."

He relayed last evening's events, stopping twice to answer questions. He was halfway through explaining what had been in Miss Fychon's written communication when a knock at the door interrupted.

Surely the viscount had not consumed all the muffins in such short time.

“Enter."

The door blew open. Both men rose to their feet at the sight of Lady Charnock.

“Deran, you really must come.” She swept into the room and came to a dead halt upon seeing Max. “Mr. DiSanto. Good morning. I hadn't realized my brother had a visitor."

Max held her fingertips in his and made a small bow. “Lady Charnock. A pleasure to see you, as always. Please do not let me interfere."

“I suspect what Madeline has to tell me is directly related to what I was speaking to you about.” Deran sighed heavily. “In fact, I'm certain of it.” He looked at his sister, eyebrows questioning. “You were saying?"

Madeline looked back and forth between the two men and spoke in a low voice. “She has been most difficult, Deran. Such a prickly manner! But I have been patient, really I have. We began with the hair. There is so much of it, but Rose did the best she could given the girl's fitful state. She was sleeping on the floor. Can you imagine? Why anyone would do so when there is a perfectly sumptuous bed surpasses my understanding. But she simply will not allow me to help her into any clothing. It may be because of what you told me to be careful of. She pulls away whenever I touch her, indeed just brushing her hair seemed to be a trial for her. I think perhaps you should call a physician and have him tend to her before I go any further. Now that I think about it, she felt a bit warm to the touch.” Madeline raised her hands in dismay. “I'm so sorry, dear heart. I only meant well."

Deran raised a calming hand. “You've done nothing wrong, Linny. Come. I will see this for myself. She has proven to be quite the little actress.” He stalked out of the room, his sister close behind.

When he reached the guest bedchamber, he banged on the door once and entered with no preamble.

Did the girl not understand the purpose of furniture? She knelt on the floor in front of the bed, and looked at him with a shocked expression.

“Get up,” he ordered.

With a deep frown she did as directed, pulling the dressing gown closer around her neck as she stood, eyes blazing with indignation.

“Turn around."

Her eyes flickered defiance. She shook her head.

A wave of gasps made him aware he hadn't advanced here alone. He regarded the small battalion of onlookers hovering at the door-his guests, welcome and un, were shoulder to shoulder with several members of the household staff.

“All of you, out,” he bellowed, emphasizing his command with a raised arm. “Except you Linny. For propriety's sake, you stay.” He watched as the cluster of people disassembled. “And you, DiSanto. This may help clarify what I was going to ask of you and you can also serve as a witness."

Max stepped into the room and closed the door. “Just what do you intend to do?"

Deran turned his attention back to the young woman who'd done nothing but cause trouble since she'd set sodden feet into his home.

“Make this ill-mannered, churlish, ungrateful young miss realize, if she does not behave properly, she will be placed in the hands of those who can make sure she does. Or take away her freedom to ever misbehave again."

At that, Ava emitted a low growl and balled her hands into fists. She stomped out an angry retort.

Lady Charnock grasped the nearest bedpost for support, so undone was she by the girl's insubordination. She blinked in astonishment at her brother's calm reaction.

“If you keep that up, you're sure to break an ankle, or at the least, a foot bone. I will do nothing about either."

Ava had never wanted to hit anyone as much as him. He was the devil in well-tailored clothes. Her fists rose to waist level at the thought of how good it would feel to plant one in his pretty face. She'd never taken on a man this large, but when her temper was stoked she had the strength of at least two of him.

“You would be wise to slacken those muscles, girl,” Deran said quietly. “I have never struck a female, and I will not make today the first time. But I will keep you from striking me if you are foolish enough to try."

Their eyes clashed as they faced off unblinkingly. The air dripped with anticipation. Ava's shoulders finally relaxed and she looked toward the window.

“Very wise of you. Everyone should be aware of when it is in their best interest to stand down from a threat.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Now, as to your dress, which is why I am here.” He grinned at the sour look that remark drew. “My sister, Lady Charnock, has been good enough to attend to your hair and dress. She went to great trouble to obtain a selection of dresses for you as well as have her personal maid see to your hair and whatnot. Turn around."

Ava looked at him skeptically.

“Your hair. I want to see how it looks. Something is an obvious improvement as it isn't flying about your face as though you were caught in a tempest.” The image of her sitting in front of the hearth, a strand of hair against her cheek as she slept, blinked in his head. I could have touched it then. Should have.

She turned. One of this season's intricate designs had been created at the base of her neck. All that golden hair had somehow been captured, twisted and pinned, its length and beauty left to imagination.

Deran suddenly wanted to reach for it, to unravel it, to...

These thoughts must stop now. She was a child. Not more than seventeen.

“Very nice. Well done.” He tipped his head to Rose. She bobbed a curtsy.

Ava spun back around, shoulders drooped and mouth open in an exaggerated motion of fatigue.

“You're tired? Well if you had slept in the bed instead of—” Another tamping of the foot stopped him. Ava clasped her hands to her head and pretended to stumble.

Deran smiled. “Ah, it's heavy. Yes, well I've often wondered how women keep from toppling over from the weight of their hair."

A polite throat clearing broke in. “If she had less hair, it wouldn't be such an encumbrance."

Deran nodded to his sister. Her hair will remain as is. “Thank you for the suggestion, madam."

He was enjoying himself far too much, given the circumstances.

“And now for your back. Turn around, miss.” He sounded more severe than he felt. “I want to see what caused you to dismiss my sister so rudely. Come, lower the gown."

Ava's eyes enlarged and she stepped back, shaking her head wildly. A rope of hair shot out of the perfectly crafted coils at her nape. She cast a desperate glance to the viscountess.

Madeline rushed to her rescue and placed a hand on her brother's arm.

“Deran, really, this is most unnecessary and horrifying for the girl. You cannot subject her to such humiliation."

“Her back is all I wish to see, Linny. Nothing more.” He flicked a finger. “Turn and lower the back of the gown. Everyone in this room has more important tasks to tend to today than pandering to you. And I expect you to be dressed within the hour. Now turn."

One last pleading of Ava's eyes got her nowhere and she turned, drew in a long breath and wiggled her shoulders enough to lower the back of the gown and keep the front of it clasped to her chest.

Deran seethed and swallowed a curse.

Madeline somehow managed to stay upright.

Max fisted his hands.

Rose stuffed a hand in her mouth to keep from squealing.

The rotation of sun to moonlight seemed to pass before Lady Charnock lifted the gown back over her shoulders. While Ava secured the tie, whispers circulated behind her. She knew what they were saying. Women weren't treated as she'd been unless they'd gone against their master's bidding. If she couldn't make these few understand, how could she hope to make anyone believe her?

If she were a woman of haughty pride, the revealing of herself to this man, to this lord, would have been humiliating. She'd endured far worse, and at the hands of men far less refined than this one. No, it only fueled the flame of anger that sputtered in her belly. She'd tried to forget it last night so she could rest. The bed was too soft, too luxurious and sinking into feathered layers had only increased her discomfort. She'd made a padding on the floor with the blankets. This morning, a heat spread across her, as though the sun had risen on her skin. If her mam had been here she'd have soothed the pain and fever with her herbal balms. Ava considered sneaking to the kitchen to see for herself if the English had what she needed to make her own, but she'd lain still, wishing for sleep that never came.

Exhausted enough to sink to the floor, she stood tall and awaited the verdict. But none came. The men left with no more than a nod of their heads, the viscountess dismissed her maid and remained behind, a look of supreme embarrassment clouding her pretty face.

“Miss Fy ... oh dear, I'm afraid I've forgotten how to say your name."

Ava whispered and Madeline nodded.

“Yes, I shall strive to remember it in the future. But for now, permit me to call you Miss Ava.” She smiled lightly. “My brother will send for his physician who will tend to your wounds. We can rely on him to be discreet. Until he arrives we will do nothing about your state of dress, but I invite you to at least look at what I brought."

Madeline moved to one of the trunks and raised its heavy lid, grateful for a cheerful task that would chase away the image she'd just seen.

“With your coloring, I think something in this shade of green would do nicely, don't you?"

Chapter Four

Deran sprawled in a chair facing the library hearth, distantly aware of how its flames and his glass of port were slowly warming him. The earlier events of the day thundered in his head. While the physician tended Miss Fychon, Deran showed Max what she'd written and they discussed the probability of her story. Max had been surprised, but not as unwilling to believe her as Deran. Although he'd had hours to think on it, he still wasn't convinced the sly little miss hadn't invented it as a way to avoid further punishment from an unforgiving employer. DiSanto hadn't convinced him her story could bear some truth.

After Max finished reading, Deran said, “From the first word she set on paper it is preposterous. We are to believe she acted as parent to a sister and brother, when she is all of eighteen years at best, living alone in the middle of nowhere?"

“It isn't ‘nowhere.’ It's,” Max referred to the first page of her missive, “the Isle of Anglesey, Wales. I'm familiar with it.” He disregarded Deran's dubious expression. “If I recall correctly, the Isle of Anglesey is on the northwest coast, somewhere near the Snowdonia mountain range."

“I've sailed that coast of Wales,” Deran said, “and remember Anglesey. Hell of a place. It may not be ‘nowhere,’ but it's on the damn edge of it. And that's where she lived, with a brother and sister dependent on her after her father's death. A mother isn't mentioned so I presume she too is gone. The father's brother, the dutiful uncle, concerned about his young relatives’ welfare moves in, and less than a fortnight later, Miss Fychon and siblings are forcibly removed by men she doesn't know.” Deran raked a hand through his hair. “They're together for a while, but she-and this is what is implausible, Max-is treated as a captive and told she had been sold. Slave trading has been prohibited since ‘07. Even before then, it was looked upon unfavorably by honest merchants."

“True, but it was a profitable market, for both this country and the Colonies, and made many men rich. Slaves are still used in both countries, although it won't be long before the British Empire abolishes it. You'd be shocked to learn of some of the successful men today who can attribute the roots of their wealth to that market."

“No, probably not. Revolted and disappointed, but not shocked."

“You'd be surprised, Deran, trust me. But to the matter of your young lady—"

“She is not my young lady."

Max lowered his eyes, a corner of his mouth twitching. “Yes, forgive me. That slipped. As to the lady who is currently a guest in—"

“And she is no lady, so stop referring to her as one. You witnessed her behavior, Max. No lady behaves as she did."

“Behaves how? Spirited? No, I agree with you. None that I have known do."

“Spirited? Spirited is a stallion set free from his reins. No, Miss Fychon surpasses spirited. She's a hoyden with the greatest aptitude for obduracy as I have never seen."

“A hoyden, you say? She is saucy, isn't she, even without speaking. But there's more to her than spirit, my friend."

Deran laughed dryly. “Yes, let's not overlook impudence, sulking, ill-manners, skillful prevarication—"

“Willfulness and a resolute sense of loyalty to herself,” Max quickly inserted, “and according to what she has written, to those she has vowed to protect and care for. Let us not forget that about your la ... pardon me, the young lady. Young girl. A classification I believe falls short of the mark, Atherton."

Deran stared blankly. “She cannot be twenty-three. A maid, yes, of that I am confident. A randy male would have his life cut short if he tried to lay a hand on her. But she is no maid of two and twenty."

“She's at least twenty. Her face doesn't have the fullness of a younger girl. Forgive the bluntness, my friend, but I believe you've been swimming in the sea of widows too long and lost your talent for recognizing and wooing the young daughters of the ton."

“And my life is better, and certain to have more years added to it, because of that lost talent."

“Fear of being called out again, hm?"

Deran glowered at the reminder of an occurrence five years ago. “I had no more desire to take up with that bit of fluff Lansing had his sights on than I would a first rate hunting dog. But what you say has merit, about avoiding being called out over the likes of him-and her."

Max laughed softly. “Let's ask your sister's opinion of Miss Fychon's age after she's had time to assess Miss Fychon, er, more fully. When will that be exactly?"

“According to the physician, it will take a day or two for the medicine to take affect. The river's filth worsened things for her, he said. With the ... her skin still so raw.” A hand opened and closed in an angry fist. “If not for that, she would be well on the way to healing by now."

“How she came to be in the river is rather mysterious.” Max rifled through the papers. “Ah, here it is. She escaped her captors, how far from London she was she didn't know, but it took many days to get here from where she'd escaped. Certain that her brother and sister have been given over to a private household or put up at one of the mills, she spends days looking for them, asking anyone who will pay her mind if they've seen her siblings. A clue to her sister's whereabouts-I can't make it out. What is the girl's name?” Max held the paper for Deran to read, but he didn't need to see it to know.

“Mairwen."

Max looked at him thoughtfully. “Yes, Mairwen. Unusual name, isn't it? The clue leads her to the docks at a dangerous hour where she's chased by unknown men, leaps into the river to yet again escape and you know the rest."

Deran rested his head against the back of the settee. “Yes. I know the rest. Too well."

“One could say jumping into the river saved her life, Atherton. The girl would be as good as dead if not for you."

Deran stared into the fire. Good as dead. Peculiar expression. Paradoxical. She may have escaped one fate, but what would be the next one to face?

Max had considerable experience with every tier of society and at Deran's request, despite Max's arguments that time would be wasted, he agreed to make shrewd inquiries about households that may have employed Miss Fychon, households with employers known for a frequent turnover of governesses, companions and household staff.

Miss Fychon hadn't written by whom she'd been employed, but Deran felt sure her reluctance to admit to such a situation was solely from fear of reprisal.

Spirited, Max had said. Deran smiled grimly, the thudding in his head beating in time with his heart. He needed sleep. There would be much to do in the morning and a difficult decision to make.

* * * *

Ava sat in the dark straining to hear. Footsteps paused outside her door. Would he enter? He may not be the kindest of men, but he wasn't wanton. She knew little about such matters, but Lord Atherton was, if nothing else, a gentleman.

She, an intruder, a woman put upon his doorstep as a common thief. Yet a full day later and he hadn't sent her away or had her removed. Had seen to her comfort.

But his goodwill must have its limitation. She'd seen the hard look in his eyes when he'd come to her room with Lady Madeline. Believed he regretted sending those men away, leaving him to deal with her. She shamed the household with her presence.

She needed to leave. Tonight.

Three weeks had passed since being separated from her brother and sister and what she'd known then of their whereabouts would likely not be current news. She needed to hurry to make up time lost since that disastrous night on the docks.

The footsteps continued. She relaxed. He's gone to bed. Rose slept in the room across from her and had long ago retired. Lady Charnock had offered Rose as Ava's companion. It's unsuitable for you to stay here, she explained, but with someone in attendance it will be less improper. Ava sensed the viscountess thought her presence a tremendous adventure, an excitement to stir up this formidable domicile. Adventure for whom? It was the last thing she needed.

But the earl and his sister's kindness and generosity had weighed heavily as she made her preparations. She'd taken bare necessities and intended to return each item. She'd stress that in the note she planned to leave.

Ava gathered the small bundle of clothes and listened at the door, her heart beating loudly in her ear. All was quiet. She sped to the library, relieved to see paper and pen still on the desk. Setting her parcel down, she carried pen, ink and a single sheet of paper to the hearth. She didn't risk lighting a lamp. Glancing at the door she cursed silently—she hadn't closed it.

She crossed to close the door and remembered tonight's dinner. Claiming no appetite, she'd declined. She could have eaten every mouthful of the ham and greens, but asked the cook to tuck it away to eat later. The woman had cheerfully agreed. Ava prayed she'd not forgotten. Certain she could find her way, she wrapped the borrowed shawl around her shoulders and stepped into the hall.

She dashed through the parlor and dining room and flew down the stairs to the kitchen. Next to the bowl of apples was a plate covered with a thick towel. Lifting the cloth, she nearly wept at the sight of the ham, greens and large chunk of dark bread. Overturning the plate, she spilled the contents into the towel and tied the ends. The greens would bleed through, but that couldn't be helped. She plucked two apples from the bowl.

A tiny clink stopped her. Had someone followed? She waited several seconds before continuing. In the library everything was as she'd left it. She closed the door softly and leaned against it, barely able to stand upright her knees trembled so badly. But the worst was over. Now to the letter.

Setting the food parcel on the floor next to the bundle of clothes, she knelt in front of the hearth and wrote.

Lord Morisea and Lady Sharnok,

I wil not forget yor kindnes. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgiv the troubl I hav bin upon you and this houshold. I daren't ask or expeckt mor than you hav already don.

I take with me one blue dress, a gray shawl and blue cloke. This last is to good for me but the nights wil be cold. All wil be returned as soon as I am able. Please thank Mrs. Weever for the food.

Humbly, AF

She read it. Satisfied she'd said enough, she folded the page in half at the same time the library door opened.

“Couldn't sleep?"

He filled the doorway looking more dark and dangerous than every image of Lucifer. Dark breeches hugged his thighs, black boots rose to the knees. The collar of his white linen shirt was unbuttoned, the skin beneath it a deep brown in the dying firelight, a black patterned waistcoat hung open from broad shoulders. Waves of dark hair pooled around his face, a face that unnerved every inch of her as ebon eyes gazed upon her.

Ava opened her mouth and abruptly closed it. Nothing she said other than the truth would save her. She rose to her knees.

“Not another move.” Deran closed the door behind him as softly as he'd opened it and crossed to her, one hand outstretched. It was not a gesture to help her to her feet.

“Hand it to me."

She couldn't stay on her knees with him hovering over her like the darkest demon. If his intent was to intimidate her, that feat had been accomplished.

She bent forward to stand. His boots came to within inches of her nose.

“I told you not to move, Miss Fychon. Either your hearing is as poor as your speaking ability or you're more mule-brained than I had thought."

“Mochyn,” she hissed.

“What did you say?” The boots spread apart, firelight reflected off their polished toes.

“Mochyn,” she whispered heatedly. Ava dropped her head back and looked into his eyes, “Swine."

“Your voice has grown stronger. And you use it to speak as foully as the men who snatched you from the river."

Ava eyed the door trying to judge her odds of making it past him, through the door, into the hall and out the front entrance. They were dismal odds, but she'd take them over staying here crouched at his feet like the loyal pup.

She shifted the weight of one foot slightly to ensure a good pushing off point.

“Do not even think it,” he said evenly. The heat of his words chilled her, their masked threat frightening enough to keep her in place. He snapped his fingers. “The paper."

Ava thrust it at him. He snatched it and didn't move from his position as he read. She glanced at the bundle of food. The moisture from the cooked vegetables had formed a sickly green puddle and seeped into the gold pattern on the hearth's rug. Her stomach lurched at the sight and she groaned.

“Do not try to raise any pity from me, Miss Fychon,” Deran said, misinterpreting her sound. “That has happened once and will not happen again. Get up. I'm tired of seeing you on my floors."

Ava breathed deeply, battling both nausea and fear. He would surely pack her off to the constable now. Her journey, all she had striven to do since the night she and her family had been taken from their home would be for naught. She'd never see her brother and sister again, never know what became of them. They would die, if not already dead, and all because of her failure to find them, to save them. How could she have thought she'd be able to save them if she couldn't save herself?

Her vision blurred as she slowly stood, ashamed to face this man who hadn't done what he could have done to her by law. And now would.

She closed her eyes tightly to restrain the tears, swallowed slowly before opening them again. He hadn't moved, stood only a foot away, jaw hard, eyes glinting black. Even in his anger he was handsome.

Deran was annoyed, but not surprised by her actions. She was a rebel with a cause dear to her. He'd known plenty like her, albeit men, not women. The look of valiance on her face clipped his annoyance somewhat. The eyes held fear, yes, but he also saw hope and need in their shimmering green. The weary eyes of a woman who'd experienced too many ordeals.

Deran held up the letter. “Explain this."

Ava's eyes moved to the paper. “I must go. Please. I have to go.” She rubbed her throat. “Water?"

“No. No water. I can hear you well enough."

“But—"

“I will not concern myself with your comforts any longer, Miss Fychon. If it hurts to talk, do whatever is necessary to bear it. But you will get no sympathy from me. Your explanation, that you have to go, is unsatisfactory. You stay in my home, make use of my housekeeper, my cook, my sister's goodwill, her maid's, only to devise a plan to use what you need and slip out during the night with no explanation other than what is in this letter. Urchins on the street are better mannered. What you need is a good thrashing to put you in your place.” He instantly regretted his choice of words.

“Do it then. You've wanted to since you first saw me so go ahead, be done with it. Taking a strap to me will do nothing but break my skin and prove one thing. That you are no better than any other man. Ie, you, with your fancy titles, the privileges that come with them, and your fine home. They mean nothing. Nothing you do to me will be any worse than what others have done. There is pain from the whip, sir, but no pain compares to the spirit being beaten. But you wouldn't know how that is, would you Lord Atherton?"

Her coarse voice strained at the last words and her body shook with fury. Deran stared in disbelief. She dared say such words to him, dared to speak with such venom? Had she no notion of the consequences she'd served herself by sniping at him as though he were a boy seated at his classroom desk?

Who was this woman, this snippet of a girl, and where had she learned talk like this? Her accent was crude, thick with rolling letters and tumbling phrases. But they were artful and concise, to be sure. Too concise.

A deep pink had risen to her cheeks, her eyes had darkened to sultry green and her mouth and chin trembled with rage. Her energy filled the room and heated his very soul. The most frustrating, shocking, confusing and vibrant woman he'd ever met might as well have just called him out. He'd known that once she overcame her reluctance to speak, no matter the discomfort, it would spell trouble. And now she had boldly, and quite stupidly, upbraided him, indeed had ushered a challenge that would cost her dearly, and there was only one reply for it.

Chapter Five

He kissed her.

A muffled squeak passed between her lips as he lowered his mouth to hers. Stunned, she offered no resistance or encouragement. His lips were hard and controlling, like the rest of him, his chin rough against hers. The scent of soap drifted to her nostrils as he softened the kiss, nipped at her lower lip and tugged the top one, sending bright darts of heat to her face. Teasing flicks of his tongue shocked her, melted her mouth and tightened her breasts. The urge to touch him rolled through her. She gripped his shoulders and pushed her mouth against his. An arm circled her waist and eased her forward, deliberately but gently.

Seconds later he pulled back and looked down at her. Long strands of hair, loosened from its careful arrangement, fell to her waist. He lifted one, rubbed it between his fingers, drew the feathery end across his mouth. He brushed a finger over her lower lip, spread moisture to the upper lip, his eyes following the course his finger traveled.

“So young."

Ava shook her head and lifted her hands to his face, emphatic fingers marking out her years.

Deran smiled slightly. “Yes. So you have said. Twenty-three. A mature, but not well seasoned age, yet many young ladies of twenty-three know how to kiss a man."

Ava looked at him perplexed.

“Not to insult you, Miss Fychon, but you do not."

She blinked once and stepped back.

“I'm going now.” She looked at the food longingly and reached for the cloak. “I will return this when I have one of my own.” She pointed to the green pool oozing from the towel. “That will stain. I am sorry. It was my dinner, but...” She shook her head, took a long breath and held out her hand. “Goodbye. Thank you for all you have done."

When he didn't accept her hand, she turned to leave, not understanding at all what had just happened, why he'd kissed her. It seemed to have diminished his temper which would help her cause.

“Where exactly do you intend to go? And how shall you get there?"

“Wherever and however I must to find my family."

“So your brilliant plan is to wander every street of London asking about them as you did before. Depending on the mercy of good-doers to smile and point you in the right direction."

Ava thrust her shoulders back. “Someone knows what happened to them. I must find that person and won't stop until I do."

“You're likely to be stopped long before you find them, dressed as you are."

Ava opened the door and stepped into the hall. “It will do."

“You cannot walk the streets of London without shoes, dressed in nothing more than a chemise and shawl, Miss Fychon. I will not permit it."

Ava spun around.

“You, sir, are not my guardian. If you intend to have me detained, I suggest you do so because in a moment I will be stepping over your threshold and going on my way. You will not see me again after that, a fact that should make you exceedingly happy."

She was right. It should. But the thought of her leaving didn't please him. Not in the least.

He strode out of the library, stopping her as she reached the base of the staircase.

“I'm well aware, and enormously grateful that I am not your guardian. I would not wish that role on any sane man. Regardless, I cannot allow you to leave. If that means involving the authorities, then I shall take direct action."

She smiled sweetly. “You'd better hurry then, Lord Atherton.” She opened the front door. The air was chilly and damp.

What doubts he'd had as to the validity of her story fled. Her determination to brave the streets of London at night with nothing more than a thin veil of fabric between her and the miserable damp had to be motivated by something far deeper than a desire to escape whatever punishment she feared. The tale she'd told, the truth of it, is what compelled her.

Ava tightened the shawl around her shoulders and stepped down. I think going left will take me back to the docks. She took another step.

A hand on her arm stopped her.

“Ava."

A small tremor fluttered through her from the softness of his voice and use of her given name. “Do not do this."

She turned and looked at him. “I must. There is no one else for them. They may already be dead. They are my responsibility, sir. They are all I have.” Her voice was nothing more than a ragged whisper and tears kept her from seeing him clearly.

Deran didn't have the heart to suggest her fears were probably correct. Children too often didn't survive in workhouses or mills. If the extensive hours didn't kill them, lack of food and unhealthy work conditions did.

“Let me help?"

“Why? You don't know me. I'm not from your world."

Why indeed?

“I know many people and can enter places you cannot. Some of the benefits that come with all these titles of mine you ineloquently scoffed at earlier."

Ava grimaced. “I shouldn't have said those things. It was ... insensitive of me."

An eyebrow rose. “A man's sensitivities are not what should concern you when you hurl condemnations at his titles, dishonoring his family's name in the process."

“What should I be worried about?"

There was that fearful anticipation again. She expected him to send her away. Because of trying to board his ship, or for words against his name? Did she think he'd have her imprisoned for admonishing him and his title? If so, he wouldn't instruct her differently. He'd lost the upper hand earlier—now he could reclaim it.

He looked at her gravely. “It is a serious matter for the untitled, a commoner, to debase a peer.” He stared off as though considering her punishment. “It would be illogical for me to expect you to know that, as you are not from here and don't know the ways of Society or the peerage. This once I will grant you a reprieve."

He actually saw the sigh collapse her body. She dipped her knees in a ridiculous curtsey. “Thank you. Sir."

He nodded nobly. “As for the other matter, I would greatly appreciate it if you'd agree to continue this discussion indoors rather than on my doorstep."

Her eyes filled with doubt. “I don't understand why you want to help me. You don't even like me."

He suppressed a smile. “That may be, but I cannot in good conscience turn my back on your plight. It will be far easier for me to make inquiries into certain matters."

“Because of your titles."

“Because I am a man."

“Because you are a man,” she echoed mockingly.

“Yes,” he said, ignoring her tone. “Women are permitted less access to public places. Men are not as constricted, it's as simple as that.” He leaned casually against the doorjamb. Ava considered his words. They were logical, practical and sounded sincere. No one else had offered help. And he must have some form of transportation. Certainly he had a horse, and he might be persuaded to let her ride with him. Would he be willing to ride to the mill towns? If not, she would ask to borrow a horse and go alone.

“If I agree, I cannot stay here, can I?"

“Come,” he said, extending a hand. “We will discuss the particulars. Indoors."

“May I have my dinner while we discuss?"

* * * *

He made it clear he'd involve as few people as possible, but whomever he chose to confide in would be at his discretion and she wouldn't argue the point. Deran needed Max's help and he could rely on him.

When he asked about her brother and sister, joy combined with sadness crossed her face and plucked at his heart.

“Mairwen is fourteen. Ithel is nine and small for a boy."

“You're rather small also. For three and twenty."

“Ie, like my mam. My mother. Mairwen is tall, like my tad, my father. Some think her older than me because of her height."

And because you're not as old as you say. “You said ‘was’ when you mentioned your mother. She is no longer alive?"

“No. She died a month after Ithel was born. She became sick and could not get well."

She pushed her food away. The conversation had waned her appetite.

“And your father?"

“He died five winters ago. In the mines."

Deran wasn't surprised to learn she had roots in a mining community. Her father would have been one of thousands working during the war between France and England that lasted from 1792 until the time of Napoleon Bonaparte's final abdication of the throne in 1815. The copper from Anglesey's mines had been vitally important for the production of guns, metal plating for ships and coinage.

With the demands her father's work at the mines must have placed on him, Ava couldn't have seen much of her father during her youth. Her devotion to her young sister and brother was the result of her care for them that had come from necessity. Devotion navigated her search. And fear for their safety.

After discussing her father, she grew quiet, but Deran was determined to learn as much as he could about her past. The more information he could gather, the more he could aid her. Max would likely have more questions, but Deran wanted to be able to supply him with as many facts as possible.

“You wrote that an uncle moved into your home."

“Ie, but I don't know him. My father had many brothers. I never met them all."

“Where did he come from?"

She shrugged. “Another village in Wales. South, I think."

Why had he suddenly appeared so many years after his brother's death? And was it coincidence that a fortnight after his appearance, his brother's children were taken away?

“Do you have other relatives in Anglesey?"

She shook her head. Her energy flagged and her voice again reduced to the harsh whisper, but Deran sensed fatigue wasn't the sole reason for her faltering replies.

She sipped her lemonade, the effort to swallow obviously difficult. The welt around her neck had faded, but the real damage to the throat couldn't be seen with the eye. Deran wasn't convinced it was the reason for her hesitancy, however. In fact, he was certain it wasn't and skirting the issue wouldn't give him answers.

“Your throat. It pains you?"

She nodded, keeping her eyes lowered.

“The man, or men who took you from your home did this to you?” With an index finger he gently lifted the hair concealing the rope burn.

She jerked from his touch, looked at him warily.

“Why? Were you unruly?” When she remained mute, Deran sat back, feigning indifference. “I can imagine so if the rebellious displays I've witnessed are evidence of what you are capable of when riled. You fought them, spoke every blasphemous word you knew, not caring whether they understood you or not. And as punishment, the rope tightened.” And she was lashed, damn them.

Her eyes hardened. “I cannot talk about it, sir. I shouldn't have told you what I have. It is too dangerous. I was wor—” Her hand holding the glass trembled as she set it down. “We haven't settled the matter of where I am to stay.” She quickly changed the subject. “If I stay in London and accept your help, I cannot stay here. For your reputation's sake. Your sister explained that to me."

Dangerous to talk about? And what had she stopped herself from explaining? He wanted to press her, but the matter had been closed-for now. Deran regarded her with amusement.

“Did she? And what did she tell you?"

“That a man and a woman cannot reside in the same home unless married or bound in a situation of ward and guardian. It is not proper. And for you to have me here would sully the family name and your reputation."

Deran grinned. “Bravo. That sounded exactly like Madeline.” She rewarded him with a smile. “As for my reputation being sullied, there is no help for that. It has been for quite some time and your presence here would not worsen it more than it already is."

Her brows rose with curiosity. “Why? What have you done?"

He smiled devilishly. “Oh, no, that will remain a secret. It would put a blush to your cheeks and a burn to your ears."

The color he spoke of bloomed. “Oh. You speak of ladies you've been with."

“And you will not. We will not.” Stupid of me to mention it. “As for where you may stay, my sister is correct about it being unsuitable for you to stay here. Not just for my reputation, but also for my family, as well as yours. You will stay with my Aunt Geneva. We will call on her after breakfast."

“Does she already know of me?"

“No, but she'll be delighted to take you in. Her husband is out of country, visiting his sickly mother. My aunt loves nothing more than to have someone to flutter over and is not happy unless her home is filled with guests."

“But, sir, I don't know her. I cannot simply move into her home and stay there while you and I go about our search. That would be most ... most awkward."

“No more awkward than you lodging here."

“But ... but I'm at least familiar with you. You're the only person I—” She broke off and turned away, but he'd seen the tears.

She looked back at him with regained composure. “I apologize, sir. I didn't mean to sound ungrateful. I will be ready to leave in the morning."

Deran sat still. A ruffle of pleasure filtered through him. It had happened in her presence before. It was easy to relax in her company when she wasn't hell bent on vexing him. And shocking as it was to admit, he enjoyed her candor, more when she spoke plainly rather than in rebuke. The memory of his response to her last wave of derisive candor caused a sudden tightening in his groin. His eyes lowered to her mouth at the memory.

At that moment, she looked at him. “Why did you kiss me?"

He tipped his head. “Really, Miss Fychon, you have a talent for saying the most remarkable things. Things that should not be spoken of."

“Why? If it's something that happened to me, why can't I ask? Ignorance only weakens you, makes it so you don't know enough to make a decision about whether you'll allow a thing to happen to you or not."

Valid point. Was she suggesting she wouldn't want it to happen again?

“You are not at all ignorant, but you are uneducated to the ways of polite conversation, particularly between men and women."

She laughed, a dusky sound. “Is there really such a thing? Polite conversation?"

He grinned. “Indeed there is."

“Will you teach me?"

“I would be a poor tutor. My aunt is far more suitable in those matters."

“I meant the kiss. You said I didn't know how, but you do."

His breath hung in his chest. How had he backed himself into this corner?

“Miss Fychon—"

“Why do you use my name in that lordly tone when I say something that upsets you?"

“That is your imagination."

“No, it isn't. But never mind.” She shook her head. “If you won't tell me why you kissed me and what I did badly, then I will ask your permission to retire, sir. Lord Atherton."

He narrowed his eyes. She had in her own way, dismissed him. She was becoming very good at that. And he would allow it because he had no intention of answering either one of her questions regarding the kiss that should never have happened.

He granted his permission and saw her to the staircase.

“Until morning then, sir.” Ava dipped into a wobbly curtsey.

“You may stop that."

“What?"

“That bobbing up and down that you do when you're trying to rankle me."

She blinked innocently. “I don't have to bob up and down? I thought that was what one did before royalty."

“I'm not royalty,” he said between his teeth. “As you know full well."

“My apologies, sir. My education as to who is who and how they should be addressed is lacking, but I will work on it.” She graced him with a smile.

“See that you do. Good-night, Miss Fychon."

“Good-night, sir.” Two steps up the hallway he put his hand on her shoulder and turned her around to face him.

“I kissed you,” he softly said, “because I had to know the feel of your mouth on mine. And it was not unpleasant, Miss Fychon. Not in the least."

He caressed her lower lip with his thumb and then touched his lips to hers, no more than the slightest brush of air.

“Good-night, Miss Ava."

Chapter Six

A dark blue carriage was at the curb the next morning, its gold crest glinting in the sunshine. A pair of grays stomped and huffed, impatient to be off.

Ava's jaw dropped.

“We're riding in that?"

“We certainly aren't going to walk alongside it.” He steered her down the steps.

Ava broke away and seconds later was nose to nose with one of the horses. She clucked her tongue and whispered to the beast.

“I gather you are fond of horses."

“I love horses. I left one behind that I loved very much. My tad gave him to me for my fifteenth birthday."

Deran handed her up into the carriage. Rose was already seated, unfazed over being in such an excellent carriage. Ava perched on the edge of the blue velvet seat cushion and gaped at the interior. Neatly folded blankets edged one corner, velvet curtains hung from large square windows. Lifting one, she peeked out and hoped Lord Atherton's aunt lived far away. She wanted to absorb the smell of the interior, the scent of horse and leather and to experience feeling grand.

Deran sat opposite the women, settled back, and stretched his legs out. He pressed a finger across his mouth as a way to shield his amusement. He'd never seen someone as entranced by anything as Miss Fychon was this carriage. The light on her face was completely captivating, an observation that caused mild alarm, given he'd spent too much time thinking of her last night.

“Where does she live? Your aunt?"

“In Mayfair. But we'll go to Knightsbridge first to return Rose to my sister."

“Is Mayfair far? Is Lady Charnock's home far from there?"

Deran chuckled. “We'll take the long way to both residences, how would that be?"

They rode the rest of the way to his sister's without comment. As covertly as possible, Deran watched Ava soak up the city of London and tried to imagine it through her eyes. Rows of elegant homes, well-tended gardens and hedges, carriages and teams of horses vying for space in the parks.

His sister had already left for morning social calls, making the dispatching of Rose brief. Deran spoke to his coachman and reclaimed the seat opposite Ava.

“You don't look comfortable, Miss Fychon."

“Comfortable? I'm very comfortable, thank you, sir."

Deran studied her. The dress she wore, like the one she'd worn yesterday was dark, unadorned and fit her no better than a grain sack. For reasons he couldn't explain, that annoyed him.

She looked away, straightened her shoulders even more, if that was possible, and then abruptly altered her posture so she resembled a hunchback. Deran became very still, for in that movement she had provided clarification. She wore no undergarments, no stays. Of course not. Her own had been ruined by the swim in the river and his sister's wouldn't have been an accurate fit, not that he could make out how much of a difference there was between the two women in that area. When he'd kissed her in the library he'd felt her breasts against him. It had been a brief encounter, and far from a full embrace, but he recalled his surprise. He had imagined less mature development on such a small, young body.

* * * *

The thought of her being unencumbered beneath that dress was erotic, and one that had a most direct effect on his body. Deran shifted slightly and forced himself to look out the window.

A more plausible explanation was that they simply were too uncomfortable against her tender back.

That thought threatened to darken his mood, something he wished to avoid, being that he had such a short time to be with Miss Fychon before relinquishing her to his aunt.

He'd ordered the coachman to drive to Hyde Park. They weren't expected in Mayfair for another hour, allowing ample time to travel the park's circuit and make a brief stop at the river.

“Miss Fychon, the horse you mentioned earlier. Did you ride?"

“Of course. That's how I have always traveled."

He suspected as much by her reaction of delight to his pair. “For pleasure I mean. Rides in the country, that sort of riding."

“Not as often as I would have liked, and not as the woman who just passed."

Deran looked out the window behind him. A man and woman dressed in fashionable livery rode side by side.

“In formal attire?"

“No. Not in a saddle as she uses."

“You ride astride?"

She didn't answer and appeared embarrassed.

“Miss Fychon?"

“I'm sorry. I don't know what that is. Astride."

“Ah. As the gentleman was seated. The woman was riding sidesaddle."

“Is that how all women ride here? Sidesaddle?"

“Yes."

She pursed her lips. “How do they not fall off?"

Deran laughed softly. “They learn from an early age how to properly balance."

Ava shook her head. “The horse is all you need as a guide. That is the only way I know how to ride."

“Bareback?” he asked, surprised. “That is how you ride?"

“Ie. Or, used to."

The ache he'd staved off moments ago returned with a profound throb. The vision of her riding was immediate and vividly sensual. Skirt draped high on smooth, strong thighs spread wide over the horse's back. Hips and buttocks cradled by the natural arc of the animal, bare knees and calves pressed into its loins. Hair a golden stream as the wind played with it, swirled it across cheeks pink with happiness and the warm day. The horse's mane and her fingers linked, her balance perfection, back straight and poised to make a jump as she approached a low lying gate. Her breasts rose and fell in rhythm to the hooves, white silken flashes of ski—

“Sir, are you unwell?"

Startled, Deran blinked away the image. His mouth as dry as leather, heart beat hard against his starched shirt. Unwell? Any more unwell and he'd have to immerse himself in a cold fountain.

Bloody hell, what was I thinking? As he had last night, he castigated himself for having inappropriate thoughts about this woman. This child.

“I'm quite well, thank you. My apologies. For a moment, my mind turned to other matters."

“Oh, forgive me. You must have pressing matters far more important than my situation."

“Pressing matters, hmm. Yes, yes I do. But that is a poor excuse for ignoring you and your enjoyment of your carriage ride."

The carriage slowed, drawing Ava's attention to the window. She gasped.

“Water! And a boat! A small one with two people in it.” She all but bounced off the seat. “What is it? May we stop? Is there time?"

Deran grinned at her excitement. What was to have been a simple carriage ride had become an adventure for her and he was enjoying himself more than he'd foreseen. He rapped on the carriage roof to indicate he wanted to stop. He stepped out and handed her down.

She made it to the water's edge before he did, unaware her shawl had fluttered to the ground several feet behind her.

“What is it called?” she asked softly.

“The Serpentine River. It's fed by a natural spring."

She moved closer to the bank. The water was still and soundless. It was so vast, the park's green area, its footpaths and trails reaching well beyond eyesight.

Deran watched her from several feet away. With her back to him, she stood as still as the tree he was propped against, her stance wooden, her silence immense. What had drawn her attention? When her shoulders suddenly drew forward, he remembered the shawl he had retrieved. The morning chill had lessened, but a gust of air kindled it. Thinking she was cold, he walked quickly to her.

She stiffened and shifted away as he settled the shawl on her shoulders.

“You are cold. We should return to the carriage."

She angled even further from him and raised a hand to her throat.

“Miss Fychon, let us go.” He took her elbow intending to lead her to the carriage, but a small moan stopped him. He dropped his hand and stepped around to face her.

Her green eyes were soaked with tears. She bowed her head and raised her hands to hide her face, but he caught them in his. Concern mingled with confusion.

“Why are you crying? I thought you were enjoying yourself when all the while you've been weeping.” He fumbled in his pocket and offered her a handkerchief.

How embarrassing! And so foolish to let her control slip this way, and on such a wonderful morning.

Ava turned away and pressed the handkerchief to her eyes. It smelled of him, of soap and firewood. She breathed in the scents, tucked them away in her memories before folding the cloth and returning it. She pulled the shawl tighter.

“Now. Tell me what is bothering you."

Ava took a slow breath. He was standing too close. She could feel his body's heat, and was suddenly aware that he was still holding one of her hands. She withdrew it.

“It's nothing."

“Really. Do you often cry over nothing while standing in front of sparkling rivers in the center of a park?"

The corner of her mouth twitched. “No, sir, I do not."

“Then tell me what has upset you.” He steered her around and headed back to the carriage.

“Please,” she said grabbing his arm. “Just another minute. Just one.” He nodded and they walked to the tree he'd stood against.

“I miss the sea,” she whispered. “Whenever possible, I would go riding on the shores. For miles through waves, around them, so free. I was never as happy as when I did that. I was imagining this water, this calm, quiet water to be the sea and it made me homesick I guess. And I feel guilty, and ashamed."

“Of what?"

“I'm safe, dry and not hungry. I'm enjoying a morning in a park before I leave for someone's home where I'm to be a guest. I'm very fortunate and I feel guilty I ... I'm alive and...” She shook her head violently, and wrapped her arms around her middle as a fresh font of tears spilled over. She stomped a foot and spat out harsh words.

Unsure whether her distress was from anger or sorrow, he consoled her. Standing behind her, he set his hands on her shoulders, lightly at first. The top of her head came to his chin allowing the faint scent of soap in her hair to fill his nose. His thumbs rested on her nape and his groin tightened in reaction to the warmth of that small patch of skin. He closed his eyes and eased his hands down her arms, encasing her in a comforting embrace.

“We will find them,” he whispered. “I will help you. Do not worry so."

His heart thrummed against her back and he felt her wrist pulse, its tapping, fast and insistent. Step back. He didn't. He was doing a poor job of following his own orders today. And then she rested her hands on top of his arms and squeezed. Slowly he slid his arms fully around her waist.

This wasn't a wise move on many levels. They were in a public park, somewhat secluded behind a tree, but especially because he'd situated her buttocks against his lower body which had already been strongly influenced by a simple touch.

No, not wise. But oh so heady.

What is happening, Ava wondered? She'd never felt anything like this—a heat swelled in her belly and trailed down between her thighs. His mouth touched her neck and her skin melted, all air left her when he breathed soft hushes in her ear and moved into her hair. She heard the sigh of the wind only to realize it had been her sigh. She floated, weighty and airless at once, knees numb, legs trembling.

His hands moved from her waist and with a touch as light as a bird's wing, slid around her ribs and nestled beneath her breasts.

Ava gasped, startled by the bold move and the unfamiliar sensations it caused. Unfamiliar and wonderfully exciting. Her breasts tightened more than they had when he'd kissed her and she arched her back in a silent plea for more. This is not right. I should not ... he should not.

He made a sound, like one does when he has a headache and suddenly broke away.

“Miss Fychon,” he said very low, “Forgive me. I cannot defend my actions. I should not have taken such liberties with you."

She turned to face him knowing she must look like the most shameless of females because she'd wanted more. Had wanted his hands to open and cover her breasts. She'd never been touched this way before, but it had been delicious and made her feel alive.

Her shining eyes and bright cheeks did little to ease Deran's guilt. Damn foolish, dishonorable thing to do, compromising her that way. It wouldn't happen again. He didn't know what it was about her, but whenever she was near his body seemed to lead his head into a game of trouble. And absolute pleasure. Lust, nothing more.

She was a child. Children weren't pawns to be manipulated in games of lust.

He'd had a satisfying evening with a woman only three nights ago. Apparently another was necessary. Soon.

Ava climbed inside the carriage. She pressed against the farthest wall dearly wishing she could evaporate into the plush upholstery. He was treating her like a misbehaving child and she felt guilty. Of what? What had she done wrong? Nothing. Had she hurt his feelings, embarrassed him? If she asked why, he would explain it away. It isn't proper to talk about private matters. A ridiculous notion when those matters involved only two people. Who else would know?

She glanced at him beneath lowered lids. Look at him, sitting so proud, so sure of himself. You'd think we'd never stopped and done whatever that was.

"Lord Atherton, I have a question. I apologize in advance if it's impertinent, but ... did you ... if what just happened felt as ... oh, bloody hell, I don't know what I'm trying to ask."

“Miss Fychon,” he said sharply, “never use such words again, do you understand?"

“What words?"

“You know perfectly well."

“Oh, you mean ‘bloody hell'?"

He groaned. “Yes. Do not speak them again."

“Why? You do. I've heard you."

“That's different."

“Because you're an earl?"

“Because I'm a man."

“Ooh, again with being a man. Because you are a man you may curse when you are angry but a woman may not?"

“Precisely."

“Who made this rule? Men?"

“It is not a rule. It's a matter of decency. Women, respectable women, do not use oaths. That has always been so and always will be."

“So say you."

“Yes, so say I."

She fumed in her corner, he seethed in his. The space between them grew cold.

Ava cut him a sideways glance. He had touched her, breathed on her, kissed parts of her body that had never had lips on them and now treated her as though she had the pox. Damn him. And damn herself for letting him do those things. She had ruined everything. And had nothing to lose by pressing on.

“Lord Atherton. About the kiss."

He groaned and closed his eyes, but she hurtled on. “In the library and then the other by the stairs.” He sank deeper into the cushions. “I thought maybe you were going to do that again ... at the park but—” Now she was nervous. “You don't want to kiss me anymore?"

Not the question Deran was expecting. He looked at her, amazed. If he knew for certain she was indeed twenty-three, he would take her here and now.

Did he not want to kiss her? Was she that witless? That innocent? Had she been given no instruction to the ways between men and women?

“Miss Fychon, I've told you such topics are not to be discussed."

“But if I cannot ask you, who may I ask?"

“No one, Miss Fychon. You ask no one."

“But then I will never know the answer."

“That is the idea, yes."

“But that is unfair."

“That may be, but it is the way of it. Not all questions need to be answered."

She gaped at him. “That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

He shrugged.

“So you're saying you don't want to kiss me."

“No!” God in heaven, he was shouting at her. “No, I said no such thing."

“But you..."

“Miss Fychon,” he said, in a moderately seething tone, “I did not kiss you not because I did not want to. I did not kiss you because it would not have been enough."

She blinked. His jaw pulsed. Her eyes fell to his mouth, a fierce want seizing her. She wanted his mouth on hers more than she'd ever wanted anything besides her freedom. And kissing him would be a freedom of sorts because she hadn't stopped thinking about it since he'd kissed her in the library, how it had sent puffs of heat to every corner of her body. And then after that night of talking in the kitchen, well, she thought he would want to again. He seemed to like it, even though he said she didn't know how to kiss, but she thought she had let him know that she liked it too.

He watched her watch him, felt the heat of her gaze on his mouth. He could taste her on his lips, the buttery flavor of her skin. His arms around her small form had been a single moment of perfection. And she wondered why he hadn't moved beyond the disgraceful act he'd already committed. He wanted her completely. To want this badly was dangerous. Damn near felonious.

The growl came seconds before he lunged for her. She yipped as he plopped her onto his lap, gripped her arms and brought his mouth down on hers, hard, much harder than he had in the library.

Every ounce of breath was shoved out of her body by his force and her shock.

He broke away, his breath coming quickly. “Good God, but you are exasperating."

“I know. I'm sorry. It's just that..."

“Be quiet, Miss Fychon. Be very, very quiet."

“Yes, sir,” she whispered.

He kissed her again, sweetly this time, like music on her mouth it was so beautiful. His hands held her face, slipped into her loosened hair, ran down her back with the softest caresses. He nipped and licked, lightly teased her lips before meeting them again. His tongue stroked and played at one corner of her mouth.

“Part your lips."

She pulled back, her eyes huge. “What? Why?'

He angled his head and gave her his most patient look. “Trust me. You'll like it."

His kiss softened, lips parted, and she followed suit, not smoothly, more like opening a door set on a rusty hinge, but when his tongue touched hers a bolt of lightning flitted through her.

Her arms swung around his neck and she kissed him with fervor. The more she felt, the more she wanted. His hair, as thick and heavy as she'd imagined, his face with its angles and surprisingly smooth curves, and his mouth, mmm, such a wonder. He kissed her throat, buried his face in her neck and pecked at her shoulders. He laid her back into his arms and kissed the rise of her breasts, touched his tongue to the dip between them and left a steaming trail of kisses back to her mouth.

“Now do you understand what I meant, Miss Fychon? About the kiss not being enough?” He spoke against her lips while a hand crept down her thigh on the topside of her dress.

She jerked in a breath when his hand retraced its path. Mesmerized, she watched the dress foam up over his tanned skin.

“Yes, Lord Atherton,” she said, her heart trembling erratically. “Yes, I understand. It's all quite clear now, thank you.” His hand skimmed over a knee, inched nearer the private space between her thighs. The tight jolt of heat he caused was damn distracting. “Oh, sir. Oh, please, may I not call you something else?"

He chuckled, bunched the disagreeable garment in his palm. “What would you call me, my sweet?"

Her head dropped back against his arm, her spine having lost all sense of uprightness as his hand drew nearer to the pulse between her thighs. “I don't know, oh, I don't know. Just please, not Sir. Or, the other. Not while you're..."

His lips smothered hers, clever hand snuck closer to her heat and she moaned into his mouth.

“Not while I'm making you want more?"

“Yes. That.” She clung to his shoulder. “I shouldn't want more, should I, sir?"

No, you shouldn't. Nor should I. I am fully accountable for this.

“It is not a matter of should, dear one. It simply is.” His hand was nearly clear of the evil dress. He kissed her softly. “It has been for me since I first saw you dripping on my carpet."

She groaned. “You would have to mention that, wouldn't you?"

He chuckled against her throat. “Despite your drenched state, you were adorable. But I must say I prefer you like this.” Another inch or two and he could finally touch her as he'd dreamed of doing. His breath suspended when he felt her heat through the fabric, felt her quiver beneath his palm and smelled her sweet arousal. Her hips tilted up in search of his hand. He looked down her length immodestly stretched to the other side of the carriage. Lean calves and lower thighs both more muscular in tone than other women he knew, the skin fair but not pale.

He looked back to her face flushed with excitement, lips moist and reddened from their kisses, hair everywhere but in its neat package at the base of her neck. He wanted her. Unreasonably so. But this wasn't where he wanted to take her and it was so very sinful that he should even think of doing so. Reluctantly, he lifted his hand off her thigh.

The carriage suddenly jolted. Ava squeaked as she nearly bounced from his lap onto the floor. He grabbed her shoulder, she latched onto the lapel of his coat and wrenched herself back up. He looked out his window. The home they were passing was not but three blocks from his aunt's.

Thank God for the rut in the road or they would have presented themselves most unfavorably and had a lot of explaining to do in a few moments. Actually, explanations wouldn't have been necessary. The evidence would have spoken for itself.

He told her how near they were and made quick work of straightening his cravat, waistcoat and sweeping his hair in place.

Ava noticed how adept he was at tidying himself inside a carriage. She put herself back in order as best she could.

“You've done this before."

“We will not talk about this, Miss Fychon.” Say something to her. An apology at the very least.

She turned around, her eyes round, a sad smile on her face. “Please. Can you not call me by my Christian name?"

Deran, laid a hand on her cheek, wishing that they had a few more moments for him to make some sort of recompense. “It's not proper, dear girl."

“Nor was what we did in this carriage, I suppose."

He winced. “You do have a way of gnawing past the meat and getting to the bone.” His hand curled around the back of her neck and pulled her to him for a delicate kiss. “In private, you will be Ava to me."

“Thank you. And I can call you—"

The carriage stopped and Ava's heart thudded with the final clop of hooves.

“Oh God. We're here."

“Indeed. Let me have a look at you.” He adjusted the neckline of her dress, tucked in a wisp of hair. “You look lovely. The duchess will be as captivated as I am."

“Oh, I doubt-did you say duchess? With your aunt? Isn't it enough that I have to meet her, but I have to meet a duchess as well?"

“No, dear heart. Not as well. My aunt is a duchess. The Duchess of Barclay. Did I not mention that?"

Chapter Seven

It was half past two in the afternoon when Deran returned home.

The insipid tea at dear Aunt Geneva's had done nothing for his frazzled nerves. And he wasn't one to have frazzled nerves. Ever. Not until two days ago that is.

Disaster. He tossed his hat at Bickford as he stormed inside. My life has become an absolute disaster in less than forty-eight hours. His steps resounded off the walls as he passed the library and entered his study. The library held the port, his study had stronger fortifications.

He shoved the door closed, a testament to the frustrations of this interminable day. Noises escaped his lips as he moved toward the drinks tray. And now I'm muttering.

He poured a generous serving of whiskey and slumped onto a chair. Heat crawled to his belly with the first swallow. He rested his head against the chair and closed his eyes. But for the clamor in his brain, all was quiet.

Finally. Quiet in his home.

The coil of tension in his gut would clear any moment.

After several, he gave up.

He stared into his glass, not surprised when a memory of Miss Ava Fychon swam to the surface of the amber liquid. He saw her hands cradling the glass of lemonade. How she'd held it as though it were a fragile bird's egg.

She'd reacted the same way to the tea she sipped in his aunt's drawing room. As though she'd been seconds away from dying of drought and the tea had revived her. The pleasure she'd taken in it hadn't gone unnoticed by his aunt.

Upon discovering that the lady of the house was his aunt who was also Her Grace, the Duchess of Barclay, Miss Fychon had flown into a panic.

Deran did his best to assure her that within a short time she would begin to think of his aunt like everyone else did-peculiar. She was the family oddity, every family has at least one and in Deran's family she was the highest ranked. He had no doubt she and Ava would get along splendidly.

* * * *

Deran eventually soothed her enough to enter the manor. The duchess was tending to something in the gardens, and they were shown to the drawing room. The wait gave Ava additional time to fret.

“What do I say to her, sir? What do I call her?"

“You address her as Your Grace. I suspect she'll want you to call her Aunt Geneva."

Ava flushed and fluttered her hands. “Oh, I could never do that. I'll use Your Grace. That I can manage.” She knotted her hands in her lap. “I know about the titles, sir. I was taught them, but I've never had to use them. You were my first. Titled person, that is."

Your first at a number of things. Prudently, he made no such suggestion.

“I've been curious about your education,” he said. “You speak English fairly well. Whatever difficulty I have understanding you is due in large part to your accent, the brogue, if that isn't too insensitive of me. But your words are well put together, in speech better than in your writing. Did you learn this at school in Anglesey?"

She was grateful for the diversion from how nervous she was sitting in such a grand room waiting for a duchess to appear. She shook her head.

“My mam taught me. She believed women should have as much knowledge as men in all subjects. After she died I had little time to continue learning, but I went to church as often as I could and talked with priests. They opened their library to me and told stories of their travels."

No formal schooling. Only what she'd learned from her mother and kindly priests.

Her brow suddenly puckered. “Do I have to bow? I don't remember."

“If you do, she'll likely correct your posture and have you walking around with a book on your head.” He laughed. “No, you do not bow. Men bow, you curtsey. Just a little. Not nearly as much as the bobbing you bestow to me.” He flashed a grin.

They sat opposite one another, he in a chair designed to keep the sitter attentive and uncomfortable at all times, she on the edge of a gold satin brocade settee. She tugged at her dress, adjusted its waistline, restored it to its former position. The air tingled with her case of nerves.

“Miss Fychon,” he said softly. The fidgeting stopped but she did not look at him. “Ava."

Her head sprang up, eyes widened, face flushed. “Yes sir? My lord?"

She hadn't meant the last to be anything other than respectful, he was sure of it. But he bristled at the formality. He would tell her that later. She had enough troubling her at the moment.

“I would not have brought you here if I thought you to be unsafe. Please believe I am thinking in your best interests."

To his surprise and mild dismay, her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, I do believe you. You've been so kind since the night I was deposited so ... so unwholesomely on your stoop. I will never be able to thank you enough. And for the help you have offered me. I hadn't expected to meet someone like you, or that you would want to help me, but I am very much in your debt."

He felt like a cad. He'd ravaged her in a carriage, for God's sake. She should be put out by that and demand an apology from him, not praise him. He was about to set her straight when a loud crash followed by shouting and snarling came from the hall.

Deran leapt to his feet. “What the devil?” He hurried to the door and flung it open. A screech demanding that he close the door came too late. A feather duster shot between his legs and into the room. It was followed directly by a lemon-colored beast with an enormous head, its silky fur flapping, mouth pulled back in a mischievous grin. Deran whirled around and made a grab for its bushy tail only to have his legs knocked out from under him by what resembled a gray pony, but for its ragged fur and longish snout. And the barking.

The lemon monster added his voice to the mix when Ava scooped up the feather duster from beneath a side table and clutched it to her chest. She scowled down at the unruly dogs dancing at her feet. Their large dripping tongues and flash of teeth did not impress or alarm her in the least. She stamped a foot and spoke sharply.

The result was that of dousing the flame from a candle. The barking died to a whimper. The dog in her arms bravely yipped at its tormenters and snuggled into her embrace.

Rapid footsteps heralded an anxious gathering, all dressed in uniforms, the men in stern black with white cravats, the women in grey with full body aprons. They all looked as if they had weathered a windstorm to get there.

“You naughty, naughty boys,” an elderly one said as she rushed forward. “Whatever am I going to do with you? Lionel, Braddock,” she clapped her hands, “come here at once.” The two large dogs looked forlornly up at their tiny playmate. Ava whispered something and they slunk across the room, sighed dramatically and dropped to the floor at the maid's feet.

Everyone gaped at Ava giggling over the thankful lapping she was receiving from the rescued dog.

Deran walked over to her.

“What did you say to them?"

She grinned at her armful of fluff and shrugged. “Nothing really."

“Apparently it was something. They listened to you.” He brushed a hand down his coat front, straightening his cravat at the same time.

“Are you all right, sir? I saw you fall against the corner of the sofa."

“I'm fine.” He stepped closer, patted the dog on the head. “Tell me what you said to them,” he insisted softly.

“I cannot,” she whispered. She glanced at the door as the dogs were ushered out by the household staff.

“And why is that?"

“Because you told me never to say such words again."

Deran looked at her quizzically. “Words? What—” He snapped his mouth shut. “You didn't. Please say you did not curse at my aunt's dogs."

“If she did, they deserved it,” said the older woman. “They're such a nuisance.” She wiped her hands on her apron as she approached, leaving a dark stain amongst other lighter ones.

“Thank you,” she said to Ava. “I'm indebted to you. If you hadn't snatched up my little Augustus there is no telling what damage those brutes would have done to this room.” She fondled the little dog's ears. “And to my little sweet'ums."

“It was my pleasure, ma'am."

The woman smiled broadly displaying a straight set of very square teeth. The smile spread to sparkling dark blue eyes. She nodded, making the abundant grey, cream puff of hair on top of her head sway.

“You don't know who I am, but I know who you are.” She turned to Deran. “Introduce us for pity's sake."

Deran cleared his throat, dipped his head. “Yes, certainly.” His deep brown eyes gleamed when he looked at Ava. “Miss Fychon, it is my honor to present my Aunt Geneva, Her Grace, the Duchess of Barclay."

Ava stood and her arms went limp.

The duchess rescued Augustus from his dangling position and handed him off to a maid, then settled onto the end of the settee Ava had been sitting on. Ava stared down at her, her face drained of color.

Her Grace took no notice, her attention on ridding her fingernails of what looked like a substantial quantity of soil. She picked at a particularly stubborn smudge of soil on her thumb. She sighed and turned to Ava.

“It's nice to meet you, my dear. Tea?"

Ava's mouth dropped open most improperly. Her mind and body hadn't yet recovered from when Lord Atherton held her in a tight embrace, his hands and mouth causing little eruptions under and on her skin. And now, a woman dressed like someone who should be carrying fresh laundry to the rooms had been introduced as a duchess. It was all too unreal.

“Miss Fychon,” Deran said steadily, “would you like to say something to Her Grace? A greeting perhaps. Something to indicate you have not been struck dumb."

Ava blinked at him. His brow rose and head tipped in a questioning expression.

“Oh. Yes, forgive me.” She forced a smile and dropped into a curtsey, which unfortunately was too deep and not well balanced. A small squeak popped out as she teetered. Deran snatched a flailing arm and anchored himself at her side.

She gave Lord Atherton a grateful and embarrassed glance before turning to his aunt. “Your Grace, it is an honor to meet you. And I'm sorry for being so clumsy. It was inexcusable of me."

“Nonsense child. You are not clumsy. Sit.” She patted the space beside her. “We will acquaint ourselves while my nephew rings for tea. Jessup is lurking in the hall I'm sure."

Deran took the cue and left the room. Geneva plucked up Ava's hands in hers. Ava felt the coarseness of the dirt she hadn't managed to scrape away.

The door opened and Deran returned. Following behind was a squat, fuzzy haired man pushing a silver teacart.

While she poured tea, the duchess explained her attire. She liked working in her gardens, tending to the everyday needs of herbs and flowers. The cool dirt, scent of the earth, knowing her efforts would produce pleasure later in the season were fulfilling. And she didn't trust gardeners to do it the way she wanted.

“Long ago I took to wearing one of my maid's dresses. Gardening in silks and satins is terribly impractical.” She appraised Ava coolly. “Miss Fychon, may I ask where you acquired your dress? It is spectacularly unsuitable for someone with your coloring.” She turned on Deran. “Did you have a hand in this? If so, it is shockingly clear to me why ladies are not lapping at your feet."

Deran didn't rise to the bait. “If you're looking for a target for your poison arrow, my dear aunt, point it at your niece."

“Madeline?” The duchess again looked at the dress. “Stand.” Ava gave the earl a pleading look. He flicked a finger to let her know she needed to do as she was told.

Ava stood, cup and saucer in hand.

“Turn."

She rotated stiffly. What was it with this family, giving orders like they owned a person? Turn. Sit. Stand. She would have to abide it since she was a guest. But it was getting tiresome.

“I've never seen Madeline wear this dress,” the duchess exclaimed.

“Yes, well,” Deran mumbled.

“And I never want to see it on you again, Miss Fychon. You must take it off immediately. It is most offensive."

Ava blushed all the way to her scalp. “But, ma'am, I mean, madam."

“Not here in this room, girl. I have a very accomplished modiste who will know what is right for you. We will visit her shop first thing in the morning. And your hair. It is a most singular style. Is it the fashion in Wales these days?” The duchess was on her feet inspecting it before Ava could reply. She shot the earl a look of alarm. He smiled to assure her all would be well.

“Yes, how remarkable.” Fingers poked and picked. “A sophisticated weave, although it is not the vogue for ladies, even those as young as you, to loosen their hair as much as you have. As attractive as it is,” she stood at Ava's back and lifted the hair that rested at her waist, “It won't do to have it out of its pins, spilling over your back this way. We will visit Madame Varney. She will see to a proper cut and style."

“No. There will be no cutting her hair."

The duchess peeked out from behind Ava at her nephew. “Did I hear you correctly? Did you cross me?"

“I did, and I apologize. It was said in haste. But I don't believe Miss Fychon's appearance or appeal would be improved if she were to cut her hair."

“Really?"

“Yes. Really."

“Very well. I will have Madame Varney see what magic she can make with these profuse tresses. Your carriage is waiting, Deran?"

“Yes, Aunt."

“And Miss Fychon's belongings are with you?"

“I had nothing to bring, ma'am,” Ava offered. “Your duchess. Grace.” Ava clenched her fists together in frustration. “Your Grace."

Deran fought back a laugh. The duchess tittered. “We will settle two matters here and now. You are to call me Aunt Geneva. Anything else is too tedious and I become as confused as you and quite forget who I am. I refuse to attribute forgetfulness to age.” A smile came and went. “And never are you to answer a question unless it is asked directly of you. With this I am quite firm. Is that understood?"

“Yes ma'am. Aunt Geneva,” she corrected with a pained expression.

The duchess laughed and assured Ava that with time, calling her Aunt Geneva would become easier. But she was to call her that only in private.

Another one, Ava thought glumly. Another name to be used privately. She was excused to the library so the duchess and earl could speak alone. Lord Atherton and his aunt would confer and determine whether she ought to stay or be sent away. Plans for escape would have to be made this very night if she was told she could stay. Had she not escaped once before?

Jessup ushered her into the library, a room larger than her home in Wales. Hollowness expanded her stomach, crept into her lungs, filled the space behind her eyes, crowding the tears that lay in wait. The scrutiny she'd had to bear under the piercing eyes of the duchess had unnerved her. The men who'd taken her had examined her similarly, but more degradingly. They had peered, poked, touched, clucked their tongues, stroked her skin, and handled her, determining her value, her worth to potential buyers.

No outsider could determine such a thing, the worth of another person, yet outsiders had the power to determine one's fate.

She slumped onto a chair and laid her head back. An escape plan. That's what she needed. But first she had to claw past questions that had been pressing at her-did Lord Atherton want to be rid of her? Did he plan to abandon her? Would she see him again after today?

Would she ever hear him speak her name again?

Chapter Eight

Why the hell did he feel so in the wrong? It wasn't as if he'd left her in a pit of vipers. She'd be well cared for. The whiskey had long ago been consumed, just the one glass, proof he still had a modicum of restraint. Deran stared into the cold hearth, the last image of her branded on his brain. Panic. Trust. Determination. All of it had been displayed, on her face, in the tension of her mouth, the soulful eyes.

Before leaving he'd promised to call on her tomorrow. He would not be returning today. Disappointment and sadness had filled her eyes when she'd given him a brave smile. It had gripped his heart. The desire to hold her tight and whisper to her, vanquishing her unhappiness, had been painfully strong. It had worked once, too well actually, and he was certain it would again.

He was just as certain that never would he take advantage of such a situation a second time, should it present itself. He'd spent the past half hour in a vicious inner duel over his behavior.

The reason he wouldn't fulfill his responsibility to her over his behavior was simple-he had no intention of marrying, her or anyone. She was ignorant to what he should do on her behalf, what any gentleman would do. What she didn't know was to his advantage.

The education Miss Fychon had received at the hand of her mother and town clerics had evidently not included rules governing behavior between unbetrothed men and women. She was unaware of the unseen boundaries, the walls carefully pruned by anxious mamas and papas to keep their daughters on their respective sides of the fence. Those fences designed to keep a wooer on one side, the lady of his desire on the other. If the young buck was unfortunate enough to be found with said lady on her side of the fence in what could be interpreted as a situation that could lead to the lady's undoing, the gate slammed shut, forever trapping the smitten young man.

Deran knew the system well. Had it not been for his commission to the Navy and assignments during the time of war, he would have been in the corral, tethered to the lifelong post of matrimony.

No, he had no desire to wed. And so he would remain silent on the matter of the kisses and embraces he and Miss Fychon had exchanged today.

His silence was unforgivable. But entirely necessary.

And with it rose a feeling he was unfamiliar with, struggled to identify, but eventually labeled.

Guilt.

A knock at the door interrupted his foul mood. He growled a reply.

Bickford entered.

“In your haste, sir, I was unable to inform you that Mr. DiSanto called. He is here and would like a word with you."

“Send him in.” It was quiet. Too quiet. It made him restless, all this silence. He'd been home less than an hour and was already anxious to leave. He'd talk Max into going riding. Nothing like a hard ride to clear the head.

“Atherton."

“DiSanto, come in. I was just thinking of going for a long ride, take the bay out, stretch his legs. Fleck can easily saddle one as two. What do you say?"

Max tapped droplets of water from his hat and frock coat before arranging himself in the chair opposite Deran. His eyes viewed the empty crystal glass. Deran was glad he withheld comment.

“Afraid I have to beg off. I've sloshed through the damp enough for one day."

“It's raining?"

Max held out the lapels of his coat. “No. I was cooling off in the river. Yes it's raining. Apparently you've been cloistered in here for some time."

“Not so long."

“I wanted to speak to you first thing in the day, but you got an early start."

“Yes. There was the matter of conveying Miss Fychon to my aunt's."

“Ah yes. So she is no longer your worry."

“Worry, hmm. Certainly far less than when she was under foot. Geneva was only too happy to take her off my hands.” Deran picked up his glass, rolled it between his palms. “Of course there still is my promise to do what I can to help locate her family. Or disclaim her story.” He eyed Max. “This is a business call?"

“Business yes, but not the sort we usually discuss.” Max glanced at the door, assuring it was closed. “I've discovered something, but not in the context of what we agreed I would look for. A serendipitous coup."

“Go on."

“The lady, er, girl ... hell, Atherton, what the devil do I call her? You gave me explicit instructions not to use her name."

“Yes, yes, I know. Miss Fychon for now, until my aunt deems otherwise since she is now under her wing. Aunt Geneva has contrived a story that Miss Fychon is a distant relative of my uncle's. The niece of a great nephew of someone else, or some such nonsense. Because of my uncle's ancestry and similar speech, Geneva believes the connection to the two will not be questioned. With my uncle away for at least another week, he's not here to dispute the relationship and so...” He pressed fingers to his eyes.

“Of course. The distant, distant cousin ploy. Not innovative, but difficult to contest if one has the audacity to square off with the duchess. It makes sense."

“In theory I suppose it does. Geneva is determined to share her with Society. More like show her off, or display her as some exotic specimen at one of her many parties or dinners."

“She is rather, you know."

Deran's head jerked up. “She is rather what?"

“Exotic. Apart from that voice of hers, I mean. There are few green-eyed beauties in London, and none that come to mind who have the other, er, gifts Miss, uh, your very distant cousin does.” The sharp black eyes gazing at him would have been threatening to anyone else, but Max knew the control that lurked long and deep behind that look. He was surprised by it. And curious.

“Gifts, you say. Her greatest gift thus far has been the ability to annoy and badger me at every turn. I was relieved to turn her over to my aunt. No. More than relieved. Gratified. Elated."

Max smiled knowingly. “The house is quiet."

“As it should be. Now, about your business."

“Yes. As we discussed, I employed a reliable runner with connections into some of the more prominent households in the city."

“You've learned something then?"

“Not about a possible employer, not yet at least. However, lines have been cast out to learn of any domestic help recently let go. We should know something in a day or two. But I do have information about an overheard conversation at the Dimsdale. A man asking around about a young woman."

“The Dimsdale Arms?” Max nodded. “Nasty side of town. Not one you should travel to alone."

“My runner overheard the conversation, not me. He had it in mind to roust up the men who brought Miss Fychon to London, but had no luck. Stopped for a pint before going home."

“What did the man want to know?"

“He described the woman in crude particulars, gave everyone a good laugh. A sweet morsel, the man told them. Dark blonde hair, green eyes, mean tongue, sooner spit in your face than favor you with a kiss. Claimed she was his wife who ran off."

Deran's jaw clenched. “His wife."

Max nodded. “You don't think she's—"

Deran shook his head. “No. He was lying. She can't be married. When was this?"

“Last evening."

“Did he give his name?"

“Jones."

“Jones,” Deran scoffed. “That certainly narrows it down. Any description of this Jones?"

“A fairly good one, but he appears to be as ordinary as his name. Average height, dark hair. Wearing a great coat. Couldn't see the eyes."

“Did he speak with a brogue?"

Max's eyebrow rose. “You'd think so wouldn't you, if it were his wife he was looking for and that wife was Miss Fychon. But no. His speech was described as ‘refined.’”

“Refined. So he's a gentleman."

“Perhaps. If you were to judge him by his words. But I don't believe a gentleman would offer a reward for his wife."

Deran's eyes burned black. “A reward? He's offering money for her?"

“Three thousand pounds."

“Hell."

“That's not all."

“I'm not going to like this, am I?"

Max shook his head slowly. “No, my friend, you are not. The money will be paid whether she's brought to him dead or alive. Apparently, your Miss Fychon murdered a man."

* * * *

Ava stared out at the drizzle.

She kept coming back to the earl's words of assurance. Let me help you. I have your best interests at heart. How she wanted to believe both, but the cloak of comfort and encouragement had vanished when he'd left the duchess’ home. He'd made promises, brought her here and left as quickly as he was able, glad to be rid of her. Not that she could blame him. No one with his position in Society would want to be saddled with someone so beneath him. That assumption of his character was perhaps somewhat unfair. In fact he seemed to like her company and had shown what she perceived as genuine interest in her when they talked in his kitchen. Both times. And he'd kissed her. Twice, no three times. He'd certainly shown considerable interest in her then.

Ava sat on the padded window seat and rested her head against the pane. She'd concentrate on befriending her companion and maid while she was here. Meg, a young, amiable chatterbox, was quite taken by the idea of tending to Her Grace's foreign relative.

Ava had pleaded fatigue. But the bed wouldn't be where she rested her head. Dim. Any bed requiring a flight of steps to reach its mattress wouldn't be one she'd sleep in. She'd lay awake at night for fear of falling out of it. No, her usual arrangement would suit her and she'd be no less comfortable than she'd been at Lord Atherton's. This floor was also carpeted. Another luxury in these temporary lodgings.

Meg had explained tomorrow's scheduled outings, beginning with Mrs. Varney's parlor for hair styling, then the modiste for dresses, and the millinery for hats. Shopping for reticules and gloves would be tucked in somewhere. Ava had no wish to be inspected, discussed, poked, prodded, spun around and cooed over. The only good that could come of it was the opportunity to survey the city's roads so she could map out her future escape.

Asking about the mills and workhouses surrounding the city would be complicated, but Meg's gift for talking nineteen to the dozen helped. Already Ava had learned who worked in the kitchen, their days off, market days and when meats were delivered. The last two could provide opportunities for her to slip out unnoticed.

Ava hugged herself. Two days had passed since being pulled from the river. Knowing how her brother and sister had spent those days while she'd been spared ill treatment kept the candle of guilt burning in her soul. When she found them, she would exchange herself for them. She'd tried once and failed, but wouldn't fail a second time.

She pressed a hand to the cool pane, her silent prayer moving her lips with the hope they could hear her.

“I'm coming, dear ones. I have not forgotten you. You are my heart."

* * * *

At last Max had convinced Deran not to abandon his sanity and snatch Miss Fychon from his aunt's house and demand answers to the murderess accusation. Max had seen that black anger many times in the more than twenty years he'd known him, had seen the results of it too. But today's display had been the most intimidating to date. He couldn't help feeling sympathy for the poor sod who crossed Deran Morissey's path when his anger finally found its target.

Max only hoped it wouldn't happen tonight.

As feared, Deran insisted on going to the Dimsdale. Neither were inspectors, didn't possess skills for skulking about the seedy vicinities of London seeking information about a murderess. Presumed murderess. But they did have extensive experience in mingling with riffraff. Not recently, but one never forgot such skills. It was told the Earl of Atherton had excelled at extracting information from the most tight-lipped while in the Royal Navy.

At midnight they were seated in a hackney as it lurched over High Street's uneven cobblestones. The fog acted as a drape, allowing only the occasional glare of a gaslight onto Deran's face, the only part of him not covered in black. He took this mission seriously. Too seriously, Max feared. He'd seen Deran tuck a pistol beneath his coat at the small of his back when he thought Max wasn't looking.

“What will be your first move?” Max wanted to gauge how much trouble he could expect.

Deran had devoted most of the evening to thinking about how he'd proceed once they reached the tavern. Strolling in and demanding answers would get them killed or at the very least maimed. They'd listen, observe. No threats, no heroics. Diplomacy, not too polished, was called for here.

“We'll act as jilted lovers. That way we can build a camaraderie of sorts."

Max jolted forward. “Camaraderie? Have you lost your mind, Atherton? I hardly think men who belly up to a dockside tavern is the sea into which you cast a net with the hope of hauling in a wholesome catch. Surely there's a better way."

“Perhaps, but it's the approach we will use.” He arched a brow. “Very poetic of you, DiSanto. With the, uh, casting of the nets and all."

“Tell me what you plan to say,” Max sighed, knowing he wasn't going to change Deran's mind. “Then I'll know how to counterattack."

Deran's teeth shone white in the dark interior. “This could be like old times, you know."

“Yes. That's what I'm afraid of."

* * * *

Fog curled at their heels as they entered the tavern. The stink of it mingled with the dank odor of unclean bodies and tankards of ale. Chilled silence slithered over them and wary eyes followed as they approached the crowded bar. Despite their unremarkable, dark attire, they didn't blend with the wool-capped patrons lined up elbow to elbow.

A man seated at a side table cackled to his drinking partner.

“Look like we got us a pair o’ rogues.” To Deran and Max he yelled, “Biding yer time ‘for yer next trade, eh mates?"

Deran turned from his position at the end of the bar. “Been a hard night, at that.” The role came equipped with gravelly voice, unkempt hair and the shadow of a beard. With shoulders stooped slightly, he shaved off some of his height and added a few years to his age, but Deran knew he and Max would be easy to recall if asked about. They weren't small men. But he wanted to make it as difficult as possible to identify them if there was any trouble tonight.

He signaled the barkeep, dropped coins on the counter. To look genuine he'd have to drink tavern swill and didn't relish the idea.

When the pints arrived, he hefted the mug and clinked it against Max's.

“To revenge.” A long swallow followed. Deran ducked his head, concealing his horror. Hell's teeth. It was worse than he remembered.

Deran furthered the ruse. “And then I says to ‘er, if you think you're leaving me ‘ere like this, stiffer than a sausage in January, you'd better think again, wench."

Max looked duly impressed and choked out a laugh. “That's telling ‘er. What'd she do?"

Deran shook his head in disbelief. “Grabs my todger and says, “'You wored me out, luvey. Never seen one like you what could keep it up all night. But I done kilt better men, if truth be told. I done my duty by you, so take yourself off.’”

Max covered his face as if struck with overwhelming dismay for his friend's woeful situation.

Deran hung his head, staggered by the wretched turn of events in his love life.

They waited.

“What's that ye say about a ladybird what kilt a man?"

Deran straightened slowly, turned to look at the old man who'd spoken to him. He squinted one eye. “Who's asking?"

The man looked back with a deadlier squinty-eyed glance. “Never ye mind. Was thinkin’ of something I ‘erd last night. Eh, Marbs?” he asked, glancing at a man facedown on the counter. “Marbs agrees with me. Gent in ‘ere looking for a woman what kilt a man. Di'nt say ‘ow.” He leaned closer. “That wench of yorn. She a green-eyed filly?"

Deran sipped his ale while considering his response. “Wasn't paying much attention to the eyes, if you know what I mean.” He raised a brow, licked his lips. The man's lascivious, yellow-toothed grin said that he did. “Might have been at that."

“The way the gent talked, she's a wild one. ‘e oughta know. Says she's ‘is wife. Says e'll pay anyone what knows ‘er wherebouts. Might be yur ‘n luck."

Deran scratched his jaw. “Wife you say? If she were my wife killed a man she was tupping, I'd pay for someone to keep her, not get her back. Let ‘em have ‘er, I say."

He leaned back against the bar, elbows rested on its edge, a man at leisure, no worries. The posture gave him better access to his pistol should he need it, his fists more at the ready if they were needed first.

The old man cackled, then built up to a full-fledged laugh. It rolled to the back of the bar, gaining more laughter as it went. Minutes later the air chimed with hearty glass clinking and the boisterous telling of sexual exploits.

Deran's body relaxed but his hands didn't. Max laid a hand on his shoulder, leaned down to his ear.

“We should go. We won't learn anymore."

“Soon."

“Not soon. Now."

Deran ignored him, his eyes searching the room for signs of anyone who might be overly interested in their conversation. “Do you see those three men at the back table?"

Max leisurely shifted his position. “Yes. I've been watching them. They don't look pleased."

“They know something and I want to know what it is."

“Do not even think it.” Max clamped a hand on Deran's arm. “We're a step ahead if we walk out of here now, unharmed. You approach them and it will not happen that way."

Deran scowled at him. “I know that. Credit me with some sense. I have no intention of confronting them. I'd rather follow them."

Before Max could ask for an explanation, Deran set some coins in front of the old man. “For you and Marbs, here."

“Never turn down someone what's buying. The fellah ‘ere last night, the one I told ye about, ‘e was might gen'rus hisself."

“Wish I'd been ‘ere. Did he say how to find ‘im, case a man wants to claim that reward?"

The man shook his head. “Moved on. Business to tend to ‘e said, but ‘e'll be back.” He nodded at Deran, winked one eye and strained to open it again. “Square rigged, ‘e was."

Deran hadn't heard that term since his father had been alive. “Well turned out, was he?"

“All ‘cept for the side whiskers. ‘e had them Newgate knockers?” He grinned at Deran, his paper thin skin stretched over pointed bone. “The man looked like a blooming arse, aye, he did."

Deran and Max quickly slipped out while the crowd was diverted by another siege of laughter. They ran to the end of the block, losing sight of the inn's front door in the fog. Deran whipped around a corner with Max right behind him. They pressed their backs to the wall.

“And if they head this way?” Max pulled in a steady breath.

“There is no if. They will."

“And you intend to detain them."

“Three to our two. Good odds."

“When was the last time you sparred?"

“Meaning-?"

“Are your fight skills up to snuff?"

Deran turned his head, met his gaze. In this fog, Max's eyes glowed an eerie blue black, making him look predatory. Good. They both needed to look as menacing as possible.

“They are, thank you. I go to the club at least once a week. And how—” He raised a hand, touched a finger to his mouth. Footsteps too quick to be drunken men. Deran glanced at Max and grinned. The second half of their adventure had begun.

Chapter Nine

Max sipped his whiskey and let out a loud sigh. “Morissey, do not ask me to accompany you on such an evening again. You enjoyed yourself far too much."

Deran stretched out full length on the settee. “I didn't ask you. You cancelled your evening at the theater and invited yourself."

“Yes, well, someone had to. You were prepared to wage a small land war single-handedly. There had to be a witness."

Deran grinned and sipped his drink. It had been years since he'd done something that put as much fire into his blood. When the voices had come close enough for them to distinguish all three, every foot of muscle in his body had tensed, ready to spring into action.

He and Max stayed flattened against the wall as the men passed, one of them barking orders to separate while another disagreed. The two stood several feet away arguing about which way they should begin their search. Deran had a sudden urge to leap away from the wall to see how long it would take them to organize the chase.

“I haven't had such a good time since my last year in the Navy."

Max groaned. “I can see the banner headlines. Lord Deran Morissey, the enigmatic Earl of Atherton, one of London's most sought after bachelors, assists the chief magistrate in the recent apprehension of three scoundrels involved in contemptible criminal activities."

Deran's buoyant mood bobbled. “Contemptible activities. Hah! They stood there, two yards from us talking about their miserable hides and how they couldn't go back to Stevens, their boss I presume, with no word about-what did they call her?"

Max stared into his glass. “You heard them as well as I did, Deran."

“You were closer to them."

“We've been over this once, no more than once. Doing it again won't—"

“Say it, Max,” Deran insisted, softly. “It will help strengthen my promise to a very scared young woman. A woman who's story I did not fully believe until tonight."

Max regarded his friend, so reposed, so self-possessed. He'd looked rejuvenated tonight, a sparkling power enshrouding him. The men had argued about the woman they'd chased through the maze of docks and wharves and lost sight of two nights before. The one who'd escaped and Stevens was surely going to kill them over if she wasn't soon back in his possession.

Deran was a commander driven to complete his mission. When the words that talked of her fate reached his ears, he became her champion.

Was Lord Atherton aware of how he'd changed in the last forty-eight hours? Max wondered. The reclusive, frequently gruff man had grudgingly been drawn out of his shell into the world beyond his fine home.

“DiSanto."

Max shook his head. He couldn't repeat the crude names they'd called her, but those weren't what his friend wanted to hear.

“The Welsh Witch, Atherton, and vowed no witch would make them look like fools and live."

Deran held his glass up to the firelight, contemplated the gold and amber angles the whiskey cut into the glass. “She is a witch, DiSanto.” Undisguised admiration coated his voice. “She is unquestionably that."

* * * *

Excited barking woke her. Ava listened from the depths of the cozy pallet she'd devised from the bedcovers. Loud voices, tinkling laughter and every manner of barking. Lord, but this was a noisy household. She much preferred the tranquility of Lord Atherton's home.

Do not dwell on it. You will be gone soon enough and then everyone may go back to living as they had been.

Ava had an armful of pillows when Meg sailed into the room, her tongue already wide-awake and running full measure. Ava squealed and Meg gasped mid sentence.

"Begging your pardon, miss,” she blurted. “I thought I heard you moving about. I had no idea you were-"

“Meg, please, it's all right,” Ava sighed. “Help me with this."

Grateful that the duchess’ odd houseguest wasn't going to complain about her intrusion, Meg raced over and helped gather the bed clothes from the floor and set them in their rightful place. As curious as she was, she held her tongue and didn't ask about the peculiar sleeping arrangements. She was from Wales, after all.

Ava slipped into the dressing room adjoining the bedchamber to dress in private. The undergarments and dress she was to wear were once worn by the duchess’ daughter.

She had the muslin shift over her head when Meg tapped and entered.

Ava whirled around, arms crossed over her breasts.

“Really Meg. More of a warning is necessary before you enter. At least it is for me. And I don't need help dressing, thank you."

Meg flushed. “Begging your pardon miss, Her Grace says I am not to leave you for any reason. I'm only doing her bidding."

Ava pulled in a long breath. “I know you are, and you are doing your job well.” Too well. “But I can see to my own needs, thank you."

Meg's gasp stilled her hands.

“You may leave now, Meg."

“But, miss..."

“Thank you."

“Her Grace is breakfasting with Lord Rensleigh and expects you to join them.” Meg dipped stiffly and ran from the room.

Ava hadn't meant to hurt her feelings. But she was a grown woman, looking after herself for more than half her life.

She finished dressing quickly, assembled her hair away from her face and gave it a critical inspection in the mirror. Meg's final words came back to her and she nearly dropped the heavy glass.

Lord? Another one?

* * * *

Ava was in no hurry to enter the dining room, but no amount of stalling was going to placate her clanking nerves. A deep breath and a reminder to curtsey propelled her into the room.

The duchess was in mid chortle. “Ah, there you are. I had no idea you were such a late sleeper, Miss Fychon, a habit that will have to be amended while in my home. We're up before the roosters, are we not Robert?"

“When in the country, yes.” The man had risen, and dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin. “My word. Mother. When you said we had a guest you mentioned nothing of her being such a beauty. What a delightful addition to an already enthralling morning.” He crossed to Ava, his eyes not leaving hers, his mouth in a mesmeric smile.

Reflexively she stepped back. A handsome man—as tall as the earl, but narrower in the shoulders. Light brown hair streaked with gold fell to his collar, framing a strong face and lively hazel eyes. His mouth quirked playfully before he bowed.

“Lord Rensleigh, at your service, my lady."

“Robert, you can stop trying to entrance her,” the duchess said dismissively. “She's not interested in your charms."

Straightening, he captured one of Ava's hands by the fingertips and pressed them to his mouth. He winked.

“Perhaps not, Mother, but I could do worse than attempt to cajole such a fair maiden."

“Sit. Breakfast is getting cold. Jessup, see to a plate for Miss Fychon. And bring more coffee."

Lord Rensleigh escorted Ava to the table, seated her across from him. Sausages, fluffy eggs and small sweet rolls on a rose-patterned china plate appeared in front of her, and coffee poured into a cup at the upper right of her plate. She stared at the food.

“Eat your breakfast, Miss Fychon,” the duchess insisted. “You scarcely ate any dinner and with the day we have before us, you won't last an hour without nourishment."

“Not everyone begins their day with as hearty a breakfast as you do, Mother.” He smiled across the table at Ava. “We haven't been formally introduced."

“She knows who you are, Robert. You offered your services, remember?” The duchess tipped her head toward Ava. “This is my son, Miss Fychon. My only. He's the second of my three children, and the most impudent. He fancies himself quite the ladies’ man. Any woman in London will tell you so. They think him quite the beau morceau."

Robert grinned rakishly. “Any woman in London will not do, Mother. I am exceedingly discriminating."

She laughed harshly. “As discriminating as a prowling tomcat."

“Really, Mother."

“If rumors about my son's paramours reach your ears, believe them. And never loan him money. He's a shameless gamer and will charm you out of your fortune after he's bet away all of his."

“Mother, really."

Ava feigned fascination with the sausages. Never had she heard such appalling words between a mother and son.

Lord Rensleigh saw the flush on her forehead and hurried to redirect the conversation.

“Mother told me you are a distant relative of ours, Miss Fychon, on Father's side. So we are cousins, far-removed."

Ava swallowed carefully before looking at him. She hadn't approved of the duchess’ contrived heredity, but not wishing to be disrespectful to her hostess, she nodded.

He smiled encouragingly. “From where do you hail? Northern England, as my father?"

“No. From Wales."

“Ah. Beautiful little country, Wales. Visited there a year ago, August. In Cardiff on business, and I spent time in Swansea. Are you from there, or near there?"

“No. The Isle of Anglesey.” The words thickened in her throat. It pained her to talk about home, yet she longed to talk of the familiar. He questioned her about the geography and people of the area, exclaiming the next time he traveled there he'd be sure to go further north and see the isle. His business in transporting coal limited him to the south shores where coal was heavily mined, but her area was rich in copper and limestone, both future business interests of his.

As he talked, Ava relaxed and ate some of her breakfast. She could see why ladies liked him. He had a direct way of looking at her without making her feel self-conscious. What she said seemed to matter and she felt flattered by his attentiveness. When the duchess pronounced breakfast over and she'd be ready to leave within the half hour, Ava was disappointed her conversation with Lord Rensleigh had to end.

Ava held back a moment and turned to him. “Sir, I mean no disrespect, but you are called a lord, like another man I know who is an earl. Are you an earl?"

He hiked a brow. “Another man you know, hmm? Two days in London and already men are leaving their calling cards. Why does that not surprise me? And who would this earl of yours be?"

“Oh, he is not my earl, sir. He is the only one I know. And a relation of yours, another cousin I think. Lord Atherton?"

He blinked. “Atherton? Where the devil did you meet him? No one has seen him in months, maybe years. Or rarely, anyway. Snubs society and behaves as though he's in his declining years, when he can't be more than, what thirty-five or forty at most?"

“I wouldn't know, sir."

“Atherton and I are step-cousins. My older sister and I are from my father's first marriage. Our mother died, and father remarried. I am the duchess’ stepson."

* * * *

Ava would scream if another bolt of cloth were draped over and around her or another inch of her body was measured, pinched or squeezed. A swathe of satin in a distinctly anemic shade of yellow was billowing around her shoulders when the front doorbell chimed.

“Good heavens,” the duchess exclaimed, “Deran, whatever are you doing here?"

Ava swung away from the full-length mirror where she stood. Lord Atherton bowed to his aunt. When he straightened, he gave Ava a direct look of disapproval.

“I was at this end of town,” he stated, looking back to his aunt, “and recalled your plans to have Miss Fychon fitted with a proper wardrobe. I hope my dropping in isn't too awkward. It isn't often I visit a modiste, and certainly not one with Madame LaFleur's incomparable reputation."

“Mais non, monsieur. Your very presence does me great honor. Shall I show you what has been chosen?"

“Thank you, but I'm sure my aunt has made superb selections for the lady."

Ava's shoulders slumped. She'd hoped he'd rally to her side. Couldn't he tell she wanted nothing to do with this? The gowns would be ordered, sewn and paid for and she'd not be here to wear them. How could she refuse without revealing her intention to escape?

The eight fabrics selected were displayed to the earl with a flourish. He nodded at those he found to be adequate, raised an eyebrow at those he found more appealing. The emerald satin evoked a verbal response.

“Aunt Geneva, have you selected a pattern for this?"

“I have. Show Lord Atherton the evening gown, Lizbeth,” she ordered the modiste's assistant. “She needs something for an evening out, Deran, or an elegant evening in. Perhaps the theatre. The color is suitable, it will contrast well with her eyes."

Deran wasn't listening. His imagination was already at work. Long, snug sleeves, fashionable high waist, square-cut décolletage revealing a generous portion of her above-the-waist assets. His mouth lost its moisture as he imagined Ava seated in box in the theatre balcony, her breasts filling the tight bodice of the gown, toned thighs hidden teasingly from view. The dim lights signaling the second act. Her scent a tortuous breeze. Her skirts rustle as his hand glides up her satiny thigh. No, we mustn't do this here. Her words say no, her voice and face say please, don't stop. Her arms open, breasts rise to the edge of the dress's neckline, pale, desirable, the scent of her sensual heat maddening, until—

“Deran? Do you not think it would be perfect for her?"

Ava watched him and couldn't tell if he liked the green satin or not. It was the only one she really liked. She was going to ask his opinion when the door chimed open once again. She beamed at the sight of Lord Rensleigh.

Deran fixed an annoyed stare at the man responsible for Miss Fychon's obvious delight.

“I bring refreshments,” he announced heroically, holding up a box as he strode to the center of the cluttered room. “I hope you don't mind, Madame LaFleur, but I couldn't resist these cakes. The ladies have—” He stopped short.

“Atherton. We were just talking about you at breakfast and now, here you are.” He set down the box and crossed to the earl.

Deran stood. “Rensleigh."

* * * *

They shook hands and coolly assessed one another.

The duchess dipped into the box of confections and looked on with amusement. Both men were wickedly handsome and devastatingly charming when they chose to be, her stepson particularly. She knew of his exploits—heavens, all of London knew of them.

The ardent looks he'd given Miss Fychon over breakfast hadn't escaped Geneva. Ever so slyly he'd laid down a nibble of cheese and would drop another and then another until the unassuming little mouse placed a delicate foot into the trap.

Keeping that trap far from the Welsh mouse was in everyone's best interest.

But if the looks her nephew had given the girl yesterday, and the fact that business had curiously led him to this particular locale today, were indications of where his heart lay then no interference would be necessary on her part. Unless one of them declared themselves in love, God forbid, in which case the mouse would have to be dealt with immediately. Meanwhile, the two men would manage on their own in deciding who would win her attentions. How they did so could prove to be entertaining.

Chapter Ten

Deran watched the duchess hold court with her son and the shop assistants. At Miss Fychon's expense, she was enjoying herself tremendously and seemed oblivious to the girl's distress. How she could be so unhappy was quite beyond him. She was a female for God's sake, no matter that she wasn't London-born. In his experience, all females responded the same way to fine French cloths, soft cottons and muslins, airy silks and satins, and the attention that accompanied fittings for the gowns that the fabrics would be transformed into.

All females except Miss Ava Fychon.

Her posture was that of a woeful child, skin sallow, hair springing forth from the thoroughfare of twists and turns pinned to her scalp, the eyes that could put the sparkle of a chandelier to shame, dark and flat.

Because of these observations, the next moment was no tremendous surprise.

The fabric, a too rosy pink, bordered on bawdy. Miss Fychon didn't like it, he could tell by the further blanching of her face, but her opinion was not favored.

The scream bit through the air. In the moment he'd looked away, Miss Fychon had snatched up a pair of scissors, points outward and held it between her and the shop assistant, the horrid pink fabric hanging from one shoulder. She looked depraved. A tangle of words gushed forth. Violent words, Deran was sure, given her venomous tone.

It was mesmerizing.

He had severely underestimated Miss Fychon's misery.

She cast him a tearful look of anguish, a plea for salvation, before flinging her weapon to the carpet and hoisting up the skirt of her simple muslin dress. Without a word she bolted for the front door and fled from the shop.

Gasps and broad chaos followed.

Rensleigh leapt to his feet. He rushed forward, left hand at his waist as if reaching for a sabre. “Don't worry Mother, I'll stop her,” he called out over his shoulder.

“Oh, I'm not worried, dear,” the duchess tittered as she plucked up another cake. “Take your time."

Deran stepped in front of the door as the marquess reached it.

“Allow me."

Rensleigh pulled up short. “I think not, Atherton. She's my mother's guest."

“Actually, sir, she is my guest. I will go after her.” He looked beyond the marquess’ shoulder and grinned. “Stay with your mother, Rensleigh. Offer her what comfort you can.” He bowed his head as he set his hat to it and slipped out onto the street.

* * * *

She was quick, but he had the advantage of longer legs. He spied her pale green dress two blocks away. Foot traffic was light and he shortened the distance between them to within a block. The air held a nip and a fine mist now wet his face. He didn't think she knew where she was going and suspected it didn't matter. Her destination as much distance as possible from the dress shop and the people in it.

She'd soon tire, he'd catch up with her, then have to decide, yet again, what to do with her. Choices were no greater than they'd been the first night he'd made her acquaintance. He groaned and loped across the street she'd skipped over to.

However, her speed didn't seem to be flagging. Quite the opposite. What had begun as a curiosity as to how far she would go was now becoming an annoyance. Damnation, does she never tire? It suddenly occurred to him this was how she'd escaped the three scoundrels and however many before them. Her blasted determination had worn them down.

As Deran increased his pace to a canter, the now proven fact she possessed impressive endurance rooted firmly in his mind. When added to the images he'd had of her while lying awake at night and those in his dreams, sprawled upon his bed, of him taking her every way a man could take a woman, his desire for her grew significantly. If her physical endurance extended to the bedchamber, then...

He groaned, loud enough for a dignified looking couple strolling by to glance at him askance. He was a fairly young man, a virile man, a man who routinely exercised and was soundly fit. A man who had no difficulties satisfying a lover with remarkable frequency over the course of an evening.

Miss Fychon might very well challenge that achievement.

The thought was devilishly appealing.

When a flash of green and a stream of golden hair disappeared around a corner, he accelerated into a trot and turned the corner several seconds later. The block was empty but for two horsemen and a cabriolet. He trotted ahead, his feet protesting inside his riding boots, hat in hand, the mist an obnoxious spray. He peered anxiously ahead. No green dress.

“Why in bloody hell are you following me?"

She leapt out from between two buildings so abruptly he ran headlong into her. He caught her arm as she stumbled backward.

Finally, he had her in hand. And she was his, all his. That alarming thought snuck in somehow but despite it, Deran smiled. Yes, it had simply been a matter of time. He was pleased to see that she at least had the courtesy to be a tad out of breath after such a romp.

“Why are you standing there smiling at me like a muddle-headed ass?” she seethed. “And let go of my hand, you mochyn." She wrenched her arm free.

His smile grew. “It must be our damp weather that liberates your tongue and the cultured restraint you maintain, Miss Fychon. I thought the trait distasteful at first, most unbecoming a lady, but now I must admit I rather like it.” He swept back the waves of hair dripping on his forehead. “Of course, bearing in mind that you are not a lady has enabled me to keep my level of shock to a minimum."

Her eyes spit green buckshot. “I don't care what you think of me, Lord Atherton. I don't care what you think about how I talk, or what words I use or how they sound. I am not a lady. I am nothing like those women you were cuddling in the shop. I have never pretended to be and I will not have you or your daft aunt, or any other squash-brained relative you have hidden away, try to make me such.” She stomped closer, blinked against the rain now falling in earnest, and clamped her hands onto her hips.

“I am not here for your, or anyone else's entertainment, sir, to be propped up on a scaffold and told how to dress, how to wear my hair, when to sit, stand, turn and how much to eat. I am in this loathsome city through foul means and have every intention of going about my business, and neither you,” she emphasized with a jab to his chest, “nor your duchess, her royal grace aunt, nor anyone else can stop me. I've been detained far too long as it is. I'm going mad here. I need to leave. Or do you still not believe what I've told you? How I came to be here. Not that I even care anymore whether you do or don't, because..."

A finger pressed to her lips stopped the tirade and Deran was almost sorry for it. Her animosity had thickened her lilting burr, a sound that excited him, energized him. Her words were lit with fire, searing, vibrant fire that seemed to pour from her into him.

“You really do not want to aggravate me any further today, Miss Fychon,” he said quietly.

“Aggravate you? Why you—"

The finger pressed firmer. “Perhaps it hasn't occurred to you that you've run quite a distance or that you have no idea where you are. I've followed you, in the rain, in my not most favored attire for this sort of activity, and my temper is at the brink of becoming unreasonable. Consider this a warning, madam. I am nearing the very thing your first outburst led me to. In my library."

Her eyes widened. “But—"

He tipped his head and looked down into eyes, vibrantly impassioned, at the face gloriously pink from exercise, to lips, rain-drenched and stretched to an unhappy line. He absorbed her as he would the sweetest draught.

“A kiss. Surely you recall.” He leaned down. “And I'm going to kiss you again, Miss Fychon. Rather, may I kiss you?"

Her lips parted beneath his finger and eyes held his. She stared until she had to blink because the rain fell too steadily, obscuring his annoyingly beautiful face.

“No, you certainly may not kiss me, you hateful—"

More fingertips, more pressure on her lips.

“I shall ask again. May I kiss you? Ava."

She nodded and with the slightest smile, the hand at her mouth moved across her cheek and he lowered his mouth to hers, eyes open until his lips touched hers. The shiver that rushed through her wasn't due to the cold rain, but his arms wrapped around her. He stepped forward, once, twice, propelling her, so that his back was against an alcove between buildings and she was against him.

Warmth, instant warmth caressed her from lips to belly. Strong hands cupped her face, fingered their way into her sopping hair, explored her jaw. His scent, soap and hearth and whatever, smelled like no one else. In the hours since she'd seen him she'd brought his scent to mind many times.

One arm lowered to her waist, the other remained around her shoulders. He pulled back slightly and kissed her forehead. The quick catch in her breath pleased him.

“Do you remember the carriage, Miss Fychon?"

Perplexed, she nodded slowly. “Of course, I do, sir. Why?"

A knuckle slid over her lips. “This will be like that, only better. Open your mouth for me when I do. Don't be afraid to touch my tongue. It will only add pleasure."

Heat rose to her face, in part from his candid words, but more from the only memory she had of such a kiss.

She nodded and allowed him to kiss her again. He was right. Oh, so right. It was better, far better. Astonishment and embarrassment quickly receded as he kissed her lightly, tasting the corners of her mouth, then daringly insistent, his tongue inviting hers to move against his until she could think of nothing else she would rather do. She clutched his shoulders and returned the kiss with an all-consuming hunger, encouraged by the low sounds rising from his throat and his firm embrace.

His mouth dipped to her shoulders and neck. Her nipples tightened, sending a long hot line of desire to pool between her thighs. A great pulse wavered there, moist, begging for attention. Ava flattened against him impatiently, not knowing how to find it, but sorely wanting relief from this swirling irritation.

Her squirming would be his undoing. Deran knew well what she sought and since he was responsible for leading her to this maddening point, he should do what he was able, given their location, to please her. He kissed her harder, demanding, his tongue seeking hers, caressing the insides of her cheeks before pulling back.

A thumb lightly touched her nipples, so hard through the damp dress they felt naked. He smiled at her gasp. He breathed against her throat as his hands eased over her buttocks and pressed her against him.

Hands and mouth stopped moving when she encountered the hardness between them. She instinctively moved slightly away so not to touch there. But his quick breathing and her pounding pulse stoked her excitement and she rested against him again.

Fingers dug into his shoulders, breasts arched into his chest. He gazed down at the closed eyes, the lashes against flushed cheeks, mouth plump from kisses and parted with anticipation. She had become a precarious desire, his mind tormented by her, body plagued by what it wanted and couldn't have. He'd been reduced to having her any way possible. To have her so powerless now filled him with tender awe, her trust humbled him deeply.

He knew at this moment she was lost in new feelings and her desire for him was as much as his for her. It would be so easy to take what he wanted, to have her as he'd dreamt.

Astonishing. All of it. Place, time, the woman. And the shock he felt by realizing that he couldn't justify his selfishness.

Holding her firmly at the waist, he kissed her cheek and moved her away from him. He felt her tremble as she raised eyes filled with confusion.

“Why did you stop?"

He drew in a long breath. “Do not ask."

“But, I don't understand."

“I cannot explain it to you."

“Cannot, or will not?"

He looked at her from beneath lowered lids, a small smile on his mouth at hearing his own words. “Will not."

She tossed her head in defiance and he prepared himself for a barrage of questions. Instead, her eyes softened, even saddened.

“Ava, are you all right?"

No, she wasn't. He didn't want her. Why else would he have quit so abruptly? She'd rather believe it was because he was being honorable. He was an earl. He must have acres of honor flowing through his veins. It simply chose to appear at the most inopportune time.

She nodded once and then searched his face. “And you, sir? Are you all right?"

Her concern surprised and somewhat embarrassed him. Women did not ask such questions of men. At least none he knew did. And the formal address was discomforting, a rigid reminder of their statuses and how they should regard one another. He was far from all right, but to explain it would only confuse what was already damned confusing.

He nodded. “Yes. I am. I was concerned for you."

She smiled sadly. “I should not have wanted this so badly, should I, Lord Atherton?"

He leaned his forehead against hers. “Deran. Please. None of the other when it is just us.” He slid a hand under her heavy, damp hair, stroked her nape. “And as I said before, my sweet, it is not a matter of should, it simply is. And, as a gentleman, which despite what my actions toward you reflect, I truly am, I should apologize. My behavior was indecent and thoroughly disrespectful of you. But,"—he pulled back, seemed to look through her with eyes, dark and gentle—"I'm afraid I cannot apologize, Ava. Not without perjuring myself. I've thought too often of enjoying you, of being with you. Do you know what I mean by that?"

“Yes,” she replied, surprised he would ask. “What we have done. You kissed me and,” she looked away, chewed at her lower lip “made me want more than that."

Made her want more. Lord, deliver me from virgins.

If he adopted her stance of this being a harmless new adventure, he'd survive her quite ably.

“Yes, but not only kisses, there is—” Had he lost all his senses? He was beginning to converse with as little restraint as she did with him. “This is inappropriate talk. And you are shivering. You need to get out of this dress and in front of a fire."

Dangerous words, those. The image of her sleeping in front of his hearth flickered and he shut it off. He couldn't allow himself to think that way.

He peered out from under the eave. It still rained, but not as heavily. No foot traffic in view. With luck, a hackney cab was nearby. How much time had passed since leaving the dress shop? His aunt had surely given up on him returning with Ava and left for home.

“Lor ... Deran,” she corrected softly, “I'm glad you cannot apologize. If you did, that would mean you wished this hadn't happened. I wouldn't forgive myself for that. It would be ... humiliating."

Hell.

He explained, “Unless you wish to walk back to Madame LaFleur's, we need to procure a hackney."

She looked petrified. “I am in terrible trouble, aren't I?"

He stared down at her. Which trouble did she refer to? What had just occurred, the scene at the shop, running away from it or ... murder? The last was only hearsay. The overheard conversation at the docks did not establish without a doubt that the woman in question was Miss Fychon. However, witnessing her indignant rage, the threat to the shop assistant and admirable stamina while fleeing on foot, he knew this little tyrant possessed an unflappable sense of self-preservation. But murder? His stomach tightened at the thought, one he'd contemplated long into the night. The subject would have to be addressed soon but looking at her now, the open fear in her eyes like that of an unruly daughter facing parental reprimand, he knew what she was asking.

“If you mean—"

“Your aunt. She will be angry with me, won't she?"

“It's likely. But you aren't a child, Ava, and will hardly be punished as one."

“But I embarrassed her. And Madame LaFleur and,” she blinked away tears, “that poor woman who was only trying to help me. I shouldn't have threatened her the way I did. It was only some blasted pink fabric. Truly awful, it was, but even so.” She bent her head and pressed her hands to her eyes.

The laugh came unexpectedly. It had been a hideous shade of pink. And the sight of her wielding those shears had been utterly enthralling. He'd seen his share of women in high temper, had been the source of much of it, but never had he witnessed such a scene.

He was tremendously proud of her.

She laughed with him, eyes damp, her mass of soggy hair trailing over her shoulders, its few remaining pins popped out in all directions. She looked as bedraggled as a child street beggar. And charming, a thought that should have sent him fleeing in terror at the realization he was fast becoming smitten with such a woman. But he wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world at this very moment than with her.

That was the most terrifying thought.

Chapter Eleven

Stevens hated London. If not for yesterday's urgent message, he wouldn't be here today meeting with these incompetents unable to accomplish the simple task of holding onto one little bitch. All of them deserved to die-the idiots who lost her, and the wench. Mr. P. would take care of her, but Stevens would like to be the one to rid the world of these three imbeciles.

At least his accommodations were decent. Mr. P. had insisted he take rooms in The Cavendish, one of London's finer hotels. The proprietress had already personally seen to Stevens’ comfort. Twice.

Mr. P. was certain the bitch lived among the aristocracy and he had superb instincts. The wench couldn't have swum the length of the river and his men hadn't spied her boarding a ship. Perhaps she'd drowned, but there were no reports of a body washing ashore. Maybe a ship destroyed the body, but that possibility was remote.

No. Stevens assumed she was here in London. He would find her. And when he did, she'd pay. He glanced at his pocket watch—already after noon. They were late. Something else they'd pay for.

A knock at the door interrupted his cigar lighting.

“Well?” he asked as they entered. “How in hell did you lose her this time?"

“We didn't lose ‘er, sir,” the lead idiot answered. “She slipped out. Got as far's the wharf and, well—"

“You lost her."

“She jumped."

“You're sure?"

“Yes, we're sure,” the second idiot said. “Thought about it later and remembered hearing a splash. Was thinking it was something thrown off a boat, but after she come up missing we—"

“I heard you the first time, Rhodes. And last night? Someone was asking about her?"

“Not ‘er ‘xacly. Gen'leman tol’ a story ‘bout a jenny said she kilt a man.” He described the man at the tavern and how they'd followed him but...

Stevens held up a hand. “You lost him. Like you did the bitch. Start at the beginning. Mr. P. wants details."

The three began talking at once, the excuses pitiful and laughable. She'd been a problem from the minute they'd boarded the tramp trader. Fought like a rabid fox guarding her kits. They wanted to toss her overboard by the second day, but knew she was the diamond of the lot and there'd be a bonus once they reached their destination. Marked for a noble she was. The two runts weren't nothing but sludge, but you'd a thought them bloody royalty the way she treated them. Hunkering over them, taking the lash for them whenever one of them stepped out of turn.

The two weeks traversing Cardigan Bay were a nightmare, but things got worse when they headed east through the Bristol Channel. The brats were sick and the bitch demanded they be tended. By then the entire crew was doing her bidding. They docked at Avonmouth and transported them to the carts. Twenty miles later she disabled the driver with a wooden bucket to his head. The two men riding ahead were looking for lodging and food, didn't know of the escape until miles later. But luck returned when they reached Gloucester. The wench and her kin traveled by foot and made the mistake of staying overnight at an inn ‘cause of foul weather, but couldn't pay for their lodgings. The innkeeper locked them in until the constable came. Detained there four days, they were brought to London without mishap and distributed as ordered.

Two of them were, anyway.

“A tiresome tale and not worth my time listening to. How in hell did you lose her here in London?"

Idiot number three reddened. “'Twas on my watch, sir. Rhodes and Blecker were, er, getting a few winks. She said she, uh, needed to use the necessary, she was feeling poorly on account of ... you know."

Stevens cocked his bald head. “No. I wasn't there, you blinking moron. Because of-?"

“Womanly pains, sir. Said she needed to see to ‘em."

The other two chortled.

“Imbeciles! Women always resort to using the privy because they know worms like you won't follow. How you three have lived this long is anyone's guess, but if you don't get this next one right, you won't much longer.” He paced, then whirled around. “You have until week's end to find her, which is generous of Mr. P. I'd have given you until yesterday. But you've got six days. You don't have her back by noon Friday, I'll find you."

The three nodded in unison, the smell of their sweat putrefying the air.

* * * *

A note from DiSanto awaited Deran when he returned from his aunt's house. They needed to meet at the club. Notorious for where men of the ton shuffled gossip as handily as they did cards, it was the least private location Deran could think of. He detested the club nearly as much as he did dinner parties.

His bath ready, he undressed quickly, glad to finally be rid of his damp clothes. Thanks to his greatcoat, his clothing hadn't become as saturated as Miss Fychon's, but he was chilled nonetheless. Stepping into the tub of hot water was blissful and the fire in the hearth added needed warmth.

But the warmth brought him little comfort apart from chasing the chill off his skin. His earlier mood of contentment had darkened, ever since returning Ava to his aunt's. No further acts of intimacy occurred, not even a touch of hands. Ava acted overly subdued, a result, Deran assumed, of her apprehension of the expected confrontation. He neither quelled her fears nor comforted her, although he wanted to do both.

The scornful looks Ava received sent her fleeing to her chamber like a scolded child, and Deran had to face the duchess and the marquess. The duchess wasn't as put out by the shop scene as he'd anticipated, indeed she considered it a success and immensely amusing. The marquess, however, waved the nobility allegiance flag, The Family Reputation, particularly his mother's. The marquess didn't want his name linked to the likes of Miss Ava Fychon.

Deran clenched his fists around his bar of soap just thinking about the pious bastard's words and how badly he'd wanted to realign his aristocratic nose.

Lord Rensleigh insisted Miss Fychon be held accountable for her actions. She should make a public apology to Madame LaFleur and her assistants immediately, the wardrobe which had been fastidiously selected for her must be cancelled at once.

Deran's sole input was that Miss Fychon should apologize for her behavior. Anything beyond that would have been eruptive and not have helped Ava.

Then the duchess made the shocking pronouncements that Miss Fychon would remain as her guest, she was very taken by the girl's spirit and vigor, and a large dinner party was in order. Face the fire rather than flee from it, she exclaimed. Show everyone that this family does not hide in shame. Present Miss Fychon to the world and let her win it over, as she had done her.

Hell.

Deran rinsed the soap from his hair and sunk deeper into the water. Not hide in shame. He did feel shame and both resented and regretted it. Now that a few hours had passed since his passionate exchange with Ava, he felt tremendous shame. He shouldn't have let things get out of hand, shouldn't have taken her down the path of sensual delights, shouldn't have played upon her naivety. But her ferocity had captivated him long before he'd caught her on the street, the chase heightening the allure. Then she dared to curse him, berate him and all his family connections, declaring herself no one's pawn. How could he resist all that life spilling out of her, how could he not step closer, touch it, absorb it, want it for his own? It was as though she'd stood in the center of a circle she'd created, a warrior inside her fortress of will and honor and he'd wanted nothing more than permission to enter those protected walls. And when permission had been granted, all sound thought fled.

He gripped the tub's rim as an erection returned full force. He'd remained in a semi-erect state most of the afternoon, an uncommon circumstance, and recalling the day's events wasn't helping matters.

Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on how he wished to view it, now that he'd experienced her unveiled surprise and pleasure, how sweetly she responded to his love making-how innocently-damn it, he wanted more. More fierce resolve that brightened her eyes and put a hot knot in his stomach, more of how she seemed incapable of refraining from speaking her mind, more of how she only settled for honesty and how good his arms had felt around her.

What was her question? ‘I shouldn't have wanted so much, should I?'

“No, dearest Ava,” he murmured. “You should not have. Neither of us should."

And for her sake as much as his, he would make certain they wouldn't.

* * * *

At the club, Max was tipping back the last of his port when Deran settled into the chair across from him.

“I seem to have missed the first act,” Deran stated, pouring a glass for himself. He raised it in salute and allowed the firelight to glimmer through the garnet liquid before lowering it, untouched.

“And moved right onto the death scene from the looks of it. What's troubling you?"

Deran stared blankly. “Some business matters. But,” he set his glass down and clasped his hands together, “they will keep.” Impatience set in. He eyed Max speculatively. “I thought your summons here might be because you had a taste for cards this evening, but evidently that isn't the case. Why am I here?"

Max glanced around, noting the proximity of the other guests. Perhaps this hadn't been the best place to meet after all, but the social setting had appealed to him more than either his or his friend's home.

“I have news, but before I continue you must swear you will listen without letting on we're having anything other than a friendly chat."

Deran's jaw tightened. “What news?"

“You must swear..."

“You have my word."

Max studied Deran's stern face and nodded. “A client of mine is concerned about a business venture. He understood it was the sale of silk to West Indies’ traders, but has learned there is more to it than that. The trading is legitimate, but is also a ruse for other dealings. He's worried, not so much for his reputation, although there is that, but more so for his well-being. He wants nothing more to do with the venture, but he's been told he cannot turn back now."

“He's being blackmailed."

“Yes."

“And the ruse? I gather that is the crux of the matter."

Max smiled ruefully. “You're quick, my friend."

“And you're stalling."

Max nodded guiltily. “It's the business we discussed at your home. The day after she arrived.” His voice lowered. “Selling people. In this case, very young people."

Deran stilled. “You know where they are."

“No, but I know who wants them. My client has dealings with someone I've heard of but never met. He's a legitimate businessman, but he also delves in black market slave trading. He prefers, uh, young women and they are bought and sold under the pretense of domestic workers. Ladies’ maids, companions, nannies and such. He's become a very wealthy man, Deran. A very dangerous man."

Deran absorbed the information. Moments passed before he spoke. “Young women, you said. Not boys?"

Max blanched. “I don't know. But it isn't unfathomable should there be a request for a young man, he would fulfill that request."

“Fulfill that request,” Deran echoed. “Some of them must be genuine. People looking to take on household staff."

“Some are, but many are not. Some of the women are sold to workhouses and mills and younger, prettier girls may be held back for other ... for other fates."

The two sat silently, sipping and staring into the fire.

“And you know this for certain?"

“I do."

“I want to meet your client."

“You know that's not possible. He's terrified, fears for his family. He's convinced this man will do him and his family great harm if he tries to extricate himself from their arrangement. If he knew you were involved, he might do something rash. When I spoke with him this afternoon he seemed close to considering drastic measures."

“We'll offer him protection in exchange for information."

“Deran—"

“We will do this, DiSanto,” he replied evenly. “We will do it because there is a woman who has risked everything to find the only family she has. Children. Hell, she's a child. She escaped the fate her brother and sister could not and holds herself responsible. She lives with enormous guilt because of her good fortune. I will not turn my back on her. Or them.” He looked at Max. “And when I'm done, I will find the bastard who turned them over to the men who treated them no better than ignorant chattel. When I find him, I will kill him."

Chapter Twelve

Ava spent the next two days in seclusion. The duchess’ entire household snubbed her because of the calamity at the modiste's. Making it into The Times the following day hadn't helped matters, although it did enhance the duchess’ social life. Curious callers flocked to Culver Hall the day the article published, eager to hear the duchess’ side of the story and possibly catch a glimpse of her outrageous houseguest. Laughter and giggles drifted up to Ava's room. She feared she'd be ordered downstairs to be ogled.

Meg brought meals to her room as Ava told her she felt ill. Meg knew the real reason, but didn't question it. No one seemed curious about her mistress’ absence at meals. Meg tried to cheer her. With the meals she brought news of Her Grace's impressive guests.

Ava listened politely. All she cared about was departure. If all went well, she'd have her chance in two days—the day before the duchess’ dinner party. The one being held in her honor, despite everyone's mortification about her behavior.

Ava wondered why Lord Atherton stayed away. She hadn't seen him since That Day. She hadn't expected him to call on her, but hoped he might call on his aunt. Of course he was busy, had his business to see to and didn't have time to spend with the likes of her. She'd already caused him a lifetime of trouble and he no doubt wished she'd drowned in the River Thames five nights ago.

She wouldn't know how to behave around him now anyway. Apparently he felt the same way. His absence spoke loudly.

He didn't want to see her. She didn't want to see him. That settled it.

Oh, but how she missed him! She couldn't stop thinking about him. When sleep finally came she dreamt of him-in the park, riding horseback on the beach, walking in the mountains. And kissing. A great deal of kissing. The memories of his kisses would have to last a lifetime for after she found Mairwen and Ithel, she'd return to Anglesey and make a life for the three of them. She'd sort out the problem of her uncle. The journey would be long and she'd have to stop and earn money to continue their travels, but eventually they'd make it home.

She sat writing another letter to Mairwen, another that wouldn't be posted, when Meg ran in, breathless and pink-faced.

“You'll never believe who's here, miss.” She rushed to the wardrobe and pulled out the only shawl.

“King George?” Ava asked flippantly.

Meg gave her a quizzical look as she dashed to her side. “Her Grace says you're to come downstairs at once.” She tossed the shawl on Ava's shoulders and began plucking at her hair to shape it into a more orderly form.

“I'm to meet a guest? She hasn't wanted me to meet any of her other guests.” Apprehension trickled down the back of her neck.

“This one is special. Sir Edmond de la Pontoise. He's a friend of His Grace's first wife, Jessup said. A very important man. Someone you shouldn't keep waiting, miss.” She jabbed a hairpin in and surveyed her work. “Until the other dresses arrive from Madame LaFleur's, I suppose this one will have to do.” Meg had her stand so she could make necessary adjustments, which were none because of its simple design. “It is a bit plain, isn't it? It's a pretty color on you, though, miss. The buttery yellow suits you."

An uneasy feeling about the visitor grew heavier as Ava descended the stairs to the drawing room. Why would she be summoned for this man and no one else? Perhaps the duchess had decided two days of ignoring her was long enough.

Her Grace was seated and her guest stood alongside her with his back to the door. He turned as Ava entered. His gaze spread a sheet of ice over her skin.

“Well, well. It's good to see you again, my dear."

Ava went no further. “Sir? Do I know you?"

The duchess turned in her chair, a smile of sympathy on her face. “Come, come, Miss Fychon. Sir Edmond has told me all about you and has come a great distance, but of course you know that."

A warning beat started in her head. Come a great distance? And she was to know from where? “I don't understand. Who are you, sir?"

The duchess laughed lightly as she looked up at the tall, moustached man. “This is the first I've seen of her humorous side, Sir Edmond. Did you know she had such a sense of humor?"

“No. She was all seriousness in my household. Dutiful, too.” His gray eyes pierced Ava's face. “She's grown lax in her manners in the five weeks she's been away."

Five weeks! That was how long it had been since she'd been taken from Wales. She'd counted each day. The diary she'd left home with was long ago lost, but she knew how many days had passed. This man she'd never seen before claimed he'd seen her five weeks ago?

Who is he?

“Miss Fychon,” the duchess said theatrically, “surely you remember Sir Edmond de la Pontoise, your employer? He's come to take you back to his estate. You'll remain here while he takes care of business outside of London, then he will return for you. That is to be the arrangement, is it not, Sir Edmond?"

He bowed politely. “Yes, Your Grace, it is. Business matters will keep me away for likely a fortnight, after which I will return for Miss Fychon. Thank you for graciously allowing her to stay in your beautiful home until then.” An ominous smile was bestowed to Ava. “I'm vastly relieved to have finally found you, Miss Fychon. We have all missed you."

Ava's head spun, throat tightened in fear. She didn't know this man, had never set eyes on him before. Where did he think they knew each other? She'd been many places since leaving home, they could have met anywhere. But how did he know her name, or where she was living?

Where was he taking her in a fortnight?

One thing was terrifyingly clear. He'd convinced the duchess she belonged to him; in what capacity she had no idea. Maid, ladies’ maid, companion to his elderly mother or sickly sister? If she protested, the duchess would conclude she didn't want to leave, not that she truly didn't know him. How the devil could she prove this? No one would listen to her, let alone believe her. Especially now that she wasn't in the duchess’ best favor.

Had he said a fortnight? Yes, in two weeks he'd come back and she'd be long gone by then. Her pulse slowed. She didn't need to worry about this Sir Edmond de la whoever. No, he was hugely mistaken. She'd not be leaving with him.

Thinking of her plans to leave calmed her considerably. Two days. Then there would be the days of travel to find them, then the long journey west, back to Wales, back home where—

“Miss Fychon."

Ava jumped, so engrossed was she in musing over her scheme she hadn't noticed Sir Edmond approach. The duchess spoke to Jessup several feet away. Sir Edmond stood so close she could see the black flecks in his gray eyes and the veins of gray in his black mustache. His linens were blindingly white against his deep brown coat.

“I know this comes as a shock to you, but I must warn you, if you so much as try to leave this home, or send forth any warning whatsoever about your departure, you will never-listen carefully, Miss Fychon-never see your brother and sister again. And do you know why, ma coeur?” He ran a long finger down her cheek. “Because they will not be allowed to live if you are not here when I return.” He leaned closer, his eyes menacing clouds. “You've caused me an enormous amount of trouble since leaving your pathetic Welsh farm and it will cease today. And you will keep quiet about it or—” He wet his pale, dry lips, his tongue moving slowly. “You recall, do you not?” He smiled when her eyes widened. “You belong to me and there's not a damn thing you can do about it. I will see you in two weeks."

His words swam together, thrilling and horrible at the same time. “They're alive? Mairwen and Ithel are alive? Where are they? When may I see them?"

“They are alive."

Ava gripped his wrist. “Where are they? Are they in London?"

“They are not. And you will get no more information.” He retracted his arm.

Ava's fingers wrapped tighter on his coat sleeve. “Please. You cannot imagine my worry, how much I've missed them. They were taken from me without a word. What have you done with them?"

“I've kept them alive,” he said heatedly. “Which is more than they deserve, no thanks to you. They have cost me plenty and are paying off their debts in the mills. Your brother is at any rate. Your pretty little sister—"

Ava's eyes filled with tears and her body shook uncontrollably. “She is not with Ithel? Where is she? He is in a mill? Alone?"

Sir Edmond jerked his arm free. “You'll learn of their placements when I come to retrieve you. If you're very good, perhaps we'll pay your dear brother a visit when we go north. But you must be very good.” He crooked a finger beneath her chin. “As for you,” he stroked her neck, “if it were not for the Swiss baron who has paid well and waited too long for you, I'd keep you for myself. But he is a most impatient man and business is business."

He stepped back, nodded genteelly. “Miss Fychon,” he said loud enough so the duchess would think all was well and his business concluded.

When dismissed by the duchess, Ava flew to her room, closed the door and sunk to the floor, her heart slamming in her chest. Too shocked to cry, she only felt panic.

They're alive. Dear God, you have answered my prayers. But Ithel, he is alone! She couldn't imagine that. Her little brother, always so frightened of being alone, especially at night. She'd lay next to the bed he shared with Mairwen and stroke his sweet blond hair, sing softly to him with her hand in his until he fell asleep. Who would do that now? Was he taken care of, did he have anyone to talk to?

And Mairwen, where was she? The lewd way he'd spoken of her, his mouth twisted in a sneer had made Ava's skin prickle.

The same as when he'd spoken of someone waiting for her. A Swiss baron. That was to be her fate, to be the property of a man who did business with this Sir Edmond? No. It would not be.

Her plans had to be changed, and quickly. But how?

* * * *

Every question stimulated another. Deran sat in Max's office and listened to his client pour out his story. This was a bigger disaster than he'd fathomed. He'd been sickened by what Max told him and ashamed of his fellowman's capability to serve up evil, feasting on it until sated, only to demand more at the expense of others. In this case, the young, the very young and primarily female.

Mr. Clive Blounton seemed an honest, young man. Soft-spoken, devoted to his wife and infant son, he'd wanted to better their situation, as his position earned wages that barely met daily needs. Mrs. Blounton had been ill since their son's birth and they couldn't afford the cost of her care. He'd confided his dilemma to a fellow worker. Within a week he'd been approached. An investment, requiring little capital, that would triple in only a few months. Would he be interested?

“I've been over it a hundred times since, sir. If only I'd said no, I wouldn't be faced with losing everything. If my Tabitha finds out—” he dropped his head into his hands. “Never have I been so ashamed. And to have to admit to her what ... will Tabitha think of me?"

Deran stared at the man. “Mr. Blounton, pull yourself together, sir. Your end, as you've envisioned it, is not as near as you think. Not even at your own hand."

Blounton's head popped up. Dazed blue eyes searched Deran's face and then Max's.

“How did you—"

Deran cut him off. “He didn't. I'm surmising that the thought has entered your mind. Many a man has considered the coward's way out rather than face what it is that compels him to run."

Blounton's eyes flickered and face reddened. “Say here, sir, I'm no coward. I've had a scare, a dreadful scare, but if you think—"

“What I think doesn't matter, Blounton. Yours is the only opinion that matters."

Blounton gave that some thought. “Tabitha said those very words to me when I talked of wanting a better post."

Deran nodded. “You've proved you have a spine after all when you contradicted me."

“Oh, sir, I meant no disrespect. I only—"

Deran waved an impatient hand. “Damnation, man, don't apologize. I'll take back what I said about you. You told Mr. DiSanto you never met the man in charge, correct?"

“Yes sir. The man I gave money to said he works for him. Is his headhunter, he said."

Headhunter, indeed, Deran thought. Hunting for bodies no one will miss. “But he's not the man who first approached you."

“No. I haven't seen him since. Said his name was Tom, but I didn't believe him."

“Why is that?"

“Didn't look like a Tom. More fancy like.” He colored. “More like yourself, sir."

“Like me, in size, age, what?"

“No, sir. Size maybe. As tall, but thinner in the shoulders. Begging your pardon, sir, but what I meant was he looked like more the Quality."

Deran's brow rose. “He is a peer?"

“If I had to guess, I'd say he is, sir."

“Interesting speculation on your part, Blounton, but not one I could refute. Peerage does not exempt one from criminal activities. They are men, after all.” He paused. “And women."

“Yes sir. It's just that...” He shifted uncomfortably.

“Yes? Say it. Neither of us will condemn you for your opinions."

Blounton squared his shoulders. “Some of us expect the Quality to act better than the rest, is all."

Deran could have answered that commoners had a right to that expectation, but he chose to remain silent. He had witnessed the pretensions of the nobility enough to know what Blounton based his opinions on. Sadly, neither wisdom nor ethical conscience was inherited with titles. All manner of those with wealth and influence could, and did, shun morality as handily as the most conniving ruffian. The difference between them was that the immoral actions of the ton and peers were fodder for gossip and ridicule. The ruffian paid the price with loss of freedom, if caught.

Deran could well imagine a peer being involved. “So the man, Tom, for lack of a better name, introduced you to the man who explained the business venture."

“Stevens."

Deran caught Max's quick look. It had to be the same Stevens the men at the docks referred to. Blounton went on to describe him. With a hat on he couldn't see his hair, but he had swept-back side whiskers, small, pale brown eyes, no smile, so he couldn't report on the teeth. He smoked cigars. He wasn't tall or short. Age between forty and fifty.

Blounton continued, “He already had a half dozen other investors with more expected."

“How much did you pay out?"

Blounton shook his head. “Three hundred pounds. Everything I saved for us to move out of Cheap Side. But he said I'd have it back double over in less than two months."

“Explain it as he explained it to you."

It was a simple operation. High-demand silks and textiles were sold and shipped without the use of an intermediary between buyer and seller. Since the transport to ship goods was owned by Stevens’ boss, shipping expenses were limited. Money not spent on transportation and a go-between was money earned and money to the investors. The more investors, the more goods, the more income for all.

“He showed me accounts from this year and last and the amount was staggering. Over 350,000 this year alone."

Definitely an impressive figure. But hardly possible on the sale and shipment of these goods alone. Not legally.

“Indeed,” Deran agreed. “So knowing you'd be able to realize your dreams, what happened to make you want out of the scheme?"

“I overheard a conversation. I was supposed to meet Stevens outside the hotel at five o'clock, but was unable to and went to the hotel to deliver my message. From outside his room I heard voices, one of them very loud. I ... I ... didn't knock. And I didn't leave.” He dropped his head between his knees. “I should have, I shouldn't have listened, but ... but if I hadn't..."

He gushed out, head still bowed. “They were talking about a girl. Someone who'd given them nothing but trouble. This girl had children with her who were sick and she was making everyone's life hell because they weren't being cared for when they were on the ship. They talked about,” he cried softly now, “how not even the whip made her stop demanding they do something for the children. The crew hated her and was glad to be rid of all three. But after the ship docked she got away, hit someone I think he said, but was caught a few days later and brought here to London. But she ran away again, and the men doing most of the talking were in trouble. I could tell that. They were in trouble because they didn't know where she was."

He looked up, his eyes empty, face a wall of pain. “And all of a sudden I realized what they were talking about, what I was hearing. They'd brought her and the children, what they called ‘the brats,’ to sell. They were going to sell them.” He dragged his hands through his hair. “People. Human beings! And children. Like you would sell oranges, or a newspaper, or a meat pie. She, the one everyone hated, was already sold, someone was expecting her, someone who had paid for her, had actually bought her. They'll find her and when they do—” He shoved up out of his chair and crossed to the other side of the room.

Max looked at Deran who stared vacantly at a far wall, his rugged face dark, eyes shining, body as taut as a sword. Max had no doubt that if he had a weapon in hand, he could do significant damage. Even without one...

Blounton returned to his chair and slumped down. “If you'd been there, you'd understand. I know there are wicked people in the world, sirs, but I never heard of such ... such atrocity."

Max looked to Deran for a reply, but he didn't seem to have heard. “We understand. You were quite clear in your telling. Tell us of the blackmail."

Blounton swiped his sleeve across his eyes. “I didn't leave the note. I went back to work. Stevens came to my office the next day and I lied. Told him my wife didn't want me to continue with the plan, she was afraid we might lose our investment. I said nothing about the conversation I overheard."

“But your wife's concerns didn't matter to him, did they?"

Blounton grimaced. “No. He laughed and said, well I won't repeat what he said. It was most debasing to the gentler sex. Said it wasn't my decision to sever our association. He'd wait one week and if I still felt the same way, I could have my shares back, for a price."

“You have to buy back your investment."

“Yes."

“And I suppose a threat accompanied this charitable proposition."

Blounton's eyes filled anew. “He said that he'd seen my wife and child and that...” He struggled for control, but his groan filled the chamber. “They were a handsome pair and if I didn't know their value, he knew someone who did."

Chapter Thirteen

The only solace for the bleakest moments in life was to believe things couldn't get any worse. That was Ava's fervent hope as she lay in the dark, unable to sleep. After meeting Sir Edmond, thoughts had battered her like frightened caged birds, crashing fiercely into each other, clawing and screeching in panic.

This was different from when she'd been taken from her home. There had been no forewarning, no time to devise a plan, no time to do anything but be afraid and confused. On the ship she'd had time to plot, but no means to alter their fate. Not until they docked, but that plan had been ruined by her poor judgment.

Ie, she'd been duped but good. The message that Mairwen waited for her had caused good sense to fly as free as an untethered sail. Mairwen wouldn't have been at the docks, wouldn't have sent a message saying she was. She lacked the wiles to devise such a plan.

But Ava had wanted her to be there and so she'd gone to meet her. And now, here she was. Alive, yes, but empty.

But as long as her heart still beat and her mind still formed thoughts, she wouldn't give up.

She had a fortnight, thirteen days beginning tomorrow, and she wasn't going to waste them knowing there was a chance she could find her family. She wouldn't dismiss Sir Edmond's threat to harm Ithel and Mairwen if she was absent upon his return. She'd faced malice before tonight, had breathed its sour, hateful fumes and Sir Edmond had reeked of them. Ie, his threat had been true.

Tomorrow she would try to get out for a spell. She'd avoided the duchess and any discussion about Sir Edmond. That she hadn't already questioned her was a surprise. Ava presumed the duchess didn't think an explanation about his visit was warranted, not when he'd already explained Ava's presence here in London to her satisfaction.

Meg might be persuaded to take a turn in the park gardens. Or let Ava accompany her on an errand. That would give her an opportunity to note routes in and out of the city.

Someone to talk to would be wonderful. Ava had hoped she and Meg could at least be companionable, but Meg was determined to be nothing more than her maid. Apart from Lord Atherton, his household staff whom she hadn't really met, but had been thrust upon, and his sister, she knew no one. In the five days since being dragged from water to land she'd been a burden, someone's problem to tend to and take in, like a stray mongrel no one had the heart to close the door on.

It would be over soon, this feeling of not belonging, of not being wanted, only politely tolerated. She'd be thankful to those who'd helped her during her stay, even though they hadn't wanted to.

She regretted not seeing the earl before going. The notion that she was in love with him had been silly and appallingly girlish. He'd want nothing to do with her in that way, for many reasons. His title alone would steer him toward women of equal social standing. Sophisticated women like those in the dress shop. Ie. Beautiful, graceful, charming, everything she wasn't. How many of them loved him? Did he return their love?

At least she had her memories, a precious gift. She wouldn't allow herself to pine for someone she could never be with, a man who'd never want to be with her, indeed couldn't be with her. But never would she forget him.

* * * *

Aunt Geneva insisted Ava join her at breakfast to discuss tomorrow night's dinner party. The subject had put her in a chipper mood and led to an invitation to accompany her when she called on a friend who was ailing with gout. The offer gave Ava the opportunity she'd hoped for, one with the potential to gain means to her freedom.

“Aunt Geneva, I'm wondering if I might visit Lady Charnock while we are out. I've been remiss in thanking her for all she did for me."

The duchess peered at her. “You wish to call on Madeline? She will be at the dinner tomorrow night. You may bestow your gratitude then."

Not good enough. “I look forward to seeing her then, but I hardly think a dinner party will be the time to take her aside and say all I wish."

“It's only a thank you. How long can that take?"

Cyfrgoolli. Damn. Why did this have to be so complicated? “Where I come from, Your Grace, it can take a good while. Appreciation is shown with food, gifts and song.” A complete falsehood. Except for the part about food. Ava hoped the duchess didn't know otherwise and that God would forgive the lie. “With as much as her ladyship did for me, I owe her at least one of those."

Amused skepticism etched the duchess’ face. “And pray tell, which of the three would you chose?"

“Oh, a song, Your Grace. I have no gift and my cooking is barely tolerable."

“Let us hear this song of gratitude."

“Here? At the table?"

“Do you require a pianoforte?"

“No, but—"

“Sing. You have raised my curiosity."

She'd sung at table dozens of times when her parents were alive. Doing so over a stylish breakfast table was very discomfiting.

Ava said a quick silent prayer, drew in a long breath and began.

The duchess blinked hard. Obviously she hadn't expected Ava to do it. But sing she did, something she hadn't done since leaving the ship. She sang the first song that came to mind, a hymn of praise and thankfulness, so her untruth was not so untruthful. The memories the song summoned made it difficult to breathe near the end because of the tears that clogged her throat.

The servants stopped serving, maids entered the room quietly, curious about this guest who was as peculiar as the lady of the household. When done, Ava pulled in a final breath and waited for the duchess’ ruling.

“Lovely,” she said, nodding slowly. “Your voice suits you. You'll sing your song of gratitude after dinner tomorrow night, as entertainment. Your gift shouldn't be for Lady Charnock's ears only. There are many people whom you owe gratitude, young lady. You would be wise to remember that,” she added, pointing a finger at Ava. “And I will have you sing another. A love song. Yes. A love song in that odd language of yours. I'm curious to hear what love sounds like in the Welsh tongue."

Ava's heart dropped. The note she'd penned to Lady Charnock asking for help wouldn't be delivered. What a disaster. There would be no opportunity to speak to the viscountess privately. Not only had she not been given permission to visit her, she now had to entertain the duchess’ dinner guests.

Would none of her strategies work in her favor?

* * * *

Deran had never felt such rage as when he listened to Mr. Blounton's account. Even now, a day later, thinking about it caused a throbbing fury, a heat that flushed through his blood like oil set to flame. Had they not been in Max's office, he would have hurled the furnishings against the walls, imagining them to be the bodies of Stevens and Mr. P.

It would give him delicious satisfaction to see to both men's demise personally, to know never again could they harm or threaten another being or wrench apart another family.

He'd marched home from Max's office, needing the time and distance to sort through all he felt. He couldn't recall ever feeling so many emotions at once. Anger topped the heap, smoldered over contempt and disgust, sorrow and incredulity. The last he felt in great gulping portions, that anyone, much less a woman, could have survived all she had. He'd thought it before in jest, but knew without question Miss Fychon would have been a worthy soldier on any front if the cause to fight was one she believed in.

Considering her amazing was too tame. She was astonishing.

The remainder of his day, he spent doing what he could to track down the men responsible for her situation. He'd fought the tearing urge to go directly to the Cavendish, drag Stevens from his room and see that he hanged. Instead, he'd sent a manservant with a note to be delivered to the wretch. Word came back that Stevens was no longer a guest. No surprise. Stevens had done his damage and departed London, leaving his yeomen to do his dirty work. If his threat to Blounton was sincere, he'd return in a week.

Deran would be waiting for him.

He sat at his desk studying his plan of action. If he could trace the ship Ava and her family had been on, he could track down its owner. Between his connections in the transport business and from his military service, Deran hoped someone would know of the ship in question. Harbour logs were kept. The ship's name would certainly be useful, but the timeframe from departure to destination would have to be the sole source of information.

Already he had contacted Mr. Winston Thornton, a midshipman who had served with him in the Navy. Thornton had family in Barmouth, several miles south of the Isle of Anglesley and a brother with a fishing business.

Max made inquiries at the Royal Admiralty where he still had contacts. With many people looking into the matter, Deran was hopeful answers would be supplied soon.

Reading through his list, Deran felt a little lighter knowing at least some action was being taken, but his final entry caused him to frown. The matter of extricating Miss Fychon from Culver Hall. He felt strongly this needed to be done. Max disagreed. He'd argued she was safest at the manor. Deran didn't like the idea of his aunt housing someone being sought after by the likes of Stevens and Mr. P. He didn't want her household, as well as Ava, in jeopardy. But where to put her was the problem. Somewhere safe. Her dashing around looking for her lost brother and sister, asking questions, drawing much attention to herself, wasn't keeping her safe.

His inclination was to ship her back to Wales, but she wouldn't go without the brother and sister. They had to be found. But where to start the search? Mills and workhouses numbered in the dozens. It would take months to account for them all.

His greatest hope was that information about the ship to England would lead him to where the children had been transported. Two people in one large country. Two people whose whereabouts hadn't been known for nearly six weeks. The prospect of finding them was as realistic as soaring into the night and plucking a star from the sky.

Turning back to his notes, he knew what he had to do. He didn't know precisely how he would explain the situation, how in depth he would need to go, but he would have to convince his aunt that Miss Fychon had to leave. And convince Ava as well.

The invitation to the dinner party sat on the corner of his desk, the elaborate black, scripted lettering announcing the private occasion to make welcome a relative of the Duke of Barclay. Deran wondered if his uncle would be present for the occasion. Not bloody likely. Uncle Renard loathed the social trappings that came with his title as much as Deran did. Maybe not as much, but he avoided them whenever possible.

Should he wait until after the dinner party to broach the subject? For his aunt's sake, yes. She loved entertaining nearly as much as she did mucking around in her gardens. And although she would never admit it, she reveled in the knowledge that society thought her unusual. It gave her license to get away with things she couldn't otherwise.

Deran scowled at the invitation. No, he couldn't deny her the evening by taking away the person she intended to exhibit to her friends. But he would call on her to see how Miss Fychon fared. He'd wanted to many times since seeing her last, but had always found something to do that kept him from making the call. Rubbish, he thought, as he made his way to his dressing chamber. It's been nothing more than deliberate avoidance. He feared her reaction to him after their passionate encounter in the alcove. And his to her. Each time he thought of how she'd looked that day, how soft she'd felt beneath his hands, how arousing her scent and delicate moans had been, a rush of pleasure overwhelmed him. He couldn't have her, but he wanted her like none other. Decidedly disturbing.

He dressed in fresh linens, tan breeches, silver blue waistcoat and deep blue frock coat. He gazed critically into the glass. What does she see when she looks at me? He was immediately appalled that he wondered such a thing. He never gave a damn about how women viewed him. Lord. This was more disturbing than the other.

A slow rain had begun, but didn't dampen his mood as he climbed into the carriage. He was surprised to realize he was nervous. He'd missed her, much more than he would admit to anyone but himself. He missed her cantankerous behavior, her brash tongue, her unfailing aptitude for irritating him and God help him, he even missed her inexorable questions.

Deran wondered if there was anything about him that she missed.

* * * *

A gleaming carriage was parked at the curb of Culver Hall. Deran's anticipation of seeing her deflated. He was in no mood to compete with another man for her attentions, least of all the Marquess of Rensleigh.

His aunt and cousin sat in the parlor enjoying tea and an array of cakes and biscuits. He bowed slightly to his aunt, nodded curtly to Rensleigh.

Rensleigh nodded back. “Atherton. What brings you here? I've seen more of you this past week than I have in two years."

“Yes. I have wondered at that also. It isn't as though I have made myself scarce. I see your mother at least once a month, usually more, but never you."

Robert flapped a hand. “Business keeps me away, you know how that is. Traveling is tedious, but necessary if one wants to move up in the world."

Deran sat. “Is that what you've been doing? Moving up in the world?"

“Deran, have some tea,” his aunt ordered.

“Thank you, but no. I'm here to call on Miss Fychon. I assume she is on the premises."

Robert sipped his tea. “Why wouldn't she be?"

“Precisely."

A cloth napkin waved between them. “Stop it both of you,” the duchess barked. “It's positively revolting how you take pleasure in provoking each other. Miss Fychon is here, of course, but has been in her room all afternoon. She claimed she didn't feel well after we paid a call this morning.” She told him of their visit, but didn't mention Ava's request to see his sister.

“Has someone seen to her since your return?” Deran asked.

“Meg, I believe. Everyone has been quite busy with preparations for tomorrow night. If she needed something, I'm sure she would have rang or seen to it herself."

Like hell she would. A rush of annoyance urged Deran to his feet. “I will look in on her."

“I say, Atherton,” Robert said strongly, “you can't simply invite yourself to her chamber. That is most indecent."

Deran turned abruptly. “What is not decent, sir, is that she has been left unattended for so long.” He looked disapprovingly at them both. “If you will excuse me."

Not knowing which room she was in, he strolled the second floor corridor, past the master bedchambers, knocking softly on closed doors. No response. On the third floor he paused at the last door from the end. His heart tapped faster. This was it. He could feel her presence. He knocked softly, called her name. No reply. He knocked harder, waited and then entered.

Chapter Fourteen

She sat in a rocking chair at the window, facing the door, knees pulled to her chest. Her eyes closed, she clutched in her fingers what looked like a scrap of paper.

“Miss Fychon.” No reaction. He stepped into the room, leaving the door open. Sitting folded up in the bowed, spindle-backed chair looked horribly uncomfortable. Her head rested on her knees, loosened hair hung over one shoulder and onto the chair seat like a golden drape. Bare toes peeked out past the hem of her yellow dress.

“Ava?” He stood at the foot of the bed, a strange unraveling sensation in his stomach. The bed was between them and the image of her sprawled on top of it, with him on top of her, was as vivid as if the scene were painted on the bedcovers.

He cleared his throat and spoke her name again. A small smile lifted her mouth. The most beautiful, provocative smile he'd ever seen. His body responded dramatically.

Leave. Turn and go. Now.

She moaned. Like she had in his arms in the carriage and in the alcove. He realized she was dreaming and knew precisely what she dreamt of. The rapture on her face, even in sleep, was unmistakable. He'd seen it before.

A shudder shook her awake. She blinked slowly.

“Lord Atherton?” she whispered. “Deran?"

Dear God. His name coming from her lips hardened him further and weakened him at the same time. He nodded because coherent words were impossible.

She straightened. “Why are you here? I was just—” She ducked her head to conceal the slow bloom of color spreading across her cheeks.

“I apologize for startling you, Miss Fychon,” he said in his formal Lord Of The Realm tone. “I came to call on you and was told you had taken to your room. I was concerned about your health and wanted to—"

She stared at him, confusion apparent. Understandable on every count. Waking her from a very satisfying dream-it was ridiculous how jealous he suddenly was of that dream-and being here in her bedchamber. During the day. It was most imprudent. Shocking is what it was.

And tremendously exhilarating.

“I'm happy to see you, sir.” Her smile warm and a bit shy.

“And I you.” He backed away from the bed. His proximity to it causing him anxiety. “Especially to find you are not unwell. Or should I say you look, ah, well.” Hell.

"Yes, I am, thank you.” She set the paper on the window seat, studied it for a moment before turning back to him. “I didn't feel well after an outing this morning, but I am much better now."

“I am relieved to hear it.” He contemplated the polished toes of his boots.

“Is that all, sir?"

He looked up. “All?"

“All that you wanted? To find out if I was well?"

“Yes. No.” He slapped his hat against his thigh. “Damnation. This is most uncomfortable."

“Your hat?"

“My what?"

“Your hat. You struck it against your leg and said it was uncomfortable."

“No, I ... of course I wasn't speaking of my hat."

“There's no need to snipe at me, sir."

“I wasn't sni—” He drew in a calming breath. “No, there isn't."

“What then?"

“What then, what?"

“Is uncomfortable."

“This."

“Talking?"

“Yes. No. Being here. With you."

“Being with me is uncomfortable?"

“Yes. No!” Deuce take it. First the carriage, now he was raising his voice in her bedchamber. Her bedchamber for the love of God. He gathered his wits and cast his steadiest look.

“Talking with you is not uncomfortable, Miss Fychon,” he said unwaveringly. “At least, not usually. It is uncomfortable doing it here, with this,” he swung an arm toward the bed."

She viewed the bed as if seeing it for the first time. “I can hardly move it, if that's what you mean, sir."

Exasperation had him nearly flinging his hat and tearing at his hair. “Of course you can't. That is not what I meant."

“Then what did—” She stopped, snapped her mouth shut. “Oh. I see. This is one of those Polite Conversation Between Men And Women rules, isn't it? We shouldn't be talking in my bedchamber, especially when there is a bed between us."

“Something like that,” he said, controlling his voice.

“I've never slept in it, if that is any consolation."

“Never slept—” He ordered himself to leave. Again. But he didn't want to leave. Not just didn't want to leave, but didn't want to leave her.

“Miss Fychon,” he said evenly, “I would very much like it if you would join me for a ride in the park. I must speak with you and cannot do so in this chamber. I daresay I cannot do it in this house. I will tell my aunt you will be going out with me for a spell and will wait for you downstairs."

His seriousness seemed as great as his unease. Questions pelted her mind, but for once she held her tongue.

“I won't be allowed to go, sir. I was told by—” She stopped abruptly, eyes widened.

“Yes?"

“I spoke out of turn, sir. I cannot say more."

“Cannot or will not?"

“Cannot."

“Very well.” He snapped his hat against his thigh again. “I will see you downstairs in five minutes."

He was gone before she could reply.

What could he want to speak to her about? Did his aunt tell him about the horrid Sir? Possibly. She couldn't answer questions about him. She'd have to avoid doing—

The next thought made her heart stutter. Ithel and Mairwen. He has learned something. He knows where they are. Yes! That must be it.

She quickly pulled on stockings and slippers. He hadn't looked like he was bursting with good news, she mused. But he often looked grim. She grabbed a bonnet and shawl. She was halfway down the second staircase when a booming voice from below froze her. The earl.

She crept to the bottom step and sat wondering whether it would be best to go back or remain where she was in the unlikely event she was allowed to leave with him. The conversation was all too clear from here.

“I assure you, Deran, it is out of my hands. She will be with us only a short while longer and then must go back to where she came from."

“You cannot be serious, aunt. Surely you didn't believe the man's tale."

“Why would he lie? He knew her, knew her very well. Remarked on a number of her character flaws I myself have witnessed in the short time I've known her. There is no doubt she belongs in his household. It's a simple explanation to this puzzling question of how she suddenly appeared, is it not?"

“I'm taking her off your hands for an hour and will see to her return."

“Now see, here,” the marquess blustered.

“Enough, both of you,” the duchess interjected. “I'll ring for Meg. It won't do for her to go alone with you."

“And it won't do if she doesn't. I must speak to her privately."

“It's not proper."

“Quite right, it isn't, but I can be trusted with her reputation, Aunt Geneva.” He winced inwardly. Had he spoken less truthful words in all his life? No, not lately. But Ava's reputation would be in no danger today.

“Very well. One hour. I wager you'll return her sooner. She will try to convince you Sir Edmond's tale is false."

Ava scrambled to her feet when he burst from the parlor. His fierce expression made her question the wisdom of being in his company alone.

“Come.” He extended a hand. When she didn't take it he grasped her elbow and steered her toward the front door. “Now. We have little time and much to discuss."

He sunk into the cushions across from her and glowered as the carriage pulled forward. Ava's earlier excitement had vanished. News about her family would be second to what he'd just learned.

“Miss Fychon.” His voice softened, but eyes gleamed dangerously. “Ava. Who is he?"

Her heart thudded. She bent her head, shook it violently. “I cannot talk about this, sir."

“Cannot, or will not talk about it?"

She shook her head again.

“Cannot. I'm sure of it.” No response. “Ava.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees and took her hands in his. “Do you remember, not so many days ago, when I said I would help you?” She sniffled and he looked away so he could finish without the distraction of tears. “I have not stopped wanting to help you, Ava. I have done what I can with the sparse information you gave me as well as some I was able to find on my own. Today I learned more and I must ask you some questions. And so much, everything depends on your answers. Do you understand me?"

The sniffles died away. “You learned more, but not of Ithel and Mairwen."

A look of remorse crossed his face. “No. That is not why I called on you."

“I see."

“And it was not to ask you about the man who came to see you, either. That bit of news has overridden the original purpose for my visit. I ask you again. Who is he?"

“I cannot tell you anything."

“Yes you can. You must."

“I cannot. There is too much danger in it."

“For whom? You? Your brother and sister?"

She stiffened and looked away.

“Ava. I must have answers if I am to help."

She stared out the window, swallowed hard. Her hands went limp in his, but trembled. “I will answer if I can. What do you want to know?"

Where to start? What his aunt had just told him, what he and Max had learned, what they'd overheard at the docks? The list seemed endless and this was in less than a week of knowing her. His life as he once knew it was unrecognizable, replaced with madcap days and nights of cloaked intrigue. He wasn't the man he'd been a week ago, and this woman, this astounding, infuriating, beautiful, fascinating woman was to blame.

His heart couldn't take much more.

“I want to know truths. No partial truths. If you cannot tell me this, do not speak at all."

“I have not lied to you."

“Not telling the entire tale is a manner of lying, Ava. You have not told me all."

“I have! I've told you what I can."

“So you could not tell me you killed a man? Murdered someone while traveling to our fair city?"

She gasped, eyes widened with shock. “Killed a man? I've killed no one. Who told you such a thing?"

“That is not important. I want to know if it's true."

“It's important to me. Where did you hear this?"

He dropped her hands and sat back, his eyes blazing. “Answer the question, Miss Fychon."

“I did. I've never killed anyone."

“I overheard you did."

“Who—” She stilled. “The men at the docks. You found them, talked to them."

“No. I overheard them."

Then they were still here in London. Looking for her, no doubt. She tried to steady her breath and connect his accusation to events of the past several weeks.

“I hit a man. A man on the cart. He was the only person I hit. Hard, at least. I wasn't trying to kill him. Only trying to escape."

“He must have been very small for you to hit him hard enough to kill him."

“Not so small. I was very angry."

Deran's brows rose. “A valuable piece of information. It would be to my advantage not to provoke you in the future."

“It was an accident, Lord Atherton. Not the hitting part, but the hurting part. There was a bucket, a wooden bucket on the back of the cart, I picked it up when he came back to check a wheel and I swung it as hard as I could. Are you certain I killed him?"

“No. I only know what I heard."

She hung her head. “I didn't know he died. I'm truly sorry for that. Being sorry will not matter if I'm arrested for murder though, will it?"

“No, it will not, but I don't think you have to fear arrest."

Her head popped up. “You don't? Why not?"

“No one involved has caught you. Or at least been able to hold onto you once you've been caught.” He smoothed a hand down his cravat. “Who is he, Ava?” he asked softly, hoping to catch her off guard.

“Sir?"

“The man who came for you this afternoon. Sir Edmond. You have never been employed in his household, have you?"

She looked away. “I cannot say."

He tapped a finger to his mouth. Patience. He would come back to that and would get an answer. “Why were you and your brother and sister taken from your home?"

“I don't know. I have told you that before."

“I think you do. Or have an idea. Tell me, Ava. Tell me why you think you were taken."

Telling him would do no harm. But there was the threat. Always the threat.

“Yes, I have an idea, but...” Her eyes pled with him. “Sir, you don't understand the danger, even talking to you like this, whether I answer your questions or not, the danger is great."

“You spoke of this danger before, the night in my kitchen. Explain it to me."

Panic filled her eyes. “I cannot."

“You can. Explain it to me."

“No, I cannot. Please, do not ask me again."

He tipped his head. “Explain it to me."

“I ca—"

“Explain it to me, Ava,” he said quietly. The anxiety and then utter sadness on her face was torture to watch. He wanted to gather her to him, cradle her head against his chest and banish all her fears.

And then she flashed him a resigned look and told him everything, fact and conjecture. “I have no proof, but feel certain our uncle was behind the abduction. When Father died he left debts, debts I did my best to lessen with what work I could find, but it would take many years to pay them. The farm was not profitable, but the land was valuable. Mother had no relatives I knew of, so no one could dispute it belonged to Father's family. I suspect our uncle intended to have the property for himself. On the ship I overheard the three of us had been sold. I assumed our uncle planned to use the profits to pay off debts and taxes owed on the land and farm.” She drew a deep breath.

“The danger I told ... the man who took us threatened if I spoke to anyone of this that ... Ithel and Mairwen would be killed and my tongue cut out.” She smiled sadly. “Not being able to talk again would not be such a horrible price, but I would be murdering my sister and brother. If I haven't already."

Speak and I will silence you forever and take away those whom you love. Her silence until now made complete sense.

Deran believed she was correct about her uncle's hand in her fate. Greed had induced mankind to kill their families since the beginning of history. Selling them was a small rung below murder.

“The man who came for you yesterday. Was it he who threatened you on the ship?"

“No."

“Who is he?"

“I don't know."

“Ava—"

“I don't know! I have never seen him before. But he knew about me and knew of Ithel and Mairwen and—” She raised a hand, palm facing him. “I cannot, will not discuss this with you."

“More danger, I presume?” No response, only a glower. “A person is only as powerful as you allow him to be, Ava. Do not give this man you do not know more power over you than he deserves or has earned."

Her mouth twitched. “I am not the only person involved, sir. My actions, my decisions, affect more than myself."

He nodded. “True. And it is honorable of you to do what you believe necessary to keep everyone else safe at the cost of your freedom. But at some point, that cost may become too high."

Fists pounded onto her thighs and eyes sparked. “And what do you know of freedom, Lord Atherton? Or its cost? Of not having it, of someone deciding when you will and won't have it? How dare you lecture me on something you know nothing about. Sitting there on that, that noble throne of yours, sermonizing about freedom and honor. You have no right to do so when you know nothing about either."

As with her past tirades, he heard her words, but it was the fervency of those words, her heated look, flushed cheeks, reddening of the mouth and hot sparkle of the eyes that captivated him, moved him profoundly.

She could best any lobbyist he'd ever heard speak in the House of Lords.

“Actually I am somewhat familiar with the loss of freedom, but I won't go into that now.” He smiled faintly. “I do believe, Miss Fychon, that your mother outdid herself when she taught you book English. You manage it as deftly if not better than many English-born speakers. Too barbed for polite society, but I personally appreciate it when one says what they mean."

“Do you? I've never had that impression."

“I didn't say I always appreciate what I hear, Miss Fychon. Not all things said in honesty are easy to listen to."

Ava was grateful the conversation had switched from the topic of That Man. She would continue to refuse discussing it until she could no longer draw breath. She'd said far too much as it was, a lifelong failing. Once her tongue was unfurled and marching to the tune her brain was playing, it was a downhill race to see who would reach the bottom first.

Her tongue generally won out.

There was no in between with her. Either there was talking to be done or none at all, in which case she could be silent for days, something Lord Atherton had only briefly experienced.

But he preferred the talking times. Or at least he did when he had a bagful of questions, as he was carrying with him today. And she suspected he had more. But she was done answering them. She wouldn't jeopardize her plans to leave. And she would leave. She had it all worked out. No one was going to stop her. Not this time.

Chapter Fifteen

True to her word, Ava refused to speak further on the subject of the man who'd come to claim her. On the ride back to Culver Hall, Deran learned little and was more frustrated than when they'd begun.

“Will you be at the dinner party tomorrow evening, Lord Atherton?"

“Not if I can bloody well help it,” he mumbled.

“Pardon?” She looked at him sharply. He'd repositioned across from her and stretched his legs the width of the carriage. The man did take up a great deal of space.

“Most likely."

“But not for certain?"

His attention moved to her face. “No, not for certain. Why?"

“For the same reason I ask any question, sir. Because I don't have the answer.” She tried not to look as disappointed as she felt. If he didn't have the decency to attend a dinner that his lunatic aunt insisted on hosting, an affair that promised to be one of the most wretched experiences of her life, then fine, he could bloody well stay home.

“What did you say?"

Her head snapped forward. “I didn't say anything."

“Yes you did. I heard it, but couldn't make it out."

“Oh. I must have been thinking aloud. A distracting habit."

“Hmm, yes.” Of course he didn't want to attend the dinner. He'd rather be shaved by a blind man wielding a shard of glass. But he didn't want her to face it alone. Her first London dinner party and one where she was being touted as the honored guest, at that. She was putting up a brave front, but he imagined her insides were in shambles.

“I have no plans for tomorrow evening so it's quite possible I will be in attendance. It would make my aunt happy."

She said it before her brain could give the order not to. “And me."

“And you what?"

She flushed. “I would be very grateful if you would attend, sir. I have to wear a fancy dress and behave well enough to not embarrass everyone. If I could choose not to go, I would."

“Now you know how I feel. With the exception of the dress part that is."

For a moment, with him smiling so beautifully, she felt the connection she'd felt the last time they'd ridden in the carriage together. She smiled back.

“Thank you. I'll thank you now for attending, if you do. Should I not have the chance tomorrow night. Or cannot speak out of pure fright."

“Come here."

“Sir?"

He tugged on her hand. “Come. Sit next to me."

She swiveled across the small space and sat, leaving an inch between them. He draped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer, lifted a hand and linked fingers through hers. Words didn't need to be spoken for anything to be said.

Several minutes passed this way, the rhythm of the horse's hooves and gentle creaking of the carriage the only sounds.

He tightened his hand and smoothed a thumb across the top of hers, that simple, almost imperceptible touch of her skin setting his to burn. Her scent, the lightest flower and warm butter, sent a blaze to his groin. Her hair's unruliness was especially appealing today and her mouth, he couldn't bear to look at any longer. He could taste it, feel its soft shape, and then, God forgive him, hear those sweet sounds she made when he kissed her. He'd dreamed of those kisses last night.

The groan was loud, even to his ears.

“Sir? What's wrong? Are you all right?"

He inhaled deeply. “Yes, of course, I am."

Ava rotated slightly and peered at his face. “Please forgive me, sir, but I disagree. Your skin is reddened. And,” she touched his forehead lightly with the soft tips of her fingers, “you seem to be very warm, indeed you are perspiring a great deal. Perhaps you need some fresh air?"

“No, I do not need fresh air.” He'd laugh if he were able. Fresh air. Hah! If only the cure was that simple. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on anything but the tingling that remained from her touch to his brow. Looking at her when she'd sat across from him had been an encompassing torture. Strands of hair fell across her breasts, the tops rising teasingly above the square neckline of her dress, the bounce of the carriage setting them to jiggle in a sensual dance. He'd wanted her next to him to ease the visual misery, but touching her had been a more agonizing alternative.

“No, what I need is—"

“Yes? Please tell me. Whatever it is, I'll do what I can to help."

Another groan, this one more restrained. The hand holding hers wrenched away roughly.

“What I need is for you to return to your seat, Miss Fychon. I think that might help me considerably, thank you.” He said it brusquely, far more than he'd intended. But it was either she move or put her honor at risk more than it already was. His own was only so far reaching. He'd vowed to never touch her again and he'd honor his vow.

The soft gasp made him wince. He'd hurt her, but that was how it must be. He shouldn't have insisted she sit with him, but he'd wanted to be near her and thought he could manage sitting alongside her without difficulty.

Once again, when it came to Miss Ava Fychon, he'd been wrong.

* * * *

To spite him she dipped into a rickety curtsey before fleeing up the double staircase. The door to her bedchamber slammed shut as his aunt entered the hall.

“You were gone far too long. I suppose she told you her sordid life story. And by the looks of it you believed every word.” She continued past him. “She is a curiosity, I must say. It's impossible not to like the girl, despite how out of the ordinary she is."

Deran's brow rose. How does one as eccentric as the Duchess of Barclay measure oddity?

“It's best that she leave, Deran. Goes back to her people. London is not a suitable place for her."

Deran trailed behind into the parlor. She sunk onto the settee, he stood at a window and leaned against the frame.

“She has no ‘people,’ aunt. She doesn't know where he is taking her. She doesn't know him. Why you would think so is beyond all comprehension."

“This is twice you have accused me of not knowing my own mind, Deran. I didn't like it the first time and I resent it even more this time. Your opinions, as well as your feelings for this girl, have made you forget your place."

Feelings? What the devil was she talking about?

“Forgive me, Aunt Geneva, I meant no disrespect. But I don't believe the man is who he claims to be. Or if he is, he was not here to rescue Miss Fychon, to restore her to his household. Not for a moment do I believe that. And if you believed him it is because he is a superb schemer, not because you don't know your own mind."

“A schemer?” Her voice rose. “I don't know Sir Edmond personally, but I know of him, through Robert. His mother was a friend of his."

Deran stilled. “Was she? I wasn't aware."

“Of course you weren't. You gave me no opportunity to inform you of the connection once you heard Miss Fychon is leaving. Your ears swung closed as tightly as your mind."

“Quite right. I was very much in the wrong.” She wasn't going to hear him out about this Sir Edmond or answer questions about his identity. He'd likely been very genteel and adept at obsequious servility. Deran couldn't fault her good opinion toward the man and he had no proof to support his claim. Not yet.

Deran wished he could speak to his uncle. He was far more level-headed than Aunt Geneva, more disposed to logical thinking. But decisions needed to be made regarding Miss Fychon's welfare before the duke returned.

* * * *

Ava declined dinner and stayed in her bedchamber thinking up every nasty thing she could about the Earl of Atherton. She was angry with herself for having wasted her feelings on him. How could she have thought she might love him? It had been nothing more than displaced passion, if that. What did she know about such things? Evidently not enough, for he cared nothing about her and only wished to see her gone.

She curled up on the bedclothes and tried to bury every memory she had of the past two days. From Sir Edmond's visit to Lord Atherton's. From abject terror to sheer joy in the span of a day. After recovering from the shock of seeing the earl standing in her chamber, as though her dream had summoned him, she'd felt nothing but pure elation. But he'd been all business, dark, unpleasant business and her happiness faded. Until his request that she sit beside him. For a moment she was filled with hope that he'd put aside distasteful subjects and wanted to be with her as he had before. But instead he'd found her company repulsive.

Now that she knew how he felt about her, leaving this home, this city and the people in it, would be easier. She'd simply have to live with the confusion of why he'd spoken sweetly to her before and not today. Perhaps that was the way of it between men and women. Caresses and kisses one day, chilly indifference the next. Her mother and father hadn't behaved that way, but maybe it was different here in England, or in the city, and even more so with the titled and members of polite society.

Of course it didn't help that he thought she was a murderess. It wouldn't do for an earl to be in the company of someone who killed men with heavy buckets to the head. He had his reputation to think of, after all.

The plan to approach Lady Charnock was already abandoned, the letter requesting twenty pounds, destroyed. The earl would be informed of it anyway and instantly know her request for money to send to her family was a lie. Her plans could then again be in jeopardy.

No, she'd go without the money, find food along the way and travel by any means possible. Once she found the road leading north out of London her travels wouldn't take more than two days. Add two days to get back and that gave her nine days to search for her siblings before Sir Edmond returned.

The plan was precarious, but it was the best she could come up with. She feared the duchess would notify Sir Edmond she'd fled and he'd follow through with his threat. Should she leave a note saying she'd be back in time to leave with him? Would that ensure Ithel and Mairwen's safety?

No. Nothing would. Nothing but finding them and pulling them to safety herself.

Ava wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders. It was an awful plan, her very worst by far, beginning with reaching the north in two days. From there she had a vast area to search, many workhouses. If it took longer than...

Stop it. She'd do this. She'd make it work.

* * * *

Dinner was to be served promptly at eight and Ava was told to be downstairs ready to greet guests with the duchess at seven thirty. Meg was in Ava's bedchamber at five to begin preparations that would transform her into a woman whom all the guests would be talking about for weeks.

“That's what Her Grace said, miss,” Meg said as she plaited sections of Ava's hair. “She wants you to make their eyes pop from their heads."

“I pity you, Meg,” Ava said wearily. “For the task she has given you will be quite impossible."

“Bah, ‘twill not. You have pretty hair, nice complexion, though a little too brown. I should have been giving you vinegar to pale it. But no matter,” she said gaily as she twisted a braid into a coil, “the color suits your eyes. And in that dress you will set their tongues to wagging."

“Their tongues are already wagging, Meg. That's the reason for this dinner. So they can finally get an eyeful of who they've been talking about since they read the newspaper."

“Don't let them bother you, miss. Smile, answer questions politely, eat your meal real proper like. Like we talked about. It was good of Jessup to give you some instruction."

“I suppose. I still don't understand why we can't use one fork and spoon for everything. The food is going in the same mouth no matter how many courses there are."

“Heavens, don't let the duchess hear you talking like that. Same fork, egad. You can't jab the fowl with the fish fork, now can you? You just mind what Jessup told you and you'll be fine."

Ava sighed and slumped down into the dressing table chair. Think of it as a game, she thought as she looked at her reflection in the glass. And pretend. The one time in your life you'll wear a green satin dress with little puffed sleeves, and not one, but two petticoats beneath, new soft cotton drawers and quilted stays. She needed to work on looking happier, at least practice smiling. Tonight was her grand exit. She might as well make it the grandest one she could.

She practiced a repertoire of smiles while Meg twisted and wove more plaits and secured more pins at the base of her neck until her head felt as heavy and pricked as a wet feather bed. She wouldn't dare nod for fear of toppling onto her face.

When Meg was satisfied with her creation, she helped Ava into the gown. Tiny buttons ran the length of her spine, ending just above the flared skirt. Matching satin slippers completed the ensemble.

“Oh, miss,” Meg murmured, circling her with a critical eye. “You look lovely. No one will recognize you.” She took Ava by the elbow and set her several feet from the long mirror on the opposite wall. “Don't you agree?"

Ava blinked slowly. No one would recognize her. She didn't recognize herself. A dark green ribbon wove through the network of plaits. Several spiraled curls fell elegantly to her shoulders and around her ears. The dress was simple in line, unadorned except for a ring of pale green rosettes a foot above the hem. A trio of matching rosettes dotted each sleeve and a wide velvet ribbon marked the high waistline. The décolletage revealed more bosom than Ava was comfortable with and the required stays made her breasts look like loaves of bread dough left to rise too long in the oven. She scowled and tugged at the bodice to bring it up to a more modest height.

Meg tsked. “Leave it be. They're a blessing you know. Be thankful you've got something to plump up."

Ava gasped. Meg was giggling when the duchess entered.

“Our guests are arriving, Miss Fy—” She stopped short. “Well, well. Our little Welsh girl can look the part of a lady, can she not?” She flicked an index finger. “Turn."

Ava did as directed, keeping her head aligned with her body. This is the last time I have to do this, at least.

"You've worked a miracle with the hair, Meg. It couldn't have been easy taming something so wild."

Ava heard the barely veiled censure. Meg thanked her meekly.

“Now come along,” she ordered, turning to the door.

“Your Grace?"

The duchess turned back to her. “Yes, Miss Fychon, what is it?"

Ava flashed her well-bred lady smile. “You look very pretty. Silver is becoming to you. Ma'am. Aunt Geneva."

The duchess’ mouth lifted in a slight smile. “Thank you.” She nodded to Meg and exited the room.

“Remember,” Meg said, leading Ava to the door. “Smile, answer questions, but don't talk too much."

“There's no worry for that."

“Oh, I wish I could be there."

“Be with me in your prayers, Meg."

Chapter Sixteen

The mantel clock chimed a quarter hour as Deran ripped apart the knot in his cravat for the third time. Normally a mindless task, he was making bad work of it tonight.

“Damnation,” he muttered to his reflection in the glass as he went at it again. He'd shock them all and go without a bloody tie if he didn't get it right this time.

“You're acting the fool. And for what? A female who would just as soon spear you as she would speak to you. Have you no brains left in your head, man? Riding in the carriage-horrible idea-but then you have her sit beside you—” He groaned and yanked the knot closed. A little tighter and he could be done with the whole mess permanently.

“May I be of assistance, sir, or is whomever you are talking to all the help you require?"

Bickford's image mysteriously appeared in the glass. Deran had often suspected he was part specter.

Deran flung his arms out in concession. “These blasted neckcloths are too lightweight. Don't hold their shape as well as my others. My mind must have been asleep when I let you talk me into these. You know I abhor changes in my wardrobe."

Bickford slunk around to face him. “Indeed, sir. Change can torment one's very marrow."

“What the devil does that mean?” He glowered above his raised chin while Bickford disassembled his untidy handiwork.

“Cloth can challenge the ablest man, my lord."

“Cloth."

“A simple cloth when handled properly can be transformed into something a gentleman may be proud of. Those without starch are the most difficult to shape."

“Starch."

“Like a high-spirited steed, my lord. Full of vigor, he rebels against conformity. Knowing how firmly to hold the ribbons to guide him is an admirable skill. Too much tension disquiets the creature, while not enough leaves it at a loss as to which way to turn."

Bickford wrapped, tucked and smoothed, then stepped aside and solemnly inclined his head. “For many years it has been my distinct pleasure to serve one of England's finest horsemen, my lord."

Deran stared into the mirror at the uniform knot. A companionable silence followed.

“We're not talking about steeds, are we?” he asked quietly. “Or cloths.” His gaze slid to the man's profile in the glass.

Bickford's face was expressionless. “As you wish, sir."

Deran studied the knot again. “Thank you, Bickford."

“A pleasure, my lord.” He held out a black dress coat. “Anything else, sir?"

Deran shrugged the coat on. “No. I need be off if I'm to arrive before the first course.” He ran a hand through his hair, its length and thickness a reminder he needed to have it cut. He eyed his cravat again. Those without starch are the most difficult to shape.

"If I may be so bold as to voice an opinion, sir."

“Timidity has never been your strong suit, Bickford."

“No, sir."

“Then I don't know why you bother asking whether you may state your opinion."

Bickford handed him his hat and white silk scarf and followed as Deran stepped into the hall and down the stairs.

“She will be most grateful, I am sure, sir."

Deran spun around at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at Bickford who was halfway down. “She? My aunt? Don't be absurd. My appearance is expected. No one would dare snub the Duchess of Barclay, not even her nephew.” He moved up the hall as Bickford reached the bottom stair. Was it his imagination or was Bickford's descent taking longer than usual?

“I do not refer to Her Grace, my lord. I refer to the miss’ gratitude."

“Miss Fychon's? I hardly think so. We ... I am not in high standing with her just now."

Bickford crossed to the front door, placed a long, thin hand on the knob. “Even so, your presence this evening should be a comfort to her."

“Comfort."

“Yes, sir. It will steady her some."

“Steady her, hmm? Can't imagine that ever happening, Bickford. No. That's as improbable as Mrs. Larue becoming a docile creature or you a dandy. Miss Fychon is as wild as—” He looked past Bickford, searching for insight.

“A high-spirited steed, perhaps, sir?"

An eyebrow arched slowly. “Precisely."

Bickford dipped his head and opened the door. “Enjoy your evening, sir."

* * * *

It was as brilliant as daylight inside Culver Hall, every chandelier and corner candelabra lit. Deran squinted against the light as he stepped into the black and white marble-floored great hall. His aunt wanted no one to miss a single detail of this evening. From jewels to the highly-polished silver serving dishes, all would be dazzling to the eye.

The doorman relieved him of his coat, hat and scarf while Jessup looked on.

“Good evening, Lord Atherton,” he said with a low bow.

“Jessup. Where is she?"

“If you are referring to Her Grace, she is in the parlor."

“And the guest of honor?” The words made his stomach tighten. Guest of honor, indeed. Guest for gossip fodder.

“Her Grace asked that she convene with guests in the drawing room, sir."

“Alone?” He glanced up the staircase leading to the drawing room.

“Her Grace is dividing her attentions between both rooms, sir."

Deran muttered a curse as he stepped onto the first step. It would be improper for him to greet the guest of honor before greeting the hostess, particularly when that hostess was his aunt. He pulled in a resigned breath and strode to the parlor. From its doorway, he saw his aunt's graying hair. She noticed him all too soon.

“Ah, look who has graced us with an appearance.” The small group parted.

“I am not surprised you are the last to arrive, my reluctant nephew."

“Your Grace.” He bent over the hand she offered him. No cheek kisses tonight. She was in full duchess mode. “You look lovely."

Her eyes glimmered triumphantly. “Of course I do. Company brings out the best in me, you know that. It is positively revitalizing. It's been far too long between dinner parties and I assure you the next will not be so long in the waiting. Having Miss Fychon as a houseguest was just the impetus I needed."

“Yes, well,” he smiled as genuinely as possible, “I'm glad you're enjoying yourself, Aunt."

“More than you. But I expected as much, knowing how much you love these events. Although I must say you look dashing. You're sure to make female hearts beat faster,” she said with a wink, “though I daresay several here tonight have already had that pleasure."

As Deran had feared, the guest list included women with whom he'd been amorously acquainted. One of the reasons he avoided such fêtes. He stifled a groan.

The duchess smiled wickedly. “There is only one reason you're here, my dear. And it is not familial duties."

“I am here out of respect for you, Aunt Geneva."

She thumped the closed fan that hung from her wrist on his chest. “Rubbish. There's no denying you've developed a tendre for our little Welsh maiden, nephew.” Before he could reply, she winked again. “She's in the drawing room. With the majority of the guests."

Majority of the guests? How many more could that be? He'd anticipated six to ten couples at most, but there were at least that many on this floor alone.

Tendre indeed. He should have tossed the invitation.

Jessup entered. “Dinner is served, Your Grace,” he announced.

“Thank you, Jessup.” The duchess placed a hand on Deran's arm. “You won't mind escorting your old aunt to dinner, will you, dear?” The charming smile had more than a hint of devilment. Knowing how miserable he was contributed to her cheerful mood.

He dutifully raised his arm and led her from the room. Loud chatter from the top of the stairs drew their attention. Two couples emerged from the drawing room followed by several men of various ages murmuring amongst themselves. Deran's jaw tightened. They were talking about her. Where the devil is she?

“Come along, Deran,” his aunt said. “You will see her soon enough."

After situating his aunt at the head of the table and acknowledging guests as they filled the formal dining room, he eyed the seating. Fourteen chairs on each side of the table and one at each end. Good lord, thirty guests. He nodded to another four, ignored two others, his anticipation developing into annoyance. What the devil was keeping her?

Six men filed in noisily. They fanned out to create a passageway through which Lord Rensleigh strode with Ava on his arm. She was looking up at him, engrossed in what he was saying.

Deran gripped the back of his chair so tightly the carved pattern of the wood bit into his palms. He imagined himself diving across the table, grabbing the worm by the throat and hurling him across the room. The headache that had begun soon after his arrival increased. He fixed his eyes on her, willing her to look his way.

When she turned to smile at the line of men beaming down on her, she saw him. Her smile froze, eyes widened and fair cheeks pinkened. Rensleigh ceased talking, followed her gaze.

“Atherton,” he said curtly.

Deran didn't trust himself to speak. He nodded, his eyes only on Ava, and swallowed his anger.

Then she smiled. A luminous smile meant for him alone. Because of how miserably they'd last parted, he was shocked she even looked kindly at him much less smile. Was she to be believed?

The smile was cloaked with surprise. She hadn't expected him to come, he surmised. His aunt hadn't told her he would. Knowing Geneva, she probably told her he wouldn't. Just to keep things interesting.

“Lord Atherton.” She blinked charmingly.

He inclined his head. “Miss Fychon."

Voices lowered to murmurs as glances bounced between the pair. Deran wished he and Ava were the only people in the room, wished he could close the space between them, sweep her into his arms and take her away. He wanted her hand on his arm, her eyes looking up into his, her smile only for him. He wanted her to want him and none other.

Those realizations happened in a matter of seconds and left his heart swinging hard in his chest, mouth dry. Dear God, what is the matter with me? I'm going mad. When he'd left his home he'd been the stable, sensible, rational man he'd always been and now his thoughts made his hands damp, heart erratic and pulse thrum in his ears.

Rensleigh led her to her seat, four to Deran's left on the opposite side of the table, and then assisted his mother into hers. Other men seated the ladies in an alternating pattern on both sides of the table. Lady Katherine Eads, a young widow was seated to Deran's left, Dowager Lady Farthington, by far the oldest widow in the room, to his right.

Once the men were seated the meal commenced and conversation between neighboring guests began.

The part of such an evening Deran despised the most.

He dipped his spoon into the leek soup. He sipped. It tasted as it looked. Clear and unappetizing. He set his spoon down and reached for his wine, using the time to glance to the guest of honor.

Spoon in hand, she studied the person opposite her. She wanted to avoid mistakes in etiquette, he realized with amusement. Over the rim of his glass he watched her straighten her posture, spoon the soup away from her and take her first taste. Her nose wrinkled in displeasure and she slowly set down the spoon. She'd reached the same conclusion about the soup.

He couldn't look away. No other woman in the room compared to her beauty. Emerald had been created solely for her. It acted as the sun does on the ocean, brightening what was already beautiful. Her eyes were a deeper green, skin more dusky than the fashionable pale, and the coils of her hair gleamed a rich gold.

She wore no jewels, yet radiated without them. The dress was simple elegance, although he wasn't at all pleased everyone in the room was being afforded such a vivid view of the tops of her breasts. His aunt should have been more discerning about the décolletage. The crossover style was cut far too low to suit him.

What was particularly stunning was that she looked so much like a woman, not the girl he'd first met. She was magnificent, and entirely unaware of her allure.

Deran was grateful a long linen covered the table. He'd grown hard with want. And need. He needed to touch her. Somehow, before he departed this evening, he needed to be with her, if only for a moment.

Lady Eads spoke as the soup was replaced by a plate of gray sauce with a lump of fish in its center.

“Yes, Lord Atherton,” she said lowly. “Where have you been keeping yourself? It has been far too long since our last ... encounter."

Too long is not long enough, Deran thought glumly. As he recalled she had the distasteful propensity toward letting loose with appalling shrieks during love play. Alarming enough to shrivel a man.

“Business has kept me away, Lady Eads.” Not far enough. “I am rarely in the city.” He picked off a corner of the fish as he grappled with a way to redirect. “Are your children well?” The art of Polite Conversation was lamentably inborn, so it would seem. He hadn't used it in months and there it was, risen anew, like a body in a flooded grave.

While he went through the motions of chewing, she bored him with details of her three offspring. He smiled politely.

Over Lady Eads’ shoulder he caught Ava looking at him, a tiny scowl motionless on her brow.

It pleased him to see that bit of annoyance. Tit for tat.

A corner of his mouth barely lifted. Her scowl deepened.

Lord Rensleigh, seated two places to Ava's right leaned forward to catch her attention, noticed it was on Deran, and threw his own scowl.

Deran raised his wine glass, now doubly pleased. The evening might prove salvageable and mildly entertaining after all.

Chapter Seventeen

He survived the Sweetbread Au Jus, and another tedious account of Lady Eads’ exuberant cherubs. As a third glass of claret was poured, he caught Ava's eye as she raised her glass. She smiled sweetly, sipped slowly. The memory of her in his library, mutely asking for a glass of gin, blinked in his head. He briefly wondered about the wine's affect on her.

When the Pigs Feet à la Béchamel surreptitiously appeared, Deran's stomach rolled. He finished his glass of wine and resisted the urge to glance at his watch.

“Lord Viller,” someone called from the far end of the table. “It has come to my attention that you have a strong opinion about John Marshall, sir."

Lord Samuel Viller turned to the person who had addressed him.

“Marshall? Why yes, baroness, I do. I regret to say I've not seen you at any of the assemblies."

Lady Olmec smiled prettily, adding to her allure. She was an attractive middle-aged woman with a full, shapely figure, exotic dark gray eyes and thick brown hair with a dusting of gray. She'd been named in numerous scandals since the death of her husband two years earlier. Deran could have been one of them if he'd accepted an enticing offer of a weekend in the country. That he'd been unable to accept was both a blessing and a regret.

“I haven't attended them,” she replied politely. “My information comes from one of your limited captive listeners.” Her eyes gleamed. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but am I to understand that you are opposed to the school Mr. Marshall wishes to build?"

Deran doubted Viller detected the subtle denigration in her tone. Lady Olmec was a woman of singular thought, believing women and children should have equal rights to men and all children should have the benefit of a state education. She was snubbed by a great many women of status for that alone, but seemed not in the least affronted. How like the duchess to invite her. It was her way of stating she gave no credence to what was said of Lady Olmec, and even if she did, she would have her at her table if for no other reason than to stir the pot.

Viller cleared his throat and dabbed at his thin mouth with his napkin. “You are not in error, madam. I am opposed to Marshall's proposition to send children from the mills to day schools. Preposterous notion. The cost to the mill owner for the children's upkeep would be exorbitant. The mills will take a beating if education of laborers is encouraged,” he assured. “Only recently have we seen a resurgence of better exportation and farm productivity, but our food prices remain steep due to corn laws designed to benefit landholders. Why punish the mill and farm owners further by releasing their child workers for half a day to attend school?” His lips curled. “It's not as though they'll have the opportunity to use what they learn, now is it, madam?"

Voices buzzed furiously, tongues tsked. Impartial guests laughed feebly.

Lord Stewart gave a detailed account of a polo game he'd attended and Ava tried to appear attentive.

A bell sounded. “What is this?” the duchess demanded, swinging a hand bell. Her eyes swept over the guests seated furthest from her. “I won't tolerate disturbances at my table."

Viller's smile was oily. “Our apologies, Your Grace. There is no disturbance, only a lively discussion on the subject of education."

“Education? How the devil does one discuss education in a lively manner? And why would you want to?"

Deran glanced at his watch. Good lord. Only half past nine. He'd been ready to leave an hour ago.

Now that Lady Olmec had the duchess’ attention, she seized the moment to champion her cause.

“Mr. John Marshall believes the only way to promote improvement among the rising generation is through education, Your Grace. He has proposed building schools for the children who work in the mills. Using personal funds. I believe it to be extraordinarily forward thinking. Lord Viller disagrees."

Viller turned to the duchess, smugness smeared across his face. “I do indeed, madam. It's a waste of money, time, building supplies and labor to build the schools. The children are there to work, not be taught how to read and write."

A small murmur from his supporters moved him to raise his glass in a mock toast.

“Perhaps you're unaware, Lord Viller,” Lady Olmec said tersely, “that Mr. Courtauld charges a fee for a child to be taken from a workhouse and placed in his mills. And he forces children to sign contracts that bind them to the mill until the age of twenty-one. He and dozens of other large mill owners are purchasing children in large lots, sir, much as the cattle and swine referred to earlier."

“Yes, I am aware of all that,” he said haughtily. “Mind you, these are children who have no future in our city. Children who are without parents or homes. As I see it, madam, we are offering a charitable service, one which they, as well as London's citizens, benefit from."

“Benefit from? Surely your heart is not so black as to mean that, sir. They live in filthy conditions among heaps of debris, refuse and offal. Offal, sir. Butchered animal waste. There are several children to a room with inadequate air and lighting, or food. The conditions are not suitable for the lowliest creature much less a human child. Children die every day as a result of these charitable services."

Too late, Deran realized the impact this particular subject could have on Ava. He wasn't alone in being both fascinated and sickened by the players in this discussion and their opposing beliefs.

An agonizing squeak shot through the drone of resulting conversations. His head turned sharply in Ava's direction. Lord Rensleigh was eyeing her with concern.

“Miss Fychon, are you all right?"

Necks craned and curious eyes peered down the length of the table to where Ava sat. Her head was bowed and cheeks glowed red.

“I'm so sorry. I ... the..."

Deran's pulse stormed his brain, hands fisted as she struggled to gain composure. And then she raised her head and looked at him, the plea for help so plainly etched on her face his heart shifted in his chest. The plea was not for herself, but for her brother and sister.

He swallowed hard and smiled softly. From where he sat he could see tears perched on her lower lids. Every muscle in his body tensed with the desire to go to her, hold her, do what he could to comfort and assure. She raised a hand to her chest and dipped her head ever so slightly in a gesture he'd seen once before. His eyes sent back the message that she was quite welcome.

He looked across to Viller.

“Perhaps you and Lady Olmec could continue your conversation at another time. It is neither the most pleasant nor appropriate dinner topic."

Viller's mouth curved. “And we wouldn't want the guests made uncomfortable."

“No, we would not."

“Especially those not familiar with the ways of London society, from drawing room to dress shop."

Deran narrowed his eyes in warning.

He looked to see how Ava fared. She'd recovered amazingly well from her upset, but he could tell her mind was no longer on the dinner. Her mouth was in a motionless smile, her nods mechanical and posture stiff.

The hand bell rang again and all eyes turned to the duchess.

“Dinner is concluded. We will adjourn to the parlor for a bit of entertainment, one in particular that is sure to please. Desserts will be served immediately after. Robert?"

Lord Rensleigh rushed to her side to assist her from her chair. He escorted both her and Ava from the room.

Deran didn't know how much longer he could tolerate the leech being at Ava's side every moment.

* * * *

Everyone was familiar with the custom of guests with musical aptitude performing at the pianoforte or singing. Occasionally, if a poet was among them, he could be persuaded to recite a line or ten. Such artistic displays occurred with little encouragement from the audience as there was never a lack of guests who felt they possessed talents worthy of display at every gathering.

Lady Millicent Thurgood was playing a frilly number on the pianoforte when Deran ambled into the parlor. He'd wanted to amble out the front door, but wouldn't leave without speaking to Ava. She sat at the front of the room, his aunt and cousin on either side of her like a damn border patrol. His hope of stealing her away during these interludes was not to be realized. He must stay longer.

Lady Thurgood's number concluded and guests looked about, wondering who would perform next. A number of known talents attended, but if Lady Para was selected, Deran would leave. Her voice reminded him of his father's when he'd been into the brandy.

To his surprise and everyone else's, his aunt announced Miss Ava Fychon.

“As you know she comes to us from Wales, a cousin on my husband's side. She has been our guest this last week, but not until yesterday did I hear her sing. I've asked her to sing what she sang for me, as well as a love song. Alas, unless you are versed in the Welsh language you won't understand a word of either, but she will explain their meaning."

Whispered reactions sprouted as the duchess invited Ava forward.

“Lord save us. As if having a dinner for the wench wasn't enough."

“I can't understand what the girl is saying when she speaks, much less if she sings."

“Since when have we been on such friendly terms with Wales? This must be the duke's doing."

Deran set his teeth and resisted banging heads together. His sister tugged on his sleeve and pulled him aside. Draped in gold and ivory and for once, an understated hair ornament, she looked shocked.

“Deran, whatever is going on? Did you know she could sing?"

“Good evening, Madeline. I was wondering if you had stopped speaking to me. Where is your viscount?” His attention on Ava as she moved to the center of the room.

“His father is in London for two days and requested his company."

“So you came alone. If you had informed me, I would have gladly escorted you."

“The visit was unexpected.” She looked to the front of the room. “This feels dangerous somehow. Almost cruel to put her on display. I do not understand Aunt Geneva, Deran."

“You are not alone, Linny. No one does."

“Oh, I do hope—"

He pressed a finger to his lips. Ava was ready.

“The first song is a hymn of gratitude,” she explained, “a favorite of my mother's. The second is an ancient love song about a knight, away at war pining for his ladylove."

Deran noted looks of skepticism and mocking amusement on faces. His nerves felt as if a towrope was being dragged through his stomach. If his aunt's objective was to make Ava the object of further ridicule, he'd never forgive her.

At the first note, all guests ceased to exist for him. Her voice was clear and delicate, not a soaring soprano nor rich alto, but a mellow in between. It was mature, yet somehow childlike. She sang the hymn reverently, with great tenderness. The melody was vaguely familiar to Deran. At its conclusion, Ava closed her eyes and flowed into the love song. Language did not impede its message. Her facial expressions and imploring hands partnered her voice. Her burr was heavy and melodious, more foreign sounding in her native tongue. The sound of it created a fire in him. Deran felt the joy, the parting, the longing and the loss of the two lovers. One note rose high and suspended before trickling down to a low note of despair. Her eyes opened and the pain that filled them was like a fist to his stomach. She pressed her hands to her breast and sang to him, her gaze not straying. She sang to the end this way, the final words, heartbreakingly soft and pleading.

When the last note faded, the silence in the room was immense. Deran swallowed slowly, amazed and somewhat embarrassed at the emotion caught in his throat. And not just a little unsettled at how rigid his body had become.

“My God,” his sister gasped. “I had no idea. Deran, who is this girl you have found?"

“An enchantress,” he murmured, unable to take his eyes off Ava. “A wild-spirited enchantress."

Applause came like a storm, some whistles from gentlemen. Ava dipped a quick curtsey, none too steady, Deran noted, before hurrying back to her seat. The duchess reminded everyone of dessert and cordials. Madeline gave him a quick kiss before joining friends.

Deran ignored the curious gazes as guests filed past him. Ava's attention to him hadn't gone unnoticed and he didn't give a damn. She had sung to him. No one had ever sung to him. It hadn't been his imagination, had it? How her eyes had pierced his, the words directed to him. Whatever was lost in not knowing the lyrics was found in the emotion of how she sang them. The hurt he'd caused her had been forgiven and in that moment of song, there had been more than a showing of forgiveness. Unless the wine he'd had to drink tonight had his brain swimming, he was certain she'd professed affection for him as well as regret. Regret for the affection or regret for something else?

He was impatient to reach her, but the parading guests blocked his way. Rensleigh leaned low while Ava spoke to him. He looked surprised before responding. Ava shook her head quickly and spoke again. Rensleigh considered her words, nodded and pressed a kiss to her hand. Deran's breath stalled, pulse whipped through his veins. Get your bloody hands and mouth off her! He imagined his hands around Rensleigh's throat, squeezing until his eyes rolled toward the heavens.

When Ava's eyes suddenly darted in his direction, he feared he might have cursed aloud. She reclaimed her hand and excused herself.

Deran stood stiffly as she wove through the crowd toward him.

“My lord.” She bobbled at the knees.

“Miss Fychon."

“You look very fine tonight, sir."

“And you, madam, are unrivaled in your magnificence."

She colored and dipped her head. “May I ask you something?” She reached for his arm, tucked her hand beneath it.

Through his coat, his skin lit up from her touch. He rested a hand over hers, felt his heart trip. “Yes. What is it?"

“Must I go back in there? I can't bear to face any more food."

He grinned despite the disappointment of the impersonal question. “The desserts are by far the best course, Miss Fychon. Most of them are even recognizable."

The corner of her mouth tipped up. The sight made his heart lift. He began to move toward the door and saw Rensleigh from the corner of his eye.

“It's not good form to change escorts in the middle of the evening, Miss Fychon,” Deran murmured.

She looked up, surprised. “I can't walk with you? Why not, if you are who I want to walk with?"

“Thank you for the thought, my dear,” he murmured, “but if my aunt chose her son to be your escort, then that is who you must go with."

“But I want to be with—"

“Atherton."

“Rensleigh.” Yes, strangling him would be most gratifying. “She's all yours. At least from here to the dining room.” He peeled Ava's fingers from his arm and bowed slightly. “Miss Fychon. I look forward to speaking with you later.” He ducked out before she could reply and went in search of his aunt. If he didn't leave this place immediately, there would be hell to pay.

Chapter Eighteen

Later never came. The Duke of Barclay arrived and his wife insisted he meet the guest of honor and mingle with the other guests. He took in stride the facts that he'd returned home to a dinner party as well as a houseguest he hadn't known about. After welcoming his uncle, Deran excused himself with the promise to visit tomorrow.

It was after midnight when he arrived home. Too restless to sleep, he reclined in front of the fire in the library with a glass of brandy and reminisced, a newly acquired and frequent activity. First, her surprise at seeing him, then her quiet, stimulating presence at the table. Her songs, how she'd sang to him. His body tightened with want and annoyance flared from not having time alone with her. He should have said something reassuring, in light of the conversation between Lord Viller and Lady Olmec. He wondered at Viller's brittle responses. One particular statement had caught his attention. What was it? Something about the mills. Or the workhouses?

Max would know about that Marshall fellow. He attended the House of Commons meetings more regularly than Deran attended the House of Lords meetings and a subject such as a school for children working at the mills may have come into discussion. Deran smiled into the dying fire. If Marshall had an attractive wife whom Max had met, that might aid his memory about the man.

Attractive wife. What would that be like, to have a wife to come home to, escort to dinners, strain to stay awake next to at the theatre and opera? Deran felt himself pale. Bloody hell where had that come from?

Deran groaned. He'd been doing a lot of that lately. And the muttering had worsened.

Not wanting to tempt further troubling habits, he made his way to his bedchamber with the hope he'd be able to find peace in sleep.

* * * *

His few hours of peace ended abruptly. He'd risen only moments before Bickford was at his door, impeccably dressed as usual.

“Good morning, my lord. I trust you slept well."

“Trust all you want, Bickford,” Deran grumbled. “You would be grossly mistaken. What has you here so early?"

“Mr. DiSanto, sir. He's in the library."

Deran whirled around and immediately wished he hadn't. The wine or maybe it was the brandy, sloshed against the left side of his brain. He groaned and pressed a palm to his forehead.

“Max is here?"

“Yes, sir. In the library.” Bickford watched the earl's aimless movements inside the dressing chamber. “May I help you locate something, sir?"

Deran shook his head and held his hands to either side as if that would keep it attached to his neck. “No, everything is fine."

A gray brow twitched. “Very well, sir. Shall I ask Mr. DiSanto to join you for breakfast?"

Breakfast. The thought of food brought on another groan. “Yes, but only coffee for me, Bickford. A great deal of the stuff."

“Very good, sir. If there is nothing else..."

Deran shook his head and winced. No more head shaking. Too painful.

Bickford bowed out and closed the door softly behind him.

* * * *

Max was at the dining table when Deran came downstairs. He blanched at the sight of the food and promptly moved to the farthest end of the table. He lowered stiffly into the chair and sighed.

Max waited until Deran had tasted his coffee before speaking. “I thought you were going to your aunt's dinner party last night,” he stated.

“I did.” He took another swallow. The head pain eased slightly.

“And the club afterward?"

“No.” He took another swallow, felt the head pain ease slightly.

“I gather the party was not a success."

Deran narrowed his eyes. “Why do you say that?"

“You look worn, washed and rung out, my friend. Is your household without hot water this morning?"

Deran frowned. “Not to my knowledge. Why did you—” A brow lifted and a hand went to his chin. “Bloody hell."

“Beards are all the vogue in France, I hear,” Max observed wryly.

“Are you here at this early hour to humor me or to point out my grooming faux pas?"

“Oh, to humor you, naturally."

“You're doing a poor job of it,” Deran muttered.

A grin spread across Max's face. “I'm here with some information, but first I must hear about the party. How did Polite Society accept Miss Fychon?"

“Politely. Too politely.” Deran finished his coffee and immediately poured more. “Meaning it did not.” He recounted the evening, omitting the personal effect of Ava's singing.

“It doesn't really matter if London accepts her into its fickle arms, does it?” Max moved his plate off to the side. “Being she doesn't intend to stay here."

Deran gave him a sharp look. “What do you mean?"

“This isn't her home. She will return to Wales eventually. She must miss it."

He hadn't thought of that. Not recently. Not since he'd considered sending her back for her own safety, and to relieve himself of his self-imposed responsibility. But he hadn't given thought to her wanting to go back. Wanting to live in a home other than his aunt's yes, but not—

“There is nothing there for her to miss,” he stated firmly. “She has no parents, doesn't know where the rest of her family is and has no home to return to. Her uncle took that from her. From all of them."

“Nevertheless, Wales is still what she knows. It's nothing like London, particularly where she's from. She's accustomed to small townships, miles of space, the mountains and the sea. Not a city crammed with people, noise and putrid air. She's a country lass, my friend, not a city dweller."

Deran considered this.

Max noted the solemn expression on Deran's face. After more than twenty years of friendship he knew this man nearly as well as himself. The thought of Miss Fychon leaving disturbed him. Extremely. What Max had suspected a few days ago had been confirmed, whether Lord Atherton knew it, or would admit it, or not. The woman, the lady had entered his heart.

Nothing could come of it, of course. An earl couldn't consider a life with a commoner. Even taking her as mistress would be unwise, for both him and his family's reputation.

“Yes, well, humoring you was not my purpose for calling this morning."

“Your household is out of eggs?"

“No. Muffins."

Deran grinned slightly. “So, tell me, Max. What is this information you have?"

“After Stevens left the Cavendish, he boarded the ten o'clock coach to Leicester."

“Leicester. A long journey by coach. Someone met him enroute no doubt."

“That would be my guess, yes."

“Mr. P."

Max nodded grimly.

“We need to find out who these men are, their names and connections. How I'd love to get my hands on them. Speaking of getting my hands on someone, what do you know about Lord Viller?"

“Viller?” Max reached for his coffee. “Not much. Why?"

“He was there last night and became engaged in a heated debate with Lady Olmec about educating children who work in the mills. His view on the subject has bothered me since."

Max kept his eyes lowered as he drank. “It was daring of him to enter into a debate with Lady Olmec. Everyone knows her penchant for taking on causes thought to be futile. She is a self-appointed spokeswoman for the victims of injustice and maltreatment."

“You admire her."

“I do.” Max glanced at him, then looked away. “It is a brave person who speaks up against the dictates of government and societal apathy. Even more so if that person is a woman."

Deran let the comment sit, aware of a stir in the air he couldn't label. “She spoke strongly in favor of schools being proposed by a John Marshall."

Max nodded. “A mill owner with a social conscience. He has persuaded other owners in Holbeck to build a school in the area and has proposed others."

“A generous man. Education is freedom. The children will learn of life and want more for themselves."

They pondered the concept.

“And what of Viller?” Deran asked. “You said you know something about him."

“I do.” Max set his cup down carefully. “But it's best I keep it to myself."

“A client's confidence?"

Max shook his head, but offered no explanation.

Nondisclosure for the sake of a client was necessary and honorable, but Deran suspected Max's silence a product of something else. Fear? Fear of what? His reaction to the information? No. Nothing Max said or did would cause Deran to do him harm. To protect Viller? Deran's frown deepened. At the last assembly of the House of Lords, Viller had spoken, ranted was more like it, Deran now recalled. He'd tuned him out, but he remembered the scene. Viller had gone on about something. It wasn't that long ago, surely his memory wasn't so—

Deran went very still. A charitable service they benefit from. Viller's words in defense of purchasing children. He remembered what he had said. How he had said it.

“He's one of them,” he said softly. “One of the men you said would surprise me. Whose fortune arose from the slave trade."

“Mere speculation, Atherton."

“No, I don't think so. He is one of them, isn't he?"

“Yes, he is. But his involvement is limited."

Deran emitted a dry laugh. “Limited. Explain that."

“He's not the one who does the original, uh, purchasing.” Max sighed heavily. “What a miserable topic. This isn't what I wanted to talk about. Can we not—"

Deran gripped the arms of his chair. “Explain it to me, DiSanto, or so help me God I will find the man within the hour and make him explain it."

“And you think your threats will matter to either one of us?” Max said evenly.

Deran leveled his gaze, his eyes, brown steel. He breathed deep and slumped in his chair. “No. Sorry. I'm not feeling quite myself this morning."

“Really? Thank you for bringing that to my attention.” His mockery lightened the mood slightly. “I don't know the details of Viller's involvement, only that he provides suitable candidates to the mills from workhouses and orphanages. My guess is he has a business alliance with the mill owners."

“Perhaps he is part owner of one."

“I wouldn't know."

“How have you come by this information?"

Max studied his coffee cup. “A year ago a couple came to my office seeking advice. After listening to their story, I told them a solicitor's services was not what they needed and referred them to a private inquirer. Lord Viller's name was disclosed as a result of those inquiries."

“What did they want to know that required a private inquirer?"

“They wanted to find children, the man's sister's children, actually. It's a long story."

Deran sat forward and placed his elbows on the chair arms. “I'd like to hear it."

The sound of a carriage drew his attention to the window.

“What the devil is she doing here?"

“Who?” Max leaned to one side to see past the drape.

“Where is he?” an angry female voice blasted from the hallway. Bickford's steady voice could hardly be heard.

Max looked quizzical. “Your aunt?"

“None other.” Deran stood. The duchess appeared in an eddy of puce muslin, her face a shade darker than her dress.

“I know she's here, Deran. Fetch her. Immediately."

“What the devil are you talking about, madam?"

“Do not dare speak to me in that tone, sir. I am in no mood for your insolence.” Her eyes darted to Max, who'd risen when she entered.

“Your Grace."

“Mr. DiSanto. I suppose you're in on this, too."

“Madam?"

“The two of you have always been a devious, scheming pair, thinking yourselves far too clever for your own good. Well this time you have gone too far."

“Aunt Geneva,” Deran said as calmly as he could considering his headache threatened to sever his skull. “I don't know what you think I,” he glanced at Max, “we have done, but—"

“She's missing and I know she is here. So stop playing your droll games and send her down immediately or I shall search for her myself."

The tambour keeping time in his head froze in mid beat and his breath would not rise from his chest.

“You don't mean—"

“Yes, I do mean. Miss Fychon is gone."

* * * *

Thirty minutes later they were at Culver Hall, a small fitful group pacing and stewing in the parlor. The marquess, Jessup, Meg and the housekeeper. The duke relaxed against the fireplace mantel, resigned to hearing his wife rage for the second time this morning.

“She's been abducted, I tell you. You saw the condition of her room, Renard. Sheets heaped on the floor, as though she were wrenched from the bed. She took no clothing save one day dress and a cloak."

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” Meg stammered, “but the bedclothes ... she slept there,” she blurted. “On the floor. Pulled the sheets off every night and put them back on the bed every morning."

“Good to know your furnishings are not to her liking either,” Deran muttered.

The duchess shook her head in amazement. “She is odder than I realized.” She turned to Deran. “Had she left on her own volition she would have come to you, Deran."

“Not necessarily,” he muttered. “I haven't been in her good favor of late and if she intended to quit London, which in all likelihood she has, she would not have come to me first. She knows I wouldn't have allowed her to leave."

The duchess’ brows rose. “Is that a fact?"

“Yes, madam, it is.” Deran suddenly realized how his words must have sounded. That he would not have let her go because he didn't want her to leave him. Not entirely what he meant, he quickly rephrased.

“I would not have allowed her to leave until I helped her locate the people she came here to find. I gave my word that I would help."

“As did I,” DiSanto chimed in.

The duchess turned to Max. “I knew you were involved in this.” She sank onto a divan, fanned her face with her hand.

“Now, now, my dear,” His Grace said soothingly. “We will sort this out. Let us start with what we know."

“We need to send someone to look for her, Renard, not waste time asking questions."

“They would be asked by any authority we sent in search of her, so we need to ask them of ourselves. When was she seen last?"

And so the questions began. Meg saw her last, at two this morning in Ava's room.

“She was tired. Said not to bother helping her, like always. She didn't like me helping her dress. Not since I saw...” She lowered her eyes. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace. T'wasn't important."

The duke looked puzzled but went on. “Where would she have gone? I gather she knows no one here."

They all agreed she knew no one but Deran. And his sister.

“Jessup, a footman to Lady Charnock's at once,” the duchess demanded. “The rest of you may go.” The servants hurried from the room.

“I don't think that's necessary, Aunt,” Deran said, tired of the speculation. “Miss Fychon would not have gone to Madeline's. She has left London, I am sure of it."

“But to where? And how? And with what? She has no money."

The groan came from beside the door. They all looked at Rensleigh who looked worse than Deran felt. As if he hadn't found his way to bed last night.

“What is it, son?” the duke asked. “Are you ill?"

Robert shook his head and visibly winced. Deran empathized. His headache had eased little. On closer scrutiny, Rensleigh seemed in a different kind of pain.

“She asked for money.” He kept his head lowered. “Asked if I might lend her some. For her family, she said. Not much, only a pound.” He raised his head, bleary eyes on his mother. “I thought it strange, to ask for so little, but then thought they probably live simply and a pound would seem a great deal. So I agreed. Meet me in the kitchen garden after everyone has gone to bed, she said. I thought it an odd place to meet but...” He looked away. “I thought maybe—"

“That she asked you there for a tryst,” Deran finished. “The request for money was a ruse."

Robert nodded miserably. “But her dress was ... plain and she wore a cloak, her head was covered. Nothing to indicate she wanted to ... she looked very serious. I thought she was playing a role, was hoping I would ... that I might—"

“Seduce her,” Deran said coldly.

His aunt gasped.

Robert whipped a stormy look at Deran.

“Yes, damn you. Is that so difficult to imagine? That she might want me and not you?"

“Damnation,” the duke uttered.

It was not only difficult to imagine, but also improbable and profoundly infuriating. Deran spoke calmly.

“Miss Fychon's desires are not what we are discussing and never will. What happened when you met her?"

Robert sat slowly. “She was anxious, in a rush. If she was sending money to family, why the urgency? Dressed as she was it looked as though she planned to deliver it herself rather than send it. I tried to get her to talk, but she wouldn't. In fact the more I spoke, the more agitated she became. She was bursting with life, her face sparked with it, more than what we witnessed at the modiste's, if you can imagine that. I have never seen anything like it and I must admit it was, she was—” He closed his eyes and his cheeks reddened. “I was quite overwhelmed."

Deran's angry heat threatened to torch the room. He knew where this was going and he wouldn't survive hearing the confession.

“You bastard. What did you do to her?"

“Deran,” his aunt said, shocked, “How dare you infer my son would compromise her in any way. Never would he—"

A cracked laugh rose from Robert's throat. “I never would simply because she never would.” He glared at Deran, his blue eyes streaked with red. “She was desperate to leave. I tried to calm her, tried to hold her, even tried to distract her with a kiss. On her cheek,” he added hastily. “But before I knew what was happening, she set an elbow hard to my ribs and a very insistent knee between my—” He broke off and gave his mother an apologetic look and avoided looking at his father altogether.

Max covered his mouth to restrain a laugh, the duchess’ mouth dropped open, the duke narrowed his eyes, and Deran envisioned tossing the mongrel through a window. He moved to Rensleigh, stopping only inches from his feet.

“You're lucky there wasn't a wooden bucket on hand,” he rumbled. “She could have made short work of you with that. When did you meet her?"

“Shortly before three."

“And she left immediately after she immobilized you?"

Robert paled. “Yes."

“She's been gone six hours. If on foot, she can't have gone far. Did you give her the money?"

Robert shook his head.

“Very well. I'll assume she's on foot. If you'll excuse me madam. Sir.” He made a bow to his relatives.

“Where will you look, Deran?” his aunt called out.

“North,” he said without looking back.

Max bowed hastily and followed him out. “North? Can you be more specific? North is a lot of land.” He trotted to keep up.

“I'm aware of that, thank you. We'll make a stop before leaving. That is,” he whirled around, “if you're with me on this. Two sets of eyes and all that."

Max grinned. “Aye, aye, Captain, wouldn't miss this one for all of France's best brandy."

Chapter Nineteen

Ava cursed loudly, welcoming the stream of Welsh words. More rain. Did it never stop? Rain began an hour into her journey, quickly ruining her satin slippers. She'd stayed on side streets as she raced north out of the city. At the railroad, a tired looking couple with two children had let her ride in the back of their cart until they'd turned east for Harlow. She was grateful for the hour's rest and had been walking since, keeping to the fields. The roads were lightly traveled, only a few carts and one single rider had passed during the night. But with daylight, what little this dreary sky provided, had come more activity. Carts and carriages rumbled past. She was alert to every sound, dropping to her knees behind tall grasses whenever a carriage or horse drew close. She needed to find a less busy route, but this road was straight and wide. If she left it, she feared losing her sense of direction.

She didn't know how much farther she could go today. Her legs were heavy, feet two numb planks stuck to the bottom of them. Her mouth had lost moisture hours ago and she'd given up trying to stay warm. Hunger was the least of her discomforts, fatigue her greatest worry. At the next farm she'd rest. Her heart wanted to hurry to reach her destination, but her mind coaxed her to preserve energy.

There was no sadness at leaving London, with its infernal sounds and air so thick it could be snatched up by the handfuls. No, she was grateful to have left that behind, but pain as weighty as a bag of stones rested in her heart knowing she wouldn't see Lord Atherton again. It shouldn't matter, she thought as she sidestepped a mound of stone. He can be nothing to me. My feelings for him can be no more than food for my heart, impossible to share, absurd to hope they would be returned.

She didn't belong in his world, he wouldn't want to live in hers.

He'd be glad to be rid of her. That thought brought tears and those brought on a fresh string of curses. Crying over a man she'd once wished dark ills. The same one who'd touched her like no one ever had, a man who'd awakened her body when she hadn't known it had been asleep. Ie, that man she dropped tears for. She'd be very glad when she could rest and regain sure-footedness and endurance. For her body as well as her heart.

She crested a slope as steep as one of Snowdonia's peaks, and let out a gusty sigh of relief at the sight of a cluster of buildings on the next rise. A small farm, or outbuildings. A place to find cover and regain strength. Hopefully, she'd find water. Stupid of her to leave the manor without at least a flask of water or ale. Food would be welcome, ie, but water would be a gift from God.

So intent was she on reaching the buildings, she didn't see the large stone concealed behind a clump of bushes until her shin met it full force.

"Cyfrgoolli!" she yelped as she pitched forward. Raw pain spread to her knee. She rolled to her side to inspect her leg. Not too bad. Blood trickled from a jagged cut and the skin had already swelled. Using the damp hem of her dress, she dabbed the blood and then dropped back onto the wet ground and tried to forget the pain and her weariness. It was quiet here. Other than the distant lowing of cattle, no other sounds. The road wasn't visible from this low position, obscured by tall, wet grasses. The air was a cool mist, the sun blocked by low clouds. It was peaceful. Too peaceful.

She pushed up onto an elbow, shook the thickness from her head and glanced back over her shoulder. The buildings seemed farther away than they had been a moment ago. Maybe she should wait until dark. She couldn't risk being seen in case someone had come after her and asked questions along the way. No. It would be better to stay here and rest. For a short while.

She lay down on her side, one hand beneath her cheek, pulled the cloak around her. The damp wool made her shiver, but a small comfort anyway.

“I'm coming,” she promised her brother and sister. “I haven't forgotten you."

* * * *

They opted for horses and rode two hours before stopping to rest. Deran tried not to feel discouraged by having gone this far with no sign of her, nor passing anyone who'd seen a lone female walking. A hollowness set in as he worried they weren't on the correct road.

The bay's tendons quivered beneath his palms as he patted his strong hindquarters. Stop it. It's too soon to feel this loss. She has not gone far. But the further they rode from London, the harder he had to work to maintain hope.

“We just haven't gone far enough,” he said to Max. “She has several hours on us, horseback or no. We'll find her."

“Yes, and then what?"

“We take her back and continue to help find her brother and sister, as promised. Viller was some help there."

“You make it sound easy. It won't be, you know.” Max dismounted and stretched.

Deran tightened the saddle girth. “I know finding them, with all the mills in this country, will not be easy, but we have made a start. Ava's-Miss Fychon's-damn runaway act only slows down the search. There were two to find, now three.” He tugged on the bridle too firmly and the horse jerked its head back angrily in response. Deran patted its neck in apology and remounted. “Although I must admit I'm not convinced we are on the right course. It feels ... it doesn't feel as though we're getting any closer to her.” He smiled slightly. “Don't mind me, DiSanto. I'm not making much sense."

Max nodded understandingly, the sound of longing and worry in Deran's voice not escaping him.

“Which way should we be going, then?” Max asked, resettling in his saddle. “According to your aunt's servants, Miss Fychon asked questions about the mills and workhouses. From what they told her, we're headed in the direction she would have thought to go."

“But according to Viller, her brother is likely to be in Braintree. If she knew about the workhouse there and how near it is to London, she might have chosen that road."

They guided the horses back onto the road. “Do you want to split up? I take the road to Braintree, you continue on to Northampton?"

“I thought of that,” Deran replied leading his bay into a canter, “but if one of us found her, how would the other know? We'd need to agree on how long we traveled and then meet at a designated location. We might want to consider it, if we don't find her today, but for now let's stay together. I'll ride just ahead of you. We still have a few hours of daylight. If we go another two hours. that would be four on horseback to her seven hours on foot. She couldn't have gone further than we would have ridden."

If she were walking, he thought, as he urged the horse to speed up. If she'd hailed a wagon, a horseman, or God forbid, jumped onto a passing carriage, his calculations would be considerably off. As determined as she was, she'd use any means to gain passage to the north. Her persistence in finding her family was damn annoying. Admirable, but annoying. He understood it, though. Hadn't he done the same when his brother disappeared and was presumed dead? Had he not nearly driven his mother and father to the edge of sanity with his relentless pursuit of the truth? Yes, he knew well what it was like to be consumed by a quest for answers when that quest was for people you loved. Ava's belief that her kin were alive wouldn't allow her to stop until she found them or had proof they no longer lived.

He prayed that would not be the result of her search. He knew too well the pain that came with such a discovery.

She dreamed of the sea again. The sky blue white, the surf a brilliant mirror of deep green. The coarse sand warm between her toes. A burst of salt spray sprinkled her face and she turned to laugh up at him. He smiled, a smile that reached his dark brown eyes, lit up his tanned face. The bronze patch of skin that showed above his open shirt drew her attention. What does the dark hair that peeked over it feel like? She raised a shy hand and reached for it. A breaking wave swirled around her ankles to her knees, its power moving the earth and filling her ears with thunder. No clouds, but the thunder clearly...

Thunder. Ava jerked awake. Dear God, no. Not a storm. It was raining, but it was the soft rain that had been falling for hours, no heavy storm clouds. But she swore she'd heard thunder. She sat up, blinked hard. The dream. There must have been a storm in the distance and- There it was again. Thunder, behind her and low to the ground. Terror iced through her. Not thunder—a horse.

The fog lay in strips above the road, partially obscuring horse and rider. She could see the horse's pale legs and rider's torso, enough to set her heart racing. She moved further from the road, rolled into a crouched position. Pain as sharp as a spear gripped her right ankle.

Muttering a curse, she dropped to her knees. She lifted her skirt and groaned at the swollen ankle. She must have twisted it when she collided with the boulder. Another thing to endure. Crawling wouldn't get her far. Bracing for the pain, she rose again into a crouch and moved away from the road. She hadn't gone but a few meters before the horse and rider passed behind her. She lowered and limped further into the field, careful to stay below the high grasses.

The fog grew thicker, obscuring the buildings where she'd planned to rest. Visibility extended to her outstretched hand. If she kept moving in this direction, she'd lose her way. Panic plucked at her heart and despair crept into her soul. She had to turn back. Without the road she was traveling blind and would end up walking in circles, if she hadn't already.

At least with the fog I can't be seen. She straightened and retraced her steps. I'll pass the farm, walk until dark and find another.

More riders sounded from her right. One or two? One. Was it slowing down? She dropped to her knees and held her breath. Dim. T'was my imagination. Only a trick the ears play on you.

Staying low, she continued toward the road. Her sense of direction hadn't left her—the edge of the road suddenly came into sight and she breathed easier.

Turning toward the farm, she'd taken only one step when she heard another horse. She cursed the busy roadway and backed up.

No. More than one horse and she was too near the road.

She spun around and ran back into the field, trying to bear as much weight onto the uninjured leg as possible. The horses pounded closer. Too close. Myn Duw, they're here, in the field! Her heart banged in her chest, hot tears of panic and pain seeped from her tired eyes as she thrust forward into the field of fog.

The thundering hooves surrounded her, the heavy snorting of the beasts more fierce than a thousand storied dragons. She screamed as the animals’ heat closed in. Terrified of being trampled, she fell to her hands and knees.

“Ava,” a voice said calmly. “Get up from there."

No! This couldn't be! He had come after her. He had found her? How was that possible? How could he have known where she was?

She sat down hard and looked up into Lord Atherton's stern face. This wasn't real. No, no this could not be happening. But his friend, she didn't know his name, he was here too. Dearest saints in heaven, she was trapped.

Not a situation that brought out her better nature.

Anger blistered through her and a low growl grew into an ear-splitting shriek of refusal. She struggled to her feet, and ignoring the sheet of pain that cloaked her calf, turned and staggered forward.

An arm wrapped around her waist and hoisted her off the ground.

“Wrong direction, Miss Fychon,” he breathed into her ear. “My horse is this way.” He walked ahead, dangling her at his hip.

“No!” She screamed, her body shaking with fury, fists flailing at whatever they could reach. “How dare you! Put me down. I won't go with you. You cannot make me. You are not my guardian, or relative or, or anything. You have no right to say where or when I may go."

Max watched the scene from a few feet away. He cleared his throat. “She has a point there, Atherton."

Deran narrowed his eyes. “She's coming with me."

Ava shook her head violently and thrust an elbow into a solid stomach. “How did you-put me down. I have to find them, please, I don't have much time, you don't understand...” Her voice broke on the last words.

“You are wet. Wet, dirty, injured and your skin is ice.” His patience had been tested to its fullest. He thrust her writhing form at Max. “Hold her as tight as necessary. She's more slippery than an oiled snake.” He mounted his horse and motioned for Max to hand her up. He lifted her easily and Deran plunked her sideways in front of him.

She jerked away and would have leapt from the horse if he hadn't clamped an arm around her waist.

“Be still, madam or you will upset my horse. Not something you want to do right now being that my temper is becoming more difficult to keep in check with each passing second.” He reined the horse toward the road.

“Deran,” Max called up to him, “we should see to her ... whatever is hurting. It could be serious."

Deran glanced down. Muddy, bare feet stuck out beneath her sodden dress.

“Yes. Check her ankles. The right one. She seemed to be favoring her left."

“She'll likely kick me in the teeth if I touch her."

“Not if she knows what's best for her. It's not as if we can shoot her like a lame horse."

Ava gasped. “You bastard. I hate you, you, asyn!” She planted a palm against his chest and shoved. His arm claiming her waist tightened.

“I've warned you once to be still, Miss Fychon. My patience has a limit and you have now found it.” He nodded down to Max. “The ankle, and be quick about it."

Max shook his head at both his friend's brusqueness and his own wisdom at doing his bidding. But he carefully picked the dress away from the ankle and raised it to mid-calf. The ankle bones had disappeared beneath the swelling and the cut in the shin was puffy and reddened. He looked up at Deran for instruction.

Both injuries were surely painful but not life-threatening. Jostling against his horse's flank would increase the pain, but little could be done about that. A vision of sinewy legs stretched out on a carriage cushion suddenly flashed in Deran's mind, a vision that had come to him many times since that day. Just that swath of skin, from the knees down.

Staring down at the slender calf, he barely resisted the urge to run his hands down its length. Instead, he tore a long strip from her cloak and handed it to Max.

“This will have to do for now. Not too tight."

Max fashioned a bandage around the ankle and foot. Deran nodded approval and with an arm still clamped around her, once again directed the horse to the road.

“We have a two-hour ride. I suggest you hold on."

The horse's sudden gallop gave her no time to balance herself and she slammed against his chest. The hard muscle flexed in rhythm to the horse's movement, the arm did not relax. Her defeat felt like death. Anguish flooded her veins and rose up in a torrent of tears.

She cried and bounced against his unyielding chest, vaguely aware of the heat from his body and how hers shivered against it. When her tears abated, her shoulders slumped. A long shudder rippled through her before she stilled.

Deran wrapped his coat tighter around her when he felt a chill shake her. He looked down at her bobbing head.

“Lean against me, Ava.” When she didn't comply, he pressed her head against his chest, setting it to just below his chin. Odors of dirt, wet wool and sour grasses reached his nostrils. Lord, what a mess. But she was safe. Angry and dejected, but safe. And with him.

They rode in silence and she finally relaxed against him. Peering down at her closed eyes, he smiled grimly. How anyone could sleep atop a galloping horse was a wonder. But virtually everything the woman did was a wonder. To get as far on foot as she had was impressive. To fight him off had been bold. He'd almost been sorry to restrain all that courageous spirit, but not sorry enough to release her. And her audible distress had shaken him. He'd thought himself immune to sobbing females, but the depths to which she'd cried stabbed at his heart.

Possessiveness flared and he held her closer. She could not come to harm. She was too important, too necessary. It piqued his anger, the way she'd become important to him. Did she feel anything for him? He didn't know what to call how he felt, but it was more than he had for any other woman. That alone was significant.

* * * *

They arrived at Bedford Square as dusk settled in. Bickford opened the front door. Stepping aside, he lowered his eyes to the wet bundle in his lordship's arms.

“Not the river again, sir."

Deran growled and moved past him toward the parlor.

“I'll fetch towels."

“A great many, Bickford,” Deran barked. “And tea. Tell Mrs. Larue we need baths prepared and tell Miss whatever her name is to see me. She'll be attending to Miss Fychon."

“Yes, sir, at once.” He turned away to roust the staff. “Fleck will see to the horses."

Deran needed to send a note to his aunt and uncle telling them he'd found Miss Fychon.

The parlor was warm from a newly lit fire, as if his arrival had been anticipated. Bickford. His instincts were indeed ghostly, but very much welcomed this night. He crossed the room to the hearth and looked down at Ava. She'd woken long ago, but had remained silent. Unusual and disturbing. He supposed he should be grateful for the quiet, but instead he felt a wary sadness. Her face was expressionless. Cheeks pink from the cold air, mouth pale, eyes blank. One would never know by looking at her she'd been saved from pursuing an inane quest that would only have left her lost and likely dead.

Gratitude, however, did not seem to be forthcoming anytime soon.

“I'm going to set you down, Ava, lean against me.” Lowering her, he kept an arm at her waist for support, but she limped away.

The pulse in his head beat harder.

“Since you're not speaking to me, this will go much easier. A maid will see to your bath and dry clothing. Tea will be here shortly and we'll have an early dinner. If you have any questions, ask the woman.” He spun away sharply.

“Water is all I want."

He stopped short and looked back at her. “Water? Nothing more?” She shook her head. “Very well. That's easy enough to accommodate. Rest well, Miss Fychon.” He left without saying what he truly wanted to say.

Max waited in the library, pacing in front of another newly lit fire, a glass of brandy in hand. Deran poured one himself and leaned alongside the hearth.

“Thank you, DiSanto. Without you I wouldn't have found her."

Max gave him a measured look. This morning's beard had darkened, giving him a pirate's countenance, but a closer look showed weary melancholy.

Max shook his head and spoke softly. “Yes, you would have. You wouldn't have stopped until you had."

Deran's eyes flickered. “You're probably right. She is the most frustrating, hard-headed, damned difficult female I've ever encountered. I don't know what it is about her, but—” He shook his head and took a long swallow.

“You're besotted, my friend. You might as well accept it. It will be less painful for you in the end."

“What the devil are you talking about?"

“Love, Atherton. Never thought I'd see it take you down, but then I never thought it would me either.” He smiled sadly. “But look what happened.” He gave a little salute and turned to leave. “Do you still plan to go to the country?"

Deran didn't hear him, so lost was he in Max's pronouncement. Max repeated his question.

“Yes. Yes, we'll leave day after tomorrow."

“I hope Viller's information will prove useful. Let me know if I can be of further help. I almost wish I were going. The two of you together are vastly entertaining."

Deran muttered something Max couldn't hear clearly. He grinned in response and showed himself out.

Deran stared after him for quite some time.

Besotted?

Chapter Twenty

She didn't join him for dinner or afterward. The bath felt heavenly, but had put her foot to throbbing. Before she could stop her, Beth summoned Mrs. Larue.

“She's better than the doctors at fixing what ails you,” the maid said.

Ava explained to the girl while she flitted around the bedchamber she wanted nothing to do with Mrs. Larue and was fairly certain the feeling was mutual. But Mrs. Larue came and surprisingly said nothing. She dabbed ointment on the shin and wrapped the ankle in a soft lambskin bandage. She ordered her to keep the ankle up and walk on it as little as possible.

When told breakfast would be early in the morning, Ava was stunned. Lord Atherton had said to rest well, but she hadn't expected overnight privileges. She'd assumed she'd be returned to Culver Hall. He'd said nothing about his plans since forcing her to return to London.

The house grew quiet. Beth had said good night hours ago, clocks chimed, footsteps sounded in the hall and on the staircase above the room. Ava believed her mind in danger when the desire to flee and renew her journey hadn't occurred. The strength wasn't in her. Tomorrow. After resting tonight, I will leave tomorrow.

Though exhausted, she couldn't sleep. She sat at the window for hours, her mind churning with questions and fears and no one to talk to.

Her anger with the earl had eased, but she resented his interference. He'd ruined everything, snatched her up like a bale of hay. He had no right to force her to return. He'd had a fit of nobility, blast the man. And, in honesty, concern for her safety. He hadn't known she'd been awake for most of the journey, hadn't known how his cheek against her head, or gentle hand sweeping her hair from her forehead had heated her body and burned her heart. His embrace had been firm, but his touch tender, making her wonder if perhaps he did care for her.

If he did, then after she explained the situation he'd understand how every minute she stayed here brought her closer to losing everything. Everyone. Surely he understood loss, he must have lost someone in his lifetime, someone dear.

Enough thinking. She needed to see him. Talk to him. Maybe he'd hold her like he—

No. Talk would do. The memory of being so close to him today had been an unexpected surprise. Another to add to her memories. She should be happy for that.

Wearing a dressing gown she slipped from her room and crept to the library and study to look for him. Empty, both of them. Gazing up the two flights of stairs, she felt the familiar and welcome sensation of boldness. She'd not let this home or him intimidate her. She'd find his chamber and talk with him. It felt good to have a goal, however small. She needed answers, now. Answers for her sake and her family's. Lord Atherton had those answers.

* * * *

He'd nearly lost her. The peril she'd faced due to her rashness was damn near unforgivable. His fury had lessened, but not his agitation. She'd refused dinner and hadn't left her room. Not trusting himself to keep his anger in check, he hadn't sought her out. The anguish and desperation that saturated his body during the hours of riding were still with him when he finally acknowledged his fatigue and retired to bed.

He hadn't been asleep long when the click of the doorknob woke him. Bickford. She has run. He'd given Bickford instructions to alert the staff that, despite her injuries, there was a good chance she'd try to leave. They were to stop her however necessary. He tensed in preparation for the announcement. But when the door slowly opened he knew it wasn't Bickford. The air changed, as it always did with her presence.

“Sir?"

The softness of her voice drifted over him like a sensual breeze. He laid still, the shock of hearing her voice mixing with anticipation.

“You should not be here, Miss Fychon."

Low and soft, his words were not so much a reprimand as a warning.

“I know. It is horribly improper and forward and I'm sorry for disturbing you, sir, but there is something I must tell you. I have been nothing but trouble to you since you first laid eyes on me, I know, but if you will let me trouble you just once more, I promise to leave you in peace."

* * * *

In peace. When had he last known that? Long before she had slumped onto his carpet like a drowned puppet. Did she mean leave his chamber or leave his home? Neither, if he had any say about it, which he did. How many times had he dreamed of this? Her entering this way or carried in his arms, laid down next to him, so soft, smelling of—

“Sir?” Ava leaned against the doorframe to lessen the pain in her ankle. The walk up the steep flight of stairs had stirred it to a powerful throb.

Tell her to leave. She must go. Now. “Can this not wait until morning, Miss Fychon?” No need to be offensive. He could be detached. Addressing her formally sometimes helped. Not as well or as often as it used to, however, and this time was one of the most violent exceptions. His body had reacted instantly to her lilting voice, the music of it, even when she whispered. Especially when she whispered as luck would have it.

“It has been a long day and I'm tired,” he clarified, although at present he was too damn alert. “Surely you must be. I'm amazed you're still awake.” Idiotic statement. Nothing she did should amaze him anymore. “And you should be resting your ankle,” he said sternly.

There. That should have her marching back to her room.

“I am tired, but ... sir, please, you must return me to your aunt's. Tonight, if possible. I have only ten days left. I began with a fortnight, then that blasted dinner left me with twelve. Now there are only ten and if I'm not at her house when he returns, then I will never see them again. He will kill them. Me too, most likely. Probably so because he promised if I repeated a word of what he said-that I don't know him, was never employed in his household-he would kill them. He said he wants me for himself, but I have to go to a baron. I don't want to go, dim, but if that will keep them safe. Please understand, sir, that is all I was trying to do. Trying to warn them and ... and say goodbye. I would rather take them, I had not figured out how yet, but now that doesn't matter because there isn't enough time. I must get back before he learns I'm gone.” She paused. “Of course, your aunt may have told him by now so I've already caused all of our deaths."

The sudden candlelight made her squint. He was sitting up in bed, bedclothes to his waist, chest bare. Ava blinked once and gaped at what she had very inadequately imagined. Tanned skin, wide shoulders, muscled chest colored with dark hair that trailed down to a lean waist. The candlelight lit only one side of his face giving him an eerie appearance, but she could see it well enough to see the shimmer of anger in his eyes. She shivered and dearly wished she'd walked out the front door when she'd had the chance.

“What in bloody hell are you ranting about? Ten days? Who's going to kill whom? What baron?"

Ie, she'd made a terrible mistake. More than one.

“Ava,” he snapped. “I asked you a question. Several. I expect answers."

“I ... I, the man, Sir—"

“Damnation, woman, I can't hear you when you're mumbling and are backed into the hall. I know you can speak louder than that, so do so and move closer."

Ava shook her head rapidly. “I cannot, sir. You ... this is your bedchamber and you are—” She waved an arm in the air.

“In bed? Yes, that's where all levelheaded people are at this hour, and since you knew you would find me here, you must have deduced I would be in bed. Or had you not thought that far?"

Another headshake.

A corner of his mouth lifted. “A lesson you will do well to remember, my little impetuous one. When you enter a gentleman's bedchamber, no matter the reason, he is apt to have very specific thoughts as to why you came to him."

Ava gasped. “What? You're not implying ... no, I don't want to know. I came here to talk to you. No one else would understand. No one who could help me.” She kept her eyes leveled with his. She'd not be intimidated.

“Very well, although I can't understand a bloody word when your thoughts are running full tilt. Turn.” When she looked puzzled he shot her a wicked grin. “Unless you want to see more of me than you already have."

Ava whirled around and squeezed her eyes closed. She heard the rustle of bedclothes and footsteps and poked her fingers in her ears.

Seconds later he stepped up behind her and peered over her shoulder. “I haven't seen anyone do that since nursery school."

She squealed. “Cyfrgoolli! Don't sneak up on me like that.” She glanced at his black and gold dressing gown, both relieved and a little disappointed to see him covered.

He chuckled. “You'll have to teach me some of those, Ava. Cursing in Welsh could prove an interesting hobby.” He took her hand and led her to a chair in front of the empty hearth.

“Shouldn't we go somewhere else, sir?” Her teeth chattered. She glanced anxiously at the thick cover on his bed and just as quickly looked away.

“Such as?"

“The, uh, library or ... or anywhere."

“You came to me. We will talk here.” Deran noted the tension in her jaw and her shivers. “I don't keep a fire at night.” He gestured to the bed. “You'll be warmer in there.” Why the hell am I being so accommodating? It's the middle of the morning for God sake.

Her mouth fell open in embarrassment. She eyed what had to be a down quilt and thought of its warmth, thought of what it would be like to be in the place he slept. It was a delicious temptation.

“Are you sure it is all right?"

An eyebrow arched. “Of course. This is my room after all."

“Where will you be?"

“Here.” He tapped the chair.

She considered the wisdom of this, her teeth tugging at her lower lip. It would be rude to insist they go elsewhere, he'd offered a practical solution and was being quite tolerant, all things considered. She nodded quickly.

She climbed up the opposite side he'd been on and settled the covers over her. Deran watched as she nearly disappeared beneath their bulk. The image was the same as in his dreams-her in his bed, waiting for him to join her. The ache in his groin increased and again he ordered himself to tell her she must go.

Deran walked around the bed and sat on top of the duvet, legs stretched out, back propped on pillows.

Ava jerked her head up.

“What are you doing?"

He reached across the space between them and pulled her against his side. “Warming you. The last thing you need is to contract pneumonia. It wouldn't surprise me if you did anyway after today's antics."

The harshness only reached his voice. You know what you are doing, don't you? Of course he did. Creating a fraction of his fantasy. Again he rationalized. She'd come to him, didn't balk when he led her into the room, didn't resist when he suggested the bed for warmth and now lay next to him, a tall wall of quilt keeping her safe from any advances. Oh yes, he knew quite well what he was doing.

Listen. He would do nothing more than listen. He recited his words silently, breathed, recited them again.

“Are you comfortable?"

“Yes, thank you, sir."

“And your ankle? Is it raised enough?"

“Yes, thank you. This is a very big bed, isn't it? Very high off the floor."

They must not talk about the bed. Talking while in it was bad enough. He was already achingly aroused. Being next to her would only make things worse. This was proof his mind was beginning to take its leave. Why else would he torture himself this way?

“No ‘sir’ when it is only us, remember? Especially not with you lying—” His hand dug into the mattress. “Never mind. Tell me this tale of yours. And slower please."

Beginning with Sir de la Pontoise's visit, she told him everything about her plan to find her brother and sister, then make it back to Culver Hall in time for his return. She admitted the plan had many defects.

He was a captive listener. Her face and hands punctuated her words so he not only heard her anger, frustration, confusion and despair, he saw it, felt it. It was as though a part of her crossed into him and something of him slid into her. He would be incapable of describing the phenomena any other way. Nothing like it had happened to him before.

“That is why I was on that northern road. To look for them. I realize now, dim, it was an impossible task. But I had to try. And now—” She closed her eyes tightly and burrowed deeper in the bedding.

He looked down at her curled on her side. The ribbon holding her hair back had loosened. Hair fanned over the pillow in a golden stream. His pulse tapped quicker as he fingered a curl. He wanted to bury his hands in it all, wanted to feel it swirling between his fingers. He had touched it when it was wet, had hastily pinned it when it was dry and wanted it spilling over him. Wanted to touch all of her, wanted her weight on top of him, wanted to feel her skin against his. Never had he known such wants or so many.

He'd been right. Inviting her to warm herself had been a stupendously wretched idea.

He pulled his hand back and forced himself to look away which did nothing to douse his desire. He abruptly rose and walked to the foot of the bed.

Ava propped up on an elbow and watched him wide-eyed.

“Sir? Deran? What—"

“You never saw him before, this Pontoise?” He wore his most ponderous look and used his most business-like voice. Pacing made him feel more official.

A tiny frown flickered. “No. I told you before. But he said I belong to him. Maybe he was who sent us here. Maybe he knows my uncle."

Possibly. The information about the ship the Fychon's were on would lead to its owner. Deran expected the ownership would point in Pontoise's direction. Or business partner.

“And this baron?” That bit of information drilled in his head.

“All I know is that he is Swiss and paid a lot of money for me. And is impatient.” Ava shuddered and lowered onto the pillow. “I don't want to live with a Swiss baron, or Sir de la Pontoise. I don't want to be his maid or nanny to his children or his cook or—"

“Filling a position in his household is not why he desires you, Ava. But you will not be going to either of those men.” He whirled to face her. “You do not belong to anyone, do you understand me? You don't know the details behind what has happened to you, but you have been fighting invisible jailers since taken from Wales. Fighting a cruel fate no one should ever have to confront. People are bought and sold, Ava, bartered like cheap trinkets. They are taken to farms to work the land, sent to mills and workhouses, taken into homes as domestics and treated no better than indentured servants.” He stopped at the foot of the bed. “But no one will own you. No one. Not while I still have breath to draw. I will not allow it to happen."

Their eyes held and the space between them clamored to be closed. A thrilling heaviness twined through the air, beckoning them, luring them closer. If he reduced that space, if he touched her, he would not turn back. With a small groan, he forced himself to retreat.

“How? How will you not let it happen?"

She couldn't see the quirk of his mouth. How? she asked. He was notorious for finding people who didn't want to be found. If one thought as a fugitive, one could catch a fugitive. He had done so successfully for years and found all but the one person who had mattered the most.

“You must trust me with this. It simply will not happen.” She would not be content with that explanation, he knew. Before she demanded details he hurried on.

“And we will find your brother and sister.” Moving to the side of the bed, he sat on its edge and told her what he and Max had learned from Lord Viller. She remembered him, the heated conversation between him and a woman at the dinner. Deran explained Viller's business connections with several workhouse and mill owners, how he searched for orphaned children to work for them. He had told Deran of five workhouses whose owners, wanting to broaden their businesses, are taking on as many as ten new children per day.

“My aunt has been informed you are safe and will not be returning to her home. Your belongings will be retrieved—"

“No!” Ava sprang upright, her eyes frantic. “You can't—"

“Tomorrow morning,” he continued as though she hadn't interrupted. “We will leave for Tercy Manor, my family seat in Hampshire, and search for your brother and sister. We will go to those five workhouses and if they are not there, we will go to others. Viller has given us contacts at each place."

This information calmed her some, but she shook her head in disbelief. “Why would he do this? Help you, us, when he puts children in those places?"

Deran's mouth tightened. “Because what he is doing is illegal and has been for nearly twenty years. His seat in the House of Lords, not to mention his name and place in Polite Society and among the peers, would be adversely affected if word got out he was involved in black market slave trading. These are very good reasons for wanting to help us.” The tears that filled her eyes surprised him. “What is this? You cry at good news?"

“I, I can't believe it. That I, that we'll—” She broke off, covered her face with her hands.

Deran looked at her, mystified. Of all the damned things. She should be laughing, smiling at least, not sobbing. It was a mystery, the ways of women.

Her small moan bit through him. He laid a hand on her shoulder as assurance that all would be well. She covered it with her own and raised her eyes to him.

“Please. Would you...” Her hand slid up his arm and tugged gently. “Please. I need ... I don't know what. I need you closer. I shouldn't..."

His finger lowered to her lips. “This,” he murmured, tossing back the quilts and laying alongside her. “You need this.” His arms encircled her and pulled her along his length. “And so do I."

She didn't hold back. Her arms held him as tightly as his did her. Their thin garments shielded only contact of their skin. The low fever that always existed between them flared, the tempo of their breathing increased.

With her, nothing was simple. An embrace would never be just that. His mind tried to cajole him into thinking otherwise, but his body refused to play the game as desire for her rushed in and clouded his reason. He needed to break away before unable to. She was too innocent to know the outcome of such intimacy. In the past she'd followed his lead, wanting more but not knowing what that more was. It was up to him to stave off the want.

Ava sank into his warmth, reveled in his firm hold on her and breathed him in. Never had anything felt so good, so perfect, so assuring. Not when he'd kissed her, or held her in the rain, making her body ache and tingle. It was happening again, that heat between her thighs creating a delicious tension, all from him doing nothing more than holding her. His breath on her hair, heart steady against her cheek and his hardness pressed between them all must be from the same excitement she felt.

“I should not want this, should I?” she murmured.

He tightened his hold and tried to steady the current rushing through his veins. The immense longing for more had his body begging for forbidden release.

“There is no should, dear Ava. It simply is."

“Is it for you also, then?"

He nodded against her hair. “It is."

The quiet was complete, but for their quickened breath and soulful heartbeats.

“May I touch you?” she whispered.

Deran's breath ceased moving. Don't. You know what she is asking. “Touch me?"

She nodded and slid a hand to the spot on his chest where her head had been. “Here. Your skin. I have wondered..."

Relief and disappointment tugged at him. Of course. She wanted to touch what lay beneath her hand, nothing more. She'd wondered. As he had. Only trouble and guilt would come from this. But he'd thought of her this way far too often, had wanted to rouse her body's passions, submit to his own and drench himself in the light and fiery determination that shone from her. He wanted to feast on it all.

He was well acquainted with a woman's seductive techniques. Knew how to encourage them, how to quell them, knew how satisfying they were when performed artfully. But nothing in his experience was as compelling as Ava's unintentional seduction.

Fingers stroked the lapels of his gown, waiting for permission to venture forth. Her self-control was aggravatingly impressive.

But it lapsed.

She pressed her mouth to the base of his throat, the moist touch turning his skin liquid, and arousal greater. His hands slipped into her hair, the silky richness of it more heavenly than he'd dreamed. Tilting her head back he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her softly, lying to himself that this was all he wanted, all he would allow, for her sake. That it was nothing more than part of the soothing he was offering her.

But she had other ideas.

Recalling his prior instructions, she kissed him back with an eagerness that sent a flame through him. Her mouth opened first, tongue timidly touched his, that touch like fuel cast onto a flame. He laid her onto her back, being careful to stay angled away, and kissed her deeply, explored the soft insides of her mouth, persuaded her tongue to play against his. A soft moan fluttered from her when he lowered to her neck and tasted the hollow of her throat, licked the slender collarbone. Fingers touched his hair, shyly at first, then with such depth he grew dizzy. Pleasure vibrated in her throat and filled his ears.

The silky gown had fallen open enough to reveal a narrow strip of skin to her waist. He wanted to rip the robe aside, gaze on every inch of her, possess her with his hands, own her with his mouth, fill her warm depths.

As he'd known it would, desire had risen to treacherous heights. With any other woman he would have blanked his mind and made coupling his sole object and let his body lead him. But she wasn't merely a body to take. He wanted more than the brief respite from his torture that being inside her would give him. He was shaken by how important it was for him to have more meaningful completion with her.

“Ava,” he said, his voice unsteady, “We—” He lowered his head to her chest and gripped her tightly to still her. To anchor him. “We must not do this."

“Not do this?” Her hand swept back his hair. “Why? I don't understand. I did something wrong?"

Hell. His teeth pressed together so hard he thought they might crack. “No. That is why we must stop."

“Because I didn't do something wrong?"

“Yes, because you didn't do something wrong."

“But, Deran, I...” Her hand dropped to his back. “Explain that to me, please."

He moved away, gently and reluctantly closed the front of her robe. “I cannot. It's just the way of it."

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Explain, please."

“Ava,” he said with a patient sigh, “it's not something—"

“Explain it to me."

An eyebrow rose and his mouth twitched. “That sounds familiar."

“It should."

He nodded once. “As I recall you didn't explain yourself very well when I asked you to."

“You demanded it, like I just did, and I did explain it. Better than you have this."

He looked at her thoughtfully. “Yes, you are right, you did. Forgive me, my dear. Your candor is ... sometimes your questions can be quite shocking and not at all—"

“Ladylike. I know."

“And not something we should discuss.” He held up a quelling hand before she could present the argument he knew was coming. “But because it is about us then we should be able to discuss it, I know. Very well. The explanation is thus: you did nothing wrong which in this situation means everything you did felt good, too good. To act upon that would mean to compromise you further, something I've done too many times and am unwilling to do again."

She had expected something more profound, that they had to stop because she'd done something to displease him.

“I don't understand. Everything felt good, but you don't want to feel it anymore."

He closed his eyes. “No. I didn't say I don't want to feel it anymore. I don't want you to feel it anymore.” He shook his head. “Damnation, that's not what I meant. I meant you shouldn't feel it anymore.” He groaned and draped an arm across his eyes.

“It's my body and should be my decision whether I want it compromised, as you put it, or not, and by whom. I'd rather make the choice than have the choice made for me.” She rolled onto her side and placed a hand on his chest, the rapid beat of his heart strong beneath her fingertips. She laid her head on his chest and smiled when his hand gently slipped into her hair. That small touch gave her such peace she thought she could lay like this for hours. They were quiet for some time until Ava spoke.

“If it is because you should be with women of quality breeding, I understand. I will always be a country girl from Wales, nothing more. And if it is because we are from different countries, I understand that too. You have always been a gentleman towards me, even though you have said differently, and I have tested your good manners too often. I have been wrong in that, ie, I have. I have let my heart lead me more than I should have.” The temptation to touch him was tremendous. She plucked up the tie to the robe instead and fingered the smooth satin.

“That's because of what I have learned in the past few months,” she continued quietly. “How one day your life is what it has always been and the next day, or even that same day, it can be washed away like the tide striking a sandcastle. You think about rebuilding that life while you live in the new one knowing it could change as quickly as the other one did. You try not to make mistakes and try not to be afraid. And you don't turn away a pleasure because it might be a long time before there is another.” She rose up on an elbow and looked at him shyly, but directly, her eyes bright. “You were right about me not knowing how to kiss. I have done nothing with any man before you. The pleasures you have given me are in my heart every day and lay next to me at night. They are wondrous gifts. If we cannot want more, or you think we should not want more, then I will accept that. But if you had let the choice be mine, sir, I would have asked for much more. I would have taken every pleasure you offered and given them back with all my heart. I would have gladly chosen you as my first.” She smiled softly and kissed his cheek.

“Good night, my lord. I will be ready to leave when you are."

Chapter Twenty-one

The man whisked off his hat and dropped into his customary chair. He reached for a glass and the bottle of port. His final visit to this London club, he planned to make it a night to remember. Pontoise didn't know it yet, but after tonight he'd no longer have Lord Thomas Stewart III to push around, or tend to one of his harebrained ideas. Ten years of trying to please Pontoise was at an end. His heart hadn't been into the business lately and he no longer needed the money. With the contacts he'd made he could easily make his own mark without the bastard.

Sir Pontoise, indeed, he thought. A purchased title, something anyone could acquire if they had the means. Thomas knew everything about the man, had always made a point of knowing whom he did business with. Nothing was more important than information and what he had on Pontoise would be valuable in the near future.

He checked his watch and glowered. Miserable bastard was late. Thomas had made it clear at the dinner party when and where they'd meet. Two days of travel so he could attend that damn dinner, then this appointment was postponed, and now he waited. To talk about those goddamned Welsh. Relocating the youngest wench was tedious enough but the oldest—

The French should have bloody well set her damn country to blazes when they'd had the chance.

As Thomas raised his glass to finish it off, the man entered the club. His expensive attire belied his financial situation. The moss green frock coat and darker green waistcoat had to have set him back several quid, though Thomas knew the man's wardrobe was bought on the stiff. Gambling was his mistress and her hands had emptied his pockets.

The man had the nerve to look put out as he lowered onto the chair opposite Thomas.

“Why did we have to meet here? It's too public."

“Would Covent Gardens have suited you better, my friend?” Thomas poured more port and splashed some into a second glass. “I hear you're a frequent visitor. Quite the ladies’ choice if one is to believe the tales."

Robert's eyes iced over. “Where and with whom I choose to rendezvous is none of your concern, sir."

“It is if I choose it to be.” He withdrew a thick cigar from his coat pocket. “A man should be aware of what his enemies know about him, Rensleigh. You will gain no more than a toehold in that hole you're trying to climb out of if you don't."

“You are my enemy, then?"

“I'm certainly not your ally.” Thomas clipped the cigar end. “Enough. Tell me what I want to know. What he wants to know, so we can both be done with this infernal nuisance."

Robert watched him light the cigar with a stick from the nearby hearth. He swallowed hard, annoyed that he let Lord Stewart intimidate him. Assuming a casual stance he didn't feel, he crossed one leg over the other, and settled back.

“There's bad and good news. She ran, where to I don't know, but she is back."

Stewart lowered his cigar. Sweat ringed his smooth skull. “What the hell do you mean she ran? Ran where?"

Robert shrugged. “I don't know, but she went by foot, didn't get far and was returned."

“By you?"

“No, not by me. By my cousin, Atherton. Before I could make the offer, he took off after her like a baying hound. My mother didn't even have the decency to suggest I ride along."

Thomas looked at him with renewed repugnance. A filleted fish had more spine. “She knew who could rise to the task, I daresay. Given you couldn't simply keep an eye on the bitch while in your own home, she made a shrewd decision."

Robert's eyes bulged with rage. “My mother knew nothing about that. It wasn't until Pontoise visited I even knew about Miss Fychon. And he, or you, wouldn't have found her if it wasn't for that bloody incident in the dress shop and the story in The Times. And then, at the dinner, you ... inform me I'm to make sure she doesn't leave, by orders of Pontoise. I didn't ask to get involved in this, did I?"

“No, but the rewards are extremely profitable, are they not? You're hardly in the position to decline such a sum. Easy work for a handsome reward. But,” Thomas flicked a smudge off his coat, “you may not even smell it once Pontoise learns this latest."

Robert's face paled. “There's no need to tell him, sir. As I said, she did not get far and has been accounted for. I give you my word nothing like this will happen again."

“Give me your word? Is that something I can rely on, Rensleigh? You best hope so for your own sake or you will be in the same position as the Welsh bitch. He will return in one week's time and expects her to be where he left her."

Robert's gaze darted to the fire. A fine line of sweat trickled past an ear. Thomas leaned forward slowly.

“You haven't told me all of it, have you, Rensleigh?” The man's quaking hands gave him his answer. “She is not at Culver Hall, is she?"

Robert swallowed visibly and shook his head. “No. But she will be back before Pontoise returns."

“Where the hell is she?"

He was trembling now and hated Stewart for it, hated himself for it. Fear of another man was the most pitiable form of self-debasement. Since agreeing two days ago to something that had sounded so simple, Robert had learned of horrific acts this man had performed. Viller had warned him not to make a hash of this, that if he did the consequences would cause him great harm, of a permanent, immobile nature. You are swimming with man-eaters once you agree to be their watchman, he warned. The stories of their cruelty, of their unerring disregard for the beings they marketed, had kept Robert awake these past two nights-horrid dreams of running from an attacker on only one leg, or jerking wildly at the end of a taut noose. If he hadn't needed the money so badly, he would have disappeared.

“She is with Atherton. He thought it best she stay in his household until ... they've left for the country, but as I said, they'll be back before Pontoise returns."

Stewart's face reddened and he held his cigar with his teeth. “The country. What did he do, take her on holiday? And what the hell are you doing here when she is there?"

Conversations around them dwindled to whispers and heads turned in their direction. Stewart shifted to the edge of his chair. “Wherever she is, is where you need to be, you fool. Mr. P. pays his people to anticipate. You should have studied her, Rensleigh, known her state of mind, known her goals. That skill makes one in our business virtually invaluable. You, sir,” he pointed with his cigar, “are not invaluable."

Robert glanced around nervously for a familiar face, should he need help. “I know that. I'm doing my best, sir. I've not done this kind of thing before. I will get better at it."

“Don't ‘get better,’ get it right and do it now.” Stewart snatched up his coat and hat and pushed out of his chair. “You've got one chance to get this right, Rensleigh. I will be watching you."

* * * *

The journey to Tercy Manor would take all day by coach. They'd left London early morning and by dusk, Ava longed for the journey to be over. She thought she'd enjoy it more knowing each mile away from London put her closer to her goal and her family. The trip brought back memories of other lengthy journeys, although rocking around the padded insides of a comfortable coach was an enormous improvement over a splintered cart or a ship's bilge. They drove through green hillsides and vast spaces she longed to run through instead of pass by. But she'd not complain. This trip was because of her and it would hardly be prudent to express displeasure. Not that expressing it would matter a damn to the earl. He'd hardly spoken to her or acknowledged her existence since That Night. She glanced at him now, sitting stiffly in the corner opposite her scowling at the scenery as though he disapproved of the formation of the land. His silence was further evidence he was offended by what she'd said to him two nights ago, or regretted the entire business, or both.

Bickford and the earl took turns sitting atop with the coachman. That is where Ava wanted to sit but the lord had thundered an emphatic ‘no’ when she asked if she might have a turn. When in the coach, Bickford said little. Beth chattered amiably, but although Ava liked her, she wished the girl would curb her thoughts. A headache had bloomed shortly after leaving London and hadn't shown signs of quitting any time soon.

When the earl announced they were a mile from the manor, Ava nearly shrieked with joy. She looked out the window into the orange light, anxious to finally see their destination, the headache magically gone.

She was familiar with castles. Anglesey, Mam Cymru, the Mother of Wales, was the site of many built by England's King Edward I in the late 1200s. With each of his campaigns against the Welsh a castle would be constructed to leave no doubt in the minds of the natives who their new rulers were. Beaumaris Castle was the largest Edward had built and Ava often walked along its high walls when returning home from the seashore. It was the grandest structure she'd ever seen.

Tercy Manor was the second.

It couldn't rival Beaumaris in height, but it did in length. From its center, long wings dipped and climbed in an asymmetrical stairstep pattern. It looked as though differing artists had added to it over the years, each with a similar notion of the pattern yet wanting individuality. It resembled a small village with all homes connecting on either side of the town hall. A very big town hall and very large homes.

Deran had looked forward to this moment, curious to see her reaction to the home he preferred more than any other. If they were the only two in the coach, he was sure she'd let her excitement bubble over and beg him to have the driver speed up, or throw open the door as they slowed down at the entrance. He missed that enthusiasm and knew he had something to do with its absence. He'd deliberately avoided her yesterday and this morning. His behavior the night she'd visited his room, behavior that displayed enough restraint to warrant knighthood, had proven where Miss Ava Fychon was concerned, he couldn't trust himself. Maintaining his distance was necessary if he wanted to achieve the task of returning her to Wales.

That thought knotted his stomach. It was inevitable. Upon finding her brother and sister, she'd return to Wales. Her words, that he should be with a woman of quality breeding rather than her, hadn't stopped pounding in his head and had been a bitter reminder of responsibilities to his family. If one took only the status of his birth into consideration, then Ava was right. But he'd never been one to follow convention. He was a month away from his thirty-fourth birthday and as far removed from a prospective marriage alliance as he'd been a year ago.

Her words had haunted him to the point of agitation and stolen his sleep. Those about their shared pleasures being in her heart day and night. Calling them gifts, wondrous gifts. Damnedest thing. They'd kissed, that was all. Kissed and held each other with so much desire his head had whirled. Gifts indeed. More like damnable encumbrances. Their memory barged into his thoughts at all hours, pulling him away from important duties, making him want another taste of her and wishing he'd taken her when he'd had the chance.

And therein was the source of his frustration. He didn't know what direction to point it, at her or himself. Her last words beat at his brain like a ship's sails during a gale.

'If you had let the choice be mine ... I would have taken every pleasure you offered ... would have given them back ... I would have gladly chosen you as my first.'

His hands rolled into fists and he dared risk a glance at her. At the same moment, as if she'd felt his eyes move to her, she turned and met his gaze, the smallest, sweetest smile on her beautiful mouth. And then she made a gesture that shook his heart. The hand pressed to her breast, the slight dip of her head. The silent thank you. If they were alone he would snatch her from that corner and reply soundly, give them both more of those pleasures she'd talked about. But further pleasures would have to be kept in the imagination and drawn from memory. If he were to touch her again he would demand pleasures that extended far beyond those they'd already shared.

And so once again he vowed not to touch her, not allow her to tempt him. He'd survived this journey, painfully, yes, but he'd survived. Not having her was something he could do.

He returned her thank you with the barest nod and wondered how the hell he was going to keep that promise.

* * * *

Tercy Manor's staff had received little notice the earl would be arriving today, yet the home was in a perfect state of readiness. Upon entering the cavernous great hall, he tossed orders about and the servants scurried to attend to his requests and demands. All but Mrs. Kitch, the housekeeper, who was told Miss Fychon would occupy the guestroom in the east wing and Miss Beth would stay in the same wing in whatever room Mrs. Kitch had available for staff. Ava had little time to admire the downstairs before she was told by the lord himself by way of a dismissal that she would have time to refresh herself before dinner. If she needed anything, she had only to ask Bickford or Mrs. Kitch. He marched off, announcing he'd be in his study and didn't want to be disturbed.

Mrs. Kitch led the way. As they trudged up the flight of stairs Ava admired the wood banisters that gleamed like old gold and the deep browns and greens in the thick carpet runner. Portraits that equaled the number of stairs and reached to the ceilings covered the walls. Mrs. Kitch turned at the landing and disappeared. Ava picked up her skirts and hurried. She'd have time to admire later. She didn't want to get left behind and lost trying to find her room.

“You have a view of the lake from here, miss,” the housekeeper said striding across the room to a double set of long windows. “Unless the sky is very clear, you can't see it this time of day, but the sun comes through nicely in the morning.” Mrs. Kitch lighted oil lamps and a pair of tapers on the fireplace mantel. She thumped the bed pillows, flung open a large wardrobe and pointed out the dressing room, washbasin and pitcher.

“Rose will see to the fire shortly. Unless you'd rather not have one,” she added.

Ava didn't know if she wanted a fire or not. Right now she felt both cold and hot with a case of nerves like she'd never had. She glanced at the bed. It was large enough to hold half the household. The quilted spread in shades of bronze and browns looked heavy and plenty warm.

“A fire won't be necessary, thank you, Mrs. Kitch."

She turned to Beth who hadn't left the doorway. “This way then, miss. Your room's above the lady's.” Beth cast an anxious glance at Ava as the housekeeper sped past her into the hallway.

“I'll be back soon as I've put my bag in my room, miss."

She knew Beth feared getting lost as much as she had and gave her a reassuring smile.

“I'll be fine, Beth. Go, before she leaves you behind."

Left alone for the first time today, Ava didn't move from the center of the room that was twice the size of the one she'd been in at the earl's London home. The hours of travel, the tense silence and effort to avoid the earl suddenly built to a heaviness that knocked her to her knees. An immense loneliness filled her. Lord Atherton was doing more than she could have ever hoped to aid in her search, but he was doing so to have her gone. The sooner he found and rescued her family, the sooner he'd be rid of her. After the past two days of enduring his frigid company she was convinced this was the foundation of his goodwill. Ie, he wanted her out of his life, a fact she couldn't condemn him for.

Tears clogged her throat. She'd miss him, she already missed him, already felt as though they'd said goodbyes. The saddest thought was no private last words would be spoken. He'd see to that. Rather than be hurt by his indifference to her, she'd have to behave the same way towards him. If she thought of this business as an official transaction between two people with the same goal, it should be easy enough.

A business transaction, she told herself. With his help she'd complete her task, shake hands with the Earl of Atherton as a gentleman would and then they could part company.

Chapter Twenty-two

An hour after going to bed, Deran was still awake. The journey had cluttered his mind and stiffened his back—he couldn't get comfortable. He needed exercise, something he looked forward to in the country. An early ride would be just the thing. In London he structured his days to include morning rides and weekly fencing and sparring matches. He'd had little this past week and was restless and ill-tempered.

Pulling on a dressing gown and slippers he stepped into the hall. He drank in the silence that was impossible to find in London. Quiet of a calm sea, silence of a hilltop, tranquility that can still restlessness. But it didn't. It didn't because Ava occupied the bedchamber on the floor above. It had been foolish to think an acre of hallways could distance him from her.

With no specific destination, he walked downstairs. Standing in front of the impressive collection of books acquired by generations of Morissey's, she was all he thought of. Her detached manner in the carriage, how she'd politely conversed with him at dinner as though they were new acquaintances. When he told her how they'd go about searching the workhouses, she'd nodded and not asked a single question. Anyone else would have appreciated her attentiveness and deference, but Deran had found it damn disturbing. At meal's end he coldly bade her good night and left the table in a cloud of anger.

The anger was still there. He'd get no peace tonight, or the next few days if he didn't confront her. That's what he should have done earlier. He turned and made his way back up the staircase. She deliberately goaded him with her meek act and he would end it now.

As he stalked down the hallways he constructed the speech he'd make. His anger would keep him safe from anything beyond speaking to her, however. It would serve as his shield, a weapon if need be, to stay well away.

She was the only guest on this floor, a thought that raised some guilt. She'd be lonely here, but there was nowhere else she could be.

He heard her before he reached her door. She'd kept it open slightly, as she had her door in his London home. After being imprisoned in cramped spaces, closed doors likely made a room confining.

It wasn't the song she'd sung at the dinner party. It was a simpler melody, a soothing tune. Deran leaned against the wall and listened unable to walk away. The Welsh was lost to him, but he recognized it as a lullaby.

As children, Madeline had sung lullabies to his brother, Hayden, when he woke from nightmares. Her sweet, girlish voice carried over to his room that adjoined Hayden's and although Deran didn't need to be calmed, he'd benefited from the songs.

Ava sang several short verses before her voice softened and the words slowed, then stopped. Deran's breath hung in his chest. If she were to leave her room, he'd have no explanation for lurking in the hallway other than the truth. He'd come to talk to her and her singing had distracted—

Her voice broke through his thoughts. Not singing but speaking. Gentle, yet pleading and mysterious. The burr was thick, as lyrical as her singing and shot to his heart.

He pushed the door open a bit more.

The drapes were open and milky moonlight shone onto the bare bed. She lay on the floor facing the bed in a nest of sheets and pillows. One arm was raised overhead and her hand rested against the side of the mattress.

Deran blinked hard. Her voice didn't falter and she didn't turn toward him, unaware of his presence. He listened and watched in confused awe. Not even this hundred-year-old, handmade bed had enticed her. His aunt was right. She, at least her custom of sleeping on the floor, was very odd.

Something else to ask her about—but not now. Whatever this was, it wasn't meant for his eyes or ears. He shouldn't be intruding on something so private.

He left as quietly as he'd come and strolled back to his bedchamber with more questions than he'd had earlier.

* * * *

Tercy Manor was within twenty to forty miles of several small mill towns with workhouses. They'd travel to those Lord Viller had told Max about. Deran estimated they could make it to two or three and return before nightfall. If unsuccessful today, they'd go east to Braintree tomorrow. They'd go by coach and a team of four, Ava and Beth in the coach, he on horseback.

Ava listened to the edicts as she picked at her breakfast. “I would rather ride horseback than be confined to the coach, even though it is very nice."

Deran buttered a third piece of toast. “You will ride in the coach. I don't need the added worry of your safety."

“My safety?” Her fork clattered to her plate. “I will have you know, sir, I am an excellent rider. I could easily match your ability."

An eyebrow rose. “Could you? A tempting challenge, but one I will sadly have to decline. Your riding skills will not be tested today, miss."

“But—"

“You will ride in the coach. No arguments.” He smiled smugly. This was how things between them should be. Clashing opinions, with his words being the last. A tremendously satisfying start to the day.

Ava gripped her fork and speared the last lump of egg. It was too early for him to be so mulish. “I will ride atop. I've never been here, and this will be the only time I have the opportunity to ride through England's countryside. Surely you will not deny me that pleasure, sir."

Ah! The sweet smile designed to turn his heart to sugar. He'd learned the rules of this game quickly.

“What I will deny you, Miss Fychon, is the pleasure you take in riling my temper."

She looked shocked. “I do no such thing."

“As well as a hen heckles a cock.” As soon as the words were out he knew his mistake. Much like holding a stick high in the air before tossing it for the hound.

Her cheeks pinkened, then came a sly smile. That didn't bode well for him. “Be thankful I do not carry a sword, my lord. Your remark begs for a clever retort. One thrust and this could all be over."

His groin tightened in reaction to the spark in her eyes and rapier words. Damnation, but his body proved a traitor to him when he was around her. But he wasn't finished yet. There was still time to parry.

“On that we can agree, Miss Fychon,” he replied smoothly, rearranging the napkin higher on his lap. “One thrust and this could all be over, using the weapon of my choice. And it would not be of the steel variety.” His eyes gleamed and voice lowered. “When making threats one should anticipate the opponent's response. Be careful when you threaten me, my sweet. It is far more stimulating than you realize."

She more than pinkened this time, but recovered quickly.

“If we could return to the subject at hand, sir."

He'd won the point. No, more like the entire match. This went beyond satisfying. It was triumph at its finest.

“I didn't realize we had a subject.” He bit into his toast not minding it was cold and the butter dry.

“We do. My request to ride atop the carriage, not in it."

Ah yes. That subject. “You didn't request. You declared and I denied."

“Surely you understand my desire to see as much of England as I can, sir. I've seen nothing but the city and want to see so much more.” She glanced out the long front window of the dining room. “I want to see more of that. It's breathtaking, don't you think?"

That innocent sweetness she added to her tone at will was there. “Your ankle will trouble you if it's not raised.” He would humor her, but not concede.

“It has bothered me little, but thank you for your concern.” It ached dearly this morning. “I will find something to lever it on."

“My coachman has a bristly temper.” Fleck, ten years his senior, took his post seriously. “He will not be the best company."

“The scenery will be my company. I do not require entertainment."

“The bench is hard and thinly cushioned. The wheels will kick up much dust. You would be far more comfortable and cleaner inside the coach."

“I have known worse discomforts, sir, and survived them well enough."

Defeat loomed. There was room for only one small victory.

“Very well. You may ride atop. I had thought of it earlier, but changed my mind after seeing how much you enjoyed the comfort of the coach. But I will be able to keep a better eye on you this way."

Ava beamed with success. “Yes you will, sir. Thank you."

“You will not bother Fleck,” he added sternly. “He is not to be distracted with conversation or questions beyond reason. Is that clear?"

“Yes, sir. My lord.” His superior tone had made this last irresistible.

He set his cup down, eyes narrowed. “On the subject of comfort, is your chamber to your liking?"

“Oh, yes. And the view is grand. I would like to see the lake close up, if I may."

He nodded. “And the furnishings are comfortable enough?"

“Yes, thank you."

“I am glad to hear it.” He checked the pocket watch tucked into his waistcoat. “We will leave at half past the hour. It will be a long day, Miss Fychon."

She smiled brightly. “I am aware of that, sir. You will not hear me complain. I thank you again for what you have already done on my behalf and for what you are doing now. My gratitude goes beyond words."

She excused herself and he stood and watched her leave the room. The slight sway of her hips, the allure of her hair and arch of her back heated his blood. He dropped back into his chair and eyed the one she'd occupied. Never would he have thought he could enjoy female company at breakfast.

The thought didn't elicit palpitations or light-headedness. It wasn't disconcerting which in itself was disconcerting. But he was a fool to allow such imaginings to exist. She'd leave soon, he needed her to leave soon for both their sakes.

* * * *

As Ava wouldn't be riding in the carriage, Deran had Fleck ready the lighter weight carriage with a pair of chestnuts. Beth did not go.

“Miss Fychon shall ride alongside you.” Deran smiled when the man's face went ashen. “She will not be a bother, and if she is, inform me immediately and she shall be banished to the carriage's interior."

Fleck eagerly agreed to comply.

Deran assisted her onto the coachman's box and instantly had doubts about her being there. It was too high from the ground and provided no support or handles to grip should she be tossed around. But her anticipation and excitement erased the notion of retracting his decision.

He mounted his gray and trotted to the carriage. From this perspective she looked a mess of nerves. Her fingers were so twisted the knuckles were bone white, cheeks pale and teeth nipped at her delicious lower lip.

“Miss Fychon.” She lowered her eyes and studied her hands. “Ava,” he murmured. That caught her attention. Her head turned sharply, eyes widened.

“You are allowed to change your mind and ride inside."

“But I don't want to ride inside. I thought we agreed on that at breakfast."

“Yes, we did, but you look unsure now that you're up here."

“I am not at all unsure, sir. This is where I want to be."

He caught the hot flash of green in her eyes. First, nervous, now angry. Hell. He was only trying to look out for her. If she'd rather be battered around out here instead of lounging among padded seats, so be it.

He turned his horse sharply and addressed Fleck. “There will be no stopping, except for emergencies.” Fleck nodded and cast Ava a grudging look. She stared straight ahead ignoring both men. Deran clucked his tongue and they were off.

* * * *

It was pretty, but not as pretty as Penmon. The hills were slight, trees in clumped stands, the grass green but thin in places, not thick and tall like at home. Oh but it was heaven to be flying against the air! The sun's warmth when clouds slid away, the wind slapping her face and whistling in her ears, and the smells filling her nose. Dirt, grass, trees, horses. If her teeth were still in her head by day's end, she would say an especially long, thankful prayer, but she wouldn't complain about the roughness of the ride. She was outside, freer than she'd been in weeks and she was going to find her family.

Ava had imagined the reunions so many times it was as though she'd already lived them. The relief, the joy and love, the hugs and kisses. The dream of it all happening was overwhelming, a longing that pierced her heart.

She didn't know how much time lapsed before small townships began to appear. She grew more alert and didn't take her eyes off the earl. He'd slowed his horse to a trot and sat tall in the saddle. He cut a fine figure on his beautiful dapple gray. His back was straight, charcoal grey riding coat stretched wide across his shoulders, the tails of it streaming over the horse's flanks. His hat matched the color of his coat and dark hair hung far below its brim over his coat collar. As he searched the area his profile flashed strong and proud. She admired the long, straight line of his nose and squareness of his jaw. Watching him brought on a familiar flood of heat in the center of her stomach and rippled over and through her skin.

They needed to find her family before she lost any more of her heart to the Earl of Atherton.

He raised a hand as a signal to stop.

“Is this it?” Ava asked Fleck.

“Don't know, miss. Never been out this way and can't say as I know what we're doing here."

“Looking for my family,” Ava murmured.

The earl approached the carriage. “The smokestack,” he pointed to the right, “is where we're going. Remember how we agreed to do this."

Ava nodded impatiently. “You will introduce yourself and tell them you are looking for your nephew who has been missing from your sister's home for several weeks. You will come back for me if they say Ithel's there, to confirm it's him. I am to be your niece."

And you will negotiate the price of his release. She hated the thought of him spending his money for her sake, or Ithel's, but she fully intended to repay.

Deran lay a hand on hers. Even through his glove the touch moved his heart. The hope in her eyes made him want to reach for her and hold her close. He squeezed her hand and smiled.

“Are you ready?"

She squeezed his hand in return and smiled nervously. “Very."

He led the way up a narrow street cluttered with small, stone and brick homes. Residents appeared at the doorways and stared dismally as they passed, as though observing a funeral procession. One woman with a babe in her arms and three young children clutching her frayed skirt had a stark look of terror on her face. She scuttled back into the recess of her home. Ava's heart went out to her obvious poverty and protectiveness of her children. Did she think they were there to snatch them from her and take them to the workhouse? She smiled to let her know they were no threat to her, but the woman had vanished.

She turned her attention back to the road. A sudden shout followed by loud hoots and hissing came from behind. She looked over her shoulder and saw several children trying to catch up to the carriage, all wielding thick tree branches. Ava gripped the seat's edge and started to say something to Fleck when a loud thud against the carriage door made her jump. The children cheered and laughed and darted at the wheels with their homemade swords, slashing at the axles and whacking at the doors.

“Damn it to hell,” Fleck muttered. He shouted back to the rowdy children, “Off with you, you scoundrels or you'll feel this.” He raised a leather whip in his right hand menacingly.

Angered by his threat, Ava whirled around and reached for his arm, but went no further. Her head snapped forward so fast she nearly toppled over. She cried out, not knowing what had happened, aware of a sharp sting in the back of her neck and a deep ache that pained her ear.

The sudden sound of thudding hooves caused a barrage of screams from the hecklers. Ava raised her aching head to the sight of the earl barreling toward her, his coat flapping wildly looking the part of a vengeful, aristocratic pirate. The children dropped their sticks and scattered in a flurry of shrieks.

The carriage had come to a halt and Ava turned to Fleck, the distractions they'd just endured not repressing her anger.

“How dare you threaten them with a whip! They are only children. They didn't mean—"

“Are you all right?” Deran boomed before he reached the carriage. “What the hell happened?"

Ava shook her head and winced. It felt like a hot coal lay on the back of her neck. “I'm not sure. There was a loud—"

“Stones,” Fleck grumbled. “They were throwing stones, my lord. And cracking sticks at the wheels. I tried to stop them but...” He turned an accusing eye to Ava. “The miss interfered."

Deran's brows snapped together as he looked at Ava. “Good lord, you're bleeding."

“What?” She touched her neck and pulled her hand back. Her palm was sticky with blood.

“A stone must have hit me. I didn't know what it was when my head—"

Fleck stiffened. “That's why you fell forward? I thought you were trying to take the reins from my hands.” He raised apologetic eyes to the earl. “So sorry, my lord. I didn't know—"

But Deran wasn't listening. “Down,” he ordered Ava, one arm extended to her. “Now."

Ava shook her head and immediately wished she hadn't. It spun wildly and she feared she might faint. The pain was intense. Sweat popped out on her forehead.

“I need just a moment, sir."

An instant later she sailed off the seat and was dropped onto the horse in front of an angry earl.

“Go,” he said to Fleck, pointing in the direction of the workhouse. “I'll be behind you."

Not hesitating, Fleck set the carriage in motion and Deran turned to follow.

Ava began to protest against being crushed to his chest. Her dress was hitched up to her knees and her hair dangled in her face.

“Not a word,” he seethed.

Just as well, Ava thought glumly. Even her jaw hurt.

Chapter Twenty-three

Before Deran entered the workhouse he washed Ava's wound with water from the lunch that had been packed. When he finished, he ordered her inside the carriage. To his surprise, she did so without resistance. He closed the door firmly and turned away.

Ava opened it. “Sir?"

He spun back, hands on his hips. “What is it?"

“You will still come for me, won't you? If you are told Ithel is here?"

The anger in his eyes dimmed slightly. “Of course I will. But you are not to move until I do."

“Yes, I understood that the first time, thank you.” She closed the door more firmly than he had and sagged against the cushions. What a bloody mess. It wasn't her fault. She'd done nothing to instigate the attack from those children. They were angry and only trying to deter them from going through their town.

She pressed her hands together, closed her eyes and bent over at the waist. Prayers poured from her lips, prayers that her brother be here, that the children who lived in this town be spared his fate. She prayed for Lord Atherton, thanking him for his assistance and courage. She prayed to her parents, assured their spirits she was doing all she could to care for their children. Unaware of the tears that dropped onto her lap, she told them how much she missed them, how dearly she loved them. She prayed until the carriage door opened.

Her head jerked up, the pain that radiated from neck to top of her head forgotten. The earl removed his hat, climbed inside and took the seat opposite her.

His mouth thinned at the sight of her wet cheeks and reddened eyes. He'd known this endeavor would be difficult for her, but hadn't expected to feel such heartache himself.

The lowly state of the town and its people had been bad enough, but the workhouse had shaken him. Dank odors of unwashed bodies and putrid air filled his nose as he was ushered past rows of machinery to the master's office at the back end of the ground floor. The machines’ clanks and whirs clogged the air in a mechanical sound that resembled artillery. Only women operated the machines and none wore shoes. His heart stopped at the sight of a small child crawling beneath one of the machines to sweep away cotton fluff. The child popped out unharmed and scurried beneath another machine.

The master was unnerved by his presence. He stumbled over his words as he swore to his lordship that he had no child by the name of Ithel Fychon in his employ. Deran insisted on seeing an employee roster and the man eagerly complied. Names were compiled by arrival date making Deran's search easy. Going back six weeks, he perused the names. Ages and beginning date of service were noted. At least three dozen children had been taken on since the end of July and Ithel wasn't among them. In the event that his name had been changed for some reason, Deran gave the master a description of the boy, adding he would have a thick burr, explaining that his ‘brother-in-law’ was from Wales and the child had been educated there. The master emphatically denied having such a child and wished Deran luck in his search.

He said nothing, but Ava knew. She straightened and raised her chin. “I have prayed, but did not expect him to be here. That would have been too easy, wouldn't it?” Her mouth formed a stiff smile.

He smiled slightly. “I suppose so.” He leaned forward and took her hands from her lap. Raising them to his lips, he kept his eyes level with hers. “Are you able to continue?” he asked softly, already knowing the answer.

“I will not do otherwise, sir."

His smile reached his eyes and he sat very still and gazed at her. A bandage had been fashioned out of his handkerchief and was fastened around her neck with her hair ribbon. The gold ribbon, tied in a bow at her throat, rose and fell as she swallowed. Her hair, long ago freed from the bonnet she'd put on this morning, was haphazardly pinned back. One strand, a thin curtain of blonde, lay over her breast. Her eyes, moist from tears, appeared as the greenest lake, one he could sink to the bottom of and stay in a great while.

“You, Miss Fychon, are extraordinary."

“So are you, Lord Atherton."

With her hands still in his he leaned further and touched his mouth to hers ever so lightly. A small hum rose from her throat as he pulled back.

Her cheeks were pink again, eyes darker. Yes, she'd felt what he had.

“We are only a few miles from the next town,” Deran said, reaching for his hat. “And the third is but another two or three beyond that. We can have our luncheon then before returning to the manor if you'd like."

She nodded. “I am sorry for the upset I caused. I had no idea our arrival would bring about such a disturbance. Your carriage suffered for it, I fear.” She'd seen the dents from the rocks and felt guilty.

His eyes darkened. “I think both of us have had an education by coming here, Ava. The mood of the people is one of many lessons.” He stepped out and paused as he began to close the door. “The carriage is replaceable. You, however, are not. You will remain inside.” He closed the door softly.

It wasn't until the carriage lurched forward that she began to breathe again. When he kissed her and said sweet words she simply couldn't think clearly. Each encounter with him was worse than the last, or better if she thought of them as bliss rather than danger.

Inside the carriage she watched the landscape. She tried to rid herself of the worry of the Sir from hell and what he'd do when he found her gone. Lord Atherton had assured her and she believed his words to be genuine, but he didn't know the evil she faced. The earl didn't seem to be worried about him though. How could he stay so calm?

And what of Mairwen? She wasn't with Ithel. Once he was found, a search for her would have to begin and that would take time beyond what Ava had been granted.

She wanted to, no, she needed to have faith in Lord Atherton, but it wasn't easy.

* * * *

Searches in the other two towns proved fruitless. The mood was subdued during their luncheon of meats, cheeses and bread and they returned to Tercy Manor without incident. Ava stated she had a headache and wished to lie down.

“I'll see you to your room.” He turned to Bickford who stood at the front door. “Ask Mrs. Kitch to bring the medicine case to Miss Fychon's chamber."

“Very good, sir."

They climbed the staircases in silence, but a great deal was said. Each step added more unspoken words, the awareness of each other thickening the air with emotional tension. When they reached her door, he didn't release her elbow. He turned her to face him.

“Will you be all right?"

“Of course. I just need to rest a spell."

He smiled and caressed her cheek with a finger. “You have had an active day."

“No more than you. I at least had the luxury of riding in a carriage."

A finger beneath her chin coaxed her to raise her head. His eyes, mysterious and dark, searched her face. Ava was terrified he would say something that would alter her life in a way she couldn't bear right now.

“Ava, I—"

She pressed fingers to his lips. “Please, no. There is nothing you need to say."

He lowered her hand from his mouth. “Not so. There is much, but now is not the time. Rest. I will see you at dinner.” He kissed the back of her hand and turned away.

* * * *

Bickford waited with a message.

“It was delivered late this morning, sir. From Mr. DiSanto."

Deran took the letter and walked down the hall. Bickford followed. “Max was here?"

“No, my lord. This arrived by messenger. But Mr. DiSanto will be visiting while you are here.” Bickford paused. “Do you know yet how long that will be, sir?"

He entered his study. “No. As long as it takes to find Miss Fychon's family."

Bickford watched the earl drop heavily into a leather wingback.

“I wasn't aware they were missing, sir."

“More than missing, Bickford. They were taken from their home and I mean to find them.” He broke the letter's seal and began to read, but stopped when he realized Bickford hadn't left the room. He cast an impatient eye his way.

“Yes, what is it?"

“My inquiry can wait, sir. I will see to your bath.” He inclined his head and moved to leave.

“Damnation, Bickford,” Deran bellowed, “speak your mind. I'll tell you if what you want to know is none of your business."

Bickford turned back. “Very well, sir, since you insist. Is it her parents who have been misplaced?"

Deran's face clouded over. “Stolen, Bickford. Taken from their homes without permission, without warning and sent to God knows where. And no, it is not her parents but a brother and sister."

“Younger, sir?"

“Yes. Nine and fourteen."

Bickford blinked slowly. “I thought as much, but Fleck's account of the unfortunate incident outside the workhouse confirmed it. He informed me of what happened."

The parchment's edge crumbled in Deran's fingers. “And will the purpose of your homily be revealed before my poised breath causes my death?"

Sensing his lordship's impatience, he hastened. “If it is workhouses you are interested in, I may be of some assistance."

Deran stilled. “How so?"

“I have family who are in the business of operating several of them. This is not an admittance I make with pride, sir."

Angus Bickford had been a mainstay in Deran's life since childhood and not once had he given any thought to the man's family. Holidays weren't something Bickford made use of, never had there been family visitors or mention of kin. Perhaps a sister, long ago.

“Family?"

“Arthur. A younger brother. After the death of our parents, our guardian sent him to a workhouse. He was there a number of years and became somewhat of a mentor to the younger children. He was released in his late twenties, but stayed on to make improvements in the worker's living situations. Some time ago he wrote me of his success. Evidently he owns several workhouses from Sussex to Wiltshire. I would be happy to make inquiries on your behalf, sir.” His chin lifted slightly.

The information had clearly not been easy for the man to impart. “Thank you, Bickford. Miss Fychon will appreciate any help in this matter. I will supply you with the particulars."

“Very good, sir. Your bath will be ready momentarily.” He stepped out and closed the door quietly.

Deran slowly lowered the letter and stared at the wide wooden door. Only recently had he accepted the fact that with Ava Fychon's arrival, his world had forever changed. And now, Bickford had sprung another surprise on him. Would they never end?

* * * *

Max's letter answered that question with a resounding No. Since Deran had left London, events relating to his person had come to Max's attention. Max would arrive tomorrow to discuss those events. He warned Deran to expect concerned family members as well, in particular Lord and Lady Charnock. Others would likely follow.

“Others?” Deran roared. “What the devil have you done, DiSanto?"

But Max wasn't the cause of this sudden familial emigration from city to country. A conversation at Brooks Gentlemen's Club, overheard by Deran's acquaintances, caused tremendous alarm. All nooks and avenues of London were abuzz that the Marquess of Rensleigh and Lord Stewart had exchanged heated words about the Earl of Atherton and a woman, who'd been spoken of with flagrant disrespect. The gossip had captured more interest than the front page of The Times. There was the added excitement of the marquess’ vow to seek out the earl and initiate a confrontation.

The letter ended with a cryptic note regarding information Max had learned about Miss Fychon's background, courtesy of Winston Thornton's brother in Wales.

After a second reading, Deran crushed the letter and stalked to the drinks table, his blood rolling like high tide. Rensleigh. What a despicable, boneless human being. The children he had seen today deserved his title more than that weasel did. The title he would inherit after his father's death was too good for him. Indeed, he deserved none higher than Imbecile.

Deran took a long swallow of port, its burn only serving to further heat his blood. So he could expect the Marquess of Rensleigh to pay him a visit.

Robert Trenor. Lord Imbecile.

How entertaining.

* * * *

“Where is Miss Fychon?” He'd been sitting in the dining room alone for ten minutes. “Was she not told dinner is being served?"

Bickford nodded. “Miss Beth saw to it, my lord. Perhaps Miss Fychon is still dressing."

A dark brow shot up. “Dressing? She's had three hours. Get Miss Beth."

Moments later a quaking Beth stood opposite the earl at the end of the table. She wasn't given the chance to lower her knees before he asked where his guest was.

“In her chamber, sir. My lord. She is in a chair, and when I spoke she didn't answer. I think she is sleeping, sir."

He pictured her asleep in the chair at his aunt's home and recalled his reaction to the strange sight. “I imagine she needs her rest. The day was—” He dismissed Beth.

Dining alone was dreary and put him in a fouler mood. Leisurely conversation with a speck of lively banter tossed in had left him wanting for more. More of everything. More of her.

He prowled through the rooms of the lower level and when he ran out of space, he moved outside. The night was cool and damp, the air fragrant with earthy country scents. He strode down the long drive until he came to an opening in the thick hedges leading to one of the estate's open fields. The half-moon lit the thin layer of fog hovering above the ground.

It felt surprisingly good to have his present concerns. Who else but himself did he ever think of? Apart from the occasional business concern, or family dilemma, his life was narcissistic profligacy. What he'd considered worries were trivial aggravations in comparison to the woes of the people he'd seen today.

His angry stride leveled out by the time he reached the stand of elms at the first rise. He slowly approached the stout shadow in its center. He hadn't been here in a decade, avoided the boyhood memories and the adult pain those memories invoked. Autumn of his seventh year he and his father had built the simple four-walled structure, a child's haven. Every man needs a place to escape, his father explained as they carried precious pieces of lumber to the secluded spot. A place to get away from womenfolk and gather your wits. By year's end, the cabin complete, Deran went to it as often as possible. To his knowledge, Madeline never found it. Three years later Hayden was born. The year Deran left for the Navy he brought him to the cabin for the first time and performed a somber ritual, bequeathing its care to his seven-year old brother. Hayden had given his full attention, sensing the importance of the situation. Deran's final word was when he returned they would share the cabin together as men.

They never did. Hayden disappeared the year before Deran sold his commission. Like his brother, Hayden loved the sea but wanted nothing to do with military service. At sixteen he began working for the East India Trade Company, traveling the long routes from England's coast to Indian ports, trading British goods for spices, silks and tea. Pirates attacked the ship during an expedition near Ceylon. Dozens of crewman were killed or lost overboard. Hayden didn't return home and his body was never accounted for. He'd been twenty-two. The brothers hadn't known each other well, or for long, but after seven years, Deran still missed him. And still carried guilt over his failure to find him.

Deran circled the structure that had at one time seemed enormous. The feeling of loss he experienced when remembering Hayden was greater here, but tonight came a surge of determination. Determination that Ava would never know this feeling. He would do everything in his power to save her from it, even though helping her would mean losing her.

He wouldn't allow that to happen either.

Chapter Twenty-four

No sounds came from her room tonight. Sprinting back across the field and up staircases to her bedchamber had his breath coming fast and heart galloping. He knocked softly on her door. A long moment passed. He knocked again and breathed deeply. The door cracked open.

“Lord Atherton.” Anxious eyes moved over his face. “Are you all right, sir?"

“Yes.” Her hair draped down the front of the blanket she clutched to her chest. She looked shockingly young and wholly innocent. Leave. Now. “No. No I don't suppose I am."

“What is it? Are you ill?"

“No, Ava, I am not ill.” Nervous, deuce take it, but not ill. He was never nervous around women. Quite the opposite.

He drew in a long breath. “May I come in please?"

“Come in?” She pursed her lips. “Would that be a good idea, sir?"

He smiled slightly. “I will be happy to answer that question. Inside."

He moved past her, taking her arm as he went. She darted in front of him and stood resolutely gripping her blanket tighter.

“This cannot possibly be a good idea.” Her voice was unsteady. “In fact, Lord Atherton, I know it isn't."

Deran smiled slowly. He liked it when she used his title. It meant she was trying to gain control, which meant she feared losing it, which meant he had more than she did.

“What is not a good idea is for me to stay away from you.” He closed the door. “I can no longer do so, Miss Fychon.” He stepped forward, forcing her backward.

“You ... you cannot?"

“No, I cannot.” He raised a hand to her cheek, but she nimbly sidestepped, evading his touch.

Hell. He was going about this badly. In fact, he was quite out of his element. He never pursued women. They were readily available, the more brazen relieving him of any contemplated effort. They were simply there, eager and willing to be in his company and be seen on his arm.

Until this moment.

Ava's trepidation wasn't the response he'd hoped to gain, however, which of course was entirely his fault. He ought to be paying gentle court to her, not making reckless pronouncements and behaving like a barbarous cad. He possessed finer skill than this.

He lowered his hand.

“Forgive me, Ava. I thought only of myself, something I have been accustomed to doing for a very long while. I didn't mean to frighten you or cause you to think you are in danger.” He smiled softly. “Quite the opposite, I assure you."

She wasn't assured. Not in the least. Because she knew why he was here.

“You didn't frighten me.” She tipped her head. “But I don't know that I should trust you."

“Ah. You refer to other times we have been alone and you worried for your maiden reputation."

Her look was bold. “Yes, I am.” Being alone in this place was different, however. This was her space, however temporary. It wasn't a carriage or-she could never think of this without shame-his bed. Their aloneness felt more intimate here. She felt more vulnerable.

Their eyes held steady and the invisible link between them thickened palpably. Anticipation shimmered.

“You needn't worry, Ava. I'm here because I can no longer stay away, and—” He stepped forward, so close she had to raise her head to look at him. “To ensure you are well.” He leaned closer, angled his head. Her breath quickened. She didn't see his smile as he looked over her shoulder at her bandaged neck. He was sure she'd thought he meant to kiss her. As much as he longed to, now was not the time. Not yet.

Her braid concealed the bandage. He brushed it aside, touched the bandage lightly and impulsively placed a kiss there. When she shuddered it took tremendous effort not to lower his mouth onto that inviting neck and taste every inch of it.

“Does your head still ache?” She shook it. “And your ankle? Is it painful?” Another shake of her head. “That is good news.” He looked beyond her at the hearth and frowned. “Why do you not have a fire?"

“I did not want one, thank you, sir. I am plenty warm.” She rearranged the blanket above her shoulders. “Is that all, sir? Now that you know I am in good health?"

He smiled. “Would you have me leave so soon then, Ava? Chase me off like a bothersome stray?"

“You are not in any way a stray, sir. This is your home, after all."

“But bothersome, yes?"

“No.” She considered him. “Puzzling.” When he didn't respond or move his solid frame from her view, she sighed. “Since you seem not to be leaving anytime soon, I suppose we should sit."

He took her arm once again and walked with her to the two chairs on opposite sides of the hearth.

She seemed intent on blocking his view of the bed, but he knew it was the nest of pillows and sheets on the floor that concerned her. Ignoring it, he offered her the chair facing away from the bed. She folded into it and gathered the blanket around her knees, tugging it from her shoulders in the process. Deran gripped the back of his chair at the sight of bare skin. Dear God, is she not wearing a nightgown? He swallowed a groan and settled onto the other chair.

“Is there something in particular you wanted to talk about, sir?” She raised the blanket in place.

“Formalities aren't necessary, Ava. We're alone. There is no one about to put on airs for."

She blinked rapidly. Perhaps he shouldn't have brought that to her attention.

“Yes. I'm aware of that."

“And to answer your question, no, there is nothing specific I wish to discuss.” He stretched his legs languidly. “How do you spend your time in here?"

“My time?"

“Yes. Besides sleeping, which I understand was why you were absent from dinner, how do you spend your time?"

“I write."

An eyebrow rose. “What do you write, if that's not too personal?"

She glanced at the hearth. “Letters. Lyrics."

“Lyrics. For songs."

“Yes."

“Do you write music also?"

“No. I write lyrics to melodies I hear. In my mind."

He cocked his head. “You remember the tune without seeing it on paper."

She gave him a direct look. “Of course. I don't know how to make notes, so I have to remember them."

He would ask to see her lyrics another time. Her crisp speech told him she wouldn't be receptive to sharing them this evening.

He moved his chair directly in front of her. His knees touched hers. She tucked her legs in closer.

“Ava."

She tried to look away, but couldn't. Her breath faltered when his hand moved to the arm of her chair. His finger traced the back of the hand holding her blanket in place. His eyes followed his finger. Something happened to her every time he spoke her name. She sunk and soared at the same time. His finger circled her wrist before disappearing under the blanket.

“I—” The lightest touch passed over her bare forearm and back to her wrist. A sound, half laugh, half sob, rose from her.

Watching her face, he pried open the fingers that clutched the blanket. Her eyes were the darkest jade in this light, mouth slightly parted, cheeks more bronze than pink.

The blanket fell from her shoulder. It was not bare. A thin strip of pale muslin crossed over it. A chemise. That was why nothing had impeded his hand when he'd moved up her arm. He was shocked by how that touch had aroused him. More than when he had held her in his bed.

“Ava."

This time she didn't stifle the moan. “Oh, please stop saying my name. It's a silly thing to ask, but something happens when you say it. It's—” What? A feeling, thought, fear? “It's hard for me to breath."

A smile softened his face. “And does your stomach tip and heart beat faster?” He swept the freed piece of blanket aside.

She watched his eyes blacken and lids lower halfway.

“Yes. Both of those. I have felt them before with you."

“Have you?” Her hand went limp in his. He raised it to his mouth, brushed the knuckles across his lips. The other side of the blanket fell away.

“You know I have."

“Yes. I do."

“They are not comfortable feelings."

He chuckled, pressed her hand to his cheek. “A reminder that I am in the company of the most candid woman I know.” He opened her hand and set his mouth to its palm. “Have I told you I have come to admire and even appreciate your frankness? Imagine if all associations were conducted in such a way.” His lips moved to her fingers.

“People would stop talking to each other."

He smiled and lifted her other hand to his mouth. “Words are not always necessary. Like now.” His breath warmed her palm. “I don't need to tell you what I'm thinking, do I, Ava? That I desire you. That what I feel goes beyond desire. You have done something to me I cannot explain, cannot even describe. It's as though something inside me has shifted, which doesn't make sense, I know. I can only show you its effect, share it without words."

He looked suddenly younger. Vulnerability in his eyes surprised her. This was a strong, willful man, a man with an elevated position in society, accustomed to getting what he wanted. He was neither selfish nor ruthless, yet projected a sense of entitlement. Despite all the advantages and privileges, there was a restless despair about him. His poignant admittance echoed her private thoughts.

“Be with me, Ava. It is much to ask ... no ... it is asking you for everything, and I know I have no right to do so. If you deny me this, I will understand.” He fingered her braid, played with the feathery end. “But I believe you want me as much as I you. The desire has been between us since the first night we met.” His voice lowered and eyes lifted. “Do you, Ava? Do you want me?"

The rush of emotion was so great she nearly cried. His gaze passed through her and caressed her insides. Oh, how she'd imagined this moment, had yearned for it. How it would be to lie with him, not as before, but knowing his body fully, giving hers without restraint. She would have no other opportunity, she was certain. She wanted to believe his promise that she would never belong to anyone, would not go into service for the man who'd claimed her. She would fight that fate, but there would be other struggles. Finding her way home, making a life for herself, Ithel and Mairwen. The chance to love and be loved by a man wouldn't be in that life.

This man cradled her soul in his hands and she didn't want to live without knowing this gift he offered and requested of her.

But, first...

“Why have you changed your mind? You said before we should not."

He dropped his head. Of course she'd have questions. He wouldn't get out of answering this one.

“Yes, I did. I was thinking of you, of your—” He paused.

“Being a virgin?"

He flinched. If ever there was a chance to save himself, the time was now.

“Yes. Your chaste state."

“And later, you thought about me saying I would have chosen you."

He looked up, surprised. Her eyes were full of, what, admiration? Joy? His heart tumbled.

“Yes I did. Countless times."

She smiled and placed a hand on his cheek.

“Yes. I do want you, Deran. So much-I don't know the words to tell you how much."

His hands cupped her face and coaxed her to him. “We don't need them."

The kiss was so gentle, so endearing, Ava couldn't hold back her tears. Deran felt them against his face and pulled away.

“Ah, Ava. I—"

Fingers against his mouth stopped him. “You will have to show me what to do."

A sparkle lit his eyes. “Direct as always.” He stroked her cheek. “You are sure, my sweet?"

“My heart will surely break apart if we do not."

His eyes closed for a moment and chest rose with a deep breath. He stood slowly and pulled her up with him.

“Can I entice you into using the bed rather than the floor?"

* * * *

They were unhurried, the air of anticipation thickening as they readied the bed. Ava stood at a distance and looked at the haphazard arrangement, suddenly shy about relinquishing her blanket.

Deran stepped behind her. “Unbraid your hair, Ava. I want to feel it in my hands, on my skin."

Not thinking of the consequences, she reached for the braid. The blanket pooled around her feet.

Deran said nothing, the sight of her clad in the thin chemise disabling his ability to speak. He kissed her shoulders and slid his hands down her arms to warm her. A shiver shook her as he pulled her against him and watched her unravel the braid with trembling fingers. His hands tunneled under the long golden ropes and swept them across her back.

“I should start a fire,” he murmured against her neck. “But I will warm you well enough."

He swept her in his arms and placed her on the bed, retrieving the blanket.

“Until I join you,” he said, spreading it across her. Boots dropped to the floor, waistcoat and shirt discarded.

A moment passed as she admired his hardened curves and dark, tapered hair.

“You are very beautiful."

A brow rose. The unmistakable bulge of his arousal pressed against the breeches and he watched her as she stared at it, eyes wide.

“You have to remove those too, don't you?"

He chuckled. “We will both enjoy this much more if I do."

“But you don't want me to see all of you?"

“Do you suspect I am shy, my dear?"

“No. Only modest. For my sake."

He bent down and kissed her briefly. “Yes. Modesty, for your sake."

“But I want to see you. I have—” The candlelight didn't hide her embarrassment.

“Imagined what I look like?"

She groaned and pulled the blanket up over her head. “Yes,” she mumbled from beneath.

His laughter warmed the room. “Sometimes your candor is your own undoing. For certain, it is mine."

The rustling of fabric was too enticing. She moved the blanket and stared at the unbuttoned breeches and held her breath as they fell to the floor. She stilled.

“I do not think we will be able to do this after all,” she whispered.

He lifted the blanket and knelt next to her. “Have you changed your mind, then?"

She shook her head. “Dim. Not about you, but,” her eyes widened as he stretched out alongside her, “I don't see how it will be possible. We are very different sizes."

“We make it possible,” he assured her. “I make it possible for you.” He kissed her softly. “When you are ready, it will be quite possible."

“Ready? But I am ready now."

“You are not. But you will be."

She frowned up at him. “How do—"

A finger on her lips quieted her. “You must trust me. I have some skill in this, Ava. I will know when you are ready."

“How could you know, when it is my body? You are not inside me feeling what I do."

He grinned, suddenly relishing this role of teacher. Lying with a maid might be more enjoyable than he'd thought. It being this maid would make it even more so.

His finger moved from lips to chin, down her neck and traced the neckline of the chemise. “We will know together, my sweet. And after we do, I will be inside you."

She narrowed her eyes in doubt.

“I have imagined what you look like also."

“Have you?"

“Of course I have. To distraction."

If he'd had the type of thoughts she'd had about him, she understood perfectly his meaning.

Before nerves weakened her resolve, she knelt, lifted the chemise overhead, and let it fall between them. She lay back against the pillows, her gaze direct, the urge to cover herself great as his eyes roamed over her body.

“The distractions were well deserved,” he murmured, “But the actuality is far more so."

The desire to caress her breasts, so round and pink-tipped, to palm the curve of her hip and to caress the dark blonde rise between her thighs was immediate. But for now, he looked and savored.

Ava did not move. His slow gaze, with mouth and eyes serious but not severe, was unsettling yet gratifying. His desire for her evidenced in his expression made her feel wanted, attractive. It tugged at her private place, her breasts ached and nipples tingled. His look alone did that.

How she knew where to touch and caress to give him pleasure was unexplainable. But his sighs and low rumbles urged and guided her hands and mouth to do just that. Then his arms crossed beneath her back, hands sunk into her hair and he kissed her until her mind blinked off. His mouth tasted, teased and roused, hands explored and coaxed. When his mouth lowered to her breasts, pulled in a sensitive nipple she nearly screamed from the exquisite sensation. It poured over her skin like warm oil, seeped to her bones, scorched her blood. The ache between her thighs swelled, an intense want tugging insistently. Her hips moved without her realizing it as she sought greater contentment.

“This is enough,” she sputtered, her hands gripping his arms. “I am ... where you are touching me, it pulls too much."

He looked down at the hand between her thighs. “You are so hot. So wet."

She shook her head in a daze. “What you are doing. It is making me want more. My body, it's screaming."

He kissed his way from her stomach to mouth.

“It is telling us that you are ready, sweetest.” He moved between her legs.

Her hips rocked and breathing quieted.

Rising above her, his lips lingered on hers. “I will not risk you being with child, Ava. At the end, I will withdraw."

She was grateful he'd thought of that, for she hadn't.

He kissed her once again, briefly drawing each lip into his mouth. When his phallus touched her opening, she drew in a quick breath. It felt nothing like his fingers. Her heart knocked with apprehension of the unknown.

Hands smoothed her hair off her face, eyes, black and lusty locked onto hers.

“Relax. It will go easier for you."

“Easier?” Her eyes widened and fingers dug into his upper arms. The insistent weight pressed into the pulse between her thighs.

A shadow of regret filled his eyes as he moved inside her. He caught her cry with his mouth and whispered something she did not understand. She hadn't been prepared for this. Everything they'd done, that he'd done to her, had felt unbelievably good, and now a sharp pain and broad ache pervaded and she tensed instinctively.

Her eyes begged him for answers.

“Relax your thighs, love. And inside. Don't tighten your muscles so."

She nodded and concentrated. “Am I doing it?"

He smiled and kissed her nose. “I believe so. Give it a moment. Let your body adjust to mine."

“Yes. All right.” Her eyes didn't leave his. “Will that happen soon, do you think?"

“It will."

This is not how I thought it would be. All the sensations that came from kissing and touching had been so wonderful. She thought it was leading to something even better, but she'd been wrong. It was, in fact, disappointing. And now they had to wait, with him very fully inside her, large and very hot, for her body to get used to his. Why bother with that when everything was over?

While she waited, she traced the edge of his jaw and the shape of his mouth. He turned his head and caught the finger between his teeth. A sharp twinge from where they were joined surprised her and urged her to move.

“Deran...” Her hips tilted up.

He withdrew to her threshold and then sank further past her soft folds, all the while watching her reaction. Her back arched and a gasp melted into a moan. Her jaw relaxed and eyes flew open. She smiled.

“That was not comfortable, but it was better than the last."

He grinned. “That's my girl. Honest and true. And it will be better still.” Again he withdrew slightly and slid back into her heat. “We will find great pleasure together, my sweet.” He moved again.

Her eyes were darker, mouth open. “What am I supposed to do?"

“There are no rules, Ava. You may lay and do nothing, or move with me.” Once again he eased out and back into her. “Whatever you desire."

What she desired was for the pressure he was causing inside her to go away. It wasn't going to be possible to do nothing. A tentative rise of her hips spread a wave of warmth up her back and a nagging fullness deep within. As she matched his rhythm, the fullness increased.

His hands slid under her, raised her higher against him. Instinctively she cradled him with her thighs. All pain and sharp aches evaporated as she became caught up in the sounds and sensations they created, moved with the slow silkiness of his movements. His hands never stilled, mouth met hers in long, open-mouthed kisses and she drank them in. Everything inside became tighter, to the point of irritation.

Ava peered down to where they were joined, fascinated, She spread her fingers around his hardness, watched him slide through them.

“Dear lord,” he muttered. She felt like no one he'd bedded before. The softest skin, firm muscle and so liquid and tight inside. He'd deliberately kept his strokes slow in deference to her inexperience and discomfort, but she was holding nothing back. Her enthusiastic participation astonished him and without realizing it, she'd pushed him to the brink of stimulation. Maintaining control was becoming near impossible.

He looked down at the fingers between them and dropped his head with a groan.

“Ava."

Her hips rocked harder and faster against his and her breathing merged into the sweetest moans.

Certain that her body would split in half at any moment if some relief to this all-consuming heaviness inside her did not end soon, she dug her fingers into his hips and tightened her trembling thighs around his waist. More of the yearning, the feeling of being drawn upward, higher and higher splintered through her.

“Oh ... myn Duw!"

She arched wildly and cried out his name as her body floated to the ceiling, suspended there and dribbled back down. Through a fog she watched his face tighten and chest muscles dance as his movements quickened. A harsh groan left his lips as he plunged a final time before pulling out abruptly and spilling his seed onto the sheet.

Wind blew in her ears and whipped through her head. Her body ached, legs quivered, heart moved at the speed of an untethered horse. All of it, perfectly fabulous.

And not at all what she'd expected.

His full weight was on her and that was nearly as wonderful as what they'd just done. Damp chest, heart meeting the speed of her own, head above her shoulder, hair splashed across her cheek. It smelled of grass and hearth and soap, mingled with their own scent.

Deran slowly rose onto an elbow and looked down at her. She was all golds and roses, lips reddened, cheeks deep pink, hair a glowing wreath around her head. The eyes, a deep, dreamy green, met his gaze.

“We are the right sizes after all,” she said lazily.

He kissed her cheek and rolled to his side, pulling her with him. “Mmm. Indeed we are."

Chapter Twenty-Five

Deran watched her as she slept in the crook of his arm. I can't describe it, he'd said to her, what you have done to me. That was truer now.

He had little experience with vulnerability, even less with affection. Sex wasn't affection, nor intimacy, nor love. Truths that made it all the more alluring to him. Physical relations without entanglements. Pleasure without emotional impediments.

But more than sex had occurred tonight and it was damn disconcerting. He wasn't surprised, but realizing more had taken place shook him tremendously. Her passion had shocked him and that she'd had an orgasm amazed him. He'd been told virgins didn't do that.

The hopelessness of officially being together added to his upset. The feelings—confusion, powerlessness, the rash desire for more than what they could have—he didn't want any of them.

“You are still here,” she whispered, sleepily.

He kissed each closed eyelid. “Did you want me gone?"

She looked up at him. “No, but I was afraid you would leave."

“I cannot stay until morning, Ava."

“I know.” She stretched along his length, slid an arm over his chest. “Not yet though. Please, do not leave me yet."

He kissed the top of head. “No. Not yet."

Several silent moments passed. “I did not know how this would be, that it would feel so good. I had nothing to imagine it with.” She paused and sighed. “Until now."

“In this bed,” he said abruptly, lifting her hand to his mouth to tease her fingertips with his tongue, “which you have not slept in before now."

“No,” she admitted. “I have not."

Her quickened breath from the touch of his tongue aroused him swiftly. A kiss to her temple brought her breath up short. Soon, she would want him again, as he already did her.

“Why do you sleep on the floor? Not only here, but at my home, and my aunt's.” The kisses moved to her jaw. He lifted a coil of hair aside to bare her neck and left a kiss there. “Is it a fear of heights?” he teased.

“Of course not.” She encouraged his attentions by raising her chin. “I am used to sleeping on the floor."

“As punishment for impertinence, most likely.” He tossed the bedcover aside and his mouth and hands traveled over warm, silken skin.

“No, there were other punishments for that, thank you, sir. There was a single bed for Mairwen and me. After Ithel was born he slept in my place and I took a mat on the floor beside him.” His hands stilled at her waist, warm breath teased her breasts. “He would have nightmares, and cry out. I would hold his hand and sing, or talk to him until he fell back to sleep."

It had been a wondrous vision, the night he'd witnessed her singing into the darkness. The reason behind it made it more so.

Beneath his cheek her chest rose in a silent sob. His lips blotted the tears that wet her cheeks.

“We will find him, Ava. And Mairwen."

She nodded and swiped a hand over her eyes. “Yes."

His eyes did not close when his tongue lined her lip, nipped at it and then touched his mouth to hers. She watched him watch her, the locked eyes making the air seem more still somehow. It was different from kissing with closed eyes, the physical sensations less, but the emotions, a transfer of self, far greater.

His hair was deep in her hands and a moan drifted from her as she arched up to feel more of him.

“It is too soon for you, my sweet.” His voice was uneven, raspy. “You will be sore from what we have done, if you are not already."

Ava cast moist eyes at him. “I will be glad for it. I do not want to forget this anytime soon.” A hand caressed his cheek, moved to his shoulder. “How your body fits mine, how your hands feel, and mouth tastes. I will wear the soreness gladly."

How could he feel discovery and loss at the same time? She echoed his unspoken, miserable thoughts, that this was all they would have or could have, that there would be nothing beyond this place, this night. How he resented her honesty at that second.

“I have told you,” he said roughly, “there are things we do not speak of.” He rolled away onto his back.

Ava stared at the rigid profile. “You are angry."

“No.” An arm covered his eyes. “No, Ava, not angry. Frustrated and—” He fisted his hand. “I don't know what—"

“Remorseful? For how I have upset your life?"

“No!” He jerked his arm back and glared at her, his eyes a black heat. “Do not for a minute think that. I have no remorse, and I cannot, and will not explain it further to you."

Feelings weren't meant to be discussed, and even if he were inclined to do so it certainly wouldn't be done with a woman. Emotions weren't worth the time spent analyzing them. They came and went without will and only the actions resulting from them could be controlled. The bed he was in, and had been for the past few hours, was testament to that.

“Very well,” she said in a clipped tone. “You will not explain it further. You couldn't if you wanted to since you didn't explain yourself to begin with."

Her acquiescence stoked his irritation. If she'd tossed back a harsh word, he'd have had the excuse to, what, goad her into disagreement? Deuce take it, what the devil was the matter with him? Did he deliberately want to anger her?

Ava lay still. The rage that heated his eyes and tightened his jaw eased. In its place appeared bewilderment and perhaps sadness or helplessness, and it weighted her heart with unshed tears.

She rose on an elbow and kissed his brow, eyes, nose, cheeks. A single finger caressed his lips while she whispered words of solace he wouldn't understand. Her eyes held his and she smiled slightly.

“I am wanting you again, dearest sir.” She blushed. “Is that also not something I am to speak of?"

When she looked at him, in the same open and unrestrained manner in which she spoke, all thoughts of loss disappeared. All he saw, felt and wanted was what could be.

He returned her smile and cupped her face in his hands. “How many times have thoughts passed between us without words?” He pulled her down to him and scarcely touched his mouth to hers. “Like the wanting, it simply is. We do not need to say it for it to be so."

Keeping her halfway on top of him, showing her how she could have him from that position, was very tempting. But a sudden rush of hope let him think it would keep for another time very soon. Another time. This would not, could not, be the only and the last.

He pulled her close and rolled her over with him. Her heat, the wild scent of her hair and honeyed skin, the soft breasts and firm thighs rekindled the fire that hadn't been doused. It wasn't long before they brought each other to a desperate state of desire.

Deran held her face in his hands and kissed her deeply. “I have to have you, Ava. I need to be inside you. Will you be all right?"

“Please.” She trembled beneath him. “Please, now. Do not worry for me."

It wasn't as unhurried, not as cautious, not as considerate as the first time and it was exactly what they had to have. What he gave, she took with exuberance, what she gave, he luxuriated in. No boundaries existed, imagined or real, as they shared and exchanged undeclared, undefined emotions.

“Deran,” she cried out.

“Yes, Ava,” he rasped. “Yes. Come. Come with me. Together, Ava.” He tilted her hips higher and buried into her and gloried in her release. The strength of her muscles around him urged him to his own completion. How he found the will to do as he'd promised and withdraw from her, he didn't know. As he lay upon her, their breathing like far-flung gales, hearts pounding in time against each other, muscles vibrating, he had no notion how he could ever let her go.

* * * *

The morning sun couldn't shine through the gray day. Ava moved from her floor bed to the window seat and stared at the gloom. The darkest day couldn't dampen her mood. They'd slept and woken an hour before dawn. Again they'd made love, slowly like the first time, and with such passion she'd cried. They'd lain in silence afterward, bodies entwined, hands caressing, not a word exchanged. None had been needed. It was the closest Ava had ever felt to anyone.

Now apprehension darkened her contentment. How would it be between them? They couldn't behave this morning as if they'd been lovers last night. It couldn't be anything but awkward when she encountered Deran. Lord Atherton, she corrected. It would certainly not do to slip up with the informal address. How will I be able to look at him as if I had never seen him naked?

She began to straighten the bedcovers and froze. Faint smears of blood stained the center of the linens. He hadn't told her what to do with the soiled sheets. She'd find the laundry and wash them herself. She tugged them off, shoved them under the bed and spread the quilt over the mattress.

I will wash, go downstairs to breakfast and behave as though nothing happened, she decided, punching a pillow. Her stomach was as empty as a dry rain barrel—understandable after having no large meal yesterday and indulging in physical exercise all night. Yes, she would eat and act as if nothing was different between them.

How will he behave? As the lord of the manor and I'm his guest.

She groaned and stepped back from the bed, its size larger than when they'd filled it. The formal welcome, polite conversation, no affection, would be difficult to endure. But for his sake, she must.

There would be no tears, no regrets. She had a memory of loving and it would remain forever.

As she turned toward the window, a horse and rider came into sight. The rider looked familiar, but it wasn't until he dismounted and whipped his hat off did she recognize him as Deran's friend, the one who'd ridden with him on his search for her. Mr. DiSanto. What had brought him here from London?

After a quick bath she dressed in her favorite day dress. The cream with thin lavender stripe made her feel pretty and she wanted to look good for him. Beth fixed her hair and thirty minutes later she breezed into the dining room expecting to find Deran and Mr. DiSanto. The room was empty. A long side table crowded with silver serving dishes, coffee and tea preparations was guarded by servants at each end. One hovered over domed platters, another lurked at the far end next to trays of biscuits, breads and muffins.

The thin, gray-haired butler from London suddenly appeared at the doorway.

“Good morning, miss. His lordship sends his regrets for not joining you. He must see to business matters this morning and will join you at luncheon."

“Oh. Has he left from here?"

“No, miss. He is in his study."

* * * *

Of course, business matters, Ava thought as she tried to work up enthusiasm for soft-boiled eggs. Not only is he a man of Society, but a businessman. Ships. How well she remembered. Maybe Mr. DiSanto is in business with him.

He'd mentioned nothing about traveling to more workhouses today. What was she to do this morning while he was busy?

She bit into a buttered muffin wishing it was her mother's fruit bread, bara brith. Served only for special teas, the sumptuous bread drenched with honey glaze had always been one of her favorite foods.

Each bite of her meal made her more homesick, the feeling of despair replacing the happiness she'd had several hours ago. She didn't belong here. Not only at this estate but here, England, in the life of an earl, his family, his friends. It couldn't even be a dream, the possibility was so absurd. But she'd known that all along.

She needed to find them and go home. The urge to flee hit her like a cricket bat from behind. Nothing was, nor ever had been, more important than finding Ithel and Mairwen. Tomorrow marked the first week. Only one remained before that horrible man returned.

She hurried from the dining room to her bedchamber, her mind flying. No, you are not thinking of doing this. He will never forgive you, never speak to you again. But isn't that what would happen anyway? Better this way, with him angry at me than with him acting like last night never happened.

She wrapped a dress inside a shawl, her hands trembling. This is wrong. He will hate you. You do not know where to look. That wasn't entirely true. He'd told her the names of workhouse towns. She only needed to remember them and ask directions on the road.

Lord Atherton couldn't help her today. She'd far exceeded her welcome and requests of him. What had happened last night could never be repeated. She was doing a spectacular job of rationalizing, of course. No one would listen to this idea of hers and think of it as anything other than what it was. Inane. But she could leave with memories she would treasure for eternity, the only ones like it she would ever have, and would complete her undertaking. One day, he would thank her for this. She was doing both of them a favor. Really.

She wrote a brief note and placed it at the foot of the bed. She walked out and didn't look back.

* * * *

Deran couldn't concentrate. His brain felt thicker than cooked oatmeal as he paced the room while Max rattled on. What is she doing right now? She'd be up, maybe bathing. Hell. Dash that thought. But he could see her shoulder-high in bath water, hair piled high on her head or streaming over the rim of the tub, eyes closed. Her hand dips the cloth in the water, strokes it over her breasts, the nipples hard and pink, her sigh of contentment—

“What will you say to him?"

The water droplets splashed out of his consciousness and he landed back in his study with a thud. He turned. Max sat looking at him impatiently. Deran's leaden brain scrambled to recall what he'd been talking about. The conversation at the club. Rensleigh. He would be arriving for a confrontation. Ah, yes, it was all coming back. Lamentable.

“I will listen,” Deran replied, dropping gracelessly onto his desk chair, “and reply accordingly."

Max looked astounded. “That's all? You have nothing more to say about it?"

“What else is there to say? The man has something to tell me that warrants traveling from London to the country, a locale Rensleigh abhors, mind you. I will hear him out."

“You are being remarkably calm about the whole thing. Not the way to go about it if you ask me."

“I didn't, but your opinion is noted."

Max studied him. He appeared intensely preoccupied, and not with the matter Max had just imparted. No. Something had him so restless he'd been pacing like a trapped fox for the last half hour. The tension in his face belied his aloof posture. If the tale about the overheard conversation put him this on edge, Max wondered at his reaction when he told him what he'd found out about Miss Fychon and...

Max became very still. “Good Lord,” he mumbled. He tapped his fingers on the chair arm. “I have much more to tell you and it's all about her. I'm not so sure you are in a position, or proper frame of mind to hear it."

An eyebrow rose. “And why is that?"

“Because my friend, it appears you are beyond the besotted stage, that maybe you have been in her company-if I am mistaken you will quickly set me to rights, I know.” His voice lowered. “Please tell me you haven't...” He leaned in closer, the remainder of his inquiry left for interpretation.

Deran raised a commanding palm, his eyes, icy steel. “We will not speak of this."

Max groaned loudly. “Good God, Atherton. She's a simple woman—a girl! As incompatible with Society as a maidservant or—"

The fist struck the desktop hard enough to topple the pen stand. “Enough,” Deran bellowed. “I said we will not talk of this. Not of her. Not of me, with her. Not—” His eyes blazed, color plastered his cheeks. He'd not had any time alone to think about this. All he'd been able to do was briefly relive the hours with her, the sensations. He'd had no time to think about it practically. No time to think about what to do about her now. What happened last night had come about because he'd wanted it to happen, had made it happen. And now consequences had to be faced and choices made, although both were really made for him.

But he could not, would not discuss this with anyone. Not even his closest friend.

The sharp silence was punctuated only by the steady ticking of the mantel clock.

“Deuce take it,” he finally muttered after several minutes.

“Do you have a ... a plan?"

Deran looked at him blankly. “Evidently you did not hear me the first time, Max. I will not discuss this."

“Did you think to protect her by bringing her here?” Max asked softly. “It would have worked if she wasn't an escaped ... someone almost taken into servitude, being sought after by who knows how many, and you weren't who you are."

Deran smiled wryly. “It wasn't for her protection, you know that. We came here to search for her family. But if it had been a means to protect her, she would have been much safer staying in London."

Message received and threat of a scuffle abated, Max inquired about the results of the search. Deran told him about yesterday's workhouse visits.

“Tomorrow we will go to the other two."

“You may not have the opportunity. As I said in my letter, guests will be arriving here as early as this afternoon. I could not discourage them, especially your sister.” He smiled at the groan. “But,” he raised a hand to ward off comments or complaints, “I don't think you will need to make those other visits, Atherton. I have information about both the brother and sister, very encouraging information."

Chapter Twenty-Six

Deran tapped out a rhythm on the desk edge. “Do not toy with me, DiSanto. I am not in one of my more tolerant moods. You may have surmised my patience is at an ungenerous level today."

“I am quick that way, Atherton."

“What news?” Deran glanced at the door. He half-expected her to come barging in to say good morning, or make some excuse to see him. Half-expected and more than wished. Damn distracting.

“I was away on business looking into a matter regarding a Miss Mairwen Fychon of Penmon, Wales who is in service as a housemaid at a residence in Sutton."

Deran bolted forward. “Mairwen Fychon? Ava's Mairwen?"

“It is a rather singular name, my good fellow. Particularly here in England. And I have already talked to the source of my information, I can assure you she is none other than Miss Fychon's sister."

“Damnation,” Deran exclaimed. “How in God's name did you find her?"

Max shrugged. “I didn't really. She, or rather the informer, found me through Thornton, your mate with the brother in south Wales. Thornton spoke to a Mrs. Glynis Evans of Penmon, Wales."

“Tell me about Mairwen Fychon."

Three days after she and her brother were separated from their sister, Mairwen became separated from her brother. Days of travel by cart and stagecoach landed her in Newbury where she was left at the doorstep of the man who'd seemingly purchased her, a widower with four children. She worked tirelessly as housemaid and nursemaid as well as warding off unwanted attentions from the master of the household. After one particularly close call two weeks after arriving, she ran away in search of her estranged family. She'd never forgotten how the men on the ship had bid good riddance to Ava and laughed about how well she'd fit in with the rough set of Londoners, so Mairwen went to London. She found a situation and made inquiries as best she could, then wrote to Mrs. Evans who she'd kept in touch with since leaving Wales, to let her know of her new whereabouts and ask again if she'd heard from her sister.

“Mrs. Evans was more than beside herself,” Max explained as he sipped coffee. “She was infuriated and hell bent on finding out where her friend's children had disappeared and why a man claiming to be their uncle had taken over their home. His explanations did not satisfy her."

Deran tasted his coffee and took a bite of sweet roll. He'd missed breakfast and it would be another hour or two before luncheon and his appetite raged.

“Claiming to be their uncle?"

“Mrs. Evans had never seen him before and couldn't remember Ava's mother, Clare, ever mentioning him.” Max helped himself to a roll. “She approached this supposed uncle and demanded to know where the children were. He informed her they'd been summoned to another relative's home and as much as he hadn't wanted to send them to a veritable stranger, he only had their well-being in mind and simply could not refuse."

“Liar.” Deran leapt to his feet. “He's a damn liar. On two counts. There is no such relative and they were taken away, not sent away."

“Actually there is such a relative,” Max said pointedly. “But he did not send for them, you are correct in that. I will come back to that. I must say,” he added with a small smile, “I would not want to be poorly armed when facing Mrs. Evans in battle. If women could be barristers, she would be a formidable one. She sounds very much like Miss Ava Fychon, actually. Single-minded and tenacious."

Deran let out a short laugh. “A gentlemanly description, DiSanto."

“Word spread of the uncle's explanation of the children's disappearance and how he came to be on the property. He is an uncle, by the way, somewhat removed. He's Mr. Fychon's stepbrother, Lyle Roke. There was a village meeting, which he wasn't invited to, and it was decided at that meeting that Mrs. Evans would correspond with the relative, explain the situation to him and ask for confirmation as to his knowledge of Mr. Roke's presence, as well as his assistance. This was nearly three weeks ago. I don't know the result of that request, but we will hear from Mrs. Evans when she hears from him."

“Who is he?"

“Mrs. Fychon's father, whom she was estranged from since her marriage to Ava's father."

Deran turned from his place at the mantel. “Estranged? Why?"

“Clare's parents disapproved of their only daughter marrying a Welshman. But the stronger argument was Bran Fychon was an opera singer. A very good one from Mrs. Evans’ account. He met Clare Stafford in Southampton when his opera troupe toured. Introduced at the opening night reception, they met clandestinely several times before the troupe moved on. They corresponded after he returned home to Wales."

Deran sat in his chair and looked at him with surprise. “Ava's mother was English? I can certainly see why that would have created a stir. That would have been, what, well over twenty years ago. The relationship between England and Wales was more strained then than now."

“Indeed,” Max concurred. “But it wasn't that he was a Welsh opera singer that made the Stafford's turn a collective back on their daughter and disinherit her.” He paused and smiled slightly. “It was because Bran Fychon was not of the Aristocracy."

Deran's heart quickened. He'd heard the words, but took a few seconds to react.

“And,” he said slowly, “the Stafford family is?"

“Yes. They are."

Deran let out the breath he'd been holding. “Ava's mother was a noble? Why did she not tell me?"

Max shook his head. “She doesn't know, never was told. Her parents chose not to tell their children. Miss Clare Stafford had happily made her choice to marry Bran Fychon. It was a love match from the beginning, one her family would not accept. To make matters even worse, the couple eloped. As far as the Stafford's were concerned, she was lost to them forever."

Deran was on his feet, pacing a strip on the floor.

“Who is he? The father, Ava's grandfather."

“Baron Sheldon Stafford."

Ava's grandfather a baron. Ava wasn't a commoner from a village in Wales. She had noble lineage, whether acknowledged by her parents or grandparents.

Thoughts poured in faster than the sea through a ship's open porthole. This changed everything. It made everything possible. She wouldn't have to leave. The grandfather could come forward, explain everything and claim his grandchildren. They could know their heritage and have their rightful titles restored.

She could stay.

They could be together.

God in Heaven, where had that come from? One night with her and you are thinking of every night for eternity?

“Atherton. You're wearing the pattern off the carpet."

“I need to tell Ava. And her sister, and we need to get her here, or return to London for her. Now.” He crossed the room to the long window. “And the baron. Where does he live? Is he still in Southampton?"

“You're not being sensible, you do know that, don't you?"

Deran spun back. “Sensible? Of course I'm being sensible. This is the most sense I've made in over a week, the most hope I have felt in over a week."

“I know what you're thinking, Deran.” He ignored the warning scowl. “Even though you made it quite clear that you will not talk about it, your feelings for this girl are not disguisable. You are thinking because she has noble heritage, it is possible for you to have her. But that heritage was stripped from her before her birth. She was born a commoner. That cannot be changed."

“You don't know that. As the grandfather is still alive, there is hope for her rights to be restored to her."

“I understand your wanting this but you don't know how she—"

The rattle of an approaching carriage stopped him. Deran glanced out the window and groaned.

Max stepped next to him and grinned. “I'm not surprised she arrived first. She was most anxious about your welfare. As was your devoted brother-in-law.” He let out a quick laugh, drawing Deran's attention to the window again.

“Damnation. What is my mother doing here?"

Max laughed harder. “Oh how I do love the country. It's so restful."

* * * *

Unwilling to face them any sooner than necessary, Deran waited for Bickford to announce the guests.

“Lord and Lady Charnock and Lady Atherton, sir. They insist on speaking to you and have declined to wait in the drawing room."

“Where the deuce are they then?"

“Here we are,” his sister announced, swooshing in amongst an abundance of teal green silk. Enormous flowers on her bonnet were in danger of not clearing the width of the door, but somehow passed through without dislodging a single petal or clump of foliage.

“Linny,” Deran said coolly, “what a surprise. And you have brought your garden with you. Sit, before you topple over, or worse, go to seed in my study."

“Hateful beast,” she said, kissing the air about his cheeks.

He looked past her to his brother-in-law stepping aside to allow the countess to precede him.

Unlike her daughter, Lady Atherton wasn't inclined to wear the latest fashions. She contended that if one lived long enough fashion would repeat itself.

Deran smiled warmly at his mother, genuinely happy to see her. When he'd visited her in the Brentwood residence a month ago he thought she'd looked tired, but today she looked refreshed and elegant in her dark blue and silver carriage dress and understated blue hat perched on her thick twist of soft gray hair.

Her light brown eyes examined him with concern as she pressed a kiss on each cheek. “You have worries,” she said calmly.

“As well he should,” the viscount exclaimed. He nodded to Deran. “Lord Atherton."

“Charnock."

The viscount turned to his mother-in-law. “As I said, madam, he should be worried. Robert has gone off like an overloaded pistol. He has all but declared war on your son, on account of a woman—a woman who has caused considerable misery to the family since her arrival, I might add. Is that not right, sir?"

He couldn't strike the man. Not in front of his mother, at least.

“I will not reply to that, sir, as I can only think you did not mean to utter a disparaging remark about a woman you do not even know. Mother,” he said by way of dismissal to the viscount, “how is it you were coerced into making this trip?” He offered an arm and led her to the settee. She settled gracefully on its edge and patted her skirts around her. Then she noticed Max.

“Mr. DiSanto,” she said with a gracious smile. “How good to see you."

Max pushed away from the window where he'd been quietly looking on.

“Lady Atherton.” He took the offered hand and lifted it to his lips. “It is a genuine pleasure to see you again, madam. How is it that you are more beautiful each time we meet?"

She laughed delicately. “Your flattery is as silver-tongued as ever, Mr. DiSanto."

“It is never flattery when it is truth, madam.” He straightened and smiled charmingly.

“When you're done cajoling my mother,” Deran said in a bored tone, “let me know."

“I am. For now."

She'd missed family, the countess explained. She needed a trip to London to see her son, daughter and sister Geneva and she wanted to surprise everyone. She'd arrived yesterday to news of Deran's squabble with Robert.

“Please explain this to me. Geneva gave me a most chaotic explanation, something to do with a woman you found in the river who was a guest in her home and has twice run away and,” frown lines deepened around her eyes, “I do not know what to make of any of it."

He loved his family, the female members far more than the males, but impatience made it difficult for him to play the attentive and courteous host. He had much to do and if he didn't see Ava in the next few moments he very well might lose all control and rampage through the house hollering her name. Breakfast was over, luncheon would soon be served. Surely she'd left her bedchamber at some point to inquire about one or both meals. Why hadn't she ventured in to say a proper hello, let him know she was about?

Cold fear seized him. Was she ashamed about last night? Worse, she regretted having been with him. She couldn't show her face because he would know as soon as he set eyes on her.

He'd know she wished they'd never happened.

“Deran,” a female voice said. “What is it? You have gone white."

But that couldn't be. She'd given herself to him, more passionately each time. There had been no timidity, no signs of remorse. Quite the opposite. But that could all change with the reality of a new day. He was familiar with how it was to languish away evening hours with a bed partner only to want nothing more than to slink off at dawn, a lustful thirst slaked, an emptiness of heart and spirit, and the strongest wish to become invisible.

But they had shared more than lustful interludes. Far more. She sang the love song she'd sung at his aunt's, coiled against him and the heavy emotion he'd felt the night of the dinner party returned, but more intensely because this time she'd truly sung it to him alone. A gift from her heart.

Pain thinking she avoided him due to regret was dagger sharp.

Max stepped in front of him, a look of alarm on his face. “Are you all right?"

You're making a fool of yourself, Deran thought. A spectacle worthy of an asylum. At any moment your family will cart you off to Bedlam, and with good cause.

“Yes. I need to speak to Bickford.” His eyes swept the room. “Mother, I will be happy to answer your questions, but they will have to wait. I'll send for tea. I've been remiss at not offering it sooner.” He made a bow. “If you'll excuse me, there's something I must see to immediately."

Max followed. “What the hell are you doing?"

“I have to find her. Won't take but a minute."

The dining room was empty and the sideboard was being set for luncheon.

“Where's Bickford?” he asked the closest servant.

“Here, sir."

Deran whirled around to face his butler.

“Damnation, Bickford, don't do that."

“Certainly sir. What is it you do not want me to do?"

“Pop out from nowhere. It jangles a man's nerves."

Bickford blinked. “I understand, sir."

“Where is Miss Fychon? Did you give her my message? Did she breakfast?"

“Yes to the last two, I do not know, to the first."

Deran's eyes narrowed. “I need to speak to her. Find her."

“Yes, my lord. Will there be anything else, sir?"

“No.” Deran stepped away and spun back. “Yes. Tea. For everyone in there.” He flung an arm behind him. “And if anyone else arrives tell them no one is at home. That we have left for Borneo and aren't due to return until at least next summer.” Bickford didn't move. For an insane second Deran thought of rolling his eyes, just as she did. “No. Don't say any such thing. That was merely my humor taking a precipitous dive. Just,” he waved an arm aimlessly, “add them to the others."

“Very good, sir."

Deran stalked off. “And find her,” he bellowed over his shoulder.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Gibson had easily provided the horse. Lord Atherton is busy, she explained to the young groomsman. He told me to find something to amuse myself. Then she appealed to his pride by being interested in his occupation. So many beautiful horses, do you care for them by yourself, what breed is this one, which do you prefer to ride?

He apologized for not having a sidesaddle. She assured him that was quite all right, was there a horse accustomed to being ridden bareback? Aye, but none fit for a lady. It took some doing, but eventually she convinced him the master wouldn't mind if she rode this way, that in fact he'd told her in secret it was his favorite way to ride. He felt the raw power of the animal this way, the excitement that only came from riding bareback.

Hera, the five-year old gray balked at first, letting Ava know with loud snorts and a rearing up who was in charge. It didn't take the spirited horse long to smooth out her stride and relax beneath Ava's thighs. She responded eagerly and easily to the simple rope bridle Ava used to direct her. Being on a horse again was thrilling and now that her journey was set in motion, she was charged with excitement and determination.

An hour away from Tercy Manor, however, Ava had the sinking feeling she chased a ghost, riding into a wide nothingness. She'd followed the directions exactly, but had yet to see a township with a workhouse. The two she'd passed through had no manufacturing industry. Sensing she rode farther away from Ithel with each pound of the horse's hooves, the deepening gloom of the sky matched the heaviness in her heart.

At the next hillcrest, she imagined a township on its opposite side. Stark brick buildings with smokestacks pumping out fat plumes of smoke. Workers gathered outside for their luncheon break. A circle of children kicking a ball back and forth to each other. And he was there. Shorter than the others, quick and light on his feet, his fair hair swinging across his thin face as he raced for the ball.

The image was so clear Ava's heart beat as hard as the horse's hooves. She urged Hera into a faster gallop and held her breath as they reached the top of the hill. Nothing. Nothing but lush acres of green surrounding an estate set high on a hill with more green beyond.

Ava reined in abruptly in the middle of the road, her excitement shattered. No longer could she deny this had been a foolish quest. She wasn't going in the right direction. She either needed to backtrack or continue on and hope she simply hadn't gone far enough. She'd been chanting silently, ‘just another mile’ for what seemed an eternity. There was nothing else to rely on but intuition if she continued in the same direction and if she turned back now she could reach the manor by mid afternoon, maybe even before anyone knew she'd left.

The horse needed a rest and she needed to think. Steering onto a grassy slope, she slid off Hera's back and left her to graze. She stretched out on the hillside, achingly aware of muscles in her backside and thighs that had been unused for too long. Despite her despair, it was wonderful to be in the country, away from the crush of people and confines of a household. Not that comforts of warmth, food and safety weren't nice. She didn't take them for granted. But to have them in the country rather than the city was much finer.

She spread her arms wide and breathed deeply. Dirt. Grass. Air. Simple, fresh smells she'd missed. She closed her eyes, pulled in another long breath intending to think about what to do, but memories from the night before swept over her. She'd never been so nervous in all her life as when he'd walked into her bedchamber. How he looked at her with such ferocious intensity, stretched out in the chair as though he had all the time in the world, how he smiled. He had a beautiful smile. Never would she have thought such a serious man whose temper could be easily roused could be so tender and giving. She had no other lovemaking experience to compare theirs to, but it had to have been as perfect as any could be. Did every woman feel adored when with a man? Did she thrill knowing that her touch, her lips, the way her body responded to his gave him pleasure? Did her lover laugh softly in her ear, pull the lobe into his mouth, nibble it with his teeth? Were her breasts kissed and suckled until they tingled and ached for more? And when he gave himself to her, joined inside her, did her body light up from within and shimmer with pleasure, so exquisitely full it was nearly unbearable?

Did she want to hold onto him forever, never let him go? How did she go on when she had to?

A drop of rain fell on her forehead, another on her cheek. The sky looked lower, the clouds thicker. She sighed and pushed up onto her elbows. Hera had moved several feet away to a new patch of sweet grass. Whatever her decision, she wasn't going to escape the imminent rain.

Continuing didn't feel right, at least not on the current pathway. She wanted it to, dear God, how she wanted it to! But it simply didn't. Riding around disoriented in an unfamiliar country wasn't doing Ithel or herself any good.

The smart thing would be to return to Tercy Manor and wait until Deran could accompany her. She'd be patient, wouldn't push him, or annoy him with questions or requests.

In other words, silently, she'd go mad.

For two more days. After that she'd have to return to London and face a new life and pray that the Sir would honor his word and not harm her brother and sister. Perhaps, if cooperative, he'd allow her to see them as he'd said.

The thought made her ill. She'd be giving in, sealing a fate for all three of them she'd been fighting for weeks. But it would keep them alive and give them their only chance at a future reunion.

Two days, she thought, remounting the horse and turning back toward the manor. Two more days of freedom.

* * * *

Deran stood in the empty stall, his temper hot enough to ignite every bale of hay in the stable. Gibson cowered in a corner. Fleck looked on grimly.

“And she's been gone two hours?"

Gibson swallowed loud enough for it to be heard. “Closer to three now, my lord.” The young man's shoulders slumped. “I never would have let her take the horse if I'd known you didn't want her riding, sir. But she said—"

“Yes, I know what she said. And you should have confirmed it with me or Fleck before letting her go. You are dismissed.” Deran spun away on a heel. “From your post as well as this discussion. Fleck, ready my horse."

He stalked out, hands fisted so tightly his forearms ached. Gone! Just like that. Right under his nose, while he was discussing her family and fantasizing about a future together. How could he have been so stupid, so blind?

Damnable woman. He should have chained her to the bed.

When he got his hands on her that's precisely what he'd do, after he throttled her, and then he'd ship her back to London and be done with her. Let the Swiss, German, French, whatever the hell baron he was, have her.

“Bloody good riddance to you.” He stomped back inside the manor, slamming the front door hard enough to realign the entryway portraits. Well past time for his life to be back on its predictable, smooth and damn pleasant course it had been on before that insufferable female flopped onto his carpet. A life with every pleasure he could want, when he wanted and with whom.

He nearly collided with Max as he careened around the corner of the staircase.

“Well?” Max asked.

“She's gone. Just as Bickford said.” He took the stairs by twos. “Went off on her God damned own with my horse to God knows where.” He whirled around at the top of the stairs and glared down at Max who was halfway up. “I can just see her, smiling at Gibson, all wide-eyed and rosy until she hypnotized the poor sod. Puffed him up so much he chose a bloody horse for her and gave directions to the closest towns.” A pounding fist shook the railing. “Blast that cursed woman! If I never see her again, it will be too soon."

A crowd gathered at the foot of the stairs. Mother, sister and brother-in-law looked up at him with intense curiosity.

“Are you talking about Miss Fychon?” Madeline called up to him.

Halfway across the landing, he flung a heated look down at her. “Of course I am. Who else? Is there another woman on this continent so bloody damn stupid to go off on her own in a country she's never been in before looking for someone whose whereabouts are virtually unknown? Riding around on my horse as aimless as a blind hare in a snowstorm?” He stomped down the hallway. “Damnable, asinine woman."

A door slam made the chandelier in the great hall tinkle merrily. Silence followed.

“My, my,” the countess murmured. “What have we here?” She turned to her daughter who stared up at the spot her brother had just played out his impressively incensed scene.

Max descended the stairs and stopped. “It's a long story, madam. The longest you would ever have the misfortune to hear. One that seems to have no end in sight. I thought we'd made a great deal of progress, but now...” His shoulders dropped and he shook his head. “I don't know what to make of it."

“I do,” Madeline chirped. “He's in love with her."

“Damn. What is this nonsense about him being in love? Your brother's never been in love with anyone but himself, far as I can tell,” the viscount sneered.

Madeline swatted his arm. “Don't be rude, Philip. Deran cares for many people. He simply hides it well. Isn't that right, Mother?"

They moved en masse back into the study. “He is not prone to showing his feelings,” the countess agreed, settling back onto the settee. “With the exception of displeasure, of course. That he has never had difficulty communicating."

“That's all he can communicate, if you ask me,” Philip offered.

“We didn't,” the women said in unison.

“Mr. DiSanto,” Lady Atherton said, “You seem to know the details. Tell us about this Miss"—she tipped her head—"I have forgotten her name."

“Fychon,” the other three offered.

Max looked toward the door and listened for angry footsteps. When Deran returned he would offer to ride with him, yet fully expected him to decline. Relaying the tale of the earl and Miss Ava Fychon's association, the heavy thud of footsteps on the stairs stopped him. All eyes veered to the doorway.

Dressed in black riding gear, Deran appeared utterly demonic. “Again I apologize for leaving so suddenly, but I must be off. With any luck, I will find her before dark."

“It's raining,” the viscount announced gleefully, glancing out the window.

“Of course it is,” Deran snapped. “One of her many exasperating talents. Splashing about in vast bodies of water and striking out when the heavens are sure to burst open."

“Deran,” his mother said softly, “From the little Mr. DiSanto has told us, it's clear she is very devoted to her family. She's simply following her heart."

“Yes, yes, I know,” he growled. “But her heart isn't what she should be following, Mother. She has a brain and is fully capable of using it. I have observed her doing so on rare occasion.” He slapped his riding gloves on his thigh. “I am convinced that her heart and head have no more than a nodding acquaintance with each other, if that. Indeed, they may never have been introduced to one another at all.” He bowed slightly. “I hope to see you at dinner.” He left as quickly as he'd entered.

Max excused himself and hurried after him.

“Deran, do you want me to go with you? A second set of eyes, and all that?"

“No. I'm sorry to leave you here with my family, Max, but I need to do this alone. I need to find her. Again. And for the very last time."

“I understand. You need to work off some of your anger so that by the time you reach her you can speak with her calmly. Like you would to anyone in a panic."

Deran paused on the front step and looked out past the cobblestone terrace. He heard the appeal in his friend's voice. “If you are worried for her safety at my hands, you know me better than that, Max. I would never harm her. I'm angry yes, and frustrated, but I could never—” He closed his eyes and pulled in a long breath. The soft rain moving on the trees was all that broke the silence. “You were right,” he said quietly. “You were right about ... about her. About us. But,” he dropped his head back and gazed to the heavens, “there's more to it than ... than what occurred. I can't describe it. I could I suppose, given enough time, but it would not be easy. Regarding Miss Ava Fychon, everything is,” he waved an arm, searching for the words, “immense. And damn confusing. One day I'm in control, the next, I'm being hurled about like I'm caught up in a water spout. There seems to be no limit to how much I fe—” He looked at Max with chagrin. “It's damn chaotic."

Max nodded knowingly and clamped a hand on his shoulder. “But there are more good feelings than bad, and when she's not with you she sits in your mind, even when you don't want her to."

“Yes,” he replied roughly. “How did-?” Deran glanced over in surprise and as quickly, looked away. “Enough of this. I'm already agitated. Talking about her only makes it worse."

Fleck approached with his horse.

“I didn't have a chance to tell you that I made arrangements for Miss Mairwen to be removed from her post in Sutton. Actually it was your aunt's idea."

“My aunt's?” Deran mounted his horse and took up the reins. “How did that come about? No, I don't want to know. Do whatever you must to get the Fychon's out of my life, Max.” He steered the horse around, eased it into a canter.

“You don't mean that, Atherton,” Max called out.

“The hell I don't,” he grumbled as his heels hit the horse's flanks urging him into a gallop.

* * * *

The rain at his back, Deran approached the first low curve. He'd ridden his horse hard. Reminders of the innumerable times she'd inconvenienced him stoked his anger. When he tossed in her obstinacy, willfulness, and noncompliance of orders, the flame roared hotter. Add to it her lack of social graces, her contentment with wearing simple, unfashionable garments, how she never wore a bonnet, couldn't keep her hair tacked in place to save her soul, preferred bare feet to shoes, and the inferno leapt to towering heights.

And if all that wasn't enough, the woman slept on the floor.

A great deal about Ava Fychon was exasperating and damn strange. And deuce take it, damn endearing.

Her poise, and what she wore didn't matter a fig to him. Society dictated style and he'd never given a damn about Society's standards. He did his duty by his family, but personally, he did as he chose. Why shouldn't she? He had to admit he admired her complacency to things that simply didn't matter.

His anger, reduced to a roiling simmer, now placed second to worry. Worry for her safety, her health, where her rash behavior led her and damn it, how he would live without her. He could of course. He had before and could again.

A bleak contemplation. Life without her would be solely existence, nothing more. Life would never be as it had been before her.

He'd spouted to Max he wished her and everyone in her genetic line to vanish from his life, but irrational anger had ruled his tongue. Anger and excessive frustration. Max knew that, Deran mused. Knew what it was like to be in love. He'd been wildly in love with his wife, did in fact still love her, so he knew—

That thought nearly jerked him from the saddle.

In love?

Where in bloody hell did that come from? Was it possible? He had no experience with this. Lust, absolutely. Misplaced affections, yes. Adoration, perhaps. But love for someone beyond family, no.

The possibility that he was in love didn't feel as good as he would have liked.

But it felt far better than anything he'd ever felt before.

As he had said to Max-chaotic.

His horse tore out of the curve and sprang into the next, his speed increasing without Deran's command.

In love. He'd felt something slowly coming on since the first night he met her. Like the hint of a springtime cold. Sneezes at first, perhaps a slight headache and then one morning you wake up with a nose that feels packed with sheep's wool and a head the weight of a cannon. The hint of a cold now a miserable reality.

That's what was happening to him. He was making the agonizing transfer from sniffles to an advanced bout of influenza.

From Fascination to Besotted to ... Love.

Saints protect him.

At the curve, a current shift carried the rain sideways. The wind whined in his ears. But it wasn't that windy. There it was again. A high-pitched moan, like a distant owl. He was hearing things. An owl wouldn't fly about the valley on a damp day.

Pulling back lightly on the reins, his eye caught movement up and to his left. His breath hung in his throat at the sight of her riding high on the mare's withers, skirts raised to mid thigh, cloak flung back over her shoulders, legs bared and hugging the gray's flanks. Her head was dropped back and the moaning he'd heard was coming from her. Heaving sobs that sent a cold chill up his back. He pulled his horse to a halt and watched her approach, waited for her to realize he stood at the next curve. A wave of sorrow sliced through him. She'd turned back, heartsick and wailing like a grieving soul.

Deran sat tall in the saddle, relieved to have found her. His anger still flickered, but he suddenly realized it wasn't from her defying him, or taking his damn horse, or leaving without him. She'd put herself at risk in every way possible and that simply would not do.

Love. This had to be it.

What a sight she presented! He'd rarely seen a woman ride astride and never bareback. The fantasy he'd had of her doing so couldn't compare to this reality. Undeniably feminine, more sensuous than he'd imagined. The gray dwarfed her, yet she rode it confidently, her back straight, legs cradled the flanks, balance centered expertly.

Without doubt the most erotic sight he'd ever seen. Although completely inopportune timing, his body hardened with want.

The keening stopped and she bent low over the horse's neck and suddenly slowed. She'd seen him. Straightening, she brought the horse to a trot at the curve and reined in directly in front of him.

Every inch of her dripped water, cheeks deep pink, eyes drowning in tears. She shifted slightly and relaxed her thighs, but made no move to cover them. She hoisted her chin high, ready to defend herself against his scolding.

Their eyes clashed and held for a long moment. He raised a gloved finger to her cheek and gently swiped a strip of hair aside. Her lips trembled and eyes filled with fresh tears. Her pain burned his heart.

Like before, he didn't know what to say or do to comfort her.

“Let us go,” he said softly.

She nodded and followed without a word.

Chapter Twenty-eight

A bright blue phaeton sat parked in the drive when they rode up. Deran scowled as he dismounted and turned to assist Ava. She didn't meet his eyes when he lifted her from the horse. A violent shiver coursed through her as she steadied herself on his arm.

“Diolch,” she whispered. She arranged her wet dress as best she could.

He cupped a hand under her elbow and ushered her forward. He frowned as they climbed the steps. “You're limping."

“It is nothing."

“Your ankle, it's bothering you again?"

“I said it is nothing. Please do not concern yourself."

Before he could reply the front door opened and they approached under Bickford's watchful eyes. He dispensed towels as they entered.

“Baths are already being prepared, sir."

“Thank you, Bickford.” Deran dried his face and swiped the towel over his hair.

“I trust there are no injuries to tend to, sir?” Bickford accepted his wet coat and towel.

“Not this time.” His eyes followed Ava as she slowly took the stairs dragging the towel behind her.

“Excellent news, sir."

Recalling the phaeton, he frowned. “Rensleigh's here?"

“Yes, sir. Arrived a half hour ago and is in the study with your guests."

“Keep them penned in as long as you can,” he said dryly. He headed up the stairs, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. “And send up a scotch. A bath won't warm me nearly enough."

“Very good sir."

Deran paused on the upper landing and sighed heavily. “And..."

Bickford peered up at him. “My lord?"

“Miss Fychon's ankle is bothering her again. From working a horse the way she does, I suspect. Have someone look at it, will you?"

“Right away, sir."

* * * *

An hour later Deran stepped into the study and was immediately accosted. The marquess was first in line.

“What is the meaning of this, Atherton?” he snapped from his place at the mantel. “Stuffing us in here like shackled prisoners."

“A considerable fear of yours, eh, Rensleigh?” Deran crossed to his favorite leather chair whose weight limitations were being tested by his brother-in-law. “Welcome to Tercy. This is how we treat undesirable and uninvited guests in the country. Or should, at any rate."

“Deran, really,” his mother admonished. “We realize you have had a difficult day, but is that any way to speak to your cousin?"

“Yes, it is, Mother. It is the only way to speak to my cousin at the moment.” He stared a hole in the back of the viscount's head until he finally took the hint and moved to another chair. Deran took his rightful seat. “Why are you here, Rensleigh?"

“Now wait just a minute.” Madeline rushed forward, hazel eyes flashing. “We have been confined to this room for almost three hours, Deran. We have played chess, rather, we moved little statues around on squares, drank enough tea to hold us through the middle of next week.” She wafted over to stand in front of her brother. “Aren't you going to tell us the result of your adventure with Miss Fychon? I assume you brought her back."

Robert stilled. “She is here then?"

“I told you she was, Robert,” Madeline snipped. “Or was and then she left and Deran went after her. You did find her, didn't you?"

“She is safe, yes.” Deran's eyes didn't leave Robert. “She is why you are here, isn't it? You have an interest in her welfare, or is it solely your own you are interested in?"

“Now see here—"

“I say, Atherton,” the viscount tossed in. “You're being more disagreeable than usual."

The laugh came out a tad too sinister for everyone's comfort. “Ah, don't try to flatter me, Charnock. It's too late for that."

Bickford appeared in the doorway.

“Pardon the interruption, my lord, but will you want dinner served at the usual hour?"

“No,” he replied, grateful that Bickford had discerned the need for an early end to this evening. “Make it seven,” he glanced at the mantel clock, “which is less than an hour."

Deran wearily turned his attention back to the people cluttering up his study.

“Deran,” his mother said, eager to lessen the tension in the room, “I am so looking forward to meeting Miss Fychon. I have met few people from Wales, none of them women. Your father knew a number of Welshmen, but I don't recall meeting wives or relatives. I hope she won't mind me questioning her."

Deran smiled. “I'm sure she won't, Mother. She'll be grateful for the opportunity to talk about her home. She misses it,” he said tautly.

“You should hear her sing, mother,” Madeline trilled. “She has the most divine voice. You'd never think so to look at her. Not that there is anything wrong with her looks, but she is rather small and youthful and when she sings she sounds like a full-fledged woman, but with an innocence. Not a sweet, girlish soprano, but—” Fingers fluttered in search of an accurate description. “Rich and delicate at the same time.” Her brow puckered. “Of course, I've only heard her sing in Welsh which made it seem all the more ... exotic."

“Oh,” the countess said eagerly, “do you think we could persuade her to sing, Deran? Madeline could accompany her on the pianoforte. It has been a great while since the instrument has been played."

“You have only to ask her, Mother. I'm sure she wouldn't refuse, although this evening might not be the best time."

“Oh. Yes, of course. She will be tired after her long journey. Where is she, if I may ask? After all the suspense today, I'm anxious to make her acquaintance."

“She is resting.” And hiding. “You will meet her at dinner."

Tired of being ignored, Robert swaggered into the center of the room. “It's rude of her not to show herself before then. This is your mother, after all."

“Thoughtful of you to make that connection for me, Rensleigh,” Deran said wryly. “Otherwise I may not have known whom I addressed. As for being rude, I see nothing rude about readying oneself for dinner. I'm sure she only wants to make a good impression."

“Does she even know we are here?” Madeline asked. “If I'm not mistaken, she was gone when we arrived."

Good point. She may not know, Deran mused, although Beth must have told her, in which case she was hiding.

“I'll have Bickford pass the word in the event she's unaware.” He lifted a brow in Rensleigh's direction. “And you, sir. Are you going to divulge your reason for being here, or do I have to ask a round of questions in order to get a straight answer?"

Robert gripped the lapels of his dove grey coat and gave Deran a cool look. “I will speak to you in private on that matter, if you don't mind, sir."

“Not at all,” he said, rising swiftly. “We have time before dinner. To the library.” He strode out and smiled when he heard Rensleigh's loud huffing.

In the library, Deran remained silent knowing it would ruffle Rensleigh. It didn't take long.

“If you think to intimidate me, Atherton, you don't.” He pointed a long finger at him. “I know your ways."

“Do you?"

“Yes, I do. As a matter of fact, I was discussing them with someone just the other evening."

“Were you?"

Robert tipped his chin up. “Yes. And he agreed with me that you think you are beyond reproach."

“Am I? How good of you to come all this way to tell me how I view myself."

“That is not why I'm here, damn you,” he thundered. “I'm here to fetch Miss Fychon back to London. Immediately. There is an obligation to be met and I intend to see that it is."

An eyebrow rose ever so slightly. “Is that right?"

“Yes, it most certainly is.” Rensleigh leapt from the chair and paced to the other side of the room. “I told him it was not my fault she left. How was I to know what lengths she'd take to avoid the inevitable? But it's not like she's being sent to her doom, for God's sake.” He spun on a heel and marked the same trail. “She's behaved as though she were a Christian facing a lion.” He pulled up short. “What? No comment to make on that one?"

“You're managing both sides of the conversation well enough on your own."

“Damn right I am,” Robert grumbled. “I can handle this perfectly well, on my own."

“You say that as if it were a matter of dispute."

“It is. Or rather, was. But I will do this and do it well or—” He looked down at his shaking hands. “Damnation and hell."

Deran stifled a grin. As easily as his cousin could rile him, he was as harmless as lint. And as useful. But he clearly was under duress and since Deran wanted him gone posthaste, helping him would be in his best interest.

“Sit, Rensleigh. You are scuffing the carpet."

Robert flopped down. “You won't say anything about this, will you Deran?"

He sounded like a child instead of a man two years younger than Deran, and using his Christian name was a surprise. Neither ever addressed each other in such a familiar manner. He looked truly terrified and on the brink of exploding into tears. His mouth trembled, eyes huge. As revolting as he could be, Deran felt a fragment of compassion. A very thready fragment.

“Won't say anything about what, Robert?"

The effect of hearing his name was that of a sword piercing a hot-air balloon. His body sagged against the chair, face crumbled, limbs trembled. With no encouragement, he poured out his story, the pace of his words accelerating as it spewed. It was as though a spigot had been cranked open and brackish water, backed up for months, finally surged forth.

Once finished, he collapsed further into the chair. Sweat dribbled down the sides of his face.

Deran struggled to maintain composure. He desperately needed to hit something. Robert's face was the most appealing target, but as satisfying as pummeling him would be, it wouldn't get him the answers he wanted.

“How in hell did you get involved in this, Rensleigh?"

Robert shrugged wearily. “A card game. More than one, truth be told. Lord Stewart was playing each time. He cheats, I'd swear to it. After a particularly nasty loss, he approached me about a business opportunity that could get me out of the hatches. Sounded easy enough."

“Your business acumen is seriously deficient. Surely you know when a business proposition sounds too good to be true, it most likely is."

“Of course I do. But it didn't sound too good to be true. It sounded solid and he has a number of respectable people working with him."

“Respectable? Highly improbable. Not if they are in the business of buying and selling human beings."

Robert groaned. “But I didn't know that. Marketable goods, he called them. Even showed me the accounting ledgers and transaction histories. My job was to supply information between the different merchants."

“But you made no inquiries on your own, did you?” Deran's patience waned. The man surpassed idiocy.

“I trusted him."

“Your first mistake. The second, going through with it.” He raised a hand to stop the forthcoming mewling retort. “Enough. Once you realized your error, it was too late. And now you're under the thumb of Lord Thomas Stewart, a self-professed man-eater, as you put it. And the man he serves, Sir Edmond de la Pontoise, would think nothing of doing away with all the Lord Stewarts who cross his path. He considers all lives but his own, expendable. If you do not return Miss Ava Fychon to London, then your own life is in serious danger. Have I understood you correctly?"

Robert blinked nervously. “Yes. Yes you have."

“Listen to me very carefully, Rensleigh,” Deran said with ominous calm. “She will not be returning with you. If she returns, it will be with me. I fully expect Stewart or Pontoise or both to make an unannounced visit here within the next two days. They will be looking for you when you don't return with the property they sent you to reclaim. You will stay here until one or both arrive. You will not run off like a frightened polecat, but will face them head on."

Robert sprang forward, eyes wide with fear. “Do not mock me, sir. If I don't take her back and they find me, then they will k ... kill me."

“Precisely."

Robert leapt to his feet. “Really, Atherton, you go too far. You make sport of my situation as if it were a game of lawn tennis. I assure you, sir, these men do not play games. They will not let me live if I do not meet my obligation.” Every muscle in his body trembled.

“Sit down, Rensleigh. No one is going to kill you. Though I'd like nothing more than to take a whack at you.” He ignored the gasp. “Every man has his price. We will find theirs and pay it."

Robert dropped back in the chair. “A bribe? No,” he said with a violent shake of his head. “No, that will never work. They won't—"

“Fine.” Deran stood. He was hungry and disgusted. “I will see you at dinner. I believe crow is on the menu. Something you ought to consider learning how to eat."

“No, wait!” Robert rushed to block him at the door. “Tell me what to do and I will do it.” His face was bloodless. “Damn you. I have always hated your bloody arrogance and your cold, methodical treatment of everyone. You have only to crook a finger to get someone to do your bidding and care nothing for a man's reputation, especially your own. You know what everyone says about you, don't you?"

Of course he did, but he hadn't heard the latest. He could use some amusement today. “Enlighten me."

“That you have the heart of a glacier and blood of ice. That when you sweat, if you ever do, you sweat hail pellets. That's why you've never married. No respectable woman would want to marry a man cold enough to freeze the bed sheets."

Deran's mouth curled up slowly. “And what is your excuse for still being in the bachelor state, dear cousin? Not enough heat to quench a woman's passions? Or have you not yet met the man who can melt your heart?"

Robert's trembling stopped abruptly. “You are a heartless bastard, Atherton."

“You might want to work on that, Rensleigh.” He stepped around him and opened the door. “Your wheedling techniques, I'm referring to. They could use more polish.” He closed the door quietly behind him.

* * * *

Ava met everyone moments before being escorted to the dining room on Deran's arm, his mother on the other. The viscount walked with his wife and Rensleigh was left to fume alone.

Over soup, Lady Atherton asked Ava how she liked England.

Ava darted a look at her. “I like it fine, thank you, Your Grace.” Her brows dipped in. “That wasn't right, was it?"

“Do not fret, my dear,” she replied with a light laugh. “Lady Atherton or madam will do."

“Thank you, ma'am. Madam."

The last thing Ava had wanted to do was come down to dinner. She was hungry, but dearly wanted to sleep. The day had been tiring, and she needed a short rest.

She tasted the vegetable consommé. Too salty for her taste. She replaced her spoon and folded her hands in her lap. No one remarked on it, but everyone noticed.

“It's good to see you again, Miss Fychon,” Lady Charnock said warmly.

Ava smiled. “Thank you, ma'am. Madam. It is good to see you also.” Reaching for her wine, her hand trembled and she quickly withdrew it. She deliberately kept her eyes lowered, away from the earl's. They still hadn't spoken and she wanted to avoid doing so, and him, for as long as possible.

With her short, polite responses, including her in the conversation proved difficult, which was precisely what Ava wanted. The intimate setting amongst the noble realm so grandly dressed made her feel terribly self-conscious. Her turquoise muslin dress seemed plain compared to the other women's shimmery gowns. She wore no jewelry and had put her hair up herself, hastily pinning it while still damp. Its weight felt as though she were carrying a basket of wet laundry atop her head. At the moment, cutting it held great appeal.

Conversation eventually drifted away from her. The Cod with Capers tasted as flavorful as candle wax and lifting the fork required far too much energy. Halfway through the entrée she set the utensil down.

Deran watched her from his place at the head of the table. Something wasn't right. With all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours it could be any number of things, and events weren't yet over. Max had reminded him they had unfinished business and asked if he'd told Ava about her sister and grandfather. There had been no time other than the hour riding back. He'd tell her after dinner.

“Miss Fychon,” the countess asked with concern, “is everything all right?"

“Yes, madam. Thank you."

Lady Atherton's mouth drew tight with doubt. “My daughter says you have a lovely singing voice. Perhaps we could persuade you to share a song or two after dinner."

Ava's heart thudded. Thirsty, so ... Her glass blurred as she reached for it. With deliberate care she lowered her hand to her lap. “I would be happy to ... madam, if—” She licked her lips. So ... tired...

“What is it Miss Fychon?” the countess asked, patting her arm. Her eyes widened. “My heavens. You are burning up.” She pressed her palm to Ava's forehead and looked at her son with alarm. “Deran, she has a high fever. She needs to be in bed."

Deran rose from his chair.

Ava stared glumly at her lap. “Mae'n chwith gen i."

“What?” Lady Atherton looked up at Deran as he stepped next to her. “What did she say?"

He dragged Ava's chair back and scooped her into his arms. “I'm sorry. She said she is sorry.” He strode out of the room without looking back.

The countess slowly sat back down. “Oh my. Was that not the most gallant thing you have ever seen? I've never known him to be gallant, before. Have you, Madeline?"

The viscountess’ eyes danced. “What did I tell you, mother? My big brother is in love."

Chapter Twenty-nine

Water. That was all she thought of when she opened her eyes. Never had she been so thirsty. And cold. She'd been hot, and this felt good. She shivered and pulled the blanket closer to her chin. Blanket? Wherever she rested was dim, but definitely a bed with blankets. She tried to sit up, but one hand was trapped. That's when she saw him alongside the bed. He slept in a chair, his head resting against its back, one of his hands holding hers.

Ava lay very still and worked at clearing her head. Dinner, struggling to stay awake, sitting next to his mother was the last thing she remembered. Am I on my deathbed? Is that why I am in bed and he is sleeping next to it?

She rolled onto her side, pulling his hand closer to her as she did. His eyes popped open, looked at her blearily and then cleared. He bolted up.

“Ava. You're awake!"

She smiled and winced. Her lips were so sore. “If I'm not dreaming you are next to me, then yes, I am awake. Are you?"

He moved to the edge of the bed and pressed her hand to his mouth. “I am very much awake.” He laid his hand across her forehead, then replaced it with his lips. He kissed her brow, her cheeks and chin. A finger gently stroked her chapped lips.

“It's gone. Your fever."

“I'm sorry I missed dinner."

He laughed softly and eased down onto his side next to her. “You more than missed dinner, my sweet. You missed two of them and the meals in between. You must be starving."

“What? What are you talking about?"

“You've been here since Saturday evening. This is Monday."

“Oh, myn Duw! Why did you not wake me? I was tired but—” And then she remembered him lifting her from her chair and walking up the staircase. After that she had no recall.

He explained she'd had a fever, probably from exposure and exhaustion. Little could be done, but keep her comfortable and wait it out. What he didn't relate was how he'd almost lost his mind with worry. His mother and sister had taken turns caring for her, but he hadn't left her side. He'd held her when she thrashed, bathed her face and neck with cool cloths, watched her fitful sleep and prayed. Prayed like never before.

“Two days have passed?” she repeated in disbelief. Her mind was suddenly quite clear. She needed to be in London today, no later than tomorrow. He'd come for her and she wouldn't be there. “No, this can't be!” She pushed up on her elbows and rocked with dizziness. “I must go back to the city. I wasn't able to do what I came here to do, but if I don't get back, everything will be lost. I cannot believe this. How could it have gone so wrong?” Her eyes filled with tears.

“Hush.” Deran wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her to him. “Stop this. There's no need to upset yourself. Much has happened in the past two days, some of it before you took off on Saturday and I didn't get the chance to tell you. Before you try to run all the way back to London, you need to know some things.” He stroked damp hair from her blessedly cool forehead and leaned his cheek against it.

“Tell me then,” she mumbled into his shirt, “and then I'll go."

He smiled lazily. “In a minute. Let me enjoy this first. Let me hold you. I have been ... concerned."

“I'm sorry. I had no idea.” She moved in a little closer, although difficult since she lay under the blanket, he on top.

“There is no need to apologize, my dear. It's wonderful to have you back."

“So you're not angry at me anymore?"

“Angry? No, why would I be angry?"

“For taking your horse without your permission."

“Did you think that was why I was angry with you?"

“Yes. And for every other thing."

He smiled. “Yes. There are those. But no, I'm not angry with you."

Ava sighed and reveled in the pleasure of being in his arms. “Where am I?"

“In the room between mine and my mother's."

She stiffened. “Your mother is in the next room?” He nodded. She swallowed slowly. “You will be in terrible trouble if she finds you in here, my lord."

His sudden laughter cut through the stillness. She clapped a hand over his mouth.

“Ssh! You're going to wake everyone. Then we'll both be in trouble."

His shoulders shook as his laugh surged again. Ava giggled and pressed her face into his chest. He kissed the hand over his mouth and lined her arm with kisses, raising her up higher against him as he did. Every movement, each taste of her aroused him.

“I want you,” he whispered, his face against her neck. “I want you so badly I have dreamed of having you.” His hand dipped beneath the blankets, skimmed over her hip, heated her skin through the chemise. “You're not well enough I know, but I have to touch you."

She sucked in a quick breath when his hand moved over her thigh. “You must not do this, sir. Deran. Your mother—"

He pulled the blanket out from under him to get closer. “It's late. Everyone is asleep."

“I'm thirsty. And I need to brush my teeth.” She paused. “And I'm very hungry."

His hand stilled. “If you were trying to dampen my mood, you have done a fine job."

“That is not what I was trying to do. You were ... already you were making me feel what you always do. It's amazing how quickly that happens. But I would like being with you much more if I could clean my teeth. And I am very thirsty. And hungry."

He grinned. “You are too weak for what I have in mind, but if those things are what you need before you will lay with me, then by all means, you shall have them.” He rolled off the bed and poured a glass of water from the bedside pitcher.

“Your water, milady,” he said making a deep bow.

A brow quirked. “You're acting very strangely, my lord,” she said, accepting the glass.

“I am happy. And very relieved. And lightheaded from lack of sleep.” He grinned.

She sipped and sighed appreciatively. “This is very good. Better than in the city.” She took a long swallow and nearly emptied the glass.

“Enough. You can have more later. After you eat.” He offered her a hand. “And now for the teeth."

She looked at him askance as she pushed the bedclothes aside.

“It appears the only way I will ever get you to use a bed is to either be in it with you, or sitting next to it,” he said smoothly. “You've been in this one for two days. Without me, sadly."

“That is not a very gentlemanly thing to say."

“No?” He shrugged. “I suppose it isn't. I'm not feeling very gentlemanly right now."

“What does that mean?” She eased out of bed, and wondered who had dressed her in the nightgown she wore.

“It means, Miss Fychon, I am thinking only as a man at this moment."

She wobbled, then straightened, using his arm for balance. “I am pleased to hear you say that, sir.” She took a cautious step forward, released his arm and took another step.

“Why is that?"

“Because I like it when you think only as a man, around me that is. It is very exciting.” She poured water in the basin, then turned back to the bed. “And there is something else I like. We are talking about things we aren't supposed to talk about, according to you.” She smiled slowly.

Deran watched her move about. “You're right, we are. You have corrupted me, I'm afraid."

“Corrupted? What does that mean?"

“Ruined. Ruined me for anyone else is what you have done."

Ava ran her tongue over her clean teeth. “That does not sound like a good thing, my lord.” She wrapped her arms around her waist, suddenly cold and too aware that she stood before him in a nightgown.

“Put this on.” He retrieved a robe at the foot of the bed. “The last thing you need is to get a chill.” He helped her and folded his arms around her. “I have missed you,” he whispered into her hair.

“Really?” she mumbled against his chest. “I would think you would have been glad to be rid of me for a couple of days after all the trouble I have caused."

“Trouble, yes. But glad to be rid of you, no.” He pulled her away from him, looked at her as though trying to read her thoughts. “Never."

Her eyes widened and a chill, not from ill-health, swept through her. “That sounds very serious, sir."

“It is. Quite serious.” Did he dare risk sharing his thoughts of the past two days? That sometime in the past fortnight, while he'd been shuffling through phases of incredulity, frustration, fascination, attraction and then besotted, he had come to love her. Loved the fire in her heart that made her so maddeningly unwavering in her goals, how she refused to accept no as an answer, the foot that tapped when she was annoyed, how she bit the corner of her lip when anxious, how her singing lit his soul, how she had more passion for life than anyone he'd ever known, how he felt more grateful for his own when he was with her, how he wanted to be in no one else's but hers. His mind reeled with everything that made up Ava Fychon.

What to do about that made it reel all the more.

“It is serious,” he repeated, “but do not concern yourself with that now. We need to talk about more pressing things first.” He took her hand and led her to the door. “Are you strong enough to manage the steps? I carried you up them, I can certainly carry you down."

Ava felt her cheeks flush. “I think I will be fine, thank you, sir. But someday I would like to know what it is like to have you carry me when I'm not feeling poorly or am soaking wet. So that I can truly enjoy it."

Deran grinned and tugged her into the hallway. “We shall have to arrange for such an event. I have, in fact, one in mind."

They walked slowly down the dark hall lit only by the candle Deran carried. He glanced over at her and smiled. She hadn't responded to that last comment but he could tell she was pondering its implications. Good. Let her ponder.

Her legs were unsteady and her ankle a bit stiff, but she insisted on walking to the kitchen. She dropped onto the table's bench with a huge sigh.

“How can I be so tired after sleeping for two days?"

Deran set a basket of rolls before her and went about looking for anything else that might appeal to her. “You were in and out of sleep most of the time so I'm not surprised you don't feel rested.” He brought back a plate of cheese and fat red grapes.

Halfway through a roll and chunk of cheese, she requested more water. It reminded him of their first meeting, especially because they once again sat in a kitchen. Had it been only two weeks since they'd first done this? It seemed at least two lifetimes ago.

His stomach twisted with nerves. After he told her everything that had happened the past two days, his life would suddenly change again. He'd been in battles at sea, had faced the possibility of death innumerable times, had grieved for lost lives, yet none compared to the fear he had of speaking words that could usher her from his life. As hard as it would be to do, there was a bitter happiness about telling her that her search could now end. That the life taken from her could be given back. A life that would not include him.

Deran poured a glass of water and took a long swallow.

“Ava."

She recognized that tone of voice. Soft, steady.

“Yes, sir?"

He smiled sadly at the formality. It seemed fitting given what he was going to tell her would be the beginning of the end. Unless, by the smallest chance, she accepted an alternative.

He nipped off the corner of a roll. “Mr. DiSanto has been a friend of mine since we entered the Royal Navy as boys. After the Navy he became a solicitor and I have been his client the past six years. In that capacity, and as a friend, he agreed to do what he could to look into your situation."

Ava plucked off a grape. “My situation?"

“Yes. Everything regarding you leaving Wales and what happened to your brother and sister."

Her face went white. “The news you said you didn't have a chance to tell me."

She prepared for the worst—shoulders straight, chin jutted forward, fingers entwined. Deran reached for her clasped hands.

“Max located Mairwen. She is en route to my aunt's home from a residence in Suffolk where she has been working as a housemaid. She may already be in London, we haven't heard yet."

Still pale, her eyes were shimmering green pools. A rush of words left her lips and although he couldn't understand them, the joy on her face expressed them perfectly.

She sprang from the bench, sped around the table and threw herself at him, rocking him backward. She kissed every inch of his face in between words that sounded like song.

She finally stopped and held him close. “God, it is too hard to believe.” She pulled back, looked up at him. “Do you mean it, really? Of course you do. You wouldn't say such a thing if not true. How can I thank you? How can I thank Mr. DiSanto?” She shoved back. “When can I see her? Are we leaving today? Or, maybe she is coming here. Is she coming here?"

He laughed—her happiness infectious. He shelved his own feelings temporarily and embraced hers.

They sat and he told her how Mairwen had been found and that he would make whatever reunion arrangements she wanted, but suggested they meet her in London.

“I need to return to London by week's end and she should be there by then."

Her smile vanished. “I have to be back by then anyway, you know. To meet ... to meet him."

Deran's eyes flashed. “You are not to worry about him. I will be there when he returns and will see to him."

She stood abruptly, lips in a hard line, fists on her hips. Annoyance ousted gratitude.

“I appreciate what you have done, sir, more than I will ever be able to say, but it is not your battle. I will face him and will do what I must to keep Mairwen safe. How, I don't know, but I will reckon it out."

Deran leaped to his feet and loomed over her. She didn't back away, but held her ground and glared up at him, so close he felt angry heat pouring off her.

“And what of your brother?” he challenged. “After all you've done, all the impetuous, stupid risks you have taken to find him, riding all over creation, nearly killing yourself trying to find him, you are willing to turn yourself over to this man? To become a slave to someone else for the rest of your life?"

Her eyes spit fire. “Of course I'm not willing! But it is because of Ithel and Mairwen that I must. You know this, Deran, you have always known this. What you or I want is not going to change the way it is, the way it must be."

“The hell it isn't.” His hands trapped her face and his mouth came down hard on hers. “The hell it isn't.” A muffled protest squeaked through her lips and she tried to wiggle free, but he dragged her up against him until her toes left the floor. The kiss softened, lips tugged at hers, tongue caressed the tender skin, beckoning her to return the kiss.

And then she went limp and flung her arms around his neck and kissed him back fiercely. Deran gripped her bottom and crushed her against him. He broke the kiss and traveled to her neck and throat.

“God, I want you,” he rasped, loosening her robe. “Shamelessly. You make me lose all good sense."

“Yes,” she hummed. “I'm so sorry, sir."

“I have never,” he hoisted her higher and closed his mouth over her soft breast, felt the nipple stiffen through the thin gown, “desired anything, anyone, as much as I do you. Could you possibly know how much?” He pulled her nipple between his teeth, bit it lightly.

“Oh, dear God,” she gasped, digging her hands into his shoulders. “Deran ... please."

“Yes. Yes, love.” He wrapped her legs around his waist and strode out of the kitchen.

“Where are we going?"

“Does it matter?"

She laughed, mildly hysteric. “No. No it doesn't. Just get us there fast, please."

“As you wish, madam.” He flung open the door to the study, closed it with his foot and plopped her onto the settee.

Giggles and chuckles joined the effort to rid him of his clothing. Her robe and gown flew onto the heap of clothes.

“I need more room,” he said, eyeing the narrow settee. “Will the floor suit you, milady?” He laughed as he scooped her up and knelt down on the carpet in front of the cold hearth.

“You have finally lowered yourself to my level, my lord."

“Mmm. It was only a matter of time.” He moved between her thighs. Her knees raised, inviting him in. Lifting her hips higher, he quickened his thrusts, his blood roiling as he lost himself in her, unable to distinguish between their separate bodies.

Her powerful legs suddenly wrapped around his waist and clamped him firmly against her, not allowing him to pull away.

“I love you,” she murmured. “I want you. All of you."

Stunned, he gazed down at her in confused disbelief, but was too lost in the nearness of his release to work against her.

She smiled up at him as her name left his lips, his muscles taut and glorious, and with a hoarse shout of satisfaction, emptied inside of her.

Chapter Thirty

Her shivers woke him. They'd fallen asleep without covering themselves and lay in shadowy darkness, the only light in the room coming from the night sky shining through the window. If anyone had walked in...

More amused than shaken by the thought, Deran propped up on one arm and peered down at her. She said she loves me. That was a first-those words popping into his head upon waking. They warmed him like no other words ever had.

Their scent lingered, refreshing his memories, the most playful, tender and erotic ones in his experience. Her passion as a lover rivaled how she went about everything else. She didn't embrace it, she became it. Not only with her body, but her heart as well. Making love to Ava went far beyond physical sensations. Emotionally, he passed through her skin and lay down alongside her heart.

No woman had ever made him feel so wanted, so needed, and, he thought, with a dose of humility, as masculine.

He smoothed back the hair falling over her shoulder and drank in the curved profile of her body. When he'd first seen her naked he'd been stunned. Sopping dresses and ill-fitting frocks had concealed a very feminine body. The emerald gown she'd worn at the dinner party had been the first dress to display any hint of womanliness, too much so, as he recalled, and the sight had plagued his dreams. When added to the times he'd had her in his arms and caressed her when he shouldn't have, he'd built a naked image of her in his mind. A very unworthy one.

These thoughts put him in a fierce state of arousal. The way she bowed against him, curve for curve was damn agonizing. If he didn't move, he'd lose all self-control. He eased his arm away, trailing a hand over her stomach. His throat went dry at the thought of how she had restrained him. ‘I want all of you.’ Her words rang in his head. What if she already carries my child? Strangely, his chest tightened with pride. Pride and concern.

Obligations could no longer be neglected, nor did he wish them to be.

He kissed her cheek to wake her and when that didn't work, he moved to her neck.

“Mmm. I hope this isn't a dream."

“No, it isn't. But if we are found in here, it could be a nightmare. Or at least something we would hear a great deal about."

Ava jerked fully awake. “Myn Duw, did we fall asleep?” She sat up quickly. “How could we have done that? What time is it?"

“I don't know. After midnight, before dawn."

“Are you trying to be funny?” She poked his chest. “This is terrible!"

Deran's mouth quirked. “Not so terrible. Just not the best location we could have chosen. I don't know what time it is, but if the staff isn't up yet, they will be soon."

Ava scrambled to her knees and sorted through their pile of clothes. Deran couldn't resist caressing the soft, round buttocks so charmingly displayed.

“Stop it,” she whispered. “You are not helping matters."

He grinned and to be even less helpful, his lips replaced his hand with two quick kisses.

They dressed in the dark, exchanging whispers like thieves in the night, and crept out of the room. No one bustled about in the great hallway. They climbed the still, dark stairs hand in hand, Deran holding a candle to light their way. Each footstep found a creak on the stairs and they paused for signs of having been discovered. At his mother's room they held their breath, tiptoed past, and ducked into Ava's room. She sagged against the wall as Deran closed the door softly.

“My heart is pounding. I was so afraid we would get caught."

Deran chuckled. “It was exciting, wasn't it?” He set the candle on a small table.

“Exciting? It was terrifying!"

“I remember as a boy, sneaking back inside, praying my father wasn't having one of his sleepless nights and was prowling around downstairs."

“I can see you doing that.” Ava tipped her head. “You never talk about your father. Were you close to him?"

Deran nodded. “I was. I still miss him. We all do.” Before she could ask questions, he raised her hand to his mouth, pressed a kiss to her wrist. “I would hope tonight was more memorable than terrifying, my dear."

“Yes, well ... it was.” She smiled shyly. “Very memorable."

Deran leaned against the door and pulled her to him. “I should go, but I don't want to."

His fingers combed through her hair and she snuggled closer. He had to ask her sometime. Soon. He would work up to it.

“Ava, did your father do anything other than work in the mines?"

The hand that had been tracing little patterns on his back stopped moving.

“No. What a strange thing to ask."

“Not really. I was thinking about my father and then thought about yours. You don't talk about him either."

A shoulder lifted. “There isn't much to say. He has been gone four years and we weren't close. I really didn't know him well. He worked long days, came home tired, went to bed early. He was good to us, but we saw little of him."

“It sounds like a difficult life. Working as much as he did. But he must have had some time away from work. Did you do anything together as a family?"

She pushed back and looked at him suspiciously. “Why are you asking me this?"

“I want to know you better,” he replied casually. “How you grew up, the kind of family you had. I'm sorry if my questions bother you, or if I'm being too personal."

She thought about that and her eyes softened. “No, I'm the one who is sorry. They didn't bother me, just surprised me. And,” she looked back up at him, “after how we have been with each other, certainly not too personal."

“Mmm.” An eyebrow climbed. “You have a point."

She perched on the foot of the bed cross-legged and pulled the duvet around her.

“My mam sewed tapestries,” she said suddenly. “Some of the finest in Anglesey. She sold them at market and to visiting merchants from around Wales. She worked on them at night."

Deran smiled. “Ah, a night owl, like my father.” He settled into a chair. Best to stay far from the bed.

“Yes, I suppose. She could sit for hours in front of the fire content with the quiet, or sometimes she'd hum. Sometimes my father joined in."

“With the sewing?"

“Of course,” she joked. “No one ever knew he was really the one who did all the work. Mam just took all the credit.” Her mouth tipped up in amusement, eyes sparkled. “No, he would hum with her, harmonize. What I loved best was when she played her hand harp while he sang. It didn't happen often, which made it even more special."

Deceit nudged at Deran's heart. She'd told him something about her father he already knew, but he was curious about how much she knew.

“He sang? So that's where you get your talent."

She waved a hand. “No. I can sing, yes and so could my mother, but my father, oh, how he sang. So beautifully. Enough to make your heart weep."

She gave him a strained smile and Deran's guilt doubled for he wasn't done prying.

“What did he usually sing? Hymns and folk songs, like you?"

She blinked rapidly, holding back tears.

“Yes, both of those, but what he loved most was love songs. Welsh, German, Italian, English. He said in any language, love sounded the same.” She smiled brightly. “I learned the one I sang to you from him. Beautiful, isn't it?"

“Yes. Yes it is. How did he learn to sing in so many languages?"

She shrugged. “I don't know. We never asked and he never explained. But I liked it best when he sang in Italian. It sounded the most romantic.” She looked on the verge of tears.

No more painful questions about her father, he decided. “I would like to have heard him,” he said gently. “And would like to have met your mother, and seen her tapestries.” He paused. The time had come. “Besides Ithel and Mairwen, have you other relatives you know of?"

“Relatives? Besides the uncle who took over my home and all the other uncles I've never met?” she asked bitterly. “No. There is no one."

He leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs. “Are you sure?"

Her brows furrowed. “Of course. There is no one but me, Ithel and Mairwen. Why are you asking?"

He ignored her. “So there is no one I could pay my respect to if I wished to?"

She angled her head. “Pay respect to? Why would you want to do that? I've told you who—” She stopped, mouth agape. “Deran,” she said slowly. “Sir—"

He ignored her stunned expression. “If there is no one I can approach to make a formal offer of marriage, then I suppose I shall simply have to ask you.” He rose and stepped forward, made her a deep bow. “Miss Fychon. Would you do me the greatest honor of becoming my wife?"

The silence was piercing. She stared for what seemed an eternity, then shook her head, slowly at first, then vigorously.

“Why? Why would you ask me this? It is too ... too cruel.” Tears filled her eyes. “I cannot marry you. You know I cannot...” A choked sob rose from her throat as she sprang from the bed and bolted to the door.

“Ava,” he called out as she threw open the door. “Wait. Hear me out."

But she was already in the hall, her sobs trailing behind her as she ran to the staircase.

“Ava!” Deran thundered after her, prepared to barrel down the stairs, when his mother's bedchamber door flew open.

“Deran,” she whispered loudly, “whatever are you doing? You're making enough noise to wake the entire household."

Torn between going after Ava and not ignoring his mother, Deran skidded to a halt at the first step and gave Ava's fleeing figure a pained glance.

“Please, Mother,” he said tightly, “this is not the time.” He stepped down.

Pulling on a dressing gown, she hurried toward him. “Where are you going at such an hour?"

“I'll explain later.” He looked to the bottom of the stairs. “Damnation!” he growled. She was already out of sight.

Madeline poked her head out. “Mother? What's wrong? Is there a fire?"

“Fire?” Katherine stood at the landing, bewildered. “No, there is no fire. Your brother is carrying on about something. I heard arguing, no, crying. Yes, I heard crying, then he yelled.” She gasped softly. “Ava. He called Ava.” She hurried past her room. Madeline caught up to her as she peered into Ava's room.

“Oh my. It appears our patient is up and about."

“What?” Madeline peeked in. “She's running around the house in the middle of the night? Her fever must have become worse and has made her mad."

Katherine shook her head, a tiny smile lifting her mouth. “I don't believe so, dear. I think it's safe to assume your brother is responsible for that."

* * * *

Ava had to get away. Away from him. To anywhere but where he was. She sped across the lawn, tears blurring her vision. How could he! How could he ask such a thing? She'd been wrong when she said it was cruel. It wasn't cruel, it was torture. Wicked, wicked, torture. She'd never thought him to be capable of such evil. And to think she'd given her heart to him. Given everything to him, just so he could tease her with an offer of marriage knowing she could never accept it? Hateful, horrid man.

The fine stones in the circular drive cut into her bare feet, but she hardly noticed as she fled across it to the wide avenue leading to the estate. She ran as if an army of men chased her, hair flying in a long tail, dressing gown flapping like linens hung from a clothesline during a storm. Dawn cast an orange glow in the fields on either side of the path, but didn't penetrate the thick trees. She ran among the shadows and took in great gulps of the cool early morning air, fighting to gain control. Swiping her eyes dry, her sobs reduced to hiccupy whimpers and steps slowed to a trot.

Like a fool, she'd dreamed of it. Dreamed of being the wife of Lord Deran Morissey, Earl of Atherton. Not real dreams, more pretend, girlish fairytale wishes. It wasn't like her to do that. She was satisfied with the life she'd been born into. Not ecstatic, but content. At peace with what she had, not ruing over what she didn't. She had plenty to be thankful for. Far-fetched dreams could ruin the beauty of reality.

Ava slowed, the dirt beneath her feet cooler here, the path harder to make out because of the thickening trees. She breathed deeply through her nose to steady her heartbeat. A high, sweet birdsong brought her to a standstill. It had the ornate lilt of a warbler, a species familiar to her. Listening to its lone song, her throat clogged with fresh tears from memories of home.

Stop it! Enough crying. She'd return to Wales one day. Not soon, but it would happen. With her brother and sister. Mairwen! The thought of seeing her in two days gave her a jolt of pleasure. Mairwen, safe in London. Deran would take—

If not for him, Mairwen wouldn't be there. Because of him and his friends and family, she'd soon see her sister.

Ava groaned. Bloody hell. She owed him so much. No. She owed him everything.

The approaching horse didn't surprise her. She turned and watched the rider charging toward her on his gray steed, white shirtsleeves billowing about him like great archangel wings, ghostly in the dawning light.

Ava looked for a place to cut through the trees, but they were tightly packed and the horse nearly upon her. No matter. She might as well face him now and be done with it.

He pulled the horse to a rough halt.

“Hell and damnation, woman. Are you never going to stop running?” Deran vaulted from the horse and marched to within an inch of her face. “Where in hell do you think you're going?"

Ava pursed her lips. “Really, Lord Atherton, your language."

His eyes narrowed to black slits. “Do not even think to admonish me about my manner of speech, Miss Fychon. Not after you fled from my home in the middle of the night, in nightclothes and bare feet after being ill for two days. Have you no care for your health? This will surely set you back.” His voice dropped to a low rumble. “The household, at least all of the upstairs is fully awake because of your outburst. I suspect all the staff are up and about by now as well."

“My outburst?” she exploded. “My outburst? I heard you yelling as I ran out the front door. No, sir! I was not the one having a tantrum.” She poked her chin out and skirted around him. Deran grabbed her arm as she passed.

“We are not finished."

“I am aware of that, my lord.” She jerked her arm free and stepped back. “I'm listening."

He muttered something unintelligible and jabbed a hand through his hair. “Damn it, Ava, I proposed to you! I asked you to be my wife and you ran from the house as if an army of men carrying spears chased you."

Her mouth twitched. “Funny. I had the same thought."

“I find no humor in this.” He glowered. “What did you mean when you said I was cruel in asking you? How in God's name is asking you to be my wife, to becoming my countess, Lady Atherton a cruelty? Explain that to me."

A countess. Lady Atherton. Dear God. She hadn't thought of that. The title was terrifying. Intimidating. No, worse. It froze her blood thinking about living up to such a thing.

She opened her mouth, her mind a blank. His breathing was quick, scowl deep in his brow. For some reason she couldn't explain, it was exciting. He was annoyed, dim, he was angry, and it was a beautiful sight.

He closed the distance between them. “I'm waiting, Ava. Explain it to me."

“I'm trying,” she said between clenched teeth. “The offer wasn't cruel. It's not being able to accept that is. I can't marry you, you know that. Our differences ... a person must marry in their class. I know nothing about your world.” She paused. “And you said nothing about why you want to marry me.” But I know, and the reason is not good enough.

His eyes punctured hers. “I don't give a damn about our class differences, Ava. And if you wanted to accept, you would. I know you well enough to know nothing gets in your way when you want something badly enough."

If only he could tell her about her grandfather. But Max was right. The restoration of her noble ancestry wasn't a surety.

She smiled slightly. “True. But I have tried to save my family. Who would not do whatever they must?"

He nodded in concurrence.

She paced, kicked the dirt and mumbled something best he not understand. She whirled around. “How can you say our differences don't matter to you? I am a common woman, a poor woman whose father was a Welsh miner. I have nothing. You are the son of an earl-you are an earl-and you have,” she opened her arms wide, “this and another home in London and probably others all over the bloody country in ... in fashionable places like Bath."

“Two other homes. Neither in Bath. My family has always preferred the eastern seacoast."

Ava rolled her eyes and Deran smiled. He hadn't seen that in a while.

“One home or four, we are of different worlds, sir. Have been since the day we met and always will be. To marry me would be beneath what you deserve. What you were born to."

Again he swallowed the words that welled up. He couldn't say anything, yet. It might alter her decision in his favor, yes, but suddenly he didn't want her to be swayed by societal traditions. He wanted her to say yes because she wanted him despite those traditions.

“What I deserve is for you to listen and not argue. I have compromised you far too often. So often that if gentlemen were given rank, mine would have been pulled long ago.” He smiled wryly. “But last night would have put me in the guardhouse.” He stepped close to her, the light of the new day filtering through the trees, tossed silhouettes of leaves onto his face. “What if you are with child? What then, my dearest, Ava?"

When had she had time to think of this? If her love for him produced a child, then she would be forever blessed. She'd have to walk away from him, but she'd have him forever in the gift of their child.

“Then I will raise it as best I can. And the child will know of you and how much I lo—” She hiked her chin. “I will manage just fine, sir."

“Damn it, Ava. Managing just fine will not do. Atherton's do not abandon their children."

Her eyes flamed. “Nor do Fychon's, sir. If there is a child, it shall never be abandoned or unloved. How dare you insinuate otherwise."

“I wasn't insinu—"

“And since you proposed because I have been compromised, as you so delicately put it, and may be carrying your babe, then my refusal to you is even more firm. I do not need, nor want your charity, sir."

Never had he wanted to throttle a female as much as he did at that moment.

“It is not charity I offer you,” he said with deadly calm. “It is my name and role as my wife. It is what I must do. It is what any gentleman would do."

Ah. Well. There it was. Duty, not love. Never had he spoken of love. Just pretty words about how his life was different with her in it and words said in passion. But nothing beyond the bed. Ie, she hadn't said them beyond a bedchamber either. But at least she'd said them. And dearly meant all three words.

How he thought they could marry with their unequal societal standings was beyond her. But even if those were not an enormous hindrance, he'd marry her for his reputation's sake, not for love. And love was the only way she'd have him, if she could. But since she couldn't, marriage wasn't something she need consider. It was like wishing for a life void of hurt. It would never be.

Her cold smile came slowly.

“How noble of you, my lord. I suppose I should be grateful you offered marriage and not that of mistress. A woman you can come to whenever you care to or when you tire of whomever else you are bedding."

Ava's heart splintered at the sight of his face hardening, eyes as cold and dark as shards of ebony. But his voice was colder.

“You are correct, madam. You should be grateful I proposed marriage and not that of mistress, the only position you are truly qualified to accept, given our vastly opposing social positions."

The dismay in her eyes, the flinch of her body had no impact on him. He was done playing to her whims, emotional and every other damn one. No more running, no more chasing after her, no more worrying about her well-being. If he had only followed his mind weeks ago—

Too late. All that had occurred between them could not be undone. But from this moment on things would be different. Like any business arrangement between two people seeking a satisfactory outcome.

His was to be honorable toward her whether she liked it or not. With a stipulation.

Hers was to collect her wayward family and return to Wales.

“How soon before you know whether you are pregnant or not?"

Ava's mouth dropped open, face colored. “What kind of question is that?"

“A direct one. Answer it."

She started to refuse, but decided against it. Anger shimmered off him as it was. “A few days I would think."

“Tomorrow we will return to London. We will join in an official agreement and wait for proof that you are with or without child. If you are, arrangements will be made for you and the child to be well taken care of for the duration of both of your lives. If you are not, your ties to me are ended. And mine to you. Since you want nothing to do with me or my offer, that you do not care that you have been compromised, that you are desperate for your life to be as it was, then this is how it will be arranged. Is that clear?"

How could it not be? And how could she have forgotten how much control and power he had by being who he was? The difference between them was suddenly far greater than what their births indicated. As vast as all the seas.

He'd spoken to her with ice in his voice, as he had the night they'd met. Once again her fate was in his hands. But this fate was far worse than the one he could have ordered up for her that night. It would be life in a different kind of prison. She would be imprisoned with the love she had for him, never able to give it to him. The child, if there was one, would have her love, but its father would not.

What he was offering, no, not offering but commanding, was the practical solution to either situation. And how she wished it didn't have to be a solution at all.

She clasped her hands at her waist, met his hard eyes with hers.

“Yes, my lord. It is quite clear."

Chapter Thirty-one

No one dared ask why Ava, who everyone now knew had recovered, was absent from breakfast, or why Deran ordered Max to his study afterward, but they made their assumptions. The men's raised voices could be heard through the closed doors of the study and when Max exited the room, with little finesse and a loud slam to the door, he muttered something about going for a long ride.

By late morning, Lady Atherton had had enough. It was clear the pall over the house was due to a lover's spat. Forty years of marriage to a tempestuous man had made her an expert in how to resolve them. Her son hadn't had enough experience, if any, in the realm of love to know the first place to start.

There was a loud rap at the front door. Curious as to who else had found their way to Tercy Manor-her sister perhaps?-she strolled into the great hall.

The man standing at the doorsill demanded to see her nephew. Bickford was holding his own, but the caller seemed to be in foul temper. Katherine decided to intervene.

“May I help you, sir?"

He nodded once. “I am here to see Lord Rensleigh on business."

“Business? You are in the shipping business with my nephew?"

His mouth twitched in imitation of a smile. “Yes, madam. I am. And we have several items to discuss about a recent mutual transaction."

“My. It must be a very important one for you to make the day's journey from London to discuss it."

“I can assure you, Mother, it is vital to Lord Stewart's reputation as well as to his safety and security."

She turned, surprised to see Deran lounging against the staircase newel. “Hello, dear. I didn't hear you come in."

Deran smiled faintly. “I was curious as to what compelled Lord Stewart to come all this way. A business matter, you say, eh, Stewart? Shouldn't we be addressing you as Stevens instead? The shrewd and dishonorable businessman."

Stewart stepped forward.

Deran shoved away from the staircase and advanced slowly. He took his mother's arm and pulled her to his side.

“It sounds as though the two of you have much to discuss,” she murmured. “If you will excuse me, I won't keep you."

Deran watched her departure, then turned back to Stewart.

“What do you want with Rensleigh?” he demanded, all trace of false politeness gone.

“Nothing that concerns you, Atherton,” the man said with equal lack of polish. “I'm here to see him, not you."

“It concerns me if you are in my home, Stewart. Especially when I know full well why you are here.” He turned to Bickford. “Find Rensleigh and send him to the library."

Rensleigh was already in the library and turned whiter than the pages of the book he was reading when they entered the room. “Stewart. My God, you're here."

“I said I would be if you didn't return to London by our agreed upon time.” He flung his hat onto a chair as though he owned the room. “I told you then you had one more chance to get this right and that I would be watching you. I'd rather us speak in private, but” his eyes narrowed in Deran's direction, “your guard dog doesn't seem to be inclined to leave. I think he's afraid you might come to some harm, Rensleigh.” He smiled evilly. “What do you think?"

“Don't mind me,” Deran drawled as he sat sprawled in a chair. Stewart had avowed Rensleigh would come to some harm and Rensleigh believed him. So did Deran. But it wouldn't happen in his house, nor would it happen today. He was curious as to how Rensleigh would explain his way out of this.

“There's no need for anyone to come to harm, Stewart. She's here. Like I told you."

Ah. So much for explanations. Why offer yourself up as the sacrificial lamb when some other creature can better fill the position?

“Why haven't you brought her to London? We have until Thursday. Two more days."

“Things got complicated."

“Complicated?” he sneered. “You're in the God damned country, Rensleigh. How complicated can things get?” He stuck a wide finger in Robert's face. “If you can't take care of things, I will. Either way he will hear about how you couldn't do something as simple as keep an eye on her."

Robert swallowed hard and boldly stared the man down.

“Tell him then, I don't care. He won't want me to do any more work for him once you tell him what a failure I was, which is precisely what I want. So tell him."

“I shall. But it's not as easy as that, you simpering maggot. You know a great deal. He won't just let you walk away. That would be too simple and too, how shall I say ... humane?"

Robert's face turned ashen.

“A man can have only as much power over you as you allow him,” Deran remarked quietly.

Robert gave Deran a quick glance. His head rested on the back of the chair as though his need for rest was dire.

“Yes. Well. You tell this Mr. P. whatever you like about me, Stewart. I don't care what he thinks. But I do care about what happens to Miss Fychon. She will ... not be going with you and I will not be taking her to London, sir."

Muted applause followed.

Stewart glowered at Deran, and turned back to Rensleigh.

“I will call you out in five seconds if you do not produce her immediately."

“Call me out?"

“Yes, you idiot. Pistols. Manly weapons. None of that old-fashioned swordplay you dabble in."

“Pistols?"

“I have a brace of three right here in this room,” Deran offered on a yawn. “Ivory-handled. Well-balanced. Very accurate."

“Good God,” Robert wheezed, collapsing into a chair. “Atherton. I cannot do this. I thought I could, but—"

“You are afraid you might kill the man if you actually have to go through with it.” Deran straightened the cuffs of his shirt. “I know the feeling, cousin, when you know full well your skilled marksmanship gives you an unfair advantage. There is nothing to be done for it, I'm afraid. Your honor, and all.” He smiled widely.

Robert's eyes widened to the point of nearly being expelled from his skull.

“I'll be your second. Max can be Stewart's. He hasn't had that honor in years. He'll be thrilled.” Deran shoved from his chair and headed for the door. “My appetite is enormous today. If we could be done with this before luncheon, I'd greatly appreciate it. If you will excuse me, I'll go see if Mr. DiSanto has returned from his ride. Won't be long."

In the hallway, Rensleigh was immediately at his heels.

“What have you done? What happened to the bribe? Remember? That bit about every man having his price?"

“Calm yourself, Rensleigh. There will be no duel today. Tomorrow perhaps, but not today."

“Tomor...? Now see here—"

Deran stopped and spun around so fast Robert tripped backward and fell flat on his rear.

“No. You see here,” Deran seethed, his false jocularity gone. Looking down at Rensleigh, he had the sudden desire to plant his boot in the center of his fussy lace. No human who wore that much lace should be allowed to call himself a man. “You will do as I say. You got yourself into this predicament and I am willing to help you out of it. There will be no duel today, and we will follow through on the other matter, but you will do exactly as I say. Is that understood?"

“Duel?” Deran turned to see his mother, sister and brother-in-law gaping at him.

“I say, Atherton,” the viscount huffed. “What's this about a duel?"

The hall filled with anxious chatter as questions hurled about. Lord Stewart appeared in the midst of it and glared at the unruly lot.

“Where's DiSanto? I want to be done with this nuisance so I can return to London.” He turned to Rensleigh. “With our business transaction concluded and in my hands,” he sneered.

His meaning did not escape Deran, but he ignored it. “DiSanto's not here and there is no one else to stand as second. The duel must be postponed, it seems,” Deran said with affected reluctance.

Stewart pointed up the hall to the viscount. “What about him?"

Philip squawked and ducked back into the parlor room.

“He's indisposed, I'm afraid,” Deran said mildly. Lord save him from the boneless men he had the misfortune of having to claim as kin. “You will have to return to London and take this up with the marquess there. Suits me better anyway. Cleaning the pistols after they've been fired is too much bloody work."

“I am not leaving until I see her."

There was a shudder of silence and an eerie stillness at Stewart's proclamation.

“Indeed?” Deran finally replied, quietly.

“Yes, indeed. She is an investment. A very costly investment. Produce her now and I will leave. My steward will contact you, Rensleigh, about our dawn appointment when you reach London. Which will be by Thursday, isn't that right?"

Producing Ava was not in Robert's power. She wasn't his guest, nor did he have any idea where in this huge house she might be. He looked to Deran who was eyeing Stewart as a ravenous male lion would a wildebeest.

As Deran opened his mouth to call for Bickford, he appeared at the end of the hallway. Deran didn't know why his showing up that way could still surprise him, but it did. Eerie.

“Summon Miss Fychon, please. And her maid."

Bickford's mouth pursed in an uncommon display of displeasure, but he nodded.

“Deran,” his mother said, approaching him, concern wrinkling her brow. “I don't understand. Why on earth would Lord Stewart want to duel with Robert? And what did he mean by an investment?"

He hadn't wanted his mother to know the truth. For Ava's sake. He'd told her about Ava's search for her brother and sister, but not how they'd come to be separated. Ava's siblings had been visiting with several different relatives here in England, he'd explained, and she was to meet them. Some confusion existed as to exactly which relatives they were staying with at the moment, thus delaying her stay in the country. His mother had accepted his explanation at the time, but now she clearly knew she'd been lied to.

“Yes, Deran.” Lady Charnock stepped up next to her mother. “What is he talking about? What has warranted a duel, for heaven's sake? There must be some mistake. Robert wouldn't know how to load a pistol much less how to fire it. And if I heard Lord Stewart correctly, he said Miss Fychon is an investment. Not that she made an investment, but that she is one. He made it sound as though she is an item for trade or sale."

“I am."

All heads snapped high, and eyes focused on the first floor landing.

Ava descended slowly, confidently, eyes straight ahead. She rounded the corner, passed the parlor and glided up the hall. She was simply dressed in spring green muslin and her hair was in a wide knot at the nape. Her eyes were no more than green circles, her mouth a drawn line.

She stopped a foot in front of Lord Stewart.

“So. It is you. The mochyn who sat across from me at the duchess’ dinner party, boring me with stories about polo games. Was I convincing in how interested I seemed to be by you and your tedious tales, sir? Did I flatter you well enough with my smiles?"

“Whatever you called me, I suggest you watch your tongue."

Ava's abrupt laugh surprised everyone. “Of course you would. If it were to become too loose, it would be cut out, would it not? I was warned more than once and reminded of it again only last week. And who takes on that grisly task, exactly? Is it you, Lord Stewart, or does Sir de la Pontoise do the honors?"

There was a round of gasps.

“Watch it, miss,” Stewart said lowly. “You are in no position to—"

“I am very much in a position to ask questions, sir,” she said with steely calm. “I have two more days of freedom if my calculations are correct. And even if they aren't, I believe I have the right to explanations. You are, after all, the man who had me and my family dragged from our home, aren't you? Stuffed in a ship for weeks with little food or fresh air and men who cheerfully wielded whips and then carted us across this country so we could be mêted out to strangers like loaves of bread for their tables. We meant no more to you than that, maybe even less. You owe me explanations before taking any more of my life than you already have, sir. I insist on them. No,” she said stepping even closer, the first flash of green fire showing in her eyes, “I demand them."

It wasn't everyday that London's polite set witnessed a commoner putting it to a noble, and certainly never for the reason this woman was. It surpassed fascinating and entered the realm of approval. Approval with a massive dose of horror.

Stewart stood two heads higher than Ava, but seemed to shrink under her impassive gaze and staunch immobility. She didn't so much as blink or swallow so intent was she on learning the truth.

From where Deran stood he could see them both clearly. The ogre and the lamb. But the lamb was far from docile at the moment, although she looked to be in a trance, her beautiful, soft features turned into granite. Beneath the controlled façade was loathing so great he felt its burn. His pulse was flying as he watched.

Pride welled in him as she made demands of this man who'd stolen her life. As hard as it must be for her to face a man she despised, he knew she wouldn't back down until she had answers. That had always been her way.

Stewart's eyes skittered about, taking in his audience. “Very well.” He turned to Deran. “If there is somewhere I can talk to her—"

“No,” Ava said. “You will tell me everything right here, in front of all these people as witnesses. People who have been nothing but kind and generous to me since you brought me unwillingly to this country. People who have more heart in one strand of hair than you have in your entire body. People,” and here she paused, swallowed slowly, “who I owe my life and would give mine for.” Her voice was soft. “People, whom I love. You will not hide your sins from them, sir."

The tale was as she and Deran had surmised, with more people involved than they'd thought. Pontoise had scouts who looked for families with large debts and children who could be bought to pay them off. Miners and mill workers were the best sources because their wages were low, feeding their families a struggle. More female than male children were offered since sons could one day work alongside their fathers. Girls were more costly and of less benefit to the family.

Pontoise had spotted Ava the year before when touring the area. Her stature and looks met the requested requirements of a client. As there was no adult to approach with an offer, a relative was sought. It was either convince him to take over the household and sell her, or kidnap her. Her brother and sister became part of the package. It was as simple as that.

“But you have turned it into a nightmare,” Stewart snarled. “If you had let well enough alone, Pontoise wouldn't have had to threaten your life, or your brother and sister's. Your actions may have already caused their deaths, a fact you will have to live with forever."

Chapter Thirty-two

Ava hadn't moved while he spoke, but now she glanced at Deran. She mouthed Mairwen's name and he shook his head ever so slightly. Do not tell him about Mairwen. He looked past her at Max, who'd entered the hallway halfway through Stewart's delivery. He too shook his head, somehow sensing Ava's desire to refute Stewart's words about her sister.

Ava heeded Deran's warning. “You are right, Lord Stewart. I will have to live with it, as I have had to live with fear for their lives all along. Are you familiar with such a fear, sir? Fear for your life?"

“Don't be absurd. I'm careful, and I know my business and unlike you, I follow orders."

“That is quite enough.” Lady Atherton raised a trembling hand. “Far more than enough. Never have I heard of such despicable behavior in all my days. It has made me ill to listen to you talk to Miss Fychon as though she were nothing more than a playing piece in a game. How you can live with yourself while you participate in, condone such barbaric transactions is a wonder. You do not deserve the title you bear, sir, and I will see to it with all the power I possess that it is stripped from you."

“Here, here,” Philip mumbled from far behind her.

Stewart actually chuckled. “I wish you well in that, madam. An earl's title is not easily removed. Such an endeavor could take years."

“I pray I still have many left and that each will take me nearer to my goal of eradicating your name from the world of fine, noble, honorable men.” Her eyes shone with tears. “I have had a blessed life, sir. Blessed in so many ways, but the greatest have been as the proud wife of one of England's finest gentlemen and mother of our children, honorable children, sir. My husband and I raised our children with the belief the noble should better his world. Fill it with goodwill and have a devotion to the common good of man. We taught them there is no more noble and beautiful an occupation in the world than to assist another human being. Where Miss Fychon is concerned, they have done that. You, sir, do not deserve to stand in the same room with either of them much less inhale the same air."

This was too much for Ava. Her head was bowed, but Deran saw the shine of tears on her cheeks. A lump in his throat threatened to produce some of his own. It moved him profoundly that his mother should speak of her marriage and his father so proudly and defended Ava.

Madeline took her mother's hand and whispered in her ear. The countess shook her head.

“No, dear. I do not need to lie down. I am shaken, to be sure, but I will not leave until this man has left our home, without Miss Fychon."

Ava turned to her. “Madam, please. Do not worry yourself on my behalf. I have known for a long time what I must do. I have tried to fight it, but some things are beyond me. If I return to London now, not all of my efforts for my family will have been in vain.” She turned back to Lord Stewart. “You are the last person I trust, but you are also the only person I can ask for his word that my brother and sister will not be harmed in any way. If you can do this, promise me this, then I will go with you."

“No,” Deran quietly said, “you will not.” He inserted himself between Ava and Lord Stewart, effectively pushing her behind him. “She has no reason to trust you and I certainly do not. You will not be taking her. She will return to London, yes, but it will be with me. Her obligations will be met, I will see to it."

When his mother and sister gasped, he gave them a quick look. Trust me, it said. Yes, he would return Miss Fychon to London, but not so she could be handled by this monster.

Stewart gave Deran his most venomous glare. “Just remember, sir,” he said heatedly, “if she is not in Sir Edmond's possession in two days, you and she will have her family's deaths on your hands.” He strode past the onlookers and saw himself out.

A whimper turned all attentions to Ava. Sagged against the staircase, emotions had finally overwhelmed her. A prickle of anger flashed through Deran. She wouldn't have to go through all this hell if she'd said yes to his proposal. Not that he was going to let her go through the hell, but if she hadn't refused him, he could help her even more.

But concern for her overrode his anger. As difficult as it had been for him to listen to Stewart, it had to have been doubly hard for her.

He offered his arm. “Miss Fychon, come, let me escort you to your room. You haven't fully recovered yet from your fever and you don't want a setback."

She didn't move nor react. He set her hand on his arm and covered it with his other hand. He bent and spoke softly. “Ava. I will not let this happen to you. I have told you that before. We will talk, but first you need to rest."

Her head raised and she looked at him with blank eyes. He tried to reassure her with a smile, but her expression remained vacant.

“Remember, you will see Mairwen soon,” he said moving up the hall. “That should pick your spirits up some."

“I'll go up with her Deran,” his mother said, falling in step behind him.

“So will I,” Madeline chimed, keeping her mother's hand in her own.

The small procession took to the stairs.

Max stood with Deran and watched them ascend the stairs.

“Miss Fychon seems to have found friends in the countess and viscountess."

Deran nodded. “Yes, she has. She needs them. I hadn't really thought of that until just now. Not only does she not know the country and how to find her way around in it, but she doesn't know anyone. No one but who is in this house. Must be damnable lonely."

They moved toward the parlor where the viscount was idly picking through a tray of chocolates. They continued down the hall to the library. Robert lay flat on the settee, looking uncannily like an injured swan. Deran whirled back up the hall.

“Damnation, are there no empty rooms in this house? I need some air."

The day was remarkably pleasant with low clouds that didn't present a threat of rain. They walked the same path he'd thundered up hours before. Deran thought he even saw a trace of her footprints in the dirt.

“Miss Fychon doesn't behave as though she's lonely,” Max observed, keeping on the topic. “She doesn't sulk, or brood, at least not that I've seen. A bright disposition, considering all she has to bear."

“You don't need to sell her finer points to me, Max. I am well acquainted with them."

“Yet you want me to go through with what we discussed."

“I do.” He scowled. “No, I don't, but it's what has to be done."

“I don't like it."

“I know you don't. Hell, do you think I do?” Deran pulled up short. “This is not the way I would have it if it were my choice. But it isn't. Even if her grandfather is found and a petition granted for her rights to be restored to her, she would probably still refuse me on some general principle. She is a strong-willed woman, Max. No, that's too generous. She's damn obstinate. She called me something once, what was it?” He looked past Max trying to recall that particular word.

“Mochyn,” Max stated.

An eyebrow arced. “Yes. There was that. But there's another, very simple—"

“What is a mochyn anyway? She used it on Stewart."

“Swine.” His other eyebrow joined the first when Max laughed. “Asyn. That's what she called me. And that's precisely what she is. A stubborn asyn."

There was a second of silence before the laughter. “Didn't need an interpreter for that, did you?” Deran chuckled.

* * * *

His mood was as low as the carpet and as dark as the planking below as he prepared for the return trip to London. He was anxious to return to the city, put behind him all the unpleasantness that had been a part of each and every day since she'd—

No. Not true. Not much unpleasantness. Very little really. Hell. There had been none. None at all. That's what made this so damn outrageous. One of the reasons.

Bickford materialized at the doorway. “If I may have a word with you, please, my lord."

“Only one, Bickford. That's all I'm good for, I'm afraid."

“There is something I need to discuss with you."

“All right, all right.” Glad for the interruption, Deran heaved a sigh. “Discuss away."

Bickford's eyes looked almost lively. He wasn't smiling, indeed Deran was sure his face didn't possess the muscles necessary to lift a mouth upward, but something about it was less grim. His popping in and out of rooms was bad enough, but seeing Bickford on the verge of joviality was even more disturbing.

“Your brother,” Deran said quietly.

An eyebrow moved. He handed the earl a folded sheet of paper. “This was just delivered to me by way of messenger. I believe you will find it exceedingly interesting, my lord.” He tipped his head and backed away.

“No. Stay.” Deran stared at the note, his pulse jumping. “Bloody hell, I'm nervous.” He sucked in his breath and unfolded the note. He read it once, read it again and then raised his head to stare at his butler, his valet, the man in who, without conscious thought, he'd always had the utmost confidence.

“Good God, Bickford."

The man proved his muscle theory wrong.

* * * *

Deran watched from the doorway as Ava packed her one bag, her movements graceful and efficient, dress skimming subtle curves, outlining the lovely roundness of her bottom as she bent over the bed to fold undergarments. Her profile showed no emotion. She was resigned to her task, no matter how difficult.

He knocked lightly. Turning, a pair of stockings dangled from her fingers.

“You are nearly finished with your packing."

She nodded and resumed folding and organizing. Her back was rigid. She didn't welcome his company. A pang of hurt jarred him knowing that. Before dawn she'd not wanted him to leave her. Had weakened him so that he couldn't in the end. And now she might as well be standing behind a wall as distant as he felt from her.

“Our travel plans have changed, Ava,” he said, shaking off his reminiscences.

She snapped upright. “What do you mean, changed?"

“We will not be returning to London tomorrow, or if we do, it will be later in the day."

“No!” Panic leapt into her eyes. “You can't do this to me! You must not do this to me.” She tossed aside the garment she held and rushed to him. “I have to be there when he comes for me, Deran. I don't want to go, you know I don't, but,"—she grabbed his arm—"dear God, it will be so hard. Please don't make it harder than it already is. Please."

His heart shuddered from the whispered plea.

“I'll get you to London, Ava, but we must travel elsewhere first. It's too late to go today. First thing in the morning."

Her cheeks reddened and eyes glowed a vibrant green. A spectacular sight. He had a stabbing urge to grab her up and devour every inch of her.

“Where? Where must we go that is so damn important?"

He savored the words for a moment. Excitement and intense pleasure darted through him as he anticipated her reaction.

“To Dunmoor. To collect your brother."

That may not have been the best way to impart the news. Mouth dropped open, eyes widened in shock. He caught her at the waist when her knees wobbled and she tipped backward.

And then there were tears amidst garbled questions and her arms were suddenly around him, her body trembling with excitement and joy. It was glorious.

The stream of emotions subsided and she held him close. He pressed kisses onto her hair, her hand moved to his neck, fingers dusted the ends of his hair. He pulled back to look down at her at the same time she looked up at him. He shouldn't, but was powerless not to. The kiss was light, salty from her tears. Her sigh caressed his lips and arms encircled his neck. In an instant he was absorbed by her and what she gave back to him. Her delicate hands held his face, caressed his cheeks as the kiss spun them into their private world of yearning.

You must stop. Damnation, how he resented that thought. But he had just begun to mourn losing her. Making love again would be too painful, too bittersweet, a reminder of what he had to let go.

No. They could not do this. Not here. Not now. Dear God, never again.

“This ... we can't do this, Ava. I can't do this. Lord knows I want to, I want you as I always have, but—"

A finger touched his lips and he gazed down at her. The sad smile crushed his heart.

“You don't have to explain. I understand."

Their rapid breathing settled over them as they silently acknowledged what they both felt and would deny. She turned away, not wanting to see him leave.

* * * *

Everyone wanted to go, but Deran refused to take more than one carriage.

“We do need room for the boy,” he pointed out.

Rensleigh bowed out and left for London and the viscount stayed behind, reluctantly, until Bickford told him this was Mrs. Pettigrew's baking day.

“I'll stay,” Max volunteered.

“No, sir, I insist you join us. I am indebted for all you've done,” Ava insisted.

He rode atop with Fleck, she rode inside with Deran, his mother and sister.

It would be a two-hour ride. The longest two hours of Ava's life.

“I can't imagine what this must be like for you, Miss Fychon,” the countess said as they set off. “To be separated from anyone you love and then be reunited is thrilling. But to find your brother after searching for him for two months, well, I cannot imagine your excitement."

“I am excited,” she agreed. “And nervous. I know Mr. Bickford's brother said Ithel is at one of the better run workhouses, but I can't help worrying about how well he has been cared for."

Madeline, seated across from her, leaned forward and patted her hand. “I'm sure he's fine. And far better when he sees you."

Deran watched Ava from his corner, saw her heroic effort to maintain poise with erect posture and polite smiles, her hands clasped primly in her lap. Only her fingers twisting together revealed her inner turmoil. He understood it would be with her until she saw her brother. For years he'd imagined such a reunion with his own brother. Although he had stopped actively looking for him, never had he said goodbye. Goodbye would mean he'd failed Hayden, something Deran would not accept.

In a way he envied her. She knew her brother was alive and where he was. She'd gone through weeks of hell looking for him, but now would be reunited. Yes, he envied her that.

Ava said nothing as the carriage lumbered past estates and sleepy towns.

She would soon have what she'd sought hard to gain and lose that which she'd found on the way and never wished to leave. The pain from having to leave him seeped through her bones and surrounded her heart. It would ease some day, but not soon. Not soon at all. Reconstructing her life, provided she had that chance, would keep her busy, would fill her mind and heart with something other than thoughts of him. But desolate moments were inevitable, had already seized her, and she'd not yet departed.

Panic fluttered in her stomach. How could she do this? Leave England, never to see him again? It was all so damn unfair. Since the night she'd been dragged from her home to now. And stupid woman that she was, she'd made it worse by falling in love with someone she had no business even being with. A man who'd caused her body and heart to feel more than she'd known was possible.

She leaned her head against the cool window pane, trying to stave off the pain of loss, not let it overtake her. Ithel, think of Ithel. Think of Mairwen. How happy we will all be. But when she saw the small circle they formed, she saw a wide gap, a space where she wanted the man she loved to be standing.

Deran glanced at her when she shifted closer to the window. The sunlight shone onto two lines of tears. He wondered if she'd been thinking what he had. The searching was over, some lives recovered and some to be left behind.

Never had he felt such emptiness.

Chapter Thirty-three

Ava saw the ropes of smoke first.

“Oh!” She turned to Deran, her eyes bright. “I see it. Is this it?” She pressed her face to the glass.

Everyone looked out the nearest window.

“I believe it is."

“Oh myn Duw,” she whispered. “I'm so ... so, everything.” Her hands splayed across her stomach. “I feel sick."

“There, there, Miss Fychon,” the countess said. “This is not the time to be ill."

“I'm not, not really, it's just—” She gasped as the carriage clattered over a stone bridge. “I see the building! No, there are,” she pointed and counted silently, “eight of them. How will we know which one he is in?"

“We are to ask for Master Vickers at the main building—the smallest one.” He scanned the vast network of structures. “There it is, in the middle of those two four-storied buildings. Not the dark brick, but the stone.” Ava nodded.

When they drew to a halt, Max leapt down and helped Deran hand the ladies down.

“My mother and sister will stay with the carriage, Max. They want to move about while I go inside with Miss Fychon.” His jaw tightened, eyes swept over the town. All appeared peaceful. “Stay close to them, will you? I don't want to take any chances with their safety, not after what happened at the first mill town.” When Max looked at him questioningly, Deran said, “Have Fleck tell you the story."

He turned to Ava who was kicking up dust with her pacing.

“Ready?"

She grabbed his arm with both hands and gave a quick smile to the others.

A wide yard ran the length of the property, most of it fronted by an imposing building, both in height and length. The levels climbed well into the sky, each dotted with dozens of miniature windows, many broken. Ava counted four stacks, all busily heaving out dark smoke, filling the air with a foul odor. To its far left was the stone building Deran had pointed out, nestled between two others set in a V. It was the only one with a small smokestack.

“That must be the master's office."

They walked silently for several steps before Ava spoke. “About London, sir."

Deran's mouth tightened at her formality. Already it has started. “Yes. What about London?"

“What you said about me not going with Sir Edmond. You said we would talk about it."

He'd thought of that last night, how he hadn't explained himself. After their earlier encounter, it had been best to keep his distance.

“I will speak to him. Do not worry yourself about it."

“Not worry? How can I not?” She gave him a sideways glance, amazed he could be so calm. “That is all I have done, worry about how I can get out of going with him. Well, that and how to find my brother and sister,” she mumbled, “and what to do about you and me."

“Is that all? You've had far too much time on your hands, my dear."

She smiled at his teasing. “I would gladly fill my time with less to worry about. So tell me why I should not worry about Sir Edmond."

They were halfway across the yard. Not enough time to go into details.

“With the help of a friend, I have discovered what ship you were on. It is one of Pontoise's from his private fleet. He has broken many maritime laws by transporting cargo other than what he reported. Harbour authorities and other individuals have been notified of his illegal cargos. I intend to tell him this when we meet tomorrow. I foresee no problems."

Ava spun to face him.

“Foresee no problems? Just like that?"

He shrugged. “He'll have a multitude of explanations I'm sure and I expect he will be displeased, but that is all."

Ava shook her head rapidly. “No, that will not be all. You do not understand how evil this man is, Deran. Sir. He is a monster, the most wicked man you can imagine. Why, he could do something ... something horrible to you. Could hurt you or try to ki—” She gripped his arm, gave him a pleading look. “I will not have you putting yourself in danger on my account."

Deran looked at her with mild amusement. “Thank you for your concern for my safety, my sweet, but I assure you I can, and shall look after myself. He is a businessman, and I have a vast amount of experience with such. You must trust me when I say all will be well.” He clasped the hand that strangled his arm and propelled her forward.

“I hate it when you say that,” Ava grumbled. “'Trust me, all will be well.’ She deepened her voice, tagging it with a British accent in imitation of his.

Deran grinned for the first time today. “Because you know I'm right."

“No, because you're so bloody calm when you say it."

He laughed and squeezed her hand. “What have I told you about that kind of language?"

“That it is to be used only at appropriate times. And never in the company of ladies."

He laughed again and she joined him.

By the time they reached the large iron door she'd grown very quiet, but vibrated with nervous excitement. When Deran raised his hand to knock, she grabbed his arm.

“Wait. Please."

He sighed patiently. “Ava, I know you're ner—"

“In case we don't have the chance to speak privately again, I must tell you this now.” Her brow was lined with concern, eyes, an ocean of warm green. “I would marry you if I could. I would be devoted to you and be the best wife I could be and a wonderful mother to our children. Don't look so surprised. I've thought about this, thought of it often. Even before you proposed, and before we—” She felt her cheeks flush. “If I could marry you, I would be the happiest woman alive and proud to be your wife. I would love you so well.” She laid a hand on his cheek, the love in her voice lighting her eyes. “I wanted you to know, so you are not left thinking I do not want you. I do. So much it hurts. I just can't have you,” she added on a whisper.

Before he could respond, she knocked on the door.

* * * *

Master Vickers was at another building. A man with skin so wrinkled it looked pleated led them to a dingy office the size of a horse stall, offered Ava the only chair and shuffled off. Ava looked at the thin filament of dirt on the wooden chair and opted to stand. Six steps got her to the opposite side of the space where she pivoted, and retraced her steps, head bent low, hands clutching her cloak to her chest. The cold and damp of the stone mingled with the scent of dust.

“Ava,” Deran said on her next pass. “About what you said a moment ago.” She moved on, didn't react to his words. He caught her arm on the next lap. Her head jerked up.

“Yes? What is it?"

“I was trying to talk to you."

“Oh. I'm sorry. What did you want to talk about?"

“What you said, just before we walked in. About—” He was still reeling from her words. If she had thumped him over the head with a bucket, he couldn't have been more shocked. More shocked than the night she'd been dumped at his door.

Lord, but he was desperate to tell her about her grandfather. She might not be so hell bent on declining his proposal if she knew about her mother's noble line. What would be worse? Tell her and give her hope, or keep quiet in the event the grandfather wasn't found? The words that could put a light into both their hearts were screaming for release.

But it would be too cruel to them both if nothing came of the contact made with her unknown relative. They would be no better off than they were now.

“Yes?” she prompted after his long pause.

“I feel exactly the—"

The back door opened and a stout, red-haired man entered. A breeze swept the layer of dirt off the small desk in the center of the room.

“Ah, sorry to keep you waiting.” He slammed the door behind him, sending the dirt into a small eddy. “Had a bit of a tangle in Number Six.” He yanked a handkerchief from his coat pocket just in time to catch a sneeze. He swabbed at his bulbous, red nose. “Didn't ‘spect it to take so long to see to it.” He smiled widely, displaying an array of teeth in various stages of loss. The lower center ones had already taken their leave. “Herman Vickers, Master of the Dunmoor millworks and workhouse.” He stuffed his cloth back in his pocket and made a bow to his guests.

Ava was grateful he'd not offered a hand.

Deran made formal introductions and thanked him for seeing to the matter of Ava's brother.

Vickers flapped a thick hand. “Glad to do it, glad to do it. Not many kin come for their young'uns. When Mister Bickford explained the situation I was right indignant the boy'd been taken from his family the way he were.” He opened the door and beckoned them outside. Ava pressed her cloak to her face to shield against the airborne dirt and dust and hurried after him with Deran close behind.

Vickers babbled steadily as they meandered through a system of brick barrack-like buildings.

“I know who your brother is, miss, but don't know him personally, if you get my meaning.” He ambled between two narrow buildings. “A sure sign he keeps out of mischief, otherwise he would have been brought up to me. Course, he being a foreigner, he might not mix too well with the rest and keeps to himself."

Vickers pointed to a low, gray stone building just ahead.

“That's the one. He works the looms. Just wanting you to know, your lordship,” he said in a confidential tone, “that Mister Bickford took care of all the particulars about his release so you wouldn't be bothered with none of that."

Although Arthur Bickford owned this mill and workhouse, he'd compensated Master Vickers monetarily for the loss of one of his workers. Deran had no doubt Ithel's position would be quickly filled. That morning he'd sent a note of thanks to Mr. Bickford for his assistance, as well as a generous sum to be used for the care of the children.

Vickers paused at the entrance and turned to Ava. “He doesn't know you're coming, miss. Didn't know when you'd be here and didn't want him distracted from his work by looking for you.” He opened the door.

Ava looked over her shoulder at Deran. “Come with me?"

He'd thought to let her go alone, but having gone this far, he wanted to share in the actual reunion. Pleased that she wanted him to, he took her arm and entered.

A forest of clanks, creaks and whistling whirs slapped their ears. Rows of machines the width of the building whipped colored threads off large spools. A girl Ava guessed to be her sister's age bent over one of the massive looms, her fingers working to keep rows of threads separated and unknotted. A few yards from her an older man turned the crank of a large, spoked iron wheel attached to a system of overhead pulleys.

“It's connected to that water wheel we passed at the bridge,” Deran said loudly into her ear. “It moves the pulleys that operate the looms.” She nodded and moved to the next row, a hand clasped tightly around his.

Deran was dismayed the conditions of this workhouse were no better than the others he'd seen. The scent of sweat mixed with a musty wool odor, the workers were poorly clothed, women in thin dresses, men in loose trousers and shabby shirts. All shoeless.

A small girl suddenly darted out of the next row of machinery and careened into Ava. She caught the child's arm as she rocked backward. She bobbled, blinked up at Ava and popped a thumb in her mouth.

Ava knelt down to face her. “Are you all right?"

The child nodded vigorously and looked back and forth between the two adults before gazing up at Deran. She extracted her thumb and stepped closer to him, the top of her head coming to just above his knees.

Her light brown eyes were huge. “Are you a king?” she squeaked.

He tipped his head. “A king? No, I am not a king."

A tiny hand stroked the hem of his brown frock coat. “You look important like one. You're pretty.” She smiled shyly, revealing a gap between miniature upper teeth, which she plugged up with the thumb before scampering off.

Ava let out a bright laugh at Deran's bewildered look. “A king. A pretty king. Your mother will love hearing that."

Row after row she scanned. They neared the back of the building when she suddenly clamped down hard on Deran's hand and came to a dead halt.

Deran saw him at the far end of the next row. His golden hair fell across his face as he and a taller boy guided a loom forward on its wheels. Both boys were putting all their muscle into the effort, their bare feet slipping against the wooden floor, backs bent.

Ava let out a strangled sound and trembled as she called his name. He didn't turn.

“Ithel!” she cried out again, louder than before.

His head jerked up and he looked past the shoulders of his partner. Dark eyes widened in shock and mouth fell open.

“Myn Duw. Dearest God, Deran, we've found him.” Her body took flight as she sped across the room. Ithel lunged into her arms and she collapsed to her knees on the floor, holding him, rocking him. Deran saw the boy's tears streak down his cheeks and knew Ava's cheeks were as wet. Nearby workers paused and watched the scene, the emotion of it casting wistful smiles on their faces.

Several minutes passed before Deran crossed to them and squatted.

“Ava, my dear. We may leave with him, you know."

She raised her head, eyes bright with joyful tears. He, his family and friends had made this possible and she suddenly wanted to draw him into the embrace, include him in her rejoicing. The crouched position made it rather awkward, however, so she squeezed his arm instead and beamed. She spoke to Ithel and he gave Deran a curious glance. Without warning, the boy flung his arms around Deran's neck and hugged him hard.

“Diolch, diolch."

“You are welcome,” Deran said, the tears in his throat making it hard to speak. When the child laid his head on his shoulder there was nothing to do but hug him back. Standing with him in his arms, Ithel wrapped his legs around his waist. The feeling of protector was overwhelming. Ava had said he was small for his age, but he was much smaller than he thought he'd be. At nine years old, Deran had been twice his weight and several inches taller. This child was smaller than Hayden had been at age seven, the age he'd last seen him.

Once outside, Deran set the boy down. He was small, but he wasn't a baby.

When Ava asked him a question in Welsh, Ithel shook his head.

“He has nothing to bring. These are his only clothes.” A tattered jacket, the sleeves nearly to the elbows, trousers torn at both knees, a shirt and dark neckcloth.

Ithel asked a question and Ava smiled and nodded.

“He wants to know if you have horses.” She took his hand and began to walk back to the carriage. “His English is not as practiced as mine, so you will have to endure our language I'm afraid. After my mother died, we spoke little English at home. Our father didn't want us speaking it."

“But you maintained it by conversing with the priests."

“Yes. But I should have included more English lessons in his schooling. And Mairwen's. It was just easier to teach them in Welsh."

“Mairwen?” Ithel said, perking up at his sister's name. “She was here, but she leave."

“Left,” Ava corrected, smoothing back his hair. “Yes, we know she left, but we know where she is, don't we, Deran? Sir,” she added hastily, a blush rising to her cheeks.

“We do. And you will see her very soon."

Ithel understood. His understanding of English seemed to be better than his use of it.

The return to the carriage was interrupted a number of times because Ava had to stop and give Ithel quick hugs as a reminder this was all real. Never had she been so happy. She was glowing from the inside, so euphoric she scarcely kept her feet on the ground. With her arm threaded through Deran's and Ithel's fingers laced in hers, she was the happiest woman walking.

At the stone walkway, Deran perched Ithel on his shoulders to spare his bare feet, which brought on squeals of delight. When Ithel saw the carriage and horses he gasped and clapped his hands. Deran set him down and introduced him to his mother and sister, then to Mr. DiSanto and Mr. Fleck.

Ithel leaned against Ava's thigh shyly, scanning the circle of people. Suddenly he shifted away from her, stood tall and made a small bow.

“Diolch. Thank you for to caring for my sister and to finding me,” he said carefully.

Everyone ignored the grammatical gaffes and smiled warmly. Deran covered Ava's hand that rested on his forearm. Taking care of his sister. He'd not done that as well as the boy presumed. Lack of experience in seeing to someone's welfare other than his own could be to blame, but that wouldn't be wholly truthful. Selfishness and taking what he wanted was more like it. Wanting to be closer to her in body and heart, to soak up the passion she had for living and loving.

He'd wanted all that for himself.

But for now he would have to feed off her happiness at the recovery of her brother. He was grateful Ithel was safe and with her again, but with his return came a sick heaviness knowing her departure was more imminent than ever.

Chapter Thirty-four

Ava watched Ithel sleep from her chair at the window. How wonderful it had been to end the day in their customary way, with prayers, a song and his hand in hers until he fell into a contented sleep.

Such peace wouldn't come to her, however. The day's events and those to face tomorrow wouldn't allow her to sleep.

She rose and bent over him, smiling at the sweet sight of his innocent face, hair already mussed above the pillow, mouth open slightly, breathing steady and light. She pressed a kiss to his brow, donned her cloak and slipped from the room.

The manor's enormity wasn't enough space for her anxious mind. Descending the staircase quickly, she stepped outside and set off for the lake. Tomorrow she would leave Tercy Manor forever and she had yet to see the lake from any perspective other than her bedchamber window. She needed the peace that water would surely provide, whether the sea or a pond. It stilled her restlessness, invited her to lay aside her worries and contemplate nothing more than its calm beauty.

The lake was at the northeast end of the estate. It wasn't overly large. A private retreat, far from the front entrance but within walking distance. As she neared its bank she slowed and drew in the air. Cool, mossy, tinged with damp woods. The night was clear, a breeze barely hinted at, the moon sheared in half, its light painting the water with a sparkle, like a sprinkling of stars.

Ava lowered the hood of her cloak and surveyed the other side of the lake. A rise in the land led to dense woods. She wished she had explored them, struck out on a path for an hour or two. Embracing nature always revived her spirit. Its grandeur was a humble reminder of her place in the world, a world that had existed long before her and would long after she was gone. Its effect on her was the same here in England as it had been in her own country. Nature's powers to awe had no land boundaries.

Following the curve of the bank, she stopped at a spot where the moon shone brightest. She spread her cloak on the grass and sat with arms clasped around her knees. Serenity floated onto her shoulders like gentle hands. This was the most beautiful place she'd been to since being in this country and the first that felt wholly familiar.

She could never be a city dweller. Some of its attractions might be appealing from time to time. Why would anyone chose it over the freedom of the country?

But tomorrow she would return to the city's chaos. For one day. Did Mairwen know Ithel had been reclaimed? What a joyful surprise for her if she didn't. With that reunion her mission would finally come to its end. Of course there was still the dire matter of Sir Edmond and his expectations. Arrangements for Mairwen and Ithel would have to be made quickly if she wasn't able to evade him, or Lord Atherton wasn't as successful as he claimed he'd be at keeping her from the destiny Pontoise had chosen for her.

Lord Atherton. Not Deran. The thought he would never be that to her again caused a gaping emptiness. Would he miss her as much as she him? Tonight at dinner there had been much gaiety and happy chatter between Ithel and the guests, but she'd caught Lord Atherton looking at her forlornly. Yes, he might miss her a little.

Wales. Returning to it had consumed her thoughts for weeks and now that it might be possible for her, and definitely for Ithel and Mairwen, uncertainty nicked at her excitement. They had no home if she couldn't reclaim it from their uncle. Another had to be found, employment gained, lives rebuilt. She'd do what she had to, couldn't do otherwise, but at this very moment she didn't welcome her responsibilities.

Never had she known despair when she thought of returning to Wales. It had been her sanctuary, the place she traveled to in her mind for consolation. Home.

Her body would return, but her heart would remain in England.

She swallowed the anguish that threatened to voice itself and disturb the evening's quiet. There was much to be thankful for. Mourning the loss of love wouldn't reign over the victories she'd fought so hard for. She'd learn how to manage this heart of hers when it felt no more alive than a wilted flower, as it did whenever she thought of leaving him. Of course she would.

Rebuking herself for letting the goodness and joy of this day be sullied by dwelling on sorrows, she stretched her legs out before her and refocused on the beauty. The breeze nudged the hair that had fallen across her cheek and at that instant she sensed him before she heard his footstep. Turning to the sound, her heart both raced and shuddered to a halt. He leaned against a slender tree, barely in the shadows. He was magnificent. Beautiful. Elegant.

“Couldn't sleep?"

Two images sprang to her mind. The library in his London townhouse. He'd asked her the same question just before he demanded she relinquish the note she'd written. How she'd trembled under his dark scrutiny. And in Hyde Park he'd leaned against a tree, devastatingly handsome in his gentlemanly attire and she'd felt conspicuously ill-dressed in comparison.

He'd shed his coat, waistcoat and neckcloth. The sparkling white of his shirt glowed through the shadows.

“No. I could not sleep."

Deran had been in his study debating a second brandy when he heard her leave. Without looking in her room he'd known it was Ava who'd slipped out the front door at one in the morning. He'd watched her from a distance before deciding to intrude on her privacy. It would be the last time he'd be able to do so.

“It was a busy day. I imagine it would be hard to quiet your thoughts enough to sleep."

“Yes."

He stepped out of the shadows and approached.

“But you are troubled."

“Troubled?” He stood so close she had to drop her head back to see him. When he stopped at the edge of her cloak she remembered she only wore a thin chemise. She plucked up the cloak and pulled it over her shoulders. “No, not troubled."

“What then?” He neither sat nor retreated.

She considered her mood. “Contemplative."

“Do you want to talk about it?"

She shook her head. “I don't think so. Thank you though.” This was so hard. Being polite, behaving as though they were only acquaintances. She wished he would either go away or sit and stop acting the sentry.

He sat. What was the phrase? Be careful what you wish?

His languid pose and nearness caused a distressing effect on Ava's senses. Her heart didn't know whether to skip or stop, lungs couldn't fill or empty, nose saturated with his mysterious scent, mouth devoid of moisture, and it was a chore to keep her hands wrapped in the cloak when what she wanted to do was reach for him.

Bloody hell. If he didn't leave in the next few minutes, she would.

Deran watched her beneath lowered lids. Huddled in her cloak she looked childlike, her posture warning him to stay away, don't touch. Her anticipation was palpable. Of what he might say? He didn't think so. Of what he might do? He'd not come here with any purpose other than to assure her safety. Curiosity had drawn him and he'd not return without her.

But that could wait. She'd come here for solitude and to contemplate.

The very thing he'd been trying to avoid all evening, with an astounding degree of failure.

Ava rested her forehead on her knees. The effort to remain aloof created a suffocating excitement. Her stomach flipped, head buzzed. A thin moan fluttered out and she clasped her mouth to keep others at bay. When his arm curved around her shoulders, she collapsed against him with relief and dismay. She didn't want to want him this much, not now, not when they were a day away from having to part. But her body betrayed her mind. It wanted his strength, his soothing power, the glorious feeling of being cherished when in his arms.

“Do you want me to leave?"

Yes. No. She shook her head.

Moments of tense silence passed. The gap between them sparked with expectancy, a being of its own that both strengthened and weakened them. He slid the cloak off, crossed his legs and shifted her onto his lap. She didn't resist. He smiled, kissed her brow, tip of her nose and cheeks.

“You are so very beautiful."

His kiss was lighter than the breeze, so tender she almost wept. Her arms encircled his neck and she pivoted.

“I want to stop thinking of anything but us.” He nuzzled her ear. “Make the world go away for a while. Will you do that with me, Ava?"

She froze in an instant of indecision. “Yes,” she whispered. “I too want to feel only us."

He tilted her head back and met her mouth with his, touched her face, his fingers tipped with a heat that blazed a trail to her feminine core. Each kiss burrowed deeper, casting the heat wider until her body glowed inside. She held his face and kissed him back with an aching plea for more, more of everything he had to give.

He responded with the slowest of movements. He watched the path of his finger as he slipped first one then the other side of her chemise from her shoulders. His finger ran above the curve of fabric riding low on her breasts.

“This is the most fascinating space, Miss Fychon,” he said, his voice hypnotic. His finger coaxed the garment to the tops of her nipples. “And these,” he lowered his head, wetted a taut point with his tongue through the sheer material, “are without equal in perfection.” He circled the sensitive peak with his tongue, moved to the other and did the same.

He nipped the center of the chemise between his teeth and pulled it to her waist. Her breath locked in her throat. The breeze fanned her bare skin, hardening her nipples further.

Deran's eyes gleamed appreciatively. “You were created for moonlight."

When his finger traced a pattern on each breast, her jaw clenched. The heat he cast on her skin moved lower, pressed between her thighs, leaving her helpless to the craving he created. He licked a nipple, fingers caressed the other. A dart of shivering pleasure made its way to her feet. He lowered the arm cradling her shoulders, rested her head on one thigh, hips on the other, sprawling her across his lap. Without warning, he lifted her hips and swept the chemise away.

The thin garment had been no protection from the night air, but it had been all the concealment she had. She fisted her hands and fought the intense desire to cover her nakedness.

His eyes caressed her naked form, one finger marking a path from throat to stomach. His palm rested there.

“So lovely.” His hand crossed from one hip to the other. “So very soft."

Her skin tingled and twitched. She lifted her hips, wanting that hand to seek out the spot that was driving her slowly mad, begged it to end the blessed ache. Instead, he rolled her over so she lay face down across his lap.

She gasped and looked back over her shoulder at him. This was worse than before. The feeling of exposure much greater, almost humiliating. The position was too submissive and rife with unpleasant memories. She opened her mouth to object.

“I won't hurt you, darling,” he whispered. One hand rested on her back, the other touched her hair. His jaw tightened at the pale lines on her back, the shadows of healed wounds.

“I know. It's just that this is,” she squeezed her eyes tight when the hand on her back moved lower, “embarrassing."

“Ah.” His hand glided over her bottom, traveled back up the side furthest from him. “That won't last long."

He was right, so very right. He circled her bottom again, stroked each thigh and returned to her back. She was nothing but sensations, all thoughts of awkward position forgotten. She arched her back, raised her hips into his hand as it passed over her again. She never wanted that to stop, the thrill his touch sent from her back to the pit of her stomach. She writhed shamelessly in search for more of the pleasure.

He glided over her soft buttocks once more, but did not glide back up. His hand wedged between her thighs. He heard the hiss of breath she drew, saw the tremble shake her.

“Part your legs, Ava."

Her jumbled mind hardly comprehended his words, but her body needed little direction.

His touch was shockingly bold. She cried out, and buried her face in the cloak. She said farewell to what little control she'd had until now and levered herself against his palm, welcomed his merciless fingers. His other hand stroked her back and dipped into the shallow cleft at the base of her spine. She didn't know if the pleading that filled her mind left her mouth or not and didn't care. She begged him to ease the throbbing pleasure at the same time she sought more of it.

His own arousal presented itself through his breeches against her left breast. A sudden adjustment for better contact with his palm brought her chin against the tip of his phallus.

His hands instantly stilled.

She glanced up, saw that his eyes were closed, and decided to be brave.

She opened the front of the breeches, paused, waited for him to put a halt to her bold maneuver. When he didn't, she carefully freed his erection and touched him with her tongue. His hand pulled away from between her thighs, fingers dug into her bottom.

“Should I stop?"

More finger pressure. “No,” he said in a coarse rumble. “Lord, no."

She angled herself better and touched her tongue to him again. A hand went deep into her hair, the other gripped her waist. Encouraged, she licked lightly and then grew more daring as desire charged through her in a fury. His hand twisted in her hair, thigh muscles trembled beneath her breasts. Excitement leapt to a wild height as she realized how much she was enjoying this because he was. Or seemed to. He was making some rather gruff sounds.

He suddenly flipped her onto her back and took her with a savage kiss. She clamped her hands around his neck and met his lips with equal force. Seconds passed before he broke away and rid himself of shirt, breeches and boots. He knelt between her legs.

“I had thought to go slow, my sweet one, but you have made that forgivably impossible."

He bent her knees high to her chest, thrust deep, paused and pulled back almost fully. He reentered even deeper, withdrew entirely and sank in slowly, burrowing so deep she felt him, like a large ripple on a lake's surface, from hip to shoulder. His mouth claimed hers again and again as their rhythm melded, their need blinding them to everything beyond the pleasures they gave to each other.

She watched him, supported above her on his sculpted arms, his face rigid with fierce control, the cut of his jaw, eyes darker than the night sky, hair swinging about his cheeks. A memory to preserve for a lifetime.

They were in no rush to reach an end to their pleasure. They climbed a precipice, teetered there and then ceased moving, but didn't disconnect. More than physical awareness was present. Knowing this was the last time they would lie together made every movement, every caress, every sigh, every smile more poignant. It was vital they let the other know how dear they were. Ava lost the battle against the tears that increased along with her desire, and he kissed them away, his own eyes damp.

Caresses and kisses reawakened desire each time they crested to completion until their needs for release were chaotic.

Their bodies were slick with sweat, breathing quick and heavy, hands imploring, muscles vibrating.

He lowered to his forearms, kissed her surprisingly tenderly. “I don't want this to end as much as you, darling, but—"

Her eyes were half-closed, jaw clenched. “Yes, but do not pull away, do not leave me. Please, Deran, do not."

He groaned low, and thrust slow and impossibly deep. She reached until there was nothing further to reach for. Her muscles seized him in a violent shudder and as she was flung from the edge she'd been clinging to, she felt the hot stream of his release flow into her.

When he stilled and lay heavy on her, she buried her face in his neck and wrapped her arms around his broad back, joy and sadness nearly splitting her in two. She welcomed everything about this moment and all those he'd given her before. She wouldn't allow these memories, nor any other that was sure to bring her wistful pain in the future, be tarnished by feelings of despair.

She smiled up at the moon and held him closer and listened to their hearts beat as one.

Chapter Thirty-five

After breakfast everyone gathered on the cobblestone terrace where horses and carriages were readied for departure. Max had already left for London at first light. Lady Atherton instructed her son to make a visit before the year's end.

Ava and Ithel stood apart from the other guests. Lady Atherton approached and smiled down at Ithel.

“Master Fychon.” She took one of his hands. “I am very happy you have been reunited with your sister and will see your other one soon. You will take good care of them both, won't you?"

Ithel's eyes widened and he stood tall. “Ie, ma'am. I love them very much."

“And they love you just as much.” She leaned down, brushed aside his thick hair and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Ithel blushed and looked up at Ava, a grin stretched across his face.

The countess straightened and turned to Ava, her eyes flooded with warmth. She took Ava's hands. “It has been a pleasure and an honor to have met you, Miss Fychon. I know of no other woman who has gone to such lengths to see to the safety and care of her family. I admire you beyond measure and only wish I could have had more time to get to know you. And I would very much like to have heard you sing. Perhaps one day?"

Tears sprang into Ava's eyes. “I would like that very much. And the pleasure has been mine, Lady Atherton. I can only hope to become as fine a woman as you, madam."

A comfortable moment of fondness passed between them before the countess leaned in to kiss Ava's cheek.

“My son is not an easy man to love,” she whispered. “He is fortunate to have found you.” She stepped back and nodded slightly.

Ava felt heat rush to her cheeks. She knew? How? Had it been obvious to everyone? She glanced at Deran, saw the questioning look on his face and looked back at his mother.

“All will be well, my dear,” the countess said as if passing a noble edict. The very same words and manner her son had imparted. “You shall see."

After more thanks and farewells, the carriages were finally on their way.

“Will you be ready to leave within the half hour?” Deran asked Ava as they reentered the house. Ithel stayed behind watching Fleck ready their carriage.

“I am ready now. I have only the one trunk and Ithel has nothing but the clothing Mr. Bickford's brother sent him. That was very kind of him."

He nodded. “Yes, it was. Very well. I will collect Bickford and we can be off then.” He avoided looking at her directly, and it was damn difficult. The sunshine yellow dress made her radiant despite the small amount of sleep she'd had last night. They'd stayed at the lake until the first hint of dawn. It was impossible to believe they were the same people who had parted a few hours before, so remote were they now, going about a routine after making love for hours.

Ava smiled tightly, trying to appear complacent. “I will retrieve Beth, sir. She was tidying the room."

Deran stared after her. Saints save him, how would he survive this journey? He wanted her as fiercely this morning as he had last night. Not only to make love to, but to lie with, be in comfortable company with, simply be with. How would he endure being in a carriage wanting all that and not being able to have any of it, neither there nor anywhere? Damnation and hell, but this was a miserable day.

* * * *

Each mile closer to London worsened his mood. He wished he could render himself deaf and blind and blank his memory. No, he thought, staring out his window. He wouldn't want his memory taken from him, as painful as some of what it recalled, he wouldn't wish it away. Given last night's pleasures, he felt so morose. No, not pleasures. Pleasures were what he knew before Ava. Fanciful diversions of the flesh. Not so with her. It was pure sensation of the deepest nature, tendrils that wound through muscle and bone and gripped his heart and mind. A consumptive energy that fed on itself and created more. More of wanting her, more of wanting everything that was Ava Fychon.

This was his life, devil take it, one he'd lived alone for thirty-three years. Surely there must be a way to have what he wanted, to share his life with her and do his duty by his position, yet also his family.

But what choices were there for an earl when he was in love with someone unsuitable?

Deran silently groaned as he answered the question again, and closed his eyes.

* * * *

He dozed and woke to quiet. All but Ava had nodded off. Ithel's head was in Ava's lap, legs propped on Beth's thigh. Ava stared out the window, a hand on Ithel's back, the other between her cheek and the glass. She turned as Deran shifted position and met her eyes from his opposite corner.

“We've not talked about what will happen when we arrive,” she said softly.

Deran's jaw pulsed. “We will go to my aunt's. Your sister is waiting for you."

“Yes, I know. I meant ... I have tried to imagine what will happen after, but—"

“What have you imagined?"

“It doesn't matter."

“It does to me."

Her eyes shone with tears. “I cannot say."

“Cannot, or will not?"

She smiled at the now endearingly familiar question. “Will not."

His mouth thinned disapprovingly. “We will go to Culver Hall and learn the latest about Pontoise. If he meant what he said about returning, he will have arrived today. Both my uncle and aunt are aware of why he will be coming for you. Max saw to that when he had Mairwen transported there. They will not let any harm come to her because you are not there, Ava."

She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath until he said Mairwen would be safe.

“And if he is there? You mean to talk to him?"

“I mean to do whatever is necessary to keep him from following through with his promise."

Ava sucked in her breath. “I told you, I will not have you endangering yourself on my behalf."

“That is not your choice."

“You cannot—” She stiffened beneath his heated stare. “You must not do anything foolish, Deran. I will not have it."

Was there a more vexing female on this earth? He wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled loud enough to be heard over the carriage wheels. He swallowed slowly and breathed deeply.

“You conveniently overlook two facts, Miss Fychon.” He deliberately emphasized her name. “You are not in a bargaining position with Pontoise, nor do you control my actions. I will do whatever is necessary to ensure your freedom. What you do with that freedom is your decision, I will not interfere nor try to sway you in any direction. But it will be given to you.” He looked away. “My safety is not to concern you."

If she were closer, she would have struck him. “What a bloody stupid thing to say,” she hissed. “Of course it concerns me. It more than concerns me, you daft man. I love you for heaven's sake."

The air stilled. Deran couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw Bickford tense.

“As I do you."

There. He'd said it. Not the same words, but if she didn't know by now...

She stared at him, mouth fully open. Of course she'd felt it for quite some time, maybe even known it. Hearing him say so wasn't important, or so she'd thought until this very minute.

She did more than matter to him after all. He loved her.

He looked at her with that, I-dare-you-to-say-another-word look. Well, she had plenty more to say. If he thought he could silence her with his earl-like, noble haughtiness—

Ithel sat up suddenly and rubbed his eyes. “Are we there almost?"

Ava blinked rapidly and made an effort to smile. “We are much closer."

That answer was unsatisfactory. Ithel looked at Deran. “Sir? Are we there almost?"

“We have a few hours yet."

Adults. They could never simply answer a question. Ithel slumped against the seat, swung his feet in a reckless rhythm and then suddenly brightened. “Ava said you have a city house. What is it like? Are horses there, too?"

A long while passed with Ithel asking questions and Deran patiently answering them. Ithel was temporarily distracted when they stopped for luncheon, but upon reentering the carriage, he hopped to Deran's side and started in on questions about his horses. The notion of having several to choose from and parks to ride them in was wholly entrancing.

“Can I ride with you someday?"

“I would like that,” Deran replied noncommittally. He glanced at Ava. Her attentions hadn't strayed from the countryside, but he knew she'd not missed a word of their conversation.

She cast him a sharp glance at this last comment and then turned back to the window.

Eager to know about everyone he now considered his best friends, Ithel peppered Bickford and Beth with questions about what they did in the house and what their families were like and if they had horses, too. His enthusiasm and desire to know everything about a world he couldn't imagine brought many smiles and chuckles from the adults.

Ava was about to tell him he needed to stop asking so many questions when he sighed loudly, leaned against Deran and closed his eyes.

Deran looked down at his golden head, then curved his arm around his thin shoulders and drew him up along his side.

Ava put a hand to her mouth and swallowed back tears. It was a painfully endearing sight. Another memory.

* * * *

Ithel would have leapt from the carriage before it halted in front of Culver Hall if Deran hadn't stopped him.

“You and I will step out first,” he instructed, “and hand the ladies down. You are old enough to manage that, don't you think?"

“Oh, yes sir, I am. Quite."

Ithel took the task seriously and offered Beth his small hand, which she accepted graciously and rewarded with a kiss to the cheek. He blushed.

Ava was handed down by both gentlemen. That responsibility now past, Ithel tugged on her arm to prod her into moving faster into the house. The trip had been long and he wanted to see Mairwen.

Ava looked about anxiously, not sure what she was looking for but half expecting Sir Edmond to leap from the bushes and grab her. When that didn't happen she took one unsteady step forward and stopped. Ithel tugged her harder.

“Beth,” Deran said. “Would you please see him to the front door? We won't be but a minute."

She dipped a curtsey, took Ithel's hand and led him along.

Deran spoke to Bickford briefly and instructed Fleck to head home. He turned to Ava, took both hands in his and pressed them to his lips.

“I had no idea I would be this frightened,” she stammered. “But I'm angry, too, blast it. How dare he be in the way of my excitement about seeing Mairwen. After all this time, it isn't fair, Deran."

He smiled slightly. “No, it isn't.” He kissed her forehead, lingered against her soft skin for a moment. “Come.” He curled her arm through his. “She is waiting. And so is Ithel."

“Thank you for being so good with him. His questions can be tiring, I fear."

“I enjoyed myself. He has a curious mind and listens well. I know where he gets the first. The second,” he lifted a brow, “I'm not so sure."

Ava swatted his arm and he chuckled.

“Yes, well. If I don't have the chance to tell you later, thank you for all you have done for me since the night we met. There are too many things to thank you for in the time I have. And not only for what you have done for me, but what you have had to endure because of me. It takes my breath away thinking about it all, thinking about what would have happened to me if not for you."

And what would have happened to me, if not for you. He would never have known this expansiveness in his heart, this yearning to be with a woman. No, to be with just one woman. Her.

He swallowed hard. “I am happy I was able to help you, my sweet. Not, I admit, at first. But it didn't take long for me to change my way of thinking."

Ithel dashed up, his face flushed with annoyance.

“It's getting dark! Why are we waiting for to go inside?"

Ava swept her eyes over Deran's face and squeezed his arm. “We're not.” She took Ithel's hand. “Let's go see our sister."

* * * *

If they'd been thirty people instead of three, they couldn't have made more joyful noise. Mairwen appeared on the second floor landing, her shouts easily heard on all three levels of the manor. The duke and duchess appeared as she sailed into Ava's arms, laughing and crying. Ithel was scooped up by both sisters and nearly suffocated between them. Words none of the onlookers understood mixed with more laughter, tears and unbreakable embraces.

Deran had never seen such an uninhibited display of love.

The duchess and Beth were in tears by the time the trio broke apart for air. Deran noted the duke's eyes were as moist as his own.

When they'd settled down, Ava led Mairwen to Deran.

“Mairwen, I would like you to meet Lord Atherton. He is the one who found me, or rather was forced to take me in, and is responsible for bringing us all together. Lord Atherton, my sister, Mairwen."

She was, as Ava had described her, tall for fourteen and of darker coloring than Ava and Ithel. Dark brown hair set off dusky skin and eyes that were a blend of green and brown. She was pretty in a more womanly than girlish way. With her looks and height he saw why Pontoise would have marked her for a man with a use for someone beyond that of domestic worker. Deran was filled with more relief than he could express that she'd been found. Profound thanks to Max were in order.

Mairwen curtseyed, much steadier than her sister ever had, and smiled.

“Lord Atherton,” she said carefully, the r's rolled thicker than Ava's. “It is an honor to meet you, sir."

Deran made a small bow. The time she'd spent as a nanny as well as the days here with his aunt and uncle must have helped educate her in proprieties. She certainly hadn't learned them from Ava.

When Ithel was introduced to the duke and duchess, he immediately became a tame young man, not at all the anxious little boy he'd been moments before.

As they filed into the nearest sitting room, the duchess announced dinner would be served in an hour, allowing everyone time to wash up and rest.

Ava entered hesitantly. Deran was speaking to his uncle at the opposite end of the room. She tried to relax and enjoy everything about this hour, but until she knew if Pontoise had been here, or was lurking nearby, she'd be unable to relax the smallest muscle.

“Excuse me,” she blurted, “but I have to know. I cannot wait another minute.” All movement in the room stopped and eyes moved to her. “Is he here? Or will be soon?"

Deran turned to her. “That is what we are discussing, Miss Fychon. If you will just give us another minute to finish our discussion, then—"

“No.” She shook her head. “No, I'm sorry. I cannot wait. I have waited too long already. I think I just might explode right here in this room if I do not know something now. I really am very nearly at my rope's end."

The duchess tsked. “Now, now, Miss Fychon, there is no need for you to work yourself into a lather. It will not solve a thing and only causes the face to redden most unattractively. Rest is what you need.” She picked up a silver hand bell from the table near her elbow and rang it heartily. “Jessup will show you to a room."

“I don't need a room, thank you. I need answers. And a walk, or maybe a good long run. I have been sitting all day. Maybe by the time I return someone can tell me what I want to know.” She stalked from the room.

Deran caught her at the front door. “You cannot march out of here like this. You forget you are in London, not in the middle of the country. The streets are not safe at any hour, especially after sundown."

She jerked her arm free. “I have to move about or I will scream. I will take Beth with me."

Deran looked at Beth. She would go, but her glum face told him she clearly wasn't happy about it.

“I will go with you,” he said through his teeth. “Around the block, once. I will tell you what I know.” Beth bowed out gratefully.

Deran took her arm and led her outside. “Pontoise was here this morning and said he would return later."

“That's all?” Ava asked. “That's all there is?"

“That's all I had time to learn before your outburst."

“I will not apologize for that, sir. I simply could not—"

“Wait,” he muttered. “Yes, I know.” Damnation. He was back to that again. It must be London. He never muttered in the country.

They finished the stroll, which was actually more of a canter as bundled as her nerves were, and returned without another word.

But the evening wasn't to pass easily—or quietly.

Chapter Thirty-six

Just before dessert, a sharp rap sounded at the door. Jessup entered the dining room and whispered in the duke's ear.

His Grace set his napkin down and looked directly at Ava.

“He has arrived. You are to stay here while my nephew and I speak to him.” He rose at the same time Deran did.

Ava's heart threatened to leap from her chest. She hated when these aristocrats gave orders. This was her life, not theirs and she'd have her say in what was done with it.

She shoved her chair back, rudely scraping the floor. The duke paused to give her an icy stare, easily done given his clear blue eyes. Deran glowered.

“I want to know what is said."

“You will be informed.” His Grace dripped with ducal hauteur.

* * * *

Pontoise stood at the mantel, facing the door. Tall and lean, he looked intentionally imposing clothed in black and gray and stark white linen. The streaks of gray in his mustache and in the hair framing his face led Deran to judge him a few years younger than his uncle.

He made a wooden bow as the men halted in front of him. Had Deran known nothing about the man or his business practices he'd have distrusted him on sight. Gray eyes peered out with immodest disdain.

“Good evening, sirs. I'll be brief. I'm here to collect Miss Fychon and be on my way. I gather, by your presence, Lord Atherton, she has returned from her visit to the country."

“She has."

“Very well. If it hadn't been for my faith in the duchess, Miss Fychon's journey away from London would have put her and her family in perilous circumstances. I was assured when I visited this morning you would be returning with her later today."

“Yes. Returning with her, but not so she'd leave with you."

Pontoise sniffed in a breath. His gray eyes smoldered.

“I understand you were an acquaintance of my first wife,” the duke stated, before Pontoise could respond. “A ‘close friend’ is how I believe you described the relationship to Countess Barclay. She had no reason to doubt you, but I do, being that I had never heard of you before this week. How is it that you knew my late wife, sir?"

Pontoise smiled arrogantly. “I met her through a cousin, before the two of you married. When I visited London, I would call on her for an hour or two of conversation, nothing more, I assure you. It was all quite on the up and up. Nothing untoward, if that is a concern."

Deran stiffened. The man tread on dangerous ground. His uncle had dearly loved Julia and had grieved her death for a number of years before remarrying. For this man to suggest she'd been faithless to him during their marriage was more than an affront. It was flagrant malice.

The gleam in Pontoise's eyes revealed his remark deliberately disrespectful, but like so many who sought control and power, he made the mistake of placing a higher value on his cunning than was due.

“I have no such concerns,” the duke replied evenly, “and it is beneath any gentleman to suggest what you have. I can only conclude I am not addressing such a man."

Pontoise silently fumed.

“I'm intrigued by your business, Pontoise,” the duke interjected. He folded into a large chair, and crossed his arms. “I am particularly interested in La Franchise, a ship you use to transport goods through Cardigan Bay. Goods you have registered as metals, but seem to be a conglomerate of other shipments. Explain to me how that works. Briefly, please."

Not being offered a chair, Pontoise stood facing the duke. His back stiffened and chin rose indignantly.

“Forgive my bluntness, Your Grace, but I do not see how what I transport is any concern of yours. I have been in a mutually satisfying business with my customers for nearly thirty years. The transportation of goods is what I do. As does your nephew.” He tipped his head in Deran's direction. “I'm certain he understands the rewards such a business affords."

Deran bristled. “I would prefer you not compare my business with yours, Pontoise, or even speak of it in the same sentence or conversation. Unlike you, I am not in the business of transporting humans."

Pontoise's mustache twitched. “That's your loss. It's very lucrative."

Deran imagined plowing his fist into the man's smug face. He balled his hands and stepped backward to resist the temptation.

The duke raised a broad hand. “Enough. I will not waste my time citing the law to you, Sir Edmond. I will assume you have acquired some knowledge during your thirty years in business. You must know that when you transport people who shall be used as slaves, it is illegal, and has been for nearly a decade. You must also know that when you accept money from a customer in exchange for those people, you have collected illegal gains. Under the guise of goodwill you scour the country in search of disadvantaged families and persuade parents to sell their children. The consequences of your business behavior should matter to you, but evidently they do not. I have put a plan into action to alter that."

For the first time, Pontoise lost some of his poise. The glint in his eye dulled somewhat.

“Whatever the plan, it will be easily defused. My reputation is sound."

“It is now, but will not remain that way."

“I do believe I perceive a threat, Your Grace."

“You perceive incorrectly, sir. It is a promise.” The duke, his face flushed with quiet rage, blue eyes cold with loathing, pushed out of his chair and stood two feet from Pontoise. “Officials of The Royal Navy are searching ships in your fleet as we speak. I'm surprised your stewards have not apprised you. Harbour authorities are very interested in your cargo logs, many of which have already been confiscated, those from Liverpool and the Welsh ports of Caernarfon, Aberystwyth, Swansea and Cardiff, to name a few. By day's end tomorrow a number of your ships will be barricaded, preventing you or anyone in your employ access to them."

Pontoise shook with rage, his polished veneer beginning to fracture. “Those are private ships. The Navy has no jurisdiction over them or the business I conduct with them."

“The ships, perhaps not, but they do have jurisdiction over the waterways through which you navigate them. The Navy has a long history of upholding and overseeing maritime laws, laws designed to keep our waters safe. Safe from predators such as yourself. People who prey on the weak and needy and profit from their misfortunes."

The duke drew in a long breath. “I will do everything in my power to assure you are no longer able to do to another soul what you have done to Miss Fychon and her family. I cannot think of another task I have undertaken that will fill me with greater pleasure. I also intend to see you are punished to the greatest extent of our laws, a process I have already initiated. An investigation into your life apart from your business ventures has exposed some interesting facts that have been passed on to our magistrate, namely the fact that your professed knighthood is a ruse. That at age twenty-four you took it from a man, a baronet, who died by your own hands-though that remains unproven-shortly after you were released from gaol. A debtor's prison in Derby, if my source was correct."

Pontoise let out a strangled cry of rage as he lunged for the duke's neck with both hands.

“You bastard!” he hollered. “I will see you dead before you ruin me!"

The duke stumbled backward against a chair and Deran locked an arm around Pontoise's throat and jerked him back. The motion sent all three men hurtling to the floor, overturning a chair and side table in the process.

The duke shoved against Pontoise, but the man's grip, fueled with hate, only strengthened. Deran heaved a thigh over his waist, and rolled backward, giving his uncle the chance to raise a knee into Pontoise's ribs. He grunted, kicked and clawed at Deran who still had a fierce hold on him.

The door to the study crashed open.

“Myn Duw!” Ava rushed in with the entire household directly behind her. “Get off of him, you mochyn!” She barreled forward, latched onto the tails of Pontoise's coat and tugged with every ounce of strength she had.

“Ava!” Deran shouted. “I've got him. Stay back before you—"

The warning came as Pontoise wrapped a hand around her ankle and yanked hard, knocking her to the floor.

Every manner of retaliation ensued. Mairwen and Ithel leaped onto the pile of flailing bodies, the duchess tried to drag her husband clear of danger, and Jessup and two servants did their best to wrench the grapplers off the floor. A chorus of excited barking suddenly joined the melee as the duke's not-suited-for-the-city dogs burst in. Yips and growls and indecipherable shouts and the regrettable sound of shattering glass filled the air until an ear piercing ringing captured everyone's attention.

* * * *

The duchess stood, wildly swinging a large silver bell. “Stop!” she shouted over the clanging. “You are breaking my furniture! Jessup, get these damn dogs out of here and you,"—she pointed to a servant—"take the children. And bring towels. My husband has a cut on his head and lord knows who else might need one."

Dogs were led away, children carted off and adults helped up from the floor. The children were carted off and adults helped up from the floor. Deran shoved Pontoise onto a chair and made a quick casualty check of the others

“I'm fine, I'm fine,” his uncle assured him, rubbing a hand across his reddened throat. “Miss Fychon? Are you all right?"

Ava climbed onto her hands and knees, most inelegantly.

“Yes, Your Grace.” She winced when she stood. The healed ankle, once again the victim of abuse.

“Geneva, have Jessup summon the constable."

“I believe he already has, Renard."

Ava approached Pontoise slowly, her hair straggling across her face, eyes like shards of green glass.

“It never mattered to you, did it?” she asked quietly. “They never mattered to you. That they are young, that they would be scared, that we have no one but each other. That we might die. None of that mattered at all, did it?"

The room could have been empty the silence was so complete.

“It was business, Miss Fychon,” Pontoise said, blandly. He passed a hand down the creases in his coat. “You, your brother and sister in exchange for money to keep your uncle on your land. Simple, basic business. There's no cause for dramatics or talk of anyone dying. There were no deaths. Only new beginnings."

The words spilled forth, a melodic curse, words from another land, another time. Her fist shot out, straight and sure, onto his long, thin nose before anyone took their next breath. Her face remained impassive when he screamed and cupped a hand to catch the stream of blood.

“Good Lord,” the duchess exclaimed.

“Well done, lass,” the duke stated.

Deran smiled and shook his head. “A reminder to never make her angry."

Jessup entered the room with an armful of towels and the news that a footman had been sent to fetch the authorities. An eyebrow cocked up at the sight of Pontoise dabbing at his pummeled nose with the sleeve of his coat.

Shaking out her hand-however neat the blow, punching someone always pained the knuckles-Ava limped toward the door. She had to get out of this room. Away from this horrible man and away from the one she couldn't bear to say goodbye to. She wouldn't see him after tonight. They'd not talked about how it would be when she left, but she was certain Deran wouldn't come to see her off tomorrow. If he thought to do that, she would dissuade him. Her heart could not survive another farewell. She'd done nothing but say them for days.

“Miss Fychon."

She stopped and pulled in a resigned breath before turning.

“Sir?"

The Duke of Barclay met her at the door. With a soft smile, he raised her hands to his mouth, pressing a light kiss to each. He released her hands and made a bow.

“It is has been an honor to meet you, and a privilege to have in some small way been able to help you and your family. You will always be welcome in our home, Miss Fychon."

She couldn't help the tears or tremendous rush of gratitude. She didn't know him, hadn't spoken to him privately, and didn't know what he'd said to Sir Edmond, but he was having this horrid man taken away. He wouldn't be able to ruin any more lives if the duke had anything to say about it, she was sure.

She smiled up at him. There was probably a rule, more likely a law, prohibiting uninvited affection from a commoner to a noble, but she had to do it.

She hugged him hard, nearly throwing him off balance a second time tonight. But he returned the hug without a word of reprobation.

* * * *

Pontoise was taken away by the constable a half hour later. Household staff tidied the mess and Ava escorted Mairwen and Ithel to their bedchamber. They were bursting with questions.

“I will tell you everything tomorrow.” She tucked them into the large bed they shared. “We have a long journey and plenty of time to talk then."

“Why do we have to leave?” Ithel asked with a pout. “We just got here and I haven't even seen anything yet."

“Yes, Ava,” Mairwen said pointedly. “Why can't we stay and see the city? Yesterday I saw a park I know Ithel would love. All the people and their pretty clothes, and the carriages and beautiful horses."

“Horses!” Ithel exclaimed. He sat up quickly. “Oh please, Ava, can't we stay and go to the park? I've never seen a park."

Ava sighed and pushed him gently onto his pillow. “We must get home, Ithel. We will pass a park on our way to the station. And we can always return for a visit.” She said this as brightly as she could, knowing they never would.

“It's too far away,” he grumbled. “I know it is. You're only saying that to make me feel better."

“Did it work?"

“No."

“Then I'll have to try harder when you ask me again.” She kissed the tip of his nose. “Because I know you will. Now go to sleep. Morning will come too soon."

They grumbled as she stepped out of the room. She closed the door softly and leaned against it, her heart throbbing with sadness. There was no happiness in thinking about going home and only pain at thinking of having to leave, leave everything and everyone who'd become dear to her in such a short time.

She considered not going downstairs. She should, it would be the polite thing to do, but it would mean the final goodbye. They'd never return and see the park, never see these people or this city again. They didn't belong here and they were now safe and free to go home.

Home. Such a lonely word it was now.

All was quiet downstairs. From beyond the closed door of the library she heard them speaking in low voices. She didn't want to intrude, but suddenly couldn't bear the thought of not seeing him one last time, even if only to say good night. And to convey her gratitude to the duke and duchess.

She knocked softly.

All talking ceased.

“Enter."

They sat in a tight grouping in front of the fireplace. The men rose. By the polite looks on their faces and total quiet, she assumed they'd been talking about her.

“Forgive my interruption, but I wanted to say good night and to thank you again, all of you, for your kindnesses and generosity. What you did for the three of us tonight ... saying thank you is not enough. It is a relief beyond words to know that man is gone and will not be a threat to us anymore. We can return to our lives and,” her voice faltered, “so can all of you."

The duchess’ eyebrows rose. “I must say you and your family have added quite a bit of excitement these last weeks, my dear. It will take some time to adjust to your absence. Your sister is a delight. Having her here these past few days took me back to when my dau—” She stopped, mouth open and stared blankly before looking away.

The duke set a hand on her shoulder and smiled at Ava. “What my wife is trying to say is it was a pleasure to have a young lady in our midst. And your brother seems to be a bright young man. Our nephew told us how it has been just the three of you for a few years now and that the task of rearing them was really in your hands. You have done a fine job in that, Miss Fychon."

“It was not difficult, sir. They are both very good natured."

“No matter how good natured, raising children is not an easy task under any circumstances."

She nodded and tried not to look at Deran, but it wasn't possible. He stood stoically next to his uncle looking far too handsome. His disheveled hair swept past the collar of his coat, a single wave of it resting on his forehead. Ava wanted to brush it back and kiss the spot where it had lain just to feel his skin beneath her lips. But she remained by the door, every second that passed making it harder for her to turn and leave.

Suddenly the room had no air and her chest didn't have enough space to accommodate its wild heartbeats. She had a reckless vision of running to him, throwing her arms around him and swearing her love to him forever.

Knowing she couldn't do any of those things hurt so much she feared she'd collapse right there in front of everyone. She leaned against the door.

“I am tired, so if you will excuse me.” She started to curtsey, but her knees weren't going to support her. She inclined her head instead.

“I will see you to your room, Miss Fychon."

Her head jerked up at the earl's statement. “No.” She shook her head hard. “Thank you. That will not be necessary, sir.” She grabbed the door handle.

“That may be, but it is plain you have once again hurt your ankle and I want to ensure you arrive without tumbling down the stairs.” He looked down at her, daring her to oppose him.

With her eyes she silently begged him to leave her be, but he wasn't going to back down. “Very well. Good night Your Grace. And Your Grace.” Her brow furrowed. “That didn't sound right. Your Graces?” She groaned. “No, that isn't it either, is it?"

Deran grinned and led her out of the room while the duke and duchess had a good laugh.

* * * *

“You didn't really think you would be able to sneak off without a goodbye, did you?” They were at the first step, his hand beneath her elbow.

She set her foot down too heavily on the next step and gritted her teeth. “I was hopeful.” She lightly toed the next step and whooped when he suddenly swung her up in his arms.

“It will take all night to get up these stairs at your pace,” he said with contrived impatience. “If you are as tired as you profess, then you won't want to miss a minute of sleep, now will you?"

She glowered. “I am tired, thank you. It was a tedious day with all that riding. I don't tolerate being locked up in a carriage for hours on end very well."

Deran rounded the second landing. “With that I will agree. But you will have to get used to it. That, and riding with other travelers besides Mairwen and Ithel."

Her hands around his neck tightened. “Oh, I hadn't thought of that.” Hours in a carriage for at least seven days, according to Jessup. And with strangers.

He noted she'd paled at that notion. Not very kind of him to bring that to her attention, but he wasn't feeling terribly kind at the moment, despite this chivalrous act of toting her upstairs. No, he wasn't feeling kindly at all. He'd barely kept his anger in check since Pontoise's arrival. Actually before that. This dark mood had been seeping in all day, like a dank, putrid fog, choking back any hope for pleasurable thoughts. All day he'd relived every moment they'd had together, from the first night she stood wringing wet in his hall to last night alongside the lake.

How could one person change someone's life so fundamentally in such a short time?

He had proposed to her for God's sake. First time those words ever came out of his mouth. Hadn't even thought them before her. Nothing spoke of a radical change in a man more than that. Not this man, anyway.

In her room, he set her on the edge of the bed. He pointed to her foot.

“You need to keep that raised if you want to walk on it tomorrow."

She nodded, numbly. She needed him to leave. Now.

Deran stepped back. “This may not be the best time to ask, but there will be no other. Do you know yet?"

Sorrow ripped through her. There would be no child. “No, but I have been, mmm, uncomfortable today, in the usual way that I am before..."

Knowing her courses would come soon made him even more bereft. He'd hoped a child would have resulted from their union. Knowing he or she was out in the world would have been some tie to her, but with no child, once she left here, connections between them would be severed.

Deran wished he hadn't asked. Or brought her up here. It wasn't wise, being alone with her. He couldn't look at her without wanting his hands on her, it didn't matter where. Her hair was a tangle of unrestrained curls, as she'd done nothing to straighten it since the fracas in the study. The sage-green dress made her eyes look greener, and the gathered bodice of the square neckline alarmingly distracting.

Apart from the wanting, which came in waves of every size, shape and strength, he simply felt better when in her company. Not only better, but his absolute best. Sharing the same space with her, no matter the distance, put life into his blood.

“I will not say goodbye to you,” Ava said, as though reading his thoughts, “because the word is too forever. I will not say it."

He smiled at her defiant tone. “'Too forever.’ You are right. There is no good in it anyway."

She raised her eyes to his. “For the rest of my days I will say prayers of thanks for knowing you, Lord Deran Morissey, Earl of Atherton. My life would have been poorer without you being in it."

He had no words to this, no words to explain the desolation. A hole in him, wide and burning with pain.

Deran took her hands in his, pulled her to him, and breathed her in one last time, although the curves, scents, and every texture of Ava Fychon he'd committed to memory.

She wouldn't part in tears. She had miles and hours ahead of her for tears. And she had no more to say. What do you say to someone you desperately love whom you will never see again? She held him, sealed to memory the width of his back, hardness of his chest beneath her cheek, that mysterious, wonderful smell of his skin and hard stretch of thigh against hers.

Deran buried his hands in her hair and tilted her head back. His mouth met hers tenderly, tongue outlined her lips, played on their inner soft skin, spoke to her silently.

Deran ended it before he had no strength to, and walked swiftly to the door.

“I lied to you."

He turned to her. “Lied to me? About what?"

A corner of her mouth inched up. “Only once. No, twice, but it was the same lie."

His brow slowly climbed.

“I am only two and twenty."

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Deran's morning ride suited him perfectly. Grey sky, fat heavy clouds, a miserable drizzle of rain. Today wasn't a day for sunshine or birds chirping cheery messages. Should it end in a thunderous explosion, it would echo his mood.

No other riders traveled the west end of the park so he urged his horse into a harder gallop. Life was wretched. Surpassed dismal. If the world was flat, he would step off its edge and not give a damn where his body landed.

When a man stepped out from behind a stand of bushes onto the path, Deran had no time to do anything but yank on the reins. The big bay snorted and reared up, nearly unseating him.

“What in hell do you—"

A high whistle and tightening about his chest and upper arms cut his words off. He looked down at the braided leather whip wrapped around his torso. It hadn't come from the man standing in front of him. Deran looked over his left shoulder.

One of the men he and Max had seen at Dimsdale Arms grinned at him from atop his horse.

“Morning, mate. Come here often?"

Rheumy guffaws rose to Deran's right. The man from the bushes approached his horse.

Three men. One whip, maybe more. Not the best odds.

His surly mood boiled over.

“I do. But you knew that."

“Aye. We did.” The whip wielder trotted in front of Deran, winding the thick leather tighter.

Deran flexed his arms and held them as far from his sides as possible. He eased his right as far behind him as he dared without attracting too much attention. He twisted the reins around his left hand. Timing would have to be perfect.

“Stevens couldn't make it, I see."

Bright blue eyes beneath the man's tight skullcap danced cheerfully.

“Nay. Has a message for you though."

The decoy hooted and the man at Deran's right echoed him. The whip owner circled to the rear. Deran's horse stamped his feet in disapproval to the tugging going on in the saddle. Deran concentrated on relaxing his thighs. Magus would respond dramatically when the time was right.

The sharp bite of leather across his chest jerked him hard to the left. He hadn't worn his heaviest riding coat and as Blue Eyes moved further away, the leather dug in. The bay's hindquarters bunched, ready to bolt. Deran clucked his tongue, patted his neck to calm him. He responded with an impatient head toss, but maintained his stance.

“Mr. Stevens and Mr. P. weren't too pleased with your heroics, your lordship,” his captor said sardonically. “Put them in nasty moods, if you ken what I'm telling you."

“Just give me the damn message,” Deran growled, goading him to come nearer.

“Oh. Impatient cur, aren't ye?"

Another tug, more vicious than the last. The leather gouged a coat sleeve. Deran breathed deeply through his nose as it dug into his arm. He'd had enough.

“I am. Especially in the company of fools and parasites."

That did it. The fierce tug he'd anticipated happened at the same time the man to his right charged. Deran gripped the whip with his right hand, jabbed his heels into the bay's muscular flanks and jerked the reins. Magus’ temper erupted and he reared on his hind legs and shook his head in rebellion. Deran rose up in the stirrups and braced himself against the animal's neck. The horse to his right skidded and spun, nearly throwing its rider. Before Magus’ forelegs touched ground, Deran pulled a hard right on the reins, making the beast twist angrily. Deran leaned sideways into the movement, cursed loudly when the whip dug in deeper on that arm and held on with everything he had.

The scream came first and then the thud. The whip immediately slackened and the man from behind the tree screeched and took off.

Deran let Magus run for several yards, peeling the whip away as he pounded the earth, then spun him back around. Both horsemen were where he'd left them. He trotted over to the one picking himself off the ground.

“Missing something, aren't you?” He held up the whip. As much as he'd like to use it on the man, he didn't have the stomach for it. Looking at these brutes made him ill. “Thank Stevens for me. You never know when such a medieval weapon might be useful.” He couldn't resist snapping his wrist in a sharp downstroke so close to the man's head he screamed. The crack of leather hung in the air.

“Home, Magus, before I do some damage here.” The bay needed no more encouragement.

* * * *

Deran hurled his wet top boots into a corner of his bedchamber and flung his coat in the approximate direction of a nearby chair. As he unbuttoned his shirt with unsteady fingers, he studied his reflection in the mirror. Dark anger stared back, anger that was an ill-fitting lid on a vat of gut-wrenching despair. If he were able to keep the lid on long enough, the despair might ease.

Next to not admitting until a week ago he was in love with a maddening Welsh woman, it was the biggest lie he'd ever told himself.

He tore his shirt off, dropped it at his feet. Not riding to the station to see her carriage off ranked as the feat of his life. Instead, he pushed Magus into another lap around the park, praying for some peace by the end of the ride.

But it was not to be. Not today. And wouldn't be tomorrow, nor any day in the immediate future.

A knock at the door stopped him as he headed to his bath. “What?” he snarled.

Bickford entered, respectfully averting his eyes to his lordship's near nudity. “Forgive the intrusion, sir, but Mr. DiSanto is here."

“Tell him to go away.” He marched through the dressing chamber to the bath in the adjoining room and removed his drawers. Bickford followed at a discreet distance.

“Certainly, sir. I will convey the message to him and his guest."

Deran stepped into the tub and scowled. “Guest? What guest?"

“I do not know the gentleman, sir."

“Devil take it, Bickford, find out who the hell he is. There's no telling who Max has dragged in here this time. Likely a client who has goods that must be shipped out today. Tell him it will have to wait. I'm in no mood to deal with a new client."

“Very good, sir, although I think it unlikely the man is a client seeking shipping services."

Deran lathered his chest and arms, felt the sting of the soap on chafed skin. “Why do you say that?"

“A supposition based only on appearance and manner, sir. He is a somewhat elderly gentleman."

“There's no other reason DiSanto would come here with—” His hand stilled and he looked sharply at Bickford. “Find out who he is. Immediately.” He dragged the cloth over his face, his mind racing. “No. Send Max up."

He jumped out of the tub before Bickford closed the door. We recommend each other's services to our clients, he reminded himself as he dried with shaky hands. It's not unusual for Max to accompany his here, especially if the client is a nabob or titled. An elderly client isn't so unusual. But what if he weren't a client? What if?

“Do not allow your imagination to submerge good sense,” he muttered as he redressed. “Hope is a fool's crutch. It does nothing but render a man indolent and incapable of achieving a goal."

“One of your father's favorite sayings, as I recall."

With one leg in and one out of his breeches, Deran whipped around, and nearly fell flat.

“Bloody hell, DiSanto, you could have knocked.” He finished pulling on the breeches.

“I did, but you were too busy with your tête-à-tête and didn't hear me.” Max lounged against the doorjamb, hat in hand. “You summoned me, my lord?” he drawled, his mouth a lazy grin.

Deran grabbed a clean shirt.

“What in hell happened to you?” Max exclaimed moving into the room. His eyes scanned Deran's reddened arms and chest.

Deran thrust his arms through the sleeves and worked at the buttons with angry fingers. “Stewart's lackeys introduced themselves in the park this morning. I'll tell you about it later."

“Word is out he's already left the city."

“Lucky for Rensleigh.” He chose a neckcloth. “I ... tell me—” He crushed the cloth in his hand. “Damnation. I want to know...” He looked at Max, his stomach twisting. “Who is here with you?"

Max fingered the brim of his hat. “A man most interested in meeting you, and whom you've kept waiting too long. Bad business for two reasons, Atherton. He's elderly, and although not your superior in title, he is a baron. We should never keep either one waiting, don't you agree?"

“Good lord.” His face lost all color. “It is him. The grandfather. Why didn't you just bloody well say so?” He spun around to the mirror and tried to make quick work of fashioning a knot with unsure fingers. “I don't remember his name."

“Sheldon Stafford. And forcing you to inquire about him was my entertainment for the day. No, my week.” He strode over. “You're mucking this up.” He took up the ends and proceeded to work magic with the flimsy cloth.

Deran didn't protest. “When did he arrive?"

“An hour ago, at my office. It's the only address Mrs. Evans knew to give him."

“An hour ago. So he has spoken to you already."

Max patted down his creation. “Very little. I'm not who he wants to talk to."

Deran murmured his thanks. He quickly donned a fawn waistcoat, burgundy superfine coat, stockings and boots and made to leave.

Max cleared his throat loudly.

“What?"

Max wagged a finger at his hair. “You might want to do something with that. It looks a bit ragged."

Deran's eyes slit. “I know it's too long. I've been meaning to get a cut, but—"

“You might want to put a comb to it, is all I'm saying."

He neatened his overly long hair and made his way to the study, his heart quickening with each step. There had been few times in his life when Deran had believed his fate to be in someone else's hands and this was one of them. However, this outrivaled all the rest because its effect was not for a moment, or an hour or twenty-four, but for every hour of life he had remaining.

* * * *

The man stood at the window, hands clasped behind him, gazing out at the street scene.

“Good morning, sir,” Deran said, as he entered the room, Max directly behind him.

The man turned slowly. “You are Atherton?"

“I am.” He stopped in the center of the room and inclined his head. Somewhat elderly, Bickford had said. He didn't appear to be much older than Bickford, certainly had a great deal more gray hair than Bickford, but his stooped posture gave the impression of an aged man. Golden brown eyes scrutinized him beneath tufted white brows, wide mouth thinned. He was handsomely dressed in dark pantaloons, deep blue coat and lighter blue waistcoat.

“You can answer my questions, then."

“I will gladly comply, sir,” Deran said with calculated patience, “and would be even more eager to do so if I knew whom I addressed."

“That would be good form, wouldn't it?” Walking with a mild limp, he stopped in front of Deran and raised his stooped shoulders. The results extended his height to nearly Deran's equal. “I have little cause to introduce myself to anyone these days, or attend to all the fuss and formalities that comes with it.” He nodded curtly. “Lord Stafford, sir, a baron if that matters to you. Of Southampton.” A light briefly shone in his eyes, that Deran now saw were more green than brown.

They bowed to one another and Deran offered him a seat. He took the chair opposite his guest, grateful to be sitting. Max excused himself.

“I'd rather you stay, DiSanto. If the baron doesn't mind, that is."

“Not at all. Save me from having to repeat myself should some legalities come into question in this situation.” The baron eyed Deran, speculatively. “Assuming you plan on pursuing the situation."

“To what situation are you referring?"

“The Fychon family. My daughter's children."

Deran's heart dropped. Not his grandchildren, but his daughter's children. He didn't intend to acknowledge Ava and her brother and sister, even now.

“What of them?"

“A Mrs. Glynis Evans from Penmon wrote to me about a situation involving the children and their home. I'm here because of her correspondence. I'd never heard of her until a month ago.” He studied his crooked hands sitting in his lap. “She was a friend of my daughter,” he added softly.

“Yes, Mr. DiSanto told me of her association with your daughter, Clare."

The baron looked up, his eyes sorrowful at the mention of the name. “You know the story, then?"

“Story?” Deran knew what he meant, but he wanted to hear it from him. He answered cautiously. “Mr. DiSanto shared with me what Mrs. Evans told him."

“But you would like to hear my version."

To some degree that was true. Deran did want to know how Ava's mother was stripped of her family's heritage. But not nearly as much as he wanted to know whether her children could reclaim what they could have been entitled to.

But he would have to be patient and listen to the baron's account.

“I don't know that it is any business of mine, sir, but yes, I would like to hear your version of it. Is that why you are here?"

“One of the reasons, yes. I wanted to meet the man who came to their aid and I also had hopes of seeing them."

That the baron wanted to see his ‘daughter's children’ surprised Deran. Surely that was a good sign.

“I'm afraid that won't be possible. They left by coach this morning. For Wales.” A glance at the clock confirmed that by now she was indeed gone. Gone. The coach left well over an hour ago. By water would have taken half the time, but Ava had insisted they travel by coach rather than ship for Ithel's sake. He was terrified of boarding a ship.

The baron's shoulders sank. “I waited too long. Should have come when I first heard from Mrs. Evans."

“I'm afraid I don't understand, sir.” Deran made an effort to tamp down his simmering anger. “I shall be blunt. As I understood it, you have never been a part of their lives. Why this interest in them now?"

Stafford's eyes heated for an instant. “You always this direct, sir?"

“Yes. Particularly when I feel protective.” He almost went on to explain how many risks had been taken for the pursuit of the Fychon's freedom and safety. But he didn't owe this man any explanations. Quite the reverse.

Stafford let that sink in before he spoke again. “I needed to put to rest years of agonizing over a decision my wife and I made long ago. A decision made not carelessly, but for prideful reasons. A decision we both deeply regretted, but did naught to reverse.” He nodded slowly, a vacant look in his eyes. “Evelyn, my wife of forty-three years, God rest her soul, died two years ago. But her spirit died many years before, and more than once.” He smiled sadly. “We have deaths that we survive, Lord Atherton. Painful, living deaths. When Clare married, we suffered one. When she died ten years ago, we suffered another. That was doubly hard because we didn't learn of her death until a year later, by coincidence.” He made no attempt to clear his tears as he continued.

“Since Clare's eighth birthday, we had planned for her, our only child, to wed the son of Viscount Bartholomew Dreyden, Lord Craymoor, a family friend. One day the viscount would inherit an earldom and his son would ultimately be awarded the same, so it was a match that would ensure a life of comfort and respectability for our Clare. What we had not factored in, however, was love, something Clare desired in a marriage above all things. At age nineteen she made it clear she would not marry the Honourable Clarence Dreyden. A year later she met Bran Fychon when his opera troupe came to Southampton.

“We were heartbroken by her interest in him,” the baron continued. He sipped the tea that had arrived halfway through his discourse. “We loved Clare beyond measure and only wanted what we thought best for her. When she ran off and married Fychon, all our hopes and happy dreams for her vanished.” His cup rattled on its saucer as he set it down. “We were angry and felt cheated out of a life we had dreamed of. A life of seeing her happy and seeing her as a mother-she adored children, always had-and of having grandchildren. How my Evelyn wanted grandchildren!” He hung his head and shrunk below his bent shoulders. “We were so angry, so bitterly angry, that we shut her out of our lives. I wrote to her home in Wales only once to tell Clare her mother and I were disclaiming her, that she was not welcome back to our home and that the Stafford name would never be a part of her legacy.” He closed his eyes at the memory. “A week passed before I could post the letter. So many times I vowed to tear it up, but I couldn't. I could not get past the hurt of losing her. Of losing my only—"

He spread a broad hand over his face to hide his emotion. Deran and Max lowered their heads respectfully, giving him a moment to collect himself.

Without apology for his emotion, the baron continued, his voice strong. “We never heard from her. She never wrote back or sent any messages. Mrs. Evans’ letter was the first I had heard of grandchildren."

Deran was surprised. “You weren't told of them when you learned of Clare's death?"

He shook his head. “We were told that she succumbed to a fever. So many died of fevers we didn't question it and never asked after who she might have left behind. Mrs. Evans told me the particulars in her second letter. How Clare passed soon after the birth of her son."

Again, no acknowledgement that his daughter's children were his relations. The sinking sensation in Deran's stomach deepened. But with it came a spark of anger.

“No, she did not. And Ava, your oldest grandchild, has acted as mother to her brother and sister for many years. Particularly after her father died four years ago."

Stafford nodded slowly. “I learned as much from Mrs. Evans. And that a man they didn't know appeared and claimed he was family and had come to help them. Three weeks later the children were gone. The woman was frantic."

“At least someone was,” Deran said heatedly. “The family you speak of is an uncle. A stepbrother of their father. It's a pity no one knew his intentions so they wouldn't have been wrenched from their home and deposited all over the country like castoffs."

The baron looked at him sharply. “What do you mean, deposited? I thought they've been here in London."

Deran smiled grimly. “No, not until yesterday.” He gave him a brief account of where each one had been and how they were united.

The baron's eyes filled with dismay. “I had no idea. At least they have a home to return to, thanks to the townspeople of Penmon. Mrs. Evans said they ran the uncle off. That's good news at least. Those children have had a hard go of it, that's for sure. It wouldn't be right for them to lose their home."

Deran wanted to shake the man, regardless of his age. A hard go of it! That was like saying Nelson had endured a few stumbling blocks at Trafalgar.

Instead, he said, “They are lucky to have survived, sir. And if not for Ava they wouldn't have. I don't know what kind of woman your daughter was, other than the little Ava has told me, but if she had half the courage, spirit and heart that her oldest child has, then she was an astonishing woman. I can understand why you find it difficult to forgive yourself for cutting her out of your life. You cheated yourself as much as you did her. And you cheated grandchildren out of knowing you and your wife, children who would have loved you well."

He shoved out of his chair and strode to the hearth. “Did you know that Ava knows nothing about you or your wife, or anything to do with her mother's heritage? She was never told anything of it. So as much as you turned your back on your daughter, she did the same to you, the main difference being that she loved her children until the day she died. Loved them and demonstrated it every day of her life."

He heard the baron drag in a rough breath and ignored it. He was tired of this, so tired of wanting what he couldn't have, or what he perceived as being out of his reach. Of imagining life without her and all the pain that brought on. He would have her, with or without this man restoring titles and rights to his grandchildren. There would never be another Ava Fychon in his lifetime. He would never want to search for one, or hope for one. She was the one, the woman he wanted to love until his last breath.

Titles be damned. If his was going to be gossip fodder because of his decision, then so be it. It had been before now and would be again. Looking at Lord Stafford, Deran tried to imagine him younger, not this sad, lonely man who'd let a decision made over twenty years ago leave him an empty shell of a being. Deran had no desire to end up that way, had no desire to live a lifetime of regrets, and the choice was his to make.

This man wasn't going to offer Deran what he thought he had to have to fulfill his desire, what Ava would require before considering his proposal. At this point, he was too angry to ask him to consider it. Angry at the senselessness of all the loss. He wanted no more part of it.

“Lord Stafford,” he said firmly, “I do not know what you hoped to accomplish by coming here, but if there is more to be said, I'm afraid it will have to wait. There is something I must do and do quickly before any more time passes.” He strode to the door. “Destroy the documents,” he said to Max over his shoulder. “I won't be needing them."

Max was right behind him. “Don't tell me you are going after her."

“All right, I won't.” He paused and looked down the long hall. “Where the hell is Bickford?” he muttered. “He's never here when I—"

“Is there something you need, sir?"

Deran whirled around to face Bickford standing two feet from him. He opened his mouth to bellow about sneaking up on him and changed his mind. After all, he was used to it.

“Have Fleck ready the bay. No, the chestnut."

“Which one, sir?"

“Which one? Hell, I don't care. The biggest one. Whichever one Ava likes the most."

“That would be the gray, sir,” he said, overlooking his lordship's informal reference to the lady. “Dumpling, I believe, is what she calls him."

Deran's jaw dropped. “Dumpling? She named one of my horses, Dumpling?"

Bickford's upper lip moved. “Yes, sir. Actually she named each of them, not to be disrespect—"

Deran raised a hand. “No. Don't tell me. I truly do not want to know. Just tell Fleck to get the gray-Bolivar-ready. Now."

“Certainly, sir."

The baron looked on from the doorway of the study.

“So you are going after her,” Max said.

“Damn right I am,” Deran replied, leaping up the stairs. “And I will return with her before day's end."

“Just like that,” Max called up to him, halfway to the landing.

“Just like that."

Max watched him disappear down the hall. He blew out a long breath.

“That's what he always thinks,” he mumbled. “Funny how it never works out that way."

“He has done this before?"

Max turned to the baron, looked at him blankly and then dropped his head back and laughed so hard tears wet his cheeks. He wiped them away and set a hand on the baron's shoulder.

“We will follow in my carriage and I will tell you some stories, amazing stories about your oldest granddaughter and my best friend."

* * * *

Ithel's excitement about riding in a large coach with four horses helped Ava stave off her tears the first fifteen minutes and his questions kept them at bay for another hour. When he'd finally run out of questions and nodded off, Ava turned to the window and let the heartache that snaked through every vessel and pore finally seep out. Tears streamed down her cheeks freely. She squeezed her eyes closed and pulled her cloak higher around her jaw to conceal her misery from her sister and the elderly couple sharing the stuffy confines of the coach. She hated each hoof beat, hated the painful awareness of the distance sprawling between her and the love she'd left behind. The hillocks and stands of trees beyond the city weren't the beautiful sights they'd been when she'd traveled to Tercy Manor. Now they were mocking reminders she'd never be with the man she trusted, admired and laughed with, the man she didn't deserve to be with, the man whom she would never cease loving.

Ava fisted her hands in her lap as grief swirled with anger, like a small waterspout in the middle of the sea growing larger and wider, it coursed through her and tore at her insides. Damnation, it wasn't fair to be ripped from one life, deposited in another, and then lose that one too. Had she not said such to him? How a rebuilt life can be taken away as easily as the first?

Memories tormented her. His smile, the velvety brown of his eyes when aroused, the touch of his hands, caress of his lips, the stern look he'd give when he refused to entertain any more of her questions. She saw Ithel perched on his shoulders, how happy he'd been and how Deran had grinned up at him and looked at her with such joy in his eyes. Joy for her, joy for her brother. He'd been bursting with triumph. Then when he'd met Mairwen, his eyes had softened, and he'd smiled thankfully knowing Mairwen had been saved from a dreadful fate.

And last night, that tiny hint of amusement when she'd told him her age.

Another memory for her dreams.

She wakened from her reverie when the carriage lurched to one side.

“Ava,” Mairwen said excitedly, craning her neck at the window, “is it a highwayman?"

“Mairwen, your imagination has taken hold of your senses."

“But I saw him,” she argued, pressing her nose to the window. “You can't see him now, he's already passed. I didn't see his face but he was wearing all black, just like in the stories. And a carriage is trying to pass us. It must be full of his accomplices. That's what they do you know. The robber stops in front of a coach and forces the driver's hand and then his accomplices block it in from behind.” She turned back from the window, her eyes infused with excitement. “Do you think they have pistols? Or maybe they use swords."

“Swords?” Ithel broke in, suddenly wide awake. He jumped to his feet. “Who has a sword? Is there a fight?"

Ava tried to see the carriage now almost upon them. It was indeed trying to pass. A treacherous maneuver considering the width of the road.

Ava cursed the idiot driver as she slid open the rooftop trapdoor.

“What is happening?” she yelled at the coachman.

“Rider passed but he's turning back,” he hollered.

Ava twisted away just as a rider on a beautiful, large gray steed whipped past going in the opposite direction. She blinked hard. No, it wasn't possible. The coach slowed and then rocked to a halt.

“Stay here,” Ava ordered Mairwen and Ithel. “I think I know who is upon us."

“You can't go out there,” the elderly woman passenger screeched. “He'll murder you on the spot, won't think twice about it."

“Good lord, miss,” her husband wheezed, “never say you know the likes of such a man."

Ava scowled and shoved the door open.

“At least you aren't lying in a ditch or riding wild amongst the countryside this time,” the rider said. “And you get less farther away each time I take off after you, have you noticed that?"

“Lord Atherton. What the devil are you doing here? You have frightened everyone half to death.” She stepped out of the carriage and stalked over to where he sat high upon his horse.

“Everyone? I would argue that point with you, my dear. You look anything but frightened."

Ava clamped her hands on her hips and rapped an impatient foot. “What is so damn important that you saw fit to disrupt our travels?"

Deran leaned forward in his saddle nonchalantly and removed his hat. He swiped a bit of dust from its brim. “You forgot something."

“Forgot something? Did I?” Her brows puckered in thought. “No, I don't believe so, sir."

His grin was beautifully devilish. “You most certainly did, my dearest, loveliest Miss Fychon."

“And pray tell, what might that be, sir?"

“Me, my sweet. You forgot me."

Chapter Thirty-eight

She had given in too easily. With passengers grumbling about their travels being delayed and the coachman barking about keeping on schedule, she'd had no choice. She let him talk her into leaving the coach and now they were stuck at a posting inn in the middle of nowhere with no coach due until late tonight or early morning. All because His Lordship had more to say and wouldn't leave until she heard him out.

Ava turned her back to their small stack of luggage and glowered at him while he accepted Ithel's hug and Mairwen's curtsey.

“If you look any more pleased to see me, Miss Fychon, I shall get a swelled head."

“If looks had such powers, my lord, then you would be well and truly dead."

Deran chuckled. She was spectacularly livid. Her green eyes could rival a dragon's and her cheeks were the deepest pink. Ferocious want rolled through him. He inhaled deeply, intent on disregarding the abrupt ache in his groin.

“I would not have detained you if it weren't important."

“Our opinions differ on what is important, Lord Atherton."

Oh, yes, extremely angry, as indicated by use of his title. Satisfaction wafted through him.

He smiled benignly. “They have on occasion, Miss Fychon. This will not be one of them.” He cupped her elbow and pivoted her to face the carriage sitting in the shadows.

“Are you not curious about its passengers, madam?"

She tossed her head. “No. I assumed them to be rude, overbearing sorts in such a great hurry as to put our coach in danger."

“Ah. Rude and overbearing sorts, of course.” He stepped forward, she did not. “Actually, they are neither."

A brow hiked. “You know the passengers? Why does that not surprise me? They display the same aggressive ill-manners you so often do."

He reflected briefly, his eyes glittering. “If you would hold your tongue long enough to allow me—"

She jerked her arm free from his hold and spoke through clenched teeth. “I refuse to go anywhere with you until you tell me what you are about. It was hard enough to leave today, to know that I ... “—she restrained the threatening tears—"that I had to ... that I was saying goodbye to you.” She ducked her head and mumbled in Welsh and then pulled in a long breath. “This is truly the cruelest thing you have ever done, Deran,” she said softly. “I don't understand you at all."

He looked down at her bowed head, adoringly. “There is someone I want you to meet, my sweet.” He kissed her cheek. “But before you do, I need a moment. Don't go anywhere.” He spun away, leaving her gaping after him.

“Do we eat now?” Ithel asked, coming up behind her.

“No, not yet.” Ava stroked his hair, still staring in the direction of the carriage. “Surely you are not hungry already."

“Yes I am. The countess told me I am a boy growing,” he stated proudly.

Ava agreed and picked through their belongings until she found a small parcel.

“Only one, Ithel.” She untied the string and folded back the brown paper so he could choose a teacake or biscuit. Mairwen declined.

“What are we waiting for?” she asked.

“Lord Atherton,” Ava snapped. “He has something important to tell me, he says. And as soon as he does he will be on his way and so shall we."

“Not until tonight,” Mairwen contradicted. “I heard the driver tell you so."

“Yes,” Ava rewrapped the sweets, “that is true. But we can sit inside and share a tea or lemonade. The time will pass quickly, you'll see."

“Oh,” Mairwen exclaimed. “Here he comes. He looks very serious."

Ava frowned. He did look serious. Not angry serious, or grim serious. Just serious.

She knew that look. Excitement fluttered through her. What did he have to tell her?

Not slowing his stride, he grabbed her hand, forcing her into a skip to keep up with him.

Her mouth was open to protest when he rounded the corner of the posting inn and stopped. She felt the rough wooden walls of the building against her back. He stood an arms length away, still unsmiling and looking resolute.

“Just what do you think—"

“I asked once before and you declined.” His eyes were alarmingly black. “I shall ask again.” He glanced at the rock-studded ground, kicked a large stone out of the way and lowered one knee to the dirt. He removed his hat, set it at his foot and took both of her hands in his.

“Miss Ava Fychon, would you do me the greatest honor of becoming my wife?"

Her eyes had filled with tears the moment he knelt. Angry, hot tears.

“Oh, Deran. How could you? Why would—"

“I will love you and care for you all the rest of my days."

Ava jerked her hands back, folded them to her chest. “You are beyond hateful. This is ... is malicious. If this is your way of running me off, make certain I will never—"

“I will honor you and adore you and cherish our children."

Why was he still talking? Had he not heard anything she said? She fisted her hands. Lord, how she would dearly like to cuff him. This was torture, worse than being lashed or tied to a wagon or suffering the River Thames. Why did he not simply thrust a hand down her throat and squeeze her heart and end it all right now?

“Stop!” She crept sideways, keeping her back to the wall, unable to see her feet through her tears. “No more! I don't want to hear any more. Leave me alone.” She staggered to the corner of the building, thinking she would circle it and make her escape.

“I'm afraid I cannot do that, Miss Fychon.” He stood and stepped in front of her as she turned the corner. “You see, I love you. I cannot let you go. I will not let you go."

She shook her head wildly, springing free a number of hairpins. A curl bounced merrily over one eye onto a cheek flushed with fury. “You don't have that choice. We ... we cannot marry. You know that. Better than anyone, you know that! I don't understand why you would ask again when you knew that the first time and nothing has changed since.” She wrapped her arms tight around her waist as though she had suddenly been struck ill.

“Do you love me?” he asked.

She shook her head, her eyes pleading.

“No?” His heart hung in his chest. “You do not love me?"

She covered her face with her hands, muffling a frustrated scream. “No, that is not what I was trying to ... Yes, I love you. Of course I love you. I have always, for ... since ... aaah!” She shook her fists at the heavens and let loose a lively string of Welsh.

She whirled to face him, her eyes glittering with frustration and anguish. “It doesn't matter, Deran. It doesn't matter how much, or for how long or that I will never stop loving you. When I cannot do what you are asking. When we cannot.” She stepped to within a few inches of him. “You are an earl. An earl, for love of the saints. I am Ava Fychon. A plain daughter of a Welsh coal miner."

“Bless you, sweetest. For a moment I was confused as to who was who, but you have clarified the matter for me quite distinctly,” he said dryly. “And as you are merely a lowly country lass with ancestry far beneath my own, it is hardly your place to tell me what I can and cannot do.” He grasped her hand and pulled her to him. “We will marry, Ava."

She shoved against his chest. “No. I will not allow you to consider something so rash."

“Not allow?” He hid a smile. “Challenging words, madam, considering your humble birth and to whom you have directed them."

She ignored him. “You would lose everything. Respect, your good reputation, your family name would be tainted, and ... “—she flapped an arm—"everything. You will lose everything."

“Your concern for my welfare is touching,” he said warmly.

Ava scowled furiously. “Do not mock me, sir. I am quite serious."

“I know you are.” He cupped his palm beneath her indignant chin and smiled tenderly. “But I must inform you that you are quite wrong in this, my love. I stand only to gain, to gain what is important. Respect does not provide happiness, good reputation does not offer comfort, family name does not satisfy an empty heart, this heart,” he covered her hand with his and set both on his chest. “This heart which wants to freely love the one person it must have. The person who I must have, beginning now and until forever. You, Miss Fychon. This heart needs, and must have ... you.” He dabbed her tears away. “Marry me, Ava. Be my wife."

She pulled in her lower lip. Was it possible? Could they marry? Of course they could. The act wasn't the issue. All he might lose was. Would he no longer be an earl if he married her? She didn't really know how that worked. Could he be stripped of his title, be forced to relinquish his luxuries and comforts? What of his family? What would his mother say? His sister? Years from now would he be content with his decision? He thought so now, but maybe later...

Ava closed her eyes, her mind at war with itself and her heart. God, how she wanted this! A life with him, a family. Him, everyday, to love and to laugh with. How could she say no again? That would be it forever. No third chance. But the losses, there would be so many and she would feel such guilt.

“What would we do for money?” she asked abruptly. “How would we support ourselves?"

Reeling for a moment by the unexpected question, he cleared his throat. Of course she would have questions. Multitudes of them. He may as well pace himself.

“You need not concern yourself with finances. We will manage quite nicely."

Her eyebrows met in a scowl. “I will not be left in the dark about such things, my lord. I insist on knowing how you intend to support a family."

He sighed. “There is my shipping business which I built on my own. It is mine and has nothing to do with my family. And I have investments, several which pay very handsomely. I live, and will continue to live very comfortably."

She nodded and turned away to think further. Income from his business and the other. And she was good at earning money.

“Where would we live?” She spun around. “I know only farming and life in the country, life in Wales. And you, well you would have to give up your homes, wouldn't you? And you would not move to Penmon and how could I move here?"

“You are already here, darling. You seem to enjoy England's countryside. We will live at Tercy or if that is not to your liking, we will find a home in the country, but near the city so I may travel there on business."

“You will not have to give up Tercy?"

Deran tipped his head. “No, of course not. It is my family—” He regarded her. Did she think that by marrying her he would be stripped of his noble rank? “Ava, I will always be an—"

“How will we buy—"

He set a finger down on her lip, swollen from her worrying at it. “Your concerns are unfounded. We will find a way to do it all, my sweet. I am not without resources."

“That is good to know, sir, but—"

A light cough turned their attentions to the other end of the building.

“Mr. DiSanto,” Ava said, surprised. “I didn't know you ... Were you in the carriage that nearly toppled our coach?"

“Miss Fychon,” he said, tipping his hat. “It is a pleasure to see you. Yes, madam, I was one of the passengers. I am sorry for any fright we may have caused. And I apologize for this interruption, but I really must have a word with you. Both of you. Actually, I make the request on behalf of the baron. He wishes to speak to you.” Max raised a dark brow. “Perhaps we could do this inside? They offer refreshments. I have already inquired on behalf of Master Ithel and Miss Mairwen who are waiting patiently for something to drink."

Ava's hand flew to her mouth. “Myn Duw. I forgot all about them. I let myself be too distracted by ... well, something.” She sped around the corner leaving Deran trailing in her wake.

Deran joined Max and they headed in the direction she'd sprinted.

“Well?” Max said.

“Well what?"

“You know what. Did you?"

“I did."

“And?"

“We were working out the particulars when you interrupted."

Max ignored the criticism. “Particulars."

“A residence, money, that sort of thing. She seems worried I will lose my title and inheritance."

“Ah. Thoughtful. So she said yes."

Deran slowed. “Hmm. Come to think of it, no, she didn't. There were all the questions and then—"

“Good lord, Atherton. You mean to tell me she still hasn't agreed to marry you?"

“It's not as if she doesn't want to,” Deran rumbled. “She has concerns and I haven't had the time to smooth them out. But I will.” He smiled at the sight of Ava arm in arm with her brother and sister, herding them into the inn. “Your mention of the baron had no affect on her, did you notice? What does he want to talk to us about?"

Max shrugged. “He didn't say. He complained of sitting too long and that he'd like to meet his grandchildren."

Deran halted. “He said that? Called them his grandchildren?"

Max nodded.

“Damnation. Ava doesn't know about him. I've said nothing to her about a grandfather, or Mrs. Evans or any of that. So many times I wanted to tell her about her family but dared not because there was no certainty she could regain her family connections. I hoped he would broach the subject in London, but he seemed to only want to ease his guilt."

The carriage door opened as they passed the front door of the inn. “Did he say anything to you about Ava and her family?” Deran asked quietly as they approached the carriage.

“No. I did most of the talking on our way here. Told him how you two met and a few humorous anecdotes.” He grinned when Deran looked at him quizzically.

“What took you so long, sir?” the baron grumbled, stepping out of the carriage. “My bones rebel against being in any one position for too long. Had a devil of a time unwinding them after my journey from Southampton.” He straightened slowly.

“Forgive me, sir,” Deran said, shutting the carriage door. “I needed time with Miss Fychon to, mmm, see to some details of our association."

“Details. Is that what the younger set is calling matrimony these days?” His thin lips curved up at the look of surprise on Deran's face. “Posture's poor but my hearing isn't. I overheard you speaking to Mr. DiSanto outside the carriage. She said no, did she?"

A brow hiked. “No, she did not say no."

“But she didn't say yes."

“Not in so many words, but—” He folded his arms across his chest. “How did you know?"

“You don't have the look of a man who has satisfactorily waged and won a battle, my good sir."

“Not yet. But I will,” he assured him hastily. “There are some specifics to be worked out to her satisfaction. If you knew what a perpetually obstinate and persistent woman she is, then you would well understand."

Max stared down at his feet and chuckled silently.

“That won't change you know,” the baron said, unsympathetically. “And gets worse with age. My Evelyn was as stubborn as they come, wouldn't yield to anyone. Always said she would have made one hell of a man since she'd rather fight than step aside.” His eyes sparkled with fondness. “Damned exciting it was, watching her temper stoke, knowing it was going to blow my way. Her eyes would get so bright it looked like someone had struck a match to them. Three lines would appear,” he drew a finger above his brow, “on her forehead. Looked like a W lying sideways. Always found that fascinating.” He clasped his hands behind his back and aimed his gaze past Deran's shoulder. “No, it wasn't often I minded catching the devil from my Evelyn."

Deran caught Max's sad smile and knew he was recalling his own wife, a quiet woman not easily riled. But Max undoubtedly had memories of times she had.

Deran wanted memories like these two men had. Many more than those he'd already collected. He wanted months, years, decades of them.

“She doesn't know about you, sir,” he said suddenly. “I never told her about you, or about her parents. She nor her brother or sister know the truth."

The baron studied him contemplatively. “It's time they did. I don't plan on encountering my maker any time soon, but I'd be a fool to not use this opportunity to meet all of them, perhaps put some of the past behind me. For my sake as well as my Evelyn's. It will give us something to argue about when I join her in the great beyond."

Deran smiled. “Then I suppose we ought to join them, sir. As to how to go about this—"

The man raised a hand to still him. “Leave it to me."

The men entered the dimly lit posting inn. The Fychon's sat at a round table in a far corner, Mairwen's back to the door. Ithel fumbled with a large glass while Ava looked on, head propped in a palm, elbow on the table.

Ava tried to pay attention to what Mairwen was saying, but she could only concentrate on Deran's proposal and the ensuing issues. He'd been serious, absolutely serious. It terrified and thrilled her. And, it flattered her to think he wanted to marry her knowing the serious repercussions. But it was also a responsibility she'd have to bear, as she would be the cause. His words were serious, but so were hers. She couldn't allow him to make such a decision so blithely.

A strip of light from outdoors cut through the darkness as the front door opened and Deran entered. He stalked toward her, eyes dead on hers. Ava felt her stomach tighten in anticipation. Did he mean to finish the conversation now, right here, with everyone present?

She sighed loudly. They should have taken a bloody ship back to Wales.

“Miss Fychon,” he said smoothly, pulling up another chair to the table. “There is someone I want you to meet.” Max carried over two more chairs. Deran smiled at Ithel and Mairwen. “It pleases me to introduce to you Lord Stafford, from Southampton.” He swept an arm above the table. “Baron, Miss Ava and Miss Mairwen Fychon and Master Ithel Fychon."

“What is a baron, sir?” Ithel asked, addressing Deran. “Will you be one when you get old?"

“Ithel!” Ava gasped. She leaned over and spoke to him rapidly and harshly. Knowledge of Welsh wasn't required for everyone to gather her meaning. Ithel looked at the baron with dismay.

“Mae'n chwith gen i, sir."

“If that was an apology, it wasn't necessary, young man.” The baron seated himself slowly. “I am old. But age doesn't affect a man's title."

“Affect?” Ithel repeated, not comprehending the word.

“Influence. Change."

“What does make it change?"

The baron smiled slightly. “Quick of you to interpret that it can. It changes when an eldest son loses his titled father. That title then becomes his."

Ithel considered that. “I am the oldest son and my tad is gone. Will I get a title?"

“Perhaps you can answer my brother's question another time, my lord,” Ava said quickly, noticing that the baron paled at the last. “Be assured he will have many more to bestow upon you."

The baron looked at her with intent curiosity. He drew in a shuddering breath.

Deran frowned slightly. “Sir, are you all right?"

The baron's gaze stayed on Ava. “My mother's eyes, though I can't make out how green yours are in here. And the shape of your face, the mouth, even the nose is hers. And I would wager that in full light, your hair is more golden than brown."

Ava stiffened with alarm. “What is this? Who are you?"

The baron hesitated. “Lord Stafford.” He watched her carefully. “Your grandfather. I am your mother's father."

The air gusted to the ceiling or sung in her ears, Ava couldn't tell which. She lost the sensation of her body, or that it breathed on its own.

“What did he say?” Ithel asked urgently. “He's a mam and tad?"

“No.” She gulped a breath. “Not a mother and father. He's a grandfather. A taid."

“Yours,” the baron supplied. He looked to Mairwen. “And yours. And you, young lady, resemble your father. The darker eyes and hair. And his height, from what I saw of you from a distance."

“Who do I look like?” Ithel chimed in, not wanting to be excluded from the look-alike game.

The baron's eyes moistened. “Your mother. My Clare. You have her eyes. Clare had the kindest brown eyes."

Ava moaned, the mention of her mother unleashing a cascading pain. She dug her hands into her stomach and bent over, eyes closed.

Deran was at her side in seconds. He crouched down next to her chair, a hand resting on her back.

“There was no easy way to tell you, sweetheart. I'm sorry. I would have told you sooner, but I had—"

Ava's eyes shot open, disbelief clouding them. “You know him? You have known about him and didn't tell me?"

He shook his head. “I met him only this morning."

“But, you ... you said.” She looked at the baron, then back to Deran and shook her head frantically. “No. This is a lie. I would have known about him, she would have told us."

“Do not blame Lord Atherton,” the baron said. “He is telling you the truth. We had not met before today. I will tell you everything but it may take a while so I ask for your patience."

No one spoke while he retold the tale. It was impossible not to be moved by his tears, or angered by the unfairness that Clare Stafford and Bran Fychon endured because of their love for each other. Ava's feelings for him wavered between contempt and curiosity. She couldn't fathom a mother and father shunning their only child simply because she'd gone against their wishes and married the man she chose rather than the one they'd chosen for her. But the sadness she felt because of this man's despair and regret ran deep. When he'd finished, she didn't know whether to hug or to strike him. She stayed rooted to her chair, unable to do either.

Ithel and Mairwen had no problem accepting the fact they had a grandfather. Rather than question his actions leading to his absence from their lives, they plied him with questions about their mother. What was she like when a young girl, where had she lived, why didn't she have brothers and sisters, did she have to do chores and studies, did she have any pets. The baron laughed and seemed to enjoy answering their questions.

Ava remained still and withdrawn during their probing, not once looking at Deran. He watched her with worried eyes. Her reaction, or lack of it, didn't go unnoticed by the baron.

“I expect you have a number of questions also, Miss Fychon,” he said to her.

She looked at him blankly. “No, I don't believe I do, sir."

A thick white brow arched. “None? I find that difficult to believe."

“Believe what you will.” She shrugged. “I have no questions I care to ask.” She pushed her chair back and stood. “If you will excuse me."

The three men stood.

“Where are you going, Ava?” Ithel asked, anxiously.

“Not far. I will be back soon.” She kissed the top of his head as she passed behind his chair and walked to the door as quickly as she could without running.

Once outside that's precisely what she did, the tears caught in her throat rising in wild sobs as she stumbled down the dirt road. Mam! Why didn't you tell us? How sad for you, to lose your family! But mixed with the sadness a feeling she'd been deceived. All those years she'd lived with two people she'd loved dearly without knowing who they really were. Not a word had been said of how they met, no mention of her father's profession. An opera singer! And he'd been a miner, a sheep farmer, his talent wasted. It was too tragic to bear.

Ahead was a grassy area that flattened out to a small valley. Ava barreled off the curve in the road, mindless of anything but the need for space to breathe and time to think. Time to accept.

The slope wasn't as flat as it appeared and she careened down a steep gradient that hadn't been apparent from the road. As she tried to slow her momentum, her foot caught on a hidden rock, upending her and hurtling her forward. She shoved her arms out to break her fall and with a squawk, crashed to the ground.

Stunned by the impact, she listened to the thump of her heart and waited for air to find its way into her lungs. When it finally did, she pushed up onto her hands and knees and promptly dropped onto her back, cursing a long streak as pain shot through her arm. Must have hit it harder than I thought. She gazed at the sky, pulled in deep breaths, felt the slower tap of her heart.

The fall had distracted her from her despair and she felt calmer now, better able to think about what she'd just learned. But really, what was there to think about? Her parents had met, fallen in love and married in spite of monumental disapproval from her mother's parents. Ava wondered what her father's parents had thought of his marriage. Ava knew nothing of them, couldn't recall hearing stories about them, and she'd been told her mother's parents had died. This disclaiming of each other seemed to run in her family. Such shameful, tragic losses.

But each one had made their choices, hadn't they? And with those choices came consequences, although her mother couldn't have known her parents would disown her. Or had she? Had she known they wanted her to wed another man?

She closed her eyes and let the sun's warmth cloak her and peace pervade her body. A grandfather. It could be a good thing. Good for Ithel and Mairwen, good for the baron. He looked lonely. Sounded lonely. He'd had a solitary life since his wife's death, a quiet life—

“There she is!"

The shout startled her. She opened her eyes and raised an arm to block the insistent sun. A trickle of rocks tumbled past as footsteps sounded directly behind her.

“Great saints,” a voice said shakily. “You're alive."

The sun ceased to shine when the earl stepped between it and her, but only for an instant. He dropped to his knees next to her.

“Damnation, woman.” His breathing wasn't under control, nor did it seem was his temper. “What the devil are you thinking, lying out on the ground like this? You look very much like a dead body. Anyone passing by would think so."

More rocks and pebbles winged past. One bounced off her head.

“Have a care, Master Ithel,” he called up the hill. Deran scowled back down at her. Long strips of hair swung across his brow making him look like an angry rogue. “Really, Ava, you had us worried breathless. This is most inconsiderate of you."

“Yes, your concern is quite apparent, my lord.” She frowned impatiently. “And now that you have proclaimed me to be alive, I will get up, if you don't mind."

“Ava.” Mairwen came to a rollicking halt just beyond Ava's feet. “Are you all right?” Ithel stood right behind Mairwen, nearly flattening her when he used her body as a stopping post.

Ava heaved a sigh. “Yes I am all right. I just needed time to think.” She pushed up to a sitting position and winced. Some heat on this arm would take care of the ache.

Deran frowned. “You injured yourself."

“No, it's just a bruise. I'm sorry if I worried you. I went a bit further than I intended, then lost my footing. The sun was so glorious I didn't feel like moving."

Ithel giggled. “Your hair looks like a bird has pecked at it."

“Thank you, Ithel,” Ava said wryly. “Just what a woman needs to help recover some of her dignity."

Deran stood. “The baron is waiting. He was anxious about your long absence.” He grasped her arm.

Ava screamed.

In reaction, Mairwen screamed. Then Ithel burst into tears. Deran observed all three with abject confusion. The day was progressing far worse than he'd ever thought possible.

* * * *

It neared twilight when they arrived in London. Deran handed off his horse to Fleck. Max said a hurried good night with a promise to return in the morning.

Lord Stafford entered the town house holding the hands of his grandchildren, both of them far more energized from their exciting day of travel than he.

Deran and Ava entered last. Bickford stood starchily at the door. An eyebrow inched upward at the sight of Miss Fychon's shawl fashioned into arm sling and secured around her waist. However, not in the least surprised to see her in his lordship's arms.

Ava smiled brightly. “Good evening, Mr. Bickford"

Bickford made a deep bow. “Miss. My lord. I am pleased to see you were able to complete your business and return home safely, sir.” He closed the door. “I shall send for the physician at once."

“Thank you, Bickford,” Deran sighed glumly. He headed up the staircase. “And some whiskey. No.” He stopped midway and grinned down at Ava, the woman who was destined to be in his arms, injured or not. “Make that gin. The bottle, Bickford. And two glasses."

The butler smiled as the sound of soft laughter filled the hall.

Epilogue

“You're going to spoil them, my lord,” Ava said, settling her head on his stomach. “I had no idea you had it in you to spoil children the way you do."

He fingered the hair spilling over her shoulders. “Wait until we have some of our own, my lady. Ithel and Mairwen are merely practice for that day."

“They do enjoy your attentions.” She sighed lightly.

“Tired?"

“A little. You?"

Deran rolled to his side, forcing her to reposition her head higher. He propped up on an elbow. “No.” He scanned the moonlit lake. “I think this is my favorite time of day.” He slid a hand over the curve of her hip, heard her quick breath.

“Mmm. And before full daybreak. The birds just waking up. And rabbits come out then, did you know that?"

He smiled and leaned forward to catch the hem of her dress. “I did."

She stirred with anticipation as his hand crept up her bare leg. “I saw deer two mornings ago. In the glade across the way. I was glad I decided to walk that morning and not ride. I would have missed them if I had."

Deran watched his hand skim up her thigh and make her skin quiver. “It pleases me that you like Tercy Manor as well as you do, my sweet. It suits you, and you it."

“Only because you're here with me, Deran. I would never be happy here if you were not beside me. You make it a home."

His hand stilled and he swallowed slowly. It would take much longer than two months of marriage to become accustomed to how her intimate words affected him. Maybe he never would and that was fine with him.

“We make it a home, love.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and rolled her over to face him. “We do."

Praise for Highland Press

Books!

Book 1 in the Once in a Blue Moon Series

Blue Moon Magic is an enchanting collection of short stories. Each author wrote with the same theme in mind but each story has its own uniqueness. You should have no problem finding a tale to suit your mood. Blue Moon Magic offers historicals, contemporaries, time travel, paranormal, and futuristic narratives to tempt your heart.

Legend says that if you wish with all your heart upon the rare blue moon, your wishes were sure to come true. Each of the heroines discovers this magical fact. True love is out there if you just believe in it. In some of the stories, love happens in the most unusual ways. Angels may help, ancient spells may be broken, anything can happen. Even vampires will find their perfect mate with the power of the blue moon. Not every heroine believes they are wishing for love, some are just looking for answers to their problems or nagging questions. Fate seems to think the solution is finding the one who makes their heart sing.

Blue Moon Magic is a perfect read for late at night or even during your commute to work. The short yet sweet stories are a wonderful way to spend a few minutes. If you do not have the time to finish a full-length novel, but hate stopping in the middle of a loving tale, I highly recommend grabbing this book.

Kim Swiderski

Writers Unlimited Reviewer

* * * *

Book 2 in the Once in a Blue Moon Series

Nominee for the P.E.A.R.L. Award

for Best Anthology

Legend has it that a blue moon is enchanted. What happens when fifteen talented authors utilize this theme to create enthralling stories of love?

Blue Moon Enchantment is a wonderful, themed anthology filled with phenomenal stories by fifteen extraordinarily talented authors. Readers will find a wide variety of time periods and styles showcased in this superb anthology. Blue Moon Enchantment is sure to offer a little bit of something for everyone!

Reviewed by Debbie

CK2S Kwips and Kritiques

* * * *

P.E.A.R.L. Award Winner

for Best Novella and Best Short Story

in an Anthology

No Law Against Love—If you have ever found yourself rolling your eyes at some of the more stupid laws, then you are going to adore this novel. Over twenty-five stories fill up this anthology, each one dealing with at least one stupid or outdated law. Let me give you an example: In Florida, USA, there is a law that states “If an elephant is left tied to a parking meter, the parking fee has to be paid just as it would for a vehicle.” In Great Britain, “A license is required to keep a lunatic.” Yes, you read those correctly. No matter how many times you go back and reread them, the words will remain the same. Those two laws are still legal. Most of the crazy laws in these wonderful stories are still legal. The tales vary in time and place. Some take place in the present, in the past, in the USA, in England, may contain magic ... in other words, there is something for everyone! You simply cannot go wrong. Best yet, all profits from the sales of this novel go to breast cancer prevention.

A stellar anthology that had me laughing, sighing in pleasure, believing in magic, and left me begging for more! Will there be a second anthology someday? I sure hope so! This is one novel that will go directly to my ‘Keeper’ shelf, to be read over and over again. Very highly recommended!

Reviewed by Detra Fitch

Huntress Reviews

* * * *

Highland Wishes—This reviewer found that this book was a wonderful story set in a time when tension was high between England and Scotland. Burroughs writes a well-crafted story, with multidimensional characters and exquisite backdrops of Scotland. The storyline is a fast-paced tale with much detail to specific areas of history. The reader can feel this author's love for Scotland and its many wonderful heroes.

The characters connect immediately and don't stop until the end. At the end of the book, the reader wonders what happens next. The interplay between characters was smoothly done and helped the story along. It was a very smoothly told story. This reviewer was easily captivated by the story and was enthralled by it until the end. The reader will laugh and cry as you read this wonderful story. The reader feels all the pain, torment and disillusionment felt by both main characters, but also the joy and love they felt. Ms. Burroughs has crafted a well-researched story that gives a glimpse into Scotland during a time when there was upheaval and war for independence. This reviewer is anxiously awaiting her next novel in this series and commends her for a wonderful job done.

Dawn Roberto

Love Romances

* * * *

Rebel Heart—Ms. Petska does an excellent job of all aspects of sharing this book with us. Ms. Petska used a myriad of emotions to tell this story and the reader (me) quickly becomes entranced in the ways Courtney's stubborn attitude works to her advantage in surviving this disastrous beginning to her new life. Ms. Petska's writings demand attention; she draws the reader to quickly become involved in this passionate story. This is a wonderful rendition of a different type which is a welcome addition to the historical romance genre.

I believe that you will enjoy this story;

I know I did!

Reviewed by Brenda Talley

The Romance Studio

* * * *

In Sunshine or In Shadow—If you adore the stormy heroes of “Wuthering Heights” and “Jane Eyre” (and who doesn't?) you'll be entranced by Cynthia Owens’ passionate story of Ireland after the Great Famine, and David Burke—a man from America with a hidden past and a secret name. Only one woman, the fiery, luscious Siobhan, can unlock the bonds that imprison him. Highly recommended for those who love classic romance and an action-packed story.

Best Selling Author, Maggie Davis,

AKA Katherine Deauxville

* * * *

Almost Taken is a very passionate historical romance that takes the reader on an exciting adventure. The compelling characters of Deran Morissey, the Earl of Atherton, and Ava Fychon, a young woman from Wales, find themselves drawn together as they search for her missing siblings.

The romance between Deran and Ava is difficult from the start. This attraction soon becomes desire which turns to passion that no matter how hard they try will not be denied. Readers will watch in interest as they fall in love and overcome obstacles. They will thrill in the passion and hope that they find happiness together. This is a very sensual romance that wins

the heart of the readers.

This is a creative and fast moving storyline that will enthrall readers. The character's personalities will fascinate readers and win their concern. Ava, who is highly spirited and stubborn, will win the respect of the readers for her courage and determination. Deran, who is rumored in the beginning to be an ice king, not caring about anyone, will prove how wrong people's perceptions can be. Almost Taken by Isabel Mere is an emotionally moving historical romance that I highly recommend to the readers.

Anita, The Romance Studio

* * * *

Christmas is a magical time and twelve talented authors answer the question of what happens when Christmas Wishes come true in this incredible anthology.

Christmas Wishes shows just how phenomenal a themed anthology can be. Each of these highly skilled authors brings a slightly different perspective to the Christmas theme to create a book that is sure to leave readers satisfied. What a joy to read such splendid stories! This reviewer looks forward to more anthologies by Highland Press as the quality is simply astonishing.

Reviewed by Debbie

CK2S Kwips and Kritiques

* * * *

Holiday in the Heart—Twelve stories that would put even Scrooge into the Christmas spirit. It does not matter what type of romance genre you prefer. This book has a little bit of everything. The stories are set in the U.S.A. and Europe. Some take place in the past, some in the present, and one story takes place in both! I strongly suggest that you put on something comfortable, brew up something hot (tea, coffee or cocoa will do), light up a fire, settle down somewhere quiet and begin reading this anthology.

Reviewed by Detra Fitch

Huntress Reviews

Also Available from

Highland Press

Highland Wishes

No Law Against Love

Blue Moon Magic

Blue Moon Enchantment

Rebel Heart

Christmas Wishes

Holiday in the Heart

In Sunshine or In Shadow

The Sense of Honor

Into the Woods

Coming:

Pretend I'm Yours

Millenium Romance Writers’ Phrase Book

Recipe for Love

The Crystal Heart

Faery Special Romances

No Law Against Love 2

Second Time Around

Dance en L'Aire

Enraptured

Mail Order Brides

The Amethyst Crown

Eyes of Love

The Barefoot Queen

Cat O'Nine Tales

Almost Guilty

Cover by DeborahAnne MacGillivray

Cover art by Lucian de Chenault

Printed in the United States of America

Visit www.highlandpress.org for information on additional titles by this and other authors.