Other Love Spell books by Anne Avery:

THE SNOW QUEEN

HIDDEN HEART

FAR STAR

ALL'S FAIR

A DISTANT STAR The Highwayman's Daughter Anne Avery LOVE SPELL®

May 1998

Published by

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc. 276 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10001

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

Cover art by John Ennis

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

ISBN 0-505-52259-4

The name "Love Spell" and its logo are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

Printed in the United States of America. The Highwayman

Part One

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding
Ridingriding,
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked
and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's back-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like moldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say "One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair I' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

Part Two

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching
Marchingmarching
King George's men came marching up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of
            Her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at the casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
            And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he
            Would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the
            Dead man say
Look for me by moonlight;
            Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way! She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours
            Crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight
            Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her
Love's refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it: The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance: Were they deaf that they did
Not hear:
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in
            The echoing night!
Nearer he came and near! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
            Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned himwith
            her death.

He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own
            Red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew gray to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
            The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the
            Darkness there. Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him, and his rapier
            Brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was
            His velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
            Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of
            lace at his throat.

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding
Ridingriding
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked
            and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be
            waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
            Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Alfred Noyes

Author's Note

One of the fondest memories of my childhood is of the hours I spent lost in the magical kingdoms of imagination that lay within the pages of the Childcraft Books that my parents bought for my brothers and me, even though that purchase meant a major financial sacrifice for them. Of the setwhich continues to occupy a place of honor on my crowded bookshelvesmy favorite was the volume which brimmed with poetry and the bright, imaginative art that helped bring the words alive to a child's eager mind.

The pages of that book are worn at the edges, the corners bent or, sometimes, missing altogetherfour pages of "The Pied Piper of Hamlin" are almost unreadable because a childish hand rather sloppily cut them off with a pair of stubby little scissorsbut every page is a treasure house of imagination and memory.

I think my eldest brother sliced up "The Pied Piper," though I'm not perfectly sure about that. If he did, it was probably in retaliation for the havoc I wrought on his I Thought That I Saw It On Mulberry Street, by Dr. Seuss, an act of desecration which I continue to regret almost forty years later. At the time, chopping up his book was the most horrible thing I could think of to get back at him for some long-forgotten slight, but of all the things I would do over if I could, that would be one of the first.

If my brother thought to get even with me by chopping up the Childcraft volume, however, his vengeance wasn't nearly as effective as minehe missed "The Highwayman" by Alfred Noyes entirely. That poem spelled romance to me, and I'm quite sure it shaped my love of the dark and tragic love story thatalas!is so seldom published these days. Even now, I can close my eyes and hear my mother reading it to me before bed, or listen to my own voice as I read it aloud to myself, over and over and over again . . .

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
          And the highwayman came riding
                        Ridingriding,
  The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

The swiftly galloping beat and the vivid, powerful language of the poem make the story of Bess, ''the landlord's black-eyed daughter," and her dashing Highwayman lover come alive in ways that no novel can ever hope to match.

I haven't tried to match the power of the poemI wouldn't darebut I have tried, to the best of my abilities, to render homage to it by telling this tale of The Highwayman's Daughter.

I said that I like tragic endings. It's true. But I think modern readers will forgive me for having provided a happy ending this time around. It was the least I could do for something that has provided me so very much pleasure over the years.

Above all, this book is dedicated to my parents and to Alfred Noyes, with my heartfelt thanks for a gift that will truly last a lifetime.

Chapter One

If life had taught John Francis Carleton anything, it was to take his pleasures where he found them. Right now he was enjoying a pint of good ale, a roaring fire, and a snug seat in the corner near the King George's hearth. He was dry, well fed, and comfortably protected from drafts and the icecold rain that blew in with each sodden new guest . . . yet it was not enough. Not tonight.

John Carleton wanted a woman. A pretty, plump, and willing woman who would indulge him with a rousing round or two of cock-in-the-henhouse, then snuggle up close to keep him warm through the rest of this miserable, misbegotten English night.

Unfortunately, the George came provided with most of the amenities a traveler might require, but it did not come provided with a woman. At least, not a plump and willing one.

The crone in the corner opposite looked as if she might once have been plump and pretty and more than willing to oblige a lonely stranger, but her days for slap-and-tickle were long past. Now she sat hunched over her ale pot, avidly listening to the heated argument that two stolid farmers and their equally stolid wives had been conducting at some length. The debate seemed to revolve around a complicated tangle of land rights, lost heirs, and the old Lord Henry Malloran's steward's meddling where he oughtn't, and the crone cackled with satisfaction each time one of the disputants scored a particularly telling point.

John had followed the discussion with the discreet, but bored curiosity appropriate to any traveler in an unfamiliar place, but his attention had been more pleasantly fixed on the comely wench who functioned as the inn's tapster and serving maid.

The wench had possibilities. She was a touch too tall and slender for his taste, but she had a full, soft mouth that invited kisses, a perfect complexion, delicately pale to complement the raven black hair piled under her mobcap, and breasts that would torment a blind man's dreams. The breasts, John had long ago decided, more than compensated for the lack of flesh on her long bones. She was graceful, sloe-eyed, and eminently beddablebut she was not willing. He'd found that out when his first foray had earned him a set-down sharp enough to drive off a regiment of aspirants to her favors.

John hadn't ventured again, though he hadn't entirely discarded the idea, either. There wasn't much else to distract him, after all. Even the stolid farmers' exploration of old scandals seemed to be drawing to a close, drowned in their respective pots of cider and ale.

As for the serving wench, she'd ignored him except when it was necessary to clear away his supper plates or refill his tankard. Her manner might have wounded his masculine sensibilities if it hadn't piqued his curiosity more. He wasn't accustomed to having women ignore him.

For his pride's sake, he decided that her avoidance might be due simply to the clamorings of her thirsty customers. Despite the cold and the drenching rain, the locals had managed to slog their way through the storm in sufficient numbers that she'd had no chance to sit down even once in the past hour. Instead, she scurried back and forth between taproom and pantry and kitchen, filling mugs and scolding the cook and tending to her customers' demands with remarkable calm, in spite of it all.

John watched appreciatively as she climbed on a stool to retrieve a jug. As she stretched to reach the jug, the hem of her skirt rose to expose a pair of stout, sensible shoes, and ankles trim enough to rouse even the dullest of the sturdy laborers lucky enough to have good seats for the show. One toothless codger, bolder than the rest, craned sideways and tried to peer up her skirts. He was promptly rewarded for his pains with a solid thunk on the nob from the jug-wielding maid.

"Here, now, Thomas Gaines, you mind your manners," she said sharply, clambering down from the stool and tugging her skirts into place.

Old Thomas assumed an expression of aggrieved innocence. "Awk, now, Lizzie. Weren't nothin' meant by it. Honest."

He might have pulled it off if the urge to snicker hadn't overcome him first.

"Try it again and you'll be out in the rain, and no mistake," Lizzie said, jug raised to emphasize her threat.

Thomas promptly buried his nose in his tankard.

Appeased, Lizzie turned to fill the jug from a wine cask set in a low cradle against the far wall. John Francis happily joined in the general masculine appreciation of the viewheavy skirts notwithstanding, the curve of the wench's arse as she bent to draw the wine was a very pleasant one indeed.

"I don't like the way he's eyeing her," Oliver Hardwicke growled at his beloved. "I've a good mind to spill his ale down his shirtfront next time he looks her way."

"Don't even think it," his beloved said. "Besides, you promised you wouldn't do that sort of thing anymore. You know the troubles Lizzie had the last time you drove away her customers." "Demned lecherous noblemen's brats, that pack was," Oliver growled. "Like dogs off the leash. She was well rid of them."

"Perhaps, but you didn't need to scare them witless. Lizzie's trade was down for a good month after."

"Spoken like a landlord's daughter!"

"Well, and that's what I was! You didn't seem to mind."

"Mind?" Oliver laughed and drew his beloved closer. "No man with eyes in his head and a bulge in his breeches would have minded that, my love, or even remembered it. Not once they'd got a good look at you!"

"And look where it landed me!"

"Ah, my beautiful Bess. Do you mind so much, then?"

Bess smiled and tweaked his nose. "Not since I have you." The smile faded. "But I do worry about our Lizzie. She's so . . . she's so serious, Oliver! Never pays so much as a moment's notice to any of the men who've come courting her, and, say what you will, there were a couple of good ones amongst them all."

"What does it matter? Not even the best of 'em was good enough for our Lizzie."

"I don't want her to be a spinster, Oliver! But the way she drives away every interested male"

"Every one of them with nothing but one thought in his head!"

"The same thought you had in yours, my love!" Bess giggled. "And a fine thought it was, too!" "We were good together, weren't we, my beautiful Bess?"

"We still are, regardless."

"Yes. Well . . ." Oliver turned his attention back to the matter at hand, and swore. "God rot him. Look at that filthy-minded cur! I tell you, Bess, one more glance like that and it's over his ale pot goes!"

Lizzie placed the filled jug of wine and three cups on a small tray, and then carried them to the table where William Woodforde and his cronies were deep in a debate over the rival merits of tar and dock roots boiled in vinegar as an effective cure for mange in sheep. She neatly dodged William's famously wandering hand, and hurried back to draw more ale for old Thomas. Roused by the stolen peek at her petticoats, he'd drained his tankard dry and was loudly demanding another round, quick, before he perished of thirst.

Her back and feet ached. She was tired and hungry and cross, just as she was on any night that Samuel wasn't available to run the taproom. Yet tonight, Lizzie was conscious of an uncomfortable difference.

It wasn't hard to identify the problem. He called himself John Gideon, though she doubted that was the name he'd been born with. Right now, he was slouched in the corner by the hearth, one tanned, shapely hand protectively curled around his pint of ale, his foot arrogantly propped on a chair opposite. He was well dressed and, judging from his speech, well educated, even if he was a colonial. The man had scarcely spoken except to tease heronce!and to order his supper and more ale, yet Lizzie was quite sure it wasn't the sharp set-down she'd given him that was keeping him so quiet.

There was a disturbing alertness about him underneath the surface carelessness. She had the sense that he heard and saw everything that went on in the room around him, even though he gave the appearance of being interested in nothing but his pint and the way her breasts filled the bodice of her dress.

Lizzie was used to the latter. She'd been dealing with menyoung, old, and every age in betweensince she'd grown big enough to help her grandfather with the never-ending work of a public inn. Most of them were from the village and the nearby farms, of course, but there were always travelers passing through and guests stopping with the local gentry who wanted a little respite from the kindness of their hosts. It didn't matter who they were; if they were old enough to be out from behind their mothers' petticoats, they'd been interested in their ale and the curve of her chest, just like the stranger in the corner.

Yet not one of them had managed to unsettle her the way this man had, with his lazy smile and his sea-green eyes, half-hidden behind lashes thick enough to make a woman weep. Whenever she came near him, her heart beat faster and her blood pounded through her veins. Whenever she was away from him, engaged in other tasks, she was conscious of his gaze upon her, and her body grew warm in ways that were as disturbing as they were unexpected. If she weren't so sure she was in her usual perfect health, she'd have thought she was sickening and needed to be blooded.

It wasn't just his effect on her that was troubling, however. He was looking for something, listening to everything being said, though he gave no outward sign of it.

Why would a man like him, with every mark of being a gentleman, find the occupants of the George's taproom of such interest? What was there in the various discussions of crops, politics, weather, old scandals, and the price of livestock that could possibly be of interest to a stranger?

Yet interested he was, and Lizzie would bet her best lace tucker that it wasn't the crops or the weather or the price of livestock that had his attention.

By the time he was launched on his third pint, John had considered, and reluctantly discarded, a dozen different ways of seducing the serving wench. He had the uncomfortable sense she had already heard everything he might say a hundred times over and would be no more impressed by his blandishments than a dog by the overtures of a flea.

In fact, lust was rapidly being replaced by a growing puzzlement that she should be here at all. Despite her menial occupation, she bore herself with a confidence that many a fine lady might have envied. Her speech lacked the heavy accents of the rustics who filled most of the taproom's seats, yet she moved among her customers with the calm familiarity of old acquaintance, and they, in turn, treated her with the ready ease that comes only with long association.

John frowned at nothing in particular, irritated that such a trivial problem should nag at him like this, demanding an answer. Not that there was much of anything else to distract him, but he would have preferred simply to bed the wench, then forget her. It was a mistake for a man to get too involved in his pleasures, especially those of the female variety. They had a nasty habit of not letting go.

As it happened, his wish for distraction was answered, but in a far less appealing form than that of the black-haired wench.

Thomas Gaines staggered up from the bench he'd been occupying and cautiously worked his way across the room toward the fire, tankard firmly clutched in one gnarled hand. He nodded to John, pale, rheumy eyes bright with curiosity, then slowly lowered his ancient bones onto the settle, as close to the fire as he could get.

"Arrr," he said in utter contentment, and raised his pint in salute.

"Health." John raised his own half-empty tankard in return.

"Not much chance at my age," said Gaines with a crooked smile, and disappeared behind his tankard. John could see the skinny cords of his neck work as he swallowed.

The old man eventually lowered his pot with a gusty sighbreathing was clearly secondary to a good, long draftand dragged his sleeve across his mouth. ''A naggy, ill-tempered scold she be, but Lizzie brews good ale."

John nodded in assent. "And does a roast hen proud, if my supper was anything to judge by."

Gaines shook his head. "Nawr. That be Bertha's doing. Bertha's as fat an old sow as ever drew breath, which is ever a sign of a good cook. Lizzie, now, she's the owner here. And the brewster. Learned it from her granddad, she did, before the old sod died."

He screwed up his face and stared into the corner, thinking hard and scratching his grizzled chin at the effort. "Year ago last Michaelmas, that were, or thereabouts. Or mebbe was it two?"

"Mistress Lizzie runs this place by herself?" John didn't bother to hide his astonishment. The inn was a good-size one and, judging from what little he'd seen, well run. Not at all the sort of place one would expect a woman to manage aloneat least, not a young and good-looking woman, who ought to have no trouble finding a husband with whom to divide the labor.

"Nawr. Not by herself, exactly." Gaines took another deep swighis wits seemed to require frequent stoking in order to functionand leaned forward confidentially.

"Lizzie, now, she's the boss, but she's got a couple o' chambermaids an' the stable lads an' kitchen maid t' do for her. Samuel Martin, he runs the tap here most nights. Only his cousin took bad, night afore last, and his sister dragged him off t' pay their respec's t' the dyin'. Greedy old hen can't bear t' see even a cousin pass on without makin' sure she has her share o' what's left behind."

He gave a great cackle. "Comes ol' Martin's turn, she'll be sittin' by the bed countin' his pennies and halfpence, jus' t' make sure he don't take none with 'im!"

"An unpleasant prospect, to be sure."

"Arrr," said Gaines in agreement, once more lubricating his vocal cords.

Their hostess chose that moment to walk past. She glanced at John, then shot a suspicious glance at old Thomas, but didn't stop.

"Mistress Lizzie seems to do well enough without Samuel Martin's help," said John, admiring the easy grace with which she bore six well-filled tankards. She managed without spilling a drop, not even when she had to dodge a wandering hand attached to a broad, gruff farmer who seemed to think other favors came with the price of the ale.

"Yes," said Gaines, watching her appreciatively.

John waited until she'd made her deliveries and gone back past the table before adding, "I'm surprised she hasn't wed yet."

"Her!" Gaines craned to peer around the end of the settle, as if to assure himself Lizzie was safely out of hearing range, then edged into a chair at John's right hand. "There's more'n one feller would've had her, was she willin'," he said, leaning forward conspiratorially, one hand protectively wrapped around his tankard. "She'll have none of em'. Even had a 'sir' sniffin' 'round her onct, but never a smile did she give 'im. Left in despair an' blew 'is brains out, so they say."

John casually tilted back in his chair. The unmistakable aroma of the cow byre clung to the old man's much worn, but seldom washed clothes. His breath smelled of ale, cheap tobacco, and rotting teeth, and the lingering damp from the rain combined with the heat from the fire only served to enrich the fragrant blend of odors.

"Blew his brains out, hmm?" said John.

"Yes. Courtin' Mistress Lizzie can be a parlous business." He mashed his gums together with satisfaction and took another swallow. "Course, that's assumin' all the tales you hears is true, which I ain't sayin' as how they is, nor I ain't sayin' as how they ain't."

"Very reasonable." John gave his nose a respite by burying it in his ale pot. "What tales?"

Gaines glanced about him once more, then edged closer still. John started breathing through his mouth.

"Ghosts," the old man said. His eyes grew round and his jaw thrust forward so that his scrawny neck looked like a plucked chicken's. "Ghosts an' murder an' vengeance everlastin'."

"Ghosts, is it, Thomas?" Mistress Lizzie had come up beside him so quietly that John hadn't heard her approach.

She scowled at Thomas, but her words were for John. "I warn you, sir. Unless you've no objection to paying for Thomas's ale, you'd best not listen to his wild stories. There's nothing to them, but the more murderous his ghosts, the thirstier he gets. You'd do well to find other conversation."

"Awk, now, Lizzie," said old Thomas, abashed.

"You know how I feel about that foolishness."

A dim-witted sheep could have guessed. The anger radiating from her was almost physical, and far out of proportion to the crime.

If she'd intended to say more, it was cut short when the outer door suddenly crashed open and the wind howled in, driving the rain and three of King George's soldiers before it.

Like a hind at the sound of the hunters' horns, Lizzie tensed, head up, poised to spring. She was a striking creature, John thought. Proud, almost haughty, and clearly unintimidated by the official presence, even though more than one of her customers had discovered a sudden and all-encompassing interest in the tabletop in front of him. She stepped forward.

"You are welcome here, gentlemen," she said sharply, "but the rain and wind are not. If you are coming in, then kindly do so and shut the door behind you. If you've no wish for ale, then I'll thank you to leave, and I will be happy to shut the door as you go."

"Sharp-tongued as ever, eh, Mistress Tynsdale?" said the man in front, an officer, judging by his hat and the elegant sweep of his cape. His companions grinned. One, a runty, pinch-faced private, turned and kicked the door shut; the other arrogantly propped his hand on the butt of the pistol that stuck out of his belt, as though issuing a silent warning.

"Sharp-tongued, Lieutenant? You flatter me. If you and your men will take a seat"she nodded toward a table near John's, the only one that was as yet unoccupied"I will bring you ale in a momentas soon as I have attended to others who were here before you." With that, she snatched John's and Thomas's tankards out of their hands without so much as a by-your-leave and marched away.

The lieutenant watched her departure with narrowed eyes, then gave a curt nod to indicate the dragoons should claim the table indicated. With an arrogance that verged on insult, the two men did as they were bidden. The lieutenant swept off his cape and threw it over a chair back, then sauntered across to the fire. Everyone in the taproom watched him warily as he stretched his hands to the blaze. When he turned his back to the fire, his observers hastily transferred their attention to their tankards.

Lizzie pointedly ignored the lieutenant's appreciative, mocking stare as she returned with the tankards.

"Here, then," she said, setting one in front of John. "And you," she added, setting the second in front of Thomas, "keep your tongue between your teeth, or it's precious little ale you'll get from me in the future."

"Awk, now, Lizzie," Thomas protested feebly, but he threw a cautious glance at the two dragoons before plunging his nose into his tankard.

The soldiers' presence put a damper on the companionable atmosphere that warmth, good ale, and friendly conversation had engendered in the taproom. The two stolid farmers rose as one, pulled on their coats and hats, and, with their stout wives close on their heels, stumped out of the inn and into the night. One of the laborers followed in short order, with the crone close on his heels.

Thomas Gaines was not so precipitate. Instead of retreating, he took his newly refilled tankard back to the settle and the warmth of the fire, clearly hopeful of more exciting diversions than the night had yet provided.

"Yer Honor," he said, giving an odd little ducking bow as he crossed in front of the lieutenant.

The officer stiffened and drew his head back, which was as far as he could go backward without stepping into the fire; his nostrils flared.

The corner of John's mouth twitched.

The lieutenant was as sharp eyed as he looked. He turned his cold gaze on John. "You find something to amuse you?"

"A shared sympathy, Lieutenant, nothing more." With one booted foot, John shoved back the chair old Thomas had vacated. "Join me." The lieutenant's eyes narrowed as he considered the invitation. After another sweeping glance about the taproom, he swung the chair about so he'd have a clear view of the room's occupants, gave an arrogant flick to his long coattails, and sat.

"You're a colonial." It wasn't a question.

"I'm from the colonies, yes."

"What brings you here, so far from home?"

John let one eyebrow slide upward at the harshness of the prying question, but his voice was mild enough as he replied, "My father was from this part of England. He always spoke of it." That was true, though his father's memories had been colored by something other than nostalgia.

The lieutenant grunted, evidently taking his words at face value. "A long way to come for a father's memories."

"Yes." But not too far for the purpose that had brought him. "Though I suppose there have been any number of changes since my father was here last. You would know, I suppose."

"I?" He laughed, the sound harsh against the subdued murmur of voices from the customers who remained. "I'm not from here, thank God!"

"No?" The man's anger said far more than his words. Not that it mattered. "I take it this wasn't your choice of postings, then?"

The lieutenant tensed, as though just realizing where his anger might lead him. "It was not."

John nodded sympathetically, then took a good swallow of ale and disposed himself more comfortably in his chair. As a guest at the inn, he had no reason to plunge back into the storm. The fire was warm, the ale good, and if he was lucky, the conversation might be . . . useful.

"Tell me about the place," he invited. "Is it always this damned cold and wet?"

The lieutenant had taken the chair old Thomas had vacated. Judging from the hard, angry lines about his handsome mouth, he wasn't finding the company all that entertaining.

"Lieutenant Lamberre," said Lizzie, coolly plunking a well-filled tankard down in front of the man, even though she would have preferred to toss the ale in his face. She circled the table and set brimming tankards in front of the other two dragoons. "Sergeant. Private."

She crossed behind the lieutenant's chair and would have slipped past without another word, but he grabbed her arm as she went by.

"You're getting good at sorting out the insignia, Mistress Tynsdale," he said. "Been paying a bit of attention to my men, have you?"

The private snickered, but hastily quieted under the sergeant's quelling frown. The stranger went suddenly still; he set his tankard down on the table with elaborate care, but made no move to interfere.

Lizzie ignored them all. Had she been given a choice, she would have avoided a confrontation with the lieutenant, but he'd made that impossible the minute he'd grabbed her arm. She wrenched her arm free of his grasp, but budged not an inch from where she stood.

"I can hardly help notice them, Lieutenant," she said. Her upper lip curled with her anger, but she managed to keep her voice steady in spite of it. "You and your troops are rather hard to ignore, since you thrust yourselves into places where you've no business being."

The lieutenant laughed. There was nothing pleasant in the sound. "I understand some of my men have been thrusting rather industriously hereabouts. Reports would have it that your chambermaid's belly is already beginning to swell."

In the sudden silence, the snap and flare of the fire sounded unexpectedly loud. Lizzie had the vague sense that the room around her had taken on an angry red haze. She slammed her fist on the table as she bent to glare into his dark face.

"Would you be so quick to laugh if it were your sister, Lieutenant? Or your wife?"

"My sisters don't work in a common inn, mistress. And I don't have a wife." His smile grew cruel. "You'd do well to toss the slut out, send her back to her family."

"Her family's cast her off. She has no place else to go except into the arms of the man responsible, but he'll have none of her now."

"And why should he? If she'd no more sense than to spread her legs for a few copper pennies, why should anyone care what becomes of her?" "She had no pennies from the man, Lieutenant. Just an earful of pretty words."

"And now she's a bellyful of something else." He shrugged. "That's her problem, not mine. I'm not responsible for fools."

Lizzie straightened abruptly, unable to stomach the closeness any longer. "But you are responsible for your men!"

"Not when their pants are down!"

This time the sergeant made no effort to hush his snickering subordinate. The stranger sat as carelessly in his chair as before, but even in her anger Lizzie was aware of the glitter of those sea-green eyes and the sudden hard set to his jaw.

The lieutenant seemed unaware of anyone but her. He lifted his tankard in an insolent salute, and took a deep draft. "Ahh. That's good. However weak your control over your servants, Mistress Tynsdale, it must be said that your ale, at least, is strong."

"God rot those bloody redcoats!" snarled Oliver. "I'll prick the bastards"

"Oliver! Don't you dare! You'll only cause more troubles for Lizzie."

"But Bess! Can't you see"

"I see that Lizzie can take care of herself. Do something now, and it will be Lizzie who bears the blame, not you."

"But"

"Wait, Oliver. Please." Oliver hesitated, but he'd never been able to deny his Bess anything. Not ever.

''All right. I'll wait. But if he dares lay another hand on her . . ."

John casually took his foot off the chair opposite. Nothing to rouse suspicion, but he'd be free in case he had to move quickly. There was something more to this confrontation between the lieutenant and Mistress Lizzie than a quarrel over a chambermaid's pregnancy. It crackled beneath the surface of their words like lightning behind clouds.

The George's owner was biting her lip and glaring down at the lieutenant, clearly struggling against the temptation to plunge into a heated exchange of insults. For his part, the lieutenant was smiling up at her with an insolent, mocking grin on his handsome face that made John want to wipe it offviolently.

Slowly, gracefully, the lieutenant rose to his feet. Lizzie defiantly held her ground.

That was a mistake. He grabbed her arm and yanked her to him to claim a rough, insulting kiss.

An instant later he jumped back, knocking his chair over, pop-eyed with fury. "What the Damnation! You arrogant slut! Look what you've done!"

As one, the occupants of the George's taproom craned to see. John choked, fighting not to burst out laughing.

Somehow Mistress Lizzie had managed to tip an entire pot of ale into the man's lap without so much as nudging the table or disturbing a drop of John's well-filled tankard. The lieutenant's breeches, so elegantly white a moment before, were now darkened and damp with the ale, exactly as if he'd wet himself like an incontinent two-year-old.

Lamberre started toward Lizzie, fists clenched, and tripped over a chair that was suddenly in his way. With an oath, he jerked his foot free and kicked the offending piece of furniture into the fire.

Lizzie stood her ground, but John casually got to his feet. After a wary glance at his superior, the sergeant dragged the chair out of the fire, then edged backward, out of the way. The private, scowling mightily, reluctantly followed after. How long they'd stay out of the way was anybody's guess. John could only hope it would be long enough.

The lieutenant advanced, clearly intent on exacting revenge for the insult.

"I'm disappointed in you, my love," John said, and swept Lizzie out of the lieutenant's path and into his arms. "You promised you'd save all your kisses for me."

"Wha" Lizzie twisted around to defend herself against this new attack.

With a strategic change of grip, John contrived to pinion her arms and draw her closer still, so that his body blocked Lamberre . . . and he could look into that beautiful face. Even with her cheeks stained pink with fury and her eyes flashing deadly fire, Lizzie was dangerously tempting.

John sucked in his breath. More than tempting. Lizzie Tynsdale was damned near irresistible.

Lamberre and the taproom around him receded to the edge of his consciousness. He lowered his head. He'd be a fool to kiss her. It was one thing to pull her out of Lamberre's way, quite another to claim what Lamberre had tried to steal only a moment before.

He wouldn't kiss her. He would not kiss her.

Kiss her, you fool.

John jumped. He could have sworn someone had just whispered into his ear.

No one was anywhere close enough to have tried.

Wide, blue eyes locked on his. Lizzie's lips parted. Her body softened in his arms as he pulled her even more closely against him. He could feel the rapid rise and fall of her breasts where they pressed against her chest.

Those full, rich breasts that had tempted him so.

Beautiful breasts . . .

Kiss her!

Because he could not help himself, John closed his eyes, bent his head, and claimed a kiss right there in front of God, the infuriated lieutenant, and a wide-eyed, sniggering Thomas Gaines.

Chapter Two

His arms were strong, his lips firm and demanding, and Lizzie, who had lifted her hand to slap him silly, somehow found herself tangling her fingers into his hair instead. The taproom, her gaping customers, even the lieutenant's furious face, faded from her awareness.

So this was what it was like to be thoroughly kissed. Heat and confusion and, beneath it all, a troubling eagerness that threatened to send what little was left of her good sense straight up the chimney.

Lizzie groaned in protest and twisted in his arms, trying to push him away. He gave in more readily than she'd expected; when he pulled back, she was left clinging to him for support, off balance and flushed with mingled fury and shame. Old Thomas choked. Someone in the taproom behind her actually laughed. Instead of releasing her, the arrogant swine tightened his hold, but his attention was fixed on Lamberre.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant. About the ale, I mean." He smiled, a sly, conspiratorial smile, for all the world as if there were nothing out of the ordinary in dumping a pot of ale down the front of one of His Majesty's officers. "I won't apologize for the kiss." His smile widened. "I'm sure you'll understand."

For an instant, Lizzie thought Lamberre would launch himself across the table, straight for the man's throat. Instead, he snatched up his cape and swept it over his shoulders. His men stood to one side like dogs on a leash, stiff with resentment that a mere colonial should have bested their commanding officer and clearly hoping they'd be set loose to teach him better manners.

Lamberre ignored them. His angry gaze was fixed on his opponent, his features rigid with fury. "If I were you," he snarled, "I'd find a good reason to be gone by morning."

There was no mistaking the threat. He nodded at Lizzie, but there was no friendliness in the gesture. "Mistress Tynsdale."

"Lieutenant," said Lizzie. She didn't bother to curtsy.

"I really wish you hadn't dumped that ale on the lieutenant, Oliver."

"I had to, Bess! Surely you didn't expect me to stand idly by while that dog mauled our Lizzie?"

"No. No, of course not. They're animals, all of them. Put them in a red coat and they think they're God. But still . . ." Bess frowned, clearly troubled.

"But what, Bess?" Oliver prompted when she remained silent.

"But now he'll think it was Lizzie who did it, and he won't forgive her for making a fool of him."

Oliver shrugged the thought away. "I ought to have doused the other, as well," he muttered, frustrated. "I would have, too, if Lizzie hadn't been in the way."

"Now you just stop that! Any fool could see he was distracting the lieutenant, keeping him away from Lizzie."

"Was he, indeed? It would have been better if he'd simply shot the man and been done with it, but kissing our Lizzie like that . . . ! And there you were, egging him on! Why, the damned scoundrel was enjoying it, Bess! Enjoying it, I tell you! Unscrupulous dog!"

"And why not? Lizzie didn't mind. Not really."

"Not mind! She damn near hit him! Can't imagine what stopped her."

"Maybe it's because our Lizzie is so much like me, even though she tries to hide it, and because he's so much like you."

"Like me? I'll have you know"

"Oh, not so handsome, and not nearly as dashing, but still . . ."

"Bess!"

"My love?" Oliver opened his mouth, then closed it, then threw up his hands in defeat. "Demned rackety women!" he said. "There's just no understanding them!"

The altercation drove all but the hardiest of the George's customers out into the storm. The cold and wet were preferable to the possibility the lieutenant would return and charge them all, innocent and guilty alike, with disturbing the king's peace, or aiding and abetting a criminal attack upon an officer, or . . . whatever. There were none of them sure exactly what the man might do, and they'd no wish to stay and find out.

The scullery maid was rousted from her spot beside the kitchen hearth to mop up the spilled ale and set things to rights. She dragged in her bucket and mop, sniffing and snuffling like a lugubrious martyr, and grimly set to her task.

Lizzie refilled the tankards of the hardy souls remaining, but sternly informed them all that this was the last round, and if they didn't leave when that was finished, they would find themselves being bodily ejected, whether they would or no.

"And don't think I won't do it, too!" she added, ferociously glaring at them all.

To a man, they meekly retreated to their stools and their drinks. If they had any comments about what had just transpired, they kept their voices carefully low, too wise to risk rousing their hostess's temper with an injudicious remark or ill-timed laugh. Only old Thomas appeared unaffected by the threat of Lizzie's wrath. He reclaimed his seat by the fire, eyes alight with excitement.

"Good, that was. Old Sam Twistleton will be pure green at missin' it all," he said.

"What, an insignificant scuffle like that?" John protested.

"'Tweren't that. I was referrin' to the ale pot tippin' over like it did. That, an' you kissin' Miss Lizzie, and her temper."

John couldn't see much of interest in Lizzie's having tipped the ale over the lieutenant's pristine breecheshe still has his tankard, after all! And he certainly didn't regret having kissed her. He'd meant only to distract the lieutenant, but it hadn't taken more than a heartbeat to start enjoying himselfshe made a tidy handful, and no mistake. And then, when he'd started kissing her . . .

The wench didn't know much about kissing, but there was fire under the ice, and not too far under, at that.

As for her temper . . . John grinned.

"You're not going to tell me she's usually quiet and reserved, are you, Gaines?"

Thomas gave a snort of amused contempt. "Oh, no! I'm not claimin' our Lizzie's a biddable lass! But there, we always knew she had a temper. Has ever since she was a babe. What with one thing and another, and with only her grandfather to raise herhim as thought the sun rose and set on her, as the sayin' isit's a wonder she's not more hasty to hand than she is. No, no, that wasn't the reason I was laughin'. If I was to tell you"

There were other things that interested John more than old tales and gossip. "Does the lieutenant come here often?"

"Oh, aye. Often enough to make a drinkin' man nervous. He has an eye on our Lizzie, y'see. Much good it'll do him. She's"

"She's right here, and she doesn't want to hear another word from you, Thomas Gaines."

The woman had a talent for sneaking up on a man and no mistake. And this time she was furious. John discreetly edged his chair a bit farther to one side, safely out of reach.

She propped fisted hands on her lips and scowled at her hapless victim. "If you kept your tongue between your teeth on occasion, Thomas Gaines, you'd be less likely to get into so much trouble."

"But Lizzie"

"Not another word!"

John rashly ventured in. "Mistress Tynsdale"

"Nor you, either!" she added, rounding on him. "And in the future, I'll thank you to not meddle in what does not concern you."

John flashed her his sweetest smile. "You have my word on it. Not one meddle, no matter what. Although I should point out that you were the one who tipped the ale pot over him."

"I did not! You did!"

"I?" John protested, startled. "I haven't stooped to such tricks since I was a schoolboy."

She made an angry gesture of dismissal. "No matter. The lieutenant is unlikely to be well inclined toward you after tonight. If you'll take my advice, you'll leave. Get on to wherever it was you were headed and don't come back."

"On a night like this? In the wind and the rain? You're a cruel woman, mistress."

Her eyes hardened. "I'm a practical woman, sir, not cruel. Tomorrow after breakfast will be soon enough."

"And if I don't go?"

"It is none of my affair, after all." She eyed him suspiciously, as if trying to decide just how far she might push him. In the end, she clearly decided in favor of restraint. She gave a disdainful sniff and her mouth pinched up in disgust, but all she said was, "So long as you pay your shot and cause no further trouble"

"I? You wound me."

". . . I'll not ask you to leave." Her delicate black brows joined in a quelling frown. "But if I have any more trouble. . ."

John gave her his warmest smile. "Then I'll be here to help you out of it a second time. Or a third, if need be."

"Schoolboy trick!" Oliver fumed, indignant. "I'll show him a trick or two!"

"Oliver! Don't you dare! Try one trick and you'll be haunting the stables for a month, and so I warn you!"

"But Bess! I was only" ''A month, Oliver Hardwicke, and not one day less!"

Oliver retreated to his favorite seat on the mantelpiece, muttering and grumbling and glaring down at the stranger who had tried to kiss his daughter.

Mistress Tynsdale was as good as her word. Not another drop of ale did she offer her customers, and they were given little enough time to finish what they had. She circled the room, picking up tankards, empty or not, and slamming them on her tray, deaf to even the most heart-wrenching entreaties.

Thus bereft, her guests reluctantly gathered their capes and coats and hats and plunged into the night. Even Thomas Gaines emptied his tankard and reluctantly trailed out into the storm. Eventually only John remained.

"You have an impressive talent for emptying a taproom," he said, raising his almost empty tankard in salute.

Lizzie ignored him as she assured herself the windows were locked and shuttered, the door properly barred. If she was aware that his gaze followed her, she gave no sign of it. After one last tug at the doorthe woman didn't seem to trust anyone, not even herselfshe picked up a candle and came back to the fire.

"I'll show you to your room," she said, as coolly as if he'd never tried to kiss her. "Huldspeth has already warmed your bed." John lazily got to his feet. "A pleasant thought, though if she's the one with child"

"She took up a warming pan an hour earlier," Lizzie snapped.

"Oh," said John, feigning disappointment. "A warming pan."

He could see the muscles in her jaw tighten as she clenched her teeth, see the flush of anger wash through the delicate cream of her skin. God knew why he found such pleasure in baiting this beautiful, stern-faced creature, but he did. Perhaps it was because she fought back, which was more than he could say for many women of his acquaintance.

John drained his tankard and set it back on the table, then, without another word, meekly followed his hostess out of the taproom, along dark, twisting passages, and up a flight of steep stairs. She'd warned him to watch his step, with good reason. The broad plank floors were meticulously scrubbed and waxed, but they were old and they tilted in odd directions, dangerous traps for the unwary. The dark wood all around them sucked up the light from the candle she carried; a draft sneaked past them and made the flame waver and dip, casting odd shadows on the walls.

It was just as well he wasn't a man given to strange fancies. In the two centuries or so that the inn had been in existence it was bound to have collected a restless spirit or two. Ghosts would find this creaking, shadowed old rabbit warren a perfect place to set up housekeeping. He said as much, which was a mistake.

"What? Ghosts! Certainly not!" she snapped, indignant. But her eyes seemed to grow wider and darker in the wavering candlelight, and her shoulders stiffened.

The corner of John's mouth twitched. So there were tales, tales a conscientious innkeep would as soon remain untold.

"What? Not even one? I'd thought sure such a place would have at least one or two chain-rattling moaners to enliven my nights." He eyed her neat figure as she preceded him up another flight of stairs. "Pity. There seems little else available for diversion."

She stopped, so abruptly that John almost trod on the hem of her gown, and turned to face him. Even the soft candlelight could not soften the distaste he could see in her face.

"You're more likely to get a ghost in your bed than what you're fancying, Mr. . . . Gideon, didn't you say your name was?" She ignored his nod of confirmation. "Huldspeth's . . . condition . . . has been warning enough for any of the girls who might otherwise be tempted by your good looks and ready tongue."

"That's all right," said John blandly. "I've found only one lady hereabouts who tempts me."

"Indeed?" Her voice was as frosty as the air in the passageway.

John merely smiled up at her. She was a tall woman, but the three steps that divided them put him at a convenient spot for appreciating the physical charms that had attracted him to her in the first place. They definitely merited leisurely appreciationthe closer, the better.

She turned abruptly and continued up the stairs. In front of the door to his room, she hesitated, as if coming to a decision, and then turned to confront him.

"You'd be well advised to keep your fancies to yourself, Mr. Gideon. All of your fancies. This is a respectable inn, and I am a respectable woman, do you hear me?"

"Hard not to when you shout like that."

"I'm not shouting."

The candlelight made her skin glow and cast tempting shadows under her jaw and along her throat. John leaned closer.

"You wouldn't have to do more than whisper if I were to kiss you."

She sucked in her breath at that. "In that case I'd scream," she said, "and ram this candle straight up your nose."

John winced. "That's a rather violent defense."

"No more than deserved." Her mouththat soft, kissable mouth that was so temptingthinned in distaste. She raised the candle, bringing it closer to his face.

John backed up a step.

Her lips curved in satisfaction. She swung the door wide and stepped back, letting him precede her into the room.

The chamber was larger and more comfortable than he'd expected, though chilly. A high, curtained bed occupied the far end of the room; a gate-legged table and straight chair were set against the wall opposite, just beneath a shuttered window. His bulging saddlebags already occupied the chair seat. An upholstered chair and a painted screen stood beside the cold hearth.

A fire had been laid in expectation of his arrival, but not lit. Another candle stood ready in its holder on a table near the door. Without a word, Lizzie lit the waiting candle, then thrust a wooden spill into its flame, knelt gracefully on the hearth, and touched the burning spill to the tinder under the logs. An instant later, bright orange flames licked under the logs, snapping as they hit a pocket of pitch, growing hotter and brighter as they spread.

The flames outlined her profile, gilding the straight line of her nose and the firm, square cut of her chin. There was weariness in the curve of her back and the slump of her shoulders, but John sensed something weighing on her beyond the long hours and hard work that must be her daily lot.

Before he could rouse her ire by commenting, Lizzie rose to her feet. "There's water in the pitcher there," she said, pointing, "and more firewood here. Have you need of anything else?"

AlmostalmostJohn said he'd need of her, to warm his bed and ease the dull ache in his groin, to keep him company through a cold, dark night in this bleak and godforsaken country. She was a beautiful woman, after all, no matter how hard-edged her manner. The stiff, grim look on her face warned him away.

"Nothing. No. Not tonight," he said, and stepped aside from the door, out of her way.

"Good night, then," she said, once more rigidly erect. With a slight nod to him, she picked up her candle and left the room, pulling the door closed behind her and leaving John alone in the cold, shadowed stillness.

Lizzie had to force her tired feet to carry her back to the taproom. The room was empty, with only the disarranged chairs and benches and the small puddles of ale on tables and floor to indicate that anyone had ever been there. That and the stranger's empty tankard, which stood where he'd left it.

Shadows crept out of the corners and slipped across the old stone floor, making the place seem strangely shrunken and sad. The only sounds were the faint crackle and flare from the dying fire.

Lizzie pushed a chair back into place, then a bench, more slowly and with effort. She stopped, staring at the solitary tankard, suddenly wearier than she could remember being in a long, long time. Huldspeth would clean it up in the morning. Right now she was too tired to care.

She dug her fingers into the small of her back and arched backward, stretching sore muscles, and realized she was hungry as well as tired. She'd had no chance for supper tonight, but there was bound to be something in the kitchen cupboards, even if it was nothing more than a heel of yesterday's bread. With a groan, she relaxed, then picked up the abandoned tankard and trailed into the kitchen.

Fat Bertha was setting out a pot of yeast to rise for the next day's bread. The scullery maid, Neda, was hunched over the wash bucket, wearily scrubbing at the last of the evening's dishes and snuffling with her perpetual catarrh. Scruff, the rangy, lop-eared mongrel who kept the rats out of the storerooms and stables and worked the treadmill for the fireplace spit, lay sprawled on his side under the table, whimpering and twitching in his sleep. His toenails scratched at the polished stone floor with a faint click, click, click.

Of the three, only Bertha and Neda looked up when Lizzie walked in, and Neda immediately turned back to her work, clearly anxious to be finished and thus free to go to bed. Bertha frowned at Lizzie's weary gait, but her yeast pot took priority over everything else. She finished covering the pot with a clean cloth and set it in the nook built into the side of the chimney, where the lingering heat from the bricks would ensure it rose properly. Only once the yeast was set did she turn to such trivial matters as her employer's well-being.

"Sit," she said gruffly, pointing to a chair at one side of the table. "You look half dead on your feet."

Lizzie plunked the tankard down on the table and sat. "I'm hungry. Is there anything left of those hens you roasted? Or the soup?"

"Not a wing nor a drop, but there's bread and some apples. And some cheese, of course." The cook cast a sharp eye at Neda, then at Lizzie, and reluctantly added, "And a meat pasty I'd been saving for breakfast."

More likely for a late-night snack. Bertha thought no one knew of her nocturnal depredations on the inn's larder, and like her grandfather before her, Lizzie preferred to ignore the occasional purloined cheesecake or mince pie. Bertha was far more family than servant. The cook had raised her, after all, and her mother before her. Despite the gnawing of her stomach, Lizzie decided she'd forgo the pasty.

"The apple and bread will be fine," she said. "With butter, please. And tea if there's hot water."

"Enough," said Bertha gruffly, her maternal solicitude roused now that her yeast and her midnight meal were safe. "I'll make chamomile, so you'll sleep well."

"All right." As tired as she was, Lizzie didn't think she'd have any trouble falling asleep, no matter what tea she drank.

"You challenged that Lieutenant Lamberre again, so Neda tells me," Bertha said, frowning over her stoppered jars of herbs and spices, squinting in the failing light of the fire to make out the labels.

Neda sniffed and threw a nervous glance over her shoulder at her mistress. Lizzie shrugged, irritated at the reminder. "He forced it."

"He'll force more than that if you provoke him too far. The man wants you, and he gets angrier every time you turn him down."

"Wants me! Wants to use me, you mean!" Lizzie sat bolt upright in her chair, her exhaustion gone in a rush of anger. "Just like that soldier wanted Hulds"

She stopped, suddenly realizing that Neda had stopped slopping the water about her wash bucket and was listening hard.

Bertha saw, as well. "Neda," she snapped, suddenly looming over her minion. "Throw that water out and get on to bed. You've been scrubbing that same pot for nigh on the past quarter hour, I swear."

"'S dirty," Neda mumbled. "You burned that hen, remember?"

"I? I, burn one of my hens?" Bertha's fat face turned crimson. "You"

"Go on, Neda," Lizzie cut in before Bertha became unstoppable. "You can scrub the pan tomorrow, out in the yard with sand."

"You heard Mistress Lizzie," Bertha snapped. "Go on!"

Neda screwed up her face and gave one great sniff, poked in vain at the straggly wisps of pale blond hair hanging about her face, then picked up the heavy wash bucket and reluctantly trailed out of the kitchen.

"Trouble, that's what she is," Bertha muttered, once the door leading to the wash yard and the garden banged shut. "She's mooning after one of those redcoats, and say what I will about Huldspeth, Neda will listen to none of it. Thinks he'll marry her. Ha! More fool she!"

Bertha glared at the door through which the scullery maid had gone, as if her anger might somehow penetrate where reason had not. "I said it was a mistake to hire her."

"There was no one else available," said Lizzie tiredly.

Bertha opened her mouth to protest, then took a good look at Lizzie's expression and abruptly shut it and turned to gather the makings of a simple meal instead.

"Here's the butter, then," the cook said gruffly, setting a small stoneware crock in front of her. "And the bread and some apples. The tea'll take a bit of steeping, yet. And there's some ale left in the jug from supper," she added, automatically refilling the tankard in front of Lizzie. "Will you be needing anything else, then?"

Lizzie shook her head. "No. Thank you." As the older woman hesitated she added, more firmly, "Go to bed, Bertha. I'll see you in the morning."

Bertha reluctantly nodded, then retrieved her cloth-wrapped pasty from the depths of a cupboard and, with one last, doubtful glance at Lizzie, slowly stumped out of the room.

The old kitchen seemed bigger and emptier once she was gone, but Lizzie was grateful for the quiet. The work of running an inn this size left her little peace; what few moments she could snatch for herself she treasured, no matter how tired or troubled she was.

She leaned back in the chair and stared at the fire, savoring its warmth and the comforting flicker of red and orange and yellow. Lizzie took a bite of bread, but it was dry and had too much crust, so she picked up the tankard. It was only as her lips met the cool pewter rim that she remembered it was that man Gideon's tankard, not hers. She froze, but the bread was tickling the back of her throat. If she didn't take a drink, she'd choke.

The ale slid down, smooth and rich and soothing. The urge to cough vanished, but now her lips burned and her fingers tingled from the sudden awareness that her hand and mouth rested where his had. Lizzie set the tankard down so hard that ale slopped over the side and puddled on the table. She squeezed her mouth shut in disgust and glared at the offending pot.

This was absurd. Ever since her tenth birthday, when her grandfather had judged her old enough to hear the truth about her parents, she'd been quick to cut off any foolish, romantic notions before they had a chance to take root. She was a hardheaded, practical woman with responsibilities now. She wasn't about to let one green-eyed stranger change that. She couldn't afford to.

Lizzie shoved the tankard back and closed her eyes. She was tired, that was all. She hadn't had a good night's sleep for weeks. Not since Huldspeth had tearfully informed her of her situation. To her dismay, Lizzie had found herself envying the plump and pretty maidnot for the difficulties that lay ahead, but for the child she would bear in the end. Worse, Lizzie envied her the experience of having had a man, and not one of the local men who so regularly filled the George's taproom.

For herself, Lizzie wanted someone like John Gideon, as absurd as that notion sounded. Someone exciting, who had a sparkle in his eyes and a wicked tilt to his mouth, and fine, long, elegant hands that caressed his ale pot as gently as they might have caressed a woman's breast. Someone who would throw her up on his horse and carry her away with him, out of the inn yard and over the moors and into the wide and beckoning world beyond. The world she could only read about in her books, but would probably never have a chance to see.

Lizzie sighed and found herself staring at Gideon's ale pot. Slowly, thoughtfully, she drew the tankard toward her. There was something about touching his tankard, about pressing her lips where his had pressed. . . .

She lifted the pot, feeling the weight of it in her hands, tracing its plain lines with the tips of her fingers. The metal was cool against her skin, comfortably familiar. Almost reassuring in its ordinariness. She took a cautious sip. The ale slid down her throat and settled in her empty stomach with a liquid glow of heat and comfort. By comparison, it made the chill air of the kitchen seem even chillier, and the fire more welcoming.

Lizzie abandoned the table and her simple meal for the broad, squat stool that always stood to one side of the hearth. Hunching her shoulders against the cold shadows behind her, she cradled the tankard against her chest and gazed into the flickering coals. The waves of heat from the dying fire made the burning wood seem to waver and dance before her eyes, leading her thoughts away in unfamiliar directions.

''If she doesn't put that damned tankard down soon, I'll tip it into the fire." Oliver glowered at his daughter. His fingers itched to snatch the offending piece of pewter out of her hands.

"She's thinking of that nice Mr. Gideon," said Bess, having taken up her post at the far corner of the hearth, where she could watch the changes of expression flitting across her daughter's face.

"Thinking ofHe's a colonial, Bess!" Oliver exclaimed, scandalized. "Surely you wouldn't let your only daughter have anything to do with one of those! And the weevily worm kissed her, to boot."

"Yes," said Bess, and smiled. "Wasn't that romantic? Even if he did need a little prodding!"

"Lizzie's just tired," Oliver said, a touch too heartily. "That's what it is. She's too canny a lass to be taken in by a no-account nothing like him."

"See the way she's running her finger along the handle?" said Bess dreamily, ignoring her lover's mutterings. "I used to do that after you'd leave, sometimes. I'd imagine your hand curled around it, remember the way you'd looked as you'd lifted it. I did it the first time you ever came to the inn. My father clouted my ears for letting a pot boil over while I was imagining what it would be like to kiss you. And then"

"Damn!" said Oliver, and jumped off his perch on a rafter. "I'll not listen to this nonsense, Bess! You and I were one thing, but this is our daughter we're talking about!"

"Yes," said Bess, her smile widening. "I'm so pleased. I hope he stays."

"Well, I don't," Oliver declared, sailing out of the room with all the angry majesty of a man-of-war heading into battle. "And he won't if I have anything to say about the matter!"

The breeze of his passing stirred the dying fire, but utterly failed to rouse his daughter from her thoughts or dampen the dreamy smile on his beloved's face.

Chapter Three

"You have ghosts here." John glowered at Lizzie as she set his well-filled breakfast plate before him.

She hesitated the space of a heartbeat, no more, and set down a small plate of bread. "There's tea in the pot. Or I can bring ale, if you prefer. Just"

John grabbed her wrist. "Moans and groans and ungodly rattling all night long." He ignored the tea for the moment, no matter how much he wanted no, neededa bracing cup to clear his head. "I am a man who likes his sleep, and I swear your ghosts went out of their way"

"There are no ghosts here, Mr. Gideon," she snapped back, though she pointedly refused to meet his gaze. "I told you that last night. If you drank too much ale and listened to too many of old Thomas's wild stories, you have only yourself to blame."

"It wasn't"

"If you will excuse me"" she pulled her hand free"I have a great deal of work to do today."

"Where's the girl who served me yesterday? Don't tell me she's . . . indisposed this morning?" His casual comment clearly irritated her. Good. She deserved an irritation or two for having cost him a good night's sleep.

"I want another room," John said sternly, turning back to the matter at hand. "One that isn't haunted."

"You can't" She bit her words off as her cheeks reddened. With her black hair and alabaster skin, the effect was troublingly erotic. "It's an old inn, Mr. Gideon. It won't matter what room you takeeverything will creak and the wind will find a crack to slip through, regardless."

"An old inn it may be, but there was no draft in my room last night, and no more than the normal collection of creaks and groans from the floorboards." His gaze sharpened. "No, it was something else, and if that something wasn't ghosts, then it was someone playing tricks."

"There were no tricks," said Lizzie, "and no ghosts."

"Damn!" said Oliver. "There she goes again. I tell you, Bess, that Lizzie of ours is the hardest-headed wench on God's earth, and that's the truth!"

"What has she done now, my love?" Bess calmly inquired, floating in from the kitchen, where she'd been checking on the progress of Bertha's bread.

"Said we don't exist. After all our efforts over the years, too!"

"Well . . ." said Bess doubtfully. She edged around Oliver to get a better look at what was troubling him. The worried little crease on her forehead disappeared the minute she spotted her daughter's guest.

"Of course she said there were no ghosts! You don't think she wants to scare him off, do you? At this time of year, when there's few enough paying guests, let alone ones with pockets as plump as his!"

"She won't scare him! After all the efforts I had just to wake the blasted bugger? And then all he did was swear at me!"

"Served you right, too!"

"But Bess!"

"Don't you 'but Bess' me, sir! You know what I think about the matter. If you're determined to see that your only daughter dies an old maid because of your tricks, well, all I can say is, you'll have me to deal with first!"

She gave her beloved a sternly warning look, then floated away to check on the efforts of the chambermaid who was waxing the upstairs hall floor, leaving Oliver to settle onto his favored spot on the mantelpiece, where he could keep a sharp eye on his daughter and her disgruntled guest. <><><><><><><><><><><><> "If it wasn't tricks and it wasn't ghosts, how do you explain the racket I had to endure last night?"

Lizzie winced at the cutting edge in John Gideon's voice. She was used to irascible guests who needed their morning tea, but this went beyond prebreakfast surliness. It didn't matter. Lizzie had no intention of sharing any of the tales she herself had fought so long and hard to keep from believing.

"How do I explain it? Too much ale and imagination, that's how. Surely a great, strong man like you doesn't believe in ghosts!" she jeered.

His eyes narrowed, sparking fire. "Of course I believe in ghosts! My granny told me all about them when I was still in long petticoats."

Lizzie snorted. "A charming thought." She backed up three steps, safely out of reach, and added, "If you don't like the accommodations, I suggest you leave. Today. Right after you finish your breakfast and pay your shot."

And with that, she spun about on her heel and marched away, troubled by a sudden urge to tell him everything and beg him to stay, regardless.

It was only her ill temper that made her imagine that a cold wind suddenly swirled around the breakfast room in her wake.

In spite of the miseries of a cold drizzle and glowering skies, and with his mood marginally lightened by a stout breakfast and a pot of even stouter ale, John called for his horse and set off on the last and most important task with which his father had entrusted him before he died. But as he took the road the hostler had indicated, he found himself mulling over his conversation with Lizzie Tynsdale rather than thinking of what lay ahead.

No, he didn't believe in ghosts, but he was damned if he could find any other explanation for the unholy racket that had roused him from a sound sleep. And just when he'd settled into the most comfortable bed he'd had since leaving America, too! It couldn't have been somebody playing tricks. No innkeeper would risk losing a paying customer for the sake of a silly game, especially not at this time of the year, when travelers were few and far between.

John shook off the problem. Since he didn't intend to remain here long, it wasn't really important, even if it was annoying. The duties with which his father had burdened him ought to be settled quickly enough, and then he'd be free to return home and put this miserable English damp behind him for good.

John fingered the letter in the deep inner pocket of his coat, reassuring himself it was still there, just as he'd done half a hundred times over the past few months. America to England to Yorkshire was a long way to come for this meeting with Frederick James Carleton, Lord Malloran, but John had promised his father. For that reason alone he'd have made the trip, even if it had been twice as long and with nothing to be gained at the end of it. As it chanced, there'd been a great deal to gain. He'd met his father's English lawyers and bankers. He had good ties in London now, merchants he knew he could trust to handle the sale of tobacco from his farm in Virginia and the sugar from the small plantation in Jamaica that he'd inherited from his mother. He'd met other merchants as well, sound, reputable merchants who could supply him with the goods that were unavailable in the colonies at better prices than he'd been offered thus far. Once his business with Lord Malloran was finished, he could return to Virginia and have done with the blasted rain of this blasted England.

At the thought, John glanced at the dripping sky, then drew his cloak more tightly about him and urged his horse into a trot. No wonder his father had run away all those years ago. He'd wanted to be warm for a change, and dry.

Malloran Hall was right where the hostler and his father had said it would be. If his father's stories were anything to judge by, little had changed in the intervening fifty-odd years since his father had last been welcomed within its walls. The hall itself was a substantial old building that dated from the time of William and Mary. Succeeding generations had added to it until it had almost consumed the scythed lawn and rigidly maintained gardens around it. In summer, the trees would soften the stark line of the narrow valley in which the hall was situated, but nothing could soften the harsh sweep of the moor behind it. Malloran Hall was smack in the middle of the Yorkshire moors, and it looked as damply unwelcoming as they did.

After one last glance about him, John urged his horse forward. No servant came running out as he rode up to the front doorhe'd deliberately not sent word of his proposed visitso John looped his reins around a post and mounted the steps to the broad front door.

The clanging of the massive brass knocker echoed off the solid stone and brick walls of the house and floated away on the breeze. It was several minutes before he caught the sound of footsteps coming toward the door.

The door swung open just wide enough to show a grim, gray frog of a man, one hand still on the handle as though he was prepared to slam the door in the visitor's face. "Yes, sir?"

"I've come to see Lord Malloran," said John coolly.

The fellow's nostrils flared, as though he caught the smell of something foul in John's colonial accent. "His lordship is not available, I'm afraid," he said, just as coolly, and started to shut the door in John's face.

John stuck the toe of his boot in the door. "Tell his lordship that his nephew, John Francis Carleton, is here, and begs the favor of an audience."

The man jerked as though struck. "John Carleton? Master William's son?"

"That's right." John shoved past him, into the hall. The fellow was too stunned to resist. "I'll just wait in that sitting room, shall I?" John said, pointing to a small room at one side of the broad entrance hall.

"You don't have the look of Master William," said the man at the door suspiciously. He made no effort to move, not even to close his mouth or shut the door.

John took off his hat and handed it to him. "Are you Charles?"

"Yes, sir." The thin, froggy mouth snapped shut and the thick, gray brows drew together in a quelling frown. "How ever did you know?"

"My father spoke of you. He wasn't sure you'd still be here."

In fact, William Carleton had sworn the man would have dropped dead long since, "rotted out by ill-temper and thoroughgoing perversity." John didn't mention that.

"He spoke of me?" The old man's right eyebrow inched upward and his mouth twisted disapprovingly. He obviously didn't think it much of an honor to be remembered by a disgraced younger son, even if the disgrace lay half a century in the past. "Indeed. And how is Master William?"

"He's dead."

The eyebrow slid back down, as if in relief. "I'm sorry to hear that, sir."

"Indeed." John pulled out the letter he had guarded for so long and handed it to the butler. "Lord Malloran will want to see that. And then he will want to see me."

Charles's eyebrow made no reaction to that bit of presumption, but he reluctantly bowed John into the sitting room, and then just as reluctantly disappeared into the nether regions of the house, bearing the letter.

The sitting room was small and decorated in the style of an earlier generation. His grandmother had often sat there, his father had told him. Sat and worked at her needlework and stared out the window, sometimes for hours on end.

John crossed to the window and looked out. Immediately before him was the lawn and the neat, formal gardens, but what caught and held the eye were the moors beyond. The moors, dull brown under a wintry sky, and the road that led up them, away from Malloran Hall and the cold, narrow valley that sheltered it.

Huldspeth appeared eventually, a little pale and strained, but anxious to take over her duties. It was only because she was concerned for the girl's condition, Lizzie told herself, that she set her to work in the taproom and herself took over the task of cleaning the room of the inn's only guest. She'd done the same in the past when they were shorthanded, after all.

But the minute she closed the door of John Gideon's room behind her, Lizzie knew she'd liedto herself, more than to Huldspeth. She'd wanted the opportunity to peek and pry where she had no business. The man had complained of an unrestful night, but hers had been little better. Despite her weariness, she'd lain awake for a long time, staring into the dark, remembering, and when she'd finally fallen asleep, it had been to dream of a tall, brown-haired, green-eyed man with beautiful hands and a wicked, wicked smile.

To her disappointment, there was nothing in his saddlebags worth noting. The letters to London merchants indicated he was from Virginia, but she'd realized he was a colonial the minute he'd opened his mouth. Nor was there anything out of the ordinary in his shaving kit, or the small, monogrammed traveling case that contained paper and ink and several coarsely mended quill pens. At least, she didn't think there was. She'd never pried into any of her guests' belongings before.

Angry with herself, Lizzie reclosed the case and returned it to its place, then set about raking up the ashes from the previous night's fire and laying a new one, ready for his return. Assuming he stayed a second night. She'd made it clear enough that she wanted him gone, but he'd merely said he'd take just about anything for supper except boiled mutton. Or roast mutton. Or mutton pie. He'd eat anything except mutton, he'd said, and laughed, and she'd been so angry at the way her heart caught at the sound that she hadn't heard anything else.

She didn't do a very good job making up the bed. If either Huldspeth or Molly had been so careless, she'd have scolded her soundly and sent her back to do it over. But the indentation on the pillow where his head had lain and the faint scent that drifted from the rumpled sheets conspired to unsettle her with their intimate reminders of his presence.

She whacked one of the pillows against the bedpost, hardto fluff it, she told herselfthen tossed it back and snatched up the other. She pulled back to give the second one an even sounder thump than the first.

Lizzie!

Lizzie froze.

Softer than a whisper, colored by regret and longing. My little Lizzie.

Lizzie's grip on the pillow tightened. she pivoted, looking for whoever was speaking.

There was no one but her in the room. There never was.

''Go away!" she said fiercely, between gritted teeth. "Whoeverwhatever you are, go away!"

Why not try it, my Lizzie? Just believe a little. That's all. Just once. So insistent. The voice was always insistent, pushing her, picking at the thoughts and feelings she'd buried deep away where she'd be safe from them.

Lizzie swung back and thwacked the pillow on the bedpost hard enough to make the heavy frame shake. "No!"

If only you'd try, you'd see. Trust me. The words floated on the still, cold air like the sounds of faraway churchbells, as clear as crystal and far more fragile.

"I"

Trust me. So faint, she might have imagined it. Lizzie thumped the pillow with her fist, hard, and tossed it down beside its mate.

It was all imagination. There were no ghosts. There was no gentle voice, never had been, not even when she was a small child crying herself to sleep, calling for the mother who had chosen to go away all those years before, leaving her behind, afraid and all alone.

Lizzie had lived with that knowledge all her life, though it was only in moments like this that the voice came to her, when her guard was down and she was tired and irritable and troubled by things she couldn't name and didn't understand.

Old longings and lost memories, that was all it was, Lizzie told herself fiercely. Nothing more than that. Nothing real.

Lizzie set her jaw and yanked the coverlet up on the bed. A few sharp twitches to the corners, a rough hand to smooth the wrinkles, and she was done. Quickly she gathered up her things, then turned to check that she'd left nothing, forgotten nothing.

The saddlebags. They were unbuckled, and he'd left them buckled. She hurried over to rectify her mistake, flushed with a sudden sense of urgency, a need to escape.

Done. He'd never know. She'd certainly never tell him.

It was only afterward, when she'd shut the door behind her and gone to argue with one of the local tradesmen about an absurdly large bill for candles, that Lizzie realized that all the letters in John Gideon's saddlebags had been addressed to Mr. John Francis Carleton, Esquire, or signed by him.

Carleton! The name her grandfather had taught her to despise from her cradle.

The man standing at the far side of the small, elegant room, feet spread and back to the fire, might have been his father. John's gaze sharpened as he crossed to him. The height, the broad, heavy shoulders and long, muscular legs were the same. The face was the same. Rawly sculpted, with a massive jaw, prominent cheekbones, and a harsh, aquiline nose that seventy-odd years of living had done little to soften. It was his father's face, but not his.

John swept his uncle his best bow. The gesture was faultlessly correct and, under the circumstances, exquisitely mocking. "Milord."

Lord Malloran frowned. "You've your father's arrogance, at any rate, even if you haven't his features."

"My mother always claimed it was her breeding that saved me from the Malloran nose and chin."

Malloran flushed and turned away to poke at the fire. "She was a colonial, I understand."

"She was born in the colonies, yes. In Virginia."

"As were you."

"Yes."

His uncle stabbed at a log, sending sparks showering, then reluctantly put aside the iron and turned to face him.

"Is it true? What Charles said? My brother is truly dead?" With its hard gray shadow of beard, his jaw looked cast in granite.

"This past June. We buried him beside my mother." Even now, it hurt to speak of his father's death.

Malloran snatched John's letter from the mantelpiece and angrily brandished it before him. "Then what is the meaning of this damnable letter he wrote me? How is it possible"

"I would have thought the meaning perfectly clear," John cut in coldly. "The estates are entailed. Now that my father is dead, that makes me heir to your title and your estates. As for how my father came to own your properties in Virginia . . ." He shrugged. "I believe the buying and selling of mortgages and notes is a fairly common proceeding. Even"he gave a small, mocking nod"in the colonies.''

"Yes, but"

"Your property there was badly managed and heavily encumbered. From the moment the first parts of it came into his hands almost forty years ago, my father worked to make the land pay, and then he used the profits to buy up the rest." John met his uncle's sulfurous gaze, then studied the elegant room around him with exaggerated casualness. "Maintaining a place like this must put quite a drain on a man's resources."

Malloran crumpled the letter; his fingers dug into the paper as though he wished it were John's neck. "Your father is the man who foreclosed on my property in Virginia? Your father?" The word was laced with loathing.

John's gaze snapped back to his uncle. His eyes narrowed. "That's right. My father. Your brother, in case you've overlooked that point."

"He betrayed me?"

"I'd scarcely count it betrayal. You were the one who forced him from his family home all those years ago."

"I!" Malloran's upper lip pulled back in a snarl. "I didn't force him out! He went in disgrace with his tail between his legs like a cur whipped in the street. It was no more than he deserved!"

John tought to maintain his calm. "He'd have married the girl if it hadn't been for you. You and your father and your pride."

"She was to have been my bride," said his uncle. "Mine! Yet he got her with child, then had the audacity to laugh in my face when he told me of it!"

"The way he told it, they were in love, while you only wanted her for her money. Her money, and the estates that were to come to her on her father's death." Even now, John could see his father, staring into the fire, lost in his memories as he told the tale of the first woman he had loved, and lost, and the fatal quarrel that had followed after.

"Our families had arranged the marriage," his uncle shot back. His eyes burned with an anger that had smoldered for half a century without weakening. "It only made sense. Her family's land marched with ours. She was an only child, I the eldest son. What could your father have offered her? Nothing! While II could have given her a title, an honorable home"

"But not love," John shot back. They were his father's words, not his, his father's burden on him.

"Love! Your father gave her love! Much good it did her or that bastard brat of theirs!"

"It might have, if she hadn't hanged herself right after the boy was born."

Malloran's mouth twisted in a bitter sneer. "She always was a fool. A pretty fool, to be sure, but a fool nonetheless. She refused to marry me because of love, and refused to marry your father for shame. And what did either get her in the end but misery and an early death?"

There was no answer to that question. Not any John could provide, at any rate.

The old man's face drew taut and hard and his eyes narrowed until they were nothing but slits. "Is that why your father took my land? For a slut in fancy petticoats who died fifty years ago?"

John shrugged. "In part, I suppose. In part to revenge himself on you. And in part because they were good lands and he wanted them."

"He would!"

It took an effort not to respond to the contempt that weighted those two words, but John had been prepared for it. His father had warned him, over and over again as he worked through his ancient guilt and his carefully laid plans for restitution.

"In any case," John continued calmly, "he bought your lands for fair value, taught me how to manage them, then passed them to me at his death. There is nothing there for you any longer. Why should you care now?"

Malloran ignored the question. His hard gaze slid down the length of John until it fixed on the mud-spotted toes of his boots, and then it slid slowly back up to once more lock with his. "Your father is dead. You have your landsmy lands once! There is nothing here for you, yet there you stand like a damned arrogant cockerel." His eyes narrowed. "You didn't come merely to inform me of your father's death, did you?"

"No, nor to bring you his letter, though he charged me with that task before he died." John drew a slow, steadying breath. It was for this he had come so far. This and one thing more.

"I am here to claim what will be mine at your death," he said. "This house, these lands. Your name."

Malloran's head snapped up as though struck. "My name!"

John met his uncle's enraged stare with a look of cool indifference. Any other time he would have enjoyed the verbaL sparring, the challenge of besting a man he had no cause to like. He wasn't enjoying this. He hadn't expected to. England was not his country; Malloran Hall was not his home. Had it not been for the promise his father had exacted, he would happily have remained in Virginia and let the English Crown claim it all.

"That's right," he said. "Your name. Malloran Hall. The entailed estates. Everything."

"Your father put you up to this, didn't he?" Malloran demanded. He was flushed, panting from the effort to restrain his fury.

John smiledit wasn't a pleasant smileand said nothing.

A choked cry of rage suddenly ripped out of Malloran's throat. Eyes bulging, he grabbed the iron poker from beside the fireplace and brandished it in John's face.

"Out! Get out, damn you, you sniveling, smirking bastard! Out!"

The doors of Malloran Hall shut behind him with hollow finality. John took a deep breath, grateful for clean air, then settled his tricorne firmly on his head and mounted his horse. He didn't look back as he guided the beast back onto the road.

One more task remaining. Just one. And then he could leave it all in his lawyers' hands and go home and be done with England and this damnable drizzle once and for all.

Long after his nephew had left, Malloran sat at his desk, brow creased in a frown, staring at nothing while the gray clouds outside sank lower and the drizzle turned to a cold, driving rain. He stirred only when the butler, a branch of candles in his hand, came to light the room against the dark and the deepening chill.

"Charles," Malloran said, rousing. "Have a message sent to Lieutenant Lamberre. Tell him I want to see him. Here. As soon as possible, if not sooner."

Charles eyed his master with caution born of a lifetime spent in service. Whatever his doubts, he kept them to himself.

"Yes, sir," he said. "Will there be anything else?"

"No, nothing else." Malloran frowned, considering. "At least for now," he added softly a moment later.

Chapter Four

Damn rain, cold, drizzle, and damp. Damn all forms of misery, most of which seemed to be fixtures of this damp English countryside.

John settled deeper into his saddle and glared at the road before him. Calling it a road was more a courtesy than a statement of fact. Mud puddle would be more accurate, and nothing but the moors to break the grim, gray view on all sides. They had better roads in Virginia, and no Virginian in his right mind had ever boasted of his roads except to say how much worse they were than anywhere else!

His horse, wearied by the effort of slogging through mud, slipped and almost went to his knees. Rain from John's hat cascaded down his front; more rain slid under the collar of his cloak and coat and trickled down his back. He cursed. The horse snorted and heaved and lurched to his feet, and almost tossed him headfirst into the muck in the process.

It was all the fault of William Joseph Sebastian Randall, who, if he'd had any consideration for his fellow man whatsoever, would have remained decently at home rather than gallivanting across the countryside in pursuit of who knew what sort of idiocy. Because Mr. Randall had not had the courtesy to be at home, he was now condemned to another week, at least, of this miserable weather and this miserable, misbegotten Yorkshire countryside, waiting for Randall to return.

John prayed the cellars of the King George were up to a protracted visit. He'd hate to spend a watery week of waiting unless there was something stronger than Mistress Lizzie's ale to ease his suffering.

Especially since there was damned little chance that she'd concern herself about his welfare in any other respect, though a man could always hope. Even a cold, wet, and hungry one.

The trouble with snooping where you'd no right was that you couldn't confront the culprit with the evidence afterward.

By the time John Francis Carletonnot Gideon!stumped into the inn and demanded his supper, Lizzie was in a thoroughly foul mood. It didn't help that his mud-caked boots and dripping cloak made the morning's careful waxing of the floors all for naught.

"Damned rain," he said, stamping his feet and splattering mud and wet in all directions.

"It doesn't rain in the colonies?" Lizzie inquired coldly. She'd been making a tour of inspection of the day's workshe'd just left Molly polishing some brass she'd missed when she'd cleaned the second-best parlor earlierand she wasn't in the mood to tolerate havoc even if he was her only paying guest.

"It rains, but not like this. All day long. Sneaking down your collar, oozing into your boots," he grumbled. "A man could die of damp on the lungs after a week of this." He swept off his hat and sent a torrent of water spilling over the mud his boots had already left.

"Huldspeth, take the gentleman's hat and cloak and have them dried and properly brushed," Lizzie said, fighting to control her temper. "And send Adam up to Mr."just in time she stopped herself from blurting out his real name"to Mr. Gideon's room to help him off with his boots."

"And have the boy bring up a bottle of wine while he's at it," Carleton called after Huldspeth's hurrying figure. "A good wineburgundy!not that wretched stuff from the taproom."

"Wretched stI'll have you know"

"I know all I need to about your wines, Mistress Tynsdale," he shot back, "and I'll have none save It comes properly bottled and corked."

Lizzie bristled. The male of the species was never at his best when his belly was empty and his throat dry, but insulting the King George's cellar was going too far.

"Fine," she said, drawing her dignity about her at the same time she lifted her skirts above the muck he'd brought in. "Your supper will be ready whenever you are. In there." She inclined her head to indicate the second-best parlor.

"Fine," he growled. "Half an hour then, no more." He didn't wait for agreement, but strode off in the direction of his room, leaving muddy tracks behind him.

Lizzie stared after him, torn between resentment and an even more troubling admission that even rain-soaked and foul-tempered, John Carleton was a very good-looking man.

Not that mere good looks would suffice to make her forgive his ill-mannered entrance, as he'd soon learn. Half an hour from now the second-best parlor would still reek of polish, and the only meal ready would be the boiled mutton Bertha had prepared for the maids and stable hands. A landlord who cared would have chosen another parlor and informed her only paying guest of the culinary limitations prevailing at so early an hour in a country inn like the George.

Lizzie didn't care. She had better things to do, such as telling Molly to hurry with her polishing and letting Bertha know she'd be preparing supper a good deal earlier than they'd planned. <><><><><><><><><><><><> ''Mutton." John Carleton glared at the offending slab of meat on the serving plate, and then slammed the cover back down. "I said anything but mutton."

"I remember, but mutton is what we have, so mutton is what you get. Or you can go hungry if you prefer. Take your choice."

"Is the George always so accommodating of its guests?"

"Not always. Some we have the good sense not to let in the door in the first place."

The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened as he studied her, clearly wary of her temper, yet just as clearly unwilling to concede the battle so easily. Lizzie stared back, equally unwilling to give ground.

Staring back was a mistake. The man had changed his wet clothes for dry, but his hair was still damp. Stray strands had pulled free of the simple queue he wore, to curl softly at his temples and nape, silken against his sun-browned skin and the faint stubble of beard along his jaw. She felt a sudden, troubling urge to brush the wayward strands into place, to pull free the simple leather cord that bound his hair and let her fingers sift through the rich brown strands until they spilled like silk over her skin.

Lizzie curled her fingers tightly around the edge of the serving plate, fighting against the unfamiliar promptings, uncertain whether to be angrier at herself for wanting to touch him, or at him for making her want to. His mouth thinned with anger.

"Since it's too late to turn me away," he said, soft and low, "I'd suggest you find me something better for my supper than mutton. And someplace to eat that doesn't reek of God knows what. The smell in this room is enough to choke a goat." The edge in his voice made it clear it was a threat, not a suggestion.

Lizzie didn't take well to threats. She slammed the serving plate down, slapped her hands flat on the table, and leaned forward until she could stare him straight in the eye.

"We had a nice fat capon set aside for you," she shot back, "but that takes time. You're the one who demanded your dinner so early, not I."

"That's because I'm the one who's eating it! Or would be if it were anything except mutton!"

"Well, it's not!"

"I could tell that just by the stink of it!"

He leaned forward, glaring at her, his nostrils flared and his lips compressed to a razor's edge. Lizzie glared back. The snap of energy between them was an almost tangible thing, like sparks flaring across her skin.

If he felt it, he gave no sign, but his face was undergoing an odd transformation nonetheless. A twitch seemed to have taken possession of his lower lip. Then the muscles at the corners of his mouth started to quiver and the skin around his eyes to crinkle. An instant later that dangerously tempting smile of his broke out full force, startling her.

And then he laughed. "I've seen banty hens that were sweeter tempered than you, Mistress Tynsdale," he said, his green eyes glinting wickedly, "but never one half as tempting."

Lizzie wasn't quite sure how it happened. Suddenly his hand was on her shoulder, drawing her down to him; a heartbeat later his mouth was on hers and the sparks of a moment earlier were transformed into heat that rushed through her with mind-numbing speed.

"Mmmmph," she said, and "Mmmmm," and in spite of herself, she leaned closer and kissed him back.

The mutton and the smell be damned. He could live on kisses alone if they were Mistress Lizzie's. They were clumsy kisses, eager but untutored, and they sent fire crackling through his veins.

John slipped his hand up her shoulder and around the back of her neck, drawing her closer still. She bent into his touch like a pliant willow, sweet and green and untested.

He groaned, caught between delight at her ready acquiescence and surprise at the eagerness flashing through him. Perhapsjust perhaps!his enforced sojourn at the George would be sweeter than he'd expected.

No sooner did the thought form than it was drenched under a sudden river of wine neatly poured into his lap. "What the"

Lizzie jerked away. John shoved back from the table, stupidly gaping at the dark red stain spreading outward from the crotch of his buff breeches. The wine was dripping down his legs and stockings and into his shoes. Where it wasn't seeping into his pants, it was dribbling over the edge of the chair and onto the floor and splashing red dots on his ankles.

He looked up, stunned by the devastation. Lizzie dragged her horrified gaze off his crotch and up to meet his. Her eyes widened. She clapped her hand over her mouthtoo late to hide her widening smile or suppress the mischievous light that was suddenly dancing in her eyes.

John exploded, kicking back his chair and grabbing for his napkin and water, all at the same time.

"Damn!" he roared, splashing water on his crotch. The stain widened, turning pink at the edges instead of red. He scrubbed at the pink with the napkin, but succeeded only in making it spread further. "Damn! Damn! Damn!"

And then the impertinent wench started laughing.

"But I didn't do it, I tell you. I wouldn't waste good wine. Not like that!" Lizzie had spent the past five minutes trying to convince Mr. John Gideon/Carleton that she really had not dumped the wine on his breeches, but he was having none of it. "It must have tipped over. The way you were mauling me" "Mauling you! You seemed to be enjoying it well enough! In fact, you were kissing me back!"

"I was not!"

"Don't try to deny it! I know when a woman's kissing me and when she's not, and you were definitely kissing me!"

Lizzie gasped. "I would never stoop to . . . to such depravity and . . . and . . . I just wouldn't, that's all!"

"No? Then who was it started scrubbing at my crotch as if"

"That was a mistake! The way you were jumping about"

"I'm supposed to stand still when my small clothes are awash in wine?"

"I only meant"

"No, you didn't! I wouldn't have minded in the least if you'd really meant it!"

That was going too far. Lizzie slapped him.

The sound of her palm striking his cheek cracked like gunfire. His head snapped to the side.

The instant she connected, she was sorry, but by then it was too late.

He put his hand to his face, clearly as stunned as she was. And then he burst out laughing. "By God, I was right! You're first cousin to a banty hen if ever there was!"

Lizzie gave him a mocking curtsy. "I'm flattered. I'd not care to be related to a swine like you!"

"But think of the ride I could give a little banty like you!"

If looks could have killed, he would have shriveled in his wine-soaked socks. Instead, he stood there grinning at her, not in the least abashed by her temper or the disreputable state of his breeches. It should have made her angrier. Instead, Lizzie could feel laughter beginning to bubble up somewhere in the middle of her, pushing the anger out.

"Oh, go away!" she snapped before she could betray herself. "I'll have Molly clean up this mess and Bertha set the capon to finish roasting. But I warn you! The next time you venture so far beyond what is acceptable, I really will dump your wine in your lap!"

For an instant, she thought he was going to deliberately provoke her by trying to kiss her again, but he grinned instead and swept her an elegant bow, then arrogantly strolled out of the room, for all the world as if the George's best burgundy wasn't squishing out of his shoes with every step he took.

As the sound of his footsteps on the stairs died away, Lizzie reluctantly turned back to the disaster at hand. She hadn't dumped that wine. The bottle and filled wineglass hadn't tipped over by accident, either. Not both at once, and not so conveniently straight into his lap.

Which left only one explanation.

She'd rather have eaten nails than admit it. She'd spent most of the past twenty years fighting not to believe it, but nothing else made sense.

It was, after all, the flirtatious young men who were always driven away, the would-be suitors and romantic swains. Never a staid dowager and her children. Never a minister or a fat farmer or anyone else who left her alone except to complain of their sheets or order their supper.

Not that she'd minded, really. But she'd wondered. And now there was the lieutenant's ale last night, and John Carleton's wine today.

All the wild tales were true, after allthe George was haunted.

Worse, it was her parents who were haunting it.

Lizzie pivoted on her heel, staring at the empty room, glaring into the corners while a hundred hurts and all the old resentment bubbled up and spilled over, as if from a pot that had been left in the fire for far too long.

"Stop it!" she shouted, shaking her fist at nothing. "Do you hear me? Stop it! Now! At once! Whoeverwhatever you are, just leave . . . me . . . alone!"

"Now see what you've done, Oliver? How dare you?"

"How dare I? He's a Carleton, Bess!"

"So? He isn't that Carleton!"

"And he was kissing her!"

"I know that, and very well, too, under the circumstances!"

"You mean you approve?"

"Well, not approve, exactly, but . . ." Bess's perfect features turned down in a frown as her daughter rushed out of the room, face flushed and eyes wide as saucers and brimming with tears. Oliver snorted in triumph. "There! I told you, didn't I? Will you look at that! Lizzie's upset, and all because of him, the blasted"

"Not another word, Oliver! Not one word!" With a last warning glance, Bess fluttered away after her daughter, leaving Oliver sitting cross-legged atop the table, angrily brooding over Mr. Carleton and his sins.

A soft tap at his door roused John from a grim contemplation of the drizzle that persisted in shrouding the George's stables and outbuildings and hiding the surrounding hills altogether. The drenching Lizzie had administered had doused his foul temper, but it hadn't done a damn thing for his hunger. His belly felt as if it were shoved up against his backbone. However, if the only choice was between waiting for a capon or dining on mutton, he'd wait.

The tap sounded again, louder this time. "Mr. Gideon? Mr. Gideon, sir?"

John turned from the window. "Yes?"

"It's me, sir. Huldspeth. I've your . . . your breeches, sir. And your cape and coat and hat. All dry and brushed like Mistress Lizzie bade me."

When John opened the door, he found the little maid half-buried under his coat and heavy cape. His hat, as dry and neatly brushed as promised, dangled from her hand.

"Mistress Lizzie, she said I was to tell you the capon'd be ready soon as may be, sir. And that she'd a new bottle of wine for your supper, brought up straight from the cellars."

John took the proffered items of clothing, but before he could shut the door, Huldspeth slipped past him. After a quick, nervous glance around the room, she scuttled over to the fireplace and knelt to add another faggot and sweep up the cinders that had fallen on the stone hearth.

That done, she threw a glance over her shoulder, as if to assure herself he was still safely on the other side of the room, then got to her feet and gathered up the wine-stained clothes he'd tossed on the floor.

She held the breeches up, shaking her head and clucking at the stains. "Do be the oddest things happening whenever Mistress Lizzie's in a room with a good-looking man," she muttered.

"Odd?" John frowned, irritated. There weren't enough pegs driven into the wall to accommodate his tricorne as well as his coats and cloak. He tossed the hat onto the table. "What do you mean, odd?"

Huldspeth squeaked and clutched the breeches to her scrawny chest. "Didn't mean nothing, sir. Honest."

Curious. The silly wench was truly frightened, as if she thought he'd carry tales to her mistress. He shrugged. It was none of his concern. "Tell Mistress Tynsdale I'll be down directly."

"Yes, sir." Huldspeth edged to the door, clearly anxious to be gone, and just as clearly unwilling to leave. "Is there something else?" John asked, more gently. No sense in scaring her out of her down-at-heel shoes.

The maid froze with one hand on the door as if to assure herself of the possibility of escape. "They say" She licked her lips, swallowed, and tried again. "They say that you . . . that you're from the colonies. From America."

John nodded. If he said anything, chances were he'd spook her and then they'd be here all night.

"Is it true what they say? That you . . . that a person can . . . can start over there?" Her question was so heavily weighted with despair and scarcely acknowledged hope that it was barely a whisper.

So that was what this was about.

"For a strong, intelligent man who's willing to work," he said gently, regretfully, "America's a good place. A place of opportunity. But it's no place for an unmarried woman with child. Not unless she has money or a family to support her."

Her shoulders slumped; her hold on his soiled breeches tightened. "Oh." Like the peep of a wounded sparrow.

John hesitated. The role of confidant to frightened serving women wasn't something that appealed to him, but he couldn't ignore the pain in the woman's eyes.

"Surely Mistress Tynsdale will help you. Last night . . . That is" He bit the words back. No sense telling her that her reputation had been dragged through the mud by Lieutenant Lamberre last night. ''Neda told me," she broke in, as if wanting to reassure him.

"Neda?"

"The scullery maid. Somehow she always seems to know what's going on. Spying at keyholes, I expect. Anyway, she told me about . . . about last night. About the lieutenant. What he said."

"Oh."

"It was Samuel, you see!" she burst out suddenly, as if she couldn't keep the words inside one second longer.

"Samuel?"

"Samuel Martin. The tapster. We were . . . he was going to marry me. He would have, too, if it hadn't been for that sister of his!" Her head came up at that and a spark of anger flared in her pale blue eyes.

It was the first bit of spirit she'd shown, and for an instant John saw a different woman, a prettier, prouder woman than the sad little drab who stood before him, clutching his wine-stained small clothes as if they were a shield against the world's disapproval.

The spark died out as quickly as it had come. Her shoulders slumped until she seemed to shrink, to draw in on herself.

"SheSamuel's sistershe doesn't want him to marry, you see, because then there'd be another woman in the house, and she couldn't stand that. So she nagged and nagged and nagged, and finally Samuel just . . . gave up." She looked up at him beseechingly. "He did want me! It was her, not him, that was the problem!"

What had old Thomas said? Something about the woman counting Samuel's pounds and pence on the man's deathbed? Not the sort of creature who would willingly tolerate another woman taking her place and ruling her brother in her stead. And Samuel Martin was clearly the kind of man who could be ruled by a woman. John couldn't imagine a man with any gumption abandoning pretty, timid little Huldspeth in favor of a shrewish sister.

"And then the soldiers came," said Huldspeth, her face bleak and drawn. "There was one of them who was kind and I . . . well, I . . . that is . . ."

"I understand." That came out a little more rushed than John had intended, but he was growing increasingly uncomfortable with these revelations. "Believe me, no matter how difficult things are for you here, they'd be ten times worse in America. Assuming you could get there in the first place, which you probably couldn't. Even the cheapest passage is probably more than you make in a year."

"If you say so." She dragged the words out as if still uncertain.

"Mistress Tynsdale wouldn't abandon you, would she?"

"No, she wouldn't, now, would she?" Huldspeth was obviously sure of herself on that point, at least. "Not with the parents she had."

"I suppose not." He hadn't the slightest idea what she meant by that. He'd long ago lost himself in the twistings of this odd and thoroughly inappropriate conversation.

"Still, with Samuel here, and all the folk 'round about knowing about . . . about me . . ." Her voice trailed off into nothing.

Neither one of them tried to fill the emptiness of that unfinished sentence.

"I suppose I'd best be getting about my work," she said, more briskly. "Mistress Lizzie's kind, but she's not one to brook a body shirking her duty."

She pulled the door quietly shut behind her. John started to relax, but then tensed as she suddenly poked her head back into the room.

"Oh! And Mistress Lizzie said I was to tell you your dinner would be served in the best parlor this time. And that you shouldn't keep her waiting, else the capon'd grow cold, and fat Bertha isn't one as tolerates her suppers being spoiled."

John kept neither Bertha nor Mistress Lizzie waiting. The capon was hot and golden brown and done to perfection, and Lizzie was nowhere in sight. Molly waited on him instead.

Not that he minded, of course. Not in the least. Molly was pretty and plump, exactly the sort of soft, willing creature he'd craved last night before Lizzie had caught his eye.

"Here ye are, then, Mr. Gideon, sir," said Molly cheerily, setting the serving plate in front of him. "As fat and sweet a bird as ever ye've had, I fancy. And the wine. Miss Lizzie said as I was to be particular about the wine, and so I am. Not that I wouldn't prefer a good pot of Miss Lizzie's ale, myself, but there, gentlemen are different, so they are, and there's no denying they aren't. That's what I say, and isn't anybody ever been able to tell me different. Nor could they, come to that, for what I will say . . ."

John shut his eyes and took a deep draft of wine. It didn't help. Her senseless chatter washed over him in an endless torrent, pummeling his senses.

"That's enough, Molly. You may go."

The sharp command sliced through the chatter. Quiet fell, balm to a battered soul. John opened his eyes and beheld an angel of mercy in the doorway. He smiled, blinked, and the angel vanished, leaving in her place a rigidly correct innkeeper whose expression gave fair warning of what lay ahead. He grabbed the wine bottle and moved his half-empty wineglass to a more secure spot.

"Mistress Tynsdale."

"Sir." Ice wouldn't have been so chilly.

Like that, was it? He set the wine aside, safely out of range, and picked up the carving knife. "You'll forgive me if I eat. I'm so hungry, I wasn't sure I had the strength to make it downstairs."

The capon steamed, scenting the air. His mouth watered. Neither the insult of the mutton nor the hour's delay had damaged his appetite. As if to remind him, his stomach growled.

Lizzie blushed.

"That's what comes of offering me mutton." John neatly sliced off the bird's fat leg and set it on his plate. Ignoring good manners, he licked the tips of his fingers. The meat was hot and far juicier than he'd expected. "Mmm. It's good."

"I'm glad you approve."

"I'd approve of just about anything that wasn't mutton."

"Mr. Gideon!"

"Hmm?" The first bite was delicious. Heaven, even if the angel had been an illusion.

Lizzie squared her shoulders and clasped her hands in front of her. The only thing soft about her was the curve of her breasts. Seated as he was, John was at the perfect height to appreciate them to their fullest, even under her plain, prim gown and linen tucker. Short of caressing them, of course, but a man couldn't have everything all at once. A good, hot meal, fine wine, and a great view were more than enough . . . for now.

"I want you to leave. First thing in the morning."

"Leave?" John cut another piece of chicken. As he brought it to his mouth, his gaze once more lifted to those glorious breasts. There was always dessert.

"That's right. Leave. Depart. Go. I"

"What the" John threw down his knife and fork, grabbed his napkin, and spat out his mouthful of chicken. "Damn!"

Lizzie jerked, startled. "What?"

"This chicken's gone ice cold!"

"Impossible!"

"See for yourself!"

She looked at him as if he'd gone out of his mind, and then hesitantly leaned forward to touch the capon leg with the tip of one finger. "It can't be! Just a minute ago"

"It was steaming hot. Now it's damned near next to frozen!"

"But" She looked around the room, eyes wide and mouth open, as if she expected to find the culprit skulking in the corner.

John followed her wild gaze. There was nothing to see. The fire in the fireplace was blazing merrily, but it was at the opposite end of the room and the evening was both cold and damp. He must simply have drunk so much wine he hadn't noticed the chill in the air.

He frowned down at his plate. He hadn't drunk that much wine, and short of hauling his plate into a driving storm, the capon could not have grown so cold so quickly. Could it?

"I think you'd better sit down," he said, raising his eyes to hers.

"II can't. There's the taproom to tend and"

John grabbed her wrist as she started to back away, shoved a chair out with his foot, and dragged her down. "Sit!"

She sat, but she didn't like it. Her jaw hardened and her eyes narrowed. She frowned at him; then she glanced down at the dishes set out in front of him. John moved the carving knife to the opposite side of the table with the wine.

"Is there some reason you're so determined to drive me away?" he demanded. "I know I've been rude, demanding, and difficult, but I find it hard to believe I'm the first difficult traveler you've ever had stopping at the George. It can't be the way I dressI've changed my linen more times today than most men do in a week."

Her lips twitched. At least she still had a sense of humor. He was rapidly losing his. His stomach growled again, but they both ignored the sound.

"Well?" he said testily when she remained silent. She was gnawing on her lower lip and eyeing him warily, as if debating whether to say anything at all. John could tell the instant she decided the easiest course would be to confess rather than argue with him by the way she straightened in her chair.

"It's the ghosts," she said. "They don't like you."

Her chin tilted a notch higher. "And for that matter, neither do I."

Chapter Five

"Ghosts!" he said. "Now why didn't I think of that?"

"Better not let your sarcasm drip in the wine," Lizzie shot back. "It would turn to vinegar for sure."

"Since I moved the wine and the wineglass safely out of reach"

"I noticed!"

"I'm relieved to hear that. I'm running out of dry clothes."

His exaggerated frown failed utterly to hide his amusement. The man went from mad to merry faster than she could think. One or the other she could have tolerated, but both together . . .

Lizzie buried her fists in her lap. The wretch was enjoying himself. That it was at her expense only made her angrier.

"You don't believe me." She wasn't sure she believed it, but she'd run out of rational explanations.

He feigned a look of wounded innocence. "Did I say that? I seem to recall it was you who swore there were no ghosts. Why, just last night"

"What am I supposed to do? You didn't believe me when I told you there weren't any, and now you don't believe me when I tell you there are, and"

"Of course I don't believe you! What kind of fool do you take me for?"

"Now that you mention it" She never got a chance to finish.

A loud scuffle of boots and rattle of equipment suddenly sounded in the outer hall, the door banged open, and what seemed a hundred redcoats poured into the room. They spread out around the room, muskets at the readyevery one of them pointed at John Carleton.

Lizzie squeaked, which made her angryat herself and themand started to her feet. Carleton had his hand on her arm before she got an inch out of her chair. She tried to pull free, but his grip tightened as he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. There was a dangerous glint in his eyes that made her sit back down. Let him deal with the soldiers. It wasn't her concern, after all. They weren't pointing their muskets at her! The sergeant from the night before had come in with his men, but he carried no musket. Rather than joining the others in watching Carleton, he took up a position by the door, where he could see everything that went on in the room and outside it.

The private who had been so prone to snicker had ended up right behind Carleton's chair. The look on his face said he was hoping for a good fightas revenge for his lieutenant's humiliation the night before, and to take one of the gentry down a peg or two, just for the hell of it.

More footsteps in the hall, and then Lieutenant Lamberre strolled into the room, for all the world as if he were displaying his regimentals in Hyde Park instead of intruding where he and his men had no business. He paused on the threshold to survey the assembled party, calmly shook the damp from his cape, and swept her an elegant bow.

"Mistress Tynsdale! What an unexpected pleasure!"

"Unexpected, yes," Lizzie said coldly. "Pleasure, hardly." She pointedly ignored the soldiers and their muskets. "You and your men have tracked mud on my freshly waxed floors."

Lamberre glanced at the floor. One dark brow arched upward. "Dear me. How . . . regrettable."

"I'd put it a bit more forcefully than a mere regrettable.'"

The lieutenant carelessly waved away the objection. "Duty, I'm afraid. Compared to that, even consideration for your floors must give way. I sincerely wish it were otherwise.''

"I'm sure you do," Lizzie muttered, but Lamberre wasn't paying any attention to her. He'd turned to Carleton.

"I confess, sir, I find myself at something of a loss as to how to address you," he said politely.

Carleton smiled, for all the world as if there weren't a musket in sight. "'Friend' serves, on occasion. 'Sir' will do, if you insist on being formal. Myself, I'm not particularly fond of formalities."

"Inquiries had indicated that you went under the name Gideon," the lieutenant said, ignoring the interruption. He was as blandly affable as ever, but his hard eyes glittered in the candlelight. "However, I am reliably informed that you have chosen to present yourself in certain distinguished houses hereabouts under the name of Carleton, instead of Gideon. I find that . . . interesting. And perhaps a touchjust a touch, mind you!confusing."

Carleton's smile widened. "We could dispense with such troubling confusion altogether if you were to join me in a glass of wine." With a careless wave, he indicated the open bottle and half-filled glass at the far side of the table. "The very finest from Mistress Tynsdale's cellaror so she assures me. I'm sure you would know if I've been misled or not."

Lamberre stared at him, as if considering the invitation, then casually circled behind Carleton. Lizzie warily shifted in her chairhe wasn't the kind of man she ever wanted at her backbut Carleton didn't budge an inch.

"In fact, Lieutenant," he said, for all the world as if he were conversing with an old friend, "why don't you join me for supper? The capon has grown rather cold, I'm afraid, but I'm reliably informed the boiled mutton is excellent."

Lizzie shot him a warning glance. The effort was wasted. Despite his careless manner and easy speech, she sensed a coiled tension in him mingled with an odd satisfaction. As insane as it seemed, he was clearly enjoying this dangerous little game of cat and mouse. He seemed not to care that he was a seriously outnumbered mouse, or that the cats came equipped with very sharp claws.

What in heaven's name had Carleton done to warrant all this? No matter how angry Lamberre had been last night, he surely wouldn't have gone to these lengths over a pot of spilled ale. Would he?

The lieutenant gave no hint of his purpose. He smiled benignly at them both, then picked up Carleton's wineglass and casually waved it beneath his nose.

"It smells well enough." He took a sip, but held the wine in his mouth, his eyes locked with Carleton's. Assured of everyone's attention, he turned his head and spat the wine on the floor.

Lizzie gasped, outraged. Carleton didn't move so much as a hair.

Lamberre turned back to them. With insulting deliberation, he set the wineglass on the table. "I'm so sorry. I fear it's been . . . contaminated."

Carleton's smile thinned, turned hard. "Amazing, isn't it, how quickly something goes bad . . . under the wrong influence?"

The lieutenant's eyes narrowed dangerously. Lizzie held her breath.

Lamberre leaned toward his quarry. "It was a mistake to threaten Lord Malloran. A serious mistake."

He was met with wide-eyed surprise. "I? Threaten his lordship? You must be mistaken. I never threaten."

"Threats. Lies. Forcing your way into his house. Pretending to be someone you're not. Someone who doesn't even exist. Presenting forged or stolen documents to support your absurd claims. I'm sure the list of charges will be quite extensive by the time his lordship gets through with you." Lamberre's smile made it clear he would enjoy Carleton's fall. "It's a mistake to try to cheat a peer of the realm. Especially when he's the magistrate here."

"The magistrate! Please extend my felicitations." Carleton casually refilled his wineglass and took a thoughtful sip. "Tell me, does his lordship always use another man's dog for his hunt?"

The lieutenant frowned. "What do you mean?"

Carleton gently swirled the wine in his glass, watching the rich red liquid trace its arc around and around, almost but never quite spilling over the edge. "Strange," he said thoughtfully, "I find this wine quite adequate. Excellent, in fact. I wonder if it might be your taste that is at fault, Lieutenant. Or your judgment." He looked up then. "Or possibly it's both." He took another sip, his eyes locked on Lamberre's.

"What do you mean?" Lamberre insisted, more sharply this time.

"Why, just that I wondered what King George might say if he knew an officer of his was running the local magistrate's errands." Carleton set the glass down without taking his gaze off Lamberre. "Or is it just that you hope to gain something by serving as Lord Malloran's lackey?"

Lizzie froze in her chair at the murderous look in Lamberre's eyes. Carleton seemed not to notice. Or not to care.

"Since you don't like my wine, Lieutenant, and you don't seem interested in the mutton, I suppose we might as well go." Carleton's right eyebrow arched in a query. "At least, I assume you intend to make me a guest of His Majesty. Or perhaps of Lord Malloran?"

He delicately dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, then tossed the napkin down beside his plate, pushed back his chair, and casually rose to his feet. The soldiers tensed and tightened their hold on their muskets.

Carleton glanced around the room, as if noticing the men for the first time. "My. Such a lot of soldiers." He pivoted slowly, pointing as he counted. "One, two, three . . ." Lamberre's face darkened with fury.

". . . four, five, six . . ."

"Gideon!"

". . . seven, eight. Eight soldiers with muskets and bayonets!" Carleton beamed at Lamberre. "Why, Lieutenant, I'm flattered! Personally, I don't think I could have managed to fight off more than four of them. Five, maybe, if you include this scrawny one here," he added, indicating the snickering private.

The private lunged toward him, his face twisted in a mask of fury. His companions on either side grabbed him and dragged him back.

"Well, four, then, including him."

Lamberre ignored the jibe. He gave a curt nod to the infuriated dragoon. The man immediately shook off his compatriots and jumped forward to grab Carleton's arm. "Let's go," he growled, discreetly brandishing his musket.

"Of course. But first" He snatched the halfeaten chicken leg from his plate an instant before they dragged him from the room.

"Well, I'll be demned," said Oliver Hardwicke.

"No doubt!" said his beloved. "What are we going to do, Oliver?"

"Do? Why would we want to do anything? He's a demned colonial, Bess, and he was disporting himself just a little too freely with our Lizzie. I saw the way he was eyeing her even if you didn't!"

"It was exactly the way you used to eye me, but that's beside the point." "Turning his dinner cold was no more than he deserved, but this lieutenant's gone me one better. Never thought I'd see the day I'd be grateful to a pox-ridden pack of redcoats, but there, it just goes to show, doesn't it? You never know."

"Well, I do, and I'm going to do something about it!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Bess! The man is none of our concern now. Besides, you can't go chasing off after those heathen soldiers. You know you can't leave the place!"

"No, but I still have free run of the yard and the stables. Over the years I've learned a trick or two from you, and I mean to make the most of them!"

She paused an instant before she floated out the door. "Besides, Oliver, just look what they've done to Lizzie's freshly waxed floor!"

"You know," John said conversationally as the dragoon he'd insulted roughly shoved him out the door and into the cobbled inn yard, "it's a damnably damp night to be tramping around like this. You could come back next week, perhaps. The rain clouds are bound to be gone by then, wouldn't you think?"

"Quiet, you," the soldier snapped, giving him another shove. "Lieutenant's orders. And milord's."

John managed to stop himself from hitting the troll square in the middle of his ugly face, but it was a close thing.

He felt a fool, though he'd be damned if he'd give any hint of it. Not because of his present predicament, but because he should have expected it. There had been enough hints in the conversations he'd overheard in the taproom the night before, suggestions that Lamberre, in the hope of currying favor and rising through the ranks faster than mere hard work would allow, had become Malloran's man more than he was the king's.

Well, too late now to wish he'd been paying less attention to how Mistress Lizzie filled out her bodice and more to his own business. Obviously this damned rain had seeped into his brain and turned it to mush. He would have been prepared, otherwise. He'd expected his uncle to try something like thisonly not quite this soon, nor anything near this bold.

The rain had long since stopped. The small, muddy puddles that dotted the cobbled yard sullenly reflected the lanterns' light so that the soldiers milling about him seemed magnified and distorted. The night air was chill and still heavy with moisture, and John shivered with cold. They hadn't given him a chance to fetch his cloak or hat. The snickering private was probably looking forward to his suffering.

While a couple of the soldiers disappeared into the stables to retrieve the horses for the lieutenant and the sergeant, the rest ranged themselves in a loose formation around him, as wary as if he'd tried to escape rather than calmly accompanying them out the door. Someone, it seemed, had put them on warning that their prisoner wasn't to be allowed a chance to slip out of their hands. Lamberre? Malloran? Or both?

Not two days here and he'd made not one, but two enemies. That had to be something of a record, even for him.

He sighed and took a bite out of the chicken leg he'd retrieved from his plate. His stomach growled, protesting its continued empty state. Right now, even the mutton he'd so high-handedly rejected earlier sounded tempting.

Before he had a chance to take a second bite, Lamberre emerged from the inn and strolled toward them. His contrived image of nonchalance was spoiled, however, by the care he took to avoid any puddles that might dull the shine on his boots.

The soldiers around John parted, as wary of their commanding officer as they were of their prisoner. Lamberre stopped in front of him. Since the lanterns were behind the man, John could make out nothing of the lieutenant's expression, but he didn't need light to know that he was smugly pleased with himself and clearly prepared to enjoy his prisoner's discomfort.

"I regret, Mr . . . er . . . Gideon, that it's less than a mile's walk to the house where my men are billeted. My quarters are a bit farther away, but I'm afraid I can't offer you the same sort of . . . hospitality they can."

John could hear the gloating smile in his voice, even though he couldn't see the smile itself.

"They'll hold you until such time as Lord Malloran finds it convenient to deal with your case," Lamberre continued smoothly. "Though the road is rather rutted and very muddy, I'm sure you'll enjoy your little evening's stroll."

"That so?" said John, and took an insultingly big bite out of his chicken leg.

Lamberre struck it out of his hand. It landed with a splash in one of the deepest puddles, spraying the legs of the soldiers near it.

John stared at the dark lump in the water that was all that was left of his supper, then slowly turned back to face Lamberre.

"Now that, Lieutenant, was distinctly unfriendly," he said very, very calmly. "I may lose my temper, after all."

The soldiers on either side of him stirred uneasily, uncertain how to deal with the unmistakable threat in his voice. The snickering private moved closer, clearly hoping for violence.

"Cold chicken? My dear sir! I wouldn't dream of letting you demean yourself by dining under such deplorable conditions. I'm sure Mistress Tynsdale would be quite willing to have another prepared for you . . . should you ever return to her establishment."

As if summoned, Lizzie suddenly appeared in the inn door. She hesitated for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the dark, and then carefully picked her way across the muddied cobbles toward them. The soldiers hesitated, silently debating whether they should let her through or not. She decided the issue before Lamberre had a chance to. "Move aside, you dolt," she said, poking at the first man in her path. "You're standing in my way."

The soldiers hastily stepped aside, but not quickly enough for her taste. She shouldered the biggest one out of her way, forcing him to step into the puddle behind him. She didn't try to shove Lamberre out of the wayshe simply ignored him entirely. John might have been alone with her for all the concern she displayed at being surrounded by armed soldiers.

If she kept this up, he'd find himself falling in love with the wench, shrewish temper or no.

"I brought you this," she said, holding out an awkwardly shaped bundle. "It's your cloak and hat. Huldspeth didn't have time to pull out a change of linen. I can send it on, if that should become necessary. I trust it won't."

"I'm sure it won't," said John, gratefully taking the bundle from her. "Once the lieutenant finds out what a difficult guest I make, he'll do what you were threatening and throw me out into the road. Or mud, as the case may be."

Lamberre growled deep in his throat. "I wouldn't count on it if I were you," he said, and then spun away, shouting for his men to bring his horse.

John clapped his hat on his head and shook out his cloak. He noticed the tension in Lizzie an instant before he noticed an odd weight in the cloak. Had she somehow managed to find his pistols and slip them into the inner pockets of his cloak? He hoped not, for her sake more than his. ''I'd appreciate it if you'd have Huldspeth keep my sheets warm while I'm gone," he said, casually sweeping the cloak over his shoulders. "After a night of the lieutenant's hospitality, I'll be glad of a comfortable bed."

"I'll keep your room, but I warn you, the same rates apply whether you sleep in the bed or not."

"Spoken like a good landlord!"

"Watch out!"

The warning cry from behind them was immediately followed by an enraged squeal as the lieutenant's horse suddenly erupted in a maddened fit, desperately trying to unseat its rider. Soldiers scattered in every direction, heedless of their prisoner. John grabbed Lizzie and pulled her out of the way, but she twisted free, craning to see what was happening.

A moment earlier, the beast had walked out of the stables as calmly as if it were half-asleep. Now it was bucking viciously, twisting and plunging and snorting, slipping on the rain-slicked cobbles, lurching to its feet only to spin sideways, then back again.

Lamberre was a superb rider, but nothing short of glue would have kept him on for long. He parted company with his saddle at the height of a particularly spectacular buck and sailed halfway across the inn yard to land with an "Oof!" and a splash on his back in the middle of the biggest puddle in the entire yard.

The instant its rider was off, the horse put its head up and came to a stop, blowing and snorting, but otherwise as peaceable-looking a beast as one might wish.

Lamberre feebly tried to raise his head. The effort was evidently too much for him, for he groaned and lay back on the muddy cobbles, cursing. His men's nervous inquiries as to his condition elicited more curses, louder this time, and a sharp command to help him up and to stop standing about like a flock of witless geese. The instant he was on his feet, he expressed his thanks by shaking off their helping hands, and hurling his bedraggled hat at the man who'd retrieved it from a puddle midway between his launch point and his landing.

"Damned fools!" he raged. "Don't stand there gaping. Bring me the horse!"

The horse stood quietly as the lieutenant gathered up the reins, but the instant Lamberre got his leg over its back, it exploded again. The ride ended less than a minute later with Lamberre in an undistinguished heap on the ground and the horse standing over him looking thoroughly bemused by the whole affair.

After a long, breathless moment, Lamberre got slowly to his knees. He swayed there for a second, dazed, then grabbed hold of a stirrup for support and dragged himself to his feet. The soldier who had rushed to his side wisely settled for holding the horse's reins rather than offering unwanted aid.

Lamberre tottered away from the horse, his face twisted in fury. "Sergeant! Bring me your horse." "Yes, sir!"

"And shoot this brute."

"Sir?"

"You heard me."

"But Lieutenant . . . !" The sergeant hesitated, clearly unwilling to confront his superior, but just as unwilling to follow so distasteful an order. Conscience won out over caution. "He's a good mount, sir. Never done anything like this before. Maybe there's a burr in his saddle blanket, or something in his foot or"

"All right, all right!" Lamberre reluctantly acknowledged the objections. "Check him out, then. But if he does it again . . ."

"Yes, sir!"

Lamberre snatched the reins out of the sergeant's hands. "Get another mount from the inn's stables." He stiffened, as though struck by a sudden thought, and then turned on John. His bruised and muddied face twisted in an ugly smile. "In fact, take Mr. Gideon's. He won't be needing his horse for a while."

John gallantly doffed his hat in salute. "Delighted to be of help."

"Do you think you should be trying to ride, Lieutenant?" Lizzie surveyed his battered figure dispassionately. "You don't look up to it after that dreadful fall. Are you sure you don't want to come in and dry off in front of the fire? You could have a glass of wine, at least."

Even though the only light was from the few lanterns in the yard, John would swear Lamberre's face darkened in an angry flush. The elegantly garbed officer who had so carefully picked his way across the yard a few minutes earlier was now tattered and mud splattered and limping, more an object of pity than a dashing figure to strike fear in the hearts of his menor admiring awe in the soul of a beautiful woman.

"I thank you, no." There wasn't an ounce of gratitude in Lamberre's sharp, angry refusal.

With a barely stifled groan, he cautiously mounted the sergeant's horse. To everyone's relief, the beast did nothing more than twitch an ear in acknowledgment of the sudden weight on its back.

Lamberre settled deeper into the saddle, clearly as relieved at the beast's placidity as everyone else, but far less willing to show it. "Sergeant! Bring the prisoner along as soon as you've remounted. And keep a sharp eye on him! I don't want to hear that he slipped away in the dark!"

"No, sir!"

"You wouldn't have to worry, Lieutenant. You know I'd come straight back to Mistress Lizzie. I couldn't help myself, could I, my love?"

He didn't give her a chance to disagree before he dragged her into his arms and kissed her.

Lamberre gave a choked growl, and then angrily spurred his horse out of the inn yard.

If he'd waited a few seconds longer, the lieutenant would have had the satisfaction of watching John double over as Lizzie punched him hard in the stomach.

"I'd suggest you keep your hands to yourself in the future, Mr. . . . Gideon. I'd hate to have to throw your things out into the mud tonight!"

"I'll . . . keep . . . that . . . in mind," said John, fighting to get his breath back.

"See that you do! And you!" she added sharply, rounding on the goggling soldiers. "Get out of here, and take this man with you! I won't have riffraff cluttering up my inn yard, no matter what color coat they wear!"

And with that she was gone, leaving the sergeant to snap a host of angry orders that quickly got the men back into order and the little procession, with John at its center, out on the road.

Only once they were well past the lights of the inn did John remember the odd weight he'd noted in the inn yard. Under the pretext of drawing his cloak more closely about himself, he slipped his hands into the two pockets. Instead of the hard shape of his pistols that he'd expected to find, his groping fingers encountered two odd-shaped, cloth-wrapped bundles.

John smiled into the dark. Mistress Lizzie hadn't managed to give him his pistols, but she'd done something even bettershe'd dismembered what had remained of his roast capon, wrapped it in a couple of napkins, and stuffed it in the inner pockets of his cloak. Lizzie Tynsdale was a woman who knew how to take care of a man.

If he wasn't careful, he really might end up falling in love in spite of himself . . . and that wicked gut punch of hers. <><><><><><><><><><><><> "It didn't work, Oliver." Bess mournfully watched John Carleton slog away through the mud. "I thought sure that beastly redcoat would break his neck."

"They never do. Not when they should, at any rate," Oliver consoled her. "It wasn't for lack of trying, either. I don't know when I've seen a horse throw a better fit, or a rider land quite so hard. At least those cobblestones will have given him a good bruising, maybe cracked a rib or two."

Bess perked up a bit at the thought. "We can always hope."

"What worries me is our Lizzie. It's not like her, worrying about a useless, ill-mannered rogue like that. And kissing him! A Carleton! My God, Bess, if I weren't dead already, I'd have keeled over with apoplexy, right then and there."

"Well, you are dead, and I, for one, am relieved to see that our daughter is finally coming to her senses. I like that colonial's cut, Oliver, Carleton or no."

She studied her beloved approvingly. "He puts me in mind of youso dashing, you know! Or did I say that already?" There was nothing like a little flattery to distract Oliver. It was a trick that had come in handy more than once over the years.

He drew himself up to the very limit of his manly height, obviously pleased. "I did have a certain dash, didn't I, Bess?"

"Indeed you did, my love," Bess said, sliding into his arms. "I always admired that in you."

She smiled, remembering. "I still wish I'd been there that time you held up the coach with the armed outriders and two armed officers inside! Nobody talked about anything else for weeks!"

Oliver sighed and drew her close. "I should have given it up when you asked me, Bess. I know I should have. But there's something about the . . . the thrill, you know. The game. A man can't let go of that so easily, no matter how much he ought."

"I know, my love. I know," Bess said. "It was who you were. Who you are. And it's part of why I love you, regardless." She laid her head on her beloved's breast. ''I just hope our Lizzie can find someone to love as much as I love you."

"He'll be a lucky man to have her, Bess," Oliver said, drawing her closer still. "But not half as lucky as I was. As I am."

"True." Bess sighed into his velvet coat. "Now if we can just stop Lizzie from punching the poor man . . ."

Chapter Six

It cost her a sleepless night and an endless argument with her own common sense, but early the next morning Lizzie presented herself at the neat brick house that was the home of Mr. George Drayton, lawyerand the billet of Lieutenant Lamberre for as long as he remained in this part of Yorkshire. Mr. Drayton's maid showed her into the morning parlor at the back of the house, brought her tea, despite Lizzie's assurances that she had no need of it, and went away to inform the lieutenant that he had a visitor.

An hour later, Lizzie had consumed all the tea and shredded all the toast the maid had provided, then come close to wearing a groove in the carpet with her pacing. As she paced, she played a hundred different scenarios in her mind, trying to prepare herself for the coming meeting. Yet as often as she considered how the conversation might go, she didn't once give any thought to Lamberre's probable appearance.

That was a mistake. If she had, she probably wouldn't have gasped and stood there, slack-jawed with shock, when he finally strolled into the room.

Limped into the room, rather. The handsome officer of the day before had vanished, leaving in his place an elegantly garbed but battered wreck. On the right side, Lamberre's face was swollen an ugly black and blue; on the left, it was scraped raw from cheekbone to jaw. He moved slowly and held himself with awkward stiffness. No matter how much liniment he might apply, he would clearly be suffering the effects of his collisions with the George's cobblestones for some time to come.

"Well?" he demanded. "What is it you want?"

Flustered, Lizzie clamped her mouth shut and blushed. "I . . . I'm sorry to disturb you, Lieutenant, but I wanted to see you" The words were out before she realized it. "I didn't mean . . . That is . . . Ummm . . ." She ground to a humiliating halt, appalled.

"I trust you find me an edifying sight?"

"What I meant to say is, I regret the . . . the unfortunate incident last night." That wasn't much better. No man who'd had both his person and his personal dignity slammed so thoroughly wanted to be reminded of the occasion.

"Horses are such inexplicable beasts, aren't they?" she finished lamely, sinking into her chair. He stiffened, and this time it wasn't from sore muscles. "Myself, I would have said women were the inexplicable ones. Horses are just dumb brutes. A woman will toss a man over just as readily, but, unlike the brutes, there's always malice in it when she does."

Lizzie's sympathy for his pains vanished. She'd never liked Lamberre, but she'd never come so close as she did now to actively detesting him. He was a man, and men were all alikerude, overbearing, and conceited. Why any woman would waste her time on them was beyond her powers of comprehension.

Unbidden, there came the memory of an arrogant male with sea-green eyes and a dangerously tempting smileand even more dangerously tempting kisses. He was as rude, overbearing, and conceited as the rest of them, but somehow

She ruthlessly squelched the thought.

"Women can say the same of you men, Lieutenant, and with far more reason. Not that it matters. I'm not here to argue. I'm here because I want to know how long you'll be holding Mr. Gideon."

"Do you?" Whatever damage Lamberre had suffered, it hadn't impaired his capacity for sarcasm.

Lizzie's hands curled into fists in her lap. "I don't care to have my best bedchamber standing idle for long, especially if it isn't being paid for."

That was what she'd been telling herself, anyway. It was a far more comfortable reason for being here than the one she refused to admit, even to herself. She wasn't worried about John Carleton. It would be a waste of time and energy, and she hadn't enough of either to spare; he'd already cost her far too much of both as it was. Between his kisses and his arrest, Carleton had robbed her of another night's sleep. The man owed her for far more than the price of a room, and no mistake. She'd have no peace until he was gone from Yorkshire and from Englandand if that thought cost her a pang, it was only because she was so unaccustomed to thinking about any member of his sex at all.

"I also need to know," she continued grimly, "if I should have one of my stable boys bring his things here. A change of linen, perhaps. His shaving kit. That sort of thing."

Lamberre stared at her for a moment, his expression unreadable; then he casually turned and picked up a small Chinese vase from a side table. He turned it over in his hands, pretending to study it. "You seem to know a great deal about your guest's belongings."

The flush crept back into her cheeks. "I assume a well-dressed traveler like Mr. Gideon would possess such common articles."

"You assume?" Lamberre set the vase down and fixed her with a piercing stare.

"I don't pry and poke in my guests' belongings, if that's what you're wondering!"

Lamberre leaned toward her, his dark eyes menacingly unreadable. "Don't you?"

"No, I don't." She uncurled one fist enough so that she could cross her fingers against the lie. She'd never poked and pried before John Carleton, at any rate.

Lamberre tilted his head to one side, studying her as he'd studied the vase. "Then you don't know if he was carrying anything else. Documents, shall we say? Or letters?"

"No." She bit the word off sharply, shame at her prying like vinegar on her tongue.

"No, you don't know, or no, he wasn't carrying anything?"

"No, I don't know." She almost flung the words at him. "Running an inn the size of the King George, even at this time of the year, is more than enough work to keep me occupied, Lieutenant. I don't need to go snooping where I've no business."

Even as the words came out, another, far more startling thought intruded. Was there, she wondered, something among all those letters that Lamberre wanted? Something he needed to know?

Or was it something Lord Malloran wanted?

In one stunning flash of insight, old scandals, whispered rumors, and gossip that had grown smooth-edged with repetition suddenly coalesced into a breathtaking certainty: John Carleton must be the son of the younger Malloran brother who had fled Yorkshire in disgrace so many years before.

If he was, then he was also heir to Frederick James Carleton, Lord Malloran, and to all the Malloran estates. His lordship's only child had died years ago, and the heir presumptive was a distant cousin no one had ever seen. Everyone hereabouts knew of the bad blood that had lain between the two brothers, and of the scandal that had driven the younger brother from England. Until now, everyone had assumed the brother was long dead. No one had even considered the possibility he'd fathered a son before he died.

What was more plausible than that the son should return to lay claim to his rightful heritage?

And that explained everything elseLord Malloran taking such intense personal, and possibly malicious, interest in a stranger; Carleton's traveling under an assumed name; the letters in his saddlebags; his having asked the directions to Malloran Hall yesterday morning.

It also explained his behavior that first night in the taproom, when he'd listened to the conversations going on around him with far more interest than was usual for a stranger passing through. She'd dismissed the thought at the time, accused herself of being fanciful, but Garrick Utley and Benjamin Hoyle and their wives had spent most of the evening debating the merits of that old scandal. If John Carleton really was heir to Lord Malloran, his interest in their conversation made perfect sense.

And if he was the rightful heir, then she had even less reason to help him; yet his being held prisoner now, on the order of Lord Malloran himself, was a blatantly illegal attempt to subvert justice. She met Lamberre's hard, questioning gaze, and doubts rushed in.

If John Carleton wasn't who the letters in his possession said he was, then he was up to no good, and she'd be well advised to keep as far away from him and his affairs as she could.

As if to reinforce her unspoken doubts, Lamberre claimed the chair at the opposite side of the little table, shoving the tray of tea things out of his way with impatient force. His battered face looked oddly incongruous next to the elegant silver service.

"Tell me," he said, "how long have you known this Gideon fellow?"

Lizzie tensed at the accusation in his voice, suddenly wary and uncertain of her ground. "He arrived at the inn night before last. The night you and your men came into the taproom."

"You'd never seen him before then?"

"No. Why do you ask?" Could that possibly be a note of jealousy she'd heard in his voice?

"Why do I ask?" He propped one elbow on the table and leaned toward her, as close as a lover teasing his lady . . . or a hunter tormenting his prey. "Because it is my duty. Because I find it . . . interesting . . . that a man so recently arrived should so easily have gained your favors."

"My favors!"

His smile grew cold, cruel. "Kisses. Perhaps far more than kisses, though I haven't been privy to that." "I never kissed the man. He kissed me, which is a different thing entirely!"

"Is it?"

Lizzie eyed him with distaste. "If you don't know the difference by now, Lieutenant, your education has lacked more than merely a course in good manners."

He leaned closer still. "Are you offering to make up the deficiencies?"

"Certainly not!" Lizzie rose to her feet. The conversation had long since slipped into dangerous territory. A dignified retreat was her only recourse. "Since you seem incapable of answering my questions, Lieutenant, I will bid you good day."

She was into the hallway before she worked up the courage to look back at him. She immediately wished she hadn't. He hadn't moved from his chair, but he was watching her with an expression on his wrecked face that boded no good for her or John Carleton.

Two days. Two days he'd been held in this cramped, cold stone housegoing on three, actuallyand he was damned tired of it.

John leaned back on his narrow bed, laced his hands behind his head, crossed his legs at the ankles, and stared up at the grim, damp-spotted ceiling above him. It wasn't an appealing view, but at least it was a change from the grim, damp-spotted stone wall opposite.

The only comfort was knowing that his accommodations were no worse than those of the soldiers who held him prisonerthey either shared this room, or bedded down in the equally cold rooms on either side. They also shared his meals, which were even grimmer than the accommodations. The ancient crone who owned the place had an unmatched talent for burning everything, including boiled mutton.

Last night, belly rumbling, he'd dreamed of Lizzie's mutton.

He'd dreamed of Lizzie, as welltormenting dreams that had heated his blood until even this dank place had seemed so warm he'd kicked off his ratty covers in his sleep. The dream still troubled him, but that was physical trouble and perfectly normal, given the temptation of the woman herself.

But dreams of mutton? Now that worried him.

John shifted restlessly on the lumpy straw mattress, wrinkling his nose against the smell of old straw and stale sheets. No two ways about it; he was going to have to escape.

Escape wouldn't be that hard. He'd knock out his escort during the last trip he made to the latrine tonightit hadn't been difficult to convince his captors that such trips were preferable to their having to empty his slop bucket themselvesthen grab a horse from the stable and slip away into the night.

At that hour, all the soldiers except the unlucky one posted to watch him would be warming their bellies and their backsides at the nearest tavern. A poor place compared to Lizzie's King George, judging from their comments, but better than the king himself had arranged for them. It would be hours before they returned to find their comrade tied up and their prisoner gone.

But then what?

In Virginia, he'd simply have slipped into the forest and stayed there until it was safe to emerge. Yorkshire offered no convenient forests, and while Virginians might be happy to help a man who'd irked King George's soldiers, the locals here weren't likely to be so friendly. Certainly not enough to hide him for the four or five days remaining until William Randall returned to his ancestral home. And that was assuming Randall returned when he was expected.

John glowered at a particularly ugly damp spot. Damn the man, anyway! Why couldn't he have remained decently at home where he belonged instead of traipsing across half of England on good deeds that probably not one in ten would ever thank him for?

No help for it. As little as John liked leaving his father's business half-finished, he'd have to limit his communication with Randall to a friendly letter mailed a half hour before he put to sea, bound for America. He wouldn't accomplish anything by staying here and likely dying of a mortal chill brought on by too extended an acquaintance with his uncle's hospitality.

He was almost sorry. Though he had no particular liking for Yorkshire or England, he wouldn't have minded awaiting Randall's return in the comfort of the King George's best bed, with the George's good food to fill his belly and Lizzie, if he was lucky, to warm his sheets.

John abruptly recrossed his legs. Just thinking about Lizzie did unsettling things to his anatomy.

Which meant there were a lot of uncomfortable hours ahead, because thinking about Lizzie was rapidly becoming his chief diversion, unsettling or not.

Pity he'd never have a chance to do more than dream about her. Given enough time, even the most reluctant of women could be brought around to an appreciation of his charms . . . and he didn't think Lizzie was anywhere near as reluctant as she liked to pretend.

Two days, almost three since Lamberre and his men had dragged John Carleton from the inn. More than enough time for the man to have faded from her thoughts, even if his possessions still occupied her best bedchamber. Yet try as she might, Lizzie found she couldn't dislodge him.

He was there as she went about her duties during the day, lurking in odd places, fading away at times only to pop up suddenly when she least expected it. He sat by the hearth in the taproom, laughing, and his gaze followed her as she worked. She found him wanting for her on the stairs at midday, his face awash in candlelight, and the bustle of the inn inexplicably faded until she thought she could hear his breathing in the silence. He was with her when she went to bed at night, and again when she woke up in the morning, and he stalked her dreams through all the hours in between, tormenting her with his laughter and his kisses and the promise of something that lay just beyond the grasp of her understanding. Something wonderful.

And all of it frightened her so that she felt like a wraith floating through the inn, fleeing the unseen presence that was somehow more real than even fat Bertha, or snuffling Neda, or frightened little Huldspeth, who served as a constant reminder of the price exacted by such irrational fancies.

Most of all, it frightened her to think that this was how her mother must have felt when she'd fallen in love with her father, a highwayman whom the king's men had mercilessly hunted across the moors, outraged by his audacity and his mockery of them.

No sooner did the thought arise than Lizzie thrust it away. She was not her mother. She was not!

She was Elizabeth Ashton Tynsdale. Practical, sensible Lizzie, who wasn't impressed by masculine smiles or masculine wiles. Hard-nosed, hard-headed Lizzie, who would rather balance her accounts than waste time chasing after the young men who had begun frequenting the inn about the time she began growing into a woman.

If she'd had any such foolish notions, surely she would have fallen in love with one, at least, of the many men who had courted her. Pursued her like dogs after a hare, if the truth be told. That was what it had felt like, at least. As if she were the prey and they were determined to bring her down.

Well, she'd have none of it, and so she'd told them.

And she'd have none of John Carleton, either! Let the dog rot in his cell. Since his guards wouldn't permit him to have the toiletries and the change of linen that she'd sent, she'd gather up everything that was his and store it away where it would be safe until he could claim it himself. Then she'd have one of the women turn out the room from top to bottom so there was no trace left of his presence.

If that didn't drive him out of her thoughts, at least it would erase any sign that he'd ever been there.

It didn't take long to put the few items he'd set out back in his saddlebags. Lizzie pulled the last bag's leather straps taut, then fastened the buckles. There was a satisfying finality to the task, as if it were a promise that her own wayward thoughts could be bundled up and put out of mind with similar dispatch.

She picked up the bags and turned to leave, only to stop short at the sight of Neda standing in the doorway, avidly studying the room.

''Nice." The scullery maid sniffed, then scrubbed at the tip of her nose with the back of her hand. She made no effort to brush back the lank, dull yellow hair straggling about her face. "Mister's not comin' back, then?"

"I don't know." Lizzie found something vaguely disquieting in the girl's eagerness, though she couldn't have said what, precisely.

More than one of her servants, she knew, managed to cadge an occasional free drink at the Bull and Boar in exchange for the odd bit of gossip about the folk stopping at the George. There wasn't anything unusual in Neda's interest now that Carleton had been arrested, yet Lizzie found herself being more curt with the girl than was warranted.

"Find Huldspeth and send her to me, will you please, Neda," she said. "Or Molly. Whichever you find first. I promised Mr. . . . Gideon that I would keep this room for him, and I want one of them to air it out. Today," she added with more emphasis when Neda lingered.

"Huldspeth's in the garden, helpin' Bertha gather some o' the last o' the herbs, an' Molly's polishin' brass in the taproom." The sharp little eyes shifted. "You want I should clean it, Miss Lizzie? I can. Be glad to. Really."

"No." Lizzie drew out the word uncertainly, troubled by her irrational doubts about the girl. "That's all right, Neda. I'll mention it to Molly when I finish here. You go on back to the kitchen. You know how Bertha gets if you aren't there when she needs you."

If she knew, Neda gave no sign of it. Her gaze fixed on the saddlebags Lizzie held. "You puttin' 'em away, are you? I'll take 'em for you, then, shall I?"

Lizzie's hold on the bags tightened. "That's not necessary. They'll stay here until Mr. Gideon comes back. Now, go on. Go back to the kitchen, Neda. I'll tend to the rest myself."

This time even Neda couldn't ignore the command. She screwed up her face, sniffed deeply, and then reluctantly did as she was bidden.

It was foolish, she knew, but Lizzie waited until the last sound of the maid's footsteps had died away before she closed the room and went to put the saddlebags safely out of reach.

Gone! Everything was gone! His clothes, saddlebags, shaving gear. All his letters. Everything!

John stood in the middle of his room at the George and swore.

Damn the wench! He'd told her to keep his room for him! Did she think he wasn't coming back? Not three days away and already she'd emptied the place. If there were any travelers at this time of the year, she'd probably have put another man in his bed, as well.

John scowled at the neatly made bed. It shone silver-white in the pale moonlight slipping through the open window, fat with the promise of an almost decadent comfort. Pity he had no time to spare. He would have enjoyed one last night spent between clean sheets.

He had to find his saddlebags and all they contained as quickly as possible, but where to start looking for them in this mouldering pile of lumber?

The answer was obvious. With Lizzie herself, of course.

Her private rooms were at the opposite end of the hall from his. He knew because he'd stood in the dark that first night when he'd heard her come up from the kitchen and watched her slowly trail to bed. He'd thought then that his prying was a mistake because the memory of her slender figure, dimly outlined by the light of the single candle she carried, had figured prominently in his dreams ever since. Now he had his chance for revenge.

He crept down the hallway, making sure to place his feet with care, but the old floor joists creaked and groaned in spite of his caution. Fortunately, her door was unbarred. With no guests to cause trouble, she'd seen no reason to bother locking it.

John grinned as he slowly lifted the latch and eased the heavy door open. Just as well he wasn't staying, because she'd make his life hell in retaliation for this little stunt.

The room was smaller than he'd expected. The unshuttered window let in sufficient moonlight to show the outlines of a tall, narrow bed pushed against the far wall, a wing-back chair set in front of the hearth near the bed, and a table and chair in the open space in front of the door. Easy enough to navigate, even in this dim light.

John eased the door shut as carefully as he'd opened it. He paused, straining to catch any hint that she stirred; then he cautiously started toward the bed.

That was when all hell broke out.

A bloodcurdling screech filled the air, immediately followed by loud groans. Startled, John stumbled, and then took another step forward. The racket must have disoriented him more than he'd thought, because he immediately tripped over a chair he'd have sworn hadn't been there a moment before.

With an oath as bloodcurdling as the screech, John went sprawling. He started to roll, fighting to regain his feet, only to find his legs and cloak somehow tangled in the chair. He swore again, then awkwardly propped his elbow on the floor and levered himself upward. An instant later, a dim black form rose up out of the dark. It swung. Something hard struck the back of his head, and everything went black.

Chapter Seven

John clawed his way up out of the darkness, only to find one of the avenging angels bending over him, the crown of its head haloed in gold and its eyes black, glittering holes that held a grim promise of what lay ahead.

He groanedat least, he thought that awful sound came from his throatand tried to sit up. The angel shoved him roughly back.

"Lie still, you fool. Do you want to start the bleeding again?"

"Lizzie?" His voice was faint, and embarrassingly close to a whimper.

"Lizzie, indeed! That's Mistress Tynsdale to you, sirrah. You may be thankful I didn't kill you!"

He touched the pain at the side of his head. His fingers encountered a gash at his temple and warm, sticky blood that matted his hair and trickled down his cheek. "You mean you didn't?"

"It wasn't from want of trying, I assure you! As it was, you're lucky you were wearing your tricorne. If I'd had more practice at this sort of thing, I'm sure I could have managed to finish the job quite nicely."

He definitely whimpered. "You came damned close, as it was. What did you use? One of the firedogs?"

"Don't be any more of a fool than you absolutely have to," she advised him tartly. "I used the poker."

John winced. Even that small movement roused the throbbing pain in his head. "Trust me, no one would believe you haven't had years of practice."

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

She studied him gravely for a moment, and then turned away. John closed his eyes. The light of the single candle on the table behind her was painful enough. Movement, any movement, made twenty demons dance in his skull.

He heard her pouring water into a basin, then wringing out a cloth, and wondered that such simple actions could be so unbearably loud.

"If you were trying to ravish me," she continued, oblivious to his suffering, "why in the world did you make that awful shrieking noise first?"

"I didn't shriek, and I wasn't trying to ravish you. I" John sucked in his breath at the shock of an ice-cold, wet cloth being pressed against his temple.

"You what?" "I was trying to rob you," he said weakly.

"Indeed?" Her voice was even icier than the cloth, if that was possible.

John ventured to open one eye. Her scowl made him shut it immediately. "Well, not rob, really. Retrieve my belongings."

"I moved your things for safekeeping."

"I noticed, though I can't say I feel one whit safer, thank you very much."

She replaced the cloth with another that was just as icy and wet as the first. "Had you entered the front door during the day and politely requested your effects, I would happily have returned them to you. Minus what you owe me, of course."

He opened his eyes to glare up at her. "That's another thing. I asked you to keep my room for me, yet not three days go by before you're pitching me out, bag and baggage."

"I didn't pitch you out, you were dragged out"

"I walked out!"

". . . and I kept your things safe. All of them. And now it appears you had no intention of paying your shot!" she added acidly.

"Didn't even send me a change of linen, as you promised!"

"The soldiers refused to take them."

"The company was dull, the bed was horrible, and the food was ten times worse," he continued, aggrieved. "I even dreamed of your damned boiled mutton!" She frowned. Then she blinked. And then she threw back her head and laughed.

He'd never heard her laugh before. The sound spilled over him, rich and warm as syrup, soothingly sweet.

He blinked, and realized that his first dazed impression of an angel wasn't so very wrong, after all. The perfect oval of her face, her huge eyes and fine features and delicate coloring, even her full, white nightgown with its ruffled lace at collar and cuffs, were the face and features and gown of the piously prim angels that adorned half the churches in Christendom.

Angelic or not, there was nothing either pious or prim about Lizzie Tynsdale. She'd moved the candle so that she could see more clearly. Now, instead of haloing her in light, it drenched her skin in gold and lit specks of fire in her eyes. She wore no nightcap, and her long, black hair, loosely bound in a braid, fell over her shoulder and down her breast like a rope of shimmering black silk that begged to be unraveled.

Her breasts were soft, full mounds beneath her nightdress. They swayed slightly as she moved, their generous curves only partially obscured by the fullness of her gown. Lower, closer, he could see the curve of her thigh where the fine linen was pulled taut, caught beneath her knee as she knelt. From the neat, square shape of her knees, a tantalizing, linen-covered valley ran upward, only to disappear in the folds of her gown that had gathered in her lap. The folds shifted and filled and shifted again as she moved, hinting at, but never quite revealing, the feminine secrets hidden beneath their discreet gathers.

John groaned and closed his eyes and laid his head back on the floor.

It was, he decided, a very lucky thing that his head was pounding and he couldn't think straight, or he might have been tempted to fall in love with her, right then and there.

If Samuel had been here, she'd have called for help. Of course she would have.

But Samuel wasn't here, fat Bertha was impossible to wake, and Molly, Huldspeth, and Neda would all be far more trouble than the effort it would cost to rouse them. Forget the stable lads altogether. The tale would be halfway to York by tomorrow's supper if they so much as heard a whisper of this. If she actually asked for their help, they'd bluster and boast and talk of nothing else for weeks.

Of course, if sturdy, dependable Samuel had been here, she would never have remained alone in her bedchamber with a man, wounded or not. Especially not a man who had escaped from His Majesty's keeping. Especially not when she was clad only in her nightgown, and the night itself was so far advanced. It wouldn't have crossed her mind. Really.

The logic was inescapable. Since Samuel wasn't here, and there wasn't another soul in the inn she could count on to help, she had to deal with John Carleton by herself.

Not that he was much of a threat in his present condition.

Lizzie frowned, studying the battered and bloodied masculine form stretched out on the floor before her. Was he just a little paler than he'd been a moment before? Or was that simply a trick of the light?

There was no denying that he was greatly the worse for wear. In the panic of waking to a blood-curdling shriek and a horned monster bearing down on her in the dark, she had defended herself with the first weapon that came ready to hand. It was amazing how much damage a fireplace poker could do when you swung it really hard.

He shifted slightly and groaned. ''Damn!" He opened his eyes, squinted painfully against the light, glared, then pressed a hand to his head and groaned again. "Damn, damn, damn!"

Apparently the poker hadn't done that much damage.

Lizzie tossed the bloodstained cloth she held into the basin. "Can you sit up?"

He eyed her warily. "Why? Are you planning on taking another swing at me?"

"Not at the moment, but I make no promises for the future."

"That's not much comfort."

"It's more than you deserve. Come on. Up!"

She bent to help him, but he irritably waved her away and slowly levered himself first up on one elbow, then all the way to a sitting position. He held that for all of two heartbeats before slumping forward to prop his elbows on his knees and cradle his head in his hands.

"Damn!"

"I believe you already said that." In spite of herself, she was beginning to feel guilty for having injured him. Which just showed how soft-headed a woman could get about a man like this.

She rocked back on her heels, thinking hard.

"You can't go on," she said. "Not tonight."

"Have to," he mumbled. He didn't sound too happy about it.

Lizzie ignored him. "I can't put you in your old room. And I won't let you stay in this one."

He turned his head in his hands, just enough so he could glare at her out of the corner of his eye. "Such generosity. I'm surprised you haven't offered me your darkest, dankest cellar."

"I wouldespecially since you already smell like one."

He winced. "Damned moldy straw."

Lizzie ignored his muttering, too. "Trouble is, they're bound to look in the cellars first. And they'll check the stables right after. Probably figure you'd be looking for cleaner accommodation than your last appears to have been."

He grunted. Lizzie took that for agreement.

She frowned, considering options. "The other guest rooms are too risky. Lamberre will check every one of them, and there's never any telling when Molly or Huldspeth will take it into her head to go into one of them."

"Dedicated workers, are they?" he asked sourly.

She grinned. She couldn't help it. "No, but they occasionally take an afternoon's nap when they think I'm not watching."

"Ah," he said, and buried his head in his hands again.

Lizzie shook her head. Men were such sorry creatures at times. And yet . . .

For the first time since she'd realized who it was she'd struck down, Lizzie looked at himreally looked at him. It wasn't an impressive sight.

A three-days' growth of beard blurred the strong line of his jaw. His hair looked as if it hadn't seen a comb in all that time, and now it was matted with blood on one side. By tomorrow the gash would be closing, but he'd have a lump on the side of his head as big as a goose egg. She'd unfastened his cloak, but his coat was rumpled and stained, his breeches were dirty, and his hose and shoes were flecked with mud.

And then there was the smell.

At the moment, John Carleton was shabby, dirty, bloody, and distinctly unheroic. So why did he tease at her senses and stir such troubling, inappropriate emotions without even trying?

Lizzie sternly forced her thoughts back to the problem at hand. "Where'd you leave your horse?"

It cost him an effort to focus on the question. "I set him loose back at the river," he said at last with difficulty, his voice muffled. "Made it look as if he'd fallen on the stones and pitched me in."

"Hmm. That might delay them for a while."

"I only need a few hours to get far enough ahead that they won't catch me." He dragged his head out of his hands, scowling. "And another horse. And my things."

"And a head that's working properly! You won't get anywhere, the shape you're in now."

"And whose fault is that, I'd like to know?"

"Yours, and don't pretend otherwise!"

To think that not a minute ago she'd thought he was appealing! The man was rude, opinionated, and obnoxiously ill-tempered.

And she was a fool.

Lizzie sighed. If she had a scrap of sense, she'd throw him out and let Lamberre deal with him. But when it came to John Carleton, whatever sense she had seemed to walk out whatever door he came in.

She grabbed hold of his arm. "Come on, then. There's really only one safe place to put you, much as I hate to do it. But we'll never get there if you don't get on your feet and quit this unmanly whimpering."

He'd been seeing two of everything since he'd come to. When it was two of Lizzie, seeing double wasn't such a bad thing. But two of the cold, grim room in front of him was definitely two too many. Especially when there were a dozen hammers ruthlessly pounding away on the inside of his skull. John frowned, screwing up his face and narrowing his eyes until he was looking through slits, trying to make the place resolve itself into one coherent image. He succeeded, but it didn't improve the prospect before him one whit.

"This is where you're sticking me?"

"They'll never think to look for you here. This room has been closed up for almost twenty-five years."

"Has to have been," he grumbled. "You don't get cobwebs like that in a week." He turned, studying the room. The movement stirred up a cloud of dust from the thick layer coating the floor, making him sneeze.

"Or dust, for that matter," he added sourly. Even a simple sneeze was enough to set the hammers pounding with redoubled force.

Lizzie wasn't paying any attention. She moved forward as though in a daze, one hand clutching the heavy shawl she'd thrown over her shoulders as if it were armor to protect against something only she could see. Her eyes grew huge as she held the candle higher, trying to peer into the cobweb-shrouded corners.

"Twenty-five years," she said, almost too low for John to catch. There was an odd note of puzzled wonder in her voice, as if the room and whatever memories it contained amazed her as much as its condition appalled him.

If he weren't in such a damnably weak state, he'd grab a horse and be gone long before Lamberre and his men poked their ugly snouts in the King George's door.

Unfortunately, Lizzie was righthe wasn't going anywhere. Even the walk from her chamber had been an effort; right now he was so dizzy that standing upright was a challenge. At this rate, he wasn't likely to get out of the inn yard . . . if he even made it that far.

At least the room was dry. All he'd have to contend with would be cobwebs and dust, instead of mildew and damp and all their attendant miseries. After his quarters of the past three days, a few spiders weren't likely to disturb his sleep.

And Lizzie was right about something elseas long as he kept quiet, no one was likely to suspect his presence here. The room had been locked away from the world for a quarter of a century. In all that time, people would have come to believe it was closed foreverif they even remembered it existed at all. The key Lizzie had dug out of the bottom of a chest in her room had almost snapped off when she'd tried to force the rusted lock.

John glanced at Lizzie. She stood, candle held high, silently studying the room about them. Her back was to him, but even under the obscuring bulk of her shawl he could see the tension in her shoulders.

He sighed, suddenly ashamed. He was a surly, ill-tempered ingrate, and no mistake. She risked a great deal by hiding him. Perhaps even more than he did in hiding here. The least he could do was offer a little courtesy in return. "It must have been a pleasant room at one time," he said, grasping at the first thing that came to mind, trying to atone for his earlier rudeness. "Why would your grandfather close it off like this?"

For a moment he wasn't sure she'd even heard him. Then she slowly turned to face him, her eyes so wide and dark they seemed to swallow her pale face.

"My mother died here." Her voice was flat, without inflection.

John flinched, silently cursing himself and his stupidity. He should have guessed. If his head had been in proper working order, he would have.

"I . . . I'm sorry. How did she die? In childbed?"

"No." The single word hung in the cold, still air, cutting in its intensity.

Just when John thought that was all she would say, she reluctantly added, "She killed herself. Shot herself through the breast with a redcoat's musket while I lay in my cradle in the kitchen." She took a deep, unsteady breath. "I was four months old at the time."

Before John could think of anything to say in response, she'd crossed to the door and roughly tugged it open. With one hand still on the latch, she hesitated a moment, and then abruptly turned to look back at him.

"Sleep well, John Carleton. Heal quickly. I want you out of here as soon as it's safe and you're able to ride." Their gazes locked. "If not sooner," she added firmly.

An instant later she was pulling the door shut behind her, leaving him in the dark.

"I don't like this, Bess," Oliver growled. "I don't like this one bit."

Bess, her expression troubled, glanced at him, then at the door through which their daughter had gone. And then she glanced at the shabby, unwashed colonial standing in the middle of the room like an ox struck dumb.

"I don't either, my love, but maybe, if we manage things aright, something good might come of this. I have a feeling about him and Lizzie, you know. A good feeling."

"Arrgghh," Oliver growled again, disgusted. He threw a glance compounded of frustration and irritation at the unwelcome colonial before turning back to his beloved. "Come along, Bess. I haven't the heart to deal with him right now. Egad! A colonial! Here! And to think that our Lizzie brought him! It's past all bearing."

And with that, he swirled through the door and out of the room without bothering to see if Bess was following.

John listened to the key grating in the lock, then the faint sound of her slippered feet moving away down the hall.

And then there was nothing but the silence of a room that had stood empty for a quarter of a century, claimed by ghosts and bitter memories and nothing more.

What was it about England that made people cling so passionately to the past? His father had built a home and a future for himself in the New World, yet it was the past that had ruled his thoughts. Even dying, he had fought to rectify the mistakes of a half century gone, sent his son to do what he could not. And now here was Lizzie, mired in the memory of events that had occurred when she was still a suckling babe.

John understood none of it. He never had. Perhaps he was too much a product of the New World, where it was the future that mattered, not the past.

He drew a deep breath, then another. It wasn't a question he cared to worry about tonight. His head throbbed where Lizzie had struck him, and the chill of the room was beginning to seep into his bones. He must get what rest he could in the short hours ahead. Tomorrow night he'd have to be away as soon as might be, for Lizzie's sake far more than for his own.

He turned back to the room, trying to reorient himself in the dark.

The chamber's single window was unshuttered, but twenty-five years of dust and dirt had coated its panes so effectively that only a faint hint of moonlight trickled into the room. Most of the details had merged into the night, but the bed, at least, was visible, a vast, gray bulk afloat in the blackness. He thought longingly of the deep, warm, clean feather bed just down the hall. His feather bed, even if Lizzie had removed his things.

Ah, well.

Resigned, he cautiously felt his way over to the bed. He hit the bedpost with his forehead a second before his shin collided with its base. Pain shot through his head and up his leg. He grabbed hold of the bedpost, swearing softly, and then wearily leaned his head against the wood. His head spun in a nauseating whirl.

Had she really had to hit him so damned hard?

Once the worst of the dizziness passed, he eased around the treacherous post and groped his way along the coverlet to the head of the bed. His fumbling touch raised invisible clouds of dust that tickled his nose and made his eyes water.

He grabbed the top edge of the coverlet and pulled it up, giving it a hard shake to dislodge twenty-five years' accumulation of dust. A second later he almost collapsed in a fit of sneezing. The fit soon passed, but it had set a dozen more hammers pounding inside his skull so ferociously it seemed they'd shatter the bone itself, and him along with it.

For an instant, he considered curling up in a chair in his cloak, but the chairs and floor would be hard and as dusty as the coverlets, with his cloak poor protection against the cold. There was no help for itwithout removing his boots, he reluctantly climbed into bed and pulled the covers up. John sneezed, cursed weakly, then closed his eyes and wearily laid his head on the pillows.

''You what? Him? In there?" Fat Bertha stopped kneading the morning's bread and stared at her in astonishment. "Have you gone out of your mind?"

Lizzie winced at the cook's shrill disbelief. She'd counted on Bertha for support, not condemnation. While Samuel was gone, there wasn't anyone else she could count on.

"I didn't have any choice, Bertha. What did you expect me to do? Hold him for Lamberre? Me?"

Bertha opened her mouth, then closed it, then abandoned her precious bread and slowly sank down in her chair. She shook her head, bewildered, and sighed. "All things considered, I suppose you wouldn't. But that doesn't mean you're wise to do it, and so I warn you!"

"I don't need any warnings, I assure you! No one knows better than I just what those redcoats are capable of."

"And no one seems less inclined to remember it!"

Lizzie didn't bother to respond to that. "All I'm asking, Bertha, is that you discreetly set aside a little food for him. I can't take him anything during the day, of course, and I'm not about to get up as early as I did this morning. But at night I can slip him enough to tide him over until the following night. A few days, a week at most, and he should have recovered from that blow I gave him."

"And then he'll leave." It wasn't a question. "Of course."

Bertha snorted. "There's no 'of course' about it. Last night he might have been thinking of nothing except escape, but I guarantee that once his head gets to working again, he'll start thinking about his real reason for being here." She paused, then leaned forward across the table as if to ensure that Lizzie heard every word she said. "And once he starts thinking about that, we're in for more trouble."

Lizzie opened her mouth to protest, but snapped it closed instead.

"I've known you since you were in your cradle. Knew your mother before you, and you take after her in more ways than I'd ever care to count."

"I do not!"

"You do! More ways than you'll ever admit to, say what you will. The way you look, for one thing. That temper of yours, for another."

"How I look has nothing to do with the matter. And between Lamberre and his men and this annoying colonial and his problems, it's enough to fire the temper of a saint."

Bertha studied her across the table. "That's as may bethough it's a waste of good breath to compare yourself to a saint. Even if you had the soul of one, which you don't, that face and figure of yours would drag you into trouble whether you wanted to go or no. Isn't a man born who wouldn't be tempted by you, just as they were tempted by your mother."

"I never" "No, you never did, but that's because your head has ruled so farwhich is more than Bess's ever did for her. But I saw that colonial, and what I'll say is, he'd have given your father a fair run when it comes to devilish charm. Once you let your heart get the upper hand . . ."

Bertha snorted; then her mouth pinched shut on whatever else she'd meant to say, as if at a bad taste.

Any other time, Lizzie might have argued with her. Tonight, all she could think of was that colonial, the way he'd looked, what he'd said, the warmth of him beneath her hand.

Little though she liked to admit it, Lizzie had the unpleasant feeling Bertha might be right.

Chapter Eight

The lieutenant and his men arrived just as Lizzie was sitting down to her midday meal.

She heard the commotion in the taproom, immediately followed by the sound of several pairs of booted feet tramping down the kitchen hallway toward her. At least the weather had been clear the past couple of days. They weren't likely to track in mud, however much other damage they did in their search. Huldspeth would be pleased with that.

A soldier flung open the heavy kitchen door, then stood rigidly to attention as Lamberre strolled past him and into the kitchen. At the insolent intrusion, Scruff, the kitchen dog, growled low in his throat, then slunk under the table, safely out of reach of any booted foot that might be aimed at him in retaliation.

After one sharp glance of pure loathing, Lamberre ignored the beast and turned his attention full-force on Lizzie.

"I trust I do not intrude?" he said. His tone made it very clear he hoped he did.

"You do," said Lizzie placidly. She pointedly kept her attention on the fish she was deboning. "Not that I expect good manners or common courtesy to stop you."

"You're very perceptive."

Lizzie glanced up at him, snorted, and returned her attention to her fish.

That enraged him far more than a fight would have. Lamberre angrily pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down. "Where is he?"

Lizzie lifted out a large bone and set it neatly on the side of her plate. "Who?"

"Your colonial guest."

She paused with her knife and fork theatrically poised in midair. "He's not my guest. Not since you dragged him out of my best parlor. And tracked mud all over my clean floors," she added pointedly.

Lamberre eyed her suspiciously. "You haven't seen him?"

Lizzie deliberately set down her knife, then her fork, crossed her arms on the table in front of her, and leaned across her plate toward him. "Are you telling me you've lost him, Lieutenant? One arrogant colonial? With how many stout English guards?"

His mouth thinned in distaste. Added to the still-angry scrape on his cheek and the bruises that were turning a singularly ugly shade of green, it made for a forbidding expression.

"I didn't lose him," Lamberre said, irritated. "My men let him escape, the fools!"

She could hear the soldier behind her shift uncomfortably. John Carleton had better hope they never caught him, because once Lamberre was through with him, the soldiers would make him pay twice over for whatever they'd suffered as a result of his escape.

"What do you expect me to do about it?" she demanded. "Do you think I can find him when you and your men cannot?"

"No, I expect you to give him up to me. Now." He smiled, but the smile never touched his eyes. "Just think of the havoc my men will wreak on your floor, among other things, if they have to poke through your inn looking for him."

"They'd be well advised not to cause any damage. I'll demand redress if they do!"

"From whom? The magistrate?" He laughed. "Lord Malloran is more likely to dismantle your inn himself if Gideon's not found. You'll get no comfort in that direction."

He was right, of course, but Lizzie wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

"I should like to be there when you tell his lordship that you and a dozen of King George's men were insufficient to hold on to one unarmed colonial," she said cordially instead.

The shot hit home. "I intend to have Gideon back in my hands before nightfall." His eyes narrowed in warning. "You may be sure he won't slip free a second time."

When Lizzie didn't respond, he lifted his head to glare at the soldier standing guard at the open kitchen door. "Derryham!"

The soldier at the door snapped to attention. "Sir!"

"Tell Sergeant Wilson I want him to redouble his efforts to find that man, even if it means turning over every footstool and rooting into every linen chest in the place. Is that clear?"

"Sir! Yes, sir!"

"Well?" Lamberre demanded a moment later, when the soldier hadn't moved.

"Am I dismissed, sir?"

The look on Lamberre's face was sufficient answer. The man's heels snapped together"Sir!"and he fled.

Lizzie sighed, resigned. It was going to take hours, if not days, to clean up the wreckage the angry, resentful soldiers would shortly be leaving in their wake.

Lamberre and his men wouldn't find Carleton, but by the time she got through with him afterward, he might well wish they had!

Something, he wasn't sure what, dragged John out of sleep. He blinked stupidly, staring up at the ceiling while trying to remember where he was.

The inn. Lizzie.

He sucked in his breath. Lizzie.

He remembered Lizzie, remembered her bending over him, her hair looped over her shoulder, her only garment a virginally white gown that did nothing to hide the soft, tantalizing movement of her breasts and

He let out his breath in disappointment.

Lizzie? In her nightgown? With her breasts unbound and her hair wantonly free?

Impossible. God would never be that kind to him.

John closed his eyes regretfully. He'd been dreaming, then. He burrowed deeper into the covers, intending to recapture some of the dream while he still might. Instead, he stirred a cloud of dust that set him sneezing.

His eyes whipped back open. This wasn't his clean, comfortable feather bed at the George.

He carefully shoved back the dusty covers and struggled up. His head rocked dizzily for a moment, then slowly settled as the rest of the room swam into focus.

There wasn't much to see, especially in the dull light creeping through the dirt-grimed window. With the light, memory came trickling back. Lizzie had been in her nightgown. But instead of seducing him, she'd tried her best to cave in his skull with a fireplace poker.

That sounded more like his Lizzie. Unfortunately. Gingerly, he probed the wound, flinching at the sting of still-raw flesh. Not too bad, really. He'd had worse, but never inflicted by a woman, especially a woman out of his most erotic fantasies.

John sighed and dropped his hand. So much for erotic fantasies. He'd be better advised to figure out what was going on, and what he ought to do next.

It was hard to tell through the dirt coating the window, but he had the sense it must be about midday, give or take an hour or two. His stomach grumbled, confirming his estimate.

Lizzie had come back well before dawn bearing bread, meat, cheese, and a jug of her good, stout ale. He'd slept fitfully before then, plagued by headache and bad dreams, but he'd welcomed the food and drink. After three days of nothing but water, weak tea, and the old woman's abominable food, he'd devoured the simple, flavorful repast, downed all the ale, and fallen back into bed and a deep, restful sleep that had stopped the aching in his head and, he was beginning to realize uncomfortably, filled his bladder close to bursting.

Moving slowly so as not to stir the dust, John eased out of bed, and then knelt to fish under the bed for a chamber pot. To his relief, it was right where it ought to be, a big, crude china pot with a lid.

He had it halfway out from under the bed when shouts and the sound of booted feet tramping around in the hall below made him freeze.

They were here, then, Lamberre and his men. The noise of their search was probably what had wakened him in the first place.

He cursed softly and glared at the door. Damn them, every one! Now he wouldn't be able to use the chamber pot for fear the sound would bring them to his hiding place.

John carefully slid the pot back under the bed. Out of sight, out of mind. He was a man, after all. He could manage.

Lizzie had neither time nor energy to spare for worrying about John Carleton. She had her hands full dealing with an outraged cook, two hysterical chambermaids, a goggle-eyed scullery maid, an angry hostler, and two excited stable ladsnot to mention half the rest of the neighborhood, all of whom had flocked to the George at the first hint of excitement and were managing to get underfoot no matter which way she turned.

So far, Lamberre's dragoons hadn't actually broken anythingLizzie didn't count the crock of kitchen slops that Bertha had flung at a redcoat who'd tried to invade her territorybut they had turned things topsy-turvy, creating enough disorder to keep a half dozen chambermaids busy for a week.

The only consolation was that the unproductive uproar irritated Lamberre even more than it did her.

"Are you satisfied, Lieutenant?" Lizzie demanded as the last of the redcoats who'd been detailed to search the grounds and outlying buildings trailed into the central hall to report failure. ''You've seen his room and there was nothing there. And though I confess I don't know how, the man obviously broke in somehow to gather his things and take them with him. I told you he wasn't in the cellar or the stables or anyplace else you seem convinced he might be."

"How kind of you to tell us all the places you haven't hidden him." Lamberre glared at her with distaste. "I'd suggest you tell me where you did hide him, so that my men won't be forced to ransack the rest of your so charming inn."

"What? And deny them the pleasure of causing even more destruction than they already have? I wouldn't dream of it!" For a moment, Lizzie thought he was going to strike her.

"Sarcasm ill becomes you, Mistress Tynsdale. You'd be well advised not to push me too far."

Lizzie propped her fists on her hips and leaned toward him. Her own temper was frayed close to the breaking point. "Or what, Lieutenant?"

An enraged shriek emanated from the nether regions of the kitchen, immediately followed by the sound of shattering crockery and the rapid thud-thud-thud of footsteps retreating at double time. Judging from the ribald comments and hoots of laughter that greeted the soldier's flight, Bertha had sacrificed another slop potbut to greater purpose this time.

For an instant, Lamberre stood there, head high and nostrils flaring, listening to the rout of his bold follower. Then he swung back to confront her, teeth bared. "Or I will make very sure you regret it."

When Lizzie refused to reply or retreat, he spun about on his heel to glare at the dragoons nervously clustered a few feet away. "Search the rooms above," he snapped. "All of them!"

His men cringed and almost tripped over each other in their haste to obeyand to put as much distance between them and him as possible.

Lizzie watched them charge up the stairs like hounds at the hunt, baying and making so much noise that any hare within a mile would probably dart away in terror.

As long as John Carleton didn't move, they would be all right.

John cautiously got to his feet and crept across the room in his stockinged feet to the table, where the remnants of his early morning repast were laid out. The two chairs were straight-backed and uncomfortable, but he'd be less likely to sneeze if every move he made didn't stir a cloud of dust.

He ignored the last piece of cheese and hunk of bread. The jug, with perhaps half a tankard's worth of ale remaining, he cautiously set under the table where he couldn't see it; then he settled on the chair to wait until it was safe to move again.

Just in time. What sounded like an army of dragoons thundered up the stairs and started banging open doors with vicious enthusiasm. Lamberre's displeasure at his escape had no doubt been profoundly unpleasant, and he obviously hadn't hesitated to share it with the men who'd let him go. That meant the dragoons would be more than eager to take revenge for their suffering if they ever caught up with the cause of it.

He listened to the noises from the hall, trying to gauge where the soldiers were and what they were doing. He crossed his legs, sliced off some cheese, then turned it over and over in his hand without taking a bite.

John considered the possibility of the dragoons breaking down the door to this chamber in spite of local legend and Lizzie's protests. He thought about the ale and the chamber pot. He thought about what he would do if he were Lamberre trying to chase an escaped prisoner, recrossed his legs, and reminded himself that he was not thinking about the ale or the chamber pot. He mentally reviewed the various ways he could slip out of the window and away from the inn, shifted uncomfortably on the chair, and sworesilently, but with heartfelt fluency.

The closer the search came to this end of the hall, the more he thought about the jug of ale under the table and the chamber pot under the bed only a few feet away. And the more he thought about them, the greater his urge to use the pot. The greater his need to.

If he were forced to climb out the window now, he'd shame himself for sure.

John cursed Lamberre and his ancestors back to the seventh generation, and every one of his descendants who were yet to be born. He cursed the soldiers, individually and collectively, and all of their relations, living and dead. And he cursed himself, for having drunk the ale in the first place.

And then he groaned softly and hunched deeper into the chair and tried desperately to focus on the blank wall opposite.

It was going to be a long, miserable search, and there wasn't a chance in hell the soldiers would give up easily or soon.

Lizzie gave them a few minutesjust enough for them to find the locked doorand then she sailed up after them, majestic in her outraged dignity.

She'd judged their progress to perfection. Lamberre stood before the door at the far end of the crooked little hallway, fizzing with rage at the dragoon cowering before him. Three more dragoons were clustered a prudent distance to the rear of their suffering comrade.

"Do you dare," Lamberre demanded, "do you truly dare to tell me that you're such a spineless coward that you'd balk at this?"

The soldier nervously eyed first his commanding officer, then the door, then Lamberre again. "No, sir. Beggin' yer pardon, sir. Only, there's tales about that room. 'Orrible tales. It's temptin' fate, that's what it is, if we was to open that room now."

"Fool!"

The soldier nodded and gave a sick, queasy smile. "Yes, sir. Ye're right, sir. But I still wouldn't care to do it." "Not that there's any reason to," Lizzie called sharply, storming toward them. The three dragoons at the rear gladly made room for her by backing up another five feet. "No one has been in that room for years, Lieutenant. My grandfather didn't allow it, and neither have I!"

Lamberre stiffened, then slowly swung around to face her, outrage in every line of his lean body.

Lizzie's gaze locked with his. "I've let your men search where they liked, Lieutenant. And that despite my suspicion that they were bred in a cow byre, for all the manners they've displayed! But this! This is too much! I won't have it, I tell you, I won't!"

"Indeed?" It was amazing how much threat he could get into that one word. He eyed her narrowly. "So those old stories are true," he said at lastslowly, as though savoring each word.

Lizzie's cheeks flamed. She lifted her chin a fraction. "Since I've no idea what kind of ridiculous tales you may have heard, I can scarcely be expected to confirm or deny them. But I wouldn't advise you to believe even the half of them, Lieutenant. Nor even a quarter."

"Not even a quarter?" His right eyebrow slid mockingly upward. "Pity."

Her chin came up another fraction of an inch. "You might call it that. I certainly shan't." Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the dragoons cautiously edging backward toward the stairs.

"You, there!" he roared, pointing at one of the retreating men. "Break this door down. Now!" His eyes rolling in panic, the man glanced at his companions, seeking support. When they merely shoved him away, he reluctantly edged forward. "Yes, sir."

His grip on his musket tightened until his knuckles shone white; then he raised the weapon over his head, ready to slam the butt into the solid wood.

A demon's shriek suddenly filled the narrow hall. A wind, colder than ice, swept past them in a rush and a roar, slicing through them as easily as if they were the wraiths who haunted the place.

The dragoons held their ground for a second, but when the shrieking was followed by shrill, maniacal laughter, they broke ranks and ran, Lamberre or no.

Lizzie pressed back against the wall, mouth open, heart racing as the wind tore at her, tugging at her cap and hair and whipping her skirts against her legs as fiercely as if she were out on the open moors.

Lamberre crouched, sword in hand, ready to fight, but there was nothing to see, no enemy anywhereonly the wind and the ungodly, nerverattling laughter.

"Come out, you!" he shouted, brandishing his weapon. "Come out and fight!"

The wind roared in defiance, unimpressed. The laughter rose higher, wilder, mocking his bravery.

Lamberre lunged, spun about, and then backed down the hall, flailing and thrusting at the empty, ice-cold air. "Damn you! Show yourself! Coward!" The laughter became a wild cackle, a ghostly, arrogant crow of triumph.

And then the wind died, so abruptly that Lamberre staggered, off balance. The cackling laughter ended the moment the wind died, leaving a pulsing silence in its wake.

The silence roared in Lizzie's ears and echoed in the cramped, dark hall. Her heartbeat seemed loud enough to be heard downstairs.

Puzzled, clearly unsure of himself, Lamberre straightened, looking about him as if he expected to find an explanation in the walls or timbers or floors. He slammed his sword back in its sheath and loomed over her angrily.

"How did you do that? Who . . . ?" His question died on his lips. His gaze raked her face. Somethingher own wild-eyed terror, perhapsmust have convinced him she knew no more about the phenomenon than he.

He spun to glare at the door that was the cause of his troubles, then back to glare at her. His jaw worked as though he were chewing on a hundred angry thoughts. Not a single word came out. An instant later he was gone.

Lizzie heard his footsteps on the stairs and across the stone floor of the lower hall, then the slam of the outer door. Then nothing. The dragoons had clearly abandoned the George.

She let out the breath she'd been holding with a great whoosh of relief and slumped against the wall behind her. It was true, then. The room, the inn itself, really was haunted. The other night in the parlor, when something had spilled the wine into John Carleton's lap, she'd thought she believed. But now . . . now she knew, and life would never be quite the same because of it.

Had Carleton heard the shrieking? she wondered. Had he felt the wind? If the ghost objected to an attempt to break down the door, how much more might it have objected to Carleton's presence in the room?

She didn't dare unlock the door for fear that Lamberre would suddenly reappearit wasn't likely any dragoon would. Maybe if she just tapped on the door, or whispered through the keyhole? Some little sign to let him know the redcoats were gone, something to reassure herself he was all right.

Reluctantly, Lizzie straightened away from the wall, but before she could knock, she caught the sounds of footsteps rapidly crossing the room, then a thump and the scrape of something being dragged a short way along the floor. It wasn't loud, but it was enough to reassure her that her unwelcome guest hadn't died of frightor her assault on him.

Relieved, Lizzie headed toward the stairs. It wouldn't hurt to make sure that Lamberre and his men were well away from the George. As for Carleton, she'd worry about him later. Much later.

"That was so clever of you, Oliver!" Bess said admiringly. "Doesn't take much to frighten off a redcoat," said Oliver dismissively, even as his chest expanded with satisfaction.

"And here I thought you didn't like the colonial."

Oliver's chest deflated. He frowned, and glared at the door. "I don't. But I can't let them find him and blame our Lizzie, can I?"

"Of course not. Though I think I will just look in on him. See how he's doing, you know. Just in case you frightened him as much as those redcoats!"

Before Oliver could stop her, she'd floated through the door and into her former bedchamber. She reappeared not a minute later, giggling and giving the ghostly equivalent of a blush.

"Oh, my!" she said. "Really, I must remember how easy it is to barge in when I shouldn't."

"Why? Damned colonial ain't up to something he shouldn't be, is he? I tell you, Bess, I won't have it! If it weren't for our Lizzie, I"

"Oh, no! It's nothing like that! Well, not the way you mean, at any rate. But the more I see of that man, the more I think he'd be just right for our Lizzie. I tell you, he's been blessed, Oliver! Blessed!"

"Wha"

"Just as you are. And say what they will, it does make a difference, you know!"

"What are you talking about?" Oliver demanded, thoroughly bewildered.

"It was one of the things that attracted me to you in the first place. How well you filled out your breeches, I mean. Front and back!" Bess beamed with satisfaction. "Well, John Carleton fills his breeches exactly the same, and it's none of it padding, I'm happy to say. I only stayed a moment, you know, but I could tell!"

"Bess!" Oliver roared, shocked and indignant.

Bess gave another giggle. "Though if he keeps up at the rate he was going, he's going to need another chamber pot very soon!"

Chapter Nine

Lizzie spent the afternoon harrying Molly and Huldspeth and Neda in cleaning up the disaster the dragoons had left in their wake. The three women silently scuttled about their tasks, heads down and wary of her temper.

They readily attributed her anger to the midday visitation, and Lizzie was more than happy to let them go on thinking it. She didn't care to admit, even to herself, that her foul mood was due more to her own mental turmoil than to anger at the destruction the lieutenant's men had wrought.

There were no ghosts. She told herself that over and over and over again. Her parents did not haunt the George, and she was not concerned about John Carleton or his presence in her inn.

Yet no matter how often Lizzie tried to convince herself that ghosts did not exist and her uninvited guest was no more than an irritation to be dealt with, she couldn't quite manage to believe either argumenther thoughts insisted on straying to that locked room with its troublesome occupant and its even more troubling secrets.

If only he had something to do. Anything that would occupy his hands and divert his thoughts.

John gloomily stared at the accumulation of cobwebs that had consumed one corner of the ceiling. Somethinganything!so long as it helped pass the time!

He dragged out the second chair so he'd have someplace to prop his feet, and immediately regretted the move. After twenty-five years in one place, the chair had accumulated enough dust to make a rock sneeze. John Carleton was not a rock, and the sneezing fit the dust brought on set off the headache that sleep and a jug of ale had managed to quiet.

With a growl of disgust, he propped up his feet, crossed his arms over his chest, and glowered at the dusty floor.

It was one thing not to use a room, but you'd think someone would have cleaned the place every now and then. Once a year wouldn't have been unreasonable. Maybe even every other year. But twenty-five years without dusting? He'd slept in barns that were cleaner!

When Lizzie reappeared, he'd have something to say about the matter. After this place, even a damp cellar sounded good!

Another night in the taproom with only Neda to clear the tables and mop up the spills.

Lizzie scowled at the room and its occupants. It wouldn't be so bad if she had help with serving, but Huldspeth was terrified of facing the unabashed public interest in her condition, and Molly, despite Huldspeth's example, flirted outrageously with any male under the age of seventy if she was given half a chance. Lizzie suspected the maid conveniently forgot to charge some of the more eligible unmarried men, as well, though she'd never been able to prove it.

If Samuel didn't come home soon, she had a good mind to ride out after him and drag him back, shrewish sister or no.

Lizzie propped her hands at the base of her spine and slowly arched backward, trying to ease the strain of overtired muscles. She'd already had two cups of Bertha's willow-bark tea for her headache, but there was nothing that would ease the soreness in her feet but a good, hot soak and a few hours' rest.

It wouldn't be so bad if she didn't glance at the corner by the hearth so often, the corner where her unwelcome guest had sat that first night, watching her. He wasn't there, of course, yet there were times she'd swear she could see himthe height and dark breadth of him, the dangerously tempting laughter that glittered in his eyes and hid at the corners of his mouth. There were even times she thought she could feel him, feel his gaze following her as she drew the tankards of ale and jugs of wine, feel his presence a step behind her as she moved about the crowded room.

If it weren't for the unpleasant reality of her headache, tired back, and sore feet, she might have thought she was dreaming. At least the tea was starting to work. The stretch helped . . . a little. Her feet would simply have to make do for a little while longer.

With a sigh, Lizzie gathered the tankards she'd refilled and got back to work. William Woodfordehe of the famously wandering handswas holding court in front of the fire, and his lengthy pontifications, she'd learned, were thirsty work for audience and speaker alike.

''They say as how that lieutenant is nigh on to drivin' his men mad, what with his tempers an' his swearin' as how they ought to find that colonial what got away from 'em," he informed his listeners.

Since his farm began at the northern boundary of the lawyer Drayton's land, neatly between the lieutenant's billet and that of his soldiers, Woodforde had proven a ready source of information about the redcoats' comings and goings. The assembled farmers and laborers nodded to show they appreciated the information . . . and the lieutenant's troubles.

"Not to mention," Woodforde continued, "that his lordship is forever sendin' messages, tellin' the lieutenant he's to do this thing, or that thing, or t'other. Some of 'em rather sharp in their language, too, from what I hear. And every time the lieutenant gets one, he goes into another of his rages, until his men are ready to shoot that colonial on sight, supposin' they ever catch up to him, which I take leave to doubt."

Thomas Gaines cackled in appreciation of the jest and cast a speculative look at Lizzie. "I heard as wot the lieutenant's thinkin' the runaway might be hidin' close somewhere hereabouts. You wouldn't know nothin' about that, now, would you, Lizzie?"

Even Lizzie's most potent frown failed to quell the old man. "Let the lieutenant think what he likes," she said, plunking a newly filled tankard down in front of one of the assembled men. "It's none of my business."

"No, no more is it." Thomas's wrinkled face screwed up in speculative interest. "That is, assumin' you bein't the one as is hidin' him."

"I? Knowingly hide a man wanted by the Crown? Not to mention lose the cost of his lodging and food?" Lizzie snatched his half-empty tankard from his hands. "You'll have no more ale from me tonight, Thomas Gaines, since what you've had so far seems to have addled your brains."

The circle laughed in appreciation of the jest, Thomas right along with them. The minute Lizzie turned to set down another drink, he snatched his own tankard back.

"What I don't understand," said Garrick Utley, "is why he should have called hisself Gideon if he was rightly a Carleton an' his lordship's rightful heir. Suspicious, that's what I call it. Suspicious!"

Woodforde propped his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, his tankard cradled in his hands. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial note. "I've heard tell he was that anxious to talk to Mr. Randall as a body wouldn't scarcely credit. Got it from Mr. Randall's steward, who had it from the butler, who talked to him when he called. Straight after he'd visited his lordship, that was, which I do think is more than a little interestin', all things considered."

Utley tugged on his lower lip thoughtfully. "Aye, it gives a body pause, wonderin', what with his lordship having been at daggers drawn with Mr. Randall since he come into the estate, and with Randall's father afore him. He wouldn't've thought that much of this young Mr. Carleton's going visiting. Not to my way of thinking, he wouldn't've!"

The assembled company nodded to indicate that their ways of thinking coincided nicely with Utley's. All except Utley, who was as willing to argue one side as the other, just for the pleasure of arguing.

"On t'other hand," he said, with the air of a judge forced to speak for the defense, "could be he's one o' them imposters as tries to steal what ain't rightfully theirs. Could be he heard all he needed to, what with us conversin' so open, like, that first night. Maybe he figured 'twould be a good thing to try could he convince his lordship and Mr. Randall he was someone he warn't."

More nods, this time accompanied by thoughtful frowns.

"Nawr, it be more than that," said Woodforde. "The lieutenant's not one to go off like that were it nothin' more than just a fool tryin' to pass hisself off as another fool."

"No more is he," said old Thomas, "but he might find it were worth his while if this fellow was to disappear, convenient-like, beforetimes. If you take my meanin'," he added with a dark, knowing frown.

A murmur from the ranks of listeners indicated they took his meaning all too well.

"Aye, there's that," said Woodforde, sweeping his audience with his sharp gaze. "It'd be interestin' t' know just what his lordship and the lieutenant is thinkin', t' get so stirred up about, legal heir or no. It all makes a body wonder. It definitely makes a body wonder."

"Yes," said Thomas Gaines, "it do." And he gave Lizzie a knowing look over the top of his tankard an instant before he disappeared behind it altogether.

That brought Lizzie out of her grim-faced attention to the discussion. She turned, determined to ignore the troubled thoughts the conversation had prodded, and found Neda watching her, a tray of empty tankards in her hands and a sharp, speculative look on her thin face.

The instant she realized she'd been noticed, Neda ducked her head and scuttled away. Lizzie watched until the maid disappeared into the kitchen. That was another thing to be laid to John Gideon/Carleton's account, she decided with a grimaceher sudden doubts as to how far she could trust her own servants.

It wasn't a question Lizzie had ever asked herself before. It wasn't a question she wanted to worry about now, even though there was a great deal more riding on the answer than she wanted to admit, even to herself.

By the time she barred the outer door behind the last of the evening's customers, Lizzie's feet were aching worse than ever and her temper had frayed to the breaking point.

Bertha offered not one drop of sympathy. "You'll wear yourself to a string, stomping around here in a temper like you have," said the old cook, deftly pouring out a cup of tea from the pot she'd had brewing.

"The soldiers"

"Wasn't the soldiers set you off like this. I know."

"Do you have the basket of food for him, as I asked?" Lizzie demanded, abruptly changing the subject.

The old cook hesitated, and then nodded reluctantly. "More than enough to last him through another daythough if you've any sense, you'll give him the food and a horse and send him on his way, before he drags more trouble here after him." "I would if I could," said Lizzie, and tried to believe that was really the truth. "But Lamberre's men are going to be on the alert, and there's still enough of a moon that they'd be able to see a solitary rider on the moors. I hate to think what would happen if they were to catch him now, especially mounted on one of our horses and with a trail behind him that would lead straight back here."

Even Bertha couldn't argue with that, though the martial light in her eyes said she would have if there'd been the slightest chance of her convincing Lizzie otherwise. With a sigh, the cook lumbered to her feet and went to fetch the basket of food she'd prepared.

The movement roused Scruff from his favorite sleeping spot under the table. The dog sat up, a mournful look in his eyes, then climbed to his feet and padded across the kitchen after Bertha.

The cook unlocked the cupboard where the more expensive spices and cooking supplies were kept and pulled a napkin-covered basket out of its depths. She gave the basket's contents a quick check before relocking the cupboard.

"I had to hide it," she explained, setting the basket on the table in front of Lizzie. "Neda was watching, and I'd swear she was counting every scrap of bread and hunk of cheese I put in there. I sent her about her work, of course, but the sly way she did it . . ."

The cook frowned and shook her head. "I've said, time and again, that I don't trust that girl. But I especially don't trust her now, when you've something to hide."

"What can she possibly do?" Lizzie asked. The last thing she wanted right now was another argument over the scullery maid, regardless of Neda's curiosity in the taproom.

Bertha frowned, clearly debating the advisability of telling her just what Neda might do. Evidently deciding against it, the cook sniffed disdainfully instead, and turned to retrieve her own midnight meal.

When it became clear that no scraps would be forthcoming, Scruff sighed, sat, and diligently set to scratching his chin.

Lizzie laughed. She couldn't help it. Scruff heaved himself to his feet and crossed back to sit at her feet, ears hopefully cocked.

"You're a shameless beggar," Lizzie scolded as she handed him a piece of bread from John Carleton's basket.

Bertha sniffed in disgust. "You'd best watch yourself. If a disreputable mongrel like that can talk you out of scraps, there's no telling what that devil upstairs might do."

When Lizzie only frowned and offered the dog a piece of cheese, Bertha's eyes narrowed menacingly. "You may not listen to my warnings about Neda, but you'd do well to remember thisyour mother died for the sake of a handsome rogue. I know, because I helped your grandfather bury her. If you're not careful, you'll get dragged into who knows what kind of trouble by another rogue, and so I warn you!"

She came to him long after the inn had wrapped itself in slumber. Even the creaking old timbers had fallen silent, so that her quiet footsteps sounded more clearly than they might have otherwise.

Or perhaps he was just listening for them more intensely. He'd been waiting for her, but no one had come near the room, not even so close as the top of the stairs.

The wait had seemed interminable and, without the physical relief of being able to pace the narrow confines of the room, almost unendurable. He'd sat at the table and watched the daylight fade and die in the dusty window, and thrown crumbs of bread at the spiders who'd taken up residence in the corners of the room, and he'd tried to keep his thoughts off Lizzie Tynsdale.

He hadn't hit the spidershe hadn't even managed to annoy them, as far as he could telland he hadn't managed to stop thinking about Lizzie. At least at the farmhouse he'd had the distraction of conversation or cards, since his guards had been as unimpressed by the accommodations as he was.

No matter. She was here now, and John suddenly felt as if he could start living again, instead of merely existing. His hand was on the door handle the instant the key grated in the lock. As soon as the lock snapped open, he swung the door wide, almost pitching her into the room. She jumped back, startled, and narrowly missed knocking over the shielded tallow lantern she'd set on the floor.

"Er, sorry."

"Don't do that!" Her eyes had gone so wide the whites shone blue in the light.

He grinned. "I'm just so damned glad to see you"

"And don't swear. I hear enough of that in the taproom." She bent to pick up the lantern and a small wicker basket whose contents were covered with a napkin.

"Yes, ma'am." He waved at a bigger basket filled almost to overflowing that sat in the hall behind her. "Can I help you?"

"No. Really. I'd much prefer to wait on you hand and foot."

His grin widened. "Sarcasm isn't really your strong suit, you know, no matter how much practice you've had."

Her eyes flashed in the frail light from the lantern. "Strange. That's not what the lieutenant said."

"He was flattering you."

"You might try that approach some time," she said, and stalked past him.

John picked up the bigger basket, but when he'd set it down and closed the door behind him, he found she hadn't moved an inch. She stood by the table, one hand securely curled around the lantern's handle, eyeing him as if he'd suddenly grown horns. "Is something the matter?" he asked, setting his burden to one side. "Are the redcoats back? Are there troubles because of"

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"Who?" John cut the question short. He knew what she meant. The question was inevitable, he supposed, though he would have preferred to have avoided the issue entirely.

Instead, he swept her his deepest, most elegant bow. "John Francis Gideon, at your service, ma'am."

"John Francis Carleton is more like."

"Ah." He frowned, as though considering the matter. "You'll want to know about the Gideon, I suppose."

"Yes. No." She shrugged, irritated. "Are you Lord Malloran's heir?"

"He doesn't like to think so."

"No, but are you? Are you his nephew?"

That was as direct as one could possibly get, with no way out except a bald-faced lie . . . or the truth. John sighed. He'd have preferred evasion. It was so much more . . . comfortable, under the circumstances.

"Yes," he said reluctantly. "I am the legitimate son of his lordship's younger brother, William Francis Carleton. That makes me Lord Malloran's nephew, his closest living relative . . . and his heir."

For a moment, she simply stood there staring at him, stunned into immobile silence.

"You don't believe me." She let her breath out slowly, and then just as slowly lowered the lantern she held. ''Yes, I do." It was barely a whisper. "Much as I'd prefer not to, I believe you."

John bent to take the lantern and the small basket of food from her, then carefully set both on the table. There was something in her eyes, something in her shocked acceptance of his claim, that suddenly drove home what his confession meant.

He was heir to a lord of the realm, heir to a name and to estates that had belonged to half a dozen generations of Carletons before him . . . and that one, inescapable fact created a gulf between him and Lizzie that, for her, at least, would not be easily bridged.

"It doesn't mean anything, you know," he said.

Anger shattered her stunned silence. "Not mean anything? Not mean anything? Don't be a fool! And don't treat me like one!"

"I"

"The Carletons ruled at Malloran Hall when this inn was built. Lord Malloran is the wealthiest man for miles around, and the most powerful. If you are his heir"

She choked on whatever else she was going to say. Then she abruptly began pulling bread and napkin-wrapped bundles of food out of the basket. She set them on the table in a neat little row, one, two, three, as if she was counting on the mundane task to distract her from other, more troublesome thoughts. Puzzled, John circled the table so he could see her face. "Lizzie?"

"That's Mistress Tynsdale to you," she said sharply.

Head down, she began shoving the remnants of the earlier meal into the basket with almost indecent haste.

John leaned forward and wrapped his hand around hers, halting her industrious tidying. "What's wrong?"

Her hand was cold, far colder than he would have expected even in the midnight chill of the room. The teasing words that were on the tip of his tongue died unspoken. There was something more than anger here, something deeper and more troubling than any fears as to what she risked by hiding him like this.

"Lizzie?" he said again, more gently this time.

Slowly she brought her head up until her gaze locked with his. "They say my mother haunts this room, you know," she said at last, reluctantly. Her voice sounded very small in the silence.

"You think your mother was the one who drove those soldiers away?"

"Or my father." She glanced at the night-blacked window on the opposite side of the room.

There was nothing there of interest that John could seehe doubted even the light from a dozen lanterns could pierce the years of accumulated dirt and dustyet Lizzie seemed fascinated by it. Distracted, she pulled her hand free of his and crossed the room as though drawn by an insistent thread of memory. She scrubbed at the ancient grime with the heel of her hand, then leaned closer to peer out into the night.

After a moment's hesitation, John moved to stand beside her. The space she'd cleared shone black, like breath-warmed glass on a frosty morn, but he could see nothing except the dull reflection of the light from the shuttered lantern on the table behind them. Should anyone chance to be awake at such an hour and look toward the inn, they might well think the pale light and dim shadows he and Lizzie cast no more than the spectral forms that legend said resided here.

If Lizzie noticed his presence, she gave no sign of it.

"Because . . . ?" he prompted when she remained silent.

She glanced up at him, startled. For a moment, John wasn't sure she would finish.

"It was the redcoats who killed my parents," she said at last, "but it was your uncle who first gave the order to bring my father down, no matter what the cost. He was the one who ordered the soldiers to hold my mother hostage one night when they knew that he had promised to come to her."

Lizzie turned back to the window, as intent as if she could see something more than the moonlight and shadows that lay beyond.

"The soldiers drove away the servants. They beat my grandfather, then bound him and locked him, half-dead, in the storeroom. They dragged my mother up here and tied her to the bedpost so she could see when my father came riding over the moors. They strapped a musket beneath her breast so she couldn't move, gagged her so she couldn't warn him they were hiding, there at the window. And then they waited."

Lizzie sucked in her breath as though the very air itself burned her. "It was because of him, because of my father, that she pulled the trigger of that musket," she said, her voice taut with pain. "For the sake of the man your uncle had sworn to destroy by whatever means he could, no matter what the cost . . . all because my father robbed him once, and laughed while he did it."

Lizzie glanced up at him, her expression suddenly hard and unyielding.

"I've never forgiven her, you know," she said. "Never forgotten that she was willing to die for him, when she wasn't willing to live for me."

"Lizzie!" Bess's anguished cry was torn from the heart. "Lizzie!"

She fluttered up from the bed, but Oliver grabbed her and pulled her into his arms before she could cross to her daughter. She struggled, but only for a moment, and then she collapsed in tears against his breast.

"I knew she was angry, but I never dreamedI didn't knowOh, Oliver! What am I to do?"

Oliver held her close, rocking her against the pain.

"Hush, my love," he whispered, and gently stroked her hair back from her face. "There's nothing to be done. Not now. Not by us." He gently kissed the top of her head. "Hush."

His hand trembled ever so slightly.

At that moment, John could have sworn the two dead lovers were there in the room with him. He could see them. They stood at the foot of the bed, almost, but not quite within reach.

The highwayman was a tall, powerful, handsome man, resplendent in his velvet coat with the froth of fine, white lace at his throat. Beside him, protectively wrapped in his embrace, was his beautiful, beloved Bess. They neither moved nor spoke, but they watched their daughter with the anguished gaze of those who bore the guilt of the past, yet were powerless against the passions of the present.

Impossible, of course. John blinked and dragged his hand across his eyes. It was Lizzie's tale that had conjured these wraithsher tale and his own imagination.

When he looked again, they were gone.

Lizzie stared at him, her eyes wide, sparkling with still-unshed tears, but John didn't think she saw him any more than she'd seen his phantasms. Her gaze was fixed on the past and its long-ago horrors.

Before he could speak, she turned from him, back to the window, and this time John knew exactly what it was she saw through the haze of dirt and years and memory.

"My father heard the shot." Her voice was low, flat, and expressionless. "She'd waited until he was close, until she could see him, there in the moonlight, before she pulled the trigger she'd struggled so hard to reach. He heard the shot, but he had no way of knowing what it meant, and so he turned and galloped away."

Lizzie touched the glassgently, as though she touched the past. "He didn't hear of her death until the next morning, they tell me. But when he heard, he came galloping back. The soldiers were waiting, of course. They shot him down on the highwayshot him down like a dog, my grandfather said. And then they left him there, him and his horse. As a warning to others, I suppose . . . or food for the carrion crows."

Her voice was a whisper in the still night air. "There, near where that old tree stands," she added, pointing, as if John could see the same thing she did.

She frowned and leaned closer to the glass, as though trying to see the still, bloodstained body that had fallen there so long ago.

When the silence stretched, John shifted, uncertain what to say. Slowly he sat on the end of the bed. "It wasn't I who ordered your father's death," he said very gently. "It wasn't my father, either. He'd left England long before."

"I know that," she said, forcing herself to meet his gaze. Her face was pale, drained of all emotion, and she seemed frailer, more finely drawn than before. "But to know that you're his nephew, his heir . . ." She shook her head as though shaking off the doubts. "It would have been better if you'd told me that first night, when I took you in."

"Would it have made a difference? Would you have given me up to Lamberre and his men if you'd known?"

She shrugged, indifferent. "I don't know. I didn't, and I suppose that's all that matters."

She turned away from him, back to the night-glazed window. When she spoke it was as if she were speaking to whatever was out there, softly, like a storyteller drifting away on "once upon a time."

"They say that my mother can be seen at this window sometimes, when the moon is full and the clouds are high. They say she is waiting for her highwayman lover, leaning out of the open window to look down the road he will ride."

She let out her breath, soft as a sigh, and traced the line where the two halves of the window joined, gently, almost reverently, heedless of the dust. The old iron latch was corroded and rough, its once black surface now the orange-red of heavy rust, even under the dust. Not a speck of clean metal to indicate it had been forced open in all the years since Lizzie's grandfather had sealed the room shutforever, as he'd thought then.

"They say that my mother is bound here, waiting for him in this room where she died. They say that, while she watches, she plaits a love knot into her hair." Lizzie's attention was fixed on the age-sealed window. She touched the glass with the tip of one finger, as if expecting to see her mother's reflection in its surface instead of hers.

"A bright red love knotfor him. For the love they bore each other." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Bright, bright red, like the blood she spilled. For his sake."

"Have you ever seen her?" John asked softly, not wanting to break the spell.

"No." A whisper of regret. "But Samuel has. He's seen my father, too. In the moonlight, galloping over the high road, silver in the silver light, with his great ghost horse sparking silver fire wherever his hooves struck the earth."

She sighed and leaned closer to the night-black glass, squinting against the dark that hid such secrets from her.

"Oh, Oliver! That's so . . . so romantic!" Bess, much moved, sniffed and blinked back tears.

"Aye, it would be . . . if it had so much as a shred of truth in it," Oliver grumbled, unimpressed.

"Are you saying our Lizzie is fibbing?" Bess demanded, affronted. "Just because she got a couple details wrong?"

"No, I'm not saying Lizzie's lying. But Samuel was. He was lying through his teeth when he told her that tale. Don't you remember, Bess? You were leaning out the window, right enough, but you were yelling at me for having driven those frippery London fools away and threatening to make me haunt the stables for a month if I didn't stop. Downright shrewish, you were, I remember, and such a temper! It's a wonder half the folk 'round about weren't dragged from their beds for the show!"

"Ah!" said Bess. Her gaze narrowed and her brows drew together as memory came back.

"And I was on Magician, right enough," said Oliver, oblivious to the danger signals, "but we weren't galloping. Besides, that horse never struck silver sparks from anything, not even when he was alive. As for Samuel . . . !" Oliver snorted dismissively. "He was cross-eyed with drink and staggering home from a wake at The Dog and Drover. He couldn't have seen anything clearly, not even his own shoes! Don't you remember, Bess?"

"As it happens, I do, now you put me in mind of it, Oliver Hardwicke."

Oliver's head came up at that. Too late he realized his peril.

Lizzie loomed over him. "You would have chased those poor young men halfway to York if you'd had your way, and never a thought to our Lizzie and where that left her!"

"Never a . . . Now, Bess!"

"And that reminds me . . . !"

Chapter Ten

John could swear there was a cold, almost angry wind stirring in the room, but when he glanced back over his shoulder, nothing had changed. The door was closed and locked, the window shut. There was nothing anywhere to create a draft, yet the lantern flame, half hidden behind the drawn shutter, wavered and danced in the icy air.

If Lizzie noticed, she gave no sign of it. She'd fallen silent, her attention focused on that small patch of cleared glass and whatever lay beyond. John wasn't at all sure it was the world outside that she was looking at . . . or for.

A highwayman and a landlord's daughter who willingly gave her life for his . . . What kind of love was it, he wondered, that could endure beyond the grave? And what kind of fool was he to be thinking such foolish thoughts in the first place?

''Can you see anything?" he asked, suddenly wishing Lizzie would stop looking out the window and start looking at him.

Slowly, like a dreamer emerging from her dreams, Lizzie roused from her trance. "What?"

"Did you see anything out there?"

She frowned, shook her head. "There isn't anything to see. Not at this time of the night."

"I thought perhaps you were watching for your father's ghost." His fingers itched to smooth the frown from her brow, but he shoved his hands deep in his pockets, safe from temptation.

Her frown deepened. "I?"

"You. The way you were staring, I wondered if you were waiting to see if all those old tales are true."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Her hand dropped from the window and she straightened suddenly, almost angrily. "I don't believe in romantic nonsense like that."

"Do you believe in any romantic nonsense?"

"Do you?"

I do if it's with you.

He didn't know where the thought had come from. A day spent communing with spiders and dust must have addled his brain.

He forced a laugh, but it came out sounding strained and artificial. "Of course I don't believe in such foolishness."

"Well," said Lizzie firmly, "neither do I." <><><><><><><><><><><><>

It was absurd to feel such disappointment over his response.

"If those wild tales were true," said Lizzie, "then this window ought to open, wouldn't you think? But it doesn't. All you have to do is look at this old latch to know it hasn't been opened for years and years and years. Ghosts, indeed!"

It was a perfectly sensible argument. An eminently rational observation.

So why did it hurt so to say it?

"Enough of such foolishness," she said briskly, deliberately walking around Carleton. "I brought your saddlebags and clean sheets for the bed. There's not a great deal I can do about the dust, but clean sheets ought to help a little, at least. And now I'll take you out to the yard so you can empty your chamber pot and draw a bucket of water."

She wrinkled her nose in pointed commentary. "I assume you'll want to wash and shave, even if there isn't any hot water for the task. The odor of your former accommodations lingers. In case you hadn't noticed," she added helpfully.

He backed up a step. It was hard to tell in the poor light, but Lizzie thought he blushed.

"You're very considerate."

"I'm very much a fool, is what I am," Lizzie grumbled, because grumbling was so much safer than thoughts of John Carleton bathing.

She picked up the lantern and the small basket she'd left on the table earlier. "Come on, then. And mind your step. I don't care to be mopping up the floor if you trip."

With the lantern held low to show him the tricks of the old inn's floors, she led him through the kitchen and into the yard. With each step she took, she was conscious of him at her back, a solid, safe presence capable of keeping disordered fantasies at bay.

The trouble was, when it came to John Carleton, her imagination eagerly spun in directions that had nothing to do with ghosts or legends, and everything to do with what she had no business even thinking about. Lizzie forced aside the thought, and chided him sharply when he inadvertently kicked a stool, even though there was little chance they would wake anyone.

Huldspeth and Molly had tiny rooms up under the eaves at the opposite end of the rambling old building. Samuel and his sister shared a cottage in the village, and they were still away, in any case. Josh, the hostler, and the stable hands under him, slept in rooms over the stables rather than in the inn itself. Bertha's room was off the kitchen, but nothing woke the old cook once she'd gone to bed.

Neda and Scruff were the only ones who might hear them, but even that wasn't likely. Scruff was free at night, but he usually slept in the stables. The scullery maid's room was at the back of the washhouse at the far side of the yard. Though she had to cross the kitchen yard to get to the inn itself, there'd be no reason for her to be up at this time of the night. Not when she had to be the first up in the morning in order to start the kitchen fires and draw water for the day's cooking and cleaning.

Lizzie's senses strained to catch any hint that they'd been heard. Nothing. No sound, and no hint of hidden observers.

"Damn!" John Carleton's curse was little more than a whisper, but to Lizzie, it carried far too clearly on the cold air.

She turned, startled, and barely missed colliding with him. He moved so quietly, she hadn't realized just how close he'd been.

"Patch of damp on the stones," he whispered in apology. He squinted, peering past her into the darkened kitchen yard. "Hell of a place to lose your way on a dark night."

"Not planning on sneaking out on me, are you, Mr. Carleton?" she demanded in a matching whisper. "Don't forget, there's still the little matter of your bill to be settled before you go."

"What? You talk of bills when I have to empty my own slop pot?" Even in a whisper he managed to sound aggrieved.

"Even then," she snapped back.

He sighed. "Then you'd best show me where. This thing's a good deal heavier than I expected."

"This way," she said, gesturing with the lantern. "There's a gate here at the side. The path that leads out back goes through it and off to the left."

The gate was properly latched, just as it was every night after supper. Lizzie set the lantern down and slid the shutters closed so that no light seeped out.

"Just in case there are poachers out on the hillsides, or someone passing on the road on their way home," she explained in a whisper as she drew the latch and swung the gate open for him.

"You're sending me out there? Without a lantern? What if I get lost? What if I fall and break a leg? What if the lieutenant's men catch me?"

"Then you won't have to worry about emptying your pot tomorrow, too," she said.

"You're a cruel woman."

"I try my bestand you provide extra incentive. Now go on. I'll draw the water for you, but only because I don't care to spend all night out here waiting for you to finish."

"Cruel," said John Carleton, but Lizzie could swear she heard laughter as he said it.

Lizzie made him carry the bucket of water she'd drawn. She latched the gate, and then led the way back through the inn, the lantern once again carried low to light his way.

The lantern helped, though it wasn't absolutely necessary. John could have followed her in the dark, so intense was his awareness of her. He'd found her by the well in the yard despite her silence and the moon-cast shadows that had hidden her. No matter how quiet she was trying to be now, he could hear the soft shush-shush of her skirts as she walked, and the quick, precise beat of her footsteps. The faint, ordinary sounds stirred a heat in him that was as unsettling as it was unexpected.

If he had a grain of sense, he'd leave. Now.

Unfortunately, Lizzie had knocked what little sense he'd had clean out of his headand it wasn't all due to that blow from her fireplace poker, either, even if she had left a groove in his scalp that still throbbed if he probed it.

The truth was, he didn't want to leave. Not yet. Not until he absolutely had to. Another week or so and William Randall would have returned and he could fulfill the promise his father had exacted from him. By then his uncle and Lamberre would surely have given up the hunt in the belief that he'd made good his escape that first night, and that meant he'd be able to leave without putting Lizzie and her people at risk.

All sound, rational reasons. But the real reason he wanted to stay was that he wanted to spend what time he had with Lizzie. Teasing her. Watching her. Arguing and laughing and talking with her.

A few days ago he would have said it was because of lust and a desire to while away the wait as pleasurably as he could. Now . . .

John shook off the thought. Best not addle his brains with too much thinking, especially not with thinking about Lizzie.

She'd reached the top of the stairs, but rather than turn to follow the short passage that led to his room, she stopped and looked back, as if to reassure herself he was right behind her. Her eyes were wide and dark, her shoulders stiff with tension.

For an instant their gazes locked, held; then she swung about and led the way down the hall. John followed thoughtfully.

Protest all she wanted, Lizzie believed in ghosts. That is, she believed in these ghosts, the ghosts of her own past. The minute she was through the door, she put down the lantern and dug a heavy black square of cloth from the second basket that he'd carried in earlier.

"To cover the window," she said. "So no one can see in."

Or out, John thought; he didn't say it. He didn't ask her why she hadn't put it up first thing. Instead, he set down his own burdens, then bent to see what else she'd brought. As promised, he found his saddlebags stuffed with his few possessions, including clean linen.

Below the saddlebags were two sturdy linen towels, candles, and clean, lavender-scented sheets.

He pulled the sheets out of the basket and rose to his feet, only to find Lizzie standing not two feet away, watching him. The tension he'd seen in the hall still gripped her, and she held her hands tightly clasped in front of her, as if she wanted to snatch the bed linens from his hands, but was restraining herself, albeit with difficulty.

"They're much appreciated," he said, lifting the sheets as though in salute. The corner of his mouth lifted into a smile. "But . . . lavender?" She flushed. "They're mine. I thought you'd prefer something not quite so" she flicked a nervous glance at the unmade bed"so stale and dusty." Her flush deepened. "I couldn't take sheets from the linen press for fear someone would notice they'd gone missing."

"Very wise. But what do I do with them?"

The flush changed to a frown of irritation. "You put them on the bed."

They both glanced at the bed, and both as quickly looked away. Lizzie frowned at the printtracked dust on the floor. John cleared his throat, shifted his hold on the sheets, and tried to think pure thoughts.

It didn't do any good. Every thought that occurred to him was suddenly lavender-scented and involved sheets and Lizzie and the intriguing possibilities inherent in such a combination.

"How do you put them on the bed?" he asked, with only a very slight tightness in his voice to betray the tenor of his thoughts. "I don't wish to be difficult, you understand, but"

"Put them on however you like. I certainly have no intention of doing it for you!"

"No?"

"No!"

John sighed. "Pity. I don't think I've ever made a bed before. I could use a little . . . guidance."

"Well, you won't get it from me!"

She glared at him, challenging him to object. John kept silent. The scent of lavender drifted in the air around him. Satisfied that she'd cowed him sufficiently, at least for the present, Lizzie swept up the basket and unceremoniously tipped its remaining contents onto the table. Then she snatched up the lantern and, taking care to give him a wide berth, crossed to the door.

"I don't think there's anything else you need for now, is there?"

You. He didn't say it. "Nothing. Thank you."

She nodded, pulled the door open, then froze in the opening.

"I almost forgot." She dug into her pocket and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. "I thought it might help pass the time."

John shifted the sheets onto one arm and took the book from her. He squinted at the spine. "The Life and Strange and Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe?"

"If you'd rather, I can offer you Sermons and Moral Essays by the Reverend Tobias M. Wheatley. You probably stand in greater need of them than you do of fanciful tales."

"Thank you, no. I prefer adventures to moral lectures any day." He tucked the book in his coat pocket.

"I thought you might," she said dryly. And then, lantern in hand, she pulled the door closed behind her, leaving him alone in the lavender-scented dark.

"A book!" Oliver's mouth screwed up in disgust. "Nothing but a waste of time, books." "Not much else for him to do to pass the time," said Bess reasonably.

"At least it will keep his thoughts off Lizzie. I tell you, Bess, I don't like it. Giving him her sheets like that. It'swhy, it's indecent, that's what it is!"

"It's practical, Oliver, and our Lizzie is nothing if not practical. Poor man can't spend another night sneezing now, can he?"

"Don't see why not," Oliver grumbled. "He ought to be grateful he's not spending the night in the mud under some hedgerow. But, then, what can you expect of these younger fellows? No backbone to 'em. Damned useless pack of no-goods, every one of 'em."

"Now, Oliver"

"Think I'll go for a ride, Bess, if you don't mind. Can't stand to linger here. Not with that rascal in your bed. Our bed! And him a Carleton, to boot!" A low growl rumbled in his throat. "No telling what I might do if I have to put up with another night of his snores and snorts."

"That's a fine idea. Do you good to get out," said Bess, obligingly shoving him toward the door.

"Well, I will, then." He glanced at John over his shoulder. "You'll keep an eye on him? See he doesn't get out of hand?"

"Of course."

"And Lizzie, of course."

"Lizzie, too."

Oliver glanced at her, as though to reassure himself of her promise, then cast a last, darkling look at John Carleton, and floated out the door. Bess turned her attention back to the room's living occupant. The poor man was hopeless. He'd dropped the sheets back in the basket and was groping for a candle, but without success. She helpfully nudged one in his direction.

''Never find the damned things when you need 'em," he muttered, shoving it into the dust-encrusted holder that had been standing on the table on the day she died. He fumbled to light it, then held it up to study the room around him.

The candlelight sculpted the clean lines of his face in gold and black, emphasizing the strength that lay beneath the teasing, devil-may-care facade.

No doubt about ithe was a good-looking man. A good, strong, intelligent man who hadn't forgotten how to laugh.

And he had rich, productive land in the colonies. Bess had looked over Lizzie's shoulder when her daughter was prying into his private papers. She'd seen more than enough to satisfy hereven if it was far away, John Carleton could provide a far better life for Lizzie than what she'd known thus far. A comfortable, loving, respectable life, which was what Bess had wanted for her daughter from the beginning.

No matter that she herself had fallen in love with a proud and reckless daredevil who preferred to laugh in the face of King George's men than live at peace under them. She had paid the price for loving unwisely, but all too well. She didn't want her daughter to make the same mistake, but still less did she want her to be so afraid of loving that she never dared to live at all.

Oliver had dismissed such concerns with an airy wave of his hand. He didn't want to admit that Lizzie was all grown up, no matter what his eyes told him. To him, she was still the beautiful, bright-eyed child he'd had to watch constantly for fear she'd fall into the fire or toddle under the horses' hooves in the yard. Like all stern fathers who remembered their own lustful youth all too well, he couldn't see that his daughter had long since blossomed into a beautiful woman with her own passions and needs. If Oliver had his way, Lizzie would remain a virgin until the day she died.

With Oliver's attitude, Bess had no intention of leaving her daughter's future happiness in his inept hands.

Besides, if Lizzie once learned what it was to love a man, and to be loved by him, she might understand at last why her mother had chosen to leave her alone all those long years ago. With luck, Bess thought, Lizzie might even learn to forgive her.

Maybe what she ought to do was entice Lizzie back to this room. Watching a man like John Carleton clumsily trying to strip the old, dusty sheets from his bed and lay on new ones had an almost irresistible appeal. Men were so helpless when it came to the essentials of life . . . and that inevitably brought out a woman's most protective instincts, no matter how set against him she was. Better yet, she'd drag Lizzie back when he was bathing. Walking in on a stark-naked man, especially if the man was as impressively builtand generously endowedas John Carleton, was enough to make even a staunch nun rethink her vows. And Lizzie was no nun, no matter how hard she tried to believe otherwise.

A sudden, muffled shout drew Bess to the window. She ignored the black cloth that Lizzie had hung, threw open the window, and leaned out to find Oliver, mounted on Magician, waiting in the yard below. The horse shifted restlessly, pawing the cobblestones and anxious to be away, but Oliver easily kept the beast under contol.

"It's a beautiful night, Bess," he called as soon as she leaned out. "Will you watch for me?"

Bess's heart swelled. Annoying he might be at times, and pigheaded when it came to his only daughter's happiness, but she loved him with all her heart and soul, and she would love him for as long as time remained.

"I'll watch, my Oliver," she called. "Of course I'll watch."

And with that assurance, he set spurs to his horse. Magician snorted and bounded forward. His shod feet clattered on the cobblestones and echoed from the old inn's walls. An instant later he was out of the yard and galloping up the high road. His mane and tail streamed silver in the moonlight, and Oliver

Bess sucked in the breath she no longer needed. Oliver was magnificent, as always. Tall and proud and straight in the saddle, he seemed as one with his great beast, silver magnificence in the silver light.

Right then and there, Bess Tynsdale fell in love all over again.

Damned bed. Damned sheets. Damned dust!

John sneezed, then roughly shoved the heavy feather bed back into place. Who would have guessed that changing bed linens was so much work? As soon as he got back to Virginia, he was going to apologize to his father's housekeeper, who was forever scolding him about the way he tossed his covers and pulled his sheets free of their moorings in his sleep.

He picked up one of the clean sheets Lizzie had brought and shook it out. The scent of lavender filled the air, mingling with the dust.

He closed his eyes, drinking in the scent. And then he sneezed.

So much for romance. Better he finish the job instead of indulging in fantasies.

Trouble was, the more he thought about Lizzie, the more uncontrollable his imagination and his fantasies became. They were beginning to resemble some of the passages in those illustrated books a merchant in London had shown himwas it only a couple of weeks ago?

There was one book in particular, he remembered, a big, gilt-edged, leather-bound tome that had been an education in itself. It had contained a number of hand-tinted plates depicting athletic arrangements and . . . group activities that far exceeded his wildest and most lustful imaginings.

In fact, now that he thought about it, one of those colored plates had portrayed a very scantily clad female who might almost have been Lizzie's sisterif Lizzie had had a sister, and if that sister had been inclined to such . . . intriguing pastimes.

Not that he wanted Lizzie's sister, even if she'd had one. He wanted Lizzie. All of Lizzie, and all to himself. Judging by those books he'd seen, there were some men who were happy to share their pleasures, but John wasn't among their number. And he sure as hell wouldn't share Lizzie, not even in his dreams.

John cut off the thought with a curse. A little cold water wouldn't come amiss right about now, and not just because of the lingering smell of moldy straw and damp that Lizzie had so pointedly brought to his attention.

He glanced at the bucket of water Lizzie had drawn. It would be nice to be clean again, but the thought of that cold water on his warm, bare flesh was dauntingespecially in a room as cold as this.

As if to reinforce his doubts, a chill wind suddenly whirled through the room. It felt as if someone had suddenly flung open the window without warning, a feat that was patently impossible.

John gave a last tug at the edge of the recalcitrant bed, then crossed to the window. The black cloth that Lizzie had hung in front of it was perfectly still, even though he could feel the draft whistling past his ears. From outside in the inn yard, he caught the sound of iron-shod hooves on stone, rapidly fading away.

He pulled down the cloth Lizzie had hung and tried to peer out. There was nothing to see but empty inn yard, the black bulk of the stable, and the night sky beyond. He groped for the rust-eaten metal latch even as the cold night air seemed to pour past him and into the room. His sense of touch easily identified the latch's contours, but no matter how he tried to twist it, pull it, or force it, the thing remained stubbornly rusted shut.

Lizzie was right. The window hadn't been opened in years.

Chapter Eleven

The fire in her chamber had died down to flickering ashes by the time Lizzie was ready for bed. Although the room was comfortably warm, she found herself shivering beneath the heavy shawl she'd thrown over her shoulders.

In spite of her discomfort, she wasn't yet willing to snuff out the branch of candles she'd set on the table beside her and go to bed. She didn't care to read, either, although she was accustomed to escaping into a book in those long, lonely nights when sleep eluded her.

She'd given Carleton her Robinson Crusoe, but a new book waited on the table beside her, sent just two days ago by the bookseller in York who supplied most of her literary wants. The gilt of the title shone bright in the candlelight, tempting in its promise of worlds beyond her own. A True and Impartial Journal of a Voyage to the South-Seas and Round the Globe, it said, as matter-of-factly as if such voyages were ordinary, everyday occurrences. For some people, they probably were.

"Knowing, as I do, your fondness for adventurous tales," the bookseller had written in his accompanying letter, "I am forwarding this new volume, which I believe is precisely the sort of work that is guaranteed to catch your fancy. It is a detailed recounting of a recent voyage 'round the world by the good ship Centurion, under the command of Capt. George Anson. I trust you will find it as intriguing as the other volumes I have had the honor to provide for you over the past few years."

The old man had sufficient cause to know about her passion for books of travel and adventureshe'd purchased enough of them from him over the years. He was the only one who knew, though. Even her grandfather hadn't realized what kind of books she collected and read. So long as she didn't shirk her work or her lessons, he'd never begrudged her the shillings and pence they cost, any more than he'd begrudged her a silk ribbon or a pretty shawl or a new pair of shoes.

The books offered a world outside the narrow boundaries of her own safe, familiar life, a world she could escape into whenever she was tired or lonely or lost. She'd never told anyone of her dreams of someday leaving the inn and Yorkshire behind, of seeing what lay beyond the moors, beyond the shores of England itself. What was the use, after all? Her mother had dreamed of adventure and excitement, and look what those dreams had cost her.

From the moment her grandfather had told her the truth about her parents, Lizzie had sworn never to let such romantic fantasies get in the way of her work and her life. Yet, try as she might, she couldn't put such dreams aside altogether; they seemed as much a part of her as her black hair and blue eyes, and just as inescapable.

Now she harbored a fugitive, a man from that distant New World she'd read so much about, and suddenly she was afraid. Afraid of him. Afraid of Lamberre's vengeance for having thwarted him. Afraid of what Lord Malloran might do.

But most of all, she was afraid of herself and the longings John Carleton's presence had roused within her.

At the thought, Lizzie curled deeper into the wing-back chair. She drew up her feet and tucked her nightdress under her toes and blindly stared into the dying fire, thinking hard.

John wasn't quite sure what brought him awake. He lay still for a moment, listening to the silence. The memory of lascivious, lavender-scented dreams clung to him like cobwebs, dulling his senses.

When nothing stirred, he cautiously shoved back the covers and sat up, only to find a woman sitting on the foot of his bed. He blinked and sat up straighter. "Lizzie?"

The instant he opened his mouth, he knew it wasn't Lizzie. The apparition at the foot of his bed looked startlingly like her, but there was a silver radiance about her that owed nothing to the dull moonlight seeping into the room.

More to the point, he could see the opposite wall through her. Definitely not Lizzie.

"I'm not Lizzie," said the apparition. "I'm Bess."

"Bess?" said John, and wondered if he sounded as stupid as he felt.

"Lizzie's mother."

"Lizzie's moUh . . . Of course." It was that bottle of wine he'd had before retiring. Something wrong with the vintage, no doubt. Had to be.

John sat up straighter, rubbed his eyes, then looked again. Bess was still sitting at the foot of the bed, and he could still see the wall through her.

"I'd consider it a favor if you'd please pay attention! I want to talk to you, and since Oliver is gone for a bit"

"Oliver?" Maybe the cold meat had gone bad and upset his digestion. He never thought well if his stomach wasn't working properly.

"Oliver Hardwicke. My Lizzie's father."

"Ah."

Her face brightened in a smile. "You're not imagining me, you know."

"I'm not?" John squinted, trying to bring this strange creature into focus. It didn't help. "You're sure it wasn't the wine?"

"Of course not! The King George has never stocked poor wine and never will!'' She stirred angrily, fluttering a bit and ruffling up around the edges like an irritable hen.

"I didn't mean That is, I wasn't really insulting the wine, you know. It's just . . . Well . . ." John sucked in a deep breath. "Bess, huh?"

He could see right through Lizzie's mother? "I thought . . . That is, I understood you were . . . Well . . ."

"Dead?"

John nodded.

"That's right, I am. I've been dead for almost twenty-five years."

"Oh." John kept on nodding. He couldn't help himself. "That's what I thought. Just wanted to be sure, you know. Didn't mean to be rude or"

"You should try not to be stupid," said the apparition tartly.

"Right." He stopped nodding and started trying to think. It wasn't easy. "You said Oliver's . . . gone?"

It was Bess's turn to nod. "Just for a few hours. He gets restless if he's cooped up here too long, you see, so every now and then he'll take Magician for a gallop across the moors."

"The, umm, the neighbors don't object?"

"Oh, no! They rather like him to, actually. Gives them something to talk about." This time her smile was just a little smug. "Nothing like a romantic legend and a couple of ghosts to add distinction to the place, you know."

"You don't say?" "It's good for business, too." She leaned toward him and lowered her voice confidingly. "Though don't tell Lizzie I said so. She thinks it's the quality of her ale."

John felt his own feathers ruffle just a bit in Lizzie's defense. "It's a very good ale."

"Of course it is. The George has prided itself on the quality of its ale for almost two hundred years. And its wine," she added darkly. "But that's not why"

John prudently changed the subject. "You don't go out with him? With Oliver, I mean?"

"Oh, no." Bess waved the question aside. "I can't leave the inn. Well, the inn and the yard and the stables."

"I see."

"I doubt it. But that's not what I want to talk to you about." She shifted position again, smoothed her skirts, and frowned disapprovingly at the tracks through the dust on the floor.

If a ghost could be said to have a throat, John would swear she cleared hers. And that was when understanding dawned.

Bess had been a ghost for twenty-five years . . . and she was nervous! John started to smile, then hastily coughed, instead. "So, why did you come tonight?"

"I . . . well"she definitely cleared her throat"I thought you should know that I approve of you, even if Oliver doesn't."

John blinked. "Thank you. I think."

"You're welcome." "Why doesn't Oliver approve of me?"

"He doesn't approve of anyone who's interested in Lizzie. In fact, he's spent most of the last ten years or so driving away every eligible male who's ever looked slantwise at her."

"He has, has he? Don't see much amiss with that idea, but" John cut the thought short; his eyes narrowed with sudden suspicion. "It was Oliver who dumped that wine all over my breeches, wasn't it?"

Bess nodded. "He didn't approve of the way you were looking at Lizzie."

"And the lieutenant and his pot of ale?"

She nodded again. "The lieutenant, too. Oliver doesn't like redcoats in general. Completely understandable, under the circumstances. And since Lamberre tried to corner her and kiss her the first time he met her . . . well!"

"Lamberre? Kissed Lizzie? Why that poxridden" John was half out of bed before he remembered that he wasn't wearing a nightshirt . . . or anything else, for that matter.

He swung his feet back into bed and pulled up the covers.

Bess giggled. "That's quite all right. I've seen a naked man before, you know." She cocked her head to one side and dimpled into a fetchingly wicked smile. "Actually, I've seen you before. Naked, I mean."

"You've seen" John dragged the sheets up higher. His cheeks burned. "You mean you've barged into my room" "It was my room first!"

". . . without knocking? You've been spying on me?"

"In a manner of speaking. I had to be sure you were the right man for my Lizzie, didn't I?"

"The hell you did! I'm a paying guest at this inn, not some country swain who's come courting!"

"Since Lizzie hasn't had so much as a brass farthing out of you, you can't rightfully call yourself a paying guest. And if you aren't interested in Lizzie . . . All I can say is, if that's the case, you'd do well to keep your thoughts out of your breeches and on other matters altogether!"

"What makes you think"

"Any fool can see you are." She leaned toward him, a conspiratorial twinkle in her eye. "Especially since your breeches are so very well filled!"

"Well filled" John's grip on the covers tightened as he edged farther back against the pillows. "Were you always this damned blunt?"

Bess smiled with satisfaction. "I should call it honest, rather. Besides, it's a mother's job to take an interest in whatever interests her daughter."

"How very . . . maternal of you."

"Now, now. Sarcasm isn't your strong point any more than it is Lizzie's."

"You and Oliver have been here all along, haven't you?" he demanded. "Eavesdropping on everything Lizzie and I have said."

"Of course. Where else would we be?"

"The kitchen, perhaps? Or checking on the cellars?" "With you and Lizzie together in my bedchamber? Just the two of you? Not if Oliver has anything to say in the matter!"

John grunted, then frowned. Something was nagging at him. Something he'd missed in what she'd just said . . .

"Wait a second! You said that Lizziethat you took an interestthat she was interested . . . That is . . ." He stammered into silence. His cheeks burned.

As for the object that Lizzie and her mother found so intriguing, it was demonstrating an eagerness out of all proportionwell, not out of proportion; he took great pride in thatbut

"You understand my meaning, I see." Bess dimpled fetchingly. "It's a perfectly reasonable subject of interest for a woman. What's sauce for the goose, you know."

John tugged on the covers, just to be sure he had them firmly in hand, and struggled to regain his lost dignity. "If there is a point to this conversation, madam, I would appreciate hearing it."

"Tsk!" Bess said. "So impatient!" The dimple at the corner of her mouth deepened.

He growled in frustration.

"Oh, very well, then." She settled more securely on her spot at the end of the bed, looked him straight in the eye, and said, "Lizzie is falling in love with you."

For some strange reason, his heart beat a double tattoo inside his chest. John swallowed, trying to relieve a sudden tightness in his throat. "In love? With me?"

Bess nodded. "With you, though she doesn't realize it. And you're falling in love with her, whether you admit it or not."

"I" John choked on the rest of the words that jammed his throat. In love? With Lizzie? In lust, maybe. Definitely in lust. But . . . love?

"You," Bess said firmly. "No question about it. I can tell, you know."

In love. John let out the breath he'd been holding, and somehow the objections that had lodged in his throat slipped out with it and vanished in the chill night air.

He was in love with Lizzie.

There was an extraordinary sense of rightness to the words, as if all he'd needed was to hear them to know just how very right they were.

But even as he savored the thought, the rational part of himthe part that knew there were no ghosts, and that people didn't go around falling in love at the drop of a hat, and that being in love brought far more trouble in its wake than a simple pack of angry redcoatsrefused to surrender so easily.

"You can't fall in love just like"he snapped his fingers"that. It . . . it's absurd!"

For a long, long moment, Bess simply stared at him. Then she floated up from the foot of the bed and drifted over to the window and stared out.

A cold draft suddenly caressed his bare shoulders, making him shiver. "I saw Oliver for the first time from this window." She glanced at John, as if to reassure herself he was listening. He was. "He came into the inn yard one day, so proud and bold and so . . . alive! He looked up and saw me, and then he smiled that devilish smile of his." As her daughter had, she lightly touched the glass that divided her from the night beyond.

"I fell in love with him, just standing here at the window watching him. Just like that." She tried to snap her fingers, but no sound accompanied the gesture. For an instant she hovered there, staring at her transparent silver hand. Then she shrugged and let her hand drop.

"I still love him," she said. "I will always love him, no matter what." The words seemed to hang on the cold, still air.

"My father fell in love when he was a young man," John said at last, when it seemed she had said all she was going to say. "She bore a child out of wedlock, and then hanged herself. He fled England and never came back."

"A tragedy, certainly, but"

"If they'd stopped to think about what they were getting into, if they'd considered the risks they were taking, none of it ever would have happened."

"You can't know that."

"My father believed it."

"And was he sorry for having loved? Or only for having paid so high a price for loving?"

John opened his mouth to answer, then snapped it shut without speaking. It was a question he'd never thought to ask.

Bess frowned, then drifted over to sit on the edge of the bed beside him.

"I bore a daughter for love," she said. "A daughter I loved for herself even more than for the man who fathered her, though I don't think she believes that. I would give my life to make her happy if I could. Unfortunately, I gave my life for her father long ago. But what I can do is help her find her heart's desire, just as I found mine."

She sat there for a moment, staring at nothing at all; then she lifted the heavy braid that curved over her shoulder and down her breast. "I had black hair once, just like Lizzie's." She let the braid fall.

John remained silent, waiting, afraid he would shatter the moment.

"Oliver always loved my hair. He said . . . he said it was like silk between his fingers. He liked to . . . That is . . ." If she hadn't been a wraith, she would have blushed. "Well, never mind that. What I meant to say was, I'd braided this love knot through it on the day I . . . on the day I died. You can hardly see it now. It's as insubstantial as I am. But on the day that Lizzie claims her heart's desire, I'll be set free, too, and then it will turn bright red again."

"And you think I'm her heart's desire?" John asked doubtfully.

Bess's gaze sharpened, focused on him. "Not you, exactly, though love is the biggest part of it. Leaving here is another part. Venturing out to see the world that lies beyond these moors. She's as afraid to admit she wants to as she is to admit that she isn't anything like the cold, efficient, practical woman she'd like to think she is."

"Then what"

"It's . . . everything, I think. Being whole and complete and at peace. It's finding herself, so that she can find all the rest of it."

Bess's voice softened, grew faint, even as her image seemed to waver and grow paler, almost invisible.

"And if she could learn to understand why I did what I did, and to forgive me for it . . . well, that would be a gift to both of us," she said, and then she disappeared entirely.

It could all be yours, Lizzie.

Lizzie drifted in the halfway world that lay between waking and sleeping. The voice teased at the edge of her awareness, haunting in its promise of . . . something. Something that lay just beyond her reach, something she wantedoh, so much!

But what was it?

She shifted restlessly on the pillow, trying to block out that faint, insistent voice, trying to slip back into sleep.

All you have to do is stretch out your hand and take it.

Still not quite awake, yet no longer really asleep, Lizzie moaned, and burrowed deeper under the covers. One kiss, Lizzie.

That brought her awake. She sat up, her heart pounding.

Nothing. The room was shrouded in black. Even the last of the coals in the fireplace had gone dead.

Just one, the voice whispered, ever so softly. It will be enough.

And then, fainter still, Trust me.

He woke to rampant lust and a grim, gray day that perfectly suited his mood.

John slowly sat up in bed, and just as slowly and carefully studied the room around him. Nothing had changed, as far as he could tell. The cobwebs still hung in the corners and dust still coated the floors, regardless of the footprints that marred the surface. Other than the saddlebags that Lizzie had brought, and the pile of ancient, dusty sheets he'd tossed in the corner, everything was exactly as it had been the night before.

He groaned and dragged his hands through his hair, wincing as he inadvertently scraped the crusted-over gouge in his scalp.

He was in love with Lizzie.

Fantastical delusions be damned. If he didn't get out of this room and away from Lizzie soon, he just might have to turn himself over to Lamberre as a madman, and to hell with the other charges pending against him.

A morning's hard work brought order out of the last of the chaos the redcoats had left in the wake of their search. There were no travelers, and nothing to do until the local folk started filtering into the taproom tonight.

Normally, Lizzie would have had a dozen tasks that she'd set aside to do when she had the time, but today she couldn't concentrate on anything, couldn't even remember what it was that needed doing, now she was free. Instead, she roamed about the place, irritating Bertha, who had happily settled herself for a long nap in front of the kitchen fire, and making everyone else nervous with wondering just what she was up to, and what they had done or might do that would rouse her ire when they least expected it.

Lizzie ignored them all. For a while, she even considered taking a horse and riding to Twistledean Minor, three miles away, to post a letter to Samuel, a letter she composed with loving detail in her head a dozen times over. She'd demand that her tapster return, she decided. Immediately, if not sooner. She was tired of waiting in the taproom every night, she'd say, tired of facing the constant curiosity and the prying glances from folk who ought to spend more time minding their own business and less time minding hers.

She might have gone, too, if old Josh hadn't convinced her it was too far to go and come back before dark, especially on such a gray day and with the roads in such a state.

Thwarted, she'd stumped back into the inn, but still there was nothing to distract her. Wherever she went, whatever she did, her thoughts invariably turned to the annoying, troublesome guest who now occupied her mother's bedroom. John Carleton might be safely locked away, but the man strolled through her mind with an arrogant assurance that was as enraging as it was unsettling.

Spending his time shut in a room with little to do but read or try to interpret the faint sounds that filtered in from outside was honing his senses. John caught the sound of Lizzie's footsteps on the stairs before she was even halfway to the top.

He hastily tugged his coat into place, checked that his neckcloth was neatly tied, and smoothed his hair, which he'd washed and clubbed into a queue at the back. Earlier, he'd taken care to air and brush his coat, clean his boots, and shave.

He'd even tried to make the bed. The result was less than impressive, mostly because every tug and tuck stirred the scent of lavender in the air, and with each fresh waft of the scent, he'd found his imagination bounding off in directions it had no business going.

Eventually, he'd abandoned his crude attempt at housekeeping altogether and retreated into the tales of a castaway seaman named Crusoe. The tales were less intriguing than his own fantasies, but they had the advantage of being far less troublesome.

Unfortunately, his efforts seemed destined to go unappreciated. When Lizzie stumped into the room at last, she put John in mind of a hedgehogall bristles save for a pair of bright eyes that regarded him suspiciously.

''I'm tired," she announced without preamble, setting the lantern and the basket of food on the table with a thump. "If you've need of anything, tell me now so I can get it when we go down. I don't care to make a second trip. Not tonight."

If she noticed his shabby efforts at housecleaning, she gave no sign of it. She kept her head down as she unpacked the basket of food she'd brought.

"Word's going 'round the countryside that Lamberre's threatening punishment to anyone caught harboring escaped prisoners," she informed the candlestick.

John claimed the chair directly across from her so that she'd have to look at him. "Prisoners? Have they lost someone besides me? Tsk. The lieutenant really ought to be more careful."

Lizzie ignored him. "My head hostler tells me they've extended their search, but haven't found anything so far. Lamberre thinks it's because you're hiding nearby. He seems to think you're too clever and too determined to give up so easily."

John snatched an apple from the basket an instant before she did. "Does he? Clearly a man of insight and intelligence. I'm sorry for having doubted him."

Her head came up with a snap. "Laugh all you want, but it's my neck on the line as well as yours if you're caught."

He deliberately polished the apple on his sleeve, and took a large bite. "I won't be caught. Not unless you turn me in yourself."

"Don't push me. I might be tempted."

She might be tempted! John could have told her what temptation was! It was sitting across from her and seeing the candlelight dance in her eyes. It was hearing the sensuous huskiness of her voice when the world around them had long since fallen into silence.

Temptation was Lizzie and the night and a feather bed only a few feet away . . . a bed with linen sheets that smelled of lavender.

John hastily crossed his legs and took another bite of the apple.

"I have to thank you for the loan of your book," he said, changing the subject with a casual wave of his apple. "Rather an intriguing fantasy, don't you think? Being safely distant from civilization and all its troubles like that?"

"I wouldn't know." Lizzie was still avoiding looking at him, but she was rapidly running out of diversions. She'd laid out all the food and the bottle of wine she'd brought, refilled the basket with the leavings of today's meal, and now she was brushing up the crumbs. Slowly, one crumb at a time.

"The tale reminded me of some of the places I've seen, though I'm afraid none of them were as conveniently deserted as Mr. Crusoe's island."

That got her attention. "You've seen places like that?"

He nodded. "In the West Indies. I visited some of the islands several years ago. My father was getting tired of my restlessness, and since he'd had some idea of investing in a sugar plantation, he decided to kill two birds by throwing one stone . . . me."

She blinked, then slowly sank into the chair opposite, the basket, the meal, and the last of the crumbs forgotten.

"I've read about the West Indies," she said, a faraway look in her eyes. "I've read about the Americas, too. And the Sandwich Islands, and Captain Cook's voyages, and Cathay, and . . . oh, so many places!"

The invisible barrier she had so carefully maintained between them was slipping. Suddenly, her eyes were aglow with eagerness and there was a hint of breathlessness in her voice, as if she were so excited, she'd forgotten how to breathe.

Last night, Lizzie had been adrift on memory, but tonight . . .

Slowly, carefully, John set his half-eaten apple on the table, stunned. Tonight, at just the hint of far-off lands and strange, new worlds, she had come alive.

Tonight, because of a few throwaway words from him, Lizzie Tynsdale had set sail on dreams, and suddenly there was nothing he wanted more than to be the one to make those dreams come true.

"Tell me about them, about the places you've seen," she said.

John drew a deep, steadying breath, fighting for calm. "Gladly. But a good tale goes down better if it's accompanied by a good wine. If you'll join me . . . ?" He gestured to the bottle she'd brought.

"Gladly," she said, and pushed a glass across the table toward him.

John reached to take the glass, and found his hand was trembling.

Chapter Twelve

By the time they broached a second bottle of wine that Lizzie brought up from the cellars, they'd covered New England, Pennsylvania, and Virginia, and had moved south into the Carolinas. John traced each step on an old map she'd retrieved from her room, but even that wasn't enough to keep her head from growing dizzy with the details. Still she hungered for tales of the world beyond England's borders.

"Have you been to any of the settlements in Florida? Or Barbados? I've heard that Jamaica" A yawn caught Lizzie in the middle of the thought.

He laughed. "I take it that wine and my storytelling skills don't mix."

"Not that." Lizzie shook her head, blinking sleepily. "It's been a long day." "Enough, then." He rose and came around the table to her. "On your feet, my girl. A little cold night air ought to wake you up."

"Mmmrpf," said Lizzie, muffling another yawn as she struggled to her feet.

It was her muzzy-headed sleepiness that was to blame for her stumbling against his chest and straight into his armsbut it wasn't sleepiness that made her linger there.

It felt so . . . right. His arms about her, drawing her close. The height and solid breadth of him. The roughness of his coat against her cheek and the strength of the arms that enfolded her.

She felt his hand slide up her back, pressing her closer, and instead of fighting the pressure, she slid her arms around him and leaned into his warmth.

"Lizzie?"

The query seemed to come from far away, like a whisper on the wind. "Hmmm?" she said, closing her eyes and breathing in the scent of him.

"Marry me. Leave the inn and come with me to America."

To Lizzie, it seemed as if her heart stopped beating and her lungs quit working. She stood, wrapped in his arms, hearing, yet not believing, and wondered if she'd simply fallen asleep and drifted into dreams.

Marry him?

He shifted his hold on her, forcing her to look up into eyes suddenly alight with an inner fire. "It's a whole new world, a new chance. A place with a future instead of a past. I'll take you to Jamaica, if you like. I'll"

"Marry you?" With a stifled gasp, Lizzie wrenched herself free of his embrace. "Marry you?"

He tried to drag her back, but she dodged away. She grabbed hold of the back of her chair for support, then abruptly swung the chair itself around so that it stood between them. It wasn't much protection, but it was something, and she had a sudden, urgent need to restore the barriers she had so carefully maintained between them . . . until tonight.

"Are you mocking me? Trying to . . . to seduce me with such a pretty lie?" she demanded.

John shook his head as if to shake off the lingering effects of the wine. "I swear to God, I had no intention of saying that."

"And now you're sorry." No matter how much it stung to say it, Lizzie didn't want to hear him say it first.

"No! I'm not sorry I said it. It's . . . I didn't know I was going to say it until it just . . . came out."

He took a hesitant step toward her, hand outstretched, but froze the instant she edged the chair around to block his approach. "I . . . I love you, Lizzie."

Lizzie's grip on the back of the chair tightened until she was afraid the wood would snap. She did her best to glare at him, but there was a faint film of tears in her eyes that made things blur.

"Love isn't something you find in the bottom of a wine bottle, Mr. Carleton. You don't just decide to get married, either."

He grinned suddenly, the same wry, unrepentantly wicked grin that had tormented her from the start. Lizzie had the odd sense it was directed against himself as much as it was at her.

"I do. I just did."

She gave the chair a hard shove. "I should have known it would be a waste of time talking to you."

"It's only a waste if you're going to tell me that I couldn't have fallen in love with you, just like that, or that I shouldn't ask you to marry me."

There wasn't a trace of amusement in his words or his voice, but Lizzie could swear she heard gentle laughter, faint and far away. Beneath the laughter was a low grumbling, like a storm just coming over the horizon.

And then a small voice spoke in her ear. Just one kiss, my Lizzie. Trust me.

Lizzie jumped, startled, and looked around wildly. "Go away!"

John crossed his arms over his chest and tucked in his chin like a man determined not to budge until he got his way. "I'm not going anywhere. Not until you say yes."

"Not you!"

For an instant, he looked puzzled; then his expression changed to one of unholy delight. "She's picking on you, now, is she?"

"Who?"

"Bess." His grin widened. "I must say, she's a very determined ghost. She kept me awake half the night last night with her talking."

Lizzie stared at him. "My mother kept you"

"Sat on the end of the bed and told me all about you. She also informed me that I was in love with you." The corner of his mouth twitched. "I must say, it's more than a little disconcerting to have a stranger tell you something like that. Especially when you can see right through her!"

"You could see right through my mother?"

"Not completely, you know. Things were a little fuzzy, but then it was the middle of the night, and I've never seen a ghost before, so I wasn't quite as sharp on the details as I might have been."

"She said . . . Bess said" Lizzie's mouth was working, but somehow her lungs didn't seem to be getting any air. "You really love me?"

He nodded, abashed. Embarrassed. Uncertain. He looked, Lizzie thought, like a little boy caught pilfering pies from the kitchen.

"I didn't believe her at first, of course. I thought it was all a dream, but" He lifted his hands, palms out in a symbol of defeat, and gave an eloquent shrug. "I guess she was right after all."

Lizzie regarded him suspiciously. "Have you been sneaking wine from the cellar when no one was around?"

He shook his head. "Though I may have to start." He hesitated, then added, "She also said you were falling in love with me."

Lizzie stared at him, her mouth agape. Then she shut her mouth, dragged her chair back to the table, and sat down before her wobbly knees collapsed under her. "She said what?"

"Swore it was true. Said that when you find your heart's desire, she'll be free."

"And you're my heart's desire."

He winced. "You don't have to sound quite so scornful."

Lizzie simply stared at him, too stunned, bewildered, and downright . . . resentful to do anything else. Nobody told her what to do or think or feel. Nobody! Yet there he stood, telling her she was falling in love with him.

And here she sat, letting him get away with it.

Lizzie jumped to her feet. "I need some fresh air to clear my head. You do, too, or you wouldn't be spouting such errant nonsense." She snatched the basket and lantern off the table.

"Well?" she demanded when he remained silent. "Are you coming or not? If you aren't, then you can bloody well stay here until tomorrow."

He stood as if rooted in place.

She strode over to the door and wrenched it open, then turned to throw him one last, challenging glance. "In love with you, indeed!"

Now he knew what a woman looked like when she stormed off in a fit of high dudgeon. He'd never seen it done better.

John grabbed his hat from the peg where he'd hung it and clapped it on his head. Then he picked up the chamber pot and the bucket and hurried after her.

Lizzie didn't speak as she led him through the kitchen and into the yard, then opened the gate for him. Since she'd left the basket on the kitchen table, she took the wooden water bucket from him, then left him to find his way alone, just as she had the night before.

It was as he was walking back toward the yard that he caught a flash of motion as someone slipped around the corner of the inn. There was only a sliver of moon, but it was more than enough for him to see the hunched-over shape before it dived into the shadows surrounding the kitchen yard.

John dodged into the shadows under the yard's brick wall, silently cursing himself. Last night he'd stayed in the shadows close to the wall, but tonight he'd been so befuddled that he'd strolled straight down the middle of the path for any fool to see. If Lamberre's men were out thereand it only made sense that they werethey must have spotted him.

He waited, straining to catch any sound that might indicate the dragoons' hiding places. Nothing. Not even a breeze to rattle the dried grass at his feet. If the soldiers were there, they were doing a far better job of keeping quiet than he would have expected.

If it was dragoons. There was always the possibility that the flirtatious, chattering Molly had ignored Huldspeth's example and found someone among the local lads who tickled her fancy.

When several minutes ticked past and there was still no hint of dragoons lying in wait, John started forward again, more cautiously this time. That was when a huge shape rose out of the grass and charged toward him.

John tossed the chamber pot away and spun to confront his attackeronly to find himself face-to-face with a large dog that seemed almost as startled by the encounter as he was. The beast gave a tentative wag of his tail.

''Damned dog. You scared the devil out of me."

The dog took that as an invitation. He came closer and dropped a sizable hunk of firewood on John's toe, then backed off and crouched on his forelegs, rear end in the air and tail wagging furiously.

John kicked away the wood. "No, I will not throw your blasted stick for you. Not at this time of the night."

While the dog retrieved his stick, John groped for his chamber pot. To his relief, it had landed in a thick clump of grass. The handle on the lid had broken off, but that seemed the extent of the damage. He straightened, prize in hand, and found the dog eagerly waiting for him.

A low, angry hiss came from the direction of the yard gate. "Carleton? You there?"

"I'm here." He cautiously made his way to the gate with the dog prancing at his side. "I got attacked by this killer hound, here. Saw some movement at the corner of the inn and thought it was His Majesty's finest at first."

Lizzie tensed. "Dragoons? Here?" she demanded, nervously peering into the shadows. "If there were, they would have popped up by now. If for no other reason than that this dog of yours would have dropped a very large stick on someone's foot and invited him to play fetch."

"Not Scruff. He doesn't like soldiers." She straightened in relief. "There can't be any dragoons around or he'd be growling."

"If they were skulking through the shadows, it'd be better if he just attacked 'em."

She laughed. "Not Scruff. He's a coward. The best he can manage is a good growl . . . at a safe distance." She shooed the disappointed dog away, and pulled the gate shut after one last, careful look around. "It's strange, though. He usually stays in the stables at night."

"Could that pretty little red-haired maid of yours have gone out . . . adventuring, shall we say? And left the gate open behind her?"

Lizzie shook her head. "Not Molly. She's an outrageous flirt, but she has more sense than Huldspeth. She won't be doing any 'adventuring' until after the banns are posted and the vows are said. Besides, there are easier ways for her to slip out than through the kitchen yard."

"Your scullery maid, then?"

"Neda?" Lizzie glanced toward the far side of the yard, where the shadows were so thick only the faint outline of the roofs showed against the night sky. "It's always been against my rules. I wouldn't have thought . . . But then Bertha . . . Hmmm . . ." She frowned mightilyJohn could see the creases it made in her forehead, even in the dark. "Neda would come this way, if she were bent on trouble. And Bertha swears she's been slipping out to see a redcoat, even though she denied it when I confronted her about it. I suppose, if she were willing enough"

"Or the pay was good enough?"

"Absolutely not!" She was so indignant she almost shouted. "Not in my inn!"

She backed away from him, then shivered suddenly and drew her shawl more tightly about her shoulders. "It's cold. If you don't mind, I'd rather be sitting in front of my fire than standing here debating the morals of my maids."

"So would I."

"What?"

"Rather be sitting in front of your fire. With you."

It wasn't sitting he had in mind, but that would do for a start. All this talk of wandering chambermaids was giving him ideas.

"What do you say? A bottle of wine, a good fire. It's been rather uncomfortable, spending all day in the cold and the dust, without even a fire to take the chill off." He was trying not to sound like a small boy trying to wheedle a sugar twist out of the cook, but it wasn't easy. "Just for a little bit, to warm my bones."

If his hands hadn't been full with the chamber pot and the bucket of water he'd taken from her when she'd closed the gate, he could have been a lot more convincing. He would have understood if she'd flared up at him, but her silence was making him nervous.

"Carleton?" said Lizzie at last, when he'd almost given up expecting her to answer.

"Yes?"

"Be glad you're the one holding the water bucket."

She should have tipped that water bucket over his head when she'd had the chance.

Better yet, she should have tipped it over her head.

As she led John Carleton back through the inn, it was all Lizzie could do to keep from blurting out the mad refrain that kept running through her head. I love you. I love you. I love you!

A good dousing with cold water was probably the only thing that would bring her to her senses.

Maybe there had been something wrong with the bottles of wine they'd shared, after all. Maybe it had just taken a little longer to affect her than it had to affect him.

Or maybe his madness was catching.

No, it had to be the wine. She was a sensible, practical woman, the last person in the world who would ever fall in love. And she certainly wouldn't fall in love with a handsome rogue who had brought her as much trouble as Mr. John Francis Carleton had.

In spite of herself, in spite of her best intentions, the instant she opened the door to John Carleton's room, Lizzie glanced at the bed. He had tried to tidy it up, she'd give him that, even if he had casually tossed the dirty linens in a heap in the corner. No matter how good his intentions, however, the result was nothing short of lamentable.

It was the most shabbily made bed she'd ever seen. Corners weren't tucked in and edges hung drunkenly in all directions. It looked exactly as she would expect a bed to look after an arrogant, slipshod male had mucked with it.

It looked like a bed might look after a night of lovemaking.

The thought was enough to make her cheeks burn and her heart thud uncomfortably in her chest.

She gave a soft curse under her breath, then set down the lantern and deliberately began rolling up the old map. She didn't so much as glance at John.

She would not, absolutely would not think of . . . that.

John Francis Carleton might need a lesson in bed making, but she wasn't about to be the one to give it to him. She had better things to do with her time than waste it with a cocky colonial like him. She didn't even like the man, for heaven's sake!

So why, then, were her fingers trembling as she fumbled with the awkward creases and tears in the map?

And why, oh why, was she so damnably aware of him and his every movement that she could sense where he was and what he was doing without so much as glancing at him?

"Lizzie?"

Lizzie tensed. When he placed his hands on her shoulders, she jumped . . . but she made no effort to move away from him, safely out of reach. She couldn't have if she'd tried.

"Don't," she said. The word caught in her throat.

"Don't touch you?" His fingers gently dug into her taut muscles, soothing away the ache. "I can't help wanting to."

He slowly ran his hands up her shoulders, and then back down again. The heat of his touch warmed her, soft as summer.

"Don't love you?" His grip on her shoulders tightened as he drew her back against him. "Damned if I understand it, but I can't help that, either."

This was how Oliver Hardwicke had seduced her mother, Lizzie thought, dazed. With a glance, a touch, a soft word. With his body, warm and strong and solid against her.

Something deep inside Lizzie, something raw and urgent and insistent, whispered that she should give in, that she should welcome what he offered. That she should take it freely and demand more, because that was what living was all about.

She couldn't do it. She'd never approved of easy. She'd never trusted instinct or emotion or the promptings of that distant voice that whispered in her mind. She didn't dare.

Lizzie wrenched herself free and backed away, the rolled map held before her like a magic sword to ward off demons.

For a moment, he simply stood there, watching her. Then he stretched out his hand to her and spoke her name, soft and low, as a lover might.

Without a word, she tossed the map aside, turned, and fled.

John collapsed in the chair, limp as a rag doll.

He was in love with Lizzie.

He hadn't intended to say it. He hadn't even been sure he really was in love until the words first burst out of him, as if of their own accord. He'd thought the night air would clear his head, but it hadn't done a damn thing except stir fantasies of Lizzie and firelight and a soft feather bed.

And then, when he'd touched her . . .

Hell! Just laying his hands on her shoulders had made him ache with wanting. Just feeling the tension thrumming through her had made him long to take her in his arms and soothe away the fears and the doubts, made him want to fight off all the dragoons in England if that would keep her safe, if it would drive away the fear he'd seen in her eyes.

It didn't help to know that her fear was as much of herself and her own emotions as it was of him.

He tried to pick up the wine bottle Lizzie had retrieved from the cellar, but his hand was so slick with sweat, the bottle slid out of his grip. He rubbed his palms on his breeches and tried again. He'd already downed most of a bottle of the George's best, but tonight was no time to worry about propriety.

He was in love with Lizzie.

John let out his breath in a long, slow admission of defeat.

Marrying would change just about everything in his lifecurtail his freedom, do away with all those pleasant dalliances with the ladies of his acquaintance, saddle him with a pack of brats who would probably be as strong-willed and independent-minded as their motherand he couldn't think of anything he wanted more.

Except to make love to Lizzie, married or no.

Lizzie passed a restless night only to rise tired, troubled, and angryat herself, as well as John Carleton.

She'd long ago discovered that the best cure for a bad mood was work, and she plunged into her work with a vengeance. She pushed herself mercilessly and sent the maids scurrying in all directions on a dozen different tasks that had suddenly assumed an urgency out of all proportion to reality. By afternoon, Huldspeth had broken down into tears, Neda had turned sullen, and the stable hands were doing their best to keep out of sight for fear of being drafted for yet another project on top of the ones she'd already assigned them.

By the time she closed the taproomearly, much to the disgust of her patrons and the relief of everyone elseshe was aching and tired and every step seemed an effort . . . and it still wasn't enough to have driven John Carleton and his startling declaration out of her thoughts. She wearily trailed into the kitchen, knowing she would soon be seeing him, unsure if she dreaded the meeting . . . or longed for it with all her heart.

Bertha eyed her dubiously for a moment. Then she lumbered out of the kitchen, only to return a few minutes later with a half-filled tankard of ale.

"Drink that," she said, setting the tankard down in front of Lizzie. "I've added a fresh egg and some bitters and a packet of those herbs the widow Grayson swears would near make a dead man walk. You're as near dead on your feet as ever I've seen you."

Lizzie grimaced. "You know I hate ruining a good pint of ale."

"If you don't drink it, I swear I'll call that leech in Twistledean Minor to come bleed you. It's the only other cure I know for this madness that's driving you. Keep up at this rate and you'll be nothing but a ghost of yourself, and so I warn you!"

At the mention of ghosts, Lizzie flinched. "Don't you dare send for that quack! I'd as soon slit my throat as let him get near me."

"Well, then!" said Bertha, as if that settled the argument.

It did. Bertha would do exactly what she said she would, no matter what, and Lizzie knew it.

"All right. You don't have to bully me, you know." Screwing up her face, Lizzie gulped down as much of the foul concoction as she could in one long draft. She emerged from the ale pot gasping for breath, her mouth twisted in distaste. "Yuck! That's awful!"

"What's good for us seldom comes wrapped in pretty packages. And what comes in good-looking packages," Bertha added grimly, "rarely's good for anyone, let alone you."

Lizzie scowled at her; Bertha scowled right back.

"You know exactly what I mean," the cook said, crossing her arms over her vast bosom and looking stern. She stood over her while Lizzie finished the disgusting brew, then took the empty tankard from her. "You'd be better off if you listened to me more often, but there! When did you ever listen to anyone if you didn't have to?"

Lizzie sighed, resigned. "What is it this time?"

"Neda. She came in unexpectedly while I was fixing up a bite for that pretty rogue of yours. Sly piece that she is, she was on about what was I doing that for and who could possibly want something in the middle of the afternoon when there hasn't been a traveler past here in days." The cook frowned, remembering. "I sent her about her business straightaway, but that don't mean she's stopped wondering . . . or stopped prying into what's none of her business."

"Surely she's not sufficiently clever"

"You don't have to be clever if you're sly enough, and that Neda's sly clear through to the bone. I'm telling you, you'd best let her go before she brings you to grief." ''Is she . . . is she still sneaking out to see that redcoat, as you said she was?" Lizzie asked, remembering the shadow John had thought he'd seen.

"She is, and why you haven't put a stop to it is more than I can tell! Though if you was to ask me, I'd say it's that colonial who's got your head so turned about on your shoulders, you can't tell which way's front!"

Lizzie didn't even try to argue.

The walk through the inn and up the stairs and down the hall to John Carleton's room was the longest Lizzie had ever taken . . . and she wouldn't have minded if it had been longer still.

Would he press her for a matching declaration of love? Would he sweep her into his arms and shower her with kisses? Would he demand she make love to him?

And what would she do if he did?

Reluctantly, she slid the key into the lock, and just as reluctantly swung the door wide.

He wasn't even looking at her. He was hunched over the map she'd abandoned the night before, with a small pile of the books she'd loaned him anchoring the corners.

"Come here," he said, beckoning to her even though he hadn't taken his attention off the map. "There's something I wanted to show you."

No mad declarations. No mad kisses. Not a hint of lovemaking. All of a sudden, Lizzie felt like a set of bagpipes that had had all the air let out of itlimp and extraordinarily awkward.

Without a word, she drew the door shut and went to see what he wanted.

Chapter Thirteen

"Look at him, Bess! The arrogant bas"

"Oliver! You promised!"

"Promises!" Oliver snorted in disgust. "You've developed a fine passion for promises these past five days, and no mistake. Promise you won't tip over his wine or blow out his candle, Oliver. Promise you won't keep him awake all night with howling and rattling chains, Oliver.' I tell you, Bess, I begin to suspect you've a tendre for the man yourself!"

Bess drew herself up indignantly, but she couldn't stay angry for long. The sight of her handsome Oliver, his arms disapprovingly crossed over his chest, sitting slouched in John Carleton's chair and scowling at his daughter and her swain, made her laugh. "What did you expect me to do?" she asked. "Help you drive hin away?"

"That's what you ought to have done!"

"Not when Lizzie's in love with him. And she is, Oliver, whether she'll admit it or not. As much in love as I was with you!"

"Well," said Oliver. He uncrossed his arms and crossed his legs and tugged at the lace at his throat. "Well."

Bess bent and kissed his cheek. "Maybe not quite as much as that."

"Well!" said Oliver, and smiled up at his beloved.

And then he vaulted out of the chair as John suddenly swung it around.

"Damnation!" Oliver shouted as John, with a casual flip of his coattails, sat down beside Lizzie. "You'd think he would give a body warning!"

Bess giggled. "It is his chair, my love, and you were sitting in it!"

"Aye! But he's too damn quick by half! You saw the other night, Bess. Sat down right on top of me!" Oliver shuddered at the memory.

"Very unpleasant," said Bess soothingly.

"Damned unsettling, that's what it was!" Oliver tugged his waistcoat into place, clearly much moved by the experience. "As if it weren't enough to have spent these past few days listening to him blather on about America and his plantation and tobacco and God knows what kind of foolery. But to stand here and watch Lizziemy daughter!laughing with him and eyeing him like that and" He stopped as Lizzie glanced up and caught John Carleton watching her. "Look at her! Did you see that look she just gave him? It's enough to make a man bilious! I tell you, Bess"

"You've been telling me, Oliver," Bess said, more sharply this time. "And I've told you that it's our Lizzie's happiness that's at stake here, and you'll behave yourself, like it or not!"

"But, Bess!"

"But me no buts, Oliver Hardwicke. My father didn't approve of you any more than you approve of John Carleton, and neither you nor I paid him any heed. Whatever your opinion of him, John Carleton is in love with our Lizzie, and she with him, and I doubt either one will pay any more attention to your objections than ever we paid to my father's!"

"Ha!" said Oliver. "He's lusting after her, but as for him being in love with Lizzie as I was in love with you . . . Well, we'll see, won't we? As soon as this Randall fellow gets back and Carleton's finished with what he came to do, we'll just see!"

Five days!

John glanced at Lizzie where she sat, head bent over that tattered, ancient map of hers, studying the route he'd followed the first time he'd sailed down the coast of America and into the Caribbean. Just the sight of her was enough to make him ache with wanting her.

Seated there, so close he could have touched her if he'd dared, with the candlelight highlighting the fine line of brow and nose and chin and making her skin glow and her eyes sparkle, she seemed a fantasy from his most secret of secret dreams. The need to touch her, the urgent need to make love to her, had become a fire in his blood, an obsession that gave him no rest, waking or sleeping.

These past five nights with Lizzie had taxed his reserves of patience and self-restraint to the limit. He wasn't at all sure he'd last the week.

If it hadn't been for Bess, he wouldn't have had to.

If he'd had his way, he would have convinced Lizzie to marry him by now. No matter how stubborn or independent she was, she'd have had to give in. He'd have offered too many adventures for her to resist, no matter how easily she resisted him.

Unfortunately, Bess had materialized at the foot of his bed that first night wearing a frown fierce enough to frighten the Devil himself. She'd poked him to make sure he was awake, and then she'd proceeded to spend the next hour scolding him for his clumsiness and lecturing him on the stupidity of males in general, and males in love in particular.

Don't rush your fences, she'd said. Go too fast and she'll get her back up and then where will you be? she'd said.

Married to me, he'd said, and grinned.

And that was when she'd flung the empty wine bottle at his head.

Fortunately, he'd ducked the bottle, but when he'd persisted in arguing, she'd stirred up the dust and set him to sneezing, then pulled all the clean sheets off the bedthe same sheets he'd struggled so hard to get tucked in in the first place.

It had taken a long time for the dust to settle and the sneezing to stop, and still longer to remake the bed.

Since then, he'd tried to keep his hands to himself and his tongue between his teeth, despite the manifold temptations. More than once he'd come close to tripping up, but Bess had been there every time, hissing a warning in his ear just as if he were a schoolboy who'd forgotten his lessons.

It didn't help that Lizzie, in her fascination with his tales, was forgetting that she wanted to keep him at a distance. She'd managed a frosty self-restraint the second night, at least at first, but that hadn't lasted long. Her hunger for adventure, even secondhand adventure, more than outweighed her caution.

He wasn't sure she was falling in love with him, but he'd noticed her glancing at his bed more than once over the past few nights, which had to be a good sign. A definite step in the right direction.

Of course, it could be that she just didn't think much of his prowess at bed making, or housekeeping in general, for that matter. He'd triedheaven knew he'd tried!but those damned sheets . . .

Sheets.

John glanced at the untidy bed. Even after all this timeeven after Bess had tossed them in the dust on the floorhe'd swear the scent of lavender lingered. And every time he looked at Lizzie

"Stop staring at me like that and pay attention!"

Lizzie's peremptory command cut through John's thoughts, dragging him back from those tempting, tormenting fantasies of him and Lizzie andNo, better he didn't think about that.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare. And I was paying attention."

"Ha!" said Lizzie scornfully. "I asked if it was true that all Virginians liked fishing for fried mutton as much as you did, and you smiled and nodded and said 'Umm.'"

"Oh."

Her gaze dropped. She toyed with the tattered edge of the old map, folding over the corner, then carefully smoothing it out again. "I suppose you're wondering when Randall will be back."

"Yes." He drew the word out, considering its implications.

What in hell would he do if Lizzie didn't agree to marry him once Randall was back? He couldn't spend the rest of his life in this damned, dusty rat trap of a room waiting for her to change her mind. He wouldn't have endured it this long if he hadn't been afraid of dragging Lizzie into more trouble than he already had by venturing out.

"I'm keeping my ears open, you know," Lizzie said. "As soon as he returns, I'll hear of it."

John nodded. "I know."

She folded over the corner, then folded it again, slowly and deliberately . . . all without once looking at him.

Five days. Five whole days and he hadn't once asked her to marry him.

Not that she would have accepted his proposal, of course, but it would have been nice to be asked again, just to prove that the first offer hadn't been the product of too much wine and too little sleep.

For five days, he'd been a perfect gentleman. Courteous, respectful, attentive, amusing. Not at all presumptuous or inclined to take advantage of the circumstances. He'd scarcely touched her, nor had he tried to take her into his arms.

He hadn't tried to kiss her, either. Not even once.

Downright insulting, she called it!

Her jaw set hard as she ran her fingernail along the double fold she'd made on the corner of the map.

"And once you've talked to Randall?" she said, her gaze still fixed on the map. "What then?"

When he didn't answer, she reluctantly forced herself to look up, only to find him watching her, an intent, an unsettling gleam in his eye.

"I can't stay here," he said slowly, as if weighing every word. "My uncle would see to that, if Lamberre didn't."

"No, you can't stay here." If he had to measure his words, one cautious word at a time, hers sliced like razors, scoring her flesh.

She winced and glanced down at her hands, then bit back an exclamation of chagrin. She'd rubbed the folded edge of the map so hard it had cut into the tip of her finger, drawing blood.

Lizzie jerked her hand back. Tiny drops of blood scattered across the map in a chain of ruby islands. She thrust her finger into her mouth and sucked at the cut and glared at John Carleton as though it were all his fault.

He frowned. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" she demanded around her finger.

"As if you blamed me for your carelessness."

Lizzie pulled her finger out of her mouth and frowned down at it. The almost invisible cut was still oozing blood. "It's not my carelessness I blame you for."

"All this trouble, then." He grabbed her hand. She tried to tug it free, but he wouldn't let go. "I meant what I said, Lizzie. About loving you. About wanting to marry you."

Lizzie froze. Suddenly, even breathing took a conscious effort, never mind thinking straight.

His gaze dropped to her hand, to the welling cut at the tip of her finger. He plucked the clean white napkin out of the basket she'd brought and pressed a corner of the cloth against the wound.

Because she couldn't pull free, Lizzie let her hand go limp in hisand thought how strange it was that she should find his touch so . . . reassuring. She hadn't had anyone tend to her cuts and scrapes since she'd grown old enough to work in the inn, and that had been a long, long time ago. And he'd asked her to marry him. Again. He'd even said he loved her.

She felt dizzy, uncertain. She felt . . . relieved.

''If I married you, I'd have to leave the inn, leave England," she said.

"Yes."

"I'd have to leave my friends. I'd have to leave Bertha, who's cared for me since I was a child."

He nodded, and pressed the cloth more firmly against her finger. "Yes."

"Why can't you stay in England? Straighten out this . . . this misunderstanding with Lord Malloran and simply live here?"

Why was she even asking? She had no intention of leaving the inn or England. Certainly not because she was fancying herself in love with a man she'd known for less than a fortnight. A man who was now a fugitive from the king's justice, just as her father had been all those years ago.

John raised his eyes to meet her questioning, troubled gaze. "I can't stay because I don't belong here. Because I'm an American, not an Englishman. My life is there, not here."

"What about me? What about my life?"

He hesitated. "Is this what you want, Lizzie? To spend all your time in this place, serving ale and boiled mutton to the local farmers, making sure the beds are made and the floors are scrubbed so strangers can sleep in them or walk on them, and then walk away?" With every word he was growing more impassioned, more sure of himself . . . and of her. "Is that the way you want to spend your life, Lizzie? When there's a world out there, waiting to be explored?"

Lizzie grabbed hold of the edge of the table. She felt as if she were at sea, with the deck shifting unsteadily beneath her feet and an unknown horizon ahead. It made her stomach twist, just at the thought.

No! She wanted to say. And Yes! Because this is where I was born, where my mother was born, and my grandfather and great-grandfather and their fathers before them.

"But you're going to be Lord Malloran someday!" she said instead. "Once Malloran's dead, you'll have it all! Why would you give that up?"

"Why would I want it?" he demanded. "A home I've never known in a country that's not my own? Why would I want the responsibilities?"

"Why would I want to leave mine?"

Without taking his eyes off her, he drew her hand to him and lightly kissed the tips of her fingers, then pressed a lingering kiss into her palm. His breath was warm against her skinand just as troubling as his arguments.

"I love you, Lizzie Tynsdale, and you love me. We can't ignore that, can't just walk away from it any more than your mother could walk away from your father."

Lizzie yanked her hand free of his. "They have nothing to do with this!"

"Just think of what I can offer you, Lizzie! A whole new world, just waiting"

He stopped suddenly and batted at his ear as if at a pesky fly. "Think of all the things you could do if"

His head jerked around, as if something had stung him.

Lizzie craned to see what it was that was bothering him. She couldn't see anything that would account for his bizarre behavior.

"Marry me, Lizzie. Say yes! You know you want to!"

Because she couldn't bear to face him, she looked away. Her eye chanced to catch the trail of red dots that arced across the open space dividing England from the New World on the map.

"No!" She kicked back her chair and sprang to her feet. "I won't throw away everything I've worked for, everything my grandfather worked for. Not for you. Not for any man. Not ever!"

And then she ran from the room and never once looked back.

The instant John caught the distant sound of Lizzie's chamber door slamming shut behind her, Bess materialized at the end of the table. He'd seen mad dogs that looked friendlier.

"I hope you're pleased with yourself."

John scowled at her and slumped deeper in his chair. "I suppose you've come to tell me you were right."

"Of course I was right! How many times did I tell you to keep your mouth shut? Don't rush her, I said. Let her get used to the idea of being in love. But did you listen to me? Not you! You knew better! Ha!"

She was so angry, she was floating a good foot above the floor. It didn't slow her down in the least.

"There's never been a man breeched yet who didn't think with what hangs between his legs instead of what lies between his ears, at least when it comes to women. And you're not one scrap better than the rest of them. 'You love me, Lizzie!'" she said in mockingly prim tones. "Aaarrgghh!"

John's scowl darkened. "I'd have done better if you hadn't been buzzing in my ear like a damned bumblebee."

"It was either that or Oliver was going to pour that bottle of wine down the front of you. Which would you have preferred?"

"I'd have preferred that the two of you minded your own damn business and left me to mind mine!" John roared. He glanced around the room. "You hear that, Hardwicke?"

"He went with Lizzie. And let me remind you, Lizzie is our business!"

"Then you should have tended to her when you had the chance instead of mucking up your lives. Getting yourselves killed by a scurvy pack of redcoats. A hell of a lot of good that did her! Or you either, for that matter!"

"IThat's not the point!"

John leaned closer. "No?"

"No." She didn't sound nearly as sure of herself as she had a moment earlier. "I don't know how it happened, and I don't care, but I love Lizzie, and I'm not going to let you, or Oliver, or any bloody redcoat get in the way of that, no matter what." John stabbed at the air with his finger to emphasize each point. It didn't make much of an impression on Bess, but it made him feel better. "I'm not going to let Lizzie get in the way of our happiness. Not because of the mess you made of your affair!"

"I didn't"

"You did! If you hadn't, you wouldn't be floating in the air in front of me, and I wouldn't be able to see right through you!"

"Ha!" said Bess. "Much you know about anything! If I left you to handle this on your own, you'd make a bigger mess of it than you already have."

"Ha!" said John, willing to argue the point.

There was no one to argue with. Bess had vanished.

For Lizzie, morning brought a nagging headache, one small bit of good news, and several large chunks of bad.

The good news arrived in the form of one Samuel Martin, tapster. Lizzie was working over her accounts when Huldspeth brought word of his return.

"He's in the taproom, miss," the maid said resentfully. "Already drawn a pint of ale, he has, and now he's sitting there grand as you please, just as if he never left." Lizzie carefully closed her account book. "Have you spoken to him?"

"Not to say spoken to him. He tried to speak to me, but I just said I'd let you know he was here, and then I walked out and left him to take care of himself."

"Of course." Lizzie hesitated. "Does he know about the baby?"

Huldspeth determinedly stared at the far corner of the room. "If he don't, he'll find out soon enough. Can't hardly help it."

"No, I suppose he can't." It was one more problem she'd have to deal with, but she'd worry about it when the time came.

The instant Lizzie walked into the taproom, Samuel lumbered to his feet, cap in hand.

"Samuel!" Lizzie crossed to him, hand outstretched. "Welcome back! I was beginning to think you were never coming!"

"We was a mite delayed, for which I am sorry, miss," he said, enthusiastically wringing her hand.

"No need. Not now you're here. I take it your cousin died, then?"

He nodded. "Took a powerful long time dyin', but he went in the end. Couldn't hardly help it, not after we spent so much time waitin' for him to, now, could he?"

Lizzie had to fight to keep from smiling at her tapster's notions of familial responsibility. "No matter. I'm just glad you're back. I've been run ragged these last few weeks without you. You know how thirsty some folks can get!" "Oh, aye," said Samuel, suddenly nervous. "Turrible thirsty they be, an' that's a fact."

"I'll be glad to let you deal with them."

"Mmmm." Samuel nervously shuffled his feet; then he cleared his throat, scowled at the floor, and blurted out, "Turns out our cousin had a bit more laid by than wot any of us suspected. 'Appens he left most of it t' me. Coulda floored me with a feather when I found out. Surprised m' sister, even."

Given Sarah Martin's passion for keeping her eye on the shillings and pence that might come her way, that was no mean feat. "I'm glad to hear that, for your sake."

"Yes." Samuel cleared his throat. "Anyways, we was thinkin', Sarah an' me, as how it might be a good thing t' take that money, see, and put it into a tavern of our own. Just a little place, mind, but . . . Well . . ."

He was squeezing his cap as hard as if he were wringing out a wet rag, but he still couldn't bring himself to look her in the eye. "Makes more sense than just puttin' it by without it ever earnin' me another shillin'."

"Are you telling me you're leaving the King George?" Lizzie demanded, stunned. "After all these years? Just like that?"

Samuel had the grace to look stricken. "Not just like that! I wouldn't never do that to you! You know that! I'd need t' find a place first, anyways, so there's no call for me t' leave right away."

Lizzie closed her eyes, fighting against the headache that had just gotten worse. How would she get by without him? After all these years, how could she possibly find someone to take his place? He was clumsy, blundering, and sometimes surly, but he was as honest a man as ever breathed . . . and he was her friend. How could she possibly run the King George without him?

When the silence became painful, Lizzie opened her eyes to find Samuel staring at her like a stricken ox. "We'll talk about it later. For now, I'm just glad you're here. Tonight"

"I can't come till tomorrow, Miss Lizzie. Sarah says"

"Fine," said Lizzie. "Fine." Of all things, she didn't want to hear what Sarah said. "Tomorrow, then?''

Samuel nodded eagerly. "Tomorrow'd be champion."

"Good. I'll expect you tomorrow for sure." She started to turn away, but Samuel stood like a rock. "Is there something else?"

He stopped wringing his cap and started tugging on it, instead. "I was wonderin' . . . That is . . ."

"Yes?"

Samuel took a deep breath. "It's Huldspeth." He couldn't meet her eye. "Neda says she's increasin'."

Lizzie froze. Huldspeth's pregnancy was the last thing she wanted to talk about right now. "That's right. She is. But she hasn't said you're the father, if that's what you're worried about."

"Noooo. Wasn't that, exactly." He gave his cap another vicious tug as he struggled to put his concerns into words. "I'd hoped t' marry her, you know."

"When? When Sarah said you could?"

Samuel flinched at the bite in her words. "I know she's a bit difficult, like, but Sarah's a goodhearted woman for all that. It's just . . . Well . . ."

"It's just that she doesn't want to share you with a wife." The last speck of Lizzie's patience vanished in a flash. "That's your problem, Samuel, not mine. You're the one who has to decide if you'd rather go on the way you always have, or if you've the courage to go after what you want, in spite of it all."

The instant the words were out, she regretted them. Too late. He slammed his cap on his head and stalked from the room, leaving her to wonder whether she'd been lecturing him . . . or herself.

Chapter Fourteen

By midafternoon, neither Lizzie's headache nor her day had improved. No matter whether she was dealing with chance travelers who wanted a cold nuncheon, or Neda's complaints of mice in the washhouse, thoughts of John Carleton had a sneaky way of slipping past her guard and poking her when she least expected them.

Was he right? Was she afraid of reaching for what she wanted? Was she fooling herself and running from the past instead of reaching out to grab the future?

The troubling questions dogged her through the morning and into the afternoon, until she was almost grateful when one of the stable lads brought word that Lamberre and some of his men had ridden into the inn yard. At least the lieutenant would provide some distraction, and with his facility for rousing her temper, there was a good chance she'd be able to forget about her unwanted guest for ten minutes altogethermaybe a whole quarter of an hour, if she was lucky.

Lizzie could hear Lamberre in the taproom, arrogantly ordering Huldspeth to find her, but some perverse will to annoy the man kept her with Bertha in the pantry, inventorying supplies.

"Best you go," said Bertha; she hadn't wanted to do the inventory, in any case. "No need to give him an excuse to bring the place down around our ears a second time."

"I should like to see him try." Lizzie slammed down the wooden lid on a cask of flour, raising a cloud of white dust.

"You undoubtedly will," Bertha snapped, staring in disgust at the fine coating of flour that was beginning to settle on her spotless slate floor. "And if the lieutenant doesn't do it, I'll be tempted. You've been past bearing all morning, but making a mess of my storeroom is more than the outside of enough! Go on! Get out of my pantry and leave me in peace!"

Lizzie dusted off her hands, untied her apron, and went.

Huldspeth had wisely drawn the lieutenant a tankard of ale, but he'd set it aside in favor of restlessly pacing back and forth in front of the broad hearth. He showed no sign of a lingering limp, and the damage to his face had almost healed. Pity. She found the return of his usual good looks even less appealing than she had the signs of physical assault.

"You wished to see me?"

"Yes." As though to belie the curtness of his response, he pulled out a chair with a grand, sweeping gesture. "Please. Have a seat."

Lizzie stiffened. "I'd rather stand, thank you. I have a great deal of work still to do and I would prefer not to prolong this interview."

For a moment she thought he might object. Instead, he nodded. "Very well. It shouldn't take long, in any case."

He pulled a folded piece of heavy, cream-colored paper from an inner pocket of his scarlet coat. "I think you should read this."

Lizzie eyed the paper suspiciously, but made no move to take it from him. "What is it?"

"A public notice that Lord Malloran has posted a bounty for the capture of one John Gideon, who tried, for dishonorable purposes, to pass himself off as John Carleton. Read it!"

Instead, she clasped her hands behind her. "A bounty! But . . . why?"

"For having threatened His Lordship. For presenting himself as a man who doesn't exist in order to extort money and lay claim to what is not rightfully his." Lamberre unfolded the paper and once more held it out to her. "You ought to read it. It also carries a warning against anyone caught harboring the fugitive."

When she still refused to take it, Lamberre returned the paper to his inner coat pocket. "You'd be well advised to turn him over now, while you can still claim the reward. Twenty pounds is a lot of money for one worthless colonial."

"It is, indeed," Lizzie said stiffly. "It might even be tempting, if he were mine to hand over."

The lieutenant's eyes narrowed as he studied her. "It should be more than tempting, Mistress Tynsdale. It should be sufficient warning of the risk you run."

"The risk I run? What would that be? Damage to my inn and insult to me by not barring you and your men from the premises altogether?"

His thin lips curved into an unpleasant smile as he moved a step closer to her. "I wouldn't suggest you try to keep me out, my dear. I can be . . . unpleasant, when provoked."

Lizzie met his gaze with an insultingly direct one of her own. "Just when you're provoked?"

The smile hardened into an expression of angry menace. "Such a quick wit. A fitting accompaniment to your beauty, I suppose, though I'd advise you not to rely too much on either. You may find that both will fail you when you most need them."

It took an effort of will not to let her hands curl into clawed fists. "I shall try to remember that."

"I'll offer you another piece of advice. Out of kindness." He stretched out his hand and gently brushed his fingertips over the curve of her cheek.

Lizzie flinched, and forced herself not to pull away from his touch.

"Take care what you do, Mistress Tynsdale," he said very softly. He held his hand up to show her the flour that coated his fingers. "The simplest things can leave traces of their presence, and always when you least expect it."

Lizzie backed up as she brushed off the flour.

Lamberre moved to follow, and stumbled over a stool that suddenly appeared in his path. "WhatDamn!"

"You'd best take care, as well, Lieutenant," said Lizzie helpfully. "The oddest things can trip you up, and it's always when you least expect it."

And then she briskly dusted her hands together to get rid of the last traces of white, spun on her heel, and stalked away.

A day spent with nothing to look at except dust, four bare walls, and a bed was not John's idea of a day well spent. He especially didn't like staring at the bed. As the hours dragged on, he found himself swinging between unassuaged lust and an almost panicked feeling that he was in a trapand he didn't much care for the feeling either way.

Since he couldn't do a thing about Randall or Lamberre at present, there was only one way out of the dilemma that he could see.

"Bess? Bess! Are you there?" John felt foolish, speaking to an empty room like this, but he hadn't any idea how one went about contacting a ghost.

"It's about Lizzie," he added, and was relieved to see Bess materialize in front of his eyes.

"What's the matter with Lizzie?" Bess demanded. Her skirts seemed to stir in a wind, as though they, too, felt her agitation. "Nothing's wrong with Lizzie. But I need your help."

"Yes?" She was definitely wary, but just as clearly willing to listen.

"I . . . Er . . ." John's mouth snapped shut. He glanced around the room. "Is Oliver about?"

"He's gone out for a ride and won't be back for a few hours, so we're perfectly free to talk." She floated up to sit on the end of the bed, then patted the bolster invitingly. "Sit down right here and tell me all about it."

John nervously did as he was bidden. Conjuring Bess up had seemed a perfectly rational thing to do a moment ago, but now he wondered if he hadn't been a bit hasty.

But still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. . . .

He swallowed, rubbed his suddenly damp palms on the skirts of his coat, and said, "I need to know how to go about seducing your daughter . . . without Oliver getting in the way."

Word of the posted reward spread quickly.

"Twenty pounds," said Neda with a touch of awe in her voice. She was supposed to be polishing the tankards for the evening's trade, but her attention was on far more interesting matters. "That 'ud be a tidy bit o' silver. A body could set up house with that, if she had it."

Lizzie had retreated to the kitchen in search of one of Bertha's herbal brews to drive away her headache. Even thinking about the reward grated on her nerves. "There are few of us who couldn't use twenty pounds," Lizzie snapped, "but it's blood money, for all that."

"Just as well the colonial's not here, then," fat Bertha said gruffly, poking at the leg of mutton that was turning on the spit. "There'll be no trouble with anyone's conscience. Neda, you can set Scruff loose now. This meat's done. Then call the rest to supper. I don't want to see it dry out for want of someone to eat it."

Scruff had been hitched to the small treadmill set at one side of the chimney and was dutifully trotting along, turning the gears that turned the spit itself.

Neda, who preferred to keep her distance from any dog, even gentle Scruff, readily abandoned her polishing to do as she was bidden. Bertha hadn't allowed her a moment's respite from her afternoon's chores, so she hadn't gotten a chance to see the dragoons or mingle with the stable hands, who always got the best bits of gossip on such matters. Judging from her eagerness, the scullery maid expected that the talk among the servants over supper would be the next best thing to gathering the news firsthand.

Scruff ignored the girl and instead plopped down respectfully in front of the cook. His tongue was lolling out from the exercise, but his ears were cocked and his eyes bright with interest, because he was always given a piece of the fresh-roasted meat as reward for his labors.

"There, then," said Bertha, tossing the dog a good-size chunk she'd sliced from one end of the leg.

Scruff caught the delicacy and downed it in two quick bites. When it was clear he wouldn't get another piece, he gave his chin a quick scratch, and happily retreated to his favorite spot under the kitchen table.

"At least the dumb beasts are grateful for what they've got," Bertha grumbled. "They take what comes and don't go wishing for something they oughtn't to have."

Lizzie wasn't at all sure whether the warning was meant for Neda . . . or for her.

John gave a last tug to the bedsheet, then stepped back to admire his work.

It wasn't impressive. After a week's practice, he still couldn't get the sheets to tuck in properly, let alone lie smooth and taut as they were supposed to. He hoped he never got enough practice to learn. But this deliberately making his bed badly so Lizzie would have to straighten it out . . .

He studied the disreputable arrangement doubtfully. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

Bess turned from the window, where she'd been watching for Oliver's return. "Of course it's a good idea! It's my idea, isn't it?" She drifted over to float in the air beside him.

"It's your idea, all right. Why do you think I'm so damned nervous?"

"Stop being such a baby. Men! Honestly!" She tilted her head to the side and critically inspected the result of his labors, then gave a snort of disgust.

''Congratulations. I didn't really believe you could do much worse, but somehow you've managed. I don't think I've seen anyone over the age of six display such incompetence."

"Well, thank you very much." There were some classes of incompetence John was perfectly willing to live with, and bed making was definitely one of them. "But do you really think Lizzie's going to be so upset by my sloppy bed making that she's going to straighten it up herself? Lizzie?"

"Once she sees that mess, she won't be able to help herself."

John threw up his hands in disgust. "And then what? Am I supposed to compliment her on how well she does it? I thought women liked to be courted and have poems written about their eyes and posies left at their doorsteps every day."

"Generally, that's true. But that's the last thing that would work with my practical Lizzie. She'd spit on your posies . . . assuming you could get them this late in the year in the first place. She's spent most of her life working hard not to be romantic." Bess squinted at the upper corner of the sheet and shook her head in despair. "And that means we'll just have to work with what we've got."

"Which isn't much."

"Stop complaining! At least you have a bed!"

"Is this how you landed in Oliver's bed? Trying to make the corners neat?" Bess stuck her nose in the air and gave a haughty sniff. "That's none of your concern. Besides, it was spring, Oliver wasn't a guest at the inn, and I was free to go walking on the moors if I chose."

Which answered his question about her amorous adventures . . . and helped him not at all.

Conversation in the taproom that night centered around Lord Malloran's public notices and the rewardat least at first. There were any number of speculative looks thrown Lizzie's way when they thought she wasn't looking, but she ignored them all. She didn't care to talk about it. She didn't want to think about the troubles the reward might bring with it.

Until now, local sympathy had lain with John Carleton, but twenty pounds was a small fortune, far more than most of those present had ever seen at one time in their lives. Neda's fascination with the sum was only a sample of the interest it had roused. There was no telling to what lengths someone might go to earn such a prize if they ever got an inkling of the fugitive's hiding place.

She was grateful when the conversation drifted on to the subject of Samuel's return. Her gratitude didn't last for long.

"Heard his sister wants 'im to set up 'is own fancy inn an' taproom," Thomas Gaines announced when she wasn't in range to snatch his tankard from him. He eyed her with interest. "You ain't showed 'im how you brews your ale, has you, Lizzie? Wouldn't 'ardly do, 'im usin' your tricks to take your own customers."

"I'd pay him to take you, Thomas Gaines," Lizzie shot back. "Never met anyone as anxious to mind other people's business as you. Probably have half the problems and a third the chatter if you were to find a hearth that suited you better than the George's."

Thomas cackled with satisfaction at the tribute. "Do keep a body busy, what with folks always comin' an' goin'." He chomped his toothless gums as he considered the wandering tendencies of his neighbors. "The worst of 'em, though, is that Mr. Randall. Now there's a man as likes to wander. Never more 'n a month in that great house uv 'is an' poof! 'E's off again. Drove past me in 'is carriage just this mornin', 'e did. Bold as you please. I doffed me cap and 'e nodded and said good mornin', same as if 'e were comin' back from takin' tea with the vicar!"

"It's 'Is Lor'ship scares 'im away," affirmed another. "Randalls and Mallorans ain't spoke since Randall's mother 'ung 'erself. Not 'less they 'ad to. Everybody knows that!"

"Nawr," said old Thomas. "It ain't that what lies between 'em. It's 'Is Lordship thinkin' how Mr. Randall's property had rightly ought to be 'is what's caused the problem all these years."

"Pity Mr. Randall won't stay long," said a third with regret. "He's a good man, 'e is. Seems like 'e orter stay here t' do his good works 'stead o' jaunterin' around the countryside doin' good for folks who don't so much as know 'is name."

"Yes," said Thomas Gaines, and everyone else nodded agreement.

Not one of them, to Lizzie's relief, so much as glanced at her to see if she'd been following this latest tidbit of news. She didn't think she could have hidden the sudden trembling in her hands if they had.

Where was she? Damn it! She was late tonight.

Not that he had a watch, but it seemed late, much later than she usually appeared.

What was she doing? Giving a ball and supper in the taproom?

If he had his way, he'd simply go down and drag her out of there and up here. Not a very romantic wooing, but Lizzie wasn't going to give him a chance for that, anyway.

Bess was right. The only solution was to sneak up on her, so to speak, and catch her by surprise.

John eyed the bed. No good housewife would tolerate that shabby arrangement for long. Lizzie's instincts as an innkeeper would be even less tolerant.

He hoped.

But where in hell was she?

"Where is she?" Lizzie demanded, irritated. "Neda knows she's supposed to be here to clean up at night. Where could she possibly have gotten to?"

"Slipped out to see that redcoat of hers, no doubt," Bertha said with disgust. "I've been telling youshe's nothing but trouble. But will you listen? Oh, no, not you! Not for so much as a minute will you listen, and now here we are"

Lizzie tried to turn Bertha's thoughts to more practical matters. "With a load of tankards that need to be washed, and no one to do itexcept us."

"Me? I'm cook, not scullery maid. And if you can't find Neda, there's Molly and Huldspeth can do the work. As for me, I'm going to bed." And with that, she picked up her napkin-wrapped midnight meal and angrily lumbered out of the room,

With an oath, Lizzie picked up the candle and headed toward the stairs that led to the two maids' rooms.

There was, however, only one maid. Molly came awake with a gasp when Lizzie barged into the room.

"Where's Huldspeth?"

Molly gaped at her sleepily. "Huldspeth?"

"Where is she?"

"She, ah, well . . ." Molly drew her covers up to her chin. "Samuel called for her. While you were in the taproom, it were. Said he wanted to talk to her."

With a little whimper, Lizzie sank down on the foot of Huldspeth's bed and closed her eyes against the headache that was threatening to return with a vengeance.

Maybe John was right. Maybe she should run away, after all.

Anything would be better than this. <><><><><><><><><><><><>

Lieutenant Randolph Ives Lamberre was just finishing a solitary supper when the maid brought word that his men were outside with a young woman who insisted she had to speak to him.

"Common piece of baggage she is, too!" The maid sniffed. "I'm sure Mr. Drayton wouldn't approve of such as her in the house, so I've told them to wait for you in the kitchen. Not that Cook's any too pleased about it, I must say!"

Lamberre bit back a curse against the difficulties attendant upon being billeted with the local gentry, and reluctantly followed the indignant maid to the kitchen. A sharp word sent the cook, two maids, the footman, and the kitchen boy scurrying out of the room, though they were none of them any too happy at being evicted from what was rightly their territory.

The creature his men had brought was a thin, sly-looking wench with mean little eyes set deep in an unprepossessing face. Lamberre found himself disliking her on sight.

The sergeant shoved her forward. "She's scullery maid at the King George, sir. Says 'er name's Neda and that she has some information on that colonial, but she won't talk about it to no one saving yourself."

Lamberre beckoned her over. "Is this true?"

"Aye," said Neda, looking up at him anxiously from under her raggedy fringe of hair. She edged closer, eager to earn his approval. "I seen him t'other night, there in the kitchen yard. An' her with him. Like old friends, they was, with nobody else around but me, an' they didn't know I was there."

Lamberre's upper lip curled in distaste at her eagerness. "You're sure it was he? How could you tell in the dark? Did you see his face? Hear him speak?"

She opened her mouth, then caught his warning stare and reluctantly closed her mouth and shook her head instead.

"I didn't see him that good, but I'd swear it was him. Gotta be. He's a big 'un. Bigger 'n you. Seen him at the inn before, so I knew. Ain't nobody at the inn anywhere near that big, nor in the village, neither. Besides, Miss Lizzie, she don't got no lovers, nor even anyone courtin' her. Who else'd she be with, out there in the cold an' the dark, if it weren't him?"

The snide tone and the sneering reference to Lizzie and her lovers made Lamberre want to fling this nasty snip of humanity out of the house. Only the thought of Malloran's rage if he failed to find the colonial restrained himand even then, it took an effort to keep his voice steady.

"Assuming it really was the colonial you saw, and if he's still around the King George, where is he being hidden?"

She looked a great deal less comfortable with that query. "In the cellars, maybe?"

"My men searched them. There was no sign of him, or of any place he might have been hiding."

"Well . . ." She twisted her grimy apron between her hands, and then twisted it back the other way, clearly unsettled by the question. "There's the stables"

"Not there."

"An' there's that room what's been locked all these years."

Lamberre suddenly grew still. "I was told that room had been sealed for a quarter of a century."

She grimaced nervously. "Well, an' so it has, but that's not to say it hasn't been opened, now, is it?"

"Have you seen him since that night in the yard?"

"Well . . ."

"I warn you, I don't deal gently with liars."

"I ain't precisely seen him," she admitted reluctantly. "But Bertha"

"Who's Bertha?"

"She's the cook. Fat as a sow and not near as nice."

"I'm not interested in a cook, fat or not. I'm interested in a man. Get to the point!"

For a moment, he thought she was going to argue with him, but a warning poke from the sergeant made her think better of it.

"Well, Bertha, see, she always sneaks food out at night. Thinks nobody notices, but I seen her, an' I know she's been puttin' aside a good bit more 'n usual lately. I figure it's for that fellow you want. Even she can't eat that much!"

"That's it? That's all you have?"

"I'll get more. I promise."

"How?"

Neda smiled and looked crafty. "A big old inn like the George . . ." She shrugged. "You don't need to be botherin' about that. I got me ways."

Lamberre's mouth thinned. Dealing with this creature was making him feel . . . soiled. Malloran owed him for this. He owed him a very great deal indeed.

He waved the scullery maid away. "Very well. See what you can learn. If it's worthwhile, there may be a shilling or two in it for you. Facts, mind you, not gossip or guesses."

"No, sir. Not never." The expression on her face sharpened. "An' the twenty pounds reward?"

"You'll have that, too." His expression hardened. "Assuming we catch him because of the information you provide."

If Neda heard the threat in his voice, she gave no sign of it. Her face was suddenly alight with a greedy eagerness that blinded her to anything else.

"I'll get it. Trust me, I'll get it."

Chapter Fifteen

By the time the inn had finally grown quiet enough for her to venture out of her room and down the hall to John Carleton's, Lizzie had herself well under control. There wasn't even a faint quaver in her voice when she told him the first bit of her news.

"Lord Malloran is offering a twenty-pound reward for your capture," she said the instant she walked through the door.

"Well, and good evening to you, too!" John took the basket of food from her and closed the door behind her.

"Did you hear me? I said"

"I heard you." John set the basket on the table, then casually flicked back his coattails and sat down. "You said my devoted uncle had put a price on my head. Tsk. And there I was, thinking he didn't have a scrap of family feeling.''

"Doesn't it worry you? All that money"

"Twenty pounds? I'm not worried; I'm hurt! Insulted! I'd have sworn I was worth fifty on nuisance value alone."

"I'm glad you're amused!"

His grin was devastatingly potent, but without a hint of repentance. "I take it you're not."

"Not in the least."

His smile vanished. He stretched across the table toward her, but she pulled her hand out of reach.

"I'm not at any risk, Lizzie, and neither are you. Nobody even knows I'm here. Except you."

"And Bertha."

He nodded. "And Bertha. But I don't imagine she'd turn me in for a mere twenty pounds. Not if it meant dragging you into trouble to do it."

Lizzie sank into the chair opposite his. She'd spent the afternoon worrying about Lamberre, but it was the news of Randall's return that troubled her most, little though she cared to admit it.

"That's not all," she said reluctantly. "Randall's back. Thomas Gaines spoke to him this morning."

John hadn't expected that. "Randall's back?"

Lizzie nodded. She didn't care to say it twice.

"I see."

Lizzie poked distractedly at the map he'd left rolled up on the table. "You'll have to speak to him soon. He doesn't usually stay for very long before he's off on another trip." "Yes. Yes, I'll have to speak to him."

He didn't seem as pleased as she'd thought he'd be. Almost angry, in fact, as if Randall's return had somehow annoyed him.

The thought cheered her up a little. A very little.

"You'll have to be careful, though. With word of this reward, people will be looking for you. It won't be as easy to reach Randall as it would have been a few days ago."

He shook his head thoughtfully. "No."

"Once you finish your business with him, whatever that is, you'll have to leave. Get away from here altogether."

"Yes." He met her gaze with a piercingly direct one of his own. "But I'm not going alone."

"Of course you'll go alone! You don't think I want to be dragged into your troubles, do you?"

"You already have been." His jaw hardened. "All my fault, I know, but you have."

She toyed with the edge of the map. "It might be easier if I knew what you were up to."

He pushed the map out of her way, and this time he succeeded in grabbing her hand. "I would tell you if I could. I can't. It has to do with a promise I made to my father, and until I've talked to Randall . . ." His hold on her tightened. "I'm not running away once I've seen him, Lizzie."

"No, you're not running awayyou're leaving." She pulled her hand free and got to her feet. "I don't want to hear any more of this. It's been a horrible day and I'm tired and my head hurts and I don't want to hear it!" "Lizzie, II'm sorry!" John got to his feet and came toward her, but Lizzie angrily fended him off.

"You're sorry! Fat lot of good that does me!"

"Maybe there's something I could do, something"

"Ha!" She pressed her fingers to her temples, fighting the headache that was threatening to return. It wouldn't do any good to tell him her problems. There was absolutely nothing John Carletonor anyone else, for that mattercould do to help her.

Besides, she didn't need anyone's help. She could handle it on her own, thank you very much!

On her own. All of it.

Lizzie squeezed her eyes shut against the thought and slowly sank back in her chair.

"Samuel's come back," she said. "Walked right in and announced that, since his cousin left him a good bit of money, he's going to leave me and build an inn of his own. As if that weren't enough, instead of taking over the taproom tonight as he should have, he talked Huldspeth into slipping out to see him. That's against the rules. She promised me she'd never do that again if only I wouldn't throw her out, and there she is, gone! Neda sneaked out without so much as a by-your-leave, too. Bertha claims she's been seeing a redcoat, which means she'll land in the same mess as Huldspeth, and what am I to do then? One pregnant maid was bad enough, but two?"

She shook her head tiredly. "Bertha's been nagging me to let Neda go, yet I can't bring myself to throw her out any more than I could Huldspeth. Lamberre insulted and threatened me, you've tormented me, I'm tired and my head hurts, and now"

Lizzie stopped, too stunned by her sudden and unexpected outpouring of frustration to know what came next.

What in heaven's name was wrong with her?

"Now this!" she said, and threw up her hands in defeat.

Over the years, John had faced murderous drunks, a number of would-be thieves, destructive fires, rampaging Indians, typhoid epidemics, storms at sea, the deaths of his parents, and a miscellaneous disaster or two here and there. Never, in all that time, had he ever felt quite as helpless as he did now.

Lizzie sat slumped in her chair, dully studying the room around her. Rather like a child long past the point of collapse who was determined to fight sleep in every way she could for as long as she could. When her gaze lit on his untidily made bed, she sighed.

John cringed.

"A whole week." She shook her head in disbelief. "A whole week you've been practicing and you still haven't learned how to tuck in a sheet."

Like a weary soldier throwing himself back into battle, Lizzie got to her feet.

John jumped to his. "It's all right. Really. Don't even think about it. Not for a minute."

He tried to divert her, tried to grab her sleeve and pull her around. She ignored him.

"Not like this!" She yanked out the balled-up corner of the sheet and snapped it taut. "Lift this. Pull this . . . so! Tuck it here. Then this. Never, never cram it in as if it were"

John clamped one hand around hers, and tugged the sheet out of her fingers with the other. The linen was soft to the touch, heavy and inviting. He would swear he caught the scent of lavender.

"Forget the sheets, Lizzie. It's not your concern."

"But"

"No buts!" He tossed the now loose sheet aside, further disordering his already disorderly bed, and pulled her to him. "You need a good night's sleep. I never once thought about how little sleep you must have been getting."

She tried to pull free, but he held her fast.

"Come on, Lizzie," he said, more gently this time. "I'll take you back to your room."

Lizzie stared at him, and then she bit her lip and stared at the bed. And then she turned back to him.

"Hell," she said. "Damn, damn, damn. Damn!"

And then she slumped against his chest and started crying.

Lamberre handed his gloves, whip, and cape to the sour-faced butler who opened the door of Malloran Hall, and decided that, when he became master of an establishment of his own, he'd take care to hire a butler who didn't give one indigestion just to look at him.

He followed the servant to his lordship's study, but waited until the unpleasant fellow had withdrawn, closing the doors behind him, before crisply informing Malloran that the award notices were posted and the countryside already abuzz with word of it.

"If he's still around, we'll smoke him out. It's just a matter of time."

"Just a matter of time, is it?" His lordship thoughtfully rolled his goose-quill pen between his fingers, back and forth, frowning at the circling feather tip. "You know, Lamberre, it would be far more convenient if this . . . Gideon fellow were dead instead of merely locked up."

Lamberre repressed an urge to snatch the pen from his lordship's fingers. "For whom? You may be the magistrate, but I still have to answer to my superiors in York. They don't approve of . . . convenient deaths."

Malloran glanced up, frowning from under thick gray brows. "York is a hard day's ride from here, while I . . . I am here."

"But for how long?"

"For as long as I choose! Just because that damned leech of mine blathers on about my heart doesn't mean I've any intention of dying!" Malloran angrily tossed the pen aside.

"You'll forgive me, my lord, but at your age, you may not have much say in the matter." "As much as you, God rot your impertinent eyes!"

Lamberre permitted himself the luxury of one raised eyebrow, but managedbarelyto keep his tongue between his teeth.

As an officer in His Majesty's service, he was technically answerable only to his superior officers, all of whom were conveniently posted in York or London. When Malloran had first approached him about the possibility of mutual "support," as his lordship had put it, he'd welcomed the offer.

It never hurt to have the local magistrate on one's side. More important, an impecunious but ambitious young officer had a greater chance of rising through the ranks if there was someone behind him willing to put in a good word on his behalf. Someone of wealth and title who had the ear of the bureaucrats in London. Someone, he'd thought at the time, like Frederick James Carleton, Lord Malloran.

To his disgust, he'd soon learned that Malloran possessed a title, but his wealth was greatly overrated and his political contacts within the government pitifully thin. By then, unfortunately, it was too late. He'd already been drawn into Malloran's schemes and couldn't have backed out without running the risk of losing his commission or being disgraced, which, in the end, was damn near the same thing.

"Do you have any idea where the bastard might be hiding?" Malloran asked at last, only marginally appeased by his silence.

"I think the owner of the King George is harboring him, though I can't prove it."

"Search the place, then! You don't need my permission!"

"We did," Lamberre snapped, beginning to lose patience. "My men turned that inn upside down, to no avail. I told you that."

He hadn't mentioned that troublesome room that had made his dragoons so nervous, however, nor the wind that had come out of nowhere in a closed hallway where it couldn't possibly have been. There were some things, he'd found, that were better forgotten, and that unpleasant incident was definitely one of them.

Malloran eyed him with disfavor. "You aren't one of those who's fallen for that slut of an innkeep, are you?"

Lamberre could feel his face redden. "I resent that."

"Ha!" His Lordship gave a bark of insulting laughter. "Resent it all you like. She's a comely wench, I'll give you that. And tempting, just like her mother."

His brows suddenly drew together in a scowl. "If you've any interest there, you'd do well to insure that she doesn't get her hands on a musket. Though from what I've heard, she'd be more inclined to use it on you than on herself."

Lamberre didn't pretend not to know what was meant. He'd heard the tales. And more than a few locals whispered that Malloran's vow to bring down the highwayman had been due more to his lordship's having been rebuffed by Bess Tynsdale than to any concern about her lover's illegal activities.

Just the thought of Lizzie's beautiful breasts drenched in blood was enough to make his stomach churn. He'd fantasized about those breasts, bare under his hands. Dreamed about her long legs wrapped around him while she writhed beneath him, naked, while he plunged into her again and again and again.

The devil of it was, the more she rejected and mocked him, the more he wanted her, until the wanting became a torment and a goad to his own self-doubts and ever-present anger. If ever he got his hands on her

"Not interestedha!" Malloran's mocking gaze was fixed on the front of Lamberre's breeches.

Lamberre's hands curled into fists at his sides, but he knew better than to try to cover the evidence of his arousal. The damned breeches were too tight for that, and shifting away would only invite further jibes.

"Not that I blame you," Malloran added, turning away to pick up his abandoned pen. "She hasn't her mother's fire, but the slut's enough to make a man's blood burn, for all that."

"She's a tempting piece, I'll admit," Lamberre said, putting on a disdainful front. "But I don't care to find my amusements among such common trash." Malloran cocked one eyebrow upward in scornful amusement. "Which means she won't have you." He shrugged. "Do as you like about her. It's none of my concern. What does concern me is that you find that misbegotten son of a whore you managed to let slip through your hands. I warn you, I won't accept your failing a second time. You'd do well to remember that."

With that, he dismissively picked up the letter he'd been writing, dipped his pen in the inkwell, and began to write.

Lamberre turned on his heel and angrily marched out of the room, his upper lip curled in rage.

The fire in Lizzie's room was just beginning to die down when John led her in.

He pulled her comfortable wing-back chair closer to the hearth. "Sit here. I'll put more coal on the fire."

She tried to protest. "I"

"Sit."

She sat. Somewhere in the back of her mind she was surprised that she wasn't angry at him for ordering her about, or at herself for letting him, for having broken down like that and cried on his shirt.

Perhaps tomorrow the shame would flood in. Right now she was simply tired, and grateful for his understanding, and very, very glad that he'd been there to hold her, and wipe away her tears.

It had been strangely comforting to give in like that, to not have to be strong. It was strangely comforting to have him here now, trimming the wick on the candle and draping her shawl over her shoulders and worrying about the fire while she did absolutely nothing at all.

She glanced up as he stopped in front of her chair, then bit back an embarrassed protest as he knelt and slipped off first one stout shoe, then the other. Instead of simply drawing her footstool closer, however, he held her stocking-clad feet in his lap and gently massaged them, easing the dull weariness that came from a day spent scurrying from one task to another to another.

At any other time, she might have been resentful, shamed and troubled alike by the intimacy of the gesture. Tonight she simply relaxed into his touch and felt the weariness seep out of her body while a new tension began to creep in.

Wicked thoughts pricked her. Thoughts of pressing her feet into his thighs and belly and how his hard muscles would yield to such a shamelessly provocative exploration. Thoughts of how he might slide his hands up her calves and over her knees, if only he would, up to the stout, practical garters that held her thick, practical stockings in place, of how easily he could untie the garters and roll her stockings down her legs and off over her feet until his hands touched sensitive, impractical flesh instead of knitted wool.

She hadn't the courage to say one word of what she was thinking. When he at last drew up her footstool and gently placed her feet upon it, she remained silent, the unspoken words trapped somewhere at the back of her tongue. He rose to his feet and, still unspeaking, picked up the long, wrought-iron poker that he'd left leaning against the wall beside the chimney.

Lizzie watched while he prodded the fire, making it flare higher until the back wall of the fireplace seemed to waver and dance above the flames. He stood for a moment, head bent, and watched as the fire licked through the mass of redhot coals.

Almost, Lizzie found the courage to speak. Almost. He moved before she could get the words out, returning the poker to its place against the wall.

''What's this?" He pointed to the small copper pot she'd left on the hob earlier.

"Milk. Bertha makes me bring some up every night." Her mouth twisted in a small, wry smile. "She doesn't think I take enough care of myself."

"Good for Bertha." He searched for her mug, which she'd set on the table, and carefully filled it. "Here. Take it."

Since he'd shoved the steaming cup right under her nose, she didn't have much choice but to do as he said.

"Now drink it."

She started to protest, but one look at the determined set of his jaw changed her mind.

"Does your head still ache?"

"No."

"You're sure?" Lizzie nodded and thought that Bertha would be pleased to learn she had a new nursemaid to boss her around. It would save her old friend from having to haul her bulk up the stairs to lecture her in person.

While she sipped at the rich, hot milk, John heaped more coal on the fire. "That ought to be enough," he said, abruptly rising to his feet.

His move startled Lizzie into slopping some of her drink. "No! Don't go yet!"

He hesitated, clearly uncertain.

"Please," she said, more softly this time.

His gaze raked her face. He nodded. "All right. I won't go. Yet."

He put an unexpected emphasis on the "yet." As if he were warning himself as much as he was warning her.

Lizzie didn't care. Right now all that mattered was that he wouldn't leave her here alone. Not yet. Not for a while.

How many nights had she spent in this room, alone except for her books and her thoughts and the comforting heat of the fire? Years' and years' worth of nights.

When she was a child, Bertha had slept on a trundle bed pulled up at the side of hers. But Bertha had grown fat and she herself had grown up, and at some point, Lizzie couldn't remember exactly when, she'd been left to enjoy the comforts of her roomalone.

It wasn't just the fire that made it seem so much more comfortable now. Since there wasn't another chair in the room except the narrow, uncomfortably straight chair at the table, John simply sat on the small footstool at the side of her chair.

He ought to have looked foolish, a tall, elegantly made man like him folded up like a marionette, with his knees halfway up to his chin and the fine wool of his coat straining across his broad shoulders as he propped his elbows on his knees.

He didn't look foolish at all. He looked strong, and solid, and comfortingly . . . real.

The firelight gilded the sharp lines of his face, traced gold down his sleeves and the breast of his coat, over his clasped hands and down the long length of his booted legs. He shifted slightly and she caught the faint sheen of the black ribbon that bound his hair at the back.

What would it be like to run her fingers through a man's hair? His hair? Would the beard that shadowed his cheek be coarse or soft? His cheek smooth above the beard? Or had the sun roughened his skin too much for softness?

Strange that she should wonder. He had kissed her before.

A hundred similar questions tumbled into her mind, but she pushed them aside, too uncertain to deal with them nowor, perhaps, afraid of the answers. She wasn't sure which.

It didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was that he was here with her now . . . and that she was so very glad he was.

He didn't look at her. She wasn't sure he was aware of her scrutiny. What was he thinking as he sat there staring at the fire? she wondered. Dared she ask? Did she really want to know?

Lizzie cradled her cup of warm milk in her hands, grateful for its heat and its comfortable familiarity even though she had no desire for more milk.

Desire.

Lizzie sucked in her breath. What did a plain, practical, unromantic woman like her know about desire?

What would it be like to learn?

The heat that suddenly stirred inside her owed nothing to the fire or the hot milk she'd drunk. Her chest felt tight, as if her heart and lungs had grown too large, or her ribs by far too small.

Suddenly she wasn't tired anymore.

He would not leave, he'd said . . . yet.

She set her mug on the small table beside her chair. Carefully, because her hands were unsteady and she didn't want to drop it.

And then, before she lost her courage, she leaned forward and tweaked the ribbon that bound his hair. It didn't come untiedhe'd knotted it too carelessly for thatbut it pulled loose so that when he jerked around, startled, it slipped free altogether.

His hair was like silk. Finer than hers, but just as thick. Thicker perhapsshe couldn't tell for sure. Unbound, it fell to his shoulders, softening the hard line of his jaw, brushing against the collar of his coat. She reached to shove it back, away from his face, but he captured her hand first.

"Don't," he said, and almost choked on the word. "You don't know"

"No. But I think" She couldn't finish. She freed her hand from his and buried it in her lap. Her skin burned where his had touched.

"You think . . .?" he prompted hoarsely when she remained silent.

"I think I'd like to find out," she said. The words died away to a whisper.

They were enough.

He groaned, a small, faint groan in the back of his throat, slid off the footstool and onto one knee before her like a prayerful penitent seeking absolution, and stared up at her with his sea-green eyes gone emerald-dark and questioning.

She could not move or speak. The very air she breathed seemed trapped somewhere inside her as he reclaimed her hand and drew it to him, cradling it in his.

And then he bent his head and gently pressed a kiss into her palm.

He'd plotted a thousand ways to seduce her, then conjured a ghost to plot a thousandth and first. Alone in that small room from dawn to dusk and nearly back to dawn again, he'd had little else to do but think of Lizzie and imagine how it might be between them.

He'd seen himself sweeping her up and carrying her off, or dragging her into his bed, protesting, yet eager and infinitely willing. He'd imagined himself laughing and teasing and irresistible, or dashing and dangerous and irresistible, or demanding and sternand still irresistible. Always irresistible, so that she could notwould notturn him away.

He'd had experience, after all. He knew something of women and of the ways a man might join with them. He'd thought that simply knowing was enough, that knowledge and imagination were all that were needed to shape his wild dreams into reality.

He'd been wrong.

Not once had he imagined it like this, with Lizzie bending over him, wide-eyed and wantingnay, demanding!and he, in all his pride and masculine certainty, suddenly uncertain and, perhaps, afraid.

He looked up into her face. She was pale in the firelight, her lips gone bloodless, her cheeks and throat and breasts like ivory touched with gold, her night-black hair an ebony crown shining in the flickering light.

Her need frightened him, humbled him as he'd not thought he could or ever would be humbled.

This was no fantasy, no wakeful dream. This was Lizzie, and where he'd thought he would be bold and confident and sure, he was suddenly none of those things. He was skilled in the physical arts of love, he knew, but untutored in all the other secrets he hadn't realized awaited him. It didn't matter. Tonight he began anew, with Lizzie to guide him, and he to guide her, and all their lives ahead of them, spinning endlessly into the dark.

Chapter Sixteen

Lizzie wasn't sure how she slid off the chair. She wasn't sure if it was rash, or wise, or the most dangerous thing she'd ever done.

John let go of her hand to take her arm as he guided her down. He was on one knee so that his bent leg was like a wall to the side of her, solid, protective, enclosing her with its strength. She rested her hand on his thigh to steady herself and felt his muscles flex as he took her weight. Her skirt billowed, and then pulled taut beneath her as she knelt in front of him.

"Lizzie," he said. Never had her name sounded sweeter.

She wanted to touch him, trace the sharp lines of his brow and nose and chin, brush back his hair where it drifted over his cheek and around his jaw. She wanted to touch his throat, there, where his pulse beat above the fine white linen of his stock.

She couldn't move, couldn't let go her hold on him . . . and didn't dare pull free of his hold on her.

It was John who broke the spell that bound them. He moved his hand from her arm to the more intimate curve of her waist, then around to her back, fingers splayed over her spine in subtle possession. With his free hand, he ventured where she had lacked the couragewith the tip of one finger he delicately traced the oval of her face.

His gaze followed where his finger led, but his thick lashes shadowed his eyes. He was intent, focused, as if he held himself balanced on that small point of contact between them. She heard his soft, quick intake of breath, as if he'd only just remembered to breathe, when he brushed across the fullness of her lower lip.

Lizzie's grip on his thigh tightened as she unthinkingly arched toward him. She opened her mouth and caught his finger between her teeth, a quick, nipping motion that made his breath catch again. Then she freed him, only to flick out her tongue, brushing it over his fingertip, then down the side of his hand and around the heel and over the inside of his wrist and up again.

His skin was callused, his hand hardstrong bone and sinew and sun-bronzed skinyet his fingers quivered as she licked the hollow of his palm, then pressed a kiss where her tongue had lapped. "Witch," he said, but it was a benediction, not a curse. "I never knew"

He broke off before he could reveal his secrets, and drew her against him, arching her backward, bracing her against his thigh so that she was forced to cling to him as he claimed a kiss.

One kiss became two, then three, then a seemingly endless cascade of them, all punctuated by soft murmurs and little gasps and unintelligible words that were lost in the heat and the soft hissing of the fire.

The kisses flowed over her, down her throat to the edge of her tucker, then the low collar of her gown. His day-old beard scraped against her skin, rough and strangely erotic. With impatient hands, he pulled her tucker free and tossed it aside to press still more kisses, to draw lines and arcs and whorls across her skin with the tip of his tongue.

And then he stopped suddenly and drew her back up, his hands on her shoulders, his unwavering, heated gaze locked on her face. She could see the pulse pounding in his throat, feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest, but still he held her from him.

When Lizzie tried to protest, he pressed his finger to her lips in a warning to silence.

"Wait," he said. "We've all the night ahead. Wait."

Her only response was a mute, uncertain stare.

He smiled, a gentle smile of understanding that still had the wicked power to set her heart to beating faster. Slowly, deliberately, as if he were savoring every simple movement, he unhooked and unlaced the bodice of her gown, then her chemise, until her garments were open to the waist, soft layers of linen and wool that covered her breasts, yet revealed the soft flesh between them and hinted at the curve of waist and belly beneath.

Again his gaze followed as his finger traced the lines of her body, down from her collarbone, across her breastbone, down to the soft indentation of her navel and the beginning of the curve of her belly, down until he could go no farther, blocked by the mass of still-fastened skirts and petticoats. He slid his hands under the layers of cloth, palms flat against her skin, fingers curved to match her curves.

His skin was warm against hers, yet she shivered and felt her nipples prick as he slowly dragged his hands upward, shaping her ribs, cupping the heavy swell of her breasts. He brushed the edges of his thumbs over her nipples, making her gasp.

''What"

"Shush," he said, soft as his touch.

His fingers pressed into her flesh as the heels of his hands curved under her breasts, lifting them. She moaned and arched against him as he moved higher, abandoning her breasts, sliding his hands upward to the base of her throat, then across her shoulders and down her arms, dragging her garments with him, baring her to the fire and his molten emerald gaze. "So sweet." A whisper so soft she barely heard it.

He bent his head and pressed a gentle kiss above her breast, then another lower, and lower still, until his mouth was on her nipple. Without warning, he drew her into his mouth and sucked.

Lizzie cried out, shaken at the jolt of heat that arced through her. She tried to reach for him, only to find that her hands were still bound at her sides by the tangle of her clothes; she moaned, wanting to push him away and drag him closer, both at the same time.

This time when his hands moved upward, he didn't stop at her shoulders, but followed the line of her throat up until his fingers tangled in her hair.

"Lean forward, Lizzie. Like this," he said, gently drawing her head down to his shoulder.

She rested her forehead against him, supplicant and prisoner both. The scent of him teased her, familiar and intimately erotic.

As deliberately as he'd undressed her, he began to pluck the pins from her hair, then unwind the heavy coils of her hair.

"Silk. Your hair's like silk," he said on a fading breath, and lifted a great loop of it and carefully fanned it over her bare shoulder.

The strands teased Lizzie's bare flesh. He scarcely touched her, yet she was achingly aware of his every movement, of the way his fingers stroked her hair, the way he sifted through the heavy locks, then freed them to fall unheeded down her back. Exquisite agony, while the heat rose within her.

He was still at work on the last heavy lock when she abruptly pulled free of him, unable to endure a moment longer. She rocked back on her heels, awkwardly trying to tug her hands out of her entangling clothes. In her haste, she only made things worse, but when he reached to help her, she jerked away, suddenly panicked at her helplessness.

What madness was this, that she should have so easily given in to his caresses? What secret did he wield that he could so easily reduce her to a helpless creature who obeyed his commands without question, and trembled at his touch?

Lizzie gave a little mewling sound of rage as, heedless of the seams she ripped in her haste, she pulled one hand free, then jerked the remaining sleeve off her other hand. She was panting, dizzy from the emotions rocking her, when she at last lifted her head to meet his gaze.

When she'd rejected his help, he'd leaned back and propped his hands on his thighs, arms akimbo. With the yellow firelight behind him tracing the outline of his body, he looked bold and strong and sure of himself. But when she looked into his face, instead of the arrogant assurance she'd thought to find, Lizzie saw a dazed and wondering awe that unsettled her far more than his caresses had.

Her breath caught in her chest, somewhere beside her heart. She wasn't sure what she had expected to feel. Excitement. Shame, perhaps, a little. Curiosity. Embarrassment, certainly. And anger at herself and her too-ready submission to the temptations he'd offered.

But she hadn't expected this exultant amazement, nor the sudden welling sense of power.

She had done this to him! Not through any argument or hard-fought clash of wills, but through a gift she hadn't known she possessedher own desirability.

She let out her breath in a drawn-out sigh of wonder. He was bigger, stronger, more powerful than she. He had commanded and she, too shaken by the raw sensations flooding through her, had yielded. He had taken and she had let him takeyet it was she who was the victor and he who was the vanquished.

One kiss, the voice had said.

A thousand, more like, and John's touch, and the gilded, reverent strength of himall that, and the priceless boon of his love had made her whole.

With a wantonness that would have shocked her only a few moments earlier, Lizzie drew herself up proudly, achingly aware of the heat within her and the almost painful tightness of her breasts. She'd never even kissed another man, yet there was a rare and precious sureness in her that suddenly made her bold.

John had draped her hair so that it fell in a concealing curtain in front of her, but now Lizzie slowly, provocatively gathered it up, then boldly tossed it back over her shoulder.

He rocked backward as though she'd hit him, and sucked in an unsteady breath. Lizzie smiled, exultant.

Sure now of herself and him, she fixed her gaze on him as she carefully unfastened the remaining hooks and ties that held her clothes about her waist. His unblinking gaze fixed on her hands and the slow, soft fall of her garments.

She made no effort to move from her kneeling position before him, just showed aside the heavy yards of wool and linen so that they formed a mounded nest around her, a nest that covered her knees and feet, but that revealed the tops of her plain, practical stockings, and her plain, practical garters . . . and the black froth of curls at the junction above them.

Still on her knees, she rose and leaned toward him. Her heavy breasts swayed with the motion, achingly taut. His eyes snapped up to her face in startlement, then slid back down.

Again she rested her hand on John's thigh, but this time he groaned. Then he let his breath out in one great whoosh, closed his eyes, and let his head fall back in defeat.

Lizzie moved closer, until she could clearly see the muscles working in his jaw and the fast, erratic throb of his pulse at the side of his throat. She bent and gently pressed her lips there.

He swallowed convulsively. "Damn you," he said, low and fierce, his eyes still closed. "I said you were a witch."

She laughed, and began to loosen the linen stock about his throat.

Experience be damned. The wench was a virgin, yet she flared as fierce and bright as the burning coals at his back.

John willed himself to keep his eyes closed as she untied his stock, then opened the collar of his shirt and undid the buttons of his waistcoat. He wanted to watch her, wanted to drink her in like a strong, rich wine, savoring every drop, but he didn't dare. If he opened his eyes now, with her there before him, naked and glorious

He sucked in his breath as she ran her hands over his stomach and up his chest, then slowly let it out as she fumbled with the buttons of his shirt.

He'd never been undressed by a woman before. Not like this. It was an unsettling and exquisitely erotic experience. The small tugs as she worked to open his buttons, the faint shush-shush as her hair drifted over her shoulders, and the delicate smell of herbs and roses that lingered in the heavy strands only added to the erotic richness of the moment.

When she undid the last button on his shirt and slid her hands underneath, warm flesh against warm flesh, John's eyes flew open.

She smiled up at him, her face alive and vivid in the firelight. "I'd wondered if you were falling asleep." There was, he thought, something to be said for keeping his eyes shut. The sight of her gowned in nothing but gold light and black silk was enough to stop a man's heart.

On the other hand, he could think of a hell of a lot worse ways of dying.

He brushed back the hair that had fallen forward to shadow her face. His hand shook from the effort at control. "And I'd wondered if I'd fallen into a dream and didn't know it."

"Did you?"

"Dream? Of this?" He gently touched her lips, relishing the warmth of her breath on his skin. "A thousand times."

John could feel the heat flood her face as she blushed . . . and then he almost exploded with the answering heat in him.

"Damn," he said, and abruptly sat on the floor. "Help me pull off my bootsnow!"

"What?"

"Help me pull off my boots, Lizzie, or I swear I'll take you, pants, boots, coat, and all, right here on the floor."

Her mouth fell open; then she blinked, threw back her head, and laughed, triumphant.

Undressing John had started out as a slow, tantalizing voyage of exploration into unknown territory. By the time they finished, it had become a fumbling, panting, desperate race against desire.

Lizzie pulled off his boots while he divested himself of coat, waistcoat, shirt, and undergarments, then ripped at the buttons of his breeches. The minute his boots were off, he leaped to his feet and dragged off his breeches and small clothes and tossed them aside. His stockings went flyinghe had to snatch one out of midair to keep it from landing atop a burning candle.

Lizzie remained kneeling in the middle of her abandoned clothes, with only her unbound hair and gartered stockings left to cover her nakedness. She couldn't have moved if she'd wanted to. She was too stunned by the sheer masculine beauty of him.

Never mind the undignified haste of his disrobing. Naked and aroused, he was . . . magnificent. Like the drawings she'd seen of statues by the ancient Greeksperfectly shaped, finely muscled, and radiant with vibrant life.

And she wasn't referring just to the intimidating object that thrust straight out from his body, though that in itself was enough to keep her silent for a week.

All the words she'd ever heard it called raced through her mind. Most of them were vulgar, all of them were vividly descriptive . . . and not one of them did justice to the arrogant power of the beast.

For a moment he remained like that, a dazzling figure carved of flesh and light and heat, and then he held out his hand and pulled her to her feet.

Instead of taking her in his arms, however, he knelt at her feet and untied first one garter, then the other. And then he trailed kisses along the inside of her legs as he slowly rolled down her stockings, one tormenting inch at a time.

Lizzie moaned and knotted her fingers into his hair to keep from falling. Just when she thought she could endure no more, he tossed aside the last stocking, lifted her in his arms, and carried her to the high bed that waited at the far side of the room.

She'd forgotten the warming pan she'd left between the sheets earlier. John held up the covers like a tent so that she could burrow into the warmth; then he removed the flannel-wrapped pan and set it aside before diving in after her. The heavy covers puffed out warm, lavender-scented air as they settled about them, comforting in their weight and heat.

"Lavender," he said, low in his throat. He lightly brushed his hand over her shoulder and down her arm. "Even my dreams smell of lavender these days."

Lizzie trembled at his touch. Her earlier confidence had deserted her now that they were both naked and pressed so close together. His erection brushed against the inside of her thigh, tantalizing her with its velvety heat.

"Lizzie?" His breath warmed her cheek. "It's all right." His hand drifted up her side, lightly brushed over her breast. "Trust me."

And then his mouth claimed hers as his hand claimed her breast, and the heat once more flared within her as he set out on a long, slow voyage of exploration, kissing, nipping, sucking. Touching her.

He touched her . . . there, until she whimpered and trembled at the power.

He claimed her, and made them one.

The flickering orange-red light washing across the ceiling filled her vision as he moved within her, carrying her . . . somewhere. Somewhere far from where she'd ever dreamed of being. Carried her slowly at first, then faster, harder, until she wondered if she would shatter with the fury of it.

And then her mouth opened in a wordless cry as a new force claimed her, overwhelming her senses until she was blind and deaf and dumb. Her body arched against his, rocked and trembled and shivered as he held her to him and plunged deep, deeper . . . and claimed her utterly.

His vision blurred, but one thing he saw clearlyLizzie's face, there on the pillow beneath him, alive with passion, radiant with wonder.

Lizzie. His Lizzie. Sweet, fierce, beautiful Lizzie. His to love and cherish and watch over forever.

Forever.

His release was shattering.

Slowly the fires receded. Slowly her breathing eased and her heart grew quiet as he stroked her softly and kissed her and whispered soothing nothings into her ear.

She curled into his warmth and wondered dimly what it would be like to pass all the nights that remained to her like this, safe and warm in the shelter of his body.

Safe and warm . . . and loved.

The word teased through her fading thoughts like mist through morning, growing fainter and fainter until it disappeared altogether.

And then she slept.

The fire shrank to flickering ashes; the candles guttered into puddled wax and died. Then, and only then, did John slip from Lizzie's bed. He cautiously felt his way across the room, shivering in the chill air, then stirred what remained of the fire so that he could see to gather his scattered clothes. Once he was decently covered and properly shod, he picked up Lizzie's clothes, one by one, and laid them over her wing-back chair. Her scent wafted from the heavy folds of fabric, tantalizingly intimate.

Almost, he was tempted to return to her bed, to crawl in beside her just so he could be there to watch her wake in the morning. He didn't dare.

Closing her bedchamber door behind him was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

At least now he knew what he wanted the rest of his life to bewhispered secrets before the fire, and fiery, languid love, and falling asleep with Lizzie beside him. All that, and everything else he was only beginning to guess at.

No matter what, he wasn't giving up Lizzie. Not even if it meant staying here in England and serving Lizzie's ale to the local tipplers for the rest of his life.

Not that it would be necessary. Lizzie might deny it, but she was as ripe for adventure as she'd been ripe for love, and he wasn't about to let such luscious fruit be lost for want of picking.

Taken all in all, John Francis Carleton felt satiated and satisfied . . . and altogether pleased with himself and life in general.

He swung the door to his room wide. The moon was waxing full, filling the space with silvered light.

Lucky for him. He wouldn't have seen the chamber pot sailing through the air and straight at his head, otherwise.

John ducked. The chamber potfortunately emptyshattered against the door frame behind him, showering fragments of broken pottery in all directions.

John swore. Then he slammed the door shut and dove into the shadows where he'd be a harder target to hit.

''God rot you, you puling, yellow-bellied, buggering whoreson!" his assailant roared, flinging the water bucket after the chamber pot.

Unfortunately, the bucket was full.

John dodged the bucket and got his boots, breeches, and coatsleeve soaked for his pains.

He also got his first good look at his assailant. It could be none other than Lizzie's father. "Hardwicke! What the hell"

The still-full jug of ale smacked against the wall not six inches in front of his nose, drenching him with the potent brew.

That did it! Chamber pots and water buckets were one thing, but wasting Lizzie's good ale was quite another!

"Hardwicke, stop being a damned fool and listen to me!"

John jerked backward just as a brass candlestick thumped into the wall right where his head had been a moment before.

"Damned fool, am I? I'll show you damned fool!" Hardwicke threw the pewter mug, but this time his aim went wildly awry.

John snatched up the candlestick . . . and immediately wondered how the hell he could use it against a ghost.

Clearly, the situation called for diplomacy, not confrontation. "If you'd just let me explain"

"Aaarrghhh!" The second candlestick prepared to follow the first.

"I love Lizzie!"

Wham! went the candlestick. John didn't bother to pick it up. "I want to marry her!"

"Marry her! I'd as soon let her marry a three-legged billy goat as a rum-swilling colonial like you!"

"Oliver! That's enough!" Bess suddenly materialized beside the highwayman. Her skirts were swirling about her, and she was almost as angry as her enraged lover.

"Out of my way, Bess! That sodding turd tupped our Lizzie!" "Hardwicke, I"

"Bastard son of a bastard son!" Oliver roared, picking up one of Lizzie's heavier tomes and pitching it at him.

John managed to catch the bookquite an achievement, he thought, even though a few pages would never be quite the same again. He tucked it under his arm and tried to edge toward the table.

How in hell could he fight a ghost?

Oliver snatched up two more books, but this time Bess was squarely in his way.

"That's enough, I say! Put the books down, Oliver Hardwicke, or you'll be haunting the stables till next Michaelmas!"

Oliver hesitated.

"Or longer!"

He put the books down.

John straightened cautiously. "That's a hell of a welcome from the man who's going to be my father-in-law."

With a roar of rage, Oliver shoved Bess aside, pulled his rapier, and plunged it into John's belly.

Chapter Seventeen

Lizzie awoke slowly. Strange, musky scents teased her nose. She stirred, and felt the sheets slide over her body with unaccustomed intimacy. Her mind was the last to grasp what her senses had already told herthat she was naked, and that the sheets still held the scent of lovemaking, the scent of him.

Her eyes flew open; she sat up with a heart-pounding jerk. The room was empty except for her.

Reluctantly, her skin tingling in the chill air, she slid out of bed and raced across the room to snatch up her abandoned shawl and wrap it around herself. It took some time to blow life into the coals smoldering under the ashes, even longer before she had a good fire going.

While she waited for the flames to catch, Lizzie huddled in her chair, wrapped in a blanket she'd pulled from the bed, and thought about what came next. She still hadn't come to any decision by the time the room had warmed enough for her to venture a quick sponge bath, then dress and put up her hair.

She had to scrabble to find all her abandoned hairpins. The familiar task of combing out her hair, then pinning it up, stirred memories that didn't help her thinking in the least.

There wasn't any help for it. She had to talk to John Carleton. No matter if the inn folk were already beginning to stir; she couldn't let the day pass without seeing him.

But what was she going to say? Last night she'd been absolutely sureof him, of herself and what she wanted. This morning nothing was clear.

Head down and deep in thought, Lizzie slowly made her way along the gloomy hall. She was almost past the head of the stairs when she stopped, her attention caught by a flash of motion at the bend of the stairway below. Neda? But why? There was no reason for the kitchen maid to be in this part of the inn.

Senses on the alert, Lizzie called out to the girl, then swept down the stairs after her. No one was there. Not a sound greeted her.

Lizzie hesitated. Had she really seen the girl? Or was her imagination simply playing tricks on her? The chilly hallway offered no answer.

John didn't answer her soft tap on his door, either. Still asleep, perhaps. The thought of the man in bed, naked, with his hair tousled by sleep and his eyesNo, better not to think about his eyes.

Lizzie cautiously tried the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. She shoved it open, then stopped, gaping at the devastation that greeted her. Her nose wrinkled in distaste. The place reeked of ale.

John was sitting at the table, glumly surveying the far wall, and obviously lost in thought. At her entrance, he rose to his feet and swept her a mocking bow. "Welcome to my humble abode, my lady."

"What the blazes did you do? Go mad?" Lizzie demanded, looking around in dismay. "You can't have gotten this drunk on one bottle of wine!"

"I didn't. This"he waved his hand in a grand gesture"is all your father's fault. I walked in, innocent as a babe, and he pitched the ale pot at me. Mind you, that was after he threw the chamber pot and the water bucket. He didn't think of the candlesticks and your books until he ran low on the heavy-gauge stuff."

John frowned at the shards of pottery littering the muddied floor. "It could have been worse, though. At least he didn't throw the bottle of wine, as well."

"My fa" Lizzie's mouth worked, but she couldn't get the word out. She gestured to the damp and odorous wreckage littering the floor. "He did this?" John nodded. "Right before he ran me through with his rapier."

"He . . . what?"

"Drove it right to the hilt." He rubbed his belly ruefully. "Damned unsettling experience. If I'd had a weak heart, I'd probably have keeled over on the spot."

Lizzie stared at him, dumbfounded. "But . . . why?"

"To protect you!" A tall, magnificent man in top boots and a velvet coat suddenly materialized in front of her, right out of thin air.

Lizzie jumped six inches off the floor. John dodged behind her so that she was squarely between him and her father. Or rather, her father's ghost.

Lizzie's throat constricted in a futile effort to swallow.

Oliver roared with disgust. "Cowardly wretch! Spineless toad! Hiding behind a woman's skirts like a babe in petticoats! I warn you, first chance I get I'll"

"You'll keep quiet, Oliver, that's what you'll do." A beautiful woman materialized at Lizzie's side, making her jump even higher.

"And you'll apologize to Lizzie for the mess. And," the ghostly lady added with emphasis when Oliver started to protest, "you'll do what you refused to do last night and apologize to John for having been so rude in the first place."

"Rude? Rude! If I had my way, I'd skewer his liver and boil it for breakfast!" "Oliver Hardwicke! If you don't watch your tongue"

"Personally," John said, "I've always felt liver was best fried, but"

"Quiet! All of you!" Lizzie stepped free of John's hold on her shoulder. She edged to the side, where she could keep her back against the wall and still have a clear view of the three combatants. John warily eyed the new arrivals, but they were staring at Lizzie, not him.

Lizzie stared right back. "Youthe two of youyou're really . . . ?"

The woman nodded. "That's right. I'm Bess, your mother, and this"she indicated the handsome cavalier beside her"is your father, Oliver Hardwicke."

Oliver eyed her rather mistily, she thought, and then nodded shyly. "Lizzie."

Lizzie licked lips suddenly gone dry. "You're . . . ghosts. You're really . . . ghosts."

"That's right." Bess was clearly the one in charge. "We've been here all along. Ever since . . . That is, we've been keeping an eye on you for years. Making sure you're all right, you know."

Oliver put his hand to the hilt of his rapier and glared at John, who shoved his hands in his pockets and gave him an insulting grin.

Lizzie stared at the magnificent man in his misty velvet and lace. He was a compelling presence even like this, when she could see the paneling on the opposite wall right through him. She could almost understand how her mother might have forgotten everything else in her love for him. Almost.

Her eyes narrowed as sudden anger pricked her. "You're the one who's responsible for chasing off all my suitors."

"Didn't want those damned dogs sniffing around you like that, Lizzie," Oliver said placatingly. "Always said you deserved better."

"And you stabbed John!"

Oliver drew himself up in indignation. "You don't stab someone with a rapier. I ran the bastThat is, I ran him through." He scowled at John. "Not that it did any good. He's still here."

"And will be until Lizzie's ready to leave for America with me," John said with the air of someone determined to be provoking.

"She won't"

"I'm not"

"Enough!" Bess held up her hands for order. "We've all of us better things to do than quarrel, don't you think?"

Oliver eyed Bess nervously, glared at John, and smiled at Lizzie. John glared at Oliver, ignored Bess, and smiled at Lizzie. Bess simply beamed on all of them, like a proud hen with her chicks.

Lizzie shut her eyes, leaned her head against the wall behind her, and wondered if perhaps she was mistaken and she really was dreaming, after all.

They spent a half hour talking in circles. Bess wanted to discuss wedding plans. John was amenable to the wedding plans and discussions of settlements, but he wanted to know if Lizzie was going to do something about the inn, or if he'd be spending the rest of his life drawing ale and serving boiled mutton. Oliver scowled at John, argued with Bess, and assured Lizzie, over and over again, that she could do better than this spineless, lily-livered dog of a colonial.

For her part, Lizzie kept insisting that she wasn't sure she wanted to get married, didn't know whether she wanted to sell the inn if she did, and wasn't about to discuss the matter under these circumstances, in any case.

It was so much wasted breath. No one was listening to her. And two of the three were ghosts, for heaven's sake! Ghosts who had rashly chosen a course that had left her orphaned before she was even out of her cradle.

Lizzie was surprised she wasn't angrier, surprised she hadn't challenged them with all the questions she'd always wanted to ask, all the accusations she'd wanted to fling at them. Instead, here she was, arguing with them just as if they still had a say in her life! She got to her feet.

"If the rest of you want to keep arguing," she said firmly, "that's fine with me. But I have work to do and I am leaving."

Bess looked up, startled by her sudden vehemence. "I suppose you must," she said with a small, regretful sigh.

"Now see what you've done!" Oliver said, glaring at John.

"You wouldn't run away without me, would you?'' John said, grabbing at her skirts as she passed.

She swept her skirts out of his reach, but the sharp scolding that was on the tip of her tongue died without her saying a word. The twitch at the corner of his mouth would have given him away, even if the wicked twinkle in his eye hadn't.

But it was the understanding she saw beneath the twinkle that made her breath catch and her heart suddenly start thumping in her chest. She smoothed her skirts, and hoped her ghostly parents couldn't see the blush that was staining her cheeks.

"I am not running away, and I am not letting the three of you make my decisions for me." She headed toward the door, but John was faster.

"A kiss, then," he said. "As pledge you won't leave me."

Lizzie tried to push past him. He pulled her into his arms instead.

"Two kisses, for resisting me," he said, his voice suddenly huskier, rougher than it had been a moment before. "I'll even double the penalty if you say please very nicely."

Lizzie told herself she was just off balance, that he'd caught her by surprise, but there was absolutely no denying that she was leaning into him, as wanton as any strumpet. She didn't have any explanation at all for why her arms were suddenly around John's neck, or her chin tilted at exactly the right angle for him to exact his penalties.

"Grrr," Oliver said. Lizzie rose on her toes. Just a few inches, nothing blatant.

"Come along, Oliver," Bess said sternly.

"But, Bess! We can't leave now. He's going to kiss her!"

"And about time, too, if you ask me!" Bess said.

John raised his head, his face alight with laughter . . . and another, less easily definable emotion that set Lizzie's heart racing. "Good-bye, Bess."

Out of the corner of her eye, Lizzie could see Bess and Oliver start to fade, but not even Oliver's plaintive, "But, Bess!" was enough to distract her from the more important matter at hand.

John had already tripled her penalty when Lizzie gave up counting.

Samuel was waiting for her in the taproom, but this time Huldspeth was by his side, nervously picking at the folds of her skirt. The two of them rose to their feet the instant she walked into the room.

"I thought as how it'd be best if we told you right out, Huldspeth and me," he said. He didn't have his cap to tug on this morning, which put him at a disadvantage.

Huldspeth nodded eagerly. Samuel might be nervous, but she was aglow with happiness this morning, all her recent sullenness vanished as if it had never been.

Lizzie sank into a chair across from them. She had a very good idea what it was they wanted to tell her, and she wasn't sure whether to be glad for Huldspeth's sake, or sad for her own. She was quite sure, however, that she wasn't ready to deal with their problems when she had more than enough of her own.

"Yesterday, I thought about what you'd said," Samuel said with difficulty. "About . . . about Huldspeth and what I wanted, and I decided you was right, Miss Lizzie."

"Was I?" Too bad there wasn't anyone who could set her straight so easily.

"Yes." Samuel nodded, and glanced at Huldspeth for approval. Old habits were hard to break, Lizzie supposed. He was clearly trading one petticoat ruler for another, but Huldspeth would be a far more benign and comfortable mistress than his penny-pinching sister had ever been.

"I asked Huldspeth to marry me," he added as Huldspeth beamed. "I don't mind the child, so's there no problem there, an' we thought mebbe you might let us have a room here. Once we was legally wed an' all," he added hastily.

"Yes. Yes, of course. But not until you're wed," Lizzie said sternly. "I won't have any more scandal in this place than we've already suffered."

The two solemnly shook their heads.

"And I'll expect you to do your work, the same as always."

Equally solemn nods of agreement.

"And you'll promise," Lizzie added in her very sternest voice, making the pair quail before her, "that I can dance at your wedding."

Samuel and Huldspeth broke into smiles wide enough to make Lizzie's mouth ache just watching them. "Yes'm!" they chorused, relieved.

Lizzie finally sent them off with her best wishes, but only after extracting a firm promise from Samuel that he would be in the taproom tonight without fail.

As the sound of their voices faded away, Lizzie's smile faded as well. She wished her own troubles and doubts could be resolved so easily.

"I knew it would come to this," Bertha said darkly as she poured Lizzie's tea.

Lizzie glanced up from the fire she'd been staring at for the past ten minutes. "Come to what?"

"You and that colonial. Just like your mother, I said, but never a moment's heed did you pay me."

"What makes you think"

"I've eyes in my head, don't I?" Bertha demanded tartly. "Think I can't see that glow in you? It's enough to set the kitchen alight, despite that frown you're wearing on top."

"Oh." Lizzie couldn't think of a single thing to say, so she spooned an extra bit of honey into her tea instead.

Bertha sighed, clearly resigned to the inevitable. "You'd best marry him out of hand, if that's the way of it." Her eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. "He's asked you to marry him, hasn't he?"

Lizzie nodded. "He asked over a week ago. But I'm not sure"

"Of course you're sure! You just don't want to admit it!" Bertha turned the bread dough out onto a floured board and began kneading it.

"How many fine fellows have you had after you in the past few years? Half a dozen? A dozen? Some of them quite plump in the pocket, and not a few rather easy to look at, too! Yet not one of them had you mooning over your tea or blushing like a maid half your age."

"But"

"If you've any sense, you'll fetch Mr. Randall." She gave the mounded dough a vicious punch, then flopped it over and began kneading it again. "That way your Mr. Carleton can finish whatever business it is he's come for, and then you'll be free to leave."

"Leave! What makes you think I want to leave?"

Bertha glanced up from her bread, and as quickly looked down again. "Best thing for you. Best thing for both of you. He don't belong here, and now Lamberre's after him. . . ." She shook her head, but resolutely refused to meet Lizzie's shocked gaze. "Won't do anyone any good if you go getting into the same kind of trouble your mother did."

Lizzie winced and dropped her gaze to her cup of tea. The fragrant steam drifted upward like smokeor like the faint mist a ghost left when it disappeared.

Now that she'd met her father, now that she'd made love to John Carleton, she was beginning to understand what her mother must have felt all those years ago when she'd chosen to sacrifice herself for her lover's sake, regardless of the consequences.

She could not forget, but she did understand love well enough that she could learn to forgive.

"Besides," Bertha added, breaking into her thoughts, "seems to me like it's meant to be, the way everything's coming together."

"What do you mean?"

"What do I mean? I mean this Carleton fellow coming along like he has, and Huldspeth's pregnancy, and Samuel coming into his inheritance like that." Her brows twisted together and her mouth pursed in disapproval as she frowned at Lizzie. "Don't tell me it hasn't occurred to you that Samuel could buy the inn from you?"

Lizzie's blank expression must have shown that she had not, in fact, considered the possibility. "But . . . I can't leave you!" she protested. "It would be like leaving my own family!"

"Humpf!" Bertha said, giving her bread another smack. "Can't say I'd like it much either, but I'll have my work and Huldspeth to keep me busy, and you can write, can't you? Couple letters a year don't seem like it'd be too much to ask, do it?"

"But, but" Lizzie said, dazed.

"Don't try to tell me you haven't wanted to see America! I know about all those books of yours. And don't look at me like that, as if you thought I was spying on you. You know you can't keep a secret around here for long, no matter how hard you try."

She deliberately set aside the first loaf, now neatly shaped into a squat, circular mound, and turned out the second batch of dough. "And that's another reason why you'd best make up your mind about John Carleton quick. You won't be able to keep him a secret much longer, either. No matter how hard you try."

Lizzie startled John half out of his wits by tapping on his door in the middle of the day. He didn't put his pistol back in his pocket until he was sure there wasn't any dragoon with his musket at her back forcing her up here at such an unlikely time.

"Where did you get that?" she demanded, nervously eyeing the deadly looking piece.

"It's one of a pair. I always carry them in my pockets."

"Even last night?"

He grinned. "Even last night. Though as I recall, it wasn't what was in my pockets that interested you."

She blushed. Irritated or not, she looked beautiful in a blush. She looked even more beautiful in a blush and nothing else, but it wouldn't do to get his imagination too stirred up. Not this early in the day.

"I've brought you some paper, a pen, and some ink," she said, setting them on the table one by one.

"For what? Surely Oliver isn't so angry with me that I need to make my last will and testament? Personally, I haven't any intention of dying until I've made him a great-grandfather, at the least." Lizzie's blush deepened. "It's not for that. It's so you can write a letter to Mr. Randall."

John opened his mouth to protest, then snapped it shut.

"You were going to sneak out tonight and see him yourself, weren't you?" Lizzie said accusingly.

"I can't stand too many more days cooped up in this damned little box, Lizzie! And if Randall's here"

"Then he'll be warned that you're wanted by the authorities."

"Who happen to include my uncle," John snapped. "I don't know Randall, but I know enough of him to be sure he won't turn me over at Malloran's bidding unless he absolutely has to. And certainly not before he's heard what I have to say first!"

"He might not have any choice," Lizzie shot back. "Especially not if you fell into Lamberre's hands first!"

"So what"

Lizzie cut him short. "I'll take a letter to him for you. If necessary, you can ask him to come here. Neither Lamberre nor your uncle can stop him from doing that, but they can stop you!"

John would have liked to argue, but she was right. It was safer her way. That didn't mean he had to like it.

With an exasperated growl, John sat down to write. Lizzie didn't hurry. After these last few days, she was glad to be out of the inn and away from everyone. She needed time to think, and this was the best chance she'd have to do it without fear of interruption.

As her horse topped a rise, she caught sight of a small figure scurrying along the footpath that led toward Twistledean Minor. Lizzie couldn't be sure from this far away, but she thought it looked like Neda.

She made a mental note to check if Bertha had sent the girl out on an errand. If she hadn't, and Neda had chosen to shirk her duties to run off to that redcoat of hers, then the King George would be in need of a new scullery maid by morning. Not that she cared to waste precious time thinking about Neda.

Lizzie still hadn't sorted things out when she stopped at Mr. Drayton's house, where Lamberre was lodged. To her relief, Lamberre was out, but the lawyer was in. Unfortunately, he was on his way to another appointment and couldn't spare time to speak with her, but he agreed to come by the inn that evening on his way home.

Lizzie had even less luck at Randall's home. The man was out and his butler wouldn't venture to say when he would return. Lizzie debated waiting for him, but it was getting late and she didn't care to ride home alone in the dark. In the end, she simply left John's letter, with strict instructions that it was to be delivered to Randall as soon as possible. Frustrated, Lizzie turned her horse toward home. She was still a good two miles from the King George when Lamberre, followed by three of his men, rode out of an intersecting lane. Lizzie would have passed them with no more than a nod of greeting, but the lieutenant pulled his horse across her path.

"Mistress Tynsdale. How fortunate."

"Not from my point of view it isn't."

His smile thinned, grew dangerous. "Perhaps not. You see, I've decided it will be a great deal more convenient to have Mr. Gideon come to me than to chase all over the country after him."

"I'm sure it would be . . . if you could manage it."

"Oh, I'll manage it. Why else would I arrest you on charges of harboring a fugitive from His Majesty's justice?"

Chapter Eighteen

Fat Bertha was the one who brought the news of Lizzie's arrest.

From the sound of her heavy footsteps on the stairs, John thought at first a giant redcoat had come to drag him from his lair. It was her peremptory, ''Carleton! It's me, Bertha, the cook," that informed him otherwise.

He swung the door open a second before she commenced another round of hammering. A dozen anxious questions about Lizzie died unspoken as his mouth fell open.

When Thomas Gaines had said that Bertha was as fat as an old sow, he hadn't been exaggerating. The cook's girth was immense. The hike up the stairs had turned her face scarlet, and she was panting and puffing louder than a blown race horse.

At the sight of him, she pressed her hand to her breast, roughly above where her heart must reside, and tried to catch her breath. "Took your time!" she snapped between gasps. "I have to come all the way from the kitchen. You haven't ten feet to cross. What were you do"

"Never mind." John grabbed her armor as much as he could get his hand aroundand pulled her into the room.

"Where's Lizzie?" he demanded, swinging the door shut. "What happened? Why hasn't she"

"That pinch-faced lieutenant's got her." Her broad face folded up in angry disapproval. "I told her not to go, but did she listen? Oh, no, not her! Just like her mother, she is, and no mistake?"

"Yes, yesbut is she all right? Did that son of aLamberre didn't hurt her, did he? Where is she?" John would have grabbed the cook and shaken her, if that were possible.

"She's all right. At least she was last Thomas Gaines saw of them." She sucked in a deep draft of air, then let it out with a whoosh. "Never thought I'd see the day that dried-up excuse for a man was of any use for anything. He was tracking a lost sheep when he saw them. Minute the lieutenant took her, he came here."

"Where did Lamberre take her?"

"Malloran Hall. At least, that's the way they were headed, he says."

John was already across the room, dragging his bags of shot and powder out of his saddlebags. "I want a horse. A fast one."

"Josh is saddling one now."

"Good. I want two more, just as fast and strong, ready and saddled, waiting for us when we return. Put these saddlebags on one of them, and a second set for Mistress Lizzie with the things she'll need on the other."

"Need? For what?"

John stopped in his preparations just long enough to flash her a wolfish grin. "For a fast trip to Scotland. We leave for America from there. My lawyers will settle the details after."

"You can't! Not just like that! Not without"

"I'll find a preacher to marry us once we're over the border. We'll send word from there about the rest."

"Did Mistress Lizzie agree to all this?" she demanded.

"Not yet, but she was going to, whether she knew it or not." He swirled his cape about his shoulders and clapped his hat on his head as he spoke. "Lizzie's mine, and I'll be damned if I'll let any redcoat or arrogant lord harm a hair on her head!"

He checked his pistols, then shoved them in his pockets and crossed to the door.

Bertha moved to block his escape, huge hands fisted on even larger hips. "You'll take care of her?"

John's smile faded as he stared back. "I love her," he said at last. "I couldn't do otherwise."

Reluctantly, and with the air of one of His Majesty's men-of-war giving way to a rowboat, Bertha moved aside and let him pass.

"And pack some food!" he called from the stairway. "But rememberno mutton!"

The inn yard was swarming with people jabbering and running in a dozen different directions, all to no purpose that John could see. A heavily built man whom John assumed to be Samuel Martin was struggling to hoist himself into the saddle of the horse that the hostler held while Huldspeth. clutched at his coattails, tearfully begging him not to go. Half a dozen of the taproom's customers had gathered round to offer contradictory advice and gloomily shake their heads over the affair.

The minute John stepped out of the door, everyone froze in place, as shocked as if they'd just seen a ghost. The hissing of the torches and the restless pawing of the horse suddenly seemed unbearably loud.

And then Huldspeth moaned. "Neda were right! He was here all along, and now she's the one will claim those twenty pounds!"

"She was right about my presence," said John with a mocking bow. "But I sincerely doubt she'll be claiming any reward. They'll have to catch me first, and so far Lamberre has only taken your mistress prisoner."

That brought a whimper from Huldspeth and an uncertain murmur from the crowd.

"Well?" John demanded. "What are you all doing, standing there gaping at me like half-witted sheep? Out of my way."

They dazedly moved aside as he crossed to Samuel Martin. "I'll take that horse, if you don't mind."

The tapster had given up his ungainly efforts to mount and now stood beside the stirrup, his hands curling into fists, studying him from under lowered brows. "Here, then. Who be you? An' by what right does you demand I hand over me horse?"

Thomas Gaines, who had managed to hold a spot at the front of the crowd, cackled with delight. "He's that there John Carleton. Din't I say all along he was here? Din't I?"

Several individuals nodded and mumbled assent. Samuel ignored them all.

"You're the fellow these redcoats been lookin' for?" Samuel eyed John suspiciously. "You been hidin' here, in the inn? All this time?"

"That's right," said John coolly. "It was far more comfortable than sleeping under a hedgerow, which was all his lordship and the lieutenant seemed inclined to leave me."

"Say wot?" said Samuel.

John pointed at the restless beast Samuel had been futilely trying to mount. "You're standing between me and that horse."

The hostler's grip on the bridle tightened. "Ain't your horse."

"No. As I recall, you gave mine to the sergeant."

The hostler's Adam's apple bobbed.

"Not that it matters," John added pleasantly. "I'm taking that beast, regardless. I have an appointment with his lordship that can't possibly wait."

In one smooth motion, he swept Samuel aside, picked up the reins, and vaulted into the saddle.

Whether the hostler would have argued the matter, John would never know. At the sudden appearance of a ghostly horse and rider in their midst, the man gasped, dropped his hold on the bridle, and scuttled backward, away from the apparition. He might have backed all the way across the yard and into the stables if it hadn't been for the half dozen gape-mouthed folk who blocked his line of retreat.

John's mount snorted, and shied violently.

"You won't get Lizzie free," said Oliver, eyeing him in contempt. "One colonial? Against a pack of redcoats?"

"The hell you say!" said John, and spurred his mount out of the old inn yard.

"The Lord bless me!" Fat Bertha gasped. She dug the backs of her fists into her eyes, then once more tried to peer through the age-grimed windows.

"He might, but I'm not likely to if you insist on gaping out the window instead of doing what John told you to."

The sharp words brought Bertha around. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. "As I live and breathe . . . ! Mistress Bess!"

Bess snorted. "What you need to be doing is thinking. It's Lizzie he's off to rescue, after all!"

Bertha snorted in return. "So all those wild tales were true? You and Hardwicke really do haunt this place!"

"They're true, and we don't haunt the place. We watch over Lizzie."

"Uh-huh." The cook gave a cluck of disgust. "I should have known. The pair of you were too much trouble when you were alive not to be trouble after you were dead."

"Bertha!"

The cook scowled and shook her head wonderingly. "Didn't I tell Miss Lizzie? Just like your mother, I said. You'll get in trouble, just like her, and all for the sake of a handsome face and a wicked smile. And a well-filled pair of pants! But it was as much a waste of breath telling her as it ever was telling you."

Bess laughed, but there was more sadness than joy in the sound. "And you took care of her just as well as you took care of me, in spite of all the scoldings." Her voice dropped, grew softer. "I'm grateful for that, you know. I wanted so badly to . . . to do what you did, be a mother to her."

"Aye, well," said Bertha, and ponderously shifted her weight. "I should have known you wouldn't have left her, even afterI should have known."

She cast a sharp eye over her former charge, clearly unimpressed that Bess was cast in silver, or that she could see straight through her. "You know about Lizzie and this colonial, then?" she demanded.

Bess nodded.

"And you approve?"

Bess drifted closer, one hand placatingly outstretched. "He's a good man, Bertha."

"Well, he's a handsome one, at any rate." Bertha's scowl deepened. "It's too late to change things, anyway."

Bess sighed and nodded agreement. "Much too late."

"Aye, well," said Bertha. She heaved a vast sigh, then slowly drew herself up. "I'd best get on with it, then, if that's the way things are to be."

The moon seemed determined to play least-insight, though its light tipped the billowing edges of the clouds with a pale, silvery radiance that only made the rest of the night-dark sky seem blacker still in comparison.

John cursed silently. There was just enough light to reveal their presence to anyone on the lookout, but not nearly enough to show the dangerously rutted road at their feet.

"Where's your rapier, man?" Oliver Hardwicke demanded.

"I don't have one." John didn't bother to glance at his ghostly companion. He had all he could do to guide his horse in the dark.

"Don't have one!"

"They're nuisancy, old-fashioned weapons. Give me a pistol any day." "Old-fashioned!" Oliver spluttered in a most unghostly fashion. "Why, you upstart colonial! Old-fashioned is it?"

"It is, and if you want to be of any use to Lizzie, you'll stop worrying about my weapons and show me the fastest way to get to Malloran Hall. I'd prefer not to ride down the high road if I don't have to."

"Magician can find a way, but I've a good mind"

John pulled his mount to a snorting halt. A couple of heartbeats later, Oliver realized he'd lost his companion and did the same.

"What are you stopping for, man?" he demanded angrily, bringing Magician around.

John's glare cut through even Oliver Hardwicke's bluster. "If you've a good mind, as you say, you'll start using it to think, instead of getting in my way. I need your help. Lizzie needs your help! Quarreling with me will only slow us down and give Lamberre an even greater advantage than he already has."

"What"

"Don't waste my time with your shrieking and wailing, either. And since there's not a chamber pot within miles"

"All right, all right! You've made your point!"

"Then either lead, or get the hell out of my way."

The highwayman turned Magician and set him racing off across the moor, but John could still hear him cursing, even over the thunder of galloping hooves. <><><><><><><><><><><><>

Frederick James Carleton, Lord Malloran, clasped his hands atop a notice that a reward of twenty pounds was being offered for the apprehension of one John Gideon, leaned across the desk in his library, and glared at Lizzie.

"Really, Mistress Tynsdale, this . . . intransigence gains you nothing except my anger. And that, I assure you, is not something you wish to court."

"Indeed?" Lizzie clasped her hands in her lap and met his angry gaze with a mocking one of her own. "Frankly, my lord, I can't think of anything that has to do with you that I would care to court."

Lord Malloran's patrician brows almost collided over his nose. "You are a rude and foolish woman, and if you think to help that unprincipled scoundrel you're hiding by this display of arrogance, you'd do well to think again."

"Really? Hmmm," said Lizzie. "I suppose I could do that." She dutifully rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, pursed her lips, and made rude little clicking noises while she twiddled her thumbs.

His Lordship's face reddened. "What are you doing?" he demanded in a roar.

"I'm thinking." She smiled. "You told me to."

"Lamberre!"

Lizzie winced. Lord Malloran had an extraordinarily good pair of lungs for a man his age.

The hall door was flung open and Lamberre strode in. "Sir?" ''Get this misbegotten bitch out of my sight. Now!"

His lordship's face, Lizzie noted with interest, was rapidly turning a virulent shade of red. Purple, actually, if you went by the brightest parts.

Lamberre grabbed her arm before she could get to her feet, making her stagger. His fingers dug into her muscles with painful force as he half dragged, half led her from the room.

"And find that impostor!" his lordship roared by way of dismissal.

Whatever else he might have said was cut short as Lamberre shut the door behind them. Lizzie had the feeling he would have slammed it if he'd dared, but one did not slam a door on a lord's ordersespecially not if one were a mere lieutenant with ambitions of promotion.

Lamberre dragged her halfway along the hall, well out of earshot of his lordship, then slammed her against a wall. He loomed over her, his handsome face distorted by anger . . . and some emotion she could sense beneath the surface of his fury, but couldn't decipher. He was so close, she could smell the tang of shaving soap on his skin.

"That wasn't wise, mistress. Whatever you did to anger him, it wasn't wise at all."

Lizzie stiffened. The carving of the paneled wall bit into her back, her free hand was painfully crushed between them, and his grip on her arm hadn't eased in the slightest, but her anger was more than a match for his. "It wasn't right to have brought me here against my will, or to have arrested John Carleton in the first place," she shot back, "but that didn't stop you."

"John Carleton!" He snorted with disgust. His hold on her tightened, making her wince. "Charmed you with that vulgar accent, did he? Or was it that arrogant independence these damned colonials seem so proud of?"

Lizzie didn't try to answer. Lamberre had moved closertoo close. His knee pressed against her leg, his hip against hers in a deliberate, mocking intimacy.

"What was it that made you crave his kisses, mistress?" he demanded in a voice suddenly gone smooth and thick as honey. He ran his free hand up her arm and over her shoulder until it curved around her throat. His palm was warm against her skin, damp with sweat, and she could feel the thudding of her pulse beneath his touch.

"Was it the arrogance?" His mouth thinned; his lips pulled back from his teeth in an expression that was more grimace than smile. "His tempting lies? Or was it . . . this?"

He pressed closer, harder, until she could feel the ridge of his erection even through the multiple layers of her wool skirt and linen petticoats.

Lizzie shrank back. There was nowhere to go. His body blocked her so that she couldn't even move her feet. Her breath was coming quicker, and that made things worse. His chest was as immovable as the wall behind her. The buttons of his uniform dug into her breasts, as threatening as the more blatantly intimate pressure below.

His eyelids lowered as he studied her, savoring her anger . . . and her fear.

Lizzie twisted, vainly trying to break free. "Is this how His Majesty's officers behave? And in a nobleman's house, too?"

He chuckled, amused. She could feel the laughter rumbling in his chest.

His voice dropped lower still, intimate as a caress. "If they want."

He stroked his palm up her throat, then down. His fingers curled under the edge of her tucker as he pulled it away, revealing the line of her shoulder, the white skin of her breast.

"His lordship's not going to care what happens to you. Scream all you want. No one will come."

She caught the bright, black glitter of his eyes a moment before he kissed the base of her throat. A moment more, and he pressed his mouth at the soft curve above her breast.

That was when she took his advice and screamed . . . straight into his ear.

John had tied his horse in the copse that Oliver had led him to and was fastening his cloak behind the saddle when he heard the scream.

"Bastards!" In a flash, Oliver had his rapier out and was turning Magician toward the hall.

"No, wait!" John held up his hand.

"Wait? When Lizzie's in trouble?" Oliver slashed at the air with his rapier as viciously as if he were cutting down a hundred redcoats.

"You won't help her by charging in like that! What were you planning on doing, riding straight through the walls and into the house, then scooping her up and carrying her off?"

"Egad, man! That's Lizzie in there! We can't just sit here like"

"I know that! But while your tricks might work on a couple of nervous soldiers at the inn, they're a great deal less likely to scare a nobleman's entire householdnot to mention all the troops that are roaming around the place!"

Oliver eyed him with distaste. "The colonies can't have much of a future if they're breeding spineless dogs like you."

"They're breeding men who think." John eyed his ghostly companion with equal disfavor. "What did you hope to achieve by charging in there? Scare everyone into letting Lizzie go? We both know that rapier of yours isn't of much use for anything except decoration."

It was dark in the copse, but Oliver was clearly visible, and there was no mistaking his resentment at the challenge . . . or his chagrin.

Grumbling, he returned his rapier to its sheath. "What do you plan to do, then?"

"Break into the house, find Lizzie, and bring her back again."

Oliver snorted. "Just like that, eh? With a nobleman's entire staff and a pack of weasely redcoats about, as you so accurately put it?" "That's right." John smiled grimly. "That's the last thing they'll expect, so it's what has the best chance of working." He studied Magician doubtfully. ''Can you tie that beast up, or will he wait for you until we come out?"

The highwayman stiffened in the saddle as an unwary jab of his spur made his great horse snort and toss his head. He glared down at John.

"I can't dismount."

"What?"

Oliver cursed. "I can't dismount anywhere except in the inn yard. I'm not bound to one place like Bess, but until she's free, I can only move about if I'm mounted on Magician here."

It was John's turn to curse. "Why didn't you say something before now?"

"How was I to know you meant to skulk about like a common thief instead of fighting like a man?"

John glared up at him. His fingers itched to throttle the arrogant ghost, but of all useless gestures, that was surely one of the most useless. He turned away to study what little he could see of the house.

Without the support he'd expected from Oliver, it was going to be a great deal more difficult, but he didn't have a choice. Lizzie needed him.

With sudden decision, he pulled his pistols from his pockets and checked the priming. Satisfied, he gestured Oliver closer.

"All right. Here's what I want you to do. . . ." <><><><><><><><><><><><> The dragoons dragged her to a half-forgotten lumber room at the top of the hall, then shoved her through the door and laughed.

She almost landed atop a broken chair, thrown off balance by their rough treatment. Lizzie regained her balance and spun to confront her jailers.

"You're leaving me here?"

The corporal nodded and gave her a knowing wink. "Aye. The lieutenant, he said he wanted you as far out of his hearing as we could get youleastways till you was wanted. An' Mr. Charleshim what's the butler herehe said this place were the most . . . convenient, like."

"For whom? Him?"

The man snickered in appreciation of the joke. His subordinates dutifully followed suit. "Aye. I suspect that 'ud be it."

Lizzie cast a disparaging glance about her. They hadn't bothered to retrieve her cloak, and the cold was already beginning to seep through the wool of her dress.

The corporal looked over the room appreciatively. Clearly the place met with his approval. "Well, best be about our business, then. You, Benton. You'll stand first watch outside."

The soldier thus singled out threw a resentful glance at Lizzie, as though she were to blame her for his coming discomfort.

"Mistress." The corporal nodded politely, but his leering smile belied the courtesy. Lizzie ignored him. She had time for one last look about her before the soldiers withdrew, shutting the door behind them and plunging the room into darkness.

Chapter Nineteen

His plan might have worked if it hadn't been for the pimply faced dragoon who'd decided the opportunity for petty theft was simply too great to resist. John slipped through the window in a small, unlit sitting room at the back of the hallhe'd had to break a pane in order to open the latch, but that was the only sound he'd made. It was enough.

He straightened from his unorthodox entry to find himself facing a frightened, stammering boy whose musket was pointed straight at his belly.

"D-don't move. Not an inch, you hear?" The boy's hands and voice both shook badly.

John swore. The boy was scared and desperate to prove his manhood. He was as likely to shoot out of sheer terror as for any reasonable cause. The musket's muzzle wobbled, then settled on a spot right over his heart. "I'll shoot. I swear it!"

John sighed. "I'm not moving. I'd put my hands up, but I'm afraid you'd shoot me before I got them past my elbows."

"Very funny." The sneer might have been more effective if it weren't for the squeak at the end. The boy waved the tip of the musket in the direction of the door. "We're going to see the lieutenant, you and me. But you're going first."

"A reasonable arrangement, I suppose," said John amiably, "but first, hadn't you better empty your pockets of any little trinkets you've picked up? Just in case your lieutenant wonders why your uniform is so lumpy?"

It was a chance shot, but it hit home. The boy lowered the musket to dig in his pockets, and John promptly hit him.

One blow to the chin brought the boy down with a crash. John kicked the musket to the side, out of reach. The boy groaned, then groggily tried to get to his feet, only to collapse in an inert heap when John hit him on the back of the head with the butt of his pistol.

John hovered over him, pistol in hand, listening for any sound to indicate they'd been heard. Nothing.

Reassured, he pocketed his pistol, then knelt to gag the unconscious boy and bind his hands and feet. "Next time, I'd suggest you worry about what's in your opponent's pocket, not what's in yours." Not even a groan to indicate the young dragoon appreciated the advice.

From the door, John could see the dim glow of candlelight at the far end of the hall. No telling where his uncle might be, but Lamberre and his men would probably be restricted to the public rooms on the main floor.

That meant chances were good they were holding Lizzie someplace closeno sense baiting the hook if they weren't at the other end of the line to pull in the catch.

John shook his head in frustration. It would have been a hell of a lot easier if Oliver could have joined him.

He pulled out a pistol and cautiously headed down the hall.

"You will never be welcome at the King George again!" Lizzie shouted through the door. "Nor your friends, either!"

The soldier's laugh came clearly through the thick wood. "Not bloody likely any of us would be in a place like that, mistress! Ale's too dear, an', judgin' from wot I heard, not near worth the price. Now keep your trap shut like the lieutenant said and leave me in peace."

"Ha!" said Lizzie, turning back to the work at hand.

She'd made a point of insulting the man every few minutesfor the sheer satisfaction of it as much as to keep him from worrying about what she might be up to if she were too quiet. Her plan was progressing nicely, even though working in the dark and the cold like this was slowing her down considerably. She'd made the most of what little time she'd had to study her surroundings while there was still some light, and now she was steadily assembling a wobbly tower of chairs, small tables, dusty oil paintings, and cobweb-draped odds and ends. The entire structure ought to come down with a satisfying crash whenever she was ready. All she'd have to do was pull the curtain sash she'd tied around the leg of the broken chair at the bottom of the pile.

It would have been a lot easier to smash a window and escape that way, but the room was on the third floor, high up under the eaves, and she didn't care to think of the drop.

The only advantage to her isolation was that the lieutenant's furious command to keep her somewhere he couldn't hear her meant that no one else would hear her, either. No one, that is, except for the dragoon outside the door.

Lizzie stopped for a moment to rub her arms and blow on her fingers, trying to get some warmth back into them.

If only it weren't so damnably cold and dark. It was a wonder John hadn't wrung her neck for having stuck him in a room that had been just as cold and dark and dreary. She shivered just thinking about it.

At least he'd had ghosts to keep him company. <><><><><><><><><><><><> Like most Virginians, John had had his share of fighting Indians. He'd thought he'd gotten rather good at slipping through a forest without making any noise. He'd thought that training would stand him in good stead here.

He'd been wrong.

Dodging tomahawks didn't compare to the risks of navigating unlit drawing rooms where innumerable stools and small tables seemed to have been placed with no purpose but to trip the unwary . . . or the unwanted.

An ugly, overstuffed footstool with carved gilt legs and a garish tapestry covering was his downfall.

He had a good chance to appreciate just how ugly it was, because the three redcoats who burst into the room after him knocked him back down not inches from it, right where he had a worm's-eye view of the thing as soon as a house servant arrived with a branch of candlesticks.

The servant clucked and fretted and righted the stool, then carefully dusted off the hideous tapestry. "His lordship's very fond of that stool. I don't like to think what he'll say if he hears it's been kicked about like this."

"Tell 'is lordship that's what 'appens when you gets desperate criminals runnin' about like this," one of the redcoats said. His tone of voice indicated he didn't think much of the stool, either.

Unlike the pimply faced recruit, this hardened fellow knew enough to check his enemy's pockets. He found John's pistols with no trouble at all. "Them's nice pistols," he said, squinting to make out the detail. "Nice pistols."

He appropriated both of them, then prodded John in the ribs with the toe of his rather dirty boot. "On yer feet, then. 'Ave to say, I'm right glad you stumbled by. The lieutenant's that anxious to 'ave a word with you; 'e's been makin' our lives downright miserable the past few days."

"I'm sorry to hear that," John said.

"Reckon you are. Now, on yer feet afore we 'as to drag you out by them."

Also unlike the recruit, the three dragoons were careful to keep just out of reach. There wasn't a chance in hell he could grab one of their muskets by the barrel and wrench it away before the others would be on top of him.

John sighed and slowly climbed to his feet. Things weren't going at all the way he'd planned.

Done. One more footstool and the entire edifice would tip over of its own accord.

Lizzie nervously wiped her palms on her skirt, then bent to check that the curtain sash was still firmly knotted around the chair leg. Satisfied, she picked up the other end of the sash and the heavy walking stick she'd found amidst the accumulated clutter; then she carefully edged around her tower of trash until she reached the door.

As soon as she got out of this mess, she was going to clout John for having gotten her into it in the first place, and then she was going to break down and cry out of sheer nervous relief. And right after that she was going to grab John and make love to him until they were both too dizzy to move.

But first, she was definitely going to clout him.

She took a deep breath and tightened her hold on the walking stick . . . and then she screamed as loud as she could and pulled the sash.

Lamberre was as pleased to see him as the dragoon had said he'd be. He rose from his chair in front of the fire in the steward's office and came toward them.

"Mr. Gideon! What a pleasant surprise!" His smile wasn't pleasant at all.

John remained where he was. The soldier who'd bound his wrists behind his back had been damnably thorough, and he was acutely conscious of the armed and nervous redcoat at his back and the two standing guard on either side of the door.

"I was in the vicinity, and these gentlemen suggested I take tea with you before I left."

"Did they?" Lamberre looked him up and down. "Strange. I don't see any blood. Gradley must be more persuasive than I thought." His eyebrow lifted. "Or perhaps you were rather more anxious to see me than I expected.''

"I don't think that was it."

"'E tripped over a stool, Lieutenant. Skulkin' through 'is lordship's 'ouse, 'e were, but then 'e tripped an' we got 'im."

Lamberre turned a look of coldly vicious fury on the hapless soldier. "And he got past how many of you before this . . . stool caught him?"

The soldier snapped to attention, appalled at his gaffe. "I wouldn't know, sir. A few."

"You were supposed to be watching every possible entrance. How can you protect Lord Malloran if you can't keep awake?"

The soldier gaped. "Protect 'is lordship, sir? I thought we was tryin' t' catch 'im"he gave a jerk of his head to indicate John"I thought that was why we was keepin' the wench in the lumber room upstairs. As bait, like."

Lamberre's complexion turned a deep red. "Witless fool!" The dragoon backed up a step, shaken by his officer's fury.

"These 'ere are 'is pistols, sir," the man said, hastily extending John's pistols.

For an instant, John thought Lamberre was going to hit the man, but the lieutenant settled for snatching the pistols out of his hands and snarling instead.

"Dismissed! And tell that fool servant to inform his lordship we've recaptured the fugitive."

"Yes, sir!" The dragoon saluted and marched out at double time. The two soldiers by the door remained stiffly at attention, eyes forward, clearly anxious not to draw the lieutenant's fury down on their heads.

"Disturb his lordship? At this hour of the night?" John tried to sound shocked. "You expect a man of his lordship's age and dignities to be still awake?"

"Malloran has an interest in you." "I'm flattered."

"Don't be."

"All right. Mind untying me so I can at least be comfortable?"

The corner of Lamberre's mouth curled into a sneer. "Only if I can exchange the cords around your wrists for one around your neck."

"What a singularly unpleasant thought," John said, and deliberately propped his rump on the edge of the desk instead.

The clattering collapse of her tower was extraordinarily satisfying, but Lizzie really enjoyed bashing the dragoon on the back of the head the minute he popped it in the door to see what was going on. Insult her ale, would he?

She tugged off his heavy wool coat and gratefully slipped it on. It was a touch more redolent of unwashed male than she would have liked, but it was warm and, right now, warmth was all that mattered. She tied him up with the curtain sash, then left him there and locked the door behind her. The cold would bring him around soon enough.

After a moment's careful consideration, Lizzie hid the man's musket under a cabinet, tossed away the lumber room key, and picked up the walking stick. She could feel goose bumps prickling her skin as she went about the tasks, although this time they weren't from the cold. She could swear there were invisible eyes watching her in the dark. She just hoped they were ghosts and not dragoons.

The candle she blew out with regret. After what had seemed like an age shut in that unlit lumber room, she found she appreciated its warm, yellow light, no matter how feeble.

As she'd expected, there was a narrow service stairway at this end of the hall, a convenient construction that ensured the servants were kept as much out of the sight of their betters as possible. Her heart seemed to be pounding in her ears as she started down in the dark.

All she had to do now was slip out a window in one of the unused ground-floor rooms, then head across the moor toward the inn. On a cloudy night like this, it wasn't likely she'd be spotted. She hoped. She didn't dare risk stealing a horse, and John had to be warned.

The thought of John, no doubt pacing his room, wondering what had happened to her and driven half mad with worry, spurred her on.

"Tell me, Lamberre, have you considered the future?"

"The future? Mine? Or yours?"

"Both." John casually shifted so that his legs were stretched in front of him and he was leaning back, over the desk.

Have you considered what will happen if I really am Malloran's legal heir?"

"You? You're an adventurer. An impostor!" "But if I'm not?" John insisted, watching him closely.

Lamberre grew still. "His lordship is still well and strong. He's likely to live for years."

"Or he could drop dead tomorrow. My father was the younger son, yet he died months ago."

"My condolences."

"I don't want them." John's jaw set hard. "I want Lizzie."

Lamberre tensed. "I'm sure you do." Once again he studied John, as cautious as a horse buyer who had grave doubts about the seller's honesty. "You don't look like his lordship."

"That's what he said."

"If you were really the heir, why appear now, after all these years? Why didn't you announce your existence years ago, when it might have done you some good?"

"It may have escaped your notice, but America is not in the next shire."

"Then why not have your lawyers represent you? Surely there's one or two about who might take an interest in your case."

John leaned even farther back, so that his hands were propped on the desk itself . . . and only inches from a gleaming silver letter knife. "My lawyers are in London."

"How . . . convenient."

"It seemed a reasonable arrangement at the time."

Lamberre snorted in contempt and turned away. John had the letter knife up his sleeve before the man turned back.

"Tell me," Lamberre said, casually studying a heavy brass and onyx candlestick that stood on the table beside him, "why would the heir to Lord Malloran risk so much to rescue a mere tavernkeep? Surely you realized I would have my men posted about the grounds."

"It wasn't your men who brought me down," John said dryly. He shoved away from the desk, as if irritated by the question.

"Ah, yes. It was a stool that was your undoing. I'd forgotten." The lieutenant's eyes grew hard. "And you've forgotten to answer my question. Why would his lordship's heir bother about a woman like Mistress Tynsdale?"

"Maybe I don't like you getting your hands on anyone. Especially Mistress Tynsdale."

Lamberre smiled. It was an expression John was beginning to loathe. "You might be interested to know that I kissed her."

"Is that why she screamed?"

The smile vanished.

"Frustrating, isn't it? Wanting a woman when she refuses to have anything to do with you?"

"I? Want her? Ridiculous! She's a common tavernkeep. Her mother was a whore and her father a highwayman who should have died on the gallows. Why would I be interested in a chit like that?"

John studied the man, the way the skin had tightened over his sharp cheekbones, the stiffness of his shoulders, the nervous, restless movement of his hands.

"Damnable thing, isn't it?" he said amiably. "A man of your breeding and birth being attracted to a wench out of a common inn. A wench like Lizzie, who is so far beneath you she ought to be invisible."

He smiled, savoring Lamberre's growing anger. "But she's not invisible, is she? With that black hair, that white skin"

Lamberre hit him, an insulting blow with the back of his hand.

John's head snapped around. He tasted blood, but with his hands bound behind his back, there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. Yet.

The service stairs got her down to the main floor all right, but when Lizzie cautiously opened the door a crack, she found herself looking at the redcoated back of a dragoon who'd been posted in the hallway not ten feet from her. She had no choice but to retreat to the floor above and hope she could find another way down that wasn't being patrolled.

She'd worked her way back to the main floor againsafely out of sight of the dragoon this time but deeper into the house than she would have likedwhen she caught the sound of footsteps.

Two men, perhaps three, she thought, and all headed her way. Heart pounding, she dived behind a door and waited. "Why wasn't I notified immediately?" The voice, a man's, was harsh with irritation.

"They just caught him, my lord. He'd broken in, obviously in an attempt to rescue that woman from the inn."

"Damned impostor!" Malloran snorted. "I should have had him shot the first time he set foot on my land."

"Yes, my lord."

"And Lamberre! The fool can't even keep hold of the bastard once he's got him! Not even with a damned army at his command!"

"No, my lord. It's most distressing."

The voices faded as the two men moved farther away. Lizzie sank back against the door, legs trembling. John had tried to rescue her and been caught himself. The fool!

Even as the thought formed, she found herself smiling into the dark. She'd never been in any real dangereven Malloran wouldn't have been able to cover it up if they had seriously harmed her or held her too long without causeyet John had risked everything in an attempt to rescue her.

Her grip on the walking stick tightened. For the first time in her life, she was beginning to understand how her mother must have felt.

With a silent, heartfelt prayer for courage and a lot more luck, Lizzie slipped out from behind the door and hurried after Lord Malloran.

Lord Malloran looked as if he'd seen insects he liked better than he liked his only nephew. John gave him his very best smile and was pleased to see that it only enraged his lordship further.

The great man glared up at him from his seat behind the desk. "Breaking and entering, assaulta pity we can't make that attempted murderforgery, extortion, unlawful flight. And that's just to start. I'm sure I could find more than enough to hang you, Gideon."

"Carleton." John gave him his most sympathetic smile. "It's probably your advancing age that makes it difficult for you to remember the fine points."

His lordship's face darkened with rage.

"And you'd best limit the port. With your temper, it can't possibly be good for your health."

Malloran sucked in his breath, fighting for control. "As I said, I could find enough to hang you. Unfortunately, you're not going to live long enough to enjoy His Majesty's taste in ropes."

John tensed. No wonder his lordship had insisted on having the guards wait outside the room. Even Lamberre looked startled by the threat.

Before anyone could speak, they were interrupted by a sudden commotion in the hall outside the office. An obviously unhappy soldier poked his head in the door.

"Beggin' your pardon, Lieutenant, but the prisoner escaped. We caught her again," he added hastily. "Got her right here, sir, and wondered if you'd be wantin' to see her."

"Bring her in." Malloran snapped out the order before Lamberre managed to open his mouth. John shifted his grip on the knife he'd filched and cursed the soldier's handiness with knots.

"Unhand me, you filthy cur!" The dragoons were trying to shove Lizzie through the doorway, but she was having none of it. She wrenched free of their hold on her, then stormed into the office, as arrogant as if she were the one in charge. Even the slightly soiled and overlarge red coat she wore didn't hurt her image.

Lamberre grabbed her before she got too close to the desk. One angry glance from him chased the dragoons out of the room.

"You won't get away with this!" Lizzie writhed in Lamberre's grip, futilely trying to break free. "There are laws in this country!"

"There are indeed," said Malloran. "And I am His Majesty's chief representative of them."

"You can't"

"Shut up, bitch!" Lamberre gave her a vicious shake, then shoved her at John so hard she staggered and almost fell against the table behind him.

She grabbed John's coatsleeve to steady herself.

"Are you all right?" John managed to get the words out over the fury welling within him. If his hands hadn't been tied behind his back, he would have flung himself on top of Lamberre, in spite of the guards outside the door. "They haven't hurt you, have they?"

She shook her head. "I almost got away."

"Too bad you didn't."

"I would have. But then I found out they had you." Lizzie gave him a brave smile, but it was a little strained around the edges. ''I'm afraid I'm more like my mother than I realized."

"That's not an insult."

The smile warmed. "No." She let go of his sleeve, but she didn't bother to move away.

"Quiet!" Malloran's face was growing redder by the minute. "I'm tired of both of you."

John resisted the urge to say he returned the favor.

His lordship eyed them, like a cat that enjoyed playing with it prey before devouring it. "On the other hand, I can't tell you how grateful I am that you've saved me some inconvenience."

"Always glad to be of service," said John. If Lizzie hadn't been between them, he had no doubt that Lamberre would have struck him.

His uncle rose and came around the desk to them. "Enjoy your little jests while you can. It won't be long. You're going to be shot trying to escape."

He smiled, and brushed his finger across Lizzie's cheek. Lizzie flinched and backed up until the table behind them prevented her going farther.

"Unfortunately, Mistress Tynsdale will have to die with you. A great tragedy, and terribly upsetting for all of us, but necessary, I'm afraid."

His lordship didn't look particularly upset. Lamberre didn't appear to be enjoying the discussion nearly as much, but it was far too late for him to back out even if he'd wanted to.

"The lieutenant brought her here because he knew I was concerned about the trouble you might cause and wanted to find out what she knew. Somehow you broke in"

John gave a mocking little bow. "That part, at least, has the advantage of being true."

"and threatened me," Malloran continued smoothly. "Crazed with frustration at being balked in your not-so-clever plan, and maddened by love"

"Two true items. I'm impressed."

"Shut up!" His lordship's patience was wearing thin.

Lizzie put her hands behind her back, like a schoolgirl being chastised by her tutor. Her glance flicked from Lamberre to Malloran and back again.

Lamberre edged closer. Suddenly Lizzie turned and viciously swung the onyx and brass candlestick she'd grabbed off the table into Lamberre's crotch. The man gasped, then doubled over and fell to his knees, clutching himself and whimpering.

Lizzie didn't stop to assess the damage. She kept swinging, up and over and down on the side of Lord Malloran's head. John could hear the thunk as she connected. His lordship didn't make a sound as he collapsed on the floor at their feet.

With her usual practical thoroughness, Lizzie swung back and clobbered Lamberre on the back of the head. He let go of his crotch and fell face forward, unconscious.

"That ought to keep them for a while," she said, carefully returning the candlestick to its proper place.

John gaped. "Where did you learn to do that?"

Lizzie grinned, despite her sudden sickly pallor. "One learns a trick or two when running a tavern."

"I'll have to remember to keep a sharp eye on the candlesticks once we're married. But in the meantime" he turned so his bound hands were toward her and let the letter knife slide out of his sleeve"I'd appreciate it if you'd cut me free."

Lizzie had just sawed through the rope when they caught the sound of shouts, then gunfire coming from somewhere outside. Her head snapped up. "What's that?"

"That," said John with satisfaction, rubbing his raw wrists, "is your father. And right on time, too."

Chapter Twenty

It was sheer good luck that the commotion Oliver had created had drawn away all but one of the guards outside the office door. John dispatched him with the butt of his pistol, which he'd retrieved from the desk where Lamberre had left it, then dragged the hapless redcoat into the office and dumped him.

Lizzie had taken Lamberre's pistol from his pocket, but she would have been happier with the candlestick, which had the advantage of familiarity.

An instant before they slipped out of the room, John grabbed her and pulled her hard against him and claimed a rough kiss.

"I love you, Lizzie. Damned if I know why. You're foul-tempered and shrewish and independent enough for ten women, and you'll make my life a misery by ordering me around and meddling in my affairs. I know you."

And then he laughed, and those devilish, seagreen eyes of his sparked fire that shot straight through her.

Lizzie sucked in her breath, but somehow the air didn't seem to reach her lungs, because her chest felt tight and her head was spinning until she wasn't even sure which direction was up.

All she said was, "We'd better be off, before the redcoats come back."

John grinned. "That's my practical Lizzie." He checked the hall again. "There's nobody in sight. Come on."

They almost made it. They'd reached the door leading to the wing of the house that was John's destination when a frightened servant spotted them and ran shrieking to raise the hue and cry. There must have been some soldiers left in the house, because they hadn't gone a hundred yards when a musket shot whizzed over Lizzie's shoulder.

John grabbed her and pulled her into a narrow alcove. "Damn. I didn't think anyone would have the sense to stay at his post."

A couple more shots followed the first. Someone shouted for reinforcements.

"You don't have any choice in the matter, you know," John said, just as if their conversation hadn't been interrupted. "You're going to marry me, no matter what you might say." Another shot, this time glancing off the wood. He pulled her deeper into the alcove.

Lizzie squeaked and pressed closer to him. "I will make your life a misery," she said. "I promise you. You owe me that much, at least, for having dragged me into this in the first place!"

He grinned down at her. "I can't think of any debt I'll enjoy paying more."

He cautiously peeked around the corner, then grabbed her arm and dragged her after him. "They're reloading. Now's our chance."

"How do you know your way around this place so well?" she demanded breathlessly as they raced down a narrow side hall and into a room with glass doors that gave onto a small, walled garden. "I thought you'd only been here once."

"I was, but I had my eyes open!" He slammed the door behind them and managed to drag a chair over and prop it beneath the handle an instant before the dragoons thundered down the hallway after them.

Shouts, another shot, this time through the door, and the sound of booted feet as more dragoons came running in support of their unlucky comrades.

Without waiting to sort out what was happening behind them, John pocketed his pistol, grabbed up another chair, and pitched it through one of the glass doors . . . a second after Lizzie had opened the other by the simple process of turning the handle.

"What are you waiting for?" she demanded when he just stood there gaping. "Come on!"

He laughed. "Damned poor discipline hereabouts! No attention to security. I'd have Charles's head for that if he were my butler!"

"And they'll have ours if you don't hurry!"

He followed her out into the garden, but when she would have taken the closest gate, he hesitated, and then pointed to a smaller gate half-hidden behind the shrubbery at the far side of the area. "No! Take that one. I'll open this one to mislead them."

Lizzie nodded. By the time she had the stiff iron latch opened, he'd swung the first gate wide and come up behind her.

"What a fine wife you'll make, my love," he said, the laughter still alive in his voice. "I've known only one female who was quite as quick as you at these sorts of things."

He latched the gate behind them, then pulled her into the deepest shadows close to the house. "Along this side, then over to that small copse. Do you see it? There at the end of the garden."

"I see it. But what"

"When I tell you to run, run!"

He didn't wait for her to answer. Moving more quietly than she would have thought possible for a man his size, he led the way. Behind them, she could hear the shouts as the soldiers broke through the door and into the garden, then discovered the open gate that John had left to tempt them. Lizzie tugged at his coattails to catch his attention.

"They did it! They went the other way!"

He glanced back; she could see the white of his teeth as he grinned. "One of the rules His Majesty's soldiers follow is, Always take the most obvious route. It requires less thought and your superiors can't blame you quite as much if things go wrong."

"How do you know that?"

"Some of the troublemakers in the colonies count on it for their raiding."

"Your friends count on it, you mean."

"It can be helpful to have friends in low places."

"Does that include your female friend?"

He looked back, startled. "What female friend?"

"The one who is as good at fooling the redcoats as I am."

By this time they'd reached the end of the house, with nothing but open ground between them and the copse. John didn't bother to answer her question. Pistol at the ready, he scanned the area around them.

"Run!"

Lizzie ran.

It was a wild ride back across the moor, but they made it without incident. Oliver had promised to lead their pursuers astray, and it seemed he'd been as good as his word. With any luck, they would be long gone before the redcoats came to their senses and thought to look for them at the inn.

Unfortunately, it seemed half the shire that wasn't in red coats had already found their way to the King George. Lizzie and John could hear the roar of conversation from the taproom a good distance away.

Huldspeth was waiting for them in the stables, along with the hostler and two horses carrying bulging packs behind their saddles.

"Samuel said to tell you he'd keep the local folk in the taproom," Huldspeth said in a voice gone shrill with nerves. "And Bertha says she's put everything she could in the saddle bags and that Miss Lizzie is to take this heavier cloak, 'stead of the one she's got."

The maid eyed Lizzie's red coat askance, but made no effort to hand Lizzie the hooded cloak she held.

"Good for Bertha," said John, turning his exhausted, sweat-soaked mount over to the grumbling hostler.

Lizzie eagerly threw off her red coat. "Phew! You'd think the king would require them to bathe every once in a while, at the very least!"

Huldspeth clutched Lizzie's cloak tight against her chest. "Bertha also said to tell you that she's got Mr. Drayton and Mr. Randall sittin' in the best parlor, and what is she to tell 'em? Once they heard you was taken, they both refused to leave, and neither one of 'em will say what his business is."

"Drayton's here!" exclaimed Lizzie. "I'd forgotten him!"

"Damn Randall," said John with feeling. "The man seems never to be where you want him, or when."

"I have to see Mr. Drayton," said Lizzie.

John sighed. "Then I'd best talk to Randall. But only for a moment, mind, or we'll have Lamberre down on us before we know it!"

John didn't have any trouble sorting out the two men who rose at their entrance. The tall one on the right could have passed for a younger Lord Malloran . . . or John's father.

"Randall," he said, offering his hand. "It's good of you to come. I just wish it were under more pleasant circumstances."

Randall stiffly took his hand. His broad brow was furrowed in doubt. "You don't look like a Malloran."

"That's what his lordship said."

"Miss Tynsdale!" exclaimed the dried-up stalk of a man who had occupied the second chair. "What is this I hear? That you've been harboring a fugitive from justice? That you were arrested by Lieutenant Lamberre?"

"Among other things, Mr. Drayton," said Lizzie, looking harried. "But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. If we could sit down . . . ?"

They all ignored her.

"If it weren't for your letter, I wouldn't have believed so wild a story," said Randall, studying John with the air of a man whose world had been turned topsy-turvy.

"The things you mentioned . . ." He shook his head, bewildered. ''They were all from the last letter my father wrote my mother. The only people who have ever read that letter are myself and my grandfather. I know it by heart, but you . . ." He threw up his hands, defeated.

John nodded in understanding. "I couldn't have known about the letter or what it contained unless the man who wrote it had told me what he'd said. My fatherour fatherwas counting on that to convince you that I was telling the truth."

The wizened lawyer eyed John in consternation. "Do you mean to say, sir, that you are the legitimate son of Mr. William Francis Carleton, Lord Malloran's younger brother?"

"I do. His lordship's charges against me are so many lies. He hated my father, and he'll do anything to see that I don't inherit, including plotting to murder me!"

"Extraordinary! Absolutely extraordinary!" the old lawyer said. He sat abruptly, as if his legs were no longer capable of supporting him.

"Perhaps, if we all sat down . . . ?" Lizzie suggested, more forcefully this time.

They sat.

A quarter of an hour later, both Lizzie and John, as succinctly as possible, had explained what they wanted, but Lizzie had a strong suspicion that she was the only one whose brain was still even marginally functional.

"All these years I'd thought he was dead," said Randall blankly. "And now, to find out that he'd planned . . . this!" He shook his head like a man trying to shake off the effects of a blow. "I can't quite grasp it, I'm afraid. Not yet!"

He looked around at the others, then turned his head to stare at the fire. "To think he knew about my work, about what I've dreamed of . . ." He fell silent, lost in thought.

"Quite, quite extraordinary," Mr. Drayton agreed. He took a fortifying sip from his glass of wine, then set the glass aside with the air of a man girding himself for battle.

"There are any number of interesting legal issues here, of course, but it seems to me the most pressing concern is to protect you, Miss Tynsdale. You and Mr." He drew a deep breath. "You and Mr. Carleton. I can certainly draw up the bill of sale you requested, but it seems to me far more urgent that we address the charges that Lord Malloran and Lieutenant Lamberre will undoubtedly lodge against you. If we could"

"We aren't going to wait long enough for them to lodge anything against us, Mr. Drayton," said Lizzie firmly. "Mr. Carleton and I are leaving for America. Tonight. Immediately, in fact. If you could act for me in the interim, until we get to America and can"

"Lizzie, are you sure?" John demanded. He was still dazed from learning that she'd already decided to sell the inn to Samuel and run away with him to America.

Facing murderous soldiers made him laugh, but confronting the inescapable proof of her love for him had left him with a silly grin on his face and not one intelligent thought in his head. Proof, if she'd needed any, that in times of crisis, it was women who were the more rational sex.

"I'm sure, John," she said, and tried not to grin.

Well, maybe not so rational, after all.

"I'm also quite sure that we need to leave. Now. Before Lamberre has a chance to catch up with us."

That brought them all back to their senses. All but Randall. He was still staring into the fire like a man who had forgotten everyone and everything around him.

Lizzie didn't try to rouse him. She got to her feet. "If you can write out something now that would give you the power to act for me, Mr. Drayton, I'll sign it. We can worry about the details later."

Drayton jumped to his feet. "Of course, of course. It doesn't require much. If you have some paper and a pen . . . ?"

Lizzie didn't think she'd ever seen him so flustered. She signed the statement he wrote out, then sanded it and handed it to him. He folded it precisely and stuck it in an inside pocket of his coat.

"That will be sufficient for now, though I don't like to think of the difficulties attendant upon carrying on a legal correspondence when you're in the colonies!"

Since those were the least of her present worries, Lizzie simply murmured agreement. She didn't get a chance to thank him, because the door was suddenly flung open behind her and Lamberre warned them not to move.

John silently cursed himself and his own stupidity. He should have gotten Lizzie out of there while he'd still had the chance. But then, who'd have thought either Lamberre or Malloran would have recovered from Lizzie's attack so soon, or managed to make it from the Hall to the King George so quickly?

At least she'd done some damage. Malloran had a bloody bandage wrapped around his head, and the surly expression on Lamberre's face suggested he wasn't in any better shape.

"How fortunate that I should find you here," his lordship said. "I was afraid you might have already slipped from myour grasp."

He gave a curt nod of recognition to Drayton, but adamantly refused to so much as glance at William Randall. "Mr. Drayton. I am distressed that you should have been inconvenienced like this, but I have everything in hand. You are free to leave."

"Not yet, I think," said Mr. Drayton, drawing himself up straight. "I have a few issues to discuss with you first, my lord."

"They will have to wait!" Malloran snapped. "If you do not leave, I will be forced to ask Lieutenant Lamberre to assist you in doing so."

"And if he can't, I suppose you'll call his men to carry me out bodily."

Lamberre flushed.

Malloran growled low in his throat. "I regret having to admit that most of the lieutenant's men have seen fit to go haring off in some other direction entirely. I can't say for sure when they will return, but I am confident I can find a way to have you ejected before then."

Drayton stood his ground.

"You can't get away with this, Malloran," John said, deliberately drawing his attention.

His lordship's face twisted with loathing. "I wouldn't be too sure of that." He drew a pistol from his pocket and pointed it straight at John's heart. "I confess, I am growing very tired of your troublesome ways."

His thumb moved to cock the weapon just as Lizzie threw herself between them. "No!"

Her protest was drowned in the howling of an icy wind that suddenly ripped through the room.

Malloran gasped and swung about, brandishing the pistol at the empty ice-cold air. Lamberre pulled his sword while Randall and Drayton, mouths open, simply stood where they were, too startled to move.

Drayton's wineglass was suddenly snatched up by an unseen hand and flung across the room. It sailed right over Malloran's head to shatter on the wall behind him. Randall's glass flew off the table at Lamberre. The lieutenant swung at the glass with his sword, and missed.

Enraged, Malloran once more raised his pistol and took aim.

At that moment, Oliver appeared right in front of him, rapier brandished high. "Bastard!" he roared, and advanced on Malloran.

An instant later, Bess materialized at his side.

Malloran's jaw dropped as his eyes widened in terror. "You! But you're dead!"

Lamberre sliced at the ghostly pair. His sword passed through them as if through thin air.

Malloran made one last wild attempt to fire at Lizzie and John. Oliver caught him first. The highwayman lunged, driving his rapier up to the hilt in Malloran's chest.

His lordship staggered and clutched at his chest. The pistol fell from his hands, unheeded. His eyes bulged. His mouth worked, but nothing came out.

Lamberre screamed and threw his sword. It passed through Oliver without checking and buried itself in the opposite wall.

With a grunt at the effort, Oliver pulled his rapier out of Malloran's chest. Malloran sank to his knees, then fell forward, dead.

"I owed you that, Malloran," said Oliver, slamming his rapier back in its sheath. "For Bess and me."

An instant later, they were both gone.

For a moment, no one spoke or moved.

Then Lizzie drew in an unsteady breath and John reached out with trembling hands and drew her against him, into the circle of his arms.

"My word," said Mr. Drayton. "My word."

Lamberre blinked, like a man coming out of a trance, and stared down at the body on the floor. "There's not a mark on him. No blood . . ."

He sank to one knee beside Malloran, and rolled the body over. Malloran's coat fell open to reveal a pristine waistcoat and faultlessly white linen. "Not a drop of blood. He's just . . . dead."

Lizzie stared at the body, aghast. "What will we say? How can we explain?"

"It was his heart," said Drayton, studying the corpse with obvious interest. "He drank too much and insisted on eating rashers of bacon and salted herring for breakfast instead of a simple poached egg, as I once recommended. It was bound to happen, sooner or later."

"His heart was too weak to withstand the shock of knowing that his brother's son would inherit after all," Randall added sententiously. He shifted position so he had a better view of his old enemy. "His death should be a lesson to all who would deny the ties of family and his moral obligations to the community at large."

He looked up to study the faces of those gathered around Malloran's body. "I'm sure the bishop would agree with me."

Drayton gave a prim little cough and tugged his waistcoat into place. "Quite. In fact, he would probably say it was divine judgment that killed Lord Malloran. Divine judgment."

Lamberre's face twisted in sudden fury. He sprang to his feet. "He was run through with a damned sword! You all saw it!"

"We did indeed," said John sharply. "But you'd be well advised not to mention that outside this room. It wouldn't do your career any good if your superiors thought you'd gone mad and believed in ghosts."

His warning hit Lamberre like a fist in the jaw. The man's head snapped back and he staggered, suddenly off balance. "My career . . . !"

"It certainly won't be helped if your superiors learn you assisted his lordship in unlawful attacks against Mr. Carleton."

Mr. Drayton might look dried up, but he burned with righteousness when it came to the law. "They most certainly would not condone attempted murder. And then there is the matter of the kidnapping and unlawful detention of Miss Tynsdale, the"

Lamberre turned on him, fists raised, eyes wild. "Damn you! Damn you!"

Randall jumped in front of the lawyer.

"Enough!" John's sharp warning brought him to a halt. "Be glad we're willing to ignore what you've done, Lamberre. If it were up to me"

He didn't get a chance to finish. With a cry of rage, the lieutenant leaped over Malloran's corpse and ran from the inn, leaving them staring at one another and the silent body on the floor.

It took hours to restore even a semblance of order to the King George. The coroner and the servants from Malloran Hall arrived at the same time. Whatever suspicions the servants might have had about their master's death, they couldn't dispute the coroner's findings that he'd expired from natural causes. Except for the cut on his forehead, which had been caused by an earlier fall, there wasn't even a drop of blood to indicate foul play.

The servants bore his lordship's body away at the same time the coroner left, but the occupants of the taproom showed no such disposition to depart, especially since Samuel had been called into a private meeting with Lizzie, and Drayton and the flirtatious Molly had been put in his place. It wasn't until an angry Bertha stormed in that they were induced to see the wisdom of saying good night.

John had a hard time shaking off his newfound half brother, who seemed determined to discuss the evening's astounding events until John answered all his questions or his jaw wore out, whichever came first. It wasn't until Drayton emerged and formally requested Randall's company for the ride home that Randall gave up and decided it would be better if he came back another day.

His departure left John alone in the parlor. The fire crackled comfortingly on the hearth, but Lamberre's sword was still buried in the wall, and shards of glass still littered the floor, grim reminders of what had taken place.

"Bess?" John's voice seemed to echo in the room. "Oliver?"

No answer. Probably somewhere else, John told himself, despite the feeling that he wasn't alone.

"Listen," he said to the empty room. "I just want you to know that I love your daughter. That I'll do my best to make her happy and keep her safe. That I"

He stopped, cleared his throat, and tried again.

"I almost said I'd give my life for her, but I'd rather live for her, instead."

The words seemed to form in his chest, near his heart, and spilled out of him in an unstoppable flood. "I want to laugh with her and cry with her and fight with her. I know we'll have a fight now and thenwe're both too strong-willed not tobut that doesn't mean I'll love her any less.

"I want to hold her and kiss her and make love to her every day for as long as I live. I want to watch her fall asleep at night and I want to watch her wake in the morning. I want to give her babies, and watch her nurse them at her breast, and hold their hands as they learn to walk. I want to watch her face when she sees her first grandchild."

He drew a deep breath and wet his lips and said, very softly, "I want to grow old with her, and then I want to lie beside her in the churchyard. Forever."

The silence seemed an almost palpable thing. He shrugged, embarrassed.

"That's it, I guess. I . . . I just wanted you to know."

He turned. He had to find Lizzie. He needed her.

The parlor door silently swung open before him. John blinked; then he smiled and walked through. He was halfway down the hall and starting to run when the door silently swung shut behind him. <><><><><><><><><><> ''John Carleton," said Lizzie sternly.

John paused in the delightful task of arranging her unbound hair over her naked shoulders. They'd finally left Bertha and Samuel and Huldspeth to deal with whatever remained to do and had slowly made their way here, to the welcome peace of Lizzie's chamber. If the fire hadn't yet managed to take the chill out of the night air, neither of them had noticed.

"My love?" he said, delicately tracing the path of one silken lock as it flowed down her spine.

Lizzie shivered with delight. "You never answered my question."

"Your question?"

"There, in the garden. About the female who was so good at fooling the redcoats."

"Ah!" He smiled, and then he snickered. "She's a one-eyed whore named Sly Sally who's rather well known for slipping out of the constables' hands whenever they're told to clean up her part of town."

Lizzie gasped and twisted around to glare at him. "A one-eyed"

"I'll introduce you to her. You never know, she might be able to teach you a trick or two that might come in handy sometime! With the trouble you'll no doubt be dragging me into"

"I? Drag you into trouble? Why that's"

"Pretty well guaranteed, my love," said John, bending his head so he could claim a kiss. "But I wouldn't have it any other way!"

Chapter Twenty-one

Lizzie celebrated her wedding in the King George a little more than one month later.

The lawyers were still droning on about confirming John's identity and his right to inherit both the title and the Malloran estates, but neither she nor John had any desire to wait for the decision.

They'd already taken care of everything else.

William Randall was busy making plans to convert Malloran Hall into a home for fallen women, an irony that both he and his younger half brother found immensely amusing.

"I have an intelligent lady of good family who is prepared to take charge of the establishment as soon as the lawyers turn it over," Randall had informed them one evening over a bottle of Lizzie's best wine. "The women can learn an honest trade while they wait to give birth; then the staff will help them find work and a decent home for their babies. We hope it will be a model for similar establishments, much as our orphanages have been elsewhere."

John had grinned. "I trust our unlamented uncle is turning over in his grave at the very thought of it," he'd said, and raised his glass in a laughing salute that both Lizzie and Randall had willingly shared.

The King George now belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Martin, much to the disgust of Sarah Martin, who had chosen to remain in the cottage she'd shared with her brother rather than yield precedence to the radiantly happy Huldspeth. Both Lizzie and John had danced at the couple's wedding.

Neda was goneno one knew where, or really cared to find out. Another girlthe daughter of Bertha's cousin's brother-in-lawhad taken Neda's place and was already receiving daily lessons in the arcana of the kitchen so that, when Bertha eventually stepped down, she would be ready to take her place.

As for Bertha, she was already bossing Huldspeth around and sewing baby clothes and driving Lizzie to distraction with her constant fretting about whether or not they'd packed everything they ought in the trunks and barrels that had already been shipped to Lizzie's new home in America. Lamberre had asked for reassignment, and his superiors had seen fit to grant his request. On the night of his departure, John had bought the drinks for everyone at the King George, a gesture that had filled the taproom to overflowing. The place hadn't emptied until the wee hours of the morning, and then only because the celebrants had drained the last of Lizzie's ale barrels dry. Only Thomas Gaines had remained behind, stretched out under one of the tables and happily snoring.

As for Lizzie, she'd found herself torn between pain at leaving everything and everyone she'd ever known, and soaring excitement at the thought of the adventures that lay ahead. It was John who served as her anchor. No matter how far she swung from one emotion to the other, she always came back to center, to the wonder of loving him, and of being loved in return.

When it came time to repeat her wedding vows, she did so with a full heart and the joyous certainty that whatever lay ahead, she could face it because John would be at her side, always.

It was as he bent to seal their vows with the wedding kiss that she heard the soft voice whispering in her ear.

A thousand kisses, my Lizzie. A thousand thousand kisses, and a lifetime to enjoy them, every one.

Trust me.

Oliver Hardwicke sat on the fireplace mantel in the taproom and glumly surveyed the wreckage left from the wedding party. "Now that Lizzie's married and gone, I suppose we're finished here, aren't we, Bess?"

"Oliver, you sound as if you're sorry."

Oliver's shoulders dropped. "Aye, I am. Oh, I'm not sorry our Lizzie is happy, but . . ." The thought trailed off.

"But?" said Bess very gently.

"Well, now she's all grown up and doesn't need us anymore, IDamn! Never thought I'd say such a damned stupid thing!" He shrugged and stared into the dying fire. "Doesn't signify."

"What stupid thing?"

"Nothing, my love."

"Oliver!"

There was no mistaking the note of warning in his beloved's voice. Oliver sighed and gave in.

"It's just . . . I'm not sure what to do next, Bess. The High Toby's out of my reach these days, and now, without Lizzie to look after . . . Well, what's a man to do, under the circumstances? I can't spend eternity here, shrieking and slamming doors and tipping over ale pots!"

Bess laughed. "My poor darling!"

"It's no laughing matter, Bess! Crossing over seems like such a demned spiritless thing to do, but I can't think of a single thing else. Stap me if I can!"

"I have a suggestion, if you'd care to hear it."

"No! No grandbabies!" There was no mistaking the horror in Oliver's voice. "I'll have nothing to do with more brats in long coats. Lizzie was trouble enough for one lifetime." "No, not that. Or at least, not for a while. No, I was thinking you might show me some of the world, my love. You always said you would."

"See theBut, Bess!"

"Have you forgotten? I'm not bound here any longer. Not now that Lizzie's wed. Magician can take us anywhere we'd care to go, and I've a fancy to see that great world you told me about, Oliver. Remember? London! Just think of it! I've never been farther than York."

Oliver stared at her, struck. "I never thought"

"Oh, do say yes, Oliver! Do!"

After an instant's hesitation while the full force of the idea blossomed, Oliver grabbed her up in his arms and swung her around with a triumphant roar of laughter. "Yes! A thousand times yes! What a clever wench you are, my beautiful Bess! Of course I'll take you to London! And when we've seen all the sights the city has to offer, we'll find a boat to take us to France. And after France, there's America, where Lizzie will be, and then"

"Don't worry about what comes after. We've all the time in the world, my love! And as long as we're together"

She didn't get a chance to finish, for Oliver swept her off, through the door and out into the cobbled inn yard, where Magician stood waiting for them, luminous in the bright moonlight.

Oliver threw her up in front of the saddle, but paused with his foot in the stirrup.

"Bess! Look!" Bess smiled down at him, her eyes glowing in the moonlight. "What is it, my love?"

"The love knot . . ." said Oliver, his voice low and soft with wonder. "It . . . it's turned bright red."

Man, woman, and horse were silver mist in the silver light, but there, plaited through Bess's long locks, was the bright red love knot she'd woven in her hair all those years before. The red was the deep, rich red of a royal rose, but it burned with the brightness of fire in the dark. Oliver touched it, gently and with awe.

"Come, my love," said Bess. "I want you."

Oliver looked up. "I love you, Bess," he said, his voice filled with the wonder of it. "I love you, and I will love you forever and ever and ever."

"I know." Bess bent to touch his cheek gently. "And I love you, my Oliver. I'm not sure eternity will be enough to tell you how much."

Magician shifted restlessly and tossed his head, anxious to be away. Oliver laughed then, and swung up into the saddle behind his beloved.

"We are blessed, aren't we, Bess?" he said softly, drawing her into his arms.

"Yes, my love," said Bess, and smiled and laid her head on his breast, safe within the circle of his love.

Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot.

Magician's hooves roused a ghostly echo as he trotted out of the old inn yard.

Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot.

And then they were out on the highway, and the great ghost horse stretched into a gallop, mane flying in the moonlight, hooves flashing over the silver ground, carrying them up, up the long road and over the hill and into the world beyond.