RAVE REVIEWS FOR ALL I ASK OF YOU

"All I Ask Of You is a book to cherish, filled with passion, poignancy, and a marvelous cast of characters sure to win readers' hearts!"
Raine Cantrell

"All I Ask Of You is a well-drawn and scintillating story populated with empathetic characters!"
Affaire de Coeur

"Fans of Gail Link will devour All I Ask Of You in one sitting!"
Parris Afton Bonds AND FOR GAIL LINK'S OTHER HISTORICAL ROMANCES

"Never Call It Loving is an enthralling tale of beauty and the beast. . . . It's obvious Gail Link was born to write romance!"
Jayne Ann Krentz

"Never Call It Loving is a gift to the senses. . . . A provocative read!"
Kasey Michaels

"Encantadora is a sweet battle-of-wills romance with a charming cast of characters!"
Romantic Times

"Wolf's Embrace began at a fast pace and kept it up!"
Shirl Henke LESSONS IN LOVE

"You see," she said, a smile of contentment on her face, "you do love me."

"No, Gillie, that kiss doesn't prove a thing," Rafe answered.

She refused to believe him. "Of course it does. You couldn't have kissed me like that if you didn't love me."

Rafe grabbed hold of her other arm and forced it down to her side, ending any contact between them. Now it was time for more lies. Lies heaped upon lies.

"You say you aren't a child, Gillie. Then don't act like one," he said in a low voice.

"What do you mean?"

"A man doesn't have to love a woman to be able to make love to her, my dear. Any attractive female will do, and you are," he said, reaching out his hand to stroke the curve of her cheek, "a most lovely young woman." Other Leisure Books by Gail Link: NEVER CALL IT LOVING ENCANTADORA WOLF'S EMBRACE All I Ask of You Gail Link A LEISURE BOOK®

September 1994

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."

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.

The name "Leisure Books" and the stylized "L" with design are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

Printed in the United States of America. To Carolyn Roberts:
For all the hours of listening (and we have the phone bills to prove it).
For introducing me to the wonders of a time "long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away."
For sharing my fondness for British history, quirky TV
shows, Shakespeare, musicals, and most especially, certain actors and singers.
For stuffed bears, unicorns, and endless cups of tea, not to mention "Remington Steele" and "Indiana Jones."
For always being there, dear friend. If I could have had a sister, it would have been you.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

To my writing buddies who share my enthusiasm for letters:

to Marci Evanickyour humor keeps me smiling. It's always magic opening the envelope.

to Flora Speerwho shares my fondness for bygone books, old Hollywood, soap operas, and real men.

to Debby Campfor being the gutsy, honest lady you are. Keep calling 'em as you see 'em.

To the readers and booksellers who continue to support my work. Thanks so very much!

As alwaysto my Mom and Dad. Love ya!

PROLOGUE: FORBIDDEN FRUIT

London: 1888

"I mean to have him."

"Oh, Gillie, you can't be serious!" exclaimed Lady Margaret Ashley, snapping her fan shut with a decided click. She stole a swift glance across the crowded floor of the ballroom at the man being discussed.

Gillian insisted, "Of course I am."

"But he's so . . ." Lady Margaret's voice trailed off as words failed her.

"Different?" supplied Gillian, her blue-gray eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Yes, that's it exactly," Lady Margaret agreed. "Different."

With a sweet smile curving her wide mouth, Gillian replied, "That's why I want him." Lady Margaret rolled her pale blue eyes heavenward, as if to question her friend's reason. Having known Gillian since both were in leading strings, Margaret was cognizant of the strong will Lady Gillian Clare Fitzgerald Buchanan possessed. It was a trait that Gillian shared with her older brother, Rhys. And, if she was a bit unconventional, Margaret put that down to the influence of Gillian's formidable sister-in-law, the American heiress Tory Reitenauer, and the frequent visits that Lady Gillian made to the huge Texas ranch, the Encantadora, that Rhys shared with his wife and their children.

"I thought that your mother was arranging a match for you with Tony Chambers?"

Gillian shrugged her bare shoulders. "I will never marry Tony, and my mother knows that," Gillian declared, her glance returning to the tall, elegantly dressed young man who, in the company of several other similarly dressed young men, departed the room. "Tony and I would never suit," Gillian said with firm conviction.

"He fancies you, Gillie," Margaret noted, pleased with herself that she kept the hint of envy out of her voice.

Gillie cast a knowing glance towards her friend. "Not in the way you think, dear Meg." Gillian placed her gloved arm on Margaret's. "You would be more the kind of wife that Tony needs. Perhaps if he wasn't just the least bit short-sighted, he would realize it."

Lady Margaret blushed. A servant walked by carrying a silver tray laden with glasses of champange. Gillian took one for herself and another for Lady Margaret. "Here, enjoy," Gillian said, sipping the bubbly liquid. She wondered what would happen if she were to ask for a glass of Kentucky bourbon. A tiny smile crossed her mouth. Gillie could well imagine the shattering of the splendid crystal as it hit the floor of the ballroom should she make such a request. Her mother, Agatha, the dowager Countess of Derran and now Lady Rothersby with her recent marriage, would probably swoon. Even Rhys wasn't aware that she'd tasted the drink. It was Tory, her beloved sister by marriage, who suggested on her last visit to the Encantadora that she at least try it. Bourbon and branch, Tory had called it, with heavy emphasis on the branch. However, he'd been there then, watching her as she sipped the drink. He'd smiled that particularly lazy, somewhat mocking smile of his and poured himself a full measure of bourbon, straight, tossing it down with one gulp.

Gillian drained her glass, wondering why he hadn't approached her for a dance tonight. She'd deliberately kept several spots open on her dance card in the hope that he would ask. A waltz would have been heaven, for then she would have had the opportunity to float around the floor in his strong arms, a smug smile on her face. Sooner or later, he had to realize that she was all grown up now, a woman possessing a woman's heartand body. Moreover, one who knew her own mind, and had since she was a child.

''I'm going home," Lady Gillian announced.

"But we've only been here for a short time," Lady Margaret said.

"You stay then, Meg. I'll simply say the polite thing, that I've got a headache. That excuse should suffice."

"Your mother will be furious."

"Nonsense," Gillian said. "I'll send Lord Rotherby's carriage back for her. She won't miss me."

"I'm not so sure about that," Lady Margaret observed. "The dowager countess was looking in your direction earlier, watching you watch him. Your mama doesn't approve."

"I'm well aware of that fact," Gillian answered, casting a glance in her mother's direction, where she sat gossiping with friends. "She knows that I will do what I want, come what may."

"Just like your brother, eh?" Margaret chided.

"Indeed," Gillian agreed. "Rhys and I are alike in that respect."

"I don't think your mama has ever forgiven him for marrying the American."

Gillian responded with a tinkling laugh, "What Mama can't forgive is that Rhys prefers Texas to England. Since Tory has provided my brother with children, male heirs especially, my mother has amended her opinion of my American sister."

Margaret gave a small shrug. "Well," she said, "in that respect I can sympathize with your mother. I don't think that I could bear to live in that place." She waved her fan. "Forgive me," she said, placing her gloved hand on Gillian's, "for I know that you are quite fond of Texas."

"Yes, I am," Gillian stated, recalling the first trip that she had made there, how big and bold she'd thought the land was, how surprised she was at how well her brother had adapted to the ways of his new home.

Love.

That was Rhys's reason.

It was hers as well, Gillie thought. She'd known that from their very first meeting, when she'd seen the wild, wounded look in his eyes.

Tonight she had planned to tell him the depth of her feelings, confessing her love to make him believe as she did in the possibility of a future for them.

But he'd gone before they had a chance to say more than a perfunctory, and very unsatisfactory, good evening.

Where was he?

Why had he left so abruptly?

PART ONE

THE SWEETEST TABOO

Chapter One

"Your bet, I think, Rafe," drawled Tony Chambers, easing back in his chair and reaching for his glass of port.

Rafe Rayburne took another puff of his slim cigar, blowing the curling smoke into the air. The smell of expensive perfume wafted over the strong scent of the Cuban cigar as the woman who held his glass of port leaned over and kissed his tanned cheek. "For luck," she whispered, her tongue stroking his ear.

"I'll see your bet and raise you . . ."Rafe paused, checking the stack of notes in front of him"five hundred."

Echos of "too rich for me" were heard around the table until only Tony and Rafe remained in play.

"Call," Tony said, placing his cards up. "Four royal women." Tony smiled in triumph. "Beat that if you can," he challenged.

Rafe smiled lazily as he showed his hand. "Straight flush," he drawled.

"Damnation!" Tony breathed in awe, his pleasantly attractive face breaking into a grin. "You've the devil's own luck, Rafe."

Rafe arched a black brow. "Perhaps," was his only reply.

Tony laughed, signaling to an especially pretty lady to refill his glass. "No doubt about it, old chum. No doubt whatsoever," he added, his eyes focusing on the amount of cleavage exposed as the woman leaned over to hand him his drink.

One of the other young men who'd participated in the game was busy kissing and caressing the plump hostess, who sat on his lap. "I think I shall skip the next hand, gentlemen," Robin Wilton announced when he took the time to remove his mouth from hers. He stood, along with two other men and their lady-birds, and left the room.

"A wise decision," Rafe said with a mocking laugh, pulling the woman who stood behind him around and slipping his arm around her slender waist. "What about you, Tony?"

"I'm game for another hand, old boy. And you?" Tony eyed the calculating look the woman was giving his friend.

"Ready," was Rafe's reply.

The young woman pouted, winding her arms about Rafe's neck, breathing into his ear, "Here now, love, what about me?" "Later," Rafe said, his deep baritone a seductive caress. He took two of the large paper bills from the gaming table and casually stuffed them into the front of her chemise between her breasts, then gently smacked her bottom. "Run along, sweetheart."

The prostitute removed the money, quickly counting it. A mercenary grin split her face. Her tongue came out, snaking around her thin lips in moist anticipation. Her gaze lowered, as did her hand. She ran it along his hard-muscled thigh until she reached what she wanted, giving him a swift caress. With a satisfied feline smile at his virile reaction, she stood up. "My name is Molly." She swung her wide hips and walked towards the door, motioning for the remaining girl to follow. "I'll be waiting."

"My God, Rafe, you just gave that drab a hundred quid."

With a gleam in his dark blue eyes, Rafe answered, "I know."

Tony laughed. "You could have hired several whores for that price."

"No matter."

Tony rolled his eyes. Sometimes his American friend confused the bloody hell out of him. This was obviously one of those times. He watched as Rafe shuffled the deck quickly, the American's manner sure and deft. As he lit another cigar, Tony decided to ask the question that had been bothering him since earlier this evening.

"Why didn't you ask Lady Gillian to dance? Wasn't that the reason we stopped in at Lady Rawlings's boring ball in the first place?"

Rafe kept on dealing the cards, as if the words hadn't quite penetrated. "Ace high. Your bet," was his reply.

Tony placed fifty pounds in the middle of the table.

"I'll see your fifty," Rafe said, covering the note with two others, "and raise you another fifty."

"Seen and done," Tony replied, adding another bill to the pile.

"Cards?" Rafe asked.

Tony answered, "Two," discarding the same number from his hand.

"Dealer takes one," Rafe said, studying his hand.

"You know I'm going to keep at it until you answer my question, Rafe," Tony pronounced, giving another look at the hand he held. "Why, since we'd made plans to attend the ball, did you want to leave so soon after we arrived?"

After a moment, Rafe spoke. "I simply changed my mind once we got there," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "And as to why I didn't ask the Lady Gillian to dance, I'm sure her dance card was already filled to capacity."

"She would have saved one for each of us, I'm sure," Tony noted.

"Perhaps," Rafe said.

"No perhaps about it, old chap," Tony declared. "We're both of us like family to her. Gillie would have never left us off her card. Bound to have expected us to do one set with her at least." Like family to her, Rafe thought, hearing Tony's words play again in his mind. That was just it: he didn't want to be just family to her, and yet that was all he could ever hope to be to a lady of quality like her. She'd been like a young, eager puppy following him about when they first met, all questions and bright smilesa refreshing blend of sweetness and innocence after the years of pain and despair he'd suffered.

But she wasn't for him.

Would never be for him, no matter how much he wanted, no matter how much he yearned.

If he let it, her kindness would kill him, unmanning him as surely as a knife. She was only a dream, the one woman that would be forever forbidden to him. Like a princess in a fairy tale, Lady Gillian was destined for a handsome, noble prince, a man of her own classnot a bastard-born son of the Texas soil who carried the blood of Comanche warriors in his veins.

"Are you coming with me to Lady Allenwood's houseparty this weekend?" Tony inquired.

"I thought I might," Rafe replied.

"Good," Tony responded. "Marina's parties are always a lively affair. Allenwood's a bit of a stuffed shirt, but he should remain in London if we're lucky."

"Is there any special reason you're interested in going?"

Tony chuckled as he pulled in his winning pot. "Her younger sister, the Baroness Dillington." Rafe raised a black brow.

"Not to fret, dear boy," Tony assured him as he dealt the next hand. "She's a very much married lady. Lady Dillington and her husband have a most convenient arrangement since their nursery already consists of two boys. He goes his way and she goes hers."

"Then I would assume the lady is your current mistress?" Rafe asked.

"Very much so," Tony answered. "We met at an art gallery."

"I didn't know you were a collector," Rafe said as he indicated that he wanted another card to replace the one he was discarding.

"I'm not," Tony admitted truthfully. "It's just that the artist I was going to see was my cousin, Georgina Dacer."

"I never knew you had a female cousin who was an artist," Rafe said.

"That's because the family likes to pretend that Georgie doesn't exist," Tony replied.

"Why?"

"Because Georgie's not doing the expected thing for females in my family, which is to be good, obedient daughters who marry well and breed even better. All without fuss, of course." Tony grinned. "Georgie's had the last laugh, though. Our mutual grandmother, a ripping old lady who lived life as she pleased, left Georgie her fortune when she curled up her toes. So Georgie now does as she pleases." Tony sighed as Rafe won the hand. "She did a smashing portrait of Gillie. Most unusual." Rafe pretended a casual interest. "She did?"

"Yes. Gillie wanted to buy it and have it sent to her brother, Derran, but Georgie refused, saying it was the cornerstone of her collection, and as such wasn't for sale," he paused, "at least not yet."

A portrait of Gillie. Rafe wondered if he could persuade the artist to sell it to him. Money was no object. As long as he knew that he could have the painting, he could wait until the exhibition closed. He would make that clear to the Honorable Georgina Dacer. Rafe thought of the small picture that hung in the library at the Encantadora. It was of Lady Gillian at fourteenlovely beyond words, just blossoming into her womanhood. Rafe recalled the first time he'd seen the picture, when Tory and Rhys proudly displayed it for him. He'd stared at it as a tight sensation centered deep in his gut, then made some idle remark about having work to do and left the room as quickly as he could. He had come back later when no one was around, eager to be alone with the painting. His eyes fixed on her face, gazing longingly.

Rafe would probably have stayed there for hours except that when he reached out his hand to touch the portrait's cheek, a smudge of dirt from his fingertip marred the surface. Angry at himself, he'd left the room, too ashamed to confess that he'd somehow damaged the picture, afraid that his secret feelings would be exposed should he reveal that it had been he who had desecrated the gift. He couldn't have borne what he was certain would be the pitying looks of his foster family. Tory and Rhys's respect meant too much to him to damage it in any way.

It had been an omen, he'd later decided.

Rafe knew then that he could never risk smudging Lady Gillian's pure life as he had done the portrait. A man like Tony would be a much better choice for Gillie, he decided. Someone from her world, with the right breeding, the proper ancestors. Someone to give her the life she deserved, the kind of life he could only visit temporarily.

As soon as the thought struck him, Rafe's mind was suddenly filled with a mental picture of his friend and the woman he longed for in a close embrace, Tony's body wrapped around Gillie's in the aftermath of lovemaking. It was enough to make Rafe's left hand reach instinctively towards the Colt revolver he normally wore at his side.

Of course, it wasn't there. It rested in his room at Tony's house, securely tucked away in a drawer along with his very lethal Bowie knife.

Here, Rafe mused, a man's birth was his most potent weapon. Property and position were the rule of law, not a six-shooter or a sharp knife. Here one's place was ordained, not made.

Tony and Gillie's world.

But not his.

Oh, Rafe enjoyed his forays into it, no doubt of that. He was a handsome young man of wealth and property in a society that rewarded the same; as foster son to the rich and powerful Earl of Derran, he was guaranteed entry into any house in England.

However, Rafe never let the excursions to England cloud his mind. He was a Texan born and bred. When all was said and done, he was what he was.

And because of that, he knew with certainty that the one person he cared most for was for him a beautiful, wild dream, and would always remain a dream.

Gillie heard the soft sound of the rain through the open window. Tonight, with the gaslights in her room turned low, she was in a strange mood. She knew the reason for it: Rafe's behavior at the ball. To be so close to what she wanted, and to have it denied her was as frustrating as it was disappointing.

She padded over to the window, watching the slight wisps of fog taking over the street. She shivered slightly as the cool, moist night air touched her skin. Carriages passed by, the easy clip-clop of hooves against the stones a reminder that life kept on no matter whether or not she was disappointed.

Gillie turned from the window when she heard the door to her dressing room open. Her maid carried a heart-shaped black velvet box in her hand. Quietly, Gillie removed the parure of garnets she wore. They were her favorite stones, and this particular set had been given to her on her fifteenth birthday by her brother Rhys. Each year, he added another piece to her collection. With Rafe, Rhys had sent along another necklace, a special gift from him for her recent birthday. Her brother and his wife had been unable to make the trip this time, as Tory had recently given birth for the fourth time.

Gillie smiled as she thought of the family her brother and his American wife had produced. Three boys, and now the eagerly awaited daughter. Gillie had no doubts that this youngest Fitzgerald Buchanan would be spoilt within an inch of her life if her brother had anything to do with it.

She unfastened the pearl and garnet collar and set it within the velvet-lined box. She also removed the earrings and three bracelets. The only thing she never removed was the gold and garnet ring that graced her right hand. He'd given it to her the Christmas of her fifteenth year, and she had worn it since then.

She stroked the stone, conjuring up images of the man. Rafe had been the most striking male at the ball tonight, eclipsing all the rest. Somehow, all the other men in the room faded into pale, pasteboard imitations when Rafe entered the room. He dominated it the way a rogue wolf would a gathering of tame house dogs.

El lobo negro.

She'd heard someone on Encantadora refer to Rafe that way once.

The black wolf.

How apt the description was, Gillie decided. Indeed, this evening he had been a proud creature of the night, all black and gold. His tailored evening clothes, crafted by the same hand that made her brother's, fit his tall, lean body like a well-formed glove. The cut of the jacket emphasized the wide shoulders underneath and the trim hips below. The black waistcoat, with its onyx and gold buttons, lay snug against his taut stomach. The whiteness of his shirt grew even brighter against his tanned face and jet-black hair.

Her maid entered once more, this time bearing a hot drink for Lady Gillian. ''You'll surely catch cold if you stand by that window much longer," she admonished her mistress.

"Nonsense," Gillie protested, "I'm as healthy as a horse, and well you know it."

"Aye, though I'd never go so far as to compare you to a plain barnyard animal."

Gillie laughed. "Heaven forbid."

"No," the maid said, "you'd be more like them fancy horses that the earl is breeding."

"You mean the Arabians?"

"Aye, they're the ones." As if anyone could ever mistake Lady Gillian for a common stable animal, Nan Cummings thought. Her mistress was quality, more so than a lot of the folk she'd observed since working for Lady Gillian. She knew what others in the household said of her, that she was one of the Lady Gillian's long list of strays, another one of her charity works. Nan Cummings didn't care. It was better than being a slavey to the matron of the Bransford Orphanage, which was what she was when Lady Gillian found her. Lady Gillie treated her with kindness and care, even seeing to her education. Because of Lady Gillian, Nan even dared to hope that one day she could make another life for herself by teaching others not given an opportunity by birth or circumstance. When she'd accompanied Lady Gillie to America the previous year, Nan saw her future.

"Will you be wanting anything else, Miss Gillie?"

Gillie swallowed the warm brew, a mixture of soothing herbal teas. "No, I'm quite fine, Nan."

Nan turned down the covers of the bed, plumping the thick down pillows. "I didn't expect you back so early."

Gillie, in truth, hadn't planned on being back so early. "Neither did I," she murmured.

Nan sensed something was bothering her mistress. "What's wrong?"

"Am I that obvious?" Lady Gillie asked, her black brows raised.

Nan smiled in return. "I know your moods, Miss Gillie."

"It will pass," Gillie answered, bypassing her bed to take a seat in front of the small fireplace. She kicked off her brocade slippers, curling herself into a comfortable, oversized chair, her white cotton nightgown hiding her feet. With the plain nightgown she wore a floor-length robe with wide sleeves caught at her wrists with lace and ribbons. A white satin ribbon held back her long, curling black hair.

Nan spoke. "I'll say good night then if you won't be needing me anymore." Gillie shrugged her slim shoulders. "Sorry, Nan. Woolgathering, I suppose. Yes, good night."

The maid shut the door, leaving Gillie alone with her wayward thoughts. Her gaze rose to the wall, dwelling on the Rossetti painting that hung there.

A smile curved Gillie's full mouth. Her mother had been shocked when the painting arrived several months ago. Lady Rothersby deemed it trash, saying that such a vulgar display did not belong in this house. It was not genteel, Agatha complained, finally giving up when Gillie refused to get rid of it. This was all the fault of her daughter's association with that Dacer woman, Agatha decreed.

In this instance, Gillian agreed with her mother. Georgie had persuaded Gillie to give in to the impulse to purchase it. The painting was sensual, rich with evocative imagery. It spoke to her, and that was reason enough to purchase it, no matter what anyone else said.

Georgie applauded Gillie's spirit, asking her then to pose for her.

Gillie, used to being photographed as a "Professional Beauty," readily agreed to her friend's request. The result now hung on public display, much to her mother's chagrin.

What would Rafe think of the painting? she wondered. Would he be amused, giving her that slightly mocking smile that so often graced his sculpted lips? Or, would he look down that sharp-bladed nose of his with eyes as cold as a Texas wind and think her mad to have posed for such a picture?

She had so wanted to float around the ballroom in his armsto feel those strong hands clasp hers, to dance to the music as their bodies moved as one.

Georgie should paint Rafe, Gillie decided. Her artist friend could capture on canvas the man he was. An informal, intimate portrait. In her mind's eye, Gillie could see it now: he would be wearing black riding breeches with high black boots and a thick black leather-and-gold buckled belt to show off his lean frame. A billowy white shirt opened to expose that smooth, muscular chest. She could almost feel the heat of his warm skin beneath her palm. His hands, those marvellous long-fingered skillful hands, would be poised in the act of unbuttoning his shirt, the thick gold and onyx ring he always wore on the little finger of his left hand, catching in the light.

Good lord, but where were her wanton thoughts taking her?

To dark and forbidden territory, was her ready answer. Rafe made her ache with just the very sight of him. He stirred strange passions inside her, making her more aware of the fact that she was a woman, and he was very much a man.

Her only confidante regarding her deep feelings about Rafe was Georgie. With her, Gillie felt a sense of safety in discussing her somewhat dangerous thoughts. Meg wouldn't have understood. For, Gillie knew, to a woman of her birth and breeding, what she felt was somehow considered beyond the pale. She had been carefully taught that a good girl didn't dwell on anything of a carnal nature. Ladies, her mother Agatha informed her, put up with the lustful nature of men for the benefits to be found in marriage. Duty was the lot of a woman, no matter how onerous.

Thank God, Gillie thought, for Tory. Her outspoken sister-in-law had dispelled the myth that women only endured their husband's attentions. Having observed the loving behavior of her brother and his wife, Gillie couldn't reconcile the obvious signs of affection to what her mother had said. When she passed her fifteenth birthday, Gillie bluntly queried Tory, who gently explained the depth of her love for Rhys to the young girl.

"What do you want to know?" Tory had asked.

Blushing, Gillie had lowered her eyes and blurted, "About making love."

Gillie could still recall the broad smile that crept over Tory's face when she raised her gaze. In her sister-in-law's blue eyes she could read a depth of happiness, coupled with a surprising sensuousness.

"I gather you've been told that only loose women find it appealing?"

Gillie had nodded.

A snort of gentle laughter errupted from Tory's throat. "That's quite wrong, though I don't pretend to speak for all my sex," Tory had stated. "Lovemaking is a very important part of my life with your brother. It's another way of expressing our love. When I'm in Rhys's arms, it's the closest I think I can be to heaven."

"You never found it a duty, something to be suffered?"

Tory chuckled. "Never. Though," she had said, "I must confess that before I wed your brother, I did think it nothing special. After all, growing up on the ranch, I'd seen animals mating."

"So have I," Gillie said.

"It was my friend Pilar," Tory continued, "who explained to me the beauty to be found in the sharing of passion. At first I chose not to believe her."

"What changed your mind?"

"Your brother," Tory had answered without hesitation. "Our love was meant to be shared."

Gillie remembered feeling emboldened by her American sister-in-law's forthrightness. "You'd never known a man before you wed my brother?"

"No," Tory responded. "I was a virgin."

"But my brother wasn't, was he?"

Tory steepled her fingers together, having paused. "No, Rhys was very familiar with a woman's body."

"Did that frighten you?" Gillie asked.

"Perhaps at first," Tory offered, "but since I could not change the past, I accepted it. What was more frightening," she added honestly, ''was the depth of my own feelings for Rhys."

"How so?" Gillie recalled the look on Tory's face as her sister-in-law seemed to debate the wisdom of continuing the conversation.

"Because where once I had considered myself safe, immune from the spell love so often wove, isolated from the temptations of the flesh, with Rhys I discovered my safety was all an illusion. I loved him, so therefore I was willing to risk anything for him, including some measure of my much vaunted independence.

"And," Tory had stated, "if I had to cross the breadth of the Encantadora barefoot, naked, and without a weapon to get to your brother's bed, I would do it. Now," Tory inquired, "does that answer your question?"

It had.

Unequivocally.

In the intervening years, Gillie had looked into her own heart and realized that for her there was no shame in the depth of her own feelings for Rafe. Instead of withering from lack of reciprocration, love grew stronger and deeper.

Whither thou goest, I will go.

Whither thou lodgest, I will lodge.

All she asked was a chance.

Chapter Two

"Do you want to come?"

Lady Gillian removed her kid gloves and sat down on the small couch in Georgina Dacer's home. There was a comfortable air about the place; it seemed much more like a home, with a lived-in quality, then the grand house in Belgrave Square that was Gillian's family's London residence. This house was filled with light; the curtains over the windows were sheer white cotton and lace, and the furniture was soft and informal. The fabrics were chosen to invite touch. Colorful arrangements of flowers abounded in crystal vases. Draped across the couch on which Gillie sat was a pale blue and white quilt with a single star in the center. It had been a gift from Gillie to Georgie when she last returned from a visit to Texas. All in all, it was a house that welcomed its visitors, and Gillie heartily approved.

"I hadn't given it a thought, Georgie," Gillie explained. "I really don't know Lady Allenwood."

"No matter," Georgie said, "my invitation said that I could bring a guest if I wished, and I think you'll want to change your mind when you hear what I have to say," Georgie promised. "It concerns that Texan."

Gillie's face brightened. "Rafe?"

Georgie heard the longing evident in her friend's tone; a small spasm of envy ran quickly through her veins. "Yes, Rafe."

"What about him?" Gillie asked.

"Shall I ring for tea?" Georgie inquired as she took the seat next to her friend. Gillie looked much the height of fashion, with a modish hat perched upon her head, her hair carefully coiffed in an elegant chignon, and wearing a striped gray-and-lavender silk day dress, obviously a Worth. Georgie looked down at her own outfit in comparison: a plain brown wool skirt with the usual bustle that she loathed, a serviceable white blouse, and a paint-splattered blue apron covering both.

Gillie turned an exasperated glance in Georgie's direction. Before she could say a word, the door to the room opened.

Gillie recognized the large woman who entered. It was Mrs. Little, Georgie's house-keeper-cum-cook. In her hands she held a silver tray that contained afternoon tea for two.

"I thought I'd be saving you the trouble of ringing, Miss Georgina," Mrs. Little stated.

"Thank you," Gillie said.

"My pleasure, Lady Gillian," the housekeeper said as she placed the tray on the small table in front of the couch. The tray contained tiny sandwiches of watercress and egg, smoked Scottish salmon, and cheese and tomato. Warm scones, butter, and two Wedgwood pots of jam, strawberry and bramble, completed the food selection. A china pot, decorated with roses, held the tea.

"I'll leave you to enjoy it," Mrs. Little said as she left.

"She takes good care of you," Gillie pronounced as she accepted a cup of steaming tea from Georgie.

"Yes, she does," Georgie agreed. "If it wasn't for her, I'm sure that I would forget to eat when I'm working."

"Now, what did you have to tell me concerning Rafe?" Gillie questioned as she put a dollop of milk in her tea and helped herself to one of the sandwiches.

"Only that I talked with my cousin Tony, and he said that both he and Rafe were going to the Allenwood houseparty this weekend."

"They are?"

Georgie smiled, much like a cat, slow and lazy. "Indeed."

"I'm surprised that Rafe failed to mention it when I saw him today," Gillie said with a frown.

"Where did you see him?" "In the park. He was riding, alone."

"And were you?"

"No, more's the pity," Gillie admitted. "I was with Meg and her younger sister."

"Poor Meg," Georgie sighed as she drank her tea and munched on a salmon sandwich. "She loves Tony to distraction, yet she won't do anything about it."

Gillie nodded. "She's convinced that my mama will have him for me, and I told her that I think Tony would be better suited to her than to me. I look on Tony as a brother, nothing more."

Georgie smiled. "She'll be content to wait till Tony's ready to settle down, however long that takes. Which, knowing my cousin as I do, will not be soon."

"Meg is nothing if not patient."

"But you're not, are you, Gillie?"

"I can be, Georgie," Gillie insisted, "when I want something."

"Or someone?" Georgie asked.

"Exactly." Gillie smiled. "Or when I want someone." She placed her cup and saucer on the tray and wiped her mouth with the linen napkin. "I won't be like Meg, though. Sitting back and waiting for Rafe to come to me."

"Have you ever given thought to the fact that Rafe may not want you?"

Gillie posed a question of her own. "Have you ever been in love, Georgie?"

Georgie's large topaz-gold eyes focused on her friend's face. "Of a fashion, yes, I suppose I have," Georgie confessed. Though, she added mentally, it will do me no good, for the person I love will never love me in the same way.

"Then you can understand, can you not, that you want what's best for that person? That his happiness comes first?"

"Oh, yes, I can well accept that," Georgie responded, lowering her gaze. God knows, I already have.

Gillie clasped her friend's hand in hers. "I knew you'd understand," she said. "If Rafe was in love with someone else, I'd know. And if I thought that that unknown woman could love him more than I could and do, I would accept that, no matter how painful it was to bear."

"You could really do that?"

"I love Rafe enough to let him go," Gillie declared, releasing Georgie's hand, "if that is what I have to do." Gillie stood up, walking about the small room. "However," she continued, stopping to smell a selection of fragrant wisteria, one of her favorite flowers, ''I could never love him so little as to throw away what could be."

"I admire your determination," Georgie professed.

"A family trait, it would seem," she said with a shrug of her shoulders.

"Still, it's something to be proud of," Georgie said, "since we are supposed to be content with our lot, rather like Meg, forever waiting for something to happen to us," she said with a trace of bitterness.

Gillie, ever sensitive to her friend's mood, returned to her seat on the couch. "Have you contacted your mother again?"

Georgie nodded.

"It did no good?"

"No," Georgie answered, "the reply was the same. When I am willing to give up this frivolous life, put aside my ambition, adhere to my responsibility of birth, then, and only then, will my mother deign to receive me again within her doors."

"Then she is a fool," Gillie declared, "for it will ultimately be her loss. What of your father?"

"I ceased to be his daughter the day I left his house to lead my own life." Georgie impulsively leaned over and embraced Gillie with a swift hug. She put a smile on her face. "Do not fret for me, dear Gillie. I made my choice gladly, for it was the only one I could have made," she said, "for if I hadn't, I would have eventually withered in their house.

"Now," Georgie said, pouring them both another cup of tea, "what about the Allenwood houseparty?"

Gillie accepted the cup, her head tilted slightly as she spoke. "I think that a weekend in the country will do wonders for my disposition," she said.

"Somehow," Georgie concured, "I thought you'd see it that way."

A broad smile curved Gillie's mouth. "How did you come by an invitation?"

"Lady Allenwood and her sister, Lady Dillington, have proved admirers of my work, for each has agreed to purchase several of my paintings that are on exhibit. With Lady Dillington," Georgie smiled, "I have a sneaking suspicion that it is a way to gain favor with Tony."

"Tony? She has a tendre for him?"

"Rather more than a tendre, I would think, since she is his latest mistress."

Gillie's eyes widened as she recalled the stunning half-English, half-Russian baroness whom she'd recently met. "Truly?"

"I have it from his own lips," Georgie stated.

"Poor Meg," Gillie concluded, "it looks as though she will indeed be waiting for some considerable time for Tony to offer for her."

"Suppose that I send the carriage for you early on Friday morning?"

"Thank you, Gillie, I would like that very much," Georgie said softly. "Shall we ask the gentlemen to accompany us?"

Gillie curved her lips into a sly smile. "I think not. Let it be a surprise. And speaking of surprises, I would like to offer you a commission."

"What do you want?"

"A portrait, but no one must know that I am paying for it."

"I have several commissions that I've promised for, besides my other work. Do you need it soon?"

"I would like it for September."

"Why then?"

"It's for a birthday gift. Michaelmas, actually." Gillie spread a thick coating of the bramble jam on a scone. "There is a catch."

Georgie's pale brows rose. "Which is?" "You will have to travel."

"Where to? Ireland? The continent?"

"America."

Georgie coughed. "America? Am I to paint the earl and his countess?"

"I hadn't thought of them, actually," Gillie acknowledged, "though it would be a lovely gift for them for Christmas. With perhaps a miniature for my mother also. Excellent."

Georgie interrupted Gillie. "But that's not who you had in mind, is it?"

"No," Gillie admitted. "It's Rafe."

"I should have known." Georgie stood up, sadness dulling her eyes. Her voice was barely above a whisper as she said, "I can do some sketches while he's here."

"Yes," Gillie mused. "You will have a chance to observe him at the house party. I want you to paint him as I see him, as he is." A softness crept into Gillie's eyes, changing the color from steely blue to a misty, warmer blue-gray. The chime of the mantel clock forced Gillie to check the watch that hung on a gold chain about her neck. "Oh my, I must be going. I didn't realize how much time had slipped by. I promised my mother that I would go with her and my stepfather to some dreary diplomatic affair this evening, so I had best be leaving.'' Gillie rose. "If I know my mother, she will have instructed Lord Rothersby to have several young men on hand tonight for my inspection." Gillie rolled her eyes heavenward. "What a joy this is sure to be." "Then why go?" Georgie sliced her friend a curious glance.

"Because as much of a matchmaking mama as Agatha can be, I do love her," Gillie explained, "and this makes her happy. Besides," she added, an impish grin on her lips, "I overheard Lord Rothersby tell Mama that he was being posted to France within several months, so I won't have to put up with these sallies into the marriage mart much longer.''

"Will she not insist that you accompany them?"

"She cannot. Rhys is my guardian, and as he settled quite a comfortable sum on me for my eighteenth birthday, I can pretty much do as I please.

"And," Gillie said with a lingering smile, "I intend to."

The two friends embraced, Gillie giving Georgie a kiss on both cheeks. "Be well till I see you on Friday. I'm looking forward to this weekend."

Georgie walked Gillian to the door and watched as her carriage pulled away, moving down the London street. She walked back into the room as Mrs. Little was removing the tray.

"Lady Gillian forgot her gloves," Mrs. Little said, her head shifting slightly to indicate the pair on the couch.

"I'll return them to her on Friday," Georgie replied, "for we are going to a houseparty in the country together." She waited until Mrs. Little shut the door before she bent down and scooped them up into her hands. Georgie held one up to her cheek, feeling the softness of the leather against her face, inhaling the faint scent of lavender. A single tear splashed from her eye.

"This is the address, sir," the coachman indicated.

Rafe alighted from the hired carriage, reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket for the fare. An onyx-and-gold moneyclip held a stack of notes. He added an extra half-crown to the sum the coachman stated for his fare.

"I do thank you," the man said, grinning as he topped his hat to the tall American. "Will you be needin' a way back to where I found you?"

Rafe considered the request. He was supposed to meet Tony for supper at Tony's club, then another night of amusement at one or more of London's more exclusive gaming hells, or they might pay a visit to a music hall for fun. Life in London was very different from what he was essentially used to; the evening meal here was often eaten at the time he was used to going to bed at home. On a working ranch, a man kept early hours. He looked around the street; even as quiet as it appeared to be, it was still a far cry from the stillness and serenity of his beloved Texas Hills. Too many people, too crowded by half, Rafe thought. He enjoyed his soujourns to the cosmopolitan capital, but in the month since he'd been here, seeing to some business for both Rhys and Tory, he was struck by an almost overwhelming sense of homesickness.

Or, he asked himself, was it a sense that he must move on with his life, putting aside the foolish dreams of the past, acknowledging that no matter how much pleasure was to be found in these trips, it was outweighed by the realization that what he wanted would never be?

"Beggin' your pardon, sir?" the coachman prodded.

Rafe pulled himself out of his reverie. "I don't know how long my business will take," Rafe explained.

"What say I wait here for about an hour," the rail-thin coachman said, "if you ain't out by then, I'll leave."

"Fine," Rafe replied, turning towards the building. A discreet brass sign hung on the oak door. Cavendish Gallery.

Once inside, Rafe was approached by a young woman dressed in a plain white shirt and a black skirt. "May I show you something in particular, or would you like to have a look around the gallery?"

Rafe saw another girl with the same type of outfit escorting an elderly couple to another room of the gallery. "I would like to see a particular painting, one by Georgina Dacer."

The young woman smiled sweetly. "An excellent choice, sir," she said in a well-modulated voice. "Her work is being exhibited in our Rose Room. If you will follow me, I would be happy to show you." She turned and Rafe moved in step with her. He hadn't really known what to expect. When it came to art, he was a man of simple tastes. Having seen a good deal of the world's treasures on his Grand Tourcourtesy of Tory and Rhys for his nineteenth birthdayhe much preferred the less ornate and grandiose. Endless rows of ancestral portraits and lackluster hunting scenes bored him. He was happier inspecting a well-crafted piece of furniture than one more Van Dyke or Rembrandt. The only thing he recalled feeling awed by he found on a trip to Florence, when he had a chance to view Michaelangelo's David.

It was with this in mind that Rafe expected little of Miss Dacer's work.

He was wrong.

The painting held pride of place in the exhibit. He slowly walked over to it. Stunning was the word that leapt immediately to Rafe's mind. There was no doubt that it was Lady Gillian Clare Fitzgerald Buchanan who'd posed for the painting. It was overwhelmingly sensual. Titled simply Magdalene, the picture was set, not in the ancient Holy Land, but in rural England. Gillie wore a flowing gown of white velvet in a medieval style, banded by a belt of gold and rubies around her waist. Her long black hair, which hung past her slim hips, was held in place by a circle of entwined flowers. Around her neck was a large, heavy cross of gold that reached nearly to her waist. Surrounding her were trees in bloom, leaves a vibrant bright green. In her arms she held a lamb, its white coat stained in spots with the bright crimson color of blood, which in turn smeared across the sleeve of her gown. At her bare feet lay an apple, eaten to the core.

The face Georgina Dacer had painted was one filled with innocence, the eyes clear and trusting, yet with a definite hint of the sensual nature that resided just beneath. It was the face of a girl on the brink of womanhood. It was certainly not the face of a jaded whore used to servicing all who had the price.

Rafe expelled his breath gradually.

"Very nice, isn't it?" his guide piped up.

Very nice? Rafe thought. It was anything but a bland nice. It was enticing. Erotic. Thought-provoking. But merely nice? Never.

He ignored the girl, concentrating instead on the woman in the painting. He had to have this picture.

Rafe's body echoed his ache to possess the canvas with an ache all its own for the woman who'd posed for the painting. He could feel the swelling of his manhood against the material of his trousers.

"How much?"

"It's not for sale, sir," the girl replied.

Tony had told him as much. Rafe refused to accept that. He removed a card from his pocket and scribbled down a sum, along with his address in London. He handed it to the girl. "See that Miss Dacer gets this," he demanded. He was determined to own this painting, no matter what the cost. And with that thought in his mind, Rafe spun around on his heel and left the gallery, a surprised clerk standing there gaping after him. "Crazy Yank," she muttured under her breath when she saw how much he'd offered.

Rafe gave no indication that he'd heard the comment. He didn't give a damn what the girl thought about him. All he cared about was obtaining the Magdalene.

Gillie was bored.

All this evening had been so far was one dull and proper young manand some not so youngafter another. Her mother had paraded her around, introducing her to other diplomatic wives and families, while her stepfather, Lord Rothersby, chatted in a circle with several of his associates. A chamber group played in the background, the haunting music of Vivaldi floating around the room. This evening's party was being held in one of London's most prestigious hotels.

Gillie listened to the drone of conversation around her with half-hearted interest. It was merely trivial gossip that mattered little to her. Having been exposed to the conversation that her brother and his wife excelled at, Gillie liked substance to her discussions. She was well aware that her mother considered some of the things she liked to talk about as beyond what most young ladies should know. Tonight, when she had expressed interest in a social reform bill now before the Commons, the M.P. to whom she had been talking suggested that it was "nothing that should be worrying the pretty head of a lovely lady like yourself." It was at that point that she resisted the impulse to tell the very junior M.P. that he should take a flying leap into the Thames. With frosty politeness, Gillie merely mumured, "Excuse me," handing him back the glass of wine he had procurred for her without having taken a sip.

Unlike most well-born Victorian maidens, Gillie read more than the social notices in The Times. She was Rhys's eyes and ears in the country of his birth, as he had so often told her. Her frequent letters kept him in touch with what was happening in England, with the mood of the workers on his estate, with shifts in govermental policies. Some could ignore the changes gradually taking root in their country; she could not.

That, she thought, as if needing one more reason, was another thing she liked about Rafehe shared her brother's affirmation of her intelligence. He'd never made her feel as if she were some sort of gauche child whose opinions belonged only in the schoolroomor better still, remained unspoken. It was to Rafe she'd written at the tender age of ten of her fond wish to become a doctor. Two years later, when she'd changed her mind about becoming a doctor, it was to Rafe she'd written. After having begged the local doctor to allow her to witness an operation, Gillie had gagged when the doctor's sharp knife had cut into the patient's flesh; she'd fled the room in tears. Later, having expected a rebuke from the physician, Gillie included his words in her letter: "You've a kind heart, lass, and a generous spirit. Don't discount them. Many of my fellow doctors could use them. Wielding a surgeon's scalpel is not the only way to help others."

Would anyone in this gathering understand that? she wondered.

Rafe would, if he were here.

Oh God, Gillie thought, how she missed him. Now, especially when he was so closealbeit so far. She would have been proud to have walked in on his arm, introducing him to all. Instead, she was going through the motions of this charade for the sake of her mother and her stepfather.

One thought brightened her insipid evening. This coming weekend, she would have the opportunity to spend time with Rafe, hopefully to lay her case before him.

Gillie listened politely as a friend of her mother's began speaking. From the corner of her eye she saw her mother give her a warm smile. Gillie returned her mother's gesture. She knew that Agatha would be shocked to discover that she had accepted Georgie's invitation to the houseparty. Her mother would have considered the woman a parvenue, definitely not the sort that her daughter should be familiar with.

Gillie, however, was determined that this weekend would bring a change to her life.

Chapter Three

The sea filled Rafe's nostrils with its intoxicating fragrance. Pungent, tangy, crisp smells all mixed in the air around him as he rode the borrowed mount across the chalky cliffs known as the Seven Sisters.

He paused and looked out across the expanse of water from his vantage point high on the South Downs. Restless, he'd left the house, Briarbury, early this morning, before the rest of the guests had risen, procuring a horse and setting off on his own. He'd ridden hard and fast, putting his horse through a determined pace, as if the exercise could remove the picture uppermost in his mind.

Dismounting, Rafe let the big chestnut gelding catch its breath, while he did the same.

He wondered if there would ever come a day when he did not think of Gillian Fitzgerald Buchanan. When he wouldn't recall her sweet smile, or hear her charming laugh, like a chime of liquid warmth floating along his veins. Or a day when he wouldn't want her beyond the bounds of all that was reasonable.

Perhaps, he thought as he watched a flight of birds over the cliffs, he should suggest to Rhys, when he returned to Texas, that it was time to think of a marriage for Gillie. A safe, secure marriage that would put her beyond the realm of temptation.

"Bull," Rafe said softly, with a laugh to his voice, the sound catching on the wind and echoing around him. As if Lady Gillian's supposed marriage could ever prevent him from craving the feel of her body next to his, stop him from imagining the touch of her lips on his, halt the suspicion of just what it would be like to slip between her thighs and claim her as his own.

"Damn!" he shouted.

The chestnut interrupted his cropping of the short grass that covered the cliff to look at the human whose loud vocal curse had disturbed him.

To mollify the animal, Rafe produced several sugar lumps from his pocket and fed them to the horse. Obviously, the idea of her marriage was not the anodyne he reckoned it should be, for it did not dull the pain or erase the thoughts; rather, it served only to exacerbate the problem.

More than likely, a lady like Gillie would be sickened by the carnal nature of his thoughts. What would a lady like her know or understand of the demands of the flesh? Male lust was best accepted and endured. That was the English way, he'd observed. She was barely out of the schoolrooman innocent, protectedwhile he was anything but.

Still, the haunting memory of the painting floated before him. How unabashedly sensual she'd seemed, both womaninnocent, alluring, shyly beautifuland goddess, far from the reach of mortal man.

Rafe took the reins and remounted his horse. As he did, a line from a poem he'd once read flitted through his brain. ''Man's reach must exceed his grasp, else what's a heaven for?"

He found Mr. Browning's words both true and painful, for in reaching for heaven, one could suffer the torments of hell.

Natasha Dillington smiled. She stretched, her slumbrous gaze going to the sleeping figure next to her. The delicious ache in her muscles was due to the man with whom she had shared these past hours. Ten years separted themit might as well be ten lifetimes in terms of experience. A wicked smile curved her mouth. Compared to her, Tony Chambers was a novice. Yet he was an eager pupil, willing to please, and he loved being pleasured in return. This form of education, she knew, was never, never wasted.

Which lead her to wonder about Tony's enigmatic American friend, who'd arrived with him last evening. Now there was a man many women would find themselves drawn to: somewhat pagan and untamed in appearance, with that slightly mocking demeanor. Yet there was something cold and distant about himlike a fine marble statue come to life. Striking and proud, a dark prince who walked amongst the mortals, but who wasn't quite one of them.

Natasha, however, preferred her men to be warm and uncomplicated, like Tony.

Tony stirred, waking. An infectious grin curved his mouth. With a swift move, he grasped his lover's head and pulled her face to his, kissing her forcefully.

"My God," Tony moaned, moving down the column of her throat, "you taste splendid." He shifted his body so that she could feel the weight of his rising desire.

"And you're insatiable." Natasha laughed huskily, wrapping her arms about his lean body, loving the warm feel of his pale skin. When Tony's mouth captured the small, hard nub of her nipple, and his fingers threaded their way through the already moist curls at the apex of her thighs, Natasha let out a groan, her body pushing against his searching hand, against his avid mouth.

"Now who's being greedy?" Tony demanded as he felt her hand reaching for him.

"Good morning, my lady," spoke a voice over their shoulders.

Tony jumped up and over, the color draining from his flushed face as he grabbed hold of the blanket and pulled it over the two of them.

A short, older woman stood there, a tray in her hands, a beaming smile on her weather-creased face. "I thought that you would both like a good strong cup of tea." She placed the tray on the small table set up in the corner of the room beneath the large window. She drew back the heavy curtains, letting the sunshine in. "How would you like your tea, sir?"

Tony muttured, "In private," so that only the woman beside him heard his words.

"He will have sugar and a slice of lemon," Natasha announced, "just like me."

"Who the bloody hell is she?" Tony demanded in a furious whisper.

"My maid, darling," she stated nonchalantly. "There's nothing to worry about."

"Glad you seem to think so," he said, settling the blanket about his chest as Natasha ran her hand lightly over his arm.

"I know so," she said with confidence. "Maya has been with me since I was a child." Natasha smiled. "She knows all my secrets."

"Indeed I do, my lady," Maya responded as she handed Natasha her cup and went back to get Tony's.

Tony took the cup from the maid's lined hands, feeling slightly foolish as the old woman bent and picked up the clothes that lay strewn upon the floor.

Maya, folding Tony's trousers carefully, asked, "Do you wish me to see that breakfast is served a deux?" Tony rapidly sipped his tea. "No," he answered, "that won't be necessary. I should be going anyway. I promised Rafe that I would meet him this morning for a . . ." He paused, the color creeping into his face. "A ride," he finished.

Natasha laughed at the very polite tone Tony used, as if they were sitting in a drawing room instead of lying naked between the soft Irish linen sheets.

"That will be all for now, Maya," Natasha said.

"Certainly." The old woman picked up the tray, a slight hint of a smile on her mouth. She glanced at the wrinkled sheets and discarded clothes. "As for your ride, sir," she said, maintaining her required composure, "it would seem that you and your friend each went your separate way."

"What?" Tony demanded.

"The American has already taken to the saddle. I saw him leave about an hour ago."

"Oh."

The door closed softly behind Maya.

Natasha giggled.

"What's so bloody funny?"

"You are," she said, kissing Tony's naked shoulder, effectively removing the sting from her rejoinder. "The look on your face when Maya entered. I didn't know men could blush."

"Blush? Me?" Tony asked. "Nonsense," he scoffed.

"A shame then," she said, her voice low, like a cat's purr. "I find it endearing." Tony dropped the empty cup to the floor, turning so that she was in his arms. The thick bedside rug cushioned the cup's fall. "You do, do you?" he questioned, nuzzling her neck, temporarily forgetting his intention of leaving.

"I do indeed," she whispered. "And," she said, "I too feel the need of a ride this morning."

"Well," Tony drawled, a wide smile on his face, "an English gentleman always obliges a lady. Your servant, madam."

Less than an hour later, Rafe sat alone in the smaller of the two dining rooms at Briarbury, sipping coffee. He watched as Tony came into the room, yawning.

"Rough night?" Rafe asked, one black eyebrow raised.

Tony headed for the silver coffeepot, kept warm by the low flame of a candle beneath it. He grinned as he poured himself a cup, preferring it black. "Not so much rough as exhausting."

"You're getting soft, Tony."

"No, that's the problem, old boy," Tony responded as he sat down next to Rafe, a gleam in his eyes, "I wasn't allowed to be soft at all last night."

Rafe chortled at his friend's words. He could always count on Tony to lift his mood.

"Bloody hell, but I'm hungry this morning," Tony said, getting up once more and helping himself to some of the many dishes displayed on the mahogany sideboard. "Have you tried the kidneys?" he asked Rafe, adding a large spoonful to his plate.

Rafe smiled. "No," he said quietly, "I haven't." What Rafe really wanted this morning was a big, thick juicy cut of beef, some fried potatoes and onions, pan gravy, and cornbread. And his cook's strong coffee. Bessie's coffee could revive the dead. That was the kind of breakfast meal he was hankering forserved at his own kitchen table, a plain workmanlike fixture of oak, small and intimate, unlike the table at which he was sitting now. This was the informal room, yet he could hazzard a guess that the table was two hundred years old. It would serve thirty people comfortably; his could seat eight.

This was the kind of table both Tony and Gillie would be comfortable with. Hell, they probably wouldn't even notice it, really. It would just be a part of their world. There. Expected.

"You'd best eat something, dear boy," Tony said, swallowing a mouthful of the well-prepared kidneys. "We won't have a formal meal till dinner. Natasha told me that her sister likes to leave the meals somewhat catch as catch can till then. Our hostess, Lady Allenwood, likes her guests to feel free of restrictions."

"Then why the name tags on the bedroom doors?" Rafe asked.

Tony laughed. "You mean those elegantly scripted place names set in the little silver holders on the door?"

"Yes," Rafe confirmed. "The calligrapher did quite a good job." "They are distinctive, aren't they?" Tony asked rhetorically. "The flower borders were inspired." He sipped at his third cup of coffee; this time he'd added cream. "The purpose of those cards is to make sure one knows who is in what room." At his friend's curious stare, he explained further. "If one is having a rendevous with someone, it makes it easier to find the correct room if the name is on the door. Much less chance of making what could prove an embarrassing mistake that way.''

"How thoughtful," Rafe added with a trace of cynicism.

Tony grinned. "Saves time, and occasionally face."

Rafe said dryly, "I can well imagine."

Finishing off the last rasher of bacon on his plate, Tony turned serious for a moment. "I heard that you have already gone riding this morning?"

Rafe nodded. "I felt restless."

"You needed a woman, my friend," Tony declared.

How right you are, Rafe silently agreed. But not just any woman. Gillie.

"I'm sure that someone can be found for you this weekend," Tony said. "I understand that there are still a few more guests to arrive, and Lady Allenwood has invited some of the locals for the dinner party this evening. Bound to be a lady here that catches your fancy."

Rafe chided the other man. "If I wanted a tumble, I'd hire a professional." "Bosh," Tony dismissed. "Why bother about payment, dear boy, when you can get the merchandise for free?"

"Expectations," Rafe responded.

"Expectations?" Tony questioned.

"When it's a commercial transaction, you know what you're paying for," Rafe stated simply.

Tony shot back, "When you're playing the game, you also know what you're getting, believe me."

"And if I were to invite a lady tonight to share my bed," Rafe suggested, "that would be part of the game?"

"Of course," Tony answered, shrugging his shoulders. "So long as she's married and not an innocent. And," he added with a wicked gleam in his eye, "I doubt that there will be an innocent woman within the walls of Briarbury this weekend. Now what say we finish here and pop off. I understand Allenwood keeps a decent wine cellar, with a lovely vintage claret."

Tony was mistaken.

There were at least two innocent young women newly arrived at Briarbury that day.

Excitement bubbled up inside Gillie as she and Georgie, along with her maid, Nan, made their way up the broad stairs of the stately home. The old stone gleamed in the afternoon light; the climbing ivy wrapped itself around the building with care, giving the place an enchanted air.

Waiting to greet them was a short, balding man in black, looking like a very unhappy penguin.

"Good afternoon, ladies. We've been expecting you," he said, his monotone bass voice holding all the warmth of a funeral dirge. "A messenger arrived scarce half an hour ago from the train station to let us know you would be arriving shortly. I am Trowbridge," he pronounced. "If you will be so kind as to give over your outer garments, I will show you into Lady Allenwood's presence." He snapped his fingers, and two eager young maids appeared as if by a conjuring trick.

Gillie and Georgie divested themselves of their cloaks, bonnets, and gloves. Footmen walked around them carrying their trunks, while Nan accompanied the maids up the winding stairs to the bedrooms set aside for their stay.

Gillie and Georgie followed the butler, as Gillie attempted to hold back the laughter that threatened to bubble forth from her throat. She whispered to Georgie in a mock-solemn tone, "Hail, Caesar! We who are about to die salute you."

A giggle burst from Georgie's throat even as she attempted to stifle it.

Trowbridge glowered. He was clearly not amused. Like a schoolmaster waiting for a class to come to order, he silently lingered outside the sliding cherrywood doors until decorum was restored.

Finally, satisfied that the two ladies were ready to behave, Trowbridge threw back the doors, intoning, "Lady Gillian Fitzgerald Buchanan, and the Honorable Georgina Dacer."

The woman who was playing the piano and singing along with a gentleman stopped abruptly. She turned in her seat, bestowing an agreeable smile on the newest arrivals. She rose gracefully from her padded bench and walked forward to greet her guests.

"How lovely that you could both accept my invitation. I am so pleased," she said, her voice a warm contrast to her butler's. "I am Marina Allenwood," she announced, giving each of the young women two kisses, one for each cheek. "Welcome to Briarbury. I hope the time you spend with us will be pleasant."

"I for one will be happy to make it so," stated the man who had been singing with Lady Allenwood just moments before. He took both Gillie's and Georgie's hand in turn and kissed each with a flourish. "Your servant, ladies, for beauty such as before me here must command all ordinary mortals."

Gillie fixed him with a cool stare. "I do believe that I read that line in your last book, The Taming of Helen, Mr. Kinsford, did I not?"

"Ah, yes," he confessed, "though I am happily surprised that you have read my humble work."

Gillie met his eyes with a direct glance from her own. "Oh, I have indeed read your book, sir, and found it to be most interesting."

"How so?" he asked, fascinated.

She ventured, "Perhaps it would be better left unsaid." "Nonsense, my dear Lady Gillian," he pronounced with great aplomb, "I am man enough to hear whatever you care to say."

"Very well," Gillie began; a careful glance told her that all ears in the room were eager to hear her opinion. "I found the book to be coldly written. Your heroineand there is no other way to describe her, so forgive me my blunt speechwas an uncaring person of little virtue who elicited no sympathy from me as a reader whatsoever. She was tamed, if you will, by lust; thus she was a man's notion of a woman tamed."

Georgie smiled. She agreed with Gillie's perceptive reading of the character in the book.

Jason Kingsford blinked, shocked that a girl barely out of the schoolroom should dare to criticize him.

Marina Allenwood laughed. "Oh, well done, my dear. Well done, indeed." she said. She turned to her male companion with an easy smile. "That should teach you, Jason."

Kingsford bounced back quickly. "Then," he said, his voice warm and oozing sincerity, "you must teach me about a woman's notion of a woman, Lady Gillian."

"Before anyone begins remedial classes," Marina Allenwood stated, "I suggest that we allow these two ladies to freshen up after their train ride from London." She pulled a tasseled cord near the doorway. "I will see that you are each sent a tray to alleviate some of the hunger you must be feeling." "Thank you," both young ladies echoed in unison.

"And if it isn't too much trouble," Georgie spoke up, "I would enjoy a bath."

"As would I," Gillie said also.

"Then it shall be done," Lady Allenwood declared. "After you have rested a bit, I wish you would join us for a ride about the estate."

"I would be delighted," Gillie responded. "In fact, it will be a perfect time to debut my new riding outfit."

"Good," Marina stated as the doors swung open. A fresh-faced maid stood ready to show Gillie and Georgie to their rooms.

As they walked into the hallway, making for the stairs, two male voices could be heard coming their way.

Gillie froze.

Rafe halted when his blue eyes focused on the woman standing just a few feet from him. He stared, unable to believe the truth of what his eyes saw.

"Gillie," he whispered.

Chapter Four

It was impossible to tell who was the more surprised.

Gillie knew that the meeting was inevitable, though she wished it could have been on her terms.

Rafe was taken aback, his hands now gripping tightly the old and very expensive bottle of brandy which had almost slipped from his grasp. He'd never expected to see Gillie here of all places; yet here she was, standing before him, looking every inch the fine lady that she was in her silk traveling suit, with hardly a wrinkle to show for her journey.

For that matter, he wondered, what exactly was she doing here?

"Rafe," she said, moving towards him.

"Lady Gillian," he replied in a formal tone. Gillie halted just inches from him, perplexed by his cool behavior.

"Gillie!" Tony exclaimed, dispensing with formality altogether. He embraced her warmly; then, when he saw his cousin, he made his way towards Georgie. "Georgie, you devil," he stated, kissing her warmly. "When I told you Rafe and I were coming here this weekend, you didn't say a word about having an invitation."

Georgie, with one eye watching the scene being played out between Gillie and Rafe, gave her cousin a hug. She observed Gillie's proud stance and knew she was eagerly waiting for the lean Texan to do or say something. "I hadn't really made my plans at that time," she said.

Marina Allenwood, followed close at heel by Jason Kingsford, spoke, "The ladies have consented to join the rest of us on our ride later this day, so I must beg you gentlemen to give them leave for now."

Georgie, forcing a radiant smile to her lips, took Gillie's arm. "We'd best go now, as the baths we've ordered are most likely getting cold as we speak."

Gillie, her glance never leaving Rafe, said softly, "Yes, we'd better go," she agreed. "Till later, Rafe," she finished, turning to go.

"You know Lady Gillan?" Kingsford asked Rafe after the young women had left.

With a cuttingly cold glance, Rafe answered, "I do."

Tony filled in the blanks for his hostess and his fellow guest. "Rafe's the foster son of Lady Gillian's brother, the Earl of Derran. He practically grew up with Gillie. And Georgie's my cousin."

Kingsford snapped his fingers. "Now I have it. I thought the name Georgina Dacer sounded vaguely familiar. Is she the artist?"

Tony answered proudly. "One and the same."

"I heard from my sister that her work was superb," Marina Allenwood stated, "so I had to see for myself. It's why I invited her here."

"Her work is superb," Rafe replied, his thoughts on one canvas in particular.

Three pairs of eyes focused on him.

"You've seen Georgie's work?" Tony inquired, surprised.

Rafe gave a small smile. "I went to the Cavendish Gallery the other day."

"Did you see it then?" Tony demanded.

"What is it?" Jason Kingsford questioned in a slightly bored tone.

"My cousin did a rather interesting painting, of which Lady Gillian was the subject," Tony explained.

Rafe responded pointedly. "Interesting is a word for fools and critics, Tony," he scoffed. "The painting was a work of beauty such as I've rarely seen captured on a canvas."

"Natasha told me about that painting," Lady Allenwood interjected. "I decided after listening to her that I must meet the artist responsible for work that has brought London's art world to its collective knees."

"Then I must make it a point to see this wonder," Kingsford announced.

Rafe narrowed his eyes, sending a sharp glance in Kingsford's direction. Rafe's deep baritone cut swiftly through the air like a sharp blade. "While you can." He shifted his gaze to Lady Allenwood. "Now, my lady, I understand from Tony that you have a most unusual bathhouse outside. May we see it?"

"Yes, of course," she agreed. "It's based on one my mother's family had in St. Petersburg, though somewhat modified. I would love to show it to you." She reached out and laid her hand on Kingsford's sleeve. "You will excuse us, Jason?"

He nodded his agreement.

"Good. Then, gentlemen, follow me."

Rafe handed Kingsford the bottle of brandy as he passed. In his best imitation of cultured British tones, Rafe said in a dismissing fashion, "Do be a good chap and see that this is properly seen to, would you?" He inclined his head towards the shorter and stouter man. "There's a lad," and walked away, leaving the author fuming silently, standing in the hall with a dusty bottle in his hand.

Nan had already unpacked Lady Gillian's trunk and was sitting in the corner of the room, quietly reading.

Gillie poured a small amount of scent into the hot water, wishing that she had something to take her mind from thoughts of the meeting with Rafe. If only she could wipe away the memories with written words, lose herself in some novel, allow herself to be swept away by some poet's lament. Anything to tear her thoughts from the fire she had willingly walked into.

Gillie eased her body into the bathwater, sinking into the depths of the tub. Walked into? She tossed the words around her brain. No, rushed into would be more the truth. With an aching heart, Gillie acknowledged that she had gone and done just that: like a happy puppy searching for its playmate, only to be abruptly rejected, frozen with the coldness of eyes as dark as a winter storm.

Why?

What had she done to warrant such a reaction? What sin had she committed that would have made Rafe look at her with the eyes of a stranger? If she'd ever been sure of anything in this world, it was that she would always be welcomed anywhere Rafe was. Since she was a child, she'd always had this sense of belonging with Rafeshe belonged to him as much as he belonged to her.

Why now did she feel cold, as if she were standing outside with her nose pressed upon a glass, watching the warm tableau inside?

It had to be that he was merely taken by surprise.

Yet, a mocking thought shuffled that notion aside as she recalled Tony's greeting. He, too, had been surprised, though he'd recovered almost instantly.

A sharp memory of her hostess pierced her retrospection, forcing a change in the direction of her thoughts. The cool, serenely mature beauty of Lady Allenwood gave her pause.

Was Rafe involved with the woman? Had she inadvertently stumbled into a tryst in progress?

Recollecting her meeting with the slightly exotic Marina Allenwood, Gillie realized that she couldn't tell. A married woman with a lover beneath her roof would hardly be flaunting him to a houseguest she didn't know.

Lovers. The word knifed Gillie's heart with its implications.

Were they indeed lovers?

What could she do if they were?

A splash of water on the heated rocks sent steam sizzling through the air. Another splash resulted in more of the same.

Rafe found that he quite liked this adaptation of a Russian bathhouse, made from a converted cottage. Stripped to his skin, with nothing on save a towel wrapped around his flat stomach, he leaned back against the wooden bench, enjoying the feel of the warm, moist air. His skin was slick, as rivulets of water ran down his leanly muscled chest.

With a sweep of his hands, he pushed back strands of damp black hair that clung to his face and shoulders. Here and now, it was easy to pretend that he was anyplace other than civilized England. He felt purified, both internally and externally, as if the steam had stripped away all the problems of life. But it hadn'tnot really.

Rafe's sculpted lips twisted wryly. Try as he might, he couldn't forget the shock he had experienced when he emerged from the wine cellar and saw Gillie standing there in the hall. Like the familiar sting of a bullwhip, her sudden appearance lashed him and drew blood just as effectively. And just as he had as a child when he endured the beatings from his cruel stepfather, Rafe had stood stoically, waiting for the next blow. It came as she moved towards him.

Damn, how he had wanted to draw her into his arms, surround her with the tangible feel of his love, and kiss that wide mouth until she moaned.

Gillie would never know just how much it had cost him to play the part of the silent, impassive stalwart. His self-control had almost reached the snapping point. And that was something Rafe prided himself onthat iron control that had kept him alive, had kept him sane through years of despair and loneliness, when he'd lived through the hellish nightmare of his mother's marriage to that vile pig, the late unlamented Talbot Squire. Rafe had survived the brutality of those years, learned to ignore the snarled insults that his stepfather screamed regularly at him. To his stepfather, his mixed blood was something to be sneered at, a mark that somehow he was less than human. Often, while growing up, he'd been called a ''breed bastard."

Somehow, Rafe had managed to keep his control through all that, through all the years of abuse and bigotry, and today he'd almost lost it in the face of a slip of a girl, hardly out of the schoolroom, a sunshine-eyed charmer, who wound people around her finger with ease.

Gillian Fitzgerald Buchanan was such sweet temptation.

Rafe stood up, striding forcefully into the adjoining room, shutting the door with a decided snap. He removed the towel he wore, dropping it on the stone floor. A square wooden tub, big enough for three people, was the focal point of this part of the former cottage. The sting of the cold water hit him as he plunged into it, like a sudden bracing blast of cold air after hours of warm rain.

The bath refreshed his body, but not his mind.

How the hell was he going to be able to ignore her, the woman he wanted for his own, for the rest of the weekend?

Gillie stood up in her bath as a knock sounded on the door. "Who is it?" she called as Nan picked up a copper bucket of warm, scented water to rinse Gillie with.

"It's me, Georgie," called back the voice.

"Let her in, Nan," Gillie said, holding her hand out for the bucket. Nan gave it to her and went to get the door while Gillie poured the water over her soapy body.

Georgie entered the room, her gaze automatically going to the open bathroom door, where she heard the sound of splashing water coming from the tub. "Would you like a cup of tea, Miss Georgina?" Nan asked.

"No, thank you," Georgie answered, "I've just had a pot in my own room."

Gillie stepped from the bath and wrapped a large towel about her body. Patting herself dry, she called out, "Have a seat, Georgie. It would seem that I'm a bit slower off the mark than you." Nan was there, when she finished, with a soft cotton robe of white and blue stripes to slip in to.

Georgie sat down as Gillie walked to her dressing table. Everything a lady could want had already been provided, down to a bevy of scents and powders, ribbons and gewgaws. Taking out the silver pins that held her long hair atop her head, Gillie bent over and drew her own silver-backed brush through the waves. With a flick of her head, her hair tumbled down over her back. Nan took the brush from Gillie's fingers and proceeded to finish the task.

"How do you want it?" Nan asked, her head cocked to one side, replacing the brush with a comb.

"A single plait, I think," Gillie answered. "It should be better for the ride." She slid a sideways glance at her friend. "Sometimes I think I should cut it shorter just to make it easier to care for, like yours," Gillie said, referring to Georgie's recent cutting of her very long hair to just below her shoulders. "Then I pause, for I know I would miss it." And, she confessed mentally, if she did that, it would change one of her favorite recent daydreams: Rafe, with a brush in his hand, seated on a thick pelt of soft furs before a roaring fire as the snow fell outside. She'd enter, her hair freshly washed and towel-dried, and kneel before him, wearing only her robe and nightgown, reveling in the sensual feel of his hands drawing the brush gently through her hair.

"Are you still planning on wearing the outfit you told me about?" Georgie asked.

Shaken from her reverie, Gillie asked, "What?"

Georgie repeated her question.

"See for yourself," Gillie responded, feeling foolish that she had allowed her thoughts to drift beyond the moment. "It's on the bed."

Georgie got up and strolled over to the canopied bed, where Gillie's outfit was carefully laid out. A crooked smile appeared on Georgie's face. Georgie acknowledged that in certain circumstances, her friend was more apt to flaunt convention than she was. She put it down to the influence of Gillie's brotherand her brother's wife especially.

"You will certainly case a stir with these clothes," Georgie observed.

"That's what I want," Gillie replied.

"Is it?" Georgie asked, walking back to where Gillie sat. "Truly?" She had an idea that Gillie wanted only one person's noticeRafe Rayburne's. Georgie had keenly observed the scene earlier; her friend had been devastated by the cool reception from the American. Gillie was used to being welcomed wherever she went; she always seemed to fit in. Georgie envied her that at times, along with Gillie's radiant joie de vivre. Yet now, the one person's regard Gillie most desperately wanted seemed far from her reach.

Gillie folded her hands in her lap, one finger absently stroking the garnet-and-gold ring she wore as Nan fixed her hair. "He'll have to notice me then, won't he?" she asked in a soft voice.

Georgie sighed, wondering if Gillie's maid was aware of her mistress's feelings. She decided it best to frame her answer somewhat vaguely. "Every"she paused for the barest second, sending a meaningful glance at Nan"man here will notice you."

"So long as Rafe does, I don't care about anyone else," Gillie declared. "Have no fear with what you say before Nan. She would never betray me," Gillie stated, giving her maid a fond look.

"You know I would cut out my tongue first," Nan said simply, resuming her task.

"Suppose, for argument's sake," Georgie submitted, "that Rafe isn't responsive. What will you do?"

"Honestly, I don't really know," Gillie confessed.

"He was not quite the picture of warmth this afternoon," Georgie pointed out.

"I know that," Gillie admitted. "And I have no idea why." She stood up when Nan was finished, moving restlessly about the room. She ended up in front of a bay window overlooking the informal gardens. Curling onto the padded velvet seat, Gillie stared out into the bright sunshine. "It's not like Rafe to be so distant, at least not from me. I've searched my memory to see if the fault was mine, though for the life of me I cannot find any instance where I gave offense."

Georgie ventured an opinion. "He does not seem the type of man overly given to displays of public affection."

"He isn't," Gillie conceded. "Were it anyone but me, I would grant his behavior to be within reason."

"Have you thought of asking him?"

"Of course. And I shall," Gillie said, turning around to face Georgie, "when I can find a moment alone with him."

"That may not be possible, you know," Georgie warned her.

Gillie was adamant. "I must make it happen then." Her face wore a determined expression. "Can I count on your help should I require it?"

Georgie knew she wouldn't be able to refuse her friend. "You can always depend on me, Gillie."

"Good. For as you said, it may prove most difficult to get Rafe alone."

"I'm certain that we will find a way."

Gillie stood up and made her way to Georgie, hugging her friend. "Thank you," she said. Straightening, she slipped behind a painted silk screen to change into her undergarments.

"I should be going," Georgie said as she rose.

"Wait one moment," Gillie called. Georgie did as Gillie asked.

A few minutes later Gillie emerged from the screen. Instead of being clad in loose bloomers laced with ribbons, Gillie wore tight-fighting drawers of white cotton that clung to her thighs and came to mid-calf. She had dispensed with a corset, chosing instead to wear only a plain white silk camisole that left her arms bare, with a row of tiny buttons. Her legs were sheathed in serviceable cotton hose.

"Mama would certainly faint if she could see me now." Gillie laughed as she made for the clothes that lay on the bed.

"I'd agree with that," Georgie agreed. What would the American's reaction be if he were to see her now? Georgie wondered. Could he be indifferent to the beauty of the woman who occupied this bedroom? God knows she herself wasn't capable of indifference. And Georgie was determined that indeed only God be aware of her true feelings regarding Gillie, for she wouldn't dream of overstepping the boundary of her friendship with the other woman. No, this was her secret, better unspoken.

"Now," Gillie declared, a wide smile on her face as she checked herself in the full-length mirror, satisfied with what she saw, "I think it time to favor the rest of the guests with a display of our equestrian skills, don't you think?"

"What a surprise to see our Gillie here," Tony said as he and Rafe walked casually around the grounds, several dogs bounding along with them. "Not to mention my cousin."

"It was indeed a bolt from the blue," Rafe agreed. A damned unexpected bolt.

"Not quite the sort of houseparty I would have expected either of them to find interesting." Tony tossed a length of wood to the dogs, who scampered after it. "To be perfectly frank," Tony confided, "it's not the place I would think suitable for two proper English maidens." He flushed as the three borzois returned with the stick, eager for another run. "I mean, how can one continue an affair with two virgins under foot? Damned sticky situation, what?" He tossed the wood once again. ''And Kingsford lurking about, eager for another conquest."

"Has he a reputation?" Rafe asked in a casual manner.

"A bounder if ever there was one," Tony stated. "Stealing maidenheads would seem to be his primary occupation; writing is only a hobby, I'll wager. Something to draw the ladies to him, no doubt. Kingsford fancies himself quite the stud, from what I'm told."

"Then I think it our duty to see that the ladies are sent back to London," Rafe declared. He'd already taken Kingsford's measure that day, and he hadn't liked what he'd seen. He'd found the man pompous and smug, with a conniving manner about him.

"I agree completely. How shall we proceed?"

"Tonight, after dinner," Rafe said. "I think it best if we do it then. That way they can catch the morning train back to London with their reputations intact."

"Splendid," Tony concurred. They rounded the well-tended grounds until they neared the stables. "A word to Kingsford from each of us should also do the trick quite nicely."

A flash of vermillion caught their attention. "Ah, it looks as though your lady friend is ready," Rafe said with a chuckle.

"So it would seem," Tony agreed, returning her wave.

Rafe remarked, "Too bad that she's already married."

"Why? God knows I'll miss Natasha when this is over," Tony said with a sigh, "but I could never be married to a woman like her."

Rafe raised one brow.

"Stop giving me that censorious look, Rafe," Tony said, smiling broadly. "You and I both know that men such as we do not marry our mistresses."

"What if you fall in love with her, and she with you?"

"God, Rafe, but you are droll," Tony remarked. "That's not likely to happen. Natasha is a perfect lover, wonderfully inventive and extremely passionate in bed. She knows how to make a man feel comfortable." His tone became suddenly serious. "But I'm not the first man she's broken her marriage vows with, nor will I be the last. If she were my wife, I might be tempted to kill her. I don't fancy wearing horns for anyone, my friend. No,'' Tony said with assurance, "when I wed, it'll be to a well-bred virgin who'll know no other man but me."

Rafe decided against continuing the conversation, as they were now approaching the assembled riders. He saw his hostess and Kingsford chatting while seated on their horses. A few other people had joined them as well.

Natasha Dillington welcomed Tony with a passionate kiss. "Give me a leg up, will you, Tony?"

"Be my pleasure." He helped his mistress into her sidesaddle and took the reins of his own mount from the groom.

Rafe leaped into the saddle of the chestnut gelding that he'd ridden earlier, calming his restive horse with a few pats to the shoulder. "Are we ready?"

Marina Allenwood replied, "Almost. We're just waiting for Lady Gillian and the Honorable Georgina to attend us."

From behind them came a pleasant voice. "We're here."

The riders turned in their seats.

Rafe inhaled sharply, his eyes focused on Gillie.

In place of a sensible riding habit such as the other women present wore, Gillie was dressed like a man. Her tailored black merino wool jacket was fit to her slender form, as were the tan buckskin breeches she wore. She had on knee-high polished black boots and a white shirt with a plain black waistcoat. A garnet brooch held the shirt's stock in place.

Rafe tightened his legs around his mount's body. Even dressed as a boy, there was no denying Lady Gillian was every inch a female, and a woman to be reckoned with.

Chapter Five

The ride had become a chase.

Not content with simply a lazy canter, which had prevailed for several miles, some of the riders began a contest of stamina and strength. They rode across rich farmland and lush water meadows, through wide valleys and over the Cuckmere River, leaving the others who had joined the party from neighboring estates, along with Georgina and Jason Kingsford, behind. Rafe rode in the lead, with Gillie, Tony, Natasha, and Marina following, maintaining the galloping pace.

They finished at the cliffs where Rafe had been earlier that day. It was there that they stopped, leaving their animals to crop the short grass while they dismounted.

"It appears that we have left the rest behind," Tony said jubilantly, his arm around Natasha as they strolled towards the cliff edge.

"How boring most people are," Natasha drawled, her gloved hand rising to thread through Tony's thick, tobacco-brown hair. He caught her hand and pulled it back, gallantly kissing the exposed skin of her wrist. "They are satisfied with a slow meander when they could be experiencing the thrill of a real race." Her voice was once more a seductive whisper. ''We who have Russian blood know that the excitement lies in the pursuit of a worthy challenge." She favored Tony with a longing glance.

It isn't only those of Russian blood who can pursue a challenge, Gillie amended silently after overhearing Baroness Dillington. It had been a gauntlet cheekily thrown down when Rafe urged his chestnut gelding into a furious pace. Gillie, a keen horsewoman, loved any excuse to ride. Showing Rafe that she could keep up with him was important to her. It was a way to show off her own proficiency while letting him see her as an equal. He had taught her to ride, and she was proud that she could keep up with him on any ground.

Gillie glanced around, seeking Rafe. Her eyes found him, walking by himself along the chalk cliffs. He was dressed like any other English gentleman, but it was there that the resemblance ended, she knew. No native-born Englishman could manage to convey that sense of untamed energy that Rafe possessed, even if he was standing still. It was a dormant power that both fascinated and frightened her. Not that Gillie believed Rafe was capable of physically hurting anyone he truly cared for; he wasn't.

As if he could feel her gaze on him, Rafe turned. An aching desire overcame him as he stared unblinkingly at her. Then, conscious that he was probably gawking like a love-starved fool, he turned his back on her.

He had given her a direct cut. Absorbing the emotional blow, Gillie wrapped her arms about her stomach and removed herself from the area, walking towards where Marina Allenwoood stood talking to Tony and his mistress.

Joining the others, Gillie gave no indication that she had suffered an injury, albeit internal.

Marina Allenwood, dressed in a conventional split riding skirt and jacket, complimented Gillie on her choice of riding clothes. "I warrant the rest of the group will be talking for months to come about your habit," she pronounced with a wide smile. "As for myself," she continued, "I love it. It makes much more sense, if you ask me."

The admiring words took Gillie's mind away from her melancholy thoughts. "Thank you," she said. "I confess that the idea was not mine alone," she admitted. "My brother's wife always rides astride like a man. When I visit them in Texas, I am used to doing as she does. It was a simple matter to contact my brother's tailor and have him make an outfit for me once I made up my mind to it."

"If I may say so," Tony entered the conversation with a blunt compliment of his own, "I find that your choice is extremely flattering to a woman's body. Especially," he added, lowering his gaze to take in Gillie's close-fitting breeches, "to a fine pair of legs."

Gillie's laughter rang in the air. "Thank God for you, Tony," she said. Clapping her hands together in delight, her mood changed. "If you had used a euphemism, I would have screamed. I am so tired of hearing some vague description instead of plain-speaking when it comes to mentioning various parts of one's anatomy. Another result of my repeated exposure to Americans," she confessed.

The other two women each laughed in turn, as did Tony, who said, "Having been in the company of your sister-in-law, the redoubtable Countess Tory, on several occasions, I can well understand the influence."

Natasha turned her head at that moment and caught a glimpse of the man who stood alone by the cliff's edge. It was only a split second in which she caught the glance that the Texan directed towards Lady Gillian before he shifted his gaze away. How could she ever have thought Rafe Rayburne cold? she wondered. The heat in his blue eyes burned deep and true. A flame of dark, intense passion that could ignite a virgin's heart and soul. Like an angel with a burning sword, except that he was angel and sword in one.

"I'm ready to leave," Gillie suddenly announced, walking quickly to her horse and mounting it in one fluid movement. "Anyone else?" she asked, pulling back on the reins so that her horse reared on its hind legs and pawed the air before she put her booted heels to its sides.

Rafe rushed to his gelding and leaped into the saddle, charging off after her, leaving the other three without hesitation.

Helping the ladies onto their mounts, Tony muttured loudly, "Here we go again."

Georgie dropped back from the rest of the pack when she noticed that her horse, a biddable dapple-gray mare, was limping. She dismounted as carefully as she could, patting the horse's neck with measured strokes, calming the animal. Bending down, she lifted the front hoof and saw a large stone inbedded there.

Her eyes searched the area for something to use to get the stone out. Bending, she was about to pick up a small, flat rock when she heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats. Looking up, Georgie saw the figure of Jason Kingsford riding into view.

"What's the matter?" he asked, his broad face wearing a mask of concern.

"It seems my horse has picked up a stone in her shoe. I was just going to see if I could remove it," she answered.

"Let me assist you," he offered, smiling. Georgie watched as Kingsford stepped down from his horse. She had heard of his reputation; it was grist for the gossip mill in London. Even though he appeared charming, there was something about him that made her vaguely wary. It could be the way that his eyes blatantly raked a woman's body. She herself had an artist's eye for judging face and form, and quite often she stared at a subject, or a potential subject, taking stock; but there was a telling difference in his look. It wasn't a glance, she decided, of admiration, or of interest; rather it was a calculating, almost condescending assessment.

Kingsford succeeded in removing the stone from the mare's shoe, and as soon as he had, Georgie said, "If you would give me a lift up, I can be on my way again." She was very aware that they were in a semi-secluded place, with no one else about.

"I think it best that you let your animal rest for a few minutes more," Kingsford stated. "It will afford us a chance to talk."

"About what?" Georgie demanded.

Kingsford laughed. "How very direct." He observed her glance darting about the place, as if seeking help from unknown quarters. "There's nothing to be afraid of," he said in his most soothing tone, the one he reserved especially for virgins. The Honorable Georgina Dacer wasn't really to his taste; he preferred buxom china-doll prettiness, along with vapid adoration. She was much too thin. Still, he mused, one piece of ass was much like another. Kingsford grinned in a feral manner. He loved adding another virgin to his tally. And, if he played his cards correctly, he might also collect the maidenhead of the beautiful Lady Gillian Fitzgerald Buchanan. Of course, with her he would have to be very careful; her brother was a rich and powerful man. Tumbling her could be risky. But the rewards could also be enormous. Noble families disliked having their dirty linen aired in public, and he'd found that payment ensured his silence, particularly when his used goods were being passed off later as pristine.

Georgie responded with a touch of starch, "I'm not afraid, Mr. Kingsford."

"Jason," he said silkily, "please." He took her arm and led her away from the horses. "Will you allow me the privilege of calling you Georgina, Miss Dacer?"

"If you insist," she responded, moving so that there was space between them.

"Then Georgina it is," he said, moving ever so slightly closer.

Georgie listened to Kingsford as he expounded on numerous subjects, making comments as necessary. She found him puffed-up with his own importance, giving opinions and adding what he thought were clever asides. During these moments spent in his company, recognizing that he was openly flirting with her, she began to wonder just what a kiss from a rake like Kingsford would feel like. Perhaps she'd been wrong about herself. Her only experience with men had been a fumbled kiss on her sixteenth birthday by a neighbor's son.

What real harm could there be in playing along in this game? Would she find his kiss appealing? Involuntarily came the memory of another mouth on hers. The quick, innocent touching of lips between friends. It had occurred when Gillie returned from her last visit to Texas, when she'd brought back the quilt as a belated birthday gift. It was then, experiencing the tingle of awareness, that Georgie knew her love for her friend had metamorphosed into something different.

But still, Kingsford's kiss could prove a worthwhile experiment. Having made up her mind, Georgie concentrated on being as charming as possible.

Kingsford was aware of the subtle change in the girl. Where before she'd been composed, even cool, she was now relaxed, smiling more. He was happy with the change; he was getting exceedingly bored with all this stupid chit-chat and having to pay fulsome compliments. He wanted at least to get a feel of her mouth for all the trouble he'd gone to. Mentally, he clicked off the ways in which he could bring this about so as not to send her screaming into a panic.

Satisfied that he had come up with a foolproof plan, Kingsford implemented it.

"I do believe that we ought be going now, for if I detain you here any longer, no matter how much I would like to keep your company selfishly to myself," he explained with a note of regret in his voice, "I cannot be responsible for any blemish to your reputation." He reached for her hand and stumbled just slightly so that his body collided with hers. Grasping Georgie within his embrace, he pulled her closer. Kingsford looked into her wide gold eyes and smiled.

The touch of his mouth on hers shocked Georgie. There was nothing gentle about the kiss. It was harsh and unrelenting. She stood stock still, unresponsive, until a slow wave of disgust rose within her stomach. She loathed the smell of him, his strong cologne choking her nostrils, the rough push of his mouth against hers, the hideous sensation of his tongue invading her. Georgie wanted to scream but couldn't. All she could do was stand as still as a statue for fear she would give in to the nausea building inside her.

Kingsford ceased his sally on her lips. He stepped back, releasing her. In place of the dreamy look he expected to see on her face, he saw instead the death-pale expression of a trapped animal.

What a cold bitch! he thought disgustedly, wondering if she would be worth the effort to seduce. And what the bloody hell was wrong with her? She just stood there, her eyes silently accusing him. Damned stupid female.

He walked away from her without a single word and grabbed the reins of the dapple-gray, waiting to assist her into the saddle.

Georgie finally managed to break free from the emotional stupor she felt, accepting Kingsford's help to mount her horse. Once she was in the saddle, she bolted from him, caring about nothing except getting away from this place and him. She forced the little mare to keep a bruising pace until she was once more safely at Briarbury.

Entering her room, tears streaming down her cheeks, she rushed into the bathroom as her stomach revolted.

"Just what the hell did you think you were doing?" Rafe demanded as he jumped from the back of his horse to the cobbled pathway, tossing the reins to a startled groom as he followed Gillie into the stable, slamming the door behind them.

It was cool and dark inside, a contrast to his mood. Horses nickered and stamped their hooves in reaction to the hastily closed door.

Rafe grabbed Gillie by the upper arms, his hands tight on her jacket as he held her.

"Let me go!" she pleaded.

"Not until you tell me what you were trying to prove," Rafe said.

"It's none of your damned business," Gillie snapped, her patience lost. How dare he question her as if she were a wayward child? If Rafe could ignore her, well, then she could ignore him.

"Don't provoke me, Gillie," Rafe warned her.

"You're neither my brother nor my keeper, Rafe," she said quietly her fury subsiding. "You have no rights over me at all." It was a wonder that the lie didn't choke her as she uttered it. Rafe had the right of her love for him. He would have that right till the day she diedand beyond.

"Rhys won't be happy with your behavior, you know."

"Leave Rhys out of this."

"You could have been hurt riding off like that."

"Would you have cared?" she asked softly, her blue-gray eyes beseeching him for an answer.

"Of course I would have cared," he responded in his best older-brother tone. "What kind of question is that?"

"Obviously a very foolish one," Gillie acknowledged. "Please, Rafe," she reiterated, "let me go. You're hurting me."

Rafe took a deep, calming breath and released her. Gillie walked away from him without a word. He heard the stable door open and close while he remained standing there. Gillie would never understand, just as he couldn't explain, what watching her race off had done to him. He was frightened for her. When he saw her take that last fence, certain that she wouldn't make it, praying that she would, he felt as if the world had stood still for the fraction of time it took her to complete the jump safely. Then, conversely, anger rose within him that she had caused him to worry.

It was this anger and fear combined that forced him into scolding her like a child when they were finally back at Briarbury. It was either that, or he would have made the mistake of taking Gillie into his arms, dragging her into one of the stalls, and celebrating life in its most primitive, sacred act.

Unclenching his fists, Rafe opened the door and walked into the growing darkness.

A calmer Gillie knocked on Georgie's door about an hour later.

A subdued Georgie answered the knock, bidding Gillie enter.

''We've been invited to take tea with our hostess," Gillie explained, entering the room. She saw that the heavy curtains were drawn and that only a small lamp was lit in the cozy bedroom. "Are you feeling poorly?" she asked Georgie, concerned as she took note of the other woman's overly pale face.

"Just a headache," Georgie reassured her, hiding the complete truth. She suffered from more than a simple headache; she was also sick at heart. Her experience with Jason Kingsford had soured her, both physically and mentally. And she had come to the realization, after the incident this afternoon, that for her, there was no change. Men, in the capacity of sexual lovers, did not interest her. Whatever component brought men and women together to mate was missing in her. That realization brought with it sadness as Georgie unhappily acknowledged that she would never bear a child of her own, much as she might want to. The thought of coupling with a man for that purpose alone was repugnant. Carefully observing Georgie's expressive face, Gillie offered politely, "Shall I convey your regrets?"

"No," Georgie insisted. "I shan't allow this to dampen my day," she said with a weak smile. "I am looking forward to a nice cup and something to eat, as I'm feeling rather peckish."

"Then I suggest we take Lady Allenwood up on her offer. Perhaps later you can tell me what happened to you today."

Georgie froze. "Whatever do you mean?"

Gillie heard the slight note of distress in her friend's voice. "I meant only that you were missed when we took our ride today. When we rode back from the cliffs, I met the others and you weren't with them. Did you try another path?"

Georgie relaxed. "I don't think I could keep up with the pace that your American set. He is quite a horseman. Your party left the rest of us in the dust."

"Is that all?" Gillie inquired, a slight furrow on her smooth brow.

"Only that my horse had a stone in her shoe which forced me to lag behind."

"If there was something else, you would tell me, wouldn't you?" Gillie asked, her eyes meeting Georgie's with concern.

Georgie reassured her friend with a petty prevarication. "Of course I would." She linked arms with Gillie. "Let's go get some tea, shall we?" <><><><><><><><><><><><>

Marina Allenwood sniffed the fragrant odor of gingerbread coming from a china plate that rested on the round oak table. The cakes it held were shaped like stars, with a thin coating of white icing. The mold that had made the gingerbread cakes, what her mama referred to as pryanki, were from her mother's great-grandmother, passed along through the generations to the eldest daughter of the house. It was in these, her private rooms, that Marina indulged her love of things Russian, things that reminded her of her beloved mother, of visits to her grandmother's estate in St. Petersburg.

Scattered about the room were boxes of various sizes, made of burled birch, the designs of which were intricate testaments to the craftsmanship of the artisans who made them. Hanging on the walls were several icons, including some Novgorod from the 14th century, family heirlooms, noted for their use of rich, vibrant colors.

Marina picked up two of the birch boxes and laid them next to her chair on the Chinese carpet, the pale blue of which matched her silk dress.

She considered it fate that led her to accompany her sister to the Cavendish Gallery that day. It was there that she had become captivated by the paintings and sketches of Georgina Dacer. Her admiration for the woman's talent went beyond mere words of praise. Marina Allenwood was determined to become more involved. England could do only so much for the career of such an artist; it was Europe, with the help of a staunch patron, that could open up more opportunities for the Honorable Georgina Dacer.

She could still recall the painting that affected her the most: the hauntingly beautiful Magdalene. If it had been painted by a man, Marina would have sworn that the artist was in love with the subject, so lovingly was the work crafted. Now, having met both the model and the artist herself, Marina wasn't sure if that wasn't the case. Lady Gillian Buchanan was breathtakingly beautiful, with the face and form of a goddess of legend, a woman of uncompromising innocence.

But it was the artist who intrigued Marina. Her eyes had known pain, and Marina had a nagging suspicion why after witnessing the aggrieved look the Honorable Georgina had worn when Lady Gillian spotted the darkly handsome American soon after their arrival.

A soft rapping on her door broke into her train of thought. It was time now to play the hostess.

"How good of you both to join me for tea," Marina said as she ushered the two young women into her rooms. "Please take a seat and I shall get you a cup."

Gillie and Georgie sat down next to each other on a thickly padded blue velvet couch. Both pairs of eyes scanned the interior of the room and admired the contents. "You have a lovely eye for design," Gillie said with approval.

Georgie echoed Gillie's words with, "An unusual combination of textures and colors." She got up and went to observe the icons that were prominently displayed in the room. Peering at the gilded frames and the images therein, she said reverently, "They are magnificent."

"Thank you," Marina responded warmly. "They are from my mother's family."

"Who is this?" Georgie asked, referring to a photograph that rested on the large walnut writing desk.

Gillie turned her head to see what her friend was talking about. The ornate silver frame contained the photograph of a handsome, smiling young man. He had to be a relative to her hostess; even from her seat, she could see the resemblance.

With a mother's pride, Lady Allenwood answered, "It's my son, Alexei."

Georgie rejoined Gillian on the couch. "He's a very striking-looking man," she said truthfully. The artist in her could always be counted on to see beauty in any form.

"I'm sure that you'll think this merely an indulgent mama's boast," Marina responded, her very pale aquamarine eyes gleaming, "but he is even more handsome in person." She poured the tea into the cups and asked, "Lemon or milk?"

When she'd completed her task, Marina leveled her gaze at Georgie and proposed, "I would like you, Miss Dacer, to paint my son for me." Georgie looked up and met Marina Allenwood's gaze. Unblinkingly, Georgie maintained the connection, mesmerized briefly by the other woman's pale eyes.

Georgie found herself agreeing.

Gillie turned to her friend. "Don't forget you have a commission from me," she stated.

"I haven't forgotten, Gillie," Georgie insisted. "I promised you, and I would never break that promise."

"I shall be happy to wait until you have fulfilled your promise to Lady Gillian, Miss Dacer," Lady Allenwood agreed. "Now that we have that settled, I have something for you both."

Gillie and Georgie were both caught unawares. "You shouldn't have, Lady Allenwood," Gillie protested, feeling slightly guilty, as her motives for attending the houseparty were selfish to say the least.

"Nonsense," their hostess stated emphatically. "I love giving gifts, and I take any excuse that I can. Here," she said, handing each of the young women a wooden box. "I hope that you will find what's inside to your liking. I tried to choose what I thought would give you pleasure."

Gillie and Georgie accepted the boxes from Lady Allenwood, each fingering the carvings on the outside.

"How beautiful," Gillie exclaimed, after lifting the lid to reveal the contents. Resting in the velvet-lined box, wrapped in scented tissue paper, was a silk shawl. She carefully drew out the garment, letting the silk fall around her fingers. It was a dove gray, with silver and sapphire-blue embroidery worked through. Georgie's was identical in style, though hers was a pale rose with gold and ruby-red embroidery.

"Wherever did you find these?" Gillie demanded.

"I frequent a modiste in London who employs Russian emigrées. It's a well-known fact that Russian women are noted for their needlework. My mother taught me when I was young, but my skill in no way compares with what these girls can do. I would like it if you both wore the shawls, as a favor to me, this evening."

"I would be honored, Lady Allenwood," Georgie replied, wondering if it were only her imagination that Lady Allenwood's smooth hand lingered just the fraction of an instant on hers when the gift was placed into her hands.

"So would I," Gillie agreed, replacing the silk in the wooden box.

"More tea?" Marina Allenwood questioned.

"None for me," Gillie said, "I want to lie down before dinner." She rose, as did Georgie. "Thank you again so much for the gift. I shall cherish it," she admitted honestly.

An hour later, refreshed from her brief nap, Gillie awoke. She was alone in her room, clad only in camisole and pantalets. Nan had taken her evening dress to press out any wrinkles and was probably having a nice gossip with members of the household staff. Gillie smiled. Her Nan knew how to get the maximum information from a source without revealing a thing herself. The Metropolitan Police, Gillie decided, could use an officer like her.

Gillie leapt from her bed and fetched the shawl from the burled birch box. Climbing back onto the high bed, she knelt on the mattress. Slowly, she unbuttoned the camisole she wore, peeling it from her body and shrugging out of it, letting it fall to the duvet. She took the silk shawl and slowly wrapped it around her naked torso, luxuriating in the feel of the cool material against her skin. It skimmed her back and shoulders, caressed her breasts like a skillful lover's hands.

A strange warmth flooded Gillie's body. What would Rafe think if he were to see her so? Would he find her body pleasing? Would he ache to hold her as she ached to be held? Tenderly, trustingly, lovingly, protectively?

Gillie crossed her arms over her breasts, her fingers working the silk rythmically against her forearms.

Before the end of this night, she was determined that she would know.

Tonight she would bear her heart to Rafe, demanding the same in return.

She'd come too far to turn back now.

Chapter Six

"If you would just stand still for a minute longer, Miss Gillie, I could finish that much quicker," Nan admonished with a wry smile, marking just how fidgety Gillie was as she did up the silk-covered buttons on the back of the evening dress.

Gillie was understandably nervous. She played with the garnet ring, twisting it back and forth on her finger. Insecurity was playing havoc with her emotions. On one hand, she was anxious to get the confrontation with Rafe over with; on the other, she was scared that the delicate balance of their relationship would be tipped into chaos.

If only she knew what Rafe was really thinking, what he was feeling. But his recent moods were just too difficult for her to properly read. What had changed between them? And why? "You'll fair knock their eyes out tonight, Miss Gillie," Nan pronounced, stepping back and admiring her handiwork.

"Do you really think so?"

Nan nodded. "I know so," she stated. She fetched the jewel casket and held it open for Gillie to withdraw the pieces that she would need tonight. "Especially Mr. Rafe."

Gillie blushed as she selected her jewels.

"No doubt about it," Nan assured Gillie as she fixed a garnet-and-gold hair comb into the thick black hair gathered atop Gillie's head. Cascades of curls were left hanging to adorn her shoulders and back, in contrast to the current upswept fashion for a lady's hair for evening.

"I sincerely hope that you are correct, Nan." Gillie stepped in front of the gilded cheval mirror, examining how she looked. Satisfied, she accepted the shawl, draping it around her shoulders.

Her head held high, a small smile on her lips, Gillie sauntered forth, ready to face whatever the night might bring.

Rafe poured himself a neat whiskey from the decanter he'd requested earlier. He tossed back the drink, his mind full of memories of the afternoon's ride, especially Gillie in her masculine riding habit, looking incredibly lovely. No one would have mistaken her for a man, no matter what she wore. Closing his eyes, Rafe leaned his head back against the leather wing chair. She rode with the skill of a Comanche warrior, horse and woman as one, unafraid of the elements or the terrain.

But she wasn't Comanche, or a warrior.

She was a woman.

No, not even that. She was a girl on the brink of womanhood.

The whiskey must be addling his brain, Rafe thought, for he imagined that he could even hear the faint echo of her laughter in the room with him. Sweet, soft, challenging, distinctive. He imagined that he could smell her perfume, the fragrance lingering, inviting, wrapping around him.

He opened his eyes. With his left hand he reached out and took hold of a book that was lying next to the decanter. Opening up the leather-bound volume, a collection of tales from the Brothers Grimm, he flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for. A photograph lay hidden inside the book. On the back was printed the name Layfette, the foremost Society photographer in London. It was a smaller copy of the one he was taking back to Texas for Rhys and Tory. Theirs was packed carefully away in his trunk in Tony's London house. This he'd purchased for himself.

Another token of remembrance for a lonely night or an empty hour.

The fire crackled, giving off a cheery light.

Rafe withdrew the photo from its hiding place. He cupped it in his large hand, holding it reverently. Gillie's smiling face looked back at him.

Abruptly, he replaced the photograph within the confines of the book, closing it.

Rafe turned his head, gazing at the half-full decanter. He toyed with the idea of consuming the entire contents of the bottle, to find some sort of oblivion within the liquor, no matter how temporary.

But he was expected downstairs soon, and there was the talk he had to have with Gillie.

Gillie.

The honest siren of his heart; the chaste temptress of his soul.

''Must you go?"

Tony extricated himself from Natasha's clinging arms. "Yes, my love, I must."

She pretended to pout, but the coy look in her eyes gave her away. Tony kissed her quickly and finished buttoning his shirt, the same shirt Natasha's busy hands had just undone.

"There is always tonight," he promised in a beguiling tone, shrugging into his formal frock coat.

"Dinner will be such hell," Natasha said with a sigh, checking her appearance in his mirror, peering round Tony's broad shoulder. "I'll most likely get stuck talking to Colonel Marchbane, that insufferable boor from the neighboring farm. Crops, crops, and more crops." She gave a forced shudder.

"You'll do fine," he said, checking his gold pocket watch.

"Of course I'll do fine," Natasha insisted matter-of-factly. "God knows, if I can put up with Dillington's insipid chatter, I can stay awake through anyone's." She edged closer to Tony, her arm slipping about his waist, her fingers wandering lower.

Tony inhaled sharply, his gray-green eyes narrowing as her hand rubbed against the front of his trousers. He'd never met a woman like Natasha, a woman so open about her intense sexual appetites. Her hands and mouth had taught him things he'd never dreamed of. At this moment, he'd have liked nothing better than to give in to her ministrations, and damn the dinner party.

Reason won over sexual hunger.

"Later, Nat," he reiterated.

She stepped back. "Spoilsport," she said, chuckling.

Tony turned around, facing his mistress. Tonight, he was a man to be envied. Dressed in a red silk gown that brought attention to her magnificent figure, she wore a necklace of rubies and diamonds. His gaze dropped to her breasts, revealed so enticingly by the cut of her dress. "It's almost indecent," he said.

She smiled seductively. "Yes, isn't it?" She dropped into a deep curtsey before him, giving him more of an opportunity to admire her assets.

"Till later, then," Natasha said, rising and backing away from his reaching hands. Her hand on the doorknob, she paused, lifing her gown in one hand and drawing it up so that Tony could see that all she wore beneath it was her silk stockings. "Something to think about during dinner," she cooed as she walked out the door.

Tony groaned. Now all he could visualize was finding a private moment to get her alone and pay her back for the teasing she had just subjected him to.

A delightfully wicked thought popped into his brain, but he mentally pushed it to the back of his mind. He had to focus on his talk with Georgie; how was he going to get her to pack her bags and return to London?

Tony was still working that out when he approached her door. He stood before it, his hands at his sides. Then he raised his hand and rapped out three brisk knocks on the door.

Georgie swung open the door.

"May I come in for a moment?" he asked.

She stepped back to allow him entrance. "Of course," she answered softly.

Tony waited until she had shut the door before giving her a cousinly buss on the cheek. He noticed that there was an air of melancholy about Georgie this evening. "What's wrong?" he inquired, concerned.

"Nothing's wrong, Tony," she said.

"I think there is," he insisted.

"Just a mood, nothing serious," she asserted, motioning for him to take the single chair while she perched on a tapestried footstool.

"You're sure?"

"Quite."

Tony wasn't sure he fully accepted her answer. "Perhaps what you need is to meet some fine young man," he suggested. "There's no special beau in your life, is there?"

Georgie forced a smile to cover the agony of her cousin's question. How ironic that Tony should think a man would solve her problems. She wished that she could confide in him, in anyone, but she feared what would happen if she were to do that. Could she bear to see the look of contempt on his face?

Fear kept her silent. If she spoke the truth about what was in her heart, she believed that Tony would come to hate and despise her for an unnatural creature. No, she decided, it was better to pretend to play along with his suggestion.

"If I could find a man like you, cousin, I might be content," she avowed, giving voice to the lie. "Though as I am in no particular hurry, I shall perforce be a spinster a while longer."

Tony laughed. "Drivel, you say. The right man will come along for you before you know it, cousin," he assured her.

Georgie bit back the retort that sprang to her mind before her lips could utter it: that for her, there would never be a "right man."

Hoping to shift his interest, Georgie directed the conversation back towards him. "What about you? Shall I have to take on the role of matchmaker for you and Meg Ashley soon?"

Tony shrugged his shoulders. "Someday, perhaps."

Georgie gave her cousin a serious look. "Do you love Meg?" Tony looked surprised. "No," he answered truthfully, "I don't. She's a nice enough girl." How odd, he thought, that today he would be twice asked if he loved a woman.

"Then why?" she asked.

"Why what?"

"Wed someone you don't love?"

"Why such a question?" he countered.

She ignored him. "Is it fair?"

"Is what fair?"

"To marry someone you don't love?"

Tony gave her a solid glance. "It's part of the exchange, my dear, that we are required to make. A mutually agreeable pact between social equals."

"It sounds so dry and bloodless. How could you accept that, Tony?"

He responded as truthfully as he knew how. "Because I know what's expected of me, cousin, as do you. As will my wife.

"Why," he asked, "the sudden interest in love?" He fixed her with a hard stare, a horrible thought having struck him. "By God, you haven't gone and fallen for someone like Kingsford, have you?"

"No," Georgie hastened to assure him. "Of course not."

"That is a relief," he stated. "Don't be taken in by him," he warned her.

"I can see through his facile charm, Tony."

"I'm glad," he said, relieved. "London is filled with women who can't match you for clear-headedness." Georgie insisted, "I'm in no danger from him."

"Still," Tony said, geting to the real reason he'd come to her room, "I think it would be for the best if you were to leave on the early train tomorrow."

"Return to London?"

"Yes, you and Lady Gillian both."

"May I ask why?"

Tony hesitated for a few seconds. "You two young girls shouldn't really be here in the first place. Lady Agatha would be mortified if she knew her chick was hereand, as your nearest male relative, I can't say that I approve of your being here either, exposed as you both are to certain things you ought not to be."

"Like a rake and an adultress, for example?" Georgie read the surprised look on Tony's face at her words. "I may be young, Tony, but I'm not stupid."

"I never said you were. But," he went on, "I can't imagine why Lady Allenwood invited you here. She should have known better."

"Perhaps she thought it would be fun to have the company of a bohemian artist and her model?"

Tony raised a tobacco-brown brow. "You're hardly the quintessential bohemian, Georgie, nor is Gillie the typical artist's model," he observed. "You're both ladies of quality, and as such, I must reiterate, do not belong here."

"Suppose we don't want to go?" It really mattered little to Georgie one way or another, though if she were being completely honest with herself, she would prefer to be at her own house, working in her studio. This trip, which had seemed such a lark, had rapidly soured.

"I don't think you should go against Rafe and me in this."

At the mention of the American, Georgie asked, "Rafe? What's he to do with this?"

"He's representing Derran. Do you think that Rhys would be happy with the situation?" Not giving her time to reply, he continued. "Rafe will talk to Gillie tonight and insist that she return also. She's a level-headed girl who'll listen to reason."

Georgie lowered her lashes and considered what her cousin said. Level-headed indeed! Tony had no idea of Gillie's feelings for Rafe, or of what Gillie was planning.

"Now that that's settled," Tony said, standing, "what say I escort you to dinner?" He was confident all would be well. Why wouldn't it? The girls would leave on the morrow, and he would be free to continue his affair without feeling guilty that his every move was being studied by two impressionable young women.

Georgie, however, was concerned: unbeknownst to Tony, the night's true reckoning was still to come.

Rafe watched from across the wide dining table as Gillie carried on a conversation with the two men sitting on either side of her. Both men were obviously taken with her; one was a mustachioed older man, the other several years younger. She appeared at ease with them, chatting between bites of the elegant dinner Lady Allenwood's cook had prepared.

He couldn't fault the men for being dazzled by her. When she walked into the drawing room earlier, his breath had caught painfully in his chest. Why was it that when she entered a room, everyone else faded into the background? There was nothing girlish about her this night, he decided. Dressed in violet silk, with touches of deep purple at the neckline, waist, and hem, she was stunning. It pleased him that among the jewels she wore this night, his ring was evident.

Unlike several other ladies who sat at the table, Gillie actually ate the food before her. He'd observed that most women picked at the selections, tasting a piece here or there. She had a healthy appetite without the finicky pretentiousness of some women of her class.

Unlike the harsh Texas sun that he was used to, the softer climate of England rendered Gillie's skin flawless. Even in the well-lit room, it glowed. Milky white with a hint of color to her cheeks. Strawberries and cream, the English called it. It made him think of the strawberries that grew in Bessie's garden at the Fortress, served with thick cream.

Unconsciously, Rafe ran his tongue over his lips. He wanted to taste the fruit of her mouth, sample the cream of her flesh. Damned fool! he mocked. Lusting after the impossible.

He made a snap decision. Tomorrow he would leave also. Take a later train to London and leave Tony to his mistress. Finish the busines he had yet to conduct and see to the purchase of the painting. He cast a glance at the artist, sitting at the other end of the table, at the right hand of his hostess. Had she considered his bid? He would make another attempt to see the Honorable Miss Dacer when he returned to London. Then, his business complete, he would set sail again for home, bid farewell to England and to the bittersweet memories of love. It was time to think about a new beginning.

Once again, Gillie thought Rafe was by far the most attractive man in the room. Between snippets of conversation with the two men placed next to her, she managed to sneak glances in Rafe's direction. She saw that he wasn't as engaged with his dinner companions as she. A slightly smug smile curved her lips. Small talk didn't come easily to him, she knew, though they had never lacked for things to talk about.

She recalled many lively discussions around the table at the Encantadora. Both Tory and Rhys loved sharing opinions and insisted that all who joined them do the same. It didn't matter what the topic: from politics, books, music, art, economics, architecture, to news of who was getting married, who was expecting a baby, the health of the animals on the ranch. Anything and everything was included, with no subjects off bounds, no careful consideration of what would be termed in England delicate matters. It was honest and exhilarating, Gillie found. So much so that whenever she came back from a visit to Texas, she was almost always blotting her copybook where her mother was concerned whenever she spoke out forthrightly about her own deeply felt concerns.

It was that damnable American influence, Lady Agatha would say with a deep frown, shaking her head. Americans had no proper sense of class or place, she would add, insisting that Gillie remember that Society had rules and that she must abide by them.

To hell with the rules! Gillie thought rebelliously as she signaled the footman to refill her wine goblet. The rules would have her keep silent, remain passive. If she did that, she would lose the dearest desire of her heart. And that she could not risk.

Gillie raised her lids and looked across the wide table. Her eyes connected with Rafe's. Her heart beat faster and her breath quickened. The fragile connection was broken by the woman seated next to him, who made a remark that Gillie couldn't hear.

Later, she vowed, as she drank the dark red wine, watching the expressive movements of his powerful hands, she would have him all to herself, with no interruptions.

"Yes, Mr. Jackson-Smythe," Gillie said, responding with a gracious smile to the man on her right, ''please do finish telling me about the maharajah's tiger hunt."

Jason Kingsford was furious. He'd failed to get the skinny artist's attention. She was deep in conversation with their hostess, with whom he also couldn't engage in any form of conversation. Bloody bitches were too busy amongst themselves to pay notice to him. Who the hell did they think they were to ignore him for each other? Were he in London, hostesses would be falling over themselves to see that he was amused. They would have seen to his needsall his needs. Instead, he was forced to pay attention to the stupid cow sitting next to him, for want of anyone else. He'd recognized that look in her eyes, the look that said she wouldn't be adverse to some consideration.

Employing a bland smile, Kingsford dropped his linen napkin. Reaching down for it, he let his hand slide under the woman's skirt; then he eased his hand up her stockinged calf until he reached her thigh. He paused, stroking the stiff material of her pantalets. It was impossible for him to feel anything of her skin's texture. Seconds later, the woman's hand covered his, squeezing it slightly as she tittered behind her napkin, her eyelids fluttering.

God, it was all too easy.

"I must see you later," Kingsford whispered. "You cannot refuse me," he pleaded.

The woman tittered once again. "Where?" she asked, her excitement rising. "The stables," he murmured. How very appropriate, he thought, to screw her in the hay.

"When?"

"We'll slip away after dinner."

"I must be careful," she said, hesitatingly.

"Of course, my love, we shall be." He certainly didn't want this woman fouling up his plans for the eventual plucking of Miss Dacer's maidenhead. That was too valuable a trophyand a source of incometo lose.

Satisfied that at least he would have a partner in his amatory exploits instead of playing solitaire, Kingsford guzzled his fifth glass of wine and signaled for another. Before he was through, he would make sure the cow knew what a favor he was bestowing on her: later, she could regale her friends with the tale of how she'd been had by the one and only Kingsford. It should, he concluded, give her at least some kind of standing in this backwater.

Kingsford's greedy gaze slipped back to the Honorable Georgina. Just the thought of adding Georgina Dacer to his collection excited his flaccid flesh.

He licked his lips. His quarry had no chance.

Georgie felt nervous.

She knew the cause of that feelingit was Kingsford's eyes on her. There was something cold about that continued look. She shivered and pulled the silk shawl about her shoulders.

"I'm so happy that both you and Lady Gillian wore my gifts tonight," Marina Allenwood stated, her hand briefly touching the younger woman's. "I knew that the silk would be perfect."

"You have a canny eye for color, Marina." Georgie tried out the name on her lips, following the request Lady Allenwood had made earlier. Normally this informality would have been strange on so short an acquaintance, but with this woman Georgie felt comfortable, as if they had known each other for months instead of days. Georgie was flattered by the woman's interest in her artwork. Georgie had few real friends, save for Gillie, Tony, and perhaps her schoolmate, Meg Ashley. "I've been admiring," she added, "the way that you blended the color of your gown with the stones you're wearing."

"Do you like amber?" Marina asked, then plunged ahead without waiting for the reply. "Russians consider it lucky."

"Would you allow me to paint you in that color?" Georgie inquired.

Marina smiled, her blue-green eyes aglow. "I would be honored if you could fit me into your busy schedule."

"Autumn," Georgie mused, studying Lady Allenwood's face. "I see you surrounded by harvest colors."

"I'm at your disposal, my dear," Marina answered softly.

Georgie responded with an assured smile. "Good, I will count on that."

"We can discuss the details whenever you wish."

"As I am leaving for London in the morning, I will let you know after I have sorted out my calendar," Georgie advised her. "I still have works to finish. . . ."

Marina interrupted her. "You're leaving? Why so soon?" she demanded.

Georgie cast a glance towards the other end of the table at her cousin Tony. How could she explain to this woman, her hostess, that Tony thought this houseparty a bad influence on her and Gillie?

Marina saw the hesitation in the girl's forthright gold eyes and hazarded a guess. "Is it personal?"

Georgie breathed a deep sigh of relief. "Yes."

Marina nodded. "You must do as you think best, though I must admit that I shall miss your company. You and Lady Gillian have an honesty that I find refreshing."

Georgie responded, "And I shall miss your company also."

"Then," Marina suggested, "may I call on you in London when next I'm in town?"

"Yes." There was something about the older woman, something Georgie couldn't as yet identify, that made her comply with the request.

Georgie risked a glance at Gillie. Her friend's face was composed, though her eyes were filled with longing as she looked across the table at the tall American. The usually confident Gillie appeared in doubt.

What, Georgie wondered, did the future hold for them?

Chapter Seven

The music room at Briarbury was decorated in a mixture of styles from comfortable, overstuffed chairs and couches to the pomegranate-patterned William Morris wallpaper to large, cut-glass vases overflowing with brightly colored peacock feathers. The large room was occupied by at least twenty-five people, all of them Marina Allenwood's guests.

Rafe Rayburne was one of those people. He stood, negligently leaning against the empty fireplace, one arm draped across the marble mantel; in his other hand he held a short, wide glass of tawny port. He drank the contents of the cut-glass crystal slowly as he listened to the splendid entertainment Lady Allenwood had provided. The Russian emigré pianist, currently living and teaching in London, certainly played well, Rafe acknowledged; however, his mind was elsewhere. Across the room to be precise. His gaze was focused on the black-haired angel who sat a deux with Georgina Dacer.

She walks in beauty, like the night. How easily Rafe's mind drew up the line from Lord Byron's poem in connection to Gillie. From there it skipped to a shorter description: "walks with beauty." He knew nothing of the tongue of his true father's people, yet he was aware that Indians were fond of name-association. From now on this would be how he would think of her; his own private name for Gillie would be permanently inscribed on his heart.

Gillie appeared to be enraptured by the pianist. She clapped enthusiastically after each number, her attention focused on the performer. Rafe recalled that Gillie was especially fond of the concerts, plays, and recitals that London offered. She loved walking in the parks; her favorite was Kensington with its lovely gardens surrounding the palace. She adored visiting the museums, with all their various exhibits. What could Texas offer that could compare? Granted, San Antonio was hardly a provincial backwater lacking culture, but Rafe admitted it wasn't the cosmopolitan equal of London.

And Gillie deserved to have the best, Rafe readily conceeded. Nothing else was good enough for her.

Another round of applause followed the last piece played by the talented musician. He stood up and made a slight bow to his audience. "Now," the pianist said, a wide grin on his faunlike face, "I think that some of you should be made to join with me. Come," he said, his English slightly accented, "who will sing?"

"Marina will," Natasha called out, giving her older sister a smug look.

Marina Allenwood rose to the clapping of her guests. "If I must," she acknowledged with a charming smile, "then I must." She moved to the black grand piano, stationing herself next to it. "What would you have me sing, Dimitri Petrovich?"

"Whatever pleases you, madame," he responded gallantly.

Marina bent and whispered a title to him. He grinned again, obviously liking her choice. His nimble fingers flew along the keyboard as Marina's sweet soprano burst into a lively Russian folk song. When they finished, to much applause, the duo began another; this time she sang in French, a lovely children's lullaby.

Satisfied with her impromptu performance, Marina looked for more volunteers. She directed her gaze towards Natasha's lover. "What about you?" she asked Tony.

Natasha, standing next to Tony, urged him on.

"No," Tony declined, shaking his head. "I can't sing a note," he confessed.

"You're sure?" Marina inquired with a raised brow.

"Oh, quite," he responded with a self-deprecating laugh. "When I was a lad, the choirmaster of my school told me that my voice resembeled nothing so much as a rather sick bullfrog." His light green eyes were full of humor. "It still does."

"Well, then," Marina said, casting her eyes about the room, "who else wants the chance?"

Georgie piped up, "Lady Gillian."

Gillie turned her head, giving Georgie a surprised glance, as if to say: what have you gotten me into? Her friend responded by shrugging her shoulders. It was then that Gillie raised her head and looked directly into Rafe's intense dark blue eyes.

Ordinarily, performing before a roomful of mostly strangers would have frightened her. But with Rafe here, watching, Gillie felt somehow safe and protected.

She would do it for him.

Gillie rose and made her way to the piano.

"What would you like for me to play, mademoiselle?" the pianist inquired.

"Are you familiar with an old English song, 'Greensleeves'?"

"Eh, bien," he responded, his fingers stroking the keys, playing the tune softly. "That is it, yes?"

Gillie flashed him a bright smile. "Oui, monsieur."

"Whenever you are ready," Dimitri said.

Gillie gave a slight nod of her head, and began. She was barely above a whisper at first, her voice low and hesitant, until she caught sight of Rafe's face. Her warm contralto emerged, and she sang the song with grace and feeling, aware of no one in the room save him.

Applause was swift in coming as soon as she concluded the last note. Color flushed Gillie's cheeks as she acknowledged the spectators' courtesy. She dipped her head, her mind slipping back to the last time she had sung the song: her brother had been her accompanist then, with Tory, their three sons, and Rafe as an audience. Did he remember?

Shards of memory, sharp as glass, pierced Rafe. He rememberedall too well.

"Brava, mademoiselle," Dimitri pronounced, rising to kiss Gillie's hand.

Gillie was flattered by the extravagent Russian's praise. "You are too kind, moniseur," she responded, her attention diverted.

He shook his head. "Impossible." Dimitri slid a glance at the assembled crowd. "Do you think most of these watchers here could have done so well?" He waved his arm to make his point. "Such a passionate performance," he declared. "Are you by any chance Russian?"

Gillie laughed soflty. "No, monsieur. I am, for the most part, English."

Disbelief echoed in his voice. "Pah. I cannot believe this."

"It's true," she declared with a warm smile.

His dark eyes brightened. "Then you must be in love," he stated confidently. "It has been my experience that only love can melt that cold English reserve."

"How clever you are," Gillie confided, trusting the flamboyant pianist with her secret. "I am indeed."

"He is in this room tonight, is he not?" the Russian whispered, casting a quick look around.

"Yes, monsieur, he is," Gillie answered, "so I would ask a favor of you."

"I insist, mademoiselle, that you call me Dimitri," he said, taking Gillie by surprise as he kissed both her cheeks. "And so, beg anything you wish of me."

"Play a waltz for me."

"Da, for you," Dimitri said, once again kissing Gillie's hand, "I will do it." He turned to the gathering who, when he stopped playing, had broken off into private conversations, or taken the opportunity to get another glass of refreshment. Bottles of champagne had been opened, and a footman passed among the guests with glasses on a silver tray. "I shall now play you a waltz," he announced.

Wooden doors that separated the two halves of the music room were suddenly swung aside, folding into themselves against each wall. Now the smaller room was made into a larger one, with a polished bare oak floor for dancing.

Gillie took a glass of the champagne, finishing a large part of it with one swallow as she watched a few couples take to the floor. Dimitri's words came back to her. Was that how foreigners saw her countrymen: lumped oddly together as cold beings who could well do without love? Who didn't need, or want, its passion or fire? Phlegmatic and proud of it?

Was that how Rafe saw her?

Well, not tonight, he wouldn't, she vowed, handing the empty champagne glass to a passing footman.

Gathering her courage, Gillie made her way across the room till she reached Rafe. ''May I have the honor?" she boldly asked.

Rafe placed his glass of port on the mantel, his mouth fighting to maintain its hold on formality. What a tormenting, intoxicating creature she was. One minute he'd been about to throttle the pianist for having the audacity to touch Gillie in such a friendly manner; the next, Rafe was delighted that she came to ask him for the dance, her silvery-blue eyes sparkling.

They joined the other couples. Rafe, his arm securely around Gillie's slender waist, glided across the floor with her. How soft her hand felt as he held it in his. How delightful the smell of her perfume. How smooth the silk of her dress as his palm cupped her waist. Her skin would be the same, he knew. A combination of silk and satin, pleasing to the eye, inviting to the touch.

However, not to his touch, not to his eye.

"I must see you later," he stated calmly, "for there is something urgent we must talk about."

Gillie, who was just on the verge of uttering her own need to meet with Rafe, looked up at his strong-boned face. "When and where?"

"The library in half an hour?" he proposed.

"Yes," Gillie answered softly, her mouth curving into a secret smile. Rafe was making this all so much easier than she'd hoped. Shortly, she would be able to pour out her heart to him, to make him see that she loved him. He probably wanted to apologize for being so beastly since she'd arrived, and especially after their confrontation in the stables. Perhaps she would let him beg her forgiveness before she burst out with her own declaration. Make him stew just a few moments and then tell him that all was forgiven; that nothing mattered as long as he loved her as much as she loved him.

Just then they were interrupted by Mr. Jackson-Smythe, who begged leave to have the next waltz with Gillie.

Rafe graciously gave her up to the older man and watched silently as he danced away with Gillie in his stiffly proper embrace.

Deciding that he'd had enough, Rafe stepped out through the glass doors, feeling the need for a smoke and solitude. Withdrawing a slim cigar from a silver case, he lit it and drew in deeply, moving farther away from the house and into the night, though still near enough to hear the music and the laughter. The moon was bright overhead, enabling him to see his way clearly. Finally, he stopped and checked his gold pocket watch. It had already gone eleven o'clock.

Gillie must be exhausted, he thought, yet she looked as fresh as if it were only eleven in the morning. As fresh as a dewy, hothouse flower, cosseted by caring hands. Not at all like the blooms to be found in Texas soil, hardy and independent. And therein lay the truth. She was the pampered rosehe the common bluebonnet.

He'd played his short-term part, put on the polite mask of society; nonetheless, he was an imposter pretending to be an integral part of this community. He was no "gentleman" as the English would define it. They, if the whole truth of his birth were known, would term him a mongrel. Not really one of their "kind." Certainly, it would be deemed, no fit mate for the daughter of an earl, whose bloodline could be traced back to the Norman conquerors.

If Rafe had learned anything from his exposure to this constricted society, it was most assuredly that.

A cloud passed over the moon, temporarily blocking out the silvery light. Time had almost run out.

Jason Kingsford danced with his dinner companion, all the while keeping an interested eye on Georgina. As soon as he could, he promptly left the woman he was dancing with and made his way over to the spot where Georgie now stood chatting with Tony, Natasha, and Marina. He didn't wait to ask her permission for a dance; instead, he took possession of one of Georgina's hands and said offhandedly, "I simply must have this dance." With that he whirled Georgie away.

Tony made a move towards them, and Natasha put a retraining hand on his arm.

"I don't want him anywhere near Georgie," Tony said in a stiff voice, attempting to lift her hand from his sleeve.

"He can do no harm to her in front of all these people," Natasha said, gripping him all the more tightly. "It's only a dance, mon amour."

Tony considered her words. "I suppose you're right," he conceded.

"Then let us steal away," she suggested, her other hand coming up to rest on his chest, "for I need to have you inside of me, now."

Tony gave a quick look in his cousin's direction and decided that Natasha was correct. Kingsford could do nothing here to harm Georgie. Selfishly, he wanted exactly what his mistress did: to bury himself inside her and ease the throbbing of his loins. Impatience made him throw caution to the proverbial winds.

"I know that was terribly rude of me, but I just couldn't help myself," Kingsford pleaded.

Georgie kept her eyes downcast, trying to think of a way to get Jason Kingsford to release her. His grip on her hand and waist was much tighter than necessary, and he had drawn her closer to his body. She felt strangely suffocated, as if he were choking the life from her by his mere proximity.

Kingsford whispered in her ear, "I want to see you later."

Georgie refused him. "I cannot."

"But you must," he pleaded, putting what he felt was the right amount of sincerity into his tone. "I want to make up to you for my boorish behavior." "Consider it forgotten," Georgie insisted, casting a glance around for Tony. She saw him leave, his mistress in tow.

It was then that she caught Marina's gaze.

Marina recognized the slightly panic-stricken look in the younger woman's eyes and abruptly excused herself from the conversation she was engaged in to hurry to Georgie's side.

"Kingsford, I've been wanting to dance with you," Lady Allenwood said, taking his arm as soon as the music stopped, thus allowing Georgie to free herself. "You don't mind, my dear?" she asked Georgie.

Georgie smiled in relief. "Oh no," she responded, "go ahead. I'm rather tired anyway. If you don't mind, I shall say good night to you both." With that, Georgie turned aside, making her way towards Gillie, who was now alone.

"We haven't finished," Kingsford said to Georgie, who ignored him and kept walking.

"I would say, Kingsford," Lady Allenwood informed him, "that you and the lady are indeed quite finished."

Kingsford narrowed his eyes. "I think not."

Marina gave him a quizzical look. "I believe so," she maintained. "In fact, I insist."

"You insist?"

"I do," she said emphatically.

Kingsford pretended to go along with her. "As you wish," he said, remaining outwardly clam, while inside he raged. Just who the bloody hell did this bitch think she was? Well, she wouldn't come between him and his plan. Nothing would. "I feel the need for some air," he said, bending his head to drop a kiss on her beringed hand. "With your permission, my lady?"

"You have it, Kingsford," Marina said, watching as he quit the room through the same doors that the American had used. Marina saw something in Kingsford's eyes that made her suspicious that he was not as contented as he pretended. There was a febrile, slightly unstable quality in those eyes. He was a man to be watched.

Gillie's eyes were bright with excitement when Georgie approached her. "I'm to meet Rafe in the library," she said, drawing her friend aside so that she could speak to her in private. "It was at his request."

Georgie, realizing from her earlier conversation with Tony what Rafe wanted to speak to Gillie about, debated telling her friend. It would dampen Gillie's eagerness to know that Rafe wanted only to play big brother in Rhys's stead. Yet, would it hurt her more if Gillie were to go to him with unrealistic expectations?

What price honesty? Could she willingly rip the blinders from Gillie's blue-gray eyes?

No.

Georgie would take the coward's way out and give her friend a few minutes more of unbridled happiness. And, she rationalized, she did not know what was in the American's heart. Perhaps he had some other words for Gillie. Words that would make her friend's joy complete. Better to stay her warning. "Wish me luck," Gillie urged, kissing Georgie's cheek.

"You know I do," Georgie said with a sad smile. "Come, let us walk out together, for I am to bed."

"Oh God," the woman moaned, her breath coming in quick panting gasps, her nails raking into the man's frock coat. "God!" she repeated, her rising voice muffled by the man's mouth. She ground her body into his, meeting his powerful thrusts as her bare buttocks bumped into the paneled wall. They could have used one of the upstairs bedrooms, but she didn't want to wait. It was far more exciting to add the element of possible discovery to their hurried coupling.

She collapsed against his chest, her heart beating as if it would burst from her chest. She could hear it knocking against his warm, sweaty skin, exposed where she had eagerly unfastened several buttons of his shirt so that she could taste him. Her legs fell from around his slim hips, though his body was still within hers. She licked her kiss-swollen lips, then gulped in air.

"Have you never done it this way, this hard, this quick?" Natasha asked.

Tony, his chest heaving, grinned as he pulled away from her. "Never, love." It was the very truth, he acknowledged. Taking a woman up against a wall in a library during the middle of a party, his clothes barely undone, was a new and novel circumstance for him. They had slipped into the room and seconds later Natasha's busy hands had unbuttoned his trousers and freed him. She'd scooped up her skirts, and he'd needed no further invitation.

His firm young body responded when she reached down her hand. "I suggest," he said, "that we sample the measure of your sister's couch this time." Tony took her hand and as he led her to the large leather Chesterfield, he heard footsteps coming down the hall.

"Damnation," he swore, looking for a door.

Natasha held back the laughter that tickled her throat. They did make a scandalous sight: she with her bodice undone, her small breasts exposed; he with his staff at half-mast, his shirt partly open.

"Come with me," she whispered as she raced quickly across the floor. There were two large windows that opened to the garden on either side of the fireplace. Tony slipped the lock and heaved it up. Natasha scampered through, with Tony joining her outside just as the door opened. They remained where they were lest they draw undue attention to themselves. They made a hasty job of refastening their clothing, as the night air had taken a chilly turn.

Rafe's nostrils recognized the scent of sex as he entered the room. A single lamp was lit on the desk. He quickly scanned the room and saw no one. He did notice the wide-open window. Someone had recently made a hasty exit. The cool, garden-scented air would eventually banish the sweaty musk of mating, so he decided to leave the window open as he waited for Gillian. Rafe didn't have very long to wait, a scant few minutes in fact. He lit another lamp on the far side of the library, bringing a glow of light to the room, bathing it in a golden hue. He walked back across the room, standing behind the Chesterfield. His long-fingered hands gripped the back of the ox-blood leather couch, holding tightly to the material when he saw the door slowly open.

Gillian made her way inside and shut the door with a soft snap. The click of the key turning in the lock let him know that they wouldn't be disturbed.

Turning, Gillie faced him. "I'm here, Rafe," she said as she walked slowly into the light, until only the piece of furniture separated them. "Just as you asked, I came."

Chapter Eight

Gillie was nervous.

Now that the hour of truth had come, she could feel the excited beat of her heart beneath her bodice as she walked closer to Rafe. He looked so calm as he stood there behind the sofa. Strong. Resolute. Just this side of implacable. A man whom any woman would be proud to have by her side.

Gillie moved to the couch, seating herself on the leather, smoothing the skirt of her dress. "Won't you join me?" she asked, her voice soft, coaxing.

Rafe strode around the large piece of furniture, keeping a small distance between himself and Gillie. The leather creaked slightly as his larger frame settled on it. She wet her lips, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. How to begin?

Rafe took charge, sweeping aside her hesitation as he spoke first. ''I'll make this as brief as I can."

Gillie blinked in confusion. What was wrong? His tone was cool, with no trace of warmth, of the love she had expected to hear. It was like a schoolmaster's, intent on instructing a wayward pupil. A cold fear swept over her as she gazed into his eyes.

"I think it best if you and your friend leave here in the morning."

"This is what you wanted to speak to me about?" Gillie asked, her hands clenched tightly together.

"Yes." Rafe saw the confusion on her face. For what reason? he wondered. Taking a deep breath, he continued, "Tony has already spoken to Miss Dacer."

"So, I have no say in the matter?" she inquired, fixing him with a stare.

"No," Rafe stated, rising from his seat. God, to be this close to her, to watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest with each breath and not be able to gather her into his arms and hold her as tightly as he possibly could, was torment. A warm, sensual fire grew deep in his belly, spreading upwards. Want, strong as a shot of aged bourbon, coursed through Rafe's blood. Raw, aching want, as powerful and elemental as a summer storm sweeping across the Hill Country, flooded his being. How easy it would be to ignore what he had to do, what he must do, and give in to the intense desire he felt. To instruct Gillie in passion's pleasure.

Selfish bastard! Rafe mentally mocked his own wishes. And just how would he have the strength to walk away from her if they'd been lovers? For he couldn't offer her anything of value. No future. No chance of happiness.

Lovers. What an intoxicating, forbidden thought.

Damn. He was straying too far away from what he wanted to say, from the purpose of this meeting.

"I'm acting in your best interest, Gillie. You must believe that."

"How very considerate of you," she replied, stung by his single-minded, cold-blooded attitude. What high hopes she'd had for this night, only to see them dashed upon the rocks of his pronouncement.

"You must understand that I am acting in your brother's place. Rhys would never have allowed you to attend this houseparty, nor, I suspect, would your mother." Rafe forced a sterner tone to his voice. "This company is much too sophisticated for you."

Rafe's words were like a slap of cold water in Gillie's face. Was that how he saw her? As a child, ignorant of the facts of life? She wasn't unaware that men and women often came together without benefit of a wedding ceremony. The social and charity work she pursued had long since opened her sheltered eyes.

"I'm not a child, Rafe," she said quietly. "No, you're not," he agreed, his eyes drinking in the sight of her. It would be so much easier for him if she were just a child instead of the lovely young woman who sat before him. "But there are certain things that you shouldn't have to deal with, certain people that aren't fit company for a lady like yourself. It's not a question of age, but of suitability." Rafe paced a short distance, then turned. "I can't imagine why you would have wanted to come here in the first place. It's hardly your style.''

It was the opening that she wanted. Gillie breathed deeply. "I came to see you."

Shock widened Rafe's dark blue eyes. "What did you say?"

Gillie's lips curved in a shy smile. "I said that I came because I knew that you would be here." There, she thought, she'd admitted it. There was no turning back now.

"Why?" Rafe asked, his voice husky.

Gillie rose gracefully from her seat on the couch, joining Rafe where he stood. He was taller than she by almost five inches. Gillie raised her face and smiled up at him. "You've been avoiding me," she answered truthfully. "I thought this would be an opportunity for us to talk, to be together like old times."

"You're mistaken, Gillian, I haven't been avoiding you," he responded.

"Please, Rafe," she pleaded, "let us be honest. You have indeed been avoiding me. What about your behavior at Lady Rawlings's ball? You came in, stayed a few minutes, then promptly left, all without saying hello." Gillie lowered her head for a moment before lifting it again. She couldn't resist the urge to touch Rafe, laying her hand on his arm. Even under the tailored material, she could feel the strength of his lean muscles. She moved closer still. "Have I done something to offend you that I'm not aware of?"

"Of course not!" he said quickly.

Gillie implored him, "Then why have you been ignoring me?"

"I've been busy, seeing to things for Rhys and Tory. Their interests have been my priority," he explained.

"I'll grant you that my brother and his wife's business can be demanding, but they wouldn't insist that you spend all your time attending to their affairs." Her eyes searched his. "You had time to come here, didn't you?"

"That was different," he said.

"How so?"

Rafe brushed her question aside. "Gillian, it's getting late." He gently removed her hand from his arm, keeping it within the confines of his own. It was soft, unlike his. "I want you to have Nan pack your things so that you can be on the early train back to London in the morning." He cupped her hand and brought it to his lips, unable to let go. He pressed a warm kiss to her knuckles. Her garnet ring, his gift to her, gleamed in the muted light. ''Good night," he said tenderly.

"I'm not finished, Rafe," Gillie said, refusing to leave. She had to face him with the depth of her feelings for him. To make him see, make him understand that for her there was no one else.

"Whatever you have to say can wait till morning," Rafe stated, "when we have more time."

"No!" Gillie insisted, "it must be now. Please."

Against his better judgment, Rafe acceded to her request. "All right. A few minutes more." He decided that it was better to put some distance between them, so he walked back to the leather couch and sat down, curious as to what else she had to say to him.

"Thank you," Gillie uttered in a voice calmer than she felt. Inside she was still full of nerves. There was no use dithering about any longer. Procrastinating would only increase the tension.

"I love you, Rafe."

Silence greeted her passionate outpouring.

"Did you hear what I said?" she asked, moving closer to him.

Hear her? he silently responded. Her words, clear and precise, had hit him with the force of a physical blow. It was as if each word were a bullet that pierced his flesh.

Gillie went on her knees before him, reaching for his hands. She clasped them in hers. "I love you," she repeated, searching his face for a sign, a gesture, that would show he believed her.

She doesn't know what she's saying, he thought. She couldn't. They were the words he'd longed to hear, had heard in his dreams; they were also the words he couldn't accept. He'd never really expected such a confession from her, so he was momentarily stunned. What could he make of this? What should he make of this?

"Rafe, are you listening to me?" she demanded.

"Yes."

Gillie blinked in confusion. "Don't you have anything to say?"

"What do you want to hear?" Rafe held himself in tight emotional check, ignoring how very much he wanted to respond to her.

"I should think that would be obvious," she stated. "That you love me, too."

Keeping a smooth mask of control on his features, Rafe replied, "Of course I love you, Gillie. I've adored you since you were a child, as if you were my sister." The words he uttered so calmly were true, in part. He had loved her then as a sibling. It was later that his feelings evolved, growing into the love a man held for a woman, a woman he wanted for his own for the rest of his life.

"As a sister?" she asked, shaken. "You love me like a sister?" Gillie repeated, her voice quavering. Her hands dropped hold of his. Pain flooded her body. She wanted to scream a denial.

"Yes," Rafe lied, needing once again to put some distance between them. As he rose, he saw the flash of hurt in her blue-gray eyes. She was still a child, he thought, confusing her emotions. What she felt for him was temporary at best. She loved him, perhaps, because he was familiar, and therefore safe. She'd made a mistake. He couldn't allow her to compound that mistake any further. He was older than she by five years, and he knew what was best for her. She fancied herself in love, that was all. In a few weeks there would be someone else, someone more suited to her, and she would see that this was an aberration, an infatuation best set aside. Gillie would eventually be grateful to him.

"I know what love for a brother is all about, Rafe," Gillie told him. "I love Rhys that way, and he's the only brother I want." She had to get closer to him, make him understand just how deep was her commitment. Wetting her lips, Gillie got up and followed him, refusing to be dismissed. This time, she didn't hesitate to do what she'd seen other girls do when they were with their beaux. Before Rafe could react, she stood on tiptoe, linking her arms around his neck, and drew his face down to hers.

Her lips were sweet and warm, her mouth closed in a virgin's chaste salute. He could feel the thrust of her breasts as she leaned against his chest. Rafe knew it would be best for them both if he simply let her complete this act without interfering.

But that was easier said than done. His arms slipped around her waist, pulling her even closer to his body. He couldn't brush aside the temptation to deepen the kiss. His mouth moved over hers, taking command of the situation, coaxing her to accept the deep demand of his. His tongue slipped between her newly parted lips, showing her the taste of adult desire. His hands molded her body, cupping her buttocks, pushing her further into his rapidly hardening flesh.

His mouth left her lips, moving slowly down the column of her throat, taking soft nips as she drew in air, her breathing fractured. Each deep breath pushed the swell of her breasts up against her low bodice until Rafe's mouth claimed the territory. He heard her gasp as he placed his hot mouth against the exposed flesh.

Rafe raised his head and saw the bemused look on Gillie's face. Her eyes were wide and full of questions seeking answers.

One of her hands released its hold on his neck, coming to rest instead on the swollen contours of her own mouth. She touched it as if it were foreign to her. She thought she knew just what a kiss could be. Rafe taught her differently. It had been fire, scorching her, branding her like a hot blade of iron, searing her forever with the memory.

"You see," she said, a smile of contentment on her face "you do love me."

"No, Gillie, that kiss doesn't prove a thing."

She refused to believe him. "Of course it does. You couldn't have kissed me like that if you didn't love me," she stated unequivocally.

Rafe grabbed hold of her other arm and forced it down to her side, ending any contact between them. Now it was time for more lies. Lies heaped upon lies. "You say you aren't a child, Gillie. Then don't act like one," he said in a low voice.

"What do you mean?" she asked, confused.

"A man doesn't have to love a woman to be able to make love to her, my dear. Any attractive female will do, and you are," he said, reaching out his hand to stroke the curve of her cheek, "a most lovely young woman." He continued, deliberately calculating that his words would have the desired effect. "If a woman throws herself at a man, he'll most likely take what's offered, even if he hasn't thought of her in that way before." He saw her face drain of color. Oh Gillie, this is killing me, watching you suffer, Rafe thought. If only I could tell you that I'm doing it for you, all for you. Rafe's next words burned his throat like acid as he spoke them. "It's a physical reaction, nothing more. Do you think a man has to love a whore to lie with her?" He forced himself to smile as he delivered another blow, his mind weaving another twist that was sure to end this charade. "I'm flattered that you fancy yourself in love with me. Truly I am. But''he paused, almost choking on the last lie"I'm going to marry someone else. A woman I love very much."

Gillie stuffed a small fist into her mouth to stop the gasp of pain. What a stupid, stupid fool she'd made of herself. Tears of humiliation scalded her eyes. Her stubborn Buchanan pride rose to the occasion, saving her from falling lower into the depths of mortification. She stood straight, both arms at her sides. "I'm sorry, Rafe," Gillie managed to say, her voice trembling ever so slightly, "that I've made such a fool of myself. Please, you must accept my apology for forcing this unpleasantness upon you. Forgive my rude lapse of manners." Gillie turned her back on him and made her way to the door, unlocking it. She had to get out of this room as fast as she could before she humiliated herself even further and burst into tears in front of him. Swallowing the bile that rose in her throat, she managed to say, "It won't ever happen again, I can assure you."

With those words, Gillie quietly left the room, keeping her eyes focused on the hall in front of her. Sounds echoed around her, music and laughter, making a mockery of her mood. Breeding forced her to walk instead of run up the stairs as Gillie heard repeated inside her head her mother's words from long ago, "Ladies don't scamper like hoydens, my dear girl. Remember who you are and act accordingly."

Gillian called up all the reserves of strength she had to do just that until she could reach the sanctuary of her room.

Rafe would never be able to forget Gillian's face, naked in its hurt and shame. The one person in the world he would never have wanted to cause a moment's pain, and he'd had to. Forced by circumstances and her sweet, totally unexpected confession of love.

Anger and bitterness ripped at his soul. It was as if he'd taken his own large Bowie knife and deliberately slashed the sharp blade across his stomach from side to side. He hated himself at that moment, no matter that he still believed it was all done in Gillian's best interest.

Rage welled up inside him, along with an intense, nagging pain. He desperately wanted to go and offer her comfort, but he couldn't. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and tell her that she would be all right, that he was there and nothing would hurt her ever again. But he couldn't.

Instead, a creeping coldness came over him, like the chilling blast of a blue norther.

Icy control seized him, numbing his raw emotions.

Straightening his sagging shoulders, Rafe unclenched his fists and strode out of the room.

Gillie made her way to her room, tears that she could no longer control flowing freely down her cheeks.

Nan, who had been waiting for her, was asleep in a chair, a book open on her lap. She awoke with a start when Gillian slammed her door shut. Blinking, she saw the tears streaming down her mistress's cheeks, heard the raw sobs.

Nan jumped up from her post, the book flying to the floor as she strode quickly to Lady Gillian's side. "What's wrong, Miss Gillie?"

Gillie used her hands to wipe away the evidence of her crying. "I can't talk about it now, Nan. Just help me out of this dress, please." "As you wish," Nan responded, unbuttoning the silk and gathering it up as Gillie stepped from it.

"Don't bother rehanging it," Gillie said, removing her petticoats and handing them to Nan. She sat on the bed and removed her shoes and stockings. "We are leaving here in the morning." Gillie stood up and grabbed her nightgown and robe and walked into the adjoining bathroom.

Nan heard the splash of water as she tided up, hastily packing clothes in the trunk. "Would you like a cup of tea, Miss Gillie?" she called out. Nan was worried. It wasn't that she'd never seen her employer shed tears before. She had, especially when the Lady Gillian had seen an injustice and tried to fix it. Miss Gillie's tender heart could always be touched by another's sorrow. It was however, the first time Nan had seen Gillie cry for personal reasons. And she knew that this time was indeed personal, since Mr. Rayburne was here.

Gillie emerged from the bathroom, her face freshly scrubbed. She'd pulled the pins haphazardly from her hair so that it tumbled about her slender form.

Walking as if in a trance, Gillie moved to her dressing table. She picked up the silver brush and held it in her hand, immobile.

"Here, let me do that for you," Nan said, taking the brush from Gillie's cold hand. She drew the brush through Gillie's hair, braiding it into one thick plait when she was done. "I think that you should get into bed, Miss Gillie, and I will bring you a nice cup of hot tea. That should make you feel better," Nan advised. "I'll just go and fetch it right now."

Gillie did as she was bidden, thinking how grand it would be if only a simple cup of tea could cure her heartache. She grabbed hold of one of the fluffy pillows, hugging it to her breast as tears once more escaped her eyes.

Rafe was going to be married. He loved this unknown woman, he'd declared. Who was she? And why hadn't Tory or Rhys mentioned this woman in any of their letters to her? Gillie gripped the pillow tighter. She concentrated, trying to recall the contents of Tory's last letter. Odd, in Tory's letter Gillie remembered her sister-in-law saying that Rafe was attracting interest amongst some of the females thereabouts, but that no one woman seemed to have a hold on his heart. Those words had given Gillie extra courage to reach for what she wanted. Obviously, Tory was mistaken.

Gillie threw the pillow aside, scrambling from the bed. She paced restlessly around the confines of the room. She felt so cold, as if all the warmth had drained from her body.

Shame and humiliation then flooded through her. What a complete idiot she'd been, confessing her love to a man already promised to another. Pining for a man who could never be hers, like a silly schoolgirl.

Oh God, she thought, Rafe must have thought her the very silliest and most foolish of schoolgirls. How could she have been so stupid? She'd thrown herself at him like some cheap tart, askingno, almost begging him to take her like any common slut.

Color suffused her cheeks as she recalled the feel of Rafe's mouth on hers, the deep ache it summoned anew in her body.

Why did it have to hurt so much?

Because, for her, Rafe was the one true love of her life. She knew that as surely as she knew the color of her eyes. It was an irrefutable fact. As long as she could remember, since she'd first met him, she'd known that somehow she and Rafe were connected.

However, his words and actions in the library had changed all that. It was obvious to Gillie that Rafe hadn't felt that same bonding.

What must he be thinking of her now? she wondered. They'd always had such an easy relationship, able to talk about many things. Or had she been deluding herself? It was she who'd kept up a steady stream of letters to him, she acknowledged with a painful jolt. His letters to her had lessened over the last two years. She'd simply put it down to his involvement in building up his own ranch. Now, she questioned whether he'd been trying to break the ties between them. Had she misread the signs? Seen only what she wanted to see? Believed only what she wanted to believe?

Fresh tears poured from Gillie's eyes, stinging her. She dabbed at them with a lace-edged hand-kerchief that she withdrew from the pocket of her robe. All her carefully planned dreams had collapsed around her, like a flimsy house of cards.

How could she envision a life without him? Whenever she daydreamed of married life, with a home of her own, it was always Rafe who filled the role of husband and father. It was Rafe who made her quicken with desire, who made her blood burn with just a look. Rafe who challenged her, made her want to be the best that she could beall for him. It had always been his babies she wanted to bear, to feel beneath her heart. It was in Rafe's arms and in Rafe's bed that she wanted to learn all there was to sharing love, to experience surrender and victory.

Emptiness loomed before her. Years of barrenness as she mourned what could never be.

No! I will forget you, Rafe, Gillie vowed, even if it takes my dying breath. I will never again think of your touch, your seldom-seen smile, your beautiful dark eyes, the sound of your voice. Oh yes, I will forget you, though you haunt me all the days of my life, she thought bitterly. I will forget you, though it cost me dearly, for never again shall I know this thing called love.

I will forget you.

The words echoed hollowly through her mind.

"Damn you, Rafe! You know I can never, ever forget you," she said aloud.

If only she could forget, Gillie reasoned, then perhaps she could think of life as possessing some possibilities for happiness.

No matter, Gillie admitted, for even if her eyes never beheld him again, Rafe's memory would be with her always, trapped in her heart.

Gillie sank to her knees on the carpet, holding her hands out to the warmth of the flames that burned low in the grate.

How quickly her once-cherished dreams had become as dead as the ashes.

Nan balanced the silver tray containing the hot pot of tea, sugar, milk, and two cups as she knocked on the door to the Honorable Miss Georgina Dacer's room, praying that she was doing the right thing.

Georgie answered the knock. "Nan," she said, "is something wrong?"

Nan gave her a poignant look. "I think that you should come and see Miss Gillie. Something happened to her tonight, and she's fair crying her eyes out. She looks so pale, but she won't say anything. I can't bear to see her so."

"Of course I shall come," Georgie answered, closing her door behind her and crossing the hallway to open the door to Gillie's room so that Nan could manage the tea tray.

Nan deposited the tray and left the two women alone with a hopeful glance at Georgie, thinking as she made her way back to her room in the servants' quarters that Miss Gillie's friend could more than likely discover the source of her mistress's pain.

"Gillie," Georgie spoke softly as she arranged the cups and poured the tea. She added an extra helping of sugar to Gillie's tea.

Gillie turned around as Georgie walked over to her and handed her the china cup.

Georgie was shocked to see her friend's pale countenance and red-rimmed eyes. Gillie looked devastated, as if someone had died.

Grateful for the warm beverage, Gillie drank it as Georgie sipped her own cup, having joined Gillie on the carpet. Moments of silence passed as the only audible sounds were the ticking of the clock and an occasional pop of the fire.

Gillie, her cup pushed aside on the floor, finally broke the stillness. "Oh, Georgie," Gillie confessed, her voice choking back sobs, her head bowed, "he doesn't love me."

Georgie reacted immediately, getting rid of her cup and moving to Gillie's side, placing her arms around her friend's shoulders in a comforting gesture. She held the other woman as Gillie poured forth her story, revealing every detail.

Georgie's heart ached to see the one person she loved above all others in such great pain. "I'm so sorry," she said, knowing that she really meant it. Gillie deserved a storybook ending, deserved to live happily ever after with her prince. It should have happened just as Gillie wanted it to happen. How could this American fail to love her? Was he blind? Or simply stupid?

It didn't make any sense, Georgie decided. She'd seen the American's face when they'd arrived. Following the genuine surprise was an immediate intense look of blistering passion. Even though it had only lasted a few seconds, she'd been a witness to it. "How can losing something that was never yours to begin with hurt so much, Georgie?" Gillian asked.

Tears wetting her own eyes, Georgie responded, "I really don't know, Gillie," adding silently, but it does.

"I remember telling youwas it just a few days ago?that I could give him up if there were someone else who loved him more than I could," Gillie said, sniffing back the tears, "but I don't even know this person. How can I be sure she loves him as deeply as I do?"

"You can't," Georgie answered her, removing her arms from Gillie; she busied herself with picking up the cups and taking them back to the tray. "It's not your decision to make. It's Rafe's, and he's made it."

Gillie thought about that later as she lay alone in the bed, unable to sleep. She accepted that Rafe had made his choice. Loving him as she did, she could do no less. It would be hard, but she was determined to be happy for him, to wish him well. She knew that she would need all the reserves of pride at her command to get through the hours to come.

Rafe sat alone in his room, candles burning and lamps lit, as if they could keep at bay the darkness he felt. He held Gillie's photograph reverently in his hand, a finger tracing the curve of her cheek, the sweet fullness of her mouth. He'd lost track of the time that had passed since he'd come back here. Somehow it didn't seem to matter all that much to him.

It was a cruel joke that he'd finally heard the words of love from her lips. To have to give up what he wanted more than anything in this world. It was a taste of heaven that he'd been forced to deny himself.

How it had cost him to call a halt to making love to her. It was almost beyond the limits of his strength when he found her pliant and willing in his arms. Sheer force of will had made him stop, else he would have taken her there and lived his dreams, no matter the price.

But he loved her.

She would never know just how much.

Chapter Nine

''It must have been damned awkward for Rafe," Tony commented as his hand idly caressed Natasha's bare buttocks.

They'd overheard Gillie's startling confession to Rafe while they were outside the window, hastily rearranging their clothes. Tony had been loathe to move for fear of alerting the man and woman inside the room that they had an audience. And, he confessed, he was more than a little curious as to what Gillie had to say. Her admission of her love for Rafe was a shock. What he found even more shocking was that Gillie had boldly come right out and told Rafe. Women of his class and acquaintance were never so forward with their emotions. It just wasn't the done thing. Even if they felt that way, even if they quietly manipulated events or people, they waited for the man to make his declaration first.

As for Rafe, this was the first time that Tony had heard that Rafe was in love with someone. Tony thought it odd that his friend had never mentioned his forthcoming nuptials. She was probably some American heiress with a large dowry and a sweet, malleable nature.

"She would have been doubly embarrassed if she'd known that we were there," Natasha said with a sigh, her hand stroking Tony's shoulder as she curled closer to his body.

"That's the truth," Tony concurred. He was exceedingly fond of both Rafe and Gillie, and it was strange to think of them in this situation. It was most defintely a jumbled set of circumstances. "I imagine that they will be quite uncomfortable with each other now," he stated, pillowing his head on his left arm. "Deuced unpleasant, really." It would affect all of them, he thought. Their open camaraderie would now be a thing of the past. Things tended to go awry, he'd observed, when love clouded judgment. It was much better, and safer, to be practical about such matters.

"It must have been rather difficult for Rafe to be so blunt with our Gillie when he told her that a man doesn't have to love a woman he wants to make love to," Tony said. "I mean, Gillie is no fille de joie who knows what it's all about, and it's not a topic of conversation a gentleman usually takes up with a lady." Tony shifted in the bed, moving so that he sat up, his back against the headboard. "Love complicates things too much," he remarked idly, "especially sex."

"Perhaps if Lady Gillian had been in a man's bed before this and had experienced the pleasures lovers know," Natasha ventured, stretching, "she might not have confused love for desire."

Tony was shocked. "I hardly think it likely that the sister of the Earl of Derran would be found cavorting in some man's bed without being married to him. Gillie's no slut, Nat. For all her independence and free-thinking, she's been brought up respectable."

"Lady Gillian is young, and the blood is hot, my sweet," Natasha retorted, "lady or no lady. Why shouldn't she experience the difference between lust and love? Is she really to save herself for marriage?"

"Of course," Tony answered.

"Bah! What a waste," Natasha said, rising from the bed. She strolled, naked, to the small table and poured herself another glass of champagne. "I was fourteen when I happily lost my virginity."

"Fourteen?" Tony asked.

"Yes," she said with a smile, watching his eyes as they gazed at her body. Tony was too much a man not to respond to the obvious. She ran one hand though her hair, lifting it off her neck, knowing that as she did so, it also raised her breasts, her nipples peaking.

"It was summer and we were visiting friends of my parents in the country," she explained, nibbling on a spoonful of caviar. "One day I came across one of the farm workers, who'd been swimming in the stream. He was perhaps two or three years older than me. I hid and watched him." She closed her eyes, recalling the thrill of discovery. "Seeing him made me ache." Natasha let her hand drop to the curls below her belly. "Here," she said in a soft voice, slowly stroking herself, knowing all the while that she held Tony's rapt attention. "I followed him and discovered that he liked the water and swam there regularly. Several days later, I got there just as he entered the stream. His body fascinated me. He was so big, yet agile. I approached him; he was surprised to see me, but he didn't flinch as I removed my dress and joined him." She withdrew her hand from her body, picking up the spoon once more for another taste of the caviar. Satisfied, she said simply, "He eased my ache.''

"You sought him out?" Tony demanded.

Natasha could tell that her lover was shocked by her confession. "Yes."

"It's expected for a woman of your class and background to be pure for her husband when she comes to her marriage bed."

"Was Dillington pure for me?" she inquired with a laugh. "I think not." She drained the glass of champagne, leaving it on the table. "You are far too serious, Tony." She walked back to the bed.

"You cheated your husband of what was rightfully his," he said in a somber tone.

"So," she asked, pausing before getting back into the bed, "you would feel cheated if, when you slid between your bride's legs, there was no blood after your first joining?"

"Naturally," he responded. "The woman I one day wed will be a lady."

"And what if this unknown lady should share her favors with another after you are wed? What then?" she inquired as she joined him.

"That will never happen. I wouldn't allow it," Tony answered without hesitation.

"Oh, youth, to be so sure," Natasha quipped, reaching for him.

Tony was sure and he knew it. Evading her arms, he rose and began to dress quickly, ignoring the physical hunger Natasha raised in him.

"Where are you going?" she asked. "It's only a little after two."

"To get some sleep," he said, coming back to the bed and kissing her pouting mouth, tasting the salty flavor of the fish. "Rafe and I leave in the morning for London."

"So soon? Why must you go?"

"We will be escorting my cousin Georgie and Lady Gillie back to the city."

"Will you come back when you've completed your task?"

Tony looked at her, regret in his tone. "I think not."

Natasha felt a cold chill run up her spine. She grabbed the soft blanket and pulled it up to her shoulders, hugging the material. "Shall I expect your call next week then, when I return to London?" He paused at the door. "I shall have to check my calendar first before I can promise you."

Natasha nodded her head. She didn't need the words. It was in his eyestheir affair was over. "Of course."

Tony gave her a last, fleeting look. He would visit the family jeweler in Bond Street this week and purchase a trinket for her. A fine bauble, something expensive. Diamonds would do nicely, he decided. A token of his regard for time well spent. She'd earned it.

Georgie was weary of pacing back and forth. Gillian had finally gone to sleep, and she'd crept out of her friend's bedroom, carefully shutting the door so as not to wake her. She'd tried to get some sleep when she returned to her own room, but without success. Bored, she rose and fetched her sketchbook from her trunk. This was Georgie's private work, not meant for general show. Lighting a lamp, she unlocked the leatherbound volume.

An hour passed, and Georgie filled several pages with drawings. Her pencil recreated pain and triumph, beauty and despair from the faces that surrounded her this weekend. She flipped through the sketchbook, critiquing her own work. The majority of the portraits consisted of renderings of Gillian, captured in various moods.

She smiled in fondness when she came upon the sketch she'd done of Tony some months ago on his birthday. It captured well, she thought, his sense of amusement and fair play. Without his kind words and encouragement, along with Gillie's, Georgie doubted that she could have kept her social standing in society. Her parents' public refusal to accept her decision to pursue her art had been a difficult blow.

Turning another page, Georgie came across the proud, chiseled face of the Texan. She was pleased that she had captured the look of intensity in his features. Concentrating on his eyes, Georgie saw something there that she hadn't been aware of while she was making the drawing: a hint of loneliness.

The next sketch caused a shiver. Jason Kingsford's face stared back at her. The blank face of a man devoid of any human warmth or compassion. How many ever noticed the cruelty behind the bland charm?

The last picture was of Gillie, captured in agony. A portrait of a woman whose heart was broken.

Georgie closed the sketchbook, unable to look any further upon her own work. Tears ran down her cheeks as she recalled her friend's pain. She longed to give as much comfort as she could to Gillie, but she held back for fear of losing her perspective. She wanted desperately to cradle Gillie in her arms all night, holding her close.

Getting up, Georgie made up her mind to go to the library. Perhaps a book could ease her troubled musings. She was not a great reader, preferring to be active with her pencil or paints, but it was worth a try. <><><><><><><><><><><><>

Marina Allenwood was reading, her glasses perched upon her thin nose, a slim volume of Russian love poetry held in her hands. She closed the book, sliding the embroidered velvet marker into place, when she saw the door to the library open. She assumed it was her maid, bringing her requested pot of hot chocolate. Surprise took her when she saw the Honorable Georgina Dacer walk through instead. Her glance flicked to the mantel clock: it was two in the morning.

"I'm sorry," Georgie said, "I didn't know anyone else was awake." She began to back away. "I shall leave you alone.''

"Nonsense," Marina replied, unexpectedly happy to see the younger woman, "come in and join me. When I can't sleep, I find it helps if I read and drink hot chocolate."

"If you're sure?"

"Of course I am, my dear." Marina could see that Georgina was upset. The girl's eyes were slightly red, as if she'd been crying.

The door opened again and Marina's maid walked in with a silver tray. She cast a swift glance at the other woman who'd joined her mistress as she set the tray and its contents on the table that separated the two wing chairs.

"Fetch another cup for my guest," Marina instructed.

The maid nodded and left the room while Marina poured the hot chocolate into a delicate china cup, adding a splash from a small, dark glass bottle. "Curaçao," Marina explained. "Have you ever tasted it?"

"No," Georgie replied, casting a careful glance at what Marina was doing.

"It's a liqueur from the West Indies that tastes of orange," Marina said, handing the cup to Georgie as her servant returned. "Try it, and I think you'll find it's quite pleasant." Marina thanked the maid and dismissed her for the night. She fixed a drink for herself, sipping the brew with a satisfied smile on her face.

"Is there something troubling you that you can't sleep?" Marina asked in a forthright manner.

Georgie put her cup down, her hands linked in her lap. "I am worried about a friend."

Marina took another drink before she asked, "Lady Gillian?"

Georgie picked up her cup again, as if she found the contents fascinating.

Marina was not fooled. She'd hit a nerve, obviously. Marina wanted to ease the younger woman's apparently troubled spirit, but she wasn't quite sure how to go about it. She couldn't be too blatant, or she would frighten the girl. And that she didn't want to do. Marina knew she must tread carefully or risk alienating the artist. She must proceed slowly.

Marina was pleased with herself. She began to ply Georgie with various questions about her art, and the time flew, so that when the voices of several species of birds could be heard through the open window, each knew that it was time to break up the very congenial tête-à-tête.

"I hadn't realized that it was quite so late," Georgie conceded.

"Nor had I," Marina admitted truthfully. She had engaged the girl in conversation in order to keep her beside her, yet she'd found Georgie was an interesting conversationalist once her shyness was breached.

"It's not like me to be chattering away," Georgie explained.

Marina stifled a yawn as she led the way to the door. "Think nothing of it," she said, standing aside to let Georgie pass through the door first. "I enjoyed our talk."

Georgie smiled. "So did I."

They walked in companionable silence up the stairs until they stood on the landing that divided the upper levels. Believing that they were alone, for her servants wouldn't be in this part of the house at this hour, Marina moved closer to Georgie.

Georgie stood still, her heart beating slightly faster.

"I want to see you again," Marina stated.

Georgie didn't know what to do.

"Think about it," Marina counseled. She raised one hand and brought it to rest upon Georgie's smooth cheek. She trailed her fingers lightly along the younger woman's flesh, cupping Georgie's chin for the merest instant.

Georgie's eyes opened in bewilderment.

"Goodnight," Marina said softly, taking the short flight of stairs to the left. Moving slowly up the right stairs, Georgie was still somewhat perplexed by the events of the night.

Neither woman was aware that they were not, in fact, alone at that precise moment. Jason Kingsford was sneaking back into the house, having fallen asleep in the stables after tumbling Lady Allenwood's neighbor. He'd sent the hag back to her own house with her tail tucked between her legs, having shown her who was the master.

He stood, cloaked in shadows, watching the two women on the stairs, watching silently as the older woman gently caressed the other. Beneath his breath, Kingsford mumbled the words, "Filthy whoring bitches!"

How dare they both turn him away?

And for what? Each other?

It looked as though he would have to teach the Honorable strumpet just what it meant to be a real woman. Did she prefer a female to him?

Well, they would just see about that. He'd make that unnatural slut pay, and pay dearly. Miss Dacer needed a lesson, and he was just the man to give it to her. The sooner the better.

Gillie woke with a sense of gloom hanging over her. She tossed back the covers and padded to the stand that held a pitcher and bowl in the washroom. Pouring in the tepid water, she splashed her face, washing away the traces of her tears. Her sleep had been restless and filled with nightmares. She'd tossed and turned, caught in the web of her torturous dreams. Over and over again, she played out the scene with Rafe, the kiss that had claimed her. If he'd wanted to take her there, on the floor, she would have surrendered gladly, willing to give him all that she could in love. But then she would hear his voice, his distinct accent, reminding her that a man needn't love a woman to possess her. Humiliation would overcome her and she'd wake, only to fall back into sleep and have the dream repeated.

She dried her face. It was barely morning; the glow of the dawn was just breaking through the barrier of the night. There were a few stars still visible, faint in the distance. Birds could be heard chirping away in the nearby trees, happily singing their ode to daybreak.

Soon Rafe would leave England, returning to Texas and the life that awaited him thereto the woman who was probably waiting patiently for his homecoming even now. Gillie knew that the chances were great that she and Rafe would not see each other again until some time had passed. His heart, his loyalty were now joined to another woman.

How could she ever willingly let him go?

What choice did she have? She could not force him to stay with her when he wanted another life, another love.

Gillie knew that she had only a few hours left to spend in his company; only a few hours remained to hear his voice, to see his face. These stolen moments would have to last her an empty lifetime without him.

She'd always believed in a tomorrow.

Now she'd be content with merely today.

Chapter Ten

A week had passed since the disastrous house-party at Lady Allenwood's home in Sussex.

Gillie sat sipping her morning coffee, unable to concentrate on the large stack of papers in front of her. She'd worked tirelessly since her return from the country, trying to keep busy so that her mind wouldn't dwell on the man she was determined to forget. Forcing herself to devote more and more hours to her charity work, Gillie found that there was much to be done. She arranged meetings, planned numerous affairs to benefit one cause or another, and maintained a pace that was taking its toll on her. Dark circles from lack of sleep smudged her pale skin. Her normally healthy appetite suffered also as she either ignored meals or ate sparingly.

And still she couldn't pretend that memories of Rafe didn't slip into her mind at odd times. Unbidden, they simply materialized, powerful shadows that darkened her usually sunny heart.

Lady Agatha stood in the doorway to the study, watching her daughter. In place of her youngest child's normal cheerful countenance was the wan face of a stranger. Gillian, who'd always had a ready smile and a kind word, now was withdrawn and quiet. Something was most definitely the matter, and Gillian hadn't chosen to confide in her.

Agatha loved her daughter as much as she loved her soneven if she didn't understand either of them. She had always wanted what was best for both of them. She'd thought to mold each of her children into the personification of what she felt was right and proper; both had surprised her with their stubbornness and independence. Her son Rhys had always been strong-willed; he'd met his match when he wed the American heiress Tory Reitenauer.

Agatha smiled. It was sometimes still a shock to discover that after ten years, her son and his wife were still wildly in love.

Yet what of her daughter? Gillian should be having babies of her own instead of worrying about someone else's children. Charity work had its place in one's life, Agatha allowed, but not to the exclusion of the duty and responsibility one owed one's family, one's heritage. For Gillian, now that she was of age, that responsibility should lie in securing a good marriage, with a man worthy of the honor. Lady Agatha had certainly tried to foster that notion, planting seeds of interest amongst her vast circle of friends. Even her husband had been coerced into her scheme. His diplomatic connections provided more contacts. Still, if her daughter refused to respond to the growing number of unopened invitations, what was a mother to do?

Why, take matters into her own hands and confront her wayward child, Lady Agatha had decided.

"Gillian," she said as she sauntered into the study, dropping a pile of unopened envelopes and assorted calling cards onto the stack of papers.

"Mama," Gillie answered, abruptly aroused from her stupor. "What's this?"

"At least a week's worth of mail for you, my dear. Why haven't you seen to it?"

Gillie gave a weary sigh. "I've been very busy."

Lady Agatha raised her graying brows. "Have you now? With what?" she asked, adding silently, as if I don't already know.

"My charity concerns, Mama."

"You should have a care for your social concerns as well, my dear," Lady Agatha responded, her tone critical, albeit soft.

"I do," Gillie replied.

Lady Agatha pointed a long-nailed index finger in the direction of the mail. "I think not."

Gillie's mouth curled in a small smile. "I may be a little bit behind." "A little?" Lady Agatha asked. "Gillian," she reprimanded her daughter, ''what of the people who've called, left their cards? You've neglected them also." Lady Agatha took a seat on the small blue-and-cream-striped settee across from the desk where Gillian sat.

Gillian defended herself, reiterating, "I have been occupied with far more pressing details than which party I should attend and whose call I missed."

"That is why I insist that you stop what you are doing and give some measure of your attention to your obligations before rumors start to fly that you've become a recluse, my dear."

Gillian sighed. "I'm hardly a recluse, mama." She rose, one hand massaging the ache in her back. "This is the first day that I've spent at home."

Lady Agatha gave her daughter a sharp glance. "That's not what I meant," she said in exasperation.

"Then what do you mean?"

"That you've become isolated from people."

"I see people every day."

"Not quite the right sort, my dear," Lady Agatha gently rebuked her daughter. "If you'll be so good as to notice the calling card of the Comte de vanDamme. He's been here twice this week. Every mother in London who has a daughter of marriageable age has been besieging him with invitations. The man can pick and chose as he will. It speaks well that he has chosen to honor you with his company." Lady Agatha paused a moment before adding, "Your stepfather speaks highly of him. He is a man of some fortune and a beautiful estate in Normandy, so I'm told, with a very ancient title. Imagine yourself a comtesse, my dear," she said with great enthusiasm. "I can see it quite clearly."

The only thing that Gillie seemed able to imagine was a simpler titleGillian Rayburne, wife to Rafael Rayburne, Texan. "I have no wish to be a comtesse, Mama," Gillie stated.

"Well, we certainly can't accept much less, my dear. As the daughterand sisterof an earl, it's expected that you wed at least someone of equally good birth."

Gillie joined her mother on the settee, taking Agatha's hands in hers. "Mama, I will choose whom I am to wed. You know that Rhys has promised me that."

Lady Agatha rolled her eyes. "Your brother should not have made so rash a gesture."

"Rhys loves his wife, Mama. He wouldn't ask me to wed a man I didn't love."

"What is all this talk of love?" Lady Agatha asked, exasperated.

"Didn't you love my father?"

Lady Agatha responded softly, her thoughts slipping back to the girl she'd once been. "I thought I did when I first met him, my dear. He was a charming man, but he had a weakness for gambling. That, I'm afraid, meant more to him than anything. More than me, more than your brothers or even you," she admitted. "It was his weaknessand I couldn't forgive him for that, especially because I wanted his only weakness to be me." She squeezed her daughter's hands. "Yes, I was quite fond of your father, Gillian, but as for what is termed la grande amour, no, it was never like that between us, for which I was grateful."

"Why?"

"Because then he would have broken my heart when he died."

"Rhys and Tory share such a love," Gillie said quietly.

"I know," her mother agreed. "And look what it has cost your brother. His country. His home. His life as he should have lived it. Such a love demands much."

"Rhys was willing to pay the price," Gillie declared, "as were more than several of my ancestors," she reminded her mother.

"Yes, that's so," Agatha said, "which is why I hope that you will make a suitable alliance, Gillian. One tempestuous marriage in this family in this generation is by far enough," she professed.

"Have you changed your mind about coming to Paris with us?" Lady Agatha inquired. "We could have such a grand time there, what with the parties, the shops, the glittering life of French society. I so want to show you off, my dear."

"I can't leave now, Mama. I have too much work to do." Gillie knew that was merely a politeness for her mother's sake. If Rafe had wanted her, she would have quit England as soon as she was able. But as he didn't, her work was what she must focus on now, for it was what kept her going. She took pride in her accomplishments, in her ability to help change lives. She did what she could with the tools at her disposal.

"You could hire someone to help you, if you wished." Agatha suggested. "You needn't be involved personally."

Gillie stood and went back to her padded desk chair. "But you see, Mama, I want to be involved."

Lady Agatha rose, sighing. "I give up." She walked to the door. "At least, for now," she added, a cunning smile on her face. "I do expect you for dinner tonight, Gillian. We haven't had your company at all this week, and I think that you could spare your stepfather and me just a few hours of your day."

Gillie decided that it wouldn't hurt to mollify her mother. "Yes, I shall join you both for dinner."

Lady Agatha deepened her smile as she closed the door. She'd asked a guest to join them for dinner this evening also, and the comte had readily agreed. He had her blessing to woo her daughter, and it could begin tonight.

Gillie gave a glance at the assorted mail her mother had dumped on her desk. She supposed that she'd better sort through the pile and see if there was anything that required an immediate reply. One envelope demanded her attention first. She recognized the handwriting at once. Taking a deep breath, Gillie seized her paperknife, a replica of a Scottish claymore, and slit open the envelope. Trembling slightly, she withdrew the thick, cream-colored paper.

Dear Gillie:

I shall be leaving for home in a matter of days.

Should you have anything you wish me to take to Rhys, Tory, or the children, send it to me at Tony's house and I shall see it delivered.

I wish you all the best.

Adios,

It was signed simply, Rafe.

So impersonal a note, Gillie thought. As if nothing had passed between them. He was ignoring the time spent at Lady Allenwood's house as if it hadn't occurred.

Gillie crumpled the paper in her hand in a moment of sadness. She was cut to the quick by his perfunctory note. Clearly, he had put her declaration of love behind him and was going on with his life and with his marriage plans.

She looked down at her balled fist, at the paper clutched there. Releasing her fingers, she smoothed out the paper. Her left hand lay flat against the note, the garnet ring she wore gleaming on her finger.

His gift.

Her legacy.

Gillie withdrew a sheet of her own personal stationery from the wooden box to her right and picked up her silver pen. Dipping it into the cut-glass ink jar, she dashed off a quick reply, sealing it with wax and her private seal. She would send it round to Tony's house with one of her footmen, but Gillie was aware that she would have to do it without her mother finding out. Rising, she pulled the bellcord to summon a maid.

Within minutes a short, robust woman in her late twenties entered the room. "Yes, Lady Gillian?"

Gillie handed her the envelope. "I want this delivered now. Tell James"she named the footman of her choice"that it must be taken to the house of Anthony Chambers. See to it."

"Yes, Miss Gillian," the maid responded.

"Oh, Jane," Gillie added, "do you know if Nan has returned from her errands?"

"I saw her just a few minutes ago, Miss Gillian. She was talking with Lady Rothersby."

"Thank you, Jane. You may go now." What, Gillie wondered, was her mother doing chatting with her maid?

The answer to that question was forthcoming when Nan knocked five minutes later, bringing with her a large china plate piled high with sandwiches and a pewter tankard.

"Lady Rothersby informed me that you barely ate a thing for breakfast, Miss Gillie."

"I shall be having tea at Georgie's later this afternoon, Nan," Gillie protested as her maid set the plate in front of her. "That's hours away, Miss Gillie, and you've been neglecting yourself this past week." She moved the papers to one side and placed the tankard of cold milk within Gillie's reach. "You can't keep going on as you've been without getting sick," Nan politely scolded.

Gillie cheerfully gave in, examining the thick-cut slices of brown bread, which contained slices of cold chicken and herb butter. She picked up a half and bit into it, relishing the taste. Within fifteen minutes, Gillie had devoured two sandwiches and the entire contents of the tankard.

Nan smiled her pleasure. She'd been worried about her mistress ever since they'd returned from that ill-fated trip. Seeing Gillie eat eased her mind considerably.

"Lady Rothersby told me that you would be having dinner with her and Lord Rothersby tonight."

Gillie grinned, suddenly felling much better and less peckish than before. "In a moment of weakness, I agreed."

"It'll make her ladyship happy, you know."

Gillie nodded her head. "I do know. She came up here earlier to chastize me for working too hard with my charities."

"She doesn't know about the houseparty at Lady Allenwood's, does she?" Nan inquired.

Gillie steepled her hands together, shaking her head; waves of long black hair, held back by only an indigo-blue silk ribbon, fell over her shoulders. "If she did, I would still be listening to her. She must never know."

Nan assured her, "She'll never hear it from me, Miss Gillie."

"Thank you, Nan. Now," Gillie said, pushing aside the plate and tankard, "how was your visit to the Shelton Orphanage? Did they get the books that I instructed to be sent?" Gillie listened as Nan gave her the glowing report. The orphanage was a favorite project of hers. Gillie knew that she couldn't help all London's poor and abandoned children, but this was at least a start. With her patronage, and that of the Earl of Derran, her brother, the Shelton Home for Boys & Girls received the support it needed to make a difference.

"The classrooms were full," Nan stated.

"Better that than the sweatshops," Gillie said, "or the streets." The sight of children begging for scraps, covered in dirt and rags, had prompted Gillie to do something. She couldn't ignore, as many of her class did, the misery around her. She considered herself fortunate and wanted to do what she could to help others. The large brick house, an hour's ride outside London in the tiny village of Shelton, had been the perfect site for her experiment. It was easy to get Jason Beaudré, her brother and sister-in-law's man of business in London, to handle the purchase for her and hire the staff.

"I'm going to ask Georgie today if she'll volunteer to teach an art class to the children and perhaps give some private lessons to the more talented pupils. What do you think?" Nan gave a cheery laugh. "They'll love that for sure, Miss Gillie."

"I hope so," she said as Nan cleared away the plate and pewter tankard. "Now, I'd best get back to these letters before I have to leave for Georgie's house."

It was after one in the afternoon when Tony and Rafe entered the door of Tony's London house, having been out all night at a private club, celebrating the impending nuptials of a classmate of Tony's from Oxford who was due to sail to a new life in Jamaica with his bride within the week. Slightly bleary-eyed from too much champagne, Tony handed over his hat, cane, and cloak to his major-domo, Stanhope, who also took Rafe's.

"With you and Robin leaving, it'll be damned dull around here, old chap," Tony announced as he made his way into his drawing room. "Damned dull indeed."

Rafe followed him, swallowing a yawn. "I don't think so," he stated. It had been quite a bachelor party, with various forms of entertainment including a group of hired dancers specializing in exotic performances, cards, a troupe of actors who staged a bawdy series of scenes for the guests, and available women. Rafe, who'd been persuaded to go by Tony, had enjoyed it, though from a self-imposed distance. He contrasted this wild gathering to the affairs that were held in Texas. Equally boisterous, Texans wouldn't consider it a party unless everyone they knew, male and female, were invited. Weddings were causes for celebration within the community, an excuse to gather and kick up one's heels. Rafe missed that mingling, missed feeling a part of his surroundings.

But what he missed most of all he would leave in this countryGillie. Not a day went by that he didn't think of her, didn't wish he could have accepted her declaration of love and shown her that he returned it tenfold. But that wasn't to be. Their paths lad to separate roads; this trip had shown him that even more clearly.

Stanhope entered the room with a silver tray that he brought to Tony. "These were delivered today, sir. The large envelope is for you, the other is for Mr. Rayburne."

Tony took both from the tray. "I want a large pot of coffee immediately."

"Do you want anything to eat, sir?" Stanhope inquired.

Tony gave a look in Rafe's direction and saw Rafe shake his head. "Just the coffee," he directed.

Stanhope left the men alone. Tony handed Rafe the pale blue envelope bearing his name, and he turned his attention to the thick envelope that bore the stamp of the law firm that handled his mother's family's legal matters. He glanced back at Rafe to see the other man placing the envelope in his coat pocket.

"It's from Gillie, isn't it?" Tony asked.

"Yes," was Rafe's simple reply. He couldn't read it now because he didn't trust himself. He wanted the reading to be private.

Tony quickly opened the one addressed to him, scanning the contents. Surprise registered on his face.

''What is it?" Rafe asked. "Bad news?"

"Yes and no," Tony answered, wishing he'd asked for a bottle of whiskey instead of a pot of hot coffee. He moved to the window, watching the sun play hide-and-seek with the gathering clouds as he mentally digested the facts of the letter.

A footman knocked and brought in the coffee. He placed the tray on a side table and left just as quietly.

Tony walked over and poured a cup. Rafe joined him, taking one for himself, black.

"It would seem," Tony began after drinking one cup of coffee hastily and pouring himself another, "that my great-uncle Cedric has died, thrown from his horse, his neck broken. Judging by the date on the original letter sent to the solicitors, he died almost six months ago."

"Where you close?"

"I wouldn't have said so," Tony admitted, "but according to this, I'd be wrong. It seems that Great-uncle Cedric has left me a sizable estate."

"Where?"

"Australia," Tony said in a low voice.

"Australia?" Rafe asked, disbelief in his voice. "That's clear across the world!"

"Exactly," Tony agreed. He finished his third cup, trying to clear the cobwebs from his brain. "According to Great-uncle Cedric's will, I have to go there and claim my inheritance in person. It also states that I must abide there for the space of a year to be able to get my share."

"Your share?" Rafe queried.

"Yes." Relinquishing the china cup, Tony sat down in a leather wing chair to read further. He ran one hand through his light brown hair. "Apparently there is a co-heir. A woman," he remarked. He continued reading. "My God!" Tony exclaimed.

"What?" Rafe demanded.

"The old boy had a bloody mistress," Tony disclosed. "He left half the place to a trollop." He shifted his gaze to Rafe. "Can you believe that he wants me to share a house with a whore? And one with a child, no less."

"Are you sure she's a whore, Tony?" Rafe prompted.

"She's been my great-uncle's companion since he came back from a trip to America three years ago, this says. She's lived with him as his woman, sharing his bed. And," Tony added, considering this his most damning piece of information, "he never married her."

"But he did leave her half his estate," Rafe pointed out, "so he must have cared for her."

"Or could it be she tricked him?" Tony suggested. "Cedric's solicitors explain that if I do not comply with the request as it is written, then the entire property will belong to this woman." Tony rose, growling out the words, "Like hell it will." Rafe saw the determined look in his friend's green eyes. "Why is this suddenly so important to you?"

"Because this is an estate of some considerable size and value, from what the solicitors say. Do you think I'd let it go to a woman who likely hoodwinked an old man into giving her a sharefor services rendered?" Tony said, his voice calm and deliberate. "No. I'll be damned before I'll do that. If for nothing else than that the old man was family."

"Then come with me on the ship I'm sailing home on," Rafe proposed. "You can disembark at Galveston, with me, and ride to my ranch. Once we're in Texas, we can wire ahead to Los Angeles or San Francisco to arrange passage on a ship bound for Australia."

Tony considered the idea, mulling it over in his mind for a few minutes. "Yes," he said, "I will take you up on that, Rafe. It shan't take me long to get my affairs here in order"he'd have to say his farewells to Natasha Dillington in a letter instead of in person"and say goodbye to my family. There's nothing in England to keep me."

As Rafe entered his bedroom upstairs he felt the same. There was nothing in England to keep him here, or to bring him back. Yesterday he'd received an answer from the Honorable Georgina Dacer to his request to buy the painting of Gillie. She'd flatly refused. In a nice, genteel way, of course, but it was a refusal just the same. He removed the note from Gillie from his pocket and placed it on the bed while he undressed. He pulled on a black silk dressing gown borrowed from Tony. He'd have no use for something like this in Texas. Here it was part of the masquerade.

Rafe opened a window. The air was cool and humid, with a promise of rain. At home the hills would be covered with bluebonnets, and the heat would have already begun.

He turned back to the bed, picking up the letter. Breaking the wax seal, he took out the single sheet of stationery.

My dearest Rafe,

Thank you for your generous offer. Tomorrow I shall send round some items for you to take back to Texas for my family. Tell them that they have my love as always.

For you, Rafe, I wish you joy and best wishes on your forthcoming marriage. May it bring you all the happiness you so truly deserve.

I am, and shall ever be, your devoted friend.

It was signed in a formal manner: Gillian Fitzgerald Buchanan.

Rafe re-read the note, a knife twisting in his gut as he did so. Her sweet words blistered his brain. Gillie was wishing him well on a lie, and for her sake alone, he must continue the charade until he left England for good. He hadn't known what to expect in answer to his notecomplete indifference, a tart-tongued scathing reply, or simply nothing.

But that wasn't his Gillie. She had too much class for thatand too much heart. Hers and his. Unbeknownst to her, Gillie would always have his, for no matter what he'd said, no matter what he did, Rafe loved her.

Chapter Eleven

Georgie stared at the canvas, uncertain of just what shade to use for the skin tone of the man in the portrait she was working on. She mixed several colors on her palette, critically examining each. One was too brown; the next too red; another too pale. She closed her eyes, summoning up his face, trying to remember just what blend of colors would fit him.

She wrinkled her nose as she watched the midday sun play hide and seek with the clouds. Maybe Gillie would have changed her mind about wanting a portrait of Rafe Rayburne, especially after what had occurred.

Who am I deceiving? Georgie thought. Gillie was in love with the man. One weekend wouldn't have changed that.

But what of the note that had been delivered from the Cavendish Gallery from the tall Texan? Georgie thought it odd that a man who professed to love another woman would seek to buy the Magdelene painting that featured the woman he'd rejected, offering an enormous amount of money. She'd kept the card on which the offer was made, wondering if she ought to show it to Gillian. Or would it upset her friend, following so closely on the heels of his rebuff?

Georgie wrote to the American, telling him that she was very flattered by his offer, but that she had no plans ever to sell the Magdelene. How could she? It was a part of Gillie that was hers alone. Something that she could keepa reminder. Georgie knew that she was being overly sentimental and foolish, but she couldn't help it.

The sun broke through the clouds once again, and she moved to the window to check the latest mix of colors to see if she had finally gotten it right.

Mrs. Little heard the insistent knocking at the front door. She wiped her sugar-coated hands on a soft towel, inhaling the scent of just-baked apple tarts warm from the oven.

Making her way from the kitchen at the back of the house to the front doorway, she hummed under her breath. It was a pleasure to be baking again, for with company coming todayher employer's best friendshe had an excuse to try out a new recipe her sister had given her.

Mrs. Little opened the door. On the steps stood a well-dressed man. "May I help you?" she asked politely.

"Indeed you may, if this is the house of the Honorable Georgina Dacer."

Mrs. Little puffed a bit with pride. She was well aware that her employer was an artist of some reknown. "It is," she answered proudly.

"Then I wish to speak to Miss Dacer regarding a very important matter," the caller stated.

"If you would be so kind as to come in and wait in the drawing room, I will see if Miss Georgina is receiving." Mrs. Little escorted the gentleman into the drawing room, which looked out onto the street. Unlike most London homes, where the drawing room would be on the floor above, Georgie insisted that hers be on the ground floor for convenience's sake. "Do you have a card?" she asked.

"I'm afraid that my call is rather on a whim, you understand, so that I only made up my mind whilst out walking." The man gave Mrs. Little a charming smile and a small shrug of his shoulders. "It truly is a most important matterfor a 'royal gentleman,' shall we say." He winked, as if he were letting her in on a secret. "I cannot say more," he insisted, "but I think that Miss Dacer would be pleased to have a piece of her work hanging in Marlborough House."

Oh, my God! Mrs. Little thought. Her employer's work hung in the Prince of Wales's own residence! What a singular honor. She couldn't wait to inform Miss Georgie. "I'll go and tell her, sir. I won't be but a few minutes." She left the stranger in the drawing room as she made her way up the stairs to her employer's third-floor studio.

As soon as the housekeeper had her foot on the stairs, the man shrugged out of his coat, tossing it to the couch. He pulled off his gloves, sending them after the garment; it was the same with the hat he wore. His eyes glittered with cunning. How very easy it was to gain entrance to this house. His ruse had worked.

Slipping out of the room, he climbed the stairs in search of his victim.

He heard the housekeeper's voice through the open doorway.

"There's a gentleman to see you, Miss Georgina. He represents a most important man, he says."

"Who?" Georgie asked, dipping her paintbrush into the blended colors on her palette.

"Me," came the masculine voice from the doorway.

Both women spun around at the sound.

Georgie gasped. Mrs. Little's face drained of her normal healthy color. The man held a small pistol.

"What do you want?" Georgie asked. She shivered from the coldness she saw in his eyes, fear rising quickly within her.

Jason Kingsford's smile was malicious. "Why, to see you again, my sweet," he stated calmly. "To complete our destiny."

Mrs. Little turned her attention to Georgina. "Do you know him, Miss Georgie?" A sinking feeling hit the pit of her ample stomach. "He isn't from the Prince of Wales, is he?"

"No," Jason answered her before Georgie could. "You assumed that I was from the Prince's household. Quite foolish of you, I would say. And as to your other question, I do know Miss Dacer." Kingsford cast a glance in Georgie's direction, looking her up and down. "Though not as well as I shall," he said smoothly. He noticed a door with a key in the lock. "What's that?" he demanded.

"It's a storage room," Georgie answered.

"How convenient," he said with a smirk. He walked the distance to the room and tried the door. It opened and he peered in. It was small and secure, filled with canvases and supplies. He pointed the pistol at the housekeeper-cook. "You, get over here."

Georgie moved, trying to appeal to him, hoping that there was still some semblance of decency in him. "Please leave us alone, Mr. Kingsford," she implored him.

"Shut up, bitch!" He looked at Mrs. Little, who was standing still with shock. "Get over here or I shall be forced to use this pistol. And," he added, "I am a good shot, especially at this distance."

With that pronouncement, Mrs. Little reluctantly walked across the room.

"Let her go," Georgie pleaded.

"So that she can fetch a constable?" He shook his head. "No, my dear, if she does what I tell her, she will be fine. In there," he instructed the woman, shoving her into the storage room and locking the door. ''There now, we're all alone, my sweet," he said, crossing to where Georgie stood.

"What do you really want?" she demanded, holding on to a slender measure of calm.

"You."

The word sent a deeper chill coursing through her body. She faced him and said with as much courage as she could muster, "If you leave now, I promise I won't mention this incident to anyone."

Kingsford laughed harshly. "I don't think that you'll be speaking of it in any instance, my dear, for I shall be most happy to give my testimony that you begged me to come. That you seduced me, in point of fact, to keep me quiet about your"he paused, smiling once again"unnatural tendencies."

The palette slipped from Georgie's fingers. Her face paled. "What?" she asked in a small voice.

He walked closer. "You heard me. I saw you and Lady Allenwood on the stairs, whore."

Georgie saw a distinct glimmer of malice in his eyes. There would be no reasoning with him, yet still she tried. "You were wrong."

"Liar!" He moved again, nearer to her, blocking any avenue of escape.

"It wasn't what you thought."

Kingsford slapped Georgie hard after that statement, knocking her into the table that held some of her brushes and paints. She slid to the floor, stunned, her lip bleeding and her side hurting from contact with the oak table. "Miss Georgina!" shouted the voice from behind the locked door.

"Quiet!" Kingsford roared. He had turned his head for only a moment. It was all Georgie needed as she tried to scramble to her feet. But she wasn't fast enough. He grabbed hold of her arm and threw her down again. "I'm going to show you what it means to have a man between your legs, bitch."

Georgie's mind screamed in silent horror as she realized the full extent of his plans. "Oh God, no," she whispered, "please don't." She tried to rise again, her breath coming in painful gasps.

He was upon her, pushing her backwards to the floor, knocking over the easel and sending the canvas flying across the room. He grabbed hold of her hair, tugging at it, holding her head still while he ground his mouth down upon her already sore lip.

She tried to push him away. Her fighting only excited him more, but he didn't have all day. He lifted the pistol and placed it against her temple.

Georgie felt the cold metal. She instantly stilled. He would kill her if she fought him any morehe was making that very clear. She swallowed, her eyes locked with his. If he pulled the trigger, it would all be over. No suffering. No humiliation. The thought crossed her mind to fight and make him end this.

She closed her eyes. She didn't want to die.

She chose lifewhatever the cost.

Kingsford felt her acquiescence. "Very wise, my dear," he said, one hand tearing at her apron. Next he ripped her blouse, rending it in two. Her chemise followed, until her small breasts were exposed to him. He licked his lips and grabbed one, squeezing until she whimpered in pain. "How do you like a man's hand, slut?" he spat at her, moving his lower body against hers, the weight crushing her. "That's better," he said, his own breathing ragged as she lay beneath him, not moving. "You know you want this,'' he said, his voice gloating. Kingsford settled back on his calves, pushing her skirt above her waist and out of his way. He placed his free hand upon the cotton drawers she wore. "Very lovely, my dear," he commented, rending the material. Pushing apart her legs, he forced himself into her body.

The pain was unbearable, for he used his body like a battering ram, slamming into her again and again. Tears wet her lids and ran down her face as Georgie clenched her hands into fists, sobbing. Oh God, let this end soon, she prayed. She didn't know how much longer she could stand this without going mad.

He was finally finished, rolling off her, having spilled his corrupt seed into her torn and bruised flesh. "Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked, satisfied. "You've had a real man ride you. No woman could do what I did," he boasted. Kingsford stood up, adjusting the front of his trousers. "I'll be in touch with you soon about my fee."

Georgie opened her eyes. She had never wanted to kill another human being before this. She watched as he cocked the pistol, aiming it at her, a leering smile on his face. She froze. "No!" she moaned.

Kingsford pulled the trigger.

It clicked. "Empty, my dear," he said. "Good joke, eh?" He walked out the door and down the stairs, congratulating himself on his cleverness. He recovered his hat, gloves, and coat from the drawing room and was on his way out the door when a carriage pulled up in front of the house. He bolted in the opposite direction, but not before the woman emerging from the carriage caught a glimpse of his face.

Gillian stepped from her carriage, staring at the man who ran from her friend's house. It looked, though she caught only a brief glance, like Jason Kingsford. What would he be doing here?

She walked up the steps, lifting her hand to knock. Then she stood there, waiting for a minute. She tried again. Still no response. She knew that she was a few minutes late, but Georgie was expecting her.

Something was wrong.

Gillian turned the brass handle and walked in, calling, "Georgie? Mrs. Little?" Silence greeted her. She quickly made her way to the kitchen. Food had been left out, as if someone had stepped away only momentarily. "Mrs. Little?" she called again.

She decided to go up the back stairs. Perhaps they were in Georgina's studio and couldn't hear her. Gillie rapidly climbed the stairs, finally reaching her destination. She heard the sound of banging, as if on a door, as she approached.

Rushing in, Gillie was staggered by the horror she beheld. "Oh no!" she screamed, dropping her reticule and dashing to her friend's side as she lay on the floor. The scene was straight from a nightmareGeorgie on the floor, her face slightly puffy and her mouth bruised and swollen, her clothes torn asunder, her body shaking violently, and blood seeping from between her splayed legs.

Gillie gathered the other girl into her arms, talking softly, "Hush now. I'm here, Georgie." Gillie fought down the panic that rose within her. She had to stay calm, even though she wanted to scream at what had happened to her dearest friend. Rape. She tightened her arms about Georgie. It was then she heard the banging again, this time stronger.

"Mrs. Little," Georgie said, barely above a whisper. "Locked away. Help her."

"Yes, of course," Gillie said, releasing her friend from her embrace. She eased away from Georgie, who was trying to sit up, and swiftly moved to the storeroom door, turning the key.

The housekeeper emerged, tears streaming down her face. "I couldn't stop him, Miss Gillie," she said, her eyes going to Georgina. Her fist went into her mouth to stop the shout of despair as she saw what the man had wrought upon her employer.

Gillie wasted no time in returning to Georgie's side. "Who did this?" she asked, thinking that her friend needed a doctor.

Georgie, her eyes blank, moaned, "Kingsford."

Mrs. Little leaned down and wrapped her arm about Georgie's waist, helping Gillian to get her to stand.

"We must get her to her room and get a doctor for her," Gillie instructed.

"You can't tell anyone about this, Gillie," Georgie whimpered as pain forced her to double over. "No one, please."

"You need a doctor, Georgie," Gillie insisted.

"All I need is hot water."

"No," Gillie said firmly. "A doctor must see you. My God, you're still bleeding."

Minutes passed as the two women managed to get Georgina down the stairs to her bedroom on the second floor. Gillie helped her remove the tattered remnants of her clothes and ordered the housekeeper to run a hot bath. Gillie found a robe in the wardrobe and wrapped it around Georgie's shoulders.

"You shouldn't touch me, Gillie," Georgie said, her tone flat.

"Nonsense."

"Don't you understand," Georgie continued on, "I'm unclean. Filthy."

"No, you're not!" Gillie admonished her friend as Mrs. Little walked back into the room. "Is the bath ready?" Gillie asked, her hands holding tightly to Georgie's.

Mrs. Little nodded.

"Stay with her," Gillie said, letting go of Georgie's hands so that the older woman could lead her to the bathroom, "and I'll be back in a few minutes."

Gillie found that she was shaking. She took several deep breaths, realizing that she still wore her cloak and gloves.

She hurried down the front stairs. Pulling open the door, Gillie called for her coachman. "I need you to fetch a doctor for me," she said.

"What's wrong, Lady Gillian?" he asked. He'd been in her family's employ since before she'd been born.

"No questions now, Archer," Gillian commanded, tearing off her gloves and cloak. She looked around for a piece of paper. Why didn't Georgie have a telephone in her house? She thought. It would have been so easy to call for help. Now she had to waste precious time. She walked into the drawing room and went directly to the secretary against the wall. Opening it up, Gillie found what she was looking for. "You are to go to this address," she said, handing Archer a slip of paper with a name and address scribbled on it, "and ask for Doctor Percy James. No one but him, do you understand?"

Archer nodded.

"Good. Then I want you to deliver this note for me to Tony Chambers." Gillian wrote quickly, telling Tony that it was most urgent that he come to his cousin Georgina's house at once, and that he must keep the matter private. "If he isn't at home, then find him wherever he is. I don't care if you have to search all of London for him. He must come."

"Don't you worry none, Lady Gillian, I'll be finding these gentlemen for you."

"Thank you, Archer. I'm most grateful."

He left. Gillian remained at the desk, bowed her head, and wept.

"Leave me alone," Georgie said softly to Mrs. Little as she stood by the tub, watching the steam rise from the water. The gentle scent of lavender filled the air.

"Are you sure?" Mrs. Little questioned her.

"Yes," came the monotone reply.

"As you wish, then," Mrs. Little said, not quite sure she should be leaving the young woman alone. "I'll bring you up some tea."

Tea. As if that could salvage her, Georgie thought bitterly; as if that could erase the memories that wouldn't go away.

"I want you to destroy my clothes," Georgie ordered in a calm voice. "Burn them, whatever, I don't care. Just get rid of them."

"Yes, Miss Georgie."

Left alone, Georgie could feel her composure begin to crack. She dropped the robe to the floor and stepped into the hot water, not caring about the temperature. If it was as hot as the flames of hell, it still couldn't dispel the coldness she felt, the coldness that went to her soul.

She lifted the cloth from its perch on the tub rim and started to scrub her body, taking the material back and forth, abrading her skin with the pressure and motion of her hand. Georgie hesitated, then drew the cloth against the insides of her thighs, washing away the traces of Kingsford's seed and her own blood, scrubbing furiously.

As much as she tried, Georgie couldn't wash away the shame and the humiliation she felt. She pulled the plug and let the water run out, filling it up again as she rinsed off. But it didn't do any good. She still felt soiled.

When she stepped out of the tub, she looked at the cast-off robe. She couldn't bear to put it on. It was dirty, fouled by the taint of her skin.

Mrs. Little had left a clean nightgown hanging on the door. It was old and comfortable, smooth against her skin.

A roar of thunder echoed through her bedroom. One of her windows was open. Georgie shut it with a bang, then scrambled into her bed. Pulling the blankets about herself, she snuggled deeper into the thick mattress, curling up into a ball. Suddenly, she began to sob uncontrollably, bitter anguish pouring forth.

Stanhope knocked on Tony's bedroom door. "Sir, are you awake?"

"I am now," came the gruff-voiced reply from behind the closed door. "What's this about?" Tony hastily pulled his dark-green silk dressing gown on over his matching pajama bottoms and opened the door.

"It's Lady Gillian Fitzgerald Buchanan's coachman, sir. He's downstairs in the hall begging to see you. He says it's most urgent."

"Then I guess I'd better see what he wants," Tony said, belting the dressing gown. "Tell Mr. Rayburne to meet me below. I shall see Archer in the library."

"Very good, sir," Stanhope said.

Tony couldn't imagine what Gillie's coachman would be doing at his house as he made his way down the stairs to the ground floor.

Archer stood in the hallway, his cap in his hand, twisting it about.

"Thanks be to God that you're at home, sir," the coachman said with a relieved sigh.

"In here," Tony responded, indicating the library. "Now," Tony continued as he ushered the coachman into the room and shut the door, fixing his green eyes on the much smaller man, "what's this about?"

"Lady Gillian sent me to deliever a message to you, sir. She says that you should come to Miss Dacer's house, as soon as you can. It's most urgent."

"Tony," Rafe spoke from the doorway, "Stanhope told me that Gillie's coachman is here." Rafe, who'd hastily pulled on his trousers and shirt, had ignored the butler's startled eyes as he left the bedroom without his hose or boots. Rafe couldn't be bothered with that when he heard Gillie's name. "Is it Gillie?" he asked as he advanced into the room and spun the coachman around.

"No, sir," Archer replied, staring at the fiercely intense blue eyes of the man in front of him. "Lady Gillian is just fine. But something's happened to her friend, Miss Dacer. I was sent to fetch a doctor first before I was to tell you to come as quickly as you can."

"Just give me a few minutes to get dressed, Archer," Tony announced.

"I'm coming with you," Rafe stated as he followed Tony back up the stairs, taking them as fast as he could, little caring if he shocked the entire household staff. Something was wrong and Gillie might have need of him.

Rafe burst into his bedroom and swiftly finished dressing. He opened the drawer and stared down at the Colt. No. He wouldn't be using that, withdrawing instead his Bowie knife and tucking it into his black trousers. It remained hidden beneath his frock coat, ready to hand should the occasion arise.

Almost an hour had passed.

Mrs. Little, her own face puffy with the tears she'd shed, brought Gillie a fresh cup of tea to replace the one Gillie had left untasted.

"Can I get you something to eat, Lady Gillian?"

Gillie, her arms wrapped about herself, was sitting in the drawing room, the curtains pulled closed. "No, thank you," she said softly.

Mrs. Little placed the cup on the table in front of where Gillie sat. "It's getting a bit dark in here, my lady. I'll just turn on the lamp and open the curtains, shall I?"

"If you wish," was Gillie's reply.

Mrs. Little pulled back the material covering the windows and secured them. She turned around and walked back, standing in front of Gillie. Her voice shaking, she said, "I let him in, Lady Gillian. He told me a story, and I believed him, just like a silly child."

Gillie looked up and read the great hurt in the other woman's face. She reassured her. "It's not your fault, Mrs. Little."

"Why would he want to hurt Miss Georgie? She's never done nothing bad to no one in her life."

"I don't know," Gillie answered her. Why, she wondered herself, would a man purposefully set out to destroy a young woman's life? They'd only met last week. He was mad. There could be no other reason for it.

"I'll go back up and look in on Miss Georgie. She was resting when I brought her a cup of tea before."

"That's a good idea," Gillie responded, not really knowing if it was. She watched the housekeeper move slowly up the stairs, her sense of guilt as much a burden on her as if she carried a physical weight on her shoulders. Gillie picked up the cup, fighting to keep the tea down. She didn't know what to do. This kind of senseless violence sickened her. She closed her eyes, and all she could see was Georgie lying on the floor of her studio like a broken doll.

Gillie felt so cold. She could hear the rain lashing against the windows, darkening the sky. She shivered. Why? Why?

She heard the insistent rapping at the door and went to answer it. Carefully opening the door, she recognized the bearish figure of Dr. Percy James standing there, an umbrella in one hand, his doctor's black bag in the other.

''Oh, do come in, Dr. James," Gillie said, stepping aside so that he could enter.

"Where is the patient?" he asked, shrugging out of his overcoat.

"She's upstairs," Gillie answered, taking his coat and hanging it on the polished brass stand in the hallway.

He didn't hesitate.

Thank God for him, Gillie mused. He'd be discreet, she knew. Percy James was a man devoted to the craft of healing, to bringing care to those who needed it, no matter what their circumstances. Gillian had met him through involvement in one of her charities. He'd be kind to Georgie, who needed kindness very much now.

She went back to the drawing room, pacing, unable to relax, unable to forget what she'd seen. Passing by the window, she saw her carriage drive up and she ran to the door, flinging it open.

Tony was first through the door, followed closely by Rafe. Gillie gasped when she saw him. There was something different about Rafe. She couldn't describe just what it was, but she sensed a change. Perhaps it was just because she felt awkward. They had barely exchanged twenty words on the journey back to London. They had both been oh-so-polite, so respectful of each other's privacy. They had been almost like strangers. Formal. Remote. Circumspect.

"Where's Georgie?" Tony demanded as he grabbed Gillie by the arms, his face mirroring his concern for his cousin.

"Come inside, please," she spoke softly, her concern shifting for Tony and how he would take the news. She led him into the drawing room, Rafe following behind.

"Your coachman wouldn't say what happened."

Gillie interupted him, "Archer doesn't know anything, Tony, only that I needed to have you here. Some member of Georgie's family should be here."

"What is it?" he demanded.

She took a deep breath, gazing into the fire and trying to get her own emotions under control. "Georgina's been . . ." Oh, God, she thought, how do I say this? The color rose in her pale cheeks.

Rafe, who'd been keeping his distance, came closer. He forced himself to keep his hands by his sides, away from her, for fear he would gather Gillie's body to him and hold tight, never letting go. "Relax, Gillie. You can tell us."

It was his voice, with its deep and well-loved tones, that wrapped around her, giving her strength.

"Georgie's been what, Gillie?" Tony asked.

"Violated."

The word hung in the air like poison.

"Tell me that you're wrong," Tony insisted. Tears welled in her eyes. "I wish that I could."

"Are you all right?" Rafe inquired, holding himself in check, waiting for her answer, needing to hear it from her own lips.

Gillie nodded. She focused her attention on Tony, whose face was ashen. She took his hand in hers, trying to give him some measure of comfort.

"Do you know who?" he asked.

"Jason Kingsford," Gillie answered.

"Kingsford?" both men exclaimed in unions.

"You're certain?" Rafe demanded.

"I thought I saw him running from the house when I arrived. I was to have tea and talk to Georgie about . . ." She paused, rembering. If only she had been on time, she might have been able to do something! " . . . a project I had in mind. I asked Georgie when I found her. She told me that it was he."

"I shall see to him," Tony vowed.

"I'm with you," Rafe assured his friend.

It was that chilling tone in Rafe's voice that triggered a response in Gillie. That was what was different about Rafethere was something frightening about him, something deadly. She blinked, aware that she had turned and was staring at him. This was a man capable of violence. It was a side of Rafe she'd never seen before. Tony's anger she could understandit was hot. Rafe's was cold. And that made him the more dangerous.

"Please," she pleaded with them, "don't do anything foolish, either of you."

"What about Mrs. Little? Where was she whilst this was happening?" Tony asked.

"She was locked in the room that Georgie uses for her supplies. She feels responsible because she let Kingsford in. There is nothing that you can say to her that will make her feel worse than she already does." She wet her lips before continuing. "Georgie doesn't want anyone to know. You must both promise me that no one else can ever know about what I've told you. She wouldn't be able to bear talking to anyone from the Metropolitan Police."

Rafe and Tony exchanged looks. "She won't have to," Tony assured her.

"What are you going to do?" Her gaze shifted to Rafe.

"Don't worry, Gillie," Rafe answered her. "The vermin will be dealt with."

"You can't very well call him out. Dueling is illegal."

"So is forcing a woman against her will," Rafe said. "Gillie, Kingsford will be taken care of, I promise you. Trust me," he uttered in a sure voice.

It was then that Percy James came downstairs and joined them.

Gillie rushed to his side. "How is she?"

"Weak. I gave her something to ease the pain and help her to sleep. I've left some soothing herbs with Mrs. Little. She can brew them into a tea for Miss Dacer." Gillie remembered her manners and introduced the men.

Tony spoke bluntly. "My cousin was raped?"

"Yes," the doctor said wearily. "It was a horrible experience for her, Mr. Chambers. Your cousin was . . ." He paused, looking at Lady Gillian, assessing his need to speak the truth, but aware of society's dictums regarding what was and wasn't proper to discuss in front of a lady. Ah, he thought, to hell with it, Lady Gillian was no fragile flower. "Miss Dacer was raped, and she's going to need the support of her family and friends to get over this ordeal."

"I shall stay here tonight," Gillie volunteered.

"Good. The sight of a familiar face should help her." He walked back out into the hallway, retrieving his coat. "I will call again tomorrow morning to see her." He drew Gillie aside and whispered a few words for her alone.

Rafe felt a stab of jealousy looking at the doctor and Gillie having their private conversation. They seemed at ease with each other. He caught the doctor regarding Gillieit was the look of a man who was interested in a woman. His lips were tight as he saw the good doctor take Gillie's hand in his and pat it reassuringly.

"I have to see Georgie," Tony said.

"Perhaps you shouldn't" Gillie advised.

"Don't upset her," Dr. James warned.

"I won't," Tony vowed. "I promise."

Tony walked up the stairs as Gillie shut the door on the doctor. She sliced a glance at Rafe, who stood impassively by the fireplace. All she wanted was to be held safe, to have this fear wiped from her mind. If only they didn't have that weekend between them, she could have run into his embrace and felt secure, without worrying that she was forcing her unwanted feelings on him. She wanted to reach out, to have her dear friend back. But it was too late. Much too late. Now all she had were regrets.

Rafe didn't know how much more of this particular brand of torture he could take. To be in the same room with Gillie, knowing how she felthow he feltand not respond. To have to keep his distance from the woman he loved as if they were merely casual acquaintances.

Tony saved Rafe's sanity by coming back into the room. His green eyes glittered with unsuppressed anger.

"What are you going to do?" Gillie asked again as both men put on their coats and made ready to go.

Rafe looked at Tony, then answered Gillie, his voice low and cold. "Settle a score."

Chapter Twelve

It took them several long hours of searching, but Rafe and Tony eventually managed to track down Jason Kingsford. Night had fallen, and fog swirled around their legs as they emerged from Tony's carriage and stood on the street in front of a small brick building. A brass sign proclaimed it the Wainwright Club.

"I should have guessed we'd find Kingsford here," Tony said in a mocking voice.

Rafe, pushing back the damp strands of curly black hair from his forehead, asked, "What is so special about this place?"

"Oh, there is nothing extraordinary about this establishment," Tony proclaimed. "It's a gambling hell that caters to those who cannot get memberships in the socially recognized clubs or who have been blackballed from the more reputable clubs."

They ascended the steps, and Tony rapped on the door.

Within minutes they had gained entrance, having been told that the man they sought was on the first floor in one of the card rooms.

Jason Kingsford was seated at a table, a pile of banknotes in front of him. He was dealing a hand of commerce to three other men, blandly smiling like a man who hadn't a care in the world. He looked at his cards and was about to make his bet when he saw the two men approaching his table.

The other players gave a speculative glance at the newcomers. One man recognized Tony.

"Kingsford." Tony spoke the name like an insult.

Jason Kingsford turned around. For a moment, he was nonplussed, then he recovered quickly. He was certain that Georgina Dacer wouldn't have said a word to her cousin. Not that prissy bitch. He'd made sure of that fact. "Chambers," he acknowledged, placing his bet upon the table, "in the mood for some cards?"

"I think not," Tony stated, his temper held in check by the merest thread.

"Then pray tell, why are you and that American here?"

The other men around the table raised their eyes to see how the tall, dark stranger would react. They had detected the slur in Kingsford's tone. Rafe had also. He remained impassive, only a slight narrowing of his blue eyes indicating he understood the intended insult.

"We have some things to discuss," Tony announced.

Kingsford, who still couldn't imagine what it was that these two wanted with him, shrugged his shoulders and said, "I am otherwise engaged now, Chambers. If you wish to make an appointment with me, I will see if I can fit you into my schedule." He watched as the three other men sat frozen in their seats. "Gentlemen?" he prodded, waiting for them to place their bets.

Tony's green eyes flared with simmering anger. That this nonchalant bastard sat there as if he had no idea what they wanted with him broke the hold Tony kept on his temper. "Forget the card game, Kingsford."

"When I'm winning?" Kingsford asked, laughing.

"Get up," Tony commanded.

Kingsford ignored him, which was a mistake.

Tony repeated, "I said that we have business, Kingsford. Now get up."

The other men at the table pushed back their chairs and waited.

Kingsford decided that he'd better humor this manthen he turned his head and really looked at the two pair of eyes that bore into him. A shiver ran up his spine. His cockiness began to fade under the pressure of those green and blue eyes. He rose slowly.

Before Kingsford could rise completely from his chair, Tony took the opportunity that was afforded him and raised his right arm, hitting Kingsford square in the face with the back of his hand, knocking the man to the floor. "Have I gotten your attention now?" he asked.

"Are you mad?" Kingsford gasped, raising his own hand to his bleeding mouth. He turned to his gaming partners. "You all saw that!" he screamed. "He hit me."

"Shut up," Tony said, looking down. He reined in the full force of his anger. It wouldn't do to seek his revenge here and now. "We have something to discuss, alone."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," Kingsford cried.

"That's where you're wrong," Rafe intervened. "You are coming with us."

Kingsford blanched. He recognized the hatred in both men's eyes and he trembled with fear. "No," he said, "I can't."

"Ah, but you will," Rafe said smoothly in his Texas drawl. He bent and grabbed Kingsford by the lapels of his evening coat, shoving him in front of them.

Kingsford stumbled, shuffling away from them like a crab.

"I say," one member protested.

Rafe turned to the speaker. The cold expression on the Texan's tanned face instantly silenced the man, forcing him back into his seat.

Tony snatched Kingsford from the floor with a grip on his right arm while Rafe took the other. Between them, they dragged him down the stairs, kicking and squealing all the way, through the club's entrance hall and past the startled faces of some members, and out into the street, tossing him into the carriage.

Rafe quickly produced his lethal Bowie knife, sliding the razor-sharp blade against Kingsford's neck. ''Don't move," he warned the man, "or I'll gladly slit your throat."

Kingsford's face grew even paler. "She's not worth it, you know," he managed to get out.

Rafe leaned closer. His hand moved slightly, drawing blood, which stained the collar of Kingsford's white shirt.

It was Rafe's turn to tell Kingsford to "shut up."

A lamp was the only illumination within the carriage as it left London and headed for the countryside.

"Where are you taking me?" Kingsford begged in a whisper.

Rafe lifted the knife again and Kingsford immediately shrank back into his seat.

"We're almost there," Tony said with a wicked smile, tapping one hand against the closed fist of the other.

"Good," Rafe replied in a low drawl, "because the smell of this skunk is making me sick."

After a quarter of an hour, the carriage pulled up. "We're here, sir," the coachman called out.

Tony opened the door, stepping down to the crunch of small stones in the pathway. He waited for Rafe to push Kingsford out the door, which he did, happily. "I want you to wait here, Thomas," Tony instructed. "And throw me down that rope."

The coachman complied. Tony took the rope and slipped it around Kingsford's hands, pulling it taut. "Follow me," he said to Rafe as they trod the path for almost half a mile. At the end of this was a stone cottage. Tony shoved his prisoner inside. He struck a match and lit the oil lamps as Rafe attended to a fire in the stone hearth after making sure that the door was secured.

Tony blithely removed his coat, folding it carefully over a plain wooden chair. Kingsford crouched in a corner of the small room, his eyes darting back and forth between the two men. Tony pulled his prisoner to his feet, removing the rope.

"You won't get away with it," Kingsford sneered. "If you hurt me, all London will know your whoring cousin prefers women to men."

Tony exploded, backhanding Kingsford once again. "Filthy, lying bastard," he shouted, releasing his fury. His fists pummeled Kingsford's body. The other man was no match for Tony, whose rage fueled his hands as they connected repeatedly with Kingsford's soft body.

Rafe watched the scene being played out. He believed the punishment his friend meted out was just, but more was needed. Hanging this man would be too quick, Rafe thought. Kingsford should be made to suffer, as his stepfather Talbot Squire should have been made to suffer for the harm he did othersfor killing Sam Reitenauer, for making his mother's life a living hell, and for almost destroying him. Kingsford had carelessly ruined a woman's life for sport. Retribution was called for. Leaving it to the courts of justiceif the matter even arrived therewould have been a farce. Here, they could dispatch justice privately, with no public humiliation to Kingsford's victim.

"I suggest that we take care of the problem with a simple solution," Rafe said starkly.

Tony, his knuckles bruised and swollen, stood back, breathing heavily. "Kingsford isn't much of a fighter," he said contemptuously. "Obviously he's not used to standing up with a man." He looked at the crumpled form on the stone floor, the once pleasant face black and blue, bleeding from the nose and mouth. Tony felt no remorse for what he'd done. He directed his question to Rafe. "What do you have in mind?"

Rafe unsheathed his big knife. "I think that we should make sure that he never does this to another woman." His gaze fell to the razor-sharp blade, then Rafe raised his head and met Tony's eyes. "Do you agree?"

Tony understood. His upbringing and his British sense of fair play rebelled at the idea. It was barbaric. But then, so was what Kingsford had done to his cousin. Black and white. It was as simple as that. Tony's own sense of justice and his loyalty to his cousin overrode any scruples he might have felt. The punishment Rafe offered fit the crime. To leave Kingsford aliveand yet not a man. The irony, Tony thought, was superb. "Do it," Tony said, his green eyes hard and merciless.

"Get the rope," Rafe ordered.

Kingsford heard the discussion. Through swollen eyes, he watched as the men approached him. He feared that the dangerous-looking American was going to kill him when he saw the glint of the blade. "Please, mercy," he blubbered.

"You'll get the same mercy that you've shown," Tony promised, hauling Kingsford into the chair. He swiftly tied the rope, securing Kingsford.

The coachman heard the echo of the screams. He took another sip of the strong malt from his flask. There was no telling what noises one could hear in the country.

It had begun to rain again, a steady drizzle. Gillie wished she were in the country, in Dorset, her true home. Even though Gillie was London-born, it was the centuries-old house of the Fitzgerald Buchanan family that was her sanctuary. It was there that she felt the most comfortable. She would have put on a pair of old boots and tramped out to the garden, uncaring of the rain. She would have checked to see how the dogs fared. She missed not having any animals around her when she was in town.

Dorset was her havenand that thought brought forth another. She would take Georgie there. Removing her friend from London would be the best thing that she could do for Georgie. It would give her a chance to heal, away from any prospective gossip. It wasn't an entirely selfless act, she admitted. She too could use the respite. Shocked by the day's events, and by the loss of the man she loved, Gillie wanted a place to hide away, a place to think.

Confusion clouded her musings. Gillie knew that she was repulsed by the act of rape, by the forceful taking and using of a woman against her will. Yet she shivered with remembered passion, recalling just how Rafe's lips felt on hers, the touch of his hand on her breast. Hadn't she wanted to be taken by Rafe? How could she reconcile what she felt then with what she felt now? On one handrepugnance. On the otherfascination.

Was every man capable of that base brutality? Was Rafe? Was Rhys? Could either of them react in the same manner? And what of the other men she knew?

Her heart answered her questions without delay. NoRafe and her brother would never inflict such violence on a woman. She could wager her life on that fact. They would both only take what a woman was willing to give freely.

And what of her heart? It was already wagered, to a man she could never possess. How could she ever hope to love another man as she loved Rafe? Since she was a child, there had been no one else. Now, without the promise of that love fulfilled, she was adrift, without an emotional bearing. An empty future loomed in front of her. Yet she would continue livingfor her there was no other choice. But what of her friend? What choices did Georgie have now?

Gillie mentally scolded herself for the direction of her selfish thoughts. Her friend should be her concern, not her own loss.

She swallowed the last of the tea and decided to prepare for bed. When she was undressed, she made up her mind to send another note round to her house the next morning to have Nan pack her bags. Mrs. Little could see to Georgie's things. It would be what they both needed. A month or so in the country would do wonders for each of them.

Unable to sleep, Gillie decided that she would write some letters to keep herself occupied.

As soon as she sat down at the writing desk, she heard a screama heartrending crycoming from Georgie's room.

Gillie dashed out of her room and across the hall.

Georgie was crying, thrashing about on the bed. Gillie lit the lamp, banishing the darkness. She called softly, "Georgie. Georgie."

Georgie awoke with a start. Her heart was pounding, her breathing ragged, her skin clammy. She blinked her eyes and saw Gillie standing there, her blue-gray eyes wide with concern.

Gillie placed the lamp on the table by the bed. She sat down and wiped the damp blond hair from Georgie's brow. "Hush," she said in a soothing tone, "you're safe now, Georgie. No one will hurt you again," Gillie assured her. Georgie lay quietly for a few minutes before she spoke. "He was upon me again, forcing his way into my body. I couldn't fight him, Gillie. I wanted to. Oh, God," she said, shuddering, "I wanted to. He said that he would kill Mrs. Little if I did. I was so afraid. I never wanted this to happen."

"Of course you didn't," Gillie declared. "No woman wants to be forced."

"He said that he would tell all of London." Tears welled in Georgie's eyes. "Everyone will know. I'll be ruined."

"No." Gillie decided that she must tell Georgie what had happened in the interim. "Tony and Rafe will see to that."

"Tony and your Texan?" Georgie asked through a haze of tears. "They know about this?"

Gillie placed a reassuring hand on Georgie's shoulder. "I told them. Kingsford had to be found," she emphasized. "Such a despicable creature couldn't be allowed to do this againto get away with what he did to you. I told them that you would not seek to press charges against him."

"I cannot." Georgie shuddered. She knew that she couldn't face the public humiliation, the whispered lies and innuendos, the snickering, and most especially, the scorn and rejection if Kingsford repeated his accusations about her sexual preferences. She would be ostracized, destroyed. Besides, the mere thought of explaining to strangersmale strangerswhat that man did to her, to relive in vivid detail the horror of it, was repugnant. Kingsford's mocking words came back clearly to herhe would say that she seduced him, it would be his word against hers. She couldn'twouldn'tbear that.

"Georgie, I think that we should leave London. I want you to come with me to my home in Dorset. It will be best for you to rid yourself of the memories that this house holds."

Georgie wondered if her memories of this day would ever go away. Or would she be forever condemned to relive the violation in her dreams? Dorset was beautiful and charming. It was there, late last spring, that she had painted Magdalene.

Georgie watched as Gillie disappeared momentarily into the bathroom. Gillie was correct. She couldn't stay here any longer. Just the thought of going back into her studio again made her want to scream. She wasn't sure she could ever enter that room again. And even this house which was her homecould she ever feel truly comfortable here? Right now she had no answers, so perhaps it was best to take the offer Gillie made.

Gillie returned with a soft, cold cloth that she used to wipe off Georgie's face. Would that she could turn back the clock on this day for her friend. But there was no going back, for either of them.

"Will you come with me?"

"Yes," Georgie replied, relaxing back into the pillows. "Good. I'll see to all the arrangements." Gillie rose, disposing of the cloth. "I shall sit here with you a while longer," she stated, moving to the chaise below the window. "Now, get some sleep."

Georgie, exhausted, did just that.

Gillie curled her legs under her. She'd left the lamp on, thinking it might help if Georgie were to wake again. Time crept by slowly. She speculated on whether Rafe and Tony had found Kingsford and, if they had, what they had done to him. What could they do without risking their own safety?

All of a sudden, her body got quite cold. They wouldn't have murdered him, surely?

Her fear was not for Kingsford; it was for Rafe and Tony. If they had permanently rid the world of Kingsford, they could be brought to justice should anyone find out, and the whole sordid business could be exposed.

No, Gillie wouldn't allow that to happen. If she had to, she would lie, perjure herself in court if the need arose, and swear that Kingsford had tried to rape her too. She would see that the entire weight of the earldom of Derran was used to forestall any harm coming to Rafe or Tony.

That notion calmed Gillie considerably. Her eyes drifted shut, her last thought of Rafe. How she wished he were here to give her comfort, as he had in the past when she was a child. She had always felt safe in his arms. She wanted so desperately to feel safe again. Especially now, with her world in such turmoil, she ached for the comfort of Rafe's presence.

Chapter Thirteen

Gillie sat quietly, lost in thought as she sipped Mrs. Little's coffee. She was struck by the notion that it was weaker than she liked. At the Encantadora, it would have been much stronger, more the way she favored. Gillie wished that she could talk to Tory now, ask her advice. Was she doing the right thing?

And what of Rafe and Tony? Had she been right to involve them? What if they had come to some harm trying to find the loathsome Kingsford? She recalled the determined look on each man's face as they left last evening. It was an unforgiving look that promised no mercy.

The memory frightened Gillie because she understood, and approved, of the idea of retribution. She'd never believed that she could feel this much hate and antipathy toward another fellow human, but in Kingsford's case, she knew she could.

Gillie ate sparingly of the eggs and the Selkirk bannock, a Scottish raisin bread, that Mrs. Little had prepared. She had hoped that Georgie would join her, but when she looked in on her this morning, Georgie had said she wanted nothing. Gillie instructed Mrs. Little to take Georgie at least some tea and toast on a tray.

The sound of booted footsteps along the hall forced Gillie from her seat. She threw open the door just as Tony and Rafe arrived. Both men looked somewhat haggard, their normally immaculate clothes slightly rumpled, with traces of stubble darkening their jaws.

Rafe accepted the cup of coffee Gillie offered, drinking in the sight of her. With her hair pulled loosely away from her face with a dark blue ribbon and flowing freely down her back, Gillie was exactly what he needed to see this morning. Someone fresh and pure, with a generous heart and spirit. A woman of warmth and compassionand how he ached to have that warmth surround him, hold him, and replace the darkness with light. She was the dream he dreamed, but could never have.

''How is Georgie this morning?" Tony asked.

Gillie took her seat again. When she spoke, her voice was filled with sadness. "She is much the same, I'm afraid. Her sleep was troubled by nightmares, and I fear that it will be so for some time to come. That is why I have offered to take her to my family's seat in Dorset. Time in the country, with no fears or cares, away from this house, will do her good. I'm sure of that."

"Yes," Tony agreed. "I think that will be best for her now. When will you leave?"

"Today," Gillie responded. "I see no reason to delay. Nan, my maid, will meet us at Waterloo Station, and I have directed that a private railroad compartment is to be secured for us. The household staff is to be informed by telegraph that we are coming. I want everything to be welcoming when we arrive."

Tony nodded his approval. "I will leave word with my solicitor that should you need to get in touch with me, he can provide you with my itinerary."

"Are you planning a journey?" Gillie asked. Did his departure have anything to do with Kinsgford?

Tony answered her, his tone weary. "A relative of mine has left me an inheritance, and I must depart England as soon as possible to claim it." He shot a glance at Rafe, who sat silently across the small, highly polished cherrywood table. "I will leave with Rafe on Saturday."

"This inheritance is in America?" Gillie inquired, carefully avoiding looking at Rafe.

"No," he said. "Australia."

"That's so far away!" Gillie exclaimed.

"I know," he said with the faint beginnings of a smile. "When I'm finally settled, I shall send word."

Gillie fixed Tony with a penetrating glance from her blue-gray eyes. "Did you find Kingsford?" She watched as the men shared a look. "Tell me," she demanded.

Rafe answered her, his deep, strong voice reassuring her. "He will never harm another woman again. You have my word on that," he stated.

Gillie stared at him, dreading the question but needing to know the answer. "Is he dead?"

"No," Rafe acknowledged, withholding the whole story.

"I want to know," Gillie insisted.

"As do I," came Georgie's voice from the doorway.

Tony pushed back his chair and went immediately to his cousin's side, putting his arms around her and holding her close. Instead of the warmly affectionate young woman he knew, there was a stiffness in Georgina's body. He released her, standing back a few inches. He looked down at her face; her brown eyes were still those of a wounded animal, battered in spirit, afraid to trust. He wanted to put Georgina's mind at ease. "Kingsford isn't a threat to you or any woman any longer."

"Are you certain?" she asked.

"Without a doubt," Rafe assured her. "All you both need to know is that he has been properly punished and that he will be of no consequence to anyone from now on."

Tony added, "I made sure that he will never set foot in England again. Kingsford knows that he is a dead man if he does." He took Georgie's slightly cold hand in his, sheltering it with his other hand. He turned his head and spoke to Gillie and Rafe. "I would have a few private words with my cousin, if you both wouldn't mind?"

Gillie bestowed on them both a wide, loving smile. "Of course." As Gillie walked past Georgie, she gave her friend a reassuring touch on her shoulder. She led the way for Rafe, walking down the hall and into the drawing room. She took a seat on the couch, running her fingers along the blue-and-white quilt, an introspective look on her face. "Georgie is so fond of Tony. He is the only family member who ever supported her choice of a career. His leaving, especially now, will be very hard for her. She'll miss him terribly."

"And what about you?" Rafe pointedly asked.

Gillie didn't hear the slightly insecure quality of his question. She smiled as she answered, "Of course I shall miss Tony. We're friends. His family and mine have been close since the days of Charles II." Her immediate thoughts were that she would miss Tony, but that it wasn't anything to the hole in her heart that Rafe's leaving would cause. As fond as Gillie was of Tony Chambers, she could live without him and still function. She wasn't so sure how she could live without Rafe in her life. His departure would open a void that she could never fill.

From beneath lowered lids, she sliced a quick glance in Rafe's direction. She wanted to tell him again how very much she cared, yet she knew it would be a futile gesture. His mind was made up; his heart was already spoken for.

"I shall send the letters I have written for Rhys and Tory round to you later today. I also have some gifts for the boys, and something special for my niece." She was proud that she kept her voice matter-of-fact. She didn't want Rafe's pity.

Rafe, his mind and body temporarily relaxed as he enjoyed these precious moments with Gillie, said, "That little girl is gonna be spoiled, mark my words. What with a doting mama and papa, and three older brothers, plus assorted doting godparents, she's gonna be a handful when she's grown."

Gillie grinned. "I don't doubt that." It was then that the thought struck her of what it would be like to have Rafe's childa daughter, a black-haired infant, visible proof of her love for him.

But she was letting her imagination run away with her. It wasn't going to happen, so why torture herself with the sweet thoughts?

Gillie shifted her focus, deciding that she mustn't be afraid to ask the question that stood between them, lest he think her a coward. "When are you getting married?"

Rafe hesitated before answering. He hated lying to Gillie, but, he assured himself again, it was for her own good. Still, it didn't make it any easier to say. "It's up to her. I reckon in a few months."

Gillie lowered her eyes, her fingers absently stroking the garnet ring. "I wish you every happiness, Rafe. She's a very lucky woman."

Gillie spoke the words with as much feeling as she could muster. Her heart was breaking. She wanted desperately to shout: No, don't do it Rafe. I love you.

But she wouldn't. She kept silent. One couldn't force love. How could she have been so wrong about the strength of their bond? She'd thought it was the forever kind.

Rafe kept rein on the words he wanted to scream. It was all a lie, my love. There could never be any other woman for me but you. He knew that no other woman he took into his life or into his bed could ever compare with Gillian. No other woman could ever fill the space in his heart that she did. No other woman would ever be a part of his skin and bones as she was. She was deep within him, and nothingor no onecould ever change that.

He remained silent.

At that moment Tony walked into the drawing room. "If you're ready, Rafe?" he asked, indicating that he was eager to leave. "Gillie, my dear girl, give me a kiss," he said, with a sad, sweet smile.

Gillie was happy to oblige him, wondering whenor ifshe would ever see Tony again. It was as if random parts of her childhood were rushing by her whilst she stood still. "God speed to you, Tony," she said with all the fondness she felt for him. "I wish you a safe journey and much luck with your inheritance."

"Be well and happy, my dear," he responded, keeping up the pretence of not knowing about the abortive declaration of love she'd made to his friend. He'd stood a moment before opening the etched-glass doors to the drawing room, just observing the two. He could see the tension, feel the uneasiness as he walked through. It was hard to see Gillie, of the sunny smile and the golden laugh, sit primly, all missish, with eyes downcast. And to watch his American friend, wound as tightly as a coiled whip, with his tanned hands clenched into fists so taut the knuckles showed white. "I thank you for all you've done for Georgie." He tilted her chin up and kissed her mouth gently. ''You're a damn fine lady, Gillie. None better. Some man is going to be quite the lucky gent to win you." He stared pointedly at Rafe when he uttered those words. "Good-bye," he said, making his way to the door.

Gillie stood still as Rafe moved to follow Tony out. She couldn't allow him to go without touching him one last time. Impulsively, she embraced him, her arms fastening about his slim waist, holding him close, her head against his chest.

Rafe's arms automatically encircled her, returning the gesture. He closed his eyes and held her tightly, drawing momentary comfort. Then, just as swiftly as his arms went around her, they fell to his sides. Any longer and he would never be able to let go. Gillie felt bereft when his strong arms dropped away. She understood the message and did likewise. Tilting her head, she gazed into those deep blue eyes. She lifted the hand that wore his ring and caressed his cheek softly, her flesh pale against the tanned skin of his face. "I shall miss you, Rafe."

God, he thought, he had to get out of there before he did something that he would regret. "Adios," he said, fighting to maintain a semblance of control. He turned and strode out of the house.

Gathering her strength, Gillie spun around and walked to the stairway. She paused, her hand on the carved newel post, her head bowed. God watch over you, my love, she prayed. Then, her eyes misty with unshed tears, she straightened and slowly ascended the stairs.

Two days later Rafe, stood on the deck of the fast-moving ship they were traveling on, the newly christened Lady Victoria, a sleek, well-constructed craft. It was making good time, he thought, as it cut through the waters of the Atlantic, leaving England far behind.

Unable to remain abed, he'd left the comfort of his large, well-appointed cabin, and come on deck. He prowled around restlessly, finally taking a position where he could see what was behind theman empty stretch of miles and miles of ocean. A fine steady wind whipped his black hair about his face. He could smell the salt of the water. The sun had finally broken through, promising a warm day. Rafe was glad that he had changed from his "civilised" English dandy clothes back to what he was much more comfortable in. He wore close-fitting black twilled-cotton trousers and a black cotton shirt, with well-worn black leather boots. Around his lean waist was a belt of hammered silver. Today he had reclaimed his own style, and he felt less like a starchy fashion mannequin.

His lean fingers gripped the rail as he glanced to where he imagined England was. His thoughts were focused on the woman he'd left there.

A sudden fit of melancholy gripped him. Had he been the world's biggest fool?

No, he answered himself. He'd done exactly what he'd had to do. Broken the ties that bound them once and for all. Given them both a chance to find happiness with another. No matter that whatever happiness he eventually found would never equal what he could imagine with Gillian. That was his particular cross to bear. She was safe. And he was spared the risk of trusting her with the past and watching any future that they might have had crumble around them when she turned away in shock.

He heard voices. Rafe turned his head and saw Tony emerge from below decks and saunter toward the bow of the ship, talking to one of the crew. Tony wasn't looking back; instead, his friend was facing forward, facing the future.

Rafe realized that it was time to face the future also, even if it was to be an empty one without the woman he loved.

The slap of the waves against the hull covered the sound of his softly spoken, "Farewell," as Rafe turned aside and walked toward his tomorrow.

Chapter Fourteen

"I can't believe that he lied to me!" Gillie said emphatically to her companion. In her hand she held a letter that had just arrived that morning from Texas. A soft breeze fluttered the paper as she stared at the words it contained.

"What's wrong?" Georgie asked, turning aside from her sketching of several scampering Border Collie puppies as they played around the large gazebo. It was early August and almost three months had passed since Georgie had accepted Gillie's invitation to join her for a prolonged stay at the family estate in Dorset. Here, amidst the quiet and beauty of the country, she'd begun her healing process. It was slow and painful; however, she'd learned to put the past behind herwhere it belonged. But it was evident to her eyes that Gillie still hadn't healed her broken heart. Though her friend talked little of the Texan, Georgie could tell that he was still very much a part of Gillie's life. Gillie hid it well, yet there were times that Georgie would see a faraway look in Gillie's blue-gray eyes and know that Rafe Rayburne was the cause.

"It's this letter I received from Tory." Gillie sighed, then read a passage to Georgie.

I found your reference to Rafe's marriage puzzling. Where did you get the idea that he was to be wed?

"How about that?" Gillie asked Georgie.

"Your sister-in-law is certain?"

"Of course," Gillie stated. "Listen," she said, reading more of the letter.

Rafe has no plans for marriage that I know of. And it's not for lack of trying on the part of women around here. Should he wish, he could have a bride by simply snapping his fingers. Keeping an engagement a secret in these parts is impossible.

Gillie sat quietly for a few minutes after she finished reading that passage, staring off into the distance. "Rafe's never, ever lied to me before," she said.

Georgie had her own suspicions about the Texan. For some reason known only to himself, he was reluctant to let Gillie know how deeply he cared for her. What was he hiding? When Tony had finally explained to her just what punishment he and Rafe had meted out to Jason Kingsford, and she'd read in a London paper of the abrupt, unexpected departure of Kingsford to South Africa, she'd changed her mind and arranged for the painting called Magdalene to be shipped immediately to Rafe in Texas. Georgie considered it fair exchange for a debt she owed.

Focusing on the matter at hand, Georgie replied, "He obviously had his reasons."

Gillie responded with uncharacteristic impatience. "That's not good enough."

Georgie shifted in her seat, laying the sketchbook aside. "You're still in love with him, aren't you?" she asked.

"Of course," Gillie answered automatically. It was no use denying what her heart knew for the truth. She had tried, perhaps not wholeheartedly, to put him aside. She had accepted invitations she normally would have dismissed, both in Dorset and when she went back up to London for short trips for her charity work, for dinners, parties, and balls. Scores of men actively pursued her. Gillie wasn't so naive as not to know whyshe was young, titled, beautiful, and most importantly, rich. She used her charming escorts to make herself forget Rafe, to push him from her mind.

But it never worked. He was only absent from her thoughts for hours, never days. And no one had stirred her heart and soul as Rafe had. Several of the men, both young and old, were even audacious enough to steal a kiss or two whenever they could. It was no use. They were tepid, bland, sloppy, or overly polished. No one's kiss could match Rafe's for its devastating effect. The memory of his mouth on hers could still stir Gillie more than another man's mere presence.

Yet why had he so blatantly deceived her?

She wanted to face him, demand an answer. He owed her the truth. Yet she was not free to go. She was well aware of Georgie's progress, of the gains Georgie made each and every day. Gillie had committed herself to helping her friend rebuild her shattered life and she couldn't willingly forsake Georgie just as she was beginning to emerge from the hell of despair. It just wouldn't be rightor fair.

"Do you want to confront him?" Georgie asked, watching the play of emotions on her friend's expressive face.

"That's out of the question," Gillie responded.

"Why?" Georgie was surprised. She had thought that as soon as Gillie heard that Rafe wasn't really getting married, she would waste no time in boarding the next available ship sailing for the States to confront him.

"I can't leave England just yet," Gillie responded. "There are too many things here that need my attention right now." That was the truthor as much of the truth as she would admit.

"Poppycock, Gillie," Georgie shot back. "That's an excuse."

"Call it what you will, I can't go tearing off to Texas on a whim, so there's an end to it," Gillie said dismissively, standing up to gather the pages of the letter and refold them back into the envelope. "It's rather warm out here now, don't you think? I do believe that I shall change into something cooler before tea." She waved her hand when Georgie made to get up and follow her. "Don't leave on my account," she said. "I have some things to attend to also, so I'd best take care of them now."

As she watched Gillie walk back to the main house, Georgie observed that the puppies ran off after her. The runt of the litter barked in such a pleading tone that Gillie bent and scooped him up, carrying him in her arms while the others yelped in unison.

Gillie never could resist someone, or something, in need, Georgie decided.

As soon as that thought emerged, Georgie knew why Gillie wouldn't leave England at this time to pursue the man she loved. Like the pup, she was another of Gillie's charity runts. Someone, or something, that needed to be looked after, that had to have extra care taken, that demanded her attention, and often her protection.

Georgie knew that she couldn't see her friend's dreams smashed once again if there was a hope left that Rafe was really free. While she understood that Rafe held the largest part of Gillie's heart, there were small corners of it set aside for others. In the time that they'd been here, Georgie had witnessed Gillie's dedication to her pet causes and her ability to work with others to bring about her goals. She was a very determined young womanyet her greatest determination, to win the love of Rafe Rayburne, she'd willingly set aside. It was for her, Georgie knew. Because Gillie wasn't going to abandon her like a homeless pup that couldn't make its way in the world.

How odd, Georgie thought. She'd wanted Gillie for herself, imagined how it would be to have her close at hand day in and day out, to share her life, and now that she had her, Georgie had to let go before what began as a gesture of deepest friendship ended up a prison for both of them.

Gillie had choices to make, freely, as did Georgie.

"Would you like me to bring you something?" Nan questioned Gillie as she wound the thick waves of black hair atop Gillie's head and anchored it with several mother-of-pearl pins, leaving only a few strands hanging down the nape of her neck for effect. "There, that should do," Nan pronounced, stepping back to admire her work.

"Nothing now, thank you, Nan," Gillie responded, rising from her padded velvet seat and walking toward the open windows. "I'll be taking tea with Georgie within the hour." Gillie stood there, surveying the world outside, while Nan gathered her discarded clothes. She was fresh from her bath, powdered and coiffed, enjoying the mild breeze as it slid across her bare arms and neck, for she wore only a thin white camisole top edged with sapphire-colored ribbons and a pair of matching drawers.

Gillie could well imagine just how hot it must be in Texas now. A scorcher, they would say. Hot as Hades and twice as unforgiving. Waves of intense heat would roll over a body, looking for a weak spot to strike. Could she endure such a climate? A visit was one thing, but living there? Could she do what Rhys had donewillingly give up his country, his birthplace, for love? To live forever in a world so different from that in which they were born?

She stared at the soft green hills, the horses grazing on the lush paddock grass, the sturdy oak and chestnut trees, the colorful flowers that surrounded the stone walkways. All this was so belovedly familiar. It was haven and heaven, hearth and heritage.

Quixotically, Gillie directed a question to her maid. ''Could you leave England, Nan?"

"Yes," Nan responded quickly, "if there was a need to, Miss Gillie. 'Tis just a patch of earth, after all, and I've never been one for the land. A home of my own, now there's a different tale," Nan said, cocking her head to one side. "That I would like. Makes no difference to me, town or country, England or elsewhere."

"What about America? Could you live there?"

Nan grinned. She thought that she knew where this was leading. "I think that I could learn to like it very much, Miss Gillie. 'Tis so vast a place, with so many people," she remarked. "I know that I've not seen much of it, though I do fancy that part of Texas where Lord Derran lives."

"So do I, Nan," Gillie agreed. "So do I." The reason she did was abundantly clear to herRafe. It was so much a part of who he was that she couldn't truly love him without loving the land that bred him.

Gillie held out her left hand and looked at the garnet ring. Her right hand lifted, fingers stroking across the surface of the ring.

Could she do what she wanted? Could she put this life behind her and venture forth to another? And what if she did and was once more rejected for her efforts? Could she bear that again?

But then, could she live the rest of her life without knowing? Could she ever accept another man to husband, knowing that he would play second-best to a ghostly memory?

Why, her mind questioned, had Rafe lied to her? What possible motive could he have had? Why had he made up this fiction of another woman?

And what was she going to do about it?

She knew what her heart wanted her to do.

Yet, to do that she would have to abandon the friend who still had need of her. Gillie knew that she couldn't do that right now. When Georgie was able to stand alone again, then she would do what she must.

Georgie reread the last letter she'd received from Marina Allenwood. In it she begged Georgina to reconsider the offer she'd made in her previous note, to join her as a traveling companion on a trip to Europe. Lady Allenwood suggested that it would provide Georgie with connections to both public and private galleries that might be interested in her work, not to mention commissions galore. Think about it, she'd written.

It was all Georgie had been thinking about since she'd come upstairs to change before tea. A chance to visit the art museums and private collections that housed the masters. It was such a grand opportunity, one that might never come about again. Marina Allenwood had even gone so far as to spell out the termsthey would be any way that Georgie wanted to impose. Lady Allenwood explained in a frank, honest fashion that she was attracted to her, but that she would in no way put any undue pressure on Georgie if she chose to maintain their relationship as merely casual and impersonal.

Georgie recognized that she was drawn to Lady Allenwood and found her a compelling personality. She did not love the woman as she loved Gillie, but Lady Allenwood could provide what she needed, whereas Gillie never couldor would.

It was a start.

And, she reckoned, an ending.

"When did you decide this?" Gillie asked, pouring the tea.

"This afternoon," Georgie replied, adding a small dollop of milk to her cup. "It's too good an opportunity to pass up," she said, taking a sip.

Gillie cut a thick slice of the cook's famous carrot cake and handed the china plate to Georgie, adding a slice for herself. As she bit into the rich cake, she pondered what her friend was proposing.

"I think that it's time, don't you, that I stood on my own feet?" Georgie asked.

"I don't honestly know if you're ready to do that yet, Georgie," Gillie replied, setting aside her fork and dabbing at her lips with a linen napkin. "It may be too soon."

Georgie glanced down at her plate. "If I stay, it may be too late," she whispered.

"What did you say?" Gillie demanded.

"I said that I think it's for the best."

"I'm not so sure," Gillie acknowledged.

"You don't have to be, you know," Georgie responded, "I have toand I am. Besides, this leaves you free to do what you truly want to do."

Gillie was curious. "And what, pray tell, is that?" she asked.

"Go to Rafe," Georgie said softly.

Gillie blushed.

"It's what you want to do, isn't it?" Georgie inquired.

Gillie answered honestly. "Yes, I do, but I cannot forsake you, dear friend." She reached her arm across the table, taking Georgie's hand in hers and giving it a comforting squeeze. "You mean too much to me." "Yet not as much as I would like," Georgie admitted bluntly.

Gillie blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I love you."

Gillie smiled. "I know that, silly goose."

Georgie pulled her hand away and stood, her back to her friend. "No, you don't." She took a few steps before turning to face Gillie again, determined to go through with her revelations. "I love you." Georgie paused, letting the words sink in. "More than just a friend, and it's killing me to be with you every day and not show you just how I truly feel. Now do you see why I have to go?" she pleaded, tears forming in her eyes.

Gillie sat in stunned silence for a few moments before she spoke. "I'm truly sorry." And she was. She'd never suspected.

"What do you have to feel sorry for?" Georgie asked incredulously.

"Because I know what it's like to be in love with someone who doesn't care the same way that you do."

"Oh, I think you're wrong," Georgie stated. She told Gillie about the bid Rafe had made for her painting.

"He offered that much for Magdalene?"

"Is that something a man would do who wasn't in love with the woman in the painting?" Georgie pointed out. "Why else would he want it if not to have something of her to call his own?"

"Did you sell it to him?"

Georgie shook her head. "No. I gave it to him." "You gave it to him?"

"I had my reasons." She came back to the table and resumed her seat, looking Gillie in the eye. "Do you hate me?" Georgie's voice trembled as she posed the question.

Hate her? Gillie thought. How could she spurn the years of friendship they had shared? How could she toss aside the confidences and the laughter? Wipe it all away as if it had never been because of three words. While she couldn't ignore the truth behind the words, she couldn't let them wash away the bonds of true friendship.

"I could never hate you, Georgie," Gillie answered sincerely. "You must know that. We've meant too much to each other to set it aside for any reason."

Georgie fought to hold back the tears. Fear of how Gillie would react had created torturous scenarios in her brain. Revulsion. Anger. Condemnation. Indifference.

Gillie saw the fear in Georgie's eyes and repeated her earlier gesture, her hand reaching for the other woman's. "I will always be your friend, Georgie," she said softly, emphatically. "Nothing can change that. Nothing." She took a deep breath. "But you are right. It's time for us to go our separate ways for now."

Georgie sighed, glad to still have her friend. "So, you will go to Rafe, won't you?"

"I have to," Gillie responded. It was, she realized, as simple as that. Rafe was the love she couldn't denyor ever forget.

PART TWO

HAMBRE DEL ALMA

Chapter Fifteen

TEXAS: 1888

Bessie was busy preparing breakfast for Rafe that Sunday morning, wondering what she could possibly get him for his twenty-fourth birthday in little more than a week.

The only thing that sprang to her mind was a wife. A proper bride to make his ranch a home, to ease the loneliness she could often read in Rafe's dark blue eyes. Someone warm, and real, to take the place of the woman whose picture hung in his bedroom.

Bessie recalled his genuine surprise when the painting was delivered late last month. Rafe had been riding herd at the time, and she'd had it placed in the parlor, still in its shipping crate, until Rafe arrived back at The Fortress. Bessie had watched his face as he opened the box and carefully removed the material that protected the painting during its journey from Englandit was the face of a man deeply in love. There was no doubt that the woman in the painting was beautiful.

Bessie recognized that face immediately. It was the same woman whose silver-framed photograph rested, along with others, atop Rafe's large walnut desk in his officethe younger sister of the patrón of the Encantadora ranch. The same woman whose name Bessie had heard Rafe call out in his sleep one morning recently when she'd brought him his first cup of coffee.

Gillie.

The small china shelf clock chimed eight. Bessie knew Rafe would soon be coming downstairs for his morning meal. He was up at least two hours earlier on regular workdays, but since today was Sunday, he'd sleep a bit longer. While she tended to the bacon cooking in one iron skillet, Besie kept an eye on the buckwheat cakes grilling in a larger pan. A plate of fresh biscuits and a jar of homemade blackberry preserves were already on the table, along with a crock of cold butter and a jug of thick cream. Reaching up into the oak cabinet that hung on the wall, Bessie took down a tin in the shape of a log cabin. She'd purchased the first tin months ago from the general store, deciding to give it a try. Rafe loved the taste, as did she and Aaronher husband and Rafe's foremanso on her last trip to town, she'd purchased several more tins of Towle's Log Cabin Maple Syrup.

"'Morning, Bessie," Rafe said as he entered the kitchen, his scuffed boots making a clicking sound against the large slabs of stone set in the floor of the kitchen, an appreciative grin spreading across his face when he caught the strong aroma of coffee perking in the graniteware pot. Helping himself to a large mugfull, he sat down at the table, pouring the cream and adding a teaspoonful of sugar. He drank almost the entire contents of the cup in one long swallow.

"Good morning, Mr. Rafe," she said with a welcoming smile on her rounded face, setting a plate piled high with buckwheat cakes and crisp bacon before him. Holding the coffeepot carefully, Bessie refilled Rafe's cup and poured one for herself. She sat down, quietly watching him eat his meal. Like a lean wolf, Rafe could devour quite a lot of food without it sticking to him.

"You aiming to visit your ma today?"

Rafe looked up and took another drink of his coffee before answering Bessie. "No, not today," he responded in a low voice. His mother was living in San Antonio now, had been for several years since leaving the private clinic that Tory had arranged for her to go to. Rafe cared for Martha, but they weren't close. Not the way he was close to Tory and Rhys, who'd raised him since he was thirteen. Rafe believed that he was a constant reminder of an incident that Martha wanted to forgetthe product of a rape that had ruined her life, forcing her into a sham marriage with the madman, Talbot Squire. Their visits were infrequentand that, he felt, was for the best. Martha deserved some measure of peace in her life, and he would try his best to see that she got it. Rafe saw to it that she wanted for nothing; he felt that he owed it to her.

Aaron entered the kitchen from the outside door, a big bear of a man with a thick salt-and-pepper beard, carrying a handful of fragrant yellow roses in his big dark hands. They'd been cut from the bushes that surrounded the ranch house.

''We'd best be getting off soon so's we're not late for church," he said, giving the flowers to his wife.

Bessie stood and fetched a vase from one of the cabinets. It was a pale shade of yellow-gold glass, cut and polished so that it sparkled, especially when placed in the rich Texas sunlight. She filled the Dorflinger vase with waterit had been a Christmas gift this year past to Rafe from Lady Gillianand set it on the kitchen table.

Both men watched as Bessie checked the contents of one large iron pot before she turned to go. "We'll be having chicken and dumplings for dinner tonight," she announced.

"Oh, sugar," Aaron replied, "you do know the way to my heart."

"Ah, honeylamb," she cooed back to him, patting his massive chest, "I've always known the way there and back again."

"Be seeing you, Mr. Rafe," Bessie called over her shoulder as she and Aaron left.

Rafe heard the slight creak of the buckboard as they made their way onto it, followed seconds later by the clip of horses's hooves as they drove away from the ranch.

He poured himself another steaming cup of coffee, envying the closeness of his housekeeper and foreman. They had an easy camaraderie.

And what did he have? An empty existence without Gillie. Rafe traced a lean finger down the cut-glass vase. He'd tried to forget her and found it impossible. It was as if the sun had dimmed and clouds perpetually covered his life. Then, the unexpected arrival of the painting. He'd hung it in his room so that it was the first thing he saw in the morning upon waking and the last thing he saw before sleeping.

But he had to put this love behind himif that was possible. And the way to do that was to find a wife.

He knew the place to start.

The town that had sprung up between his property and the Encantadora, was rapidly expanding. People continued to pour into it, filling it out. New buildings were constantly being built. The railroad spur line increased the importance of the place, as did the bigger newspaper in which Tory and Rhys had a stake. A schoolhouse had been added, and a hunt was on for another teacher to help with the duties. A husband-and-wife team of doctors had settled from the East just this past year. Two small churches saw to the spiritual welfare of the townsfolk. And there were several single women, all of marriageable age, residing there. One woman had come with her brother and his wife to set up a boarding house. Another worked in the dry goods store, a niece of the owner. Then there were the daughters of the local farmers.

It would be an uncomplicated match, he'd decided. He would provide a good, solid home for whomever he married, respect the vows they took, and treat her with care. All he wanted in return was a chance to have a family and build a future. He had several guestrooms he could choose from that would make a comfortable bedroom for the mistress of his house. He would ask Bessie later which would best suit a woman, and have her arrange to turn it into a room fit for a new bride. Rafe knew that he couldn't think about sharing his own bedroom with anyone. Somehow, as crazy as it sounded, it would seem like a betrayal of his love for Gillie.

The sooner he began this new life, the better. Gillie had probably met another man by now, one more suited to her.

But suppose that she met someone like Kingsfordsomeone who only wanted to take advantage of her sweet and trusting nature? Perhaps he should make discreet inquiries to set his mind at rest.

Rafe efficiently cleared the table, deciding that as soon as he had a chance he would ride to the Encantadora and have a talk with Rhys. But not today. Today was already reserved for a backlog of paperwork that he must attend to.

Rafe reached out one long finger and traced the petals of a single rose. It was soft and fragrant, and achingly beautiful.

"Oh, Gillie," he murmured.

Gillie held her niece securely in her arms, rocking her in the waning light of the day on the front porch of the house on King Street in San Antonio, delighting in the little girl's gurgling laughter. She was a beautiful child, Gillie thought, with her mother's distinct coloring, Tory's pale blue eyes and strawberry-blond hair clustered in soft ringlets around her head. Little Charlotte Victoria Fitzgerald Buchanan was already a determined lady, wrapping her aunt around her tiny finger with no trouble whatsoever.

She kissed the baby's head, holding her close. Having just arrived this morning in San Antonio, Gillie was tired but happy. Instinctively, she knew that she had made the right decisionthe only decision she could have madein coming here.

Several people passed by, out for a stroll, and waved, making her feel welcome. It was all so different from her world. She watched the couple across the street as the eager swain pushed his apparent lady love high into the air on the swing fixed into the tall apple tree. The young woman's shrieks of laughter were like sweet music to Gillie's ears. How very uncomplicated some people's lives were. Charlotte demanded her attention once again. Gillian soothed her niece with a lullaby, rocking calmly back and forth until the child closed her eyes in sleep. Gillie rose from the white whicker rocker and carefully placed Charlotte in the splendidly carved cradle. She looked down at the child and her heart swelled with love. She wanted a baby of her own. Rafe's baby.

A slim, black-haired young woman set a silver tray down on the low wicker table. It contained a tall pitcher of lemonade and a glass. "The patrona thought that you'd enjoy something cool," Anita Ramirez said, favoring her employer's sister-in-law with a smile. "Is there anything else that you would like, Lady Gillian?"

Gillie accepted the glass and drank a hearty amount. It was sweetly tart and very refreshing. "Not at this moment," Gillie responded politely.

"The pequeña is asleep, sí?" Anita asked, checking her charge. She was the baby's nursemaid.

"She just now fell asleep," Gillian responded. Taking another sip of her drink, she inquired, "Are my brother and his wife expected back soon?"

Anita straightened. "They should return soon from the alcalde's residence. They did not know that you would arrive a day earlier than expected when they accepted his invitation to dine. To refuse would have been an insult."

Gillie finished her glass of lemonade. "I understand," she assured the nursemaid with a smile. "I just thought that I should like to take a bath, and perhaps a nap before supper." Tory had explained the situation to Gillie when she arrived, for they were on their way out the door. Gillie insisted that she didn't mind, for it would give her a chance to spend some time alone with her niece. Gillie had been somewhat surprised to find that Travis and the twins, Samuel and Sebastian, had remained behind at the Encantadora. She longed to see them also.

Gillie stood, glancing at the baby. "She is so darling," she said, reaching out her hand and touching the tiny curled fingers.

"Sí," Anita agreed, slipping into the chair Gillie vacated. "The patrona has been blessed with a family worthy of her. God has greatly favored her and the patrón."

Gillie thought about that remark as she stepped into the warm, scented bath water. Would God look favorably on her mission? she wondered as she lathered the bar of wool-fat soap and ran it along her arm.

And what would Tory and Rhys have to say about her wanting to give Rafe a surprise birthday party at the Encantadora? Gillie had a special gift in mind for him, one she hoped he would accept.

Yawning, she stepped from the bath, pulling the plug. She dried her body quickly and slipped into her white robe. Walking through the connecting door, she saw that Nan had turned down the bed, laying out her nightgown at the foot. Feeling slightly daring, and since the curtains were drawn, Gillie removed her robe and tossed it onto her trunk. Naked, she eased herself between the sheets.

Her last thought before she drifted off to sleep was to wonder if Rafe slept the same way. For some reason, she couldn't imagine him with a cumbersome nightshirt. That seemed much too commonplace for him.

Happily, images of Rafe floating in her brain, Gillie snuggled into the sheets, their softness caressing her bare skin.

Tory rebuttoned her fine lawn camisole after feeding her daughter. Warm, strong arms slid around her middle, pulling her close against a masculine body. "God, but I love you, my darling Amazon," the man whispered, his accent still unmistakably British even though he'd lived the better part of the last eleven years in Texas. He nuzzled her neck as his hands slid upwards, his palms cupping her full breasts.

Tory moaned, loving the feel of her husband's fingers. Each caress was still imbued with all the magic of their tempestuous loving.

"I can scarce believe at times that you've borne four children, my love," Rhys said huskily as he stroked her ear with his tongue. Her long hair was plaited neatly and coiled onto her head, allowing him greater access to her skin. He started to undo the buttons and Tory's hands stilled his. "What's amiss?" Rhys queried, on fire for her as if it were the first time.

"I want to talk to Gillie, and if you continue that, I will never leave this bedroom."

Rhys laughed, low and seductive. "That's the idea, my love."

Tory spun around in his embrace, her mouth seeking his as they kissed long and deep. "Later," she spoke in a breathless whisper, one hand snaking through his thick black hair.

With a raffish smile on his lips, Rhys said, "I shall make you pay dearly for this delay."

"Please do," Tory responded with her own devilish grin, grabbing her cream-colored shirt from the massive mahogany sleigh bed and fastening the pearl buttons. She tucked it into the waistband of her midnight-blue velvet skirt while her husband set about removing his clothes, slowly.

Her eyes drank in the sight of his lean chest as he tossed the pristine white shirt to the foot of the bed. He took his time unbuckling the braided leather-and-silver belt and drawing it from the loops. Next, he loosened the first button of his trousers, his eyes meeting hers.

"Damn you!" she whispered with a sigh, wetting her lips with her tongue as he stepped out of the pants.

Shutting the door on his soft laugh, Tory took a deep breath. How very tempted she was to go right back into that room and replace that smile on his handsome face with an even bigger one. But, first things first. She wanted to talk to Gillie, to find out why her sister-in-law had come. Gillie's telegram had sounded urgent, though when she arrived, she looked calm, her spirits as sunny as ever, though there was a determined set to her chin, Tory noted, and a restless spirit in Gillie's blue-gray eyes.

Tory walked down the hall toward Gillie's room, curious to discover just what was going on. When Rafe had returned from England, there'd been a brooding sadness about him. Then came Gillie's letter asking about Rafe's supposed wedding.

She paused at the door. Tory had always felt that Rafe and Gillie were a match for one another, though she had never openly pushed the union, having decided that it would be better for them if they found out themselves without anyone pushing, prodding, or interfering. However, perhaps it was time to get involved, since she cared deeply for each of them.

Raising her hand, Tory rapped on the door.

Gillie answered the knocking, opening the door and embracing her sister-in-law. "Come in," she said, "I've been expecting you."

Tory entered. Declining polite chitchat, she got right to the point. "What's going on, Gillie?" she demanded. "You visit was a complete surprise." She strode over to the overstuffed chintz-covered chair in the corner and settled her tall body. "You know we love having you stay with us, and I know that you look on the Encantadora as your home, as well you shouldbut why the secrecy? Why did you not let us know you were coming sooner? And why did you beg us not to tell anyone?''

Gillie smiled and curled up in the bed, having donned her undergarments when she awoke from her nap. "I must ask you to promise me again that you will keep what I tell you a secret," she asked.

"From whom?" Tory demanded.

"From Rafe and Rhys," Gillie replied.

"Why?"

"It's important to me," Gillie insisted, one finger nervously twirling a black curl of hair.

"I don't like keeping secrets from Rhys," Tory protested.

"Nor do I," Gillie stated. "Please, bear with me, Tory." Gillie threw an anxious glance at her American sister-in-law.

Tory returned the glance, steepling her hands and tapping them against her mouth for a few seconds. "Okay," she finally said. "Tell me what you have to."

Gillie began slowly at first. "I think I've loved Rafe from the first moment I met him," she said, her eyes closed in remembrance as she mentally recalled the fourteen-year-old boy she'd met that Christmas so many years ago. "Even then I could tell he needed me to love him, to help him." Gillie explained that Rafe filled an empty place inside herself. "It was a child's love at first, I know." She paused, touching the garnet ring.

"When did it change for you?" Tory asked quietly.

Gillie answered quickly. "When I passed my thirteenth birthday," she said honestly. "Seeing you and my brother so much in love, so very physical. You two were always touching each other, kissing at every opportunity. I wondered then what it would be like if Rafe touched me with the same ardor. If his kisses would pleasure me as much as Rhys's did you. If the touch of his hand could intoxicate me the way Rhys's touch roused you."

A slow wash of color flooded Tory's cheeks. Gillie was rightall Rhys had to do was touch her and she ignited in flame, seeking the deep fulfillment that always came when they were together. It amazed her to think of how deep and strong their commitment was to each other. If Gillie felt only a fraction of that for Rafe, then it was true and everlastingand meant to be.

"When he gave me the ring, I felt prickles of sensation coursing through me when our hands touched," Gillie confessed. "No one before or since has made me feel that same way, as if I'd been born for him alone." She rose from the bed, slipping into her robe. There was a dreamy quality to Gillie's eyes, as if she were transfixed by a memory.

Gillie knelt on the sky-blue wool carpet in front of where Tory was sitting, tracing the patterns of one of the large pink roses with her fingers. "And when we kissed, truly kissed some months past, I understood how very much it meant to be a woman aching to be loved, truly, completely loved by a man. I remembered what you told me about how you loved Rhys, and what you would do to be with him. I think at that moment I knew exactly how you felt. If Rafe had asked, I would have gone to him willingly, then and there."

Gillie looked up at Tory. "Does that shock you?"

Tory smiled. "If it was any other properly brought-up young Englishwoman, I think I would have to say yes. However," she conceded, "since it is you, and having experienced the depth of your brother's passion, and knowing some of the history of your family, I would have to say no." Tory reached out her hand and took one of Gillie's in her own. "Was that when Rafe told you he was to wed another?"

"Yes," she answered, revealing the details of her short-lived sojourn at Lady Allenwood's. "Can you think of a reason why he would have lied to me? If there was no other woman, why would he reject my love?"

Tory thought she knew at least part of the answer, though it was not her story to tell. Gillie had been too young to hear the details of how Rafe had come to live with them when he was thirteen, of the hellish life he'd lived with his cruel stepfather, barely surviving with his sanity and physical health intact. It was something Tory and Rhys had agreed to keep private for Rafe's sake. The past should be kept in the past. But even all the love they lavished on him couldn't ever totally erase all the bad memories stored in Rafe's mind.

Would knowing about Rafe's background change Gillie's professed love for him? Would she recoil from the knowledge? Tory suspected that only a healing love so powerful that it could burn the bitter recollections to ashes and replace them with fresh memories would do for Rafe. It would take a woman gentle enough to heal the hurt and strong enough to banish the demons.

Tory believed that woman was Gillie.

"I think that Rafe thought he had his reasons," was all Tory would say.

"That's not good enough," Gillie replied stubbornly. She looked at Tory, searching her face for a clue. "You know what his reasons are, don't you?"

Tory shrugged her shoulders. "I think that I do, but it is not my place to discuss them," she said, her heart going out to the younger woman. She knew that she wouldn't have accepted that for an answer if anyone had given it to her. "Rafe is a very complicated man," Tory admitted. "Dark and brooding, like the hero of one of the Bronte sisters' novels.

"There is someone in San Antonio I think you should talk to."

"Who?"

"Rafe's mother."

"His mother?" Gillie was confused. In all the years she'd known him, she'd never heard Rafe speak of his mother. "I thought that she was dead, along with Rafe's father, since Rafe has never mentioned them."

"Martha is very much alive," Tory replied. "It's she who should tell you about her son. Be as honest with her as you have been with me, and I think that she will respond well to that. She loves him very much, even if they do not see much of each other."

"Then I must see her," Gillie declared. She paused for a moment, considering. "Is she ill?" she asked hesitatingly.

Tory read the trace of fear in her sister-in-law's blue-gray eyes. "Or is she mad? Is that what you wanted to ask?"

"Yes," Gillie admitted.

Tory reassured her. "No, Martha isn't mad, Gillie. She's just not as strong emotionally or physically as she should be."

"I wondered," she said, "if she was perhaps the reason that Rafe refused me."

Tory posed a question. "Suppose that she was mad? Would it matter?"

Gillie shook her head. "I would have to convince Rafe that it would make no difference to usto me. I love him, Tory," she declared. "No matter what."

"I believe you," Tory insisted, "and I'll do what I can to help you. Tomorrow we shall pay a call on her. It's up to you to convince Martha that you love her son as much as you claim."

"I do."

"Good," she pronounced, adding, "I'm glad of that, for I've always thought that you were the woman for Rafe."

"You never said anything to me," Gillie countered, surprise in her tone.

"I didn't want to influence either one of you unduly," Tory responded. "I care for you both, and it would have been so easy to push for what I wanted. But I couldn't because it had to be what you both wanted."

Tory leaned forward, speaking softly. "You must know that if you win his love, there is no turning back?"

Gillie smiled. "I don't want to. That's why I came, Tory. I've long passed the point that I could give up. I've burned my bridges."

Tory rose, as did Gillie. They linked arms and walked toward the door. "You're a one-man woman, Gillie, just like me," Tory said as she stood in the open doorway. They hugged. "I'm so proud of you," Tory acknowledged.

"And you won't speak of this to Rhys just yet?"

"I gave you my word, Gillie. I never break it," Tory confirmed.

"Thank you," Gillie said. "I will tell Rhys in my own time."

"That's probably a very wise move, considering your brother still thinks of you as his baby sister. I'm not quite sure Rhys has ever considered you to be old enough to love a man, let alone share a bed with one." Tory's mouth kicked up into a smile. "I'll see you in a little while for supper."

There was a lot to think about, Tory decided as she opened the door to her own bedroom, but as her eyes beheld the sight of her husband, his splendid body stretched naked across the bed, she put all thoughts except for him aside. Closing the door softly, she cast off her slippers, hastily undid the rest of her clothes and left them where they fell.

She padded to the bed, her breathing quickening.

Rhys shifted, waiting. How was it possible to love her more now than he did when they first wed? His feelings now were deeper, truer, more intense. As if she had taken her Rocking R brand to him and seared his very heart so that evermore he would be marked as the private property of Victoria Reitenauer. Forever enthralled. Forever in love. As much a prisoner as he was a captor, for he knew with unbreaking trust that she was the samehis for all time.

Rhys welcomed her into their bed, drawing Tory into his arms. He was fully aroused, though he wanted to postpone the culmination as long as possible.

They kissed. It was pleasure of a kind to drive them both wild.

Tory moaned when Rhys's lean fingers touched her milk-swollen breasts. He gently teased one nipple as he bent his head. He kissed and caressed her flesh, stroking, licking, taking love nips in his wake. He cupped the weight of her breast in his hand. Then, with a wicked smile on his mouth, a glimmer in his gray eyes, he placed his mouth on her and suckled.

Tory moaned louder, her head spinning with delight when he captured her nourishment. She clasped his head, holding it closer to her breast, gasping her satisfaction. Rhys slid one hand down to her already parting thighs, seeking the warm, wet heat beneath the nest of reddish-blond curls. Probing, he used his long fingers to work magic on her.

Tory shattered as Rhys caught her cries with his mouth.

Before she had time to recover, he'd slid into her waiting, eager body and drove deep and hard, finding the harbor he craved, driving them both over the edge into ecstasy.

Chapter Sixteen

Rhys Fitzgerald Buchanan, the Earl of Derran, spread some thick orange marmalade onto a piece of toast, a pleasant smile on his handsome face as he recalled the events of the previous day.

The appearance of his beloved sister was a joyous occasion. Rhys missed her, and judging by the way she clung to him, Gillie missed him, too. Over an informal dinner, they'd exchanged news and gossip, keeping the conversation light. Rhys proudly told his sister that all three of her nephews were keen horsemen and eager to show off their skills to their aunt as soon as they returned to the Encantadora.

Rhys had, however, taken note of a change in his sister. She was quieter, more subdued. He'd observed little glances that passed between Tory and Gillie, as if they shared some secret. Lying in bed, Tory in his arms, he'd asked if she knew anything about his sister that he ought to know. Tory had successfully manipulated a change in his thoughts when she ignored his query and instead initiated their lovemaking. He pretended not to notice her refusal to answer. As he and Tory never kept secrets from one another, Rhys knew that only a promise not to talk about something could prevent Tory's telling him whatever she knew.

''Good morning, Rhys," Gillie said cheerfully, greeting her brother with a kiss on his freshly shaved cheek before she sat down to join him for breakfast. "Ah, something smells good," she murmured, lifting the lid on a plate full of scrambled eggs and another of crisp bacon. She helped herself while Rhys poured them both a cup of steaming coffee.

"I miss American coffee, you know," Gillie said, "when I'm in England."

"So do I," her brother agreed. Rhys watched silently while Gillie dug into her brekfast, waiting for her to finish before he commenced his own inquiry.

"We're quite happy that you've come to stay with us," he began, reaching out and touching her cheek, "although it was a bit of a surprise."

Her eyes met his. "I just felt that I needed to come," she responded.

"You're always welcome, little sister," Rhys affirmed, "you know that. Anytime, and for as long as you want." She smiled sweetly at him. "For which I'm grateful."

Rhys raised a black brow. "Is our mother still trying so hard to keep you on leading strings?" he demanded.

"I will admit that Mama means well," Gillie answered, "though she is at times inclined to think me just a maleable child still."

"Perhaps 'tis because you look hardly older than a schoolroom miss," Rhys suggested with a fond look.

Gillie rolled her eyes. "Not you too, Rhys."

He laughed softly. "No, sister mine. Though you have the glowing face of an innocent, I hardly think you can be molded willy-nilly any longer." He refilled their coffee cups and added, "If you ever could. Though I suspect that still does not stop our mother from giving it her best shot." He gave Gillie an intense look. "Is she still trying to change your mind about your charity work?"

"That will never cease, I fear. Mama thinks it a complete waste of my time, which, to her, would be better spent searching for a suitable husband."

"Ah," he said with an indulging smile, "she's matchmaking again."

"She's never stopped, Rhys. Mama won't be truly happy, she insists, until I've made a proper match. Which, of course," Gillie stressed, "means a man of her own choosing."

"And you will have none of it, eh?"

"Certainly not!" Gillie asserted. "Well, little sister, our mother is not the only person who thinks you would be better off wed soon."

"Who, pray tell, is the other?"

Rhys smiled and said, "Rafe."

Gillie was obviously surprised by her brother's statement. "Rafe?"

"Yes," Rhys nodded. "When he came back from England this last time, he told me that he thought it would be a good idea for me to arrange something for you. A match with a proper Englishman would be best for you, he thought."

"Oh, he did, did he?" she asked, her tone slightly cool.

Rhys's curiosity was roused by her reaction. He observed Gillie's face, watching her blue-gray eyes grow stormy as he uttered Rafe's words. Clearly, he had hit a nerve. He decided to probe further.

"Is there a particular gentleman that you're interested in?" he questioned.

Gillie wasn't ready to tell her brother the whole truth, so she answered in a way that wouldn't be a lie. "There is no one in England whom I wish to marry," she stated plainly. That was the truthRafe was in Texas.

"Do you think that you're ready for marriage?" her brother asked.

"I think I am," Gillie acknowledged earnestly. "I want what you and Tory share," she said. "Someone I can love and who loves me. A man whose prime interest in me isn't my name, my fortune, or my family connections. I will take no less than that," she stated emphatically. "Your example has been too powerful for me. To settle for less than that would kill me, I think."

"I'm flattered that you consider Tory and me as your role models." But," Rhys confessed, "the road was not always easy for us. It was a marriage of convenience for both of us at first. Love came later."

"Yet you were . . ." Gillie paused, searching for the right words. " . . . Attracted to her?"

Rhys gave a hearty laugh. He decided to be honest with Gillie, and in doing so, acknowledged that he was now much more American in his manner than English. "Did I want Tory? Yes. More than I've ever wanted a woman in my life," Rhys admitted frankly. "Even though we were not, I believed at that time, well suited to one another, I wanted her desperately. Tory was a challenge to me, a woman unlike any I had ever known. I had to have her in my bed; it was as simple as that."

"You fell in love with Tory, didn't you?"

"Indeed I did," Rhys replied truthfully, thinking that it had been a keen revelation to him. He hadn't planned on falling in love with the American heiress he'd come to wed, but it had happened nonetheless. "It was then that I knew that I wanted her more than anything else in this world."

Gillie posed a serious question to her brother. "Have you ever regretted what you left behind, Rhys?" she asked. "What you gave up for her? It must have been ever so hard to turn your back on England, on what you expected to be your life."

Rhys responded. "Actually, little sister, it wasn't as hard as I thought it would be," he professed. "I miss England, naturally, and my friends, but I could never live without Tory. I couldn't have her and the world I once inhabited, so I made a simple choice. England is a very fond memory. It will always be so, for me. But it is the past. Tory and our children are my reality, and my future.

"One day my son Travis will have to make a choice," Rhys explained, "whether to remain in Texas or assume the mantle of the Earl of Derran in England. I've tried to help him as best I can. Yet it must be his decision alone, as it was mine."

It had temporarily slipped Gillie's mind that her eldest nephew would also have to make a decision affecting his future one day. Travis was the American-born heir to a British title that stretched back centuries.

At that moment, Tory walked into the room and joined them. She was clad once more in her usual gear, a pair of close-fitting, sun-bleached blue jeans and a matching shirt. She wore knee-high buckskin boots; her waist-length, strawberry-blond hair was braided into two thick plaits. She strode over to where Rhys sat at one end of the table and leaned down and kissed his smooth cheek.

Rhys, in turn, caught hold of her waist, his hand splayed across her hip. "This is all I shall ever want, or need," he declared proudly to his sister, a sensual gleam in his gray eyes.

Tory immediately responded. "Rhys knows if he says otherwise, I'll cut out his heart and feed it to the buzzards," she said with mock solemnity.

It was only a second later that Tory and Rhys burst out laughing.

"How could any man not love a woman like that?" Rhys asked, grinning.

It was apparent to Gillie that her older brother did love his wife above and beyond anyone or anything elsejust as she loved Rafe. She, too, was prepared to risk all else that she cared for in this world for the love of a man.

"I've an appointment this morning," Rhys said as he rose, checking his gold pocket watch. "In fact, if I don't hurry, I shall be late. What will you ladies do today?" He walked to the door and paused there, his hand on the glass knob.

"Gillie and I are just going to visit a friend this morning," Tory replied. "Give Senator Madison my best," she bade Rhys.

"I shall," he responded. "He has agreed to sponsor the legislation that we discussed with him at the Governor's ball."

Tory gave her husband a triumphant smile. "I thought that he might," she said, "since he knew we were backing it. It's a wise man who recognizes the power of the Encantadora. Especially," she added, "come election time."

Rhys's smile echoed Tory's. "You would have made a bloody great PM's wife, my love," he said as he went out.

"Or even a great PM," Gillie suggested with a smile.

"Why not a senator or governor?" Tory asked.

"I think that you could do whatever you set your mind to," Gillie answered.

"Thank you," Tory replied. "Though," she added on a more serious note, "since women do not yet hold the vote in Texas, I don't think it's a possiblity in my lifetime." She sipped her coffee slowly, savoring the idea. "Perhaps it will occur in Charlotte's lifetime," she said seriously. "It's ridiculous to be treated by some people as if we are merely decorations and not functional beings.''

Gillie sighed. She concurred with her sister-in-law's sentiments.

"Luckily, I don't have to deal with much of that attitude on the ranch," Tory conceded. "There I am who I am."

"And Rhys loves you just as you are."

Tory's lips curved sweetly. "I know. I thank God for your brother, Gillie. I don't know what would have become of my life without him in it. Or the children. I think I would have lived a very hollow existence, always waiting. Funny thing was," she confessed, "until he came, I never knew I was waiting for anything, let alone anyone in particular." It was then Tory touched the necklace she wore beneath her shirt, the sapphire a match for the ring her husband wore. "It wasn't easy for Rhys when he first came here. He was an outsider. He didn't belong. All that changed, however, when he adopted Texas as his home.

"What about you?" Tory pointedly asked Gillie. "You've lived a very different sort of life in England. Can you turn aside from all that you know, all that you love, for Rafe?"

"Gladly," Gillie replied.

"Good. Because I don't think Rafe would ever be completely happy living in England. There's too much of him that's Texan to ever live anywhere but on Texas soil."

Gillie had come to the same conclusion. "I agree. Texas is too much a part of him, just as it is you, and now Rhys. As long as I can love Rafe and can be with him, I shall be happy.

"England. Texas. It doesn't matter." She shrugged her slim shoulders. "Rafe is my home," Gillie declared vehemently. "Rafe is my country."

"Then I suggest," Tory proposed, "that we finish our meal and pay a call on Martha Rayburne."

Martha Rayburne sat in the parlor of her small, modest house in San Antonio. It was a comfortable dwelling, nothing fancy or grandiose. It suited her and the life that she was living now. She had only a housekeeper-companion, a Señora Luz Santiago, which was fine by her. Since she rarely had a visitor, outside of the occasional social call the Reverend Seth Taylor paid, or the infrequent visits by Victoria Buchanan whenever she was in San Antonio, Martha needed no elaborate staff.

She preferred, in fact, to be by herself. Solitude and quiet gave her time to think. She kept herself busy, a legacy of her strict father's teachings. Idle hands were the devil's tools, he used to say. Martha's hands were now engaged in making toys for the upcoming Christmas season. She was clever with a needle, having forced herself to become so, and was contentedly cutting and crafting bits of material into dolls and animal figures. It gave her a sense of accomplishment, which she desperately needed, a way to feel good about herself again. She'd even begun to believe that life, for her, might one day become more than an empty wasteland. She enjoyed the simple tasks, only wishing that she was making playthings for her own grandchildren in addition to those for the poor.

Rafe. Though she didn't yet have the relationship she wanted with her son, she felt that she was making progress, even if it was only a slow progress. Around her shoulders she wore Rafe's gift to her, a beautiful paisley silk shawl that he'd brought back from England for her.

A framed picture of her son rested on the small table near her chair. His handsome, proudly carved features looked back at her. Martha sometimes wondered how a sparrow like her had produced an eagle like him. He had none of her looks, she thought as she raised a hand to touch her own small, thin-lipped mouth. Sometimes she wondered if her son had inherited anything from her. She often wished she had a measure of his courage. The only thing she had in common with her son was a love of reading.

Even now she could still recall her husband's sneering comments as he'd jeered at Rafe, calling him "an ignorant savage." How very wrong Talbot had been about Rafe. Martha had seen to that. She'd taught Rafe to respect the word, and he'd done as she instructed, devouring any book she put before him, until Talbot had destroyed her collection of books in a fit of anger. Her son, he'd declared, shouldn't get ideas. Education was wasted on a breed.

If only she'd acted sooner. Perhaps then she could have saved her boy years of pain. Martha was well aware that Rafe still carried the scars of his childhood deep within him, in addition to those Talbot physically placed on him.

It was her dearest wish that one day her son would let her more fully into his life. The Reverend Taylor had made her see that it was a possibility, and Martha prayed for it daily, along with prayers that her son would find a woman who loved him as much as he deserved. To see him wed, with a family of his own, would greatly ease her mind. Martha wanted her son to have all the things she'd missed in her life.

Her musings were interrupted by the appearance of Señora Santiago. "You have company, Señora Rayburne."

Martha looked up. "How do I look?" she asked, smoothing her hair and standing.

Luz Santiago smiled indulgently at the woman she worked for. "Muy bonita," she answered.

"What a sweet liar you are," Martha smiled in response. "Please, bring whoever it is in."

Luz bustled out, returning in a few minutes with Martha's guests.

Tory strode in, warmly greeting the older woman.

"Victoria," Martha said fondly. "How lovely to see you again." When they finished embracing, Martha noticed another woman in the room, standing several feet away. Martha's first thought was that the younger woman was one of the most beautiful girls she'd ever laid eyes on.

"I've brought someone along who wanted to meet you," Tory said. "I hope you don't mind."

Martha regarded Tory, her face revealing her puzzlement. "Who would want to meet me?" she asked in a self-deprecating manner.

"I do, madam," Gillie said, her accent marking her as decidely English.

"Martha, I'd like you to meet my sister by marriage, Lady Gillian Fitzgerald Buchanan."

Gillie stepped forward, extending her hand.

"Gillie, this is Rafe's mother, Martha Rayburne." Tory deliberately left off Martha's married name as she knew Martha hated any reminder of her disasterous union with Talbot Squire.

"Won't you both please sit down," Martha insisted. "Luz, could we have something to drink?" Martha faced both women, Tory having taken the chair Martha had recently vacated, with Gillie sitting on the small, rose velvet Belter couch. "Luz's chocolate is superb."

"That would be fine," Gillie remarked.

Luz left the room to get the refreshments, and Martha took the remaining seat next to Gillie.

"What brings you both here?" Martha inquired.

"Your son, madam," Gillie answered baldly.

"Rafe?" Martha's face went pale. "Has something happened to my son? Oh, God," she begged, "tell me."

Tory spoke up, reassuring the older woman. "No, Rafe's fine as far as I know."

Martha relaxed slightly.

"I am truly sorry to have caused you any distress," Gillie apologized. It was hard to imagine that this woman had given birth to Rafe. She'd expected someone different, though she wasn't really sure in what way. Gillie decided then that it was best to be as honest as she possibly could. She took a deep breath and made her heartfelt confession. "I love your son, madam."

Martha was stunned. An English heiress was sitting in her parlor calmly admitting that she was in love with Rafe? "Have you come seeking my blessing?"

Gillie reached out her hand, the one that wore Rafe's ring, and clasped Martha's.

The simple gesture brought tears to Martha's faded blue eyes.

Gillie reached into the pocket of her skirt, pressing a lace-edged handkerchief into the older woman's hand.

"Thank you," Martha replied, touched by the thoughtfulness of the girl.

"It's my pleasure," Gillie affirmed. "And, as for your blessing, I would be very gratified to have it, though that is not why I have sought you out."

Tory broke in. "I told Gillie that she should talk to you about Rafeabout his early years."

Gillie quietly explained her situation to Martha, finishing with, "There has to be a reason why he refuses me. He said that he doesn't love me in the way that I love him, but my heart tells me it is a lie."

Martha directed her question to Tory. "Have you told her anything of the past?"

"No," was Tory's sober response. "Gillie should hear it from you."

Martha nodded. "You say that you love my son, Lady Gillian?" Martha studied the English girl's face, looked deeply into the blue-gray eyes. She could read for herself the truth of the young woman's love for her son in those honest eyes.

"Yes, very much," Gillie responded. "And please," she directed Martha, "call me Gillie."

Martha smiled, giving Gillie an assessing gaze. "So, you know nothing of Rafe's life before he came to live with Victoria and your brother at the Encantadora?"

"No," Gillie confessed. "I met him when I was a child, in London. All I knew was that he was my brother's ward."

Martha's smile faded. "And he's never once mentioned me or his father, has he?"

Gillie shook her head, hating to bring pain to this frail-looking creature. "No, madam. Since I've known Rafe, he's never spoken of you or of his father, so I assumed that you were both deceased."

Pain knifed through Martha. God, had she failed him so miserably that he thought of her as his shameful secret, denying her existence to all save those already privy to it? And could she really blame him if he had?

"His father is dead," Martha revealed quietly, "and has been since before my son was born."

"I'm sorry," Gillie murmured. How horrible, she thought, to be carrying a child without the father of the baby for support.

"Do you want me to leave?" Tory asked Martha.

Martha and Gillian both looked imploringly at her, though it was Martha who answered. "There is nothing to say that you haven't heard before, or shouldn't hear now."

"You can trust Gillie," Tory asserted.

Luz entered the room then with a wooden tray that held the three cups of steaming chocolate. She served each in turn and asked, "Will there be anything else?"

Martha shook her head.

Luz departed, leaving a silence hanging over the room.

Martha drank her chocolate, needing these few minutes' respite to gather her wits about her. She was impressed by this girl. She hoped that Lady Gillian had both the courage and the strength to love her son still when she heard the whole story. Somehow, Martha believed, this particular British aristocrat did.

"I was engaged to be married when I was sixteen," Martha began. "He was a neighbor, a friend of my father's. Since I was fond of him, I was happy with the choice. Pa thought it was time for me to be wed and he approved of the match." Martha placed the china cup and saucer on the low table in front of her. Her hands shook as she accomplished the task. She hoped that she could tell her tale without breaking down. She kept telling herself that it was for Rafe. For her son, she would dredge up the painful memories she'd tried to put aside. "He courted me properly, and we planned a spring wedding. I was so ridiculously happy." Martha halted, taking another deep, steadying breath.

Gillie waited anxiously for her to continue, hoping his mother's story would render a clue to Rafe's actions.

"Then," Martha commenced again, "something happened to destroy the plans I had made. Sometimes," she said, her voice quavering, "when one is young, one thinks nothing bad can happen." Martha's lids drifted closed for a moment; her face reflected the tight lines of pain from years gone by. "The man I was to wed had given me a lovely little brown mare, very gentle and sweet. I loved that animal. One day I decided that I was going to ride over and surprise him." She could still remember that morning so clearly. ''Even for January, it was a beautiful day, with just a hint of cold.

"So I waited till Pa went out with some of his hands and I snuck into the barn, saddling up the mare. I'd left my pa a note so that he wouldn't worry none when he came home and found me gone. It was my chance for an adventure.

"Along the trail, I met a man whose horse had thrown a shoe and gone lame. He'd made camp on our property, and when he saw me he called out. Foolishly, I stopped to listen to his story. He asked if there was anyplace nearby that had a blacksmith. He appeared harmless enough, so I offered to ride back to my place and get Frank, our blacksmith, to come back and help.

"Just as I was fixing to leave, he grabbed my mare's bridle and stopped me. I asked him what was wrong. He kept staring at me with those dark blue eyes of his. It was then that he told me he wanted some company firstthat he hadn't seen a woman in a long time."

Martha shuddered, as pent-up feelings of shame and anger rose to the surface. "I was frightented, but I was a trusting fool. I told him that I couldn't stay for long because my fiance was expecting me. It seemed like that satisfied him, so I got down from my horse. That was another of my mistakes.

"He kept staring at me, then he repeated that it had been so long for him without seeing a womanor, he added, having one. It was then that I began to be really afraid. It started to get colder, and I said that I had to go. He offered me a drink of his whiskey. One drink, then you can go. Just drink with me, he pleaded.

"I'd never tasted whiskey in my life," Martha explained. "Pa didn't allow it. I thought that if I did what he asked, he would let me go. So I took a drink. I gagged on it." Momentarily Martha's thoughts skipped ahead as she recalled the times she'd drunk alcohol to escape from her life with Talbot.

"He asked me then how old I was. I told him that I was almost seventeen. He reached out his hand and pulled off the hat I wore." Martha self-conciously touched her shorn gray locks, now worn close-cropped to her head. "I tried to get away, but he was bigger than me, stronger. He grabbed hold of me and wouldn't let me go. He started kissing me, laughing when I froze at the touch of his mouth." Martha stared at the carpet on her floor. "Before that moment, I had never known a kiss from a man. Never been held that close to a man's body. He was wiry, I remember." She looked up again. "I screamed till my throat was raw. It didn't make any difference to him.

"When it was over, he left me there on the ground with an extra blanket. As he mounted my mare, he told me he was sorry, but that he had to have my horse. He hadn't meant it to go that far, he said, looking down at me from my own saddle, though since it had, he had to get away. Someone would come looking for me, he knew.

"That was the last I saw of him.

"He was right; Pa found me later that night. I could tell that Pa was angry." Martha's voice was flat. "He didn't say a word to me till we got back to the house. Pa waited till we were alone in the house and he struck me. Then, he called me a whore."

"He beat you?" Gillie asked incredulously.

Tory hadn't heard that detail before, and she felt much the same as Gillie, angry that a woman who'd survived a rape had to contend with violence from a family member.

Gillie's thoughts were hurtled back several months to the attack on Georgie. How much she had depended on Rafe's strength and compassion then, his sense of justice. He would never blame the victim, for his own mother had been one once herself.

"Pa said it was my fault. That I must have asked for it somehow." Martha swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. "He told me that I had to tell my intended husband right away; that it wouldn't be fair to let him knowingly marry a whore. It was then that I prayed as hard as I knew how. I begged God to make it all right, to make Richard not care that I'd been damaged, to make him continue to love me." Weary pain edged Martha's tone. "He agreed with Pa. He said he couldn't marry a woman who'd been with another man. But he assured me that he would help Pa track down the man who did this to me. After all, he added, the man had stolen the mare."

"They were worried about the bloody horse?" Gillie demanded, unconcerned about her language.

Martha nodded. "It seemed so." "Did they find him?" Gillie asked.

"Yes, several weeks later," Martha said in a small voice. "They found him in a small town outside of El Paso. It was there that they hanged him." Martha stopped and used the handkerchief to wipe away the traces of fresh tears. "Pa later told me that the man admitted what he did, saying that he was coming back to make amends."

"He was coming back to you?" Gillie inquired.

"I shall never really know," Martha stated. "Weeks later, I learned that I was going to have a baby. My punishment, Pa said. My own daily reminder of my sin and shame.

"Well," Martha said with pride, "I didn't see Rafe that way." She turned to face Gillie. "Do you know what the name Rafael means?"

Gillie shook her head.

"'Healed by God.' And that is what he was to me, a healing for my very soul, sent by God. I had nothing and no one of my own to love.

"Rafe kept me sane." Martha's eyes misted with love. "He was so beautiful as a child." She touched Gillie's hand. "You know my father never once touched Rafe or held him. He was blond and Rafe was dark. It was then that I found out that Rafe's father was a half-breedwhite and Comanche. My father told me some months after Rafe was born. He considered my son tainted.

"It was some years later that my pa died, a very bitter man. I was considered a fallen woman no one would ever want to marry me, especially with a son like mine, I'd been told. Or so I thought until one day I met a sweet-talking man who swept me off my feet. He promised to help me raise my boy and help me with the ranch.

"That man was a monster named Talbot Squire.

"He made life a living hell for my son and me. He hated Rafe, who was a constant reminder that I had once given birth to a healthy baby and yet still hadn't borne him a child.

"It was not long after we were married that I started slipping away," Martha admitted. "When the pain of my existence became too great, I retreated to a safe placeinside my own headand I left my boy to bear his stepfather's scorn alone.

"And if that wasn't enough, Talbot beat Rafe. He whipped him."

Gillie gasped. It hurt her to think of Rafe being forced to endure so much pain and abuse. Her hands clenched into fists and tears stung her eyes.

"Sometimes he kept Rafe chained like an animal, throwing him scraps." Tears were flowing freely down Martha's face.

Gillie moved to gather the older woman into her embrace. She felt sorry for Martha, yet angry with her at the same time. Tory was right. The woman hadn't been able to stand any more painbut she'd also left Rafe to be brutalized by a man who hated him. Gillie's heart ached for Rafe and what he must have suffered. She wanted to run from this room and the secrets she'd heard, find Rafe, and hold him close to her heart, promising him that he would never be hurt again as long as she could help it. Martha had abandoned him to fend for himself as surely as if she had physically abandoned him. Gillie couldn't find it in herself to hate the other woman, though. It was obvious that Martha Rayburne had suffered for her sins.

Tory continued the story. "Talbot killed my father and kidnapped your brother," she explained to Gillie. "It was for revenge against me and my family."

"He had Rhys?" Gillie had never heard about this.

"Yes. Squire meant to kill Rhys after he got what he really wantedme," Tory explained. "Squire wanted to hurt and humiliate me before he killed both your brother and me. But I had other plans." Tory quickly related the details of what had happened.

Martha drew away from Gillie when Tory described how Squire died and who had killed him. She added, "My boy went to live with Victoria and your brother after that. They raised him because I was incapable of caring for him." She stood and walked away. "I was in a hospital back East for a long time."

She stared pointedly at Gillie. "So now you know the truth about me and my son. Do you still love him?"

Gillie gave her answer with quiet dignity. "I've always loved Rafe. I always will," she insisted proudly. "What you've told me doesn't change how I feel, except that perhaps now I understand why he wouldn't accept my love."

"You do?" Martha questioned.

"He doesn't think he's good enough for me," Gillie responded. "Well, he's very much mistaken and I'm going to prove it to him."

As she lay in bed that night, Gillie mentally went over her plan to prove to Rafe how much she loved him. She was more determined than ever. All she needed was a little help and cooperation from Tory and it would work. Gillie didn't care how Rafe was brought into this world, nor who his father was.

All she knew or cared about was that he was her Rafe and she loved him.

Chapter Seventeen

Rafe rode restlessly around the perimeter of his ranch, finally stopping to give his big palomino stallion, Paladin, a chance to rest and get a drink of water. He dismounted, removed his black, flat-brimmed hat, knelt alongside the horse, and splashed some of the cold, clear water onto his face. He cupped his hand and scooped up some of the liquid to quench his own thirst.

He moved to an outcrop of rock and sat down, staring into the distance, not really seeing what was there, for his thoughts were focused inward.

He'd made the journey into town, putting his plan of meeting a prospective mate into play and finding several of the candidates eagerly responding to his mild foray. He was greeted with sincere smiles, even a mild flirtation or two. An upcoming dance to be held in town was casually mentioned by a couple of the ladies, who inquired if he would be attending. Rafe had agreed, thinking it would be helpful in his quest for a wife.

It had even crossed his mind to advertise for a bride, as Tory's father had done when he advertised for a husband for his daughter all those years ago. It had become a joke between the couple, though at the time, it had been anything but. Believing that lightning wouldn't strike twice, Rafe had decided against itat least for now.

Just thinking about marrying another woman instead of the woman he truly wanted was difficult for him. Seeing another woman in the house he'd envisioned Gillie in would be hard. He realized that in shaping and planning his house, he had included things not only for his own comfort, but also for hers. Little touches that reminded him of her, like the delicate lace swags that covered the windows in the master bedroom, the imported British tiles that covered one wall in his private bathroom, depicting scenes from the Arthurian legend, with Guinevere bearing an uncanny resemblance to Gillian. When he'd seen them in the craftsman's shop window in London, Rafe knew he had to have them, and damn the cost.

None of the women in the town of Derran had stirred him as Gillie did with one small smile. None matched her sweetness, her compassion; none possessed the underlying fire he'd glimpsed that night in the library when their lips met. The memory of her was more real to him then the actuality of them.

The truth was that none of those women was Gillienever could be, never would be. Even here, on his own property, she was with him; even now, though months had passed, he couldn't forget her. She was forever in his heart and would remain there till he drew his last breath.

Paladin whickered and Rafe stood up, patting the big stallion's neck. The horse pawed the ground, tossing his long white mane. Rafe held tightly onto the silver bridle as he saw what had interested the animal. A small, dun-colored horse stood on a ridge just a mile or so upstream. His horse whickered again in response to the female's excited whinnies. ''Easy, boy," Rafe said in a soothing tone, keeping the stallion under control as he remounted. His deep baritone took on a slightly bittersweet flavor. "I know just how you feel. It's hell to want something that's out of your reach."

Paladin reared back on his two hind legs, pawing the air. The other horse bolted, disappearing from view.

"Sorry," Rafe mumured consolingly to the animal. "Perhaps another time." He urged the palamino in the direction of the Encantadora. He had to know if Rhys and Tory had heard anything from Gillie.

Rafe told himself that he was most probably playing the fool as Paladin ate up the miles between the two ranches, but he didn't care. He had to know, had to ease his mind. He couldn't risk getting in touch with her, so this was the only way. As for a reason, he'd think of something when he got there.

"Where do they get all their energy?" Gillie asked her sister-in-law as she entered the hallway of the Encantadora, carefully placing her hat on one side of the walnut hall tree. She removed her kidskin riding gloves and laid them on the marble inlaid table. Below that was a pair of worn leather boots, her brother's, she judged by the size. Two sturdy umbrellas were held loosely in place on either side, as well as a rifle.

As she checked her slightly windblown appearance in the mirror above the table, Gillie thought how just a few items in a hall tree could summon up such differences that one would know instantly that one was not in England. She couldn't ever imagine her mother Agatha allowing such things in her London townhouse. Not even in the country house in Dorset. A much commoner cast-iron tree would have been kept near the back entrance of the house for well-worn bootscertainly not for guns. A male servant would have been dispatched to handle them. Nothing like that would have ruined the refined entrance to Derran House. But here it didn't spoil anything; instead, it added to the character of the house. It was Texan through and through. Tory gave a hearty laugh in response to Gillie's question. "Damned if I know," she said, striding into the library and taking her seat behind her father, Sam Reitenauer's, old desk. She'd had it moved in there after his death, giving her husband a brand-new one for the ranch office.

Gillie joined her, collapsing on the couch. She enjoyed the somewhat eclectic design of the room, with the collection of quilts scattered about, the smell of fine leather from the volumes stored within, the two massive, multi-colored, llama fur rugs. "Are these new?" she asked, leaning over to run her fingers across one pelt.

Tory nodded. "They were an anniversary gift from Tío Sebastian this year. Aren't they lovely?"

"They are indeed," Gillie said on a sigh, loving the feel of the fur against her hand.

Tory chuckled. "Very comfortable also," she confided.

Gillie sat up and directed her gaze to Tory and read the message in her sister-in-law's light blue eyes. "You haven't?" she asked.

"Oh, but we have," Tory conceded, "though I suppose I shouldn't be admitting it to Rhys's baby sister."

"I doubt that you could shock me, Tory, with the admission that you and my brother enjoy making love. But aren't you afraid the boys will interrupt?"

"Why do you think there's a bolt on the door to the library now? That too is new." Tory gave a deeply sensual chuckle. "We had thought it locked securely recently, until Travis found the extra key in Rhys's desk. He wanted a book and he was determined to get it right then. Luckily, we were still clothed when he unlocked the door and came in."

Gillie inquired, "What did he do?"

Tory shrugged. "He stood there for a moment, staring at us, then quickly apologized and left the room. All quite dignified, I'd say. Now if it had been the twins . . ."

"I think I can guess," Gillie agreed. "They would have wanted to know what was going on?"

"Exactly," Tory concurred.

"And badgered you for answers. Travis seems a bit quieter," Gillie observed, "much more reserved then Sam and Sebastian."

"Yes, he is. Those two are far more boisterous and prone to trouble then their elder brother."

"Does Travis do well in his studies?"

Tory smiled proudly. "His tutor tells us that he is an excellent pupil. Mr. Snow insists that Travis ought to consider Oxford or Cambridge for his future."

"What does Rhys have to say?"

Tory was silent for a moment. "Rhys wants what's best for Travis, as I do. But I don't know if sending him back to England by himself for several years is what's best." She dropped her gaze to the pile of papers on her desk, then she raised her head. "Well, we don't have to choose now, thank God, because I'm not sure what we'd do. He's our first-born, yet he's also heir to Rhys's title and English lands. A very American viscount, even with the Prince of Wales as one of his godfathers. Travis loves this land, but," Tory acknowledged honestly, "he's also half-English. One day he'll have to make up his own mind and heart just who he wants to be and where he wants to live."

Tory was just about to say something else when she heard the sound of children's voices in the hallway just before the door burst open and her twin sons burst into the library.

"Ma," crowed Sam, "look what we found." He ran to her, holding a wolf pup in his arms.

"I found him first," insisted Sebastian, joining his brother at the desk.

Tory remained seated, swiveling her chair around to face her children. She lifted the yelping pup from her son's arms. "Where is his mother?" she demanded.

"Dead, Mama," Sam explained. "Papa said that someone shot her."

"Can we keep it?" asked Sebastian imploringly.

Tory regarded her sons. Both boys stood there with identical expressions on their faces. They were so much like Rhys, she thought, miniature replicas of their father with the same shade of hair, the very same gray eyes. Her heart swelled with love for them. She found it difficult to refuse the boys when they had their hearts set. Rhys said she spoiled them. Tory agreed, to a point. She enjoyed indulging all her children when she could, and when she felt it was in their best interest. Besides, she thought, fighting back a smile, she'd seen Rhys with Charlotteif anyone was going to be spoiled, it was sure to be her daughter.

Sam prodded his mother, his long black lashes giving his face a deceptively angelic air, "Can we, Mama?"

Tory lifted the wiggling pup up and gave her approval. "Of course you can."

The twins let out a whoop of excitment.

"Hold on, boys," Tory cautioned.

Sam and Sebastian responded instantly to their mother's gently warning tone.

"Be sure and see that he gets some milk right now, and tell Kris . . ." Tory paused. It was hard to remember that Kristen had passed away two months ago. She'd been a fixture of Tory's life for as long as she could recall. "Tell Doreen to mix a bit of chopped meat for him."

"Thanks, Mama!" the boys shouted in unison as Sebastian took the pup from his mother's hands and they dashed out of the room, slamming the door behind them.

"They are throughly American, I think," Gillie observed.

"Without a doubt," Tory answered. "They are Texans to the core."

Gillie decided that it was time to broach the subject that she'd been thinking about in the two days since they'd returned from San Antonio. "If you don't mind," she proposed, "I would like to have a party for Rafe's twenty-fourth birthday here at the Encantadora." "What a marvelous idea," Tory said enthusiastically. "It would give me great pleasure to see that this occasion is celebrated in style. Rafe's never been one for the fancy trappings that go along with birthdays."

"I know," Gillie responded. "That's why I would like to see that this birthday is a very special one."

"Have you anything in particular in mind?" Tory asked.

Gillie gave her a secret smile. She had plans for a very private gift to Rafe, one that she wasn't going to share with Tory at this time. "I had thought that a lovely dinner party, with his friends, would be nice, and," she added, "I want to invite his mother to join us."

"Are you sure about that?" Tory sounded skeptical.

"Oh yes," Gillie answered admantly. "I've been giving it a lot of thought." She rose and strolled around the large room, looking at but not actually seeing the many volumes. "Rafe needs to have her in his life, no matter what went before," she told Tory. "Martha has to do that much for him. She owes Rafe for the hell she let him suffer. It's up to her to be his mother now, while there is still time to make a difference."

"Still the little healer, eh, Gillie?" Tory quipped.

"When it comes to Rafe, I shall do whatever I can to see that he's happy," Gillie maintained. "As much as you and Rhys have loved him, giving him shelter when he needed it, I think he may still carry wounds inside him." Gillie's voice was soft, yet with a hint of steel beneath. "I intend to see to it that he understands fully just how much he means to me."

"And you're sure that Rafe shares your feelings?"

"If I wasn't," Gillie said in earnest, "I wouldn't have come all this way. It won't be for nothing, Tory; it can't be. Though it may sound silly, I think you'll understand if I say that even across the miles that separated us, I could still feel the pull of our bond."

Tory could well recognize that special bond that her sister-in-law spoke ofafter all, she shared such an unbreakable connection with Rhys. "Then I suggest that we make up the guest list and I shall send out the invitations. How big an affair did you have in mind?"

"Well," Gillie said, walking over to Tory's desk, "I had thought to keep it simple. Nothing stuffy or overly formal. I like your Texas notion of hospitality."

"Okay," Tory agreed. "That we can manage quite well."

"You may know best who Rafe would like to have in attendance," Gillie pointed out, "and what to serve. I shall leave that up to you."

Tory smiled. "I think that I can handle that," she acknowledged.

"Oh," Gillie added quickly, "there must be music for dancing." Being in Rafe's arms once more would be heaven, she thought. Absolute, utter heaven. "Why don't I put a list together and we can discuss it after dinner this evening?" Tory suggested.

"That would be fine," Gillie concurred, walking toward the door. She hesitated and turned around to face Tory. "One other thing," she mentioned with what she hoped was a casual tone to her voice, "Rafe should stay the night."

Tory's lips curled in a sly smile. "But of course." Her pale blue eyes held a merry twinkle. "We can't have our guest of honor going home alone, late at night, after this affair. It would be better if he stayed." Tory rose and joined Gillie, both women exchanging knowing glances.

"My thoughts exactly." Gillie returned the smile.

"This will be one birthday that Rafe will never forget," Tory made a guess.

"If all goes as it should," Gillie readily agreed, "he will indeed. That I promise you."

A half hour later, Rafe rode his horse through the massive stone gates that guarded the entrance to the former Reitenauer ranch. Over the gates hung a simple wooden sign that proclaimed the name, Encantadora. A lone sentry, armed with a Winchester, signaled Rafe along. As he made his way along the path toward the house, he saw a woman hanging wash on a line, pegging it against the warm breeze. An older woman came up to help the younger, carrying a large woven basket. They both waved to Rafe, and he in turn tipped his black hat in their direction. A few of the ranch hands called out greetings to him as he passed by the recently renovated bunkhouse.

His glance swept the area and found the person he searched for.

Rhys Buchanan was standing by the post and rail fence, his hand stroking the muzzle of one of the two Dartmoor ponys enclosed within. He was talking to one of his men, gesturing with his arm towards the other pony, who cropped the grass in the paddock contentedly. From the corner of his eye, he saw the solitary rider approach, and when he recognized Rafe, a broad grin gave a boyish look to his still very handsome features.

"Rafe," he called.

Rafe dismounted, handing the reins of his palomino to the man Rhys had been talking to.

"Good to see you," Rhys said cheerfully, clapping the younger man on the back. "What brings you here?" He drew out a siver monogrammed cigar case from the inside of his navy-blue wool jacket, which had been hanging over the fence rail, offering one of the slim cigars to the other man.

Rafe accepted, lighting the tobacco. He answered Rhys's question with a slight prevarication. "Just restless, I suppose."

"No matter," Rhys declared, "It's always our pleasure to have you home."

Rafe blew a thin stream of smoke into the air, watching the two enclosed animals. "The boys enjoying their ponies?" Rhys laughed. ''I think if they were allowed, they'd be sleeping in the stalls with them at night instead of in their own room. In fact," he said with a deep chuckle, "I did find Sam out here one night, preparing to do just that. You did well picking them out."

The two men stood there, making small talk as they finished their cigars. They could have been mistaken for brothers from a distance, both with sun-kissed skin, black hair worn long so that it brushed the collars of their shirts; both were tall and lean, though Rafe was marginally slimmer. On closer inspection, one could see the differences. The older man's eyes were a clear, cool gray; his mouth was fuller, his features more refined. Thick strands of steel gray feathered each temple. The younger man's skin was a shade darker, his eyes a deep, intense blue; his face was sharper in its definition.

"More's the pity that you didn't show up earlier," Rhys commented. "You could have joined Tory and Gillie on their ride."

Rafe inhaled sharply. "Gillie?" he asked. God, he must not have heard Rhys correctly. Gillie was in England.

"Sorry, I forgot," Rhys said. "You don't know. Gillie arrived only a few days ago in San Antonio. Her wire caught us by surprise. We've only just returned from there. I meant to send a rider to inform you, but it must have slipped my mind."

"What's she doing here?" Rafe regretted asking that question. What the hell was wrong with him? Her brother was part-owner of one of the biggest ranches in Taxes. Why wouldn't she come? Did he really think that she would never set foot in Texas again simply to avoid running into him? Sure. Sometimes he could be so all-fired thick.

Rhys ground out the remains of his cigar under the toe of his boot. Gathering his jacket, he turned toward the large house, making for the stone steps. "Who knows," he said to the man at his side. "Perhaps she just got lonely. Our mother's gone to France for some time with her husband," Rhys stated as he entered the hall, removing his hat and hanging it on the hall tree, along with his jacket. "Gillie told us that Georgie Dacer has gone off on some sort of grand art tour, and her other schoolfriend, Lady Margaret Ashley, up and married a Cornish widower just after Tony Chambers departed England." Rhys shrugged his broad shoulders. "Maybe Gillie just wanted to be around her family. Remember, she hadn't seen our Charlotte yet, either. Truth is,'' he confided to Rafe, "I don't bloody well care why, it's just good to have her with us." He moved quickly along the hall, peering into the library. Finding it empty, Rhys walked toward his office.

"They must be upstairs," he said after checking there. "Gillie will be thrilled to see you." Rhys started up the wide staircase.

"Maybe I should come back another time?" Rafe asked, not sure that he was ready to see her again. Rhys paused on the stairs. "Nonsense, Rafe. You're family. Don't be so bloody ridiculous." He climbed a few more stairs, waiting for Rafe to join him. "Let's go find them."

Gillie was seated in a comfortable chair, her blue-gray eyes alive with delight as she relayed an interesting story about the work she was doing in London with one of her charities. Her attentive audience was composed of her ten-year-old nephew, Travis, and his tutor, Rupert Snow.

Travis hung on his aunt's every word, excited about her visit. He felt very close to Gillie, for only a little more than eight years separated them. Travis sliced a sharp glance at his tutor. It seemed that Mr. Snow also found his aunt fascinating.

Rupert Snow relished listening to the dulcet tones of the beautiful younger sister of his employer. He greatly admired her for being a female of intellect, one who wasn't afraid to defy the limits her class put on her. She was open, honest, and sinceremuch like the earl's wife. She had much affection for his pupil and wasn't averse to showing that as she occasionally ruffled the boy's black hair or teased him about some bit of nonsense. She was, he thought on quick assessment, that rarest of individualsa dream-sharer. Someone who saw others' dreams, with all their possibilities.

Rhys and Rafe stood framed in the doorway, watching silently for a few minutes until a lull in the conversation allowed Rhys to make an announcement.

"Gillie, love," Rhys said, entering the spacious room, which was decorated more like a study than a formal classroom, "look who's come to see you."

Gillie, who'd turned to face her brother as soon as she heard his cherished voice, rose and forced a calm smile onto her face as she crossed the room, reaching up to kiss the other man's cheek. "Hello, Rafe."

Chapter Eighteen

Gillie greeted him like an old friend, as if nothing more had ever passed between themas if the love she'd confessed to him only months before no longer existed.

This convinced Rafe that he'd been right to hold firm against her declaration. She was young, unsure of her feelings. She probably regretted her hasty outburst and wished to put it behind her, to forget that she had ever made so rash a statement.

But then again, Rafe thought, that wasn't like Gillie. She wasn't a flighty baggage intent on collecting hearts. Could she be embarrassed? Afraid that he would rebuke her, or ignore her?

"I think I've interrupted Travis's lessons enough for one day," Gillie said smoothly, "so suppose we adjourn somewhere else." She shut the door and linked arms with Rhys. "Shall I see if we can have some refreshment sent to us?"

"That would be fine," Rhys responded. "We'll meet you in the library."

"I'll fetch Tory then, too," Gillie said as she darted off down the hallway while Rhys and Rafe made their way back downstairs.

Within minutes, Tory and Gillian had joined the men. A servant brought in a large crystal pitcher filled with a red liquid, in which floated several slices of fruit. Tory filled the glasses and served everyone.

"What do you call this again?" Gillie asked.

"Sangría," Tory replied, "made from our own wine."

"It's delicious," Gillie said, taking another large sip from her glass.

"It's Tío Sebastian's recipe, actually," Tory acknowledged.

While they continued their relaxed conversation, Rafe was thrown off balance by Gillie's demeanor. She was polite, yet oddly distant. There was a certain reserve to her manner that he'd never encountered before, even when they spoke of mutual aquaintances.

"Did Tony manage to get his transport to Australia?" Gillie inquired. "I still can't believe that he actually decided to go there," she added on a wistful note.

"He stayed with us for several days before continuing on his way," Rhys informed her.

"Yes," Tory said, "he was most anxious to get there as soon as he could. Something about an inheritance, I think."

Gillie put down her glass. "I have an idea that we won't be seeing Tony again for a very long time," she stated with conviction.

"Nonsense," Rafe scoffed. "Tony will stay for as long as he has to to get what he thinks is due him, and then he'll hurry back to England as soon as he possibly can. Tony wouldn't be happy anywhere else."

"Are you so sure?" Gillie countered.

Rhys shot his wife a piercing look. He was picking up an undercurrent in this conversation, and he didn't know what to make of it.

Tory's face was composed; only the slightest flicker of her eyelids in her husband's direction broke the calm mask she wore. She disliked keeping him in the dark about his sister's feelings for Rafe, especially since she had a very good idea just what Gillie planned to do. Tory wasn't sure that Rhys would approve of Gillie's method. Far from it, she suspected. Now that Rhys's curiosity was raised, it would be difficult to keep his questions at bay. Damn, but this was getting very complicated.

"Of course I'm sure," Rafe responded. "I know Tony. He's as English as they come."

"So was my brother," Gillie said.

"What's Rhys got to do with it?" Rafe demanded. "He's an exception."

"Rhys fell in love."

"He's still an exception."

"And you don't think that Tony, or anyone else English for that matter, can be?"

"No." It was spoken with finality.

"You could be wrong, you know," Gillie proposed.

Rafe shrugged his shoulders. "Could be," he said laconically, "But I doubt it." He rose. "Now, I do have to be getting back to my place."

"Before you go, Rafe," Tory said, also rising, "I want to let you know that we've arranged a party for your birthday."

"You shouldn't have . . ." he demurred.

"Bull," Tory said tenderly, affection for him shining in her blue eyes, rendering any argument he might have made useless. "You know me better than that."

Rafe cast a look in Rhys's direction.

"I think it's a grand idea, my boy," Rhys added.

Gillian's face was all innocence as she echoed, "An excellent idea indeed."

"I yield," Rafe relented good-naturedly.

Tory laughed as she bestowed a sisterly kiss on Rafe's cheek. "Was there ever any doubt?"

As Rafe rode away from the Encantadora, he relaxed slightly. He'd been uncomfortable for many reasons. First, he'd been waiting for Gillie to bring up his intended wedding plans. Her silence on that score made him curious. Was she afraid to say anything for fear of dredging up the incident that led to his lie? Or, was she merely biding her time for a better opportunity? Or, did she not care one way or the other any longer? Second, he hadn't been able take his eyes off her. God, the effort it took to remain calm when all he wanted to do was drag her into his arms and kiss her. His body physically ached with wanting her; his soul ached with loving her. To have to ignore the fact that he'd kissed those lips before, to pretend that his hand hadn't cupped her breast and felt it flower beneath his touch, was killing him. He'd wanted to reach out and tug the two mother-of-pearl combs that held her black hair confined and free it so that it could tumble over her body. He wanted to bury his hands in it, memorize the texture and the smell. He wanted to rip those matching mother-of-pearl buttons from her lavender silk shirt and expose the flesh that lay hidden beneath. He wanted to unlace those fancy boots she wore and roll down her stockings. He wanted to push aside that white skirt and undo the lacy pantalettes he knew she wore beneath her petticoats so that he could slid his hands along her skin, with nothing between them.

Yeahand people in hell wanted a cool drink of water.

Gillie was no sooner in her room, having fled there when Rafe left, when she heard the persistent knock. She had a hunch who it wasRhys. His gray eyes had looked sharply at her, full of questions. He was coming for answers. And what could she tell him? How much could she reveal? Almost without exception, she'd shared every phase of her life with her older brother. Even though over twenty years separated them, Gillie was very close to Rhys. The only thing she'd kept to herself was how deeply she cared about Rafe. At first, it was too private; later, there never seemed to be a good time to tell him.

"Let me in, Gillie," he demanded.

She opened the door.

"We need to have a talk," Rhys said, boldly walking in and facing her. "What's going on? And pray, don't pretend that you haven't a clue as to what I'm referring to. It started in San Antonio, didn't it?" He took a seat, looking too overtly masculine for the tiny chinz-covered chair. The only other alternative was the tapestry-covered chaise, and that he dismissed.

Gillie perforce took the chaise, curling her legs up under her. "It started long before San Antonio, Rhys."

"What did?"

"My . . . affection for Rafe."

"Affection? For Rafe?"

"Exactly."

"Just what's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm in love with him."

"Love?" he thundered. "What the bloody hell do you know about love? You're a child, Gillie."

In a quiet, sure voice, she responded to her brother's outburst. "I'm no longer a child, Rhys. I haven't been for some time. Look at me, really look at me," she beseeched him. "This isn't a child's body, Rhys." She raised a hand and touched her heart. "This isn't a child's infatuation. It's real. It's strong." Rhys listened to her, absorbing what she said.

Gillie was right. It wasn't a child who sat talking with him. For so long he'd thought of her as just that, a little girl who still played with dolls and doctored animals. He'd seen the changes that had taken place, but blocked them from his mind. It was safer to think of Gillian as still a child, with a child's interests, than to deal with her as a woman, one who could fall in love and possibly have her heart broken, or as a woman who was ready to share herself with a man.

That, he knew, was the biggest hurdle of them allthinking of his sister as grown-up enough to sleep with a man.

"Rhys," Gillie said, "say something."

"Does he love you?"

"I think so."

"You think so?" he demanded. "Is there more that you aren't telling me?"

"It's a very long story, Rhys.'

"I have all day if you'd like."

"Then let me ask you a question first. You've known Rafe since he was a boy?"

He nodded.

"Would you say he was proud?"

"Rafe's got his fair share," he responded. "Why?"

"He dislikes pity, doesn't he?"

"Of course he does. No man wants to pitied, my dear sister," Rhys replied, "especially not a man of pride." ''Nor rejected?"

"That goes without saying. But what's this to do with you and Rafe?" he asked, puzzled.

"You asked before if he loved me. I believe with all my heart that he does, or I wouldn't have risked coming here, but he's afraid to admit it."

"What reason could he have?"

"I know the reason he gave me in England," she stated, "which I now know is a lie." Before Rhys could ask, she said, "It doesn't matter what it was. He didn't want me to know the truth."

"Which was?"

"His past."

Rhys's gray eyes darkened. Funny how that had slipped his mind. It seemed to have nothing to do with the young man he knew now, a man who was educated, well-traveled, wealthy. Rafe had come to the Encantadora a damaged child, beaten and half-starved, angry and sullen. It had taken months for the boy to open up and tell them what he'd endured at the hands of his mad stepfather. Rhys recalled how the boy had finally broken down after a year with them, telling Rhys about the pain of finding out he was illegitimate, born as a result of his mother's rape. It had been the first and only time Rhys had seen Rafe cry.

Rhys leveled his gaze at his sister. "How did you find out?"

"I went to see his mother while we were in San Antonio."

"Tory took you, didn't she?"

"She felt I had a right to know." "Yes, I guess you have," he agreed.

Gillie gave her brother a questioning look. "You don't have any objections, do you?"

Rhys gave her a reassuring smile. "I was proud to have Rafe live with us as part of our family," he said truthfully, "and I'll be even prouder to welcome him as my sister's husband. They have an expression here that sums it upa man to ride the river with. It means someone you can depend on, someone you can trust with your life, or the lives of those you love." Rhys rose and pulled his sister into his arms, embracing her tightly. "Rafe's such a man.''

Tears of joy wet Gillie's eyes. "Thank you, Rhys."

Her brother's voice betrayed his own emotions. "No thanks needed, Gillie. All I've ever wanted is for you to be happy. If being with Rafe can accomplish that, then I'm all for it."

When she was alone again, Gillie felt overwhelmed by the strong support she'd gotten from her brother. The fear she'd felt in confiding in him had been a lack of trust on her part, trust in the quality of his love for her. And wasn't that what she was fighting with Rafe? His lack of trust in the depth of her love?

She was proud of how she'd handled their meeting earlier. She'd accomplished her goal to keep her feelings under check, carefully cloaked behind a mask of composure. It wouldn't do for Rafe to suspect just what she had in mind.

Had he any idea of just how difficult it had been for her to maintain that shell of tranquility? It had only cracked once, when he'd made that comment about Tony Chambers. The barb had been meant for her. Another way to put a barrier between them.

Well, she was having none of that. Patience would provide her with the reward that she wantedRafe. All the while that they were making polite chitchat, her imagination was running riot, thinking how marvelous it would be to be back in his strong embrace again, to have his mouth on hers, to feel the strength of his body as he held her close to him. To be somewhere alone with him, to whisper her love privately, even as she longed to shout it publicly.

Gillie smiled. A week would bring an answer to her prayers. She'd been taught that God helped those who help themselves. Well, she was going to do just thathelp herself to Rafe's love. All of it.

Tory was relaxing in a soothing bath when she heard her husband's approach. She tipped back her head and watched him.

"Care to join me?" she asked with a saucy smile on her face.

"I expect that I can be persuaded," Rhys answered, quickly removing his white shirt and faded jeans. He stepped into the warm bathwater, easing his tall frame into large white claw-footed tub.

"I just had a talk with Gillie," he said, lifting her leg and stroking the bar of soap along her calf, kneading her flesh as he did so. He enjoyed her sigh of contentment.

"About what?" She sank a little farther into the water, her hands gripping the rim of the tub.

"You know what, my beautiful Valkyrie," he murmured as his mouth caressed her toes. "Rafe."

Tory opened her eyes. "So now you know."

"Yes," he announced huskily, pulling her closer to him.

Tory could feel his ready response and gloried in it. "What are you going to do?"

"Not a bloody thing," he said, skimming his hands around her waist, cupping her buttocks. With ease, he lifted her, capturing her hungry sigh with his mouth as their bodies joined. Water sloshed around the tiled floor, soaking the floor mat. "I realized whilst I was having my chat with Gillie that she isn't my baby sister anymore. She's a woman now, and strong enough to make her own decisions. I have to trust her judgment."

"Very smart of you to recognize that," Tory remarked, her voice husky and low. She moved to the powerful rythym, abandoning all thoughts except for those that centered around the incredible sensual gratification she was experiencing.

"I think it's all coming together rather nicely, don't you?" Gillie asked Tory three days later as they surveyed the workmen constructing the raised wooden platform that would be used for dancing. Closer to the house, several pits were being dug so that a large steer and a hog could be roasted for the guests. Additional brick ovens were also set up to aid with the extra food to be prepared. Gillie had overheard one of the Encantadora's hands referring to the coming party as a fiesta. She liked the sound of that. It was much more Texan than some formal dinner. This way, everyone could feel comfortable. She wanted it to be a joyous, happy celebration of Rafe's birthday. One that he'd feel at ease with. And it was important to her that Rafe know she was also at ease.

"Yes," Tory answered. "Getting Rafe to agree was the hardest part. The rest is all quite simple after that." Tory pulled off her sturdy cowhide gloves, tucking them into her back pocket. ''He can't fail to understand how much you truly care for him when he sees all that you've done to make this day special," Tory remarked as she and Gillie strolled towards the sheltered garden.

"Wait here for me," Tory instructed as she quickly made her way to the kitchen.

Gillie took a seat on the suspended wooden swing, gently pushing back and forth, reveling in the feel of the warm sun on her face.

"Here, catch!" Tory called as she tossed her sister-in-law a large ripe apple.

Gillie caught it, sinking her teeth into the sweet flesh. Tory joined her on the swing.

"What are you giving Rafe for his birthday?" Gillie asked between bites of the treat.

Tory cut a slice from the apple with her sharp Bowie knife, the sun glinting of the thick silver and turquoise bracelet she wore. "A new saddle. That's where I was this morning," she said, eating the slice. "I rode into Derran and picked it up. It's a real beauty, trimmed in silver; one that I think Rafe will love. The saddlemaker is a true artist," Tory said enthusiastically. "You'll know that when you see his work. The detailed tooling of the leather is magnificent!''

"He'll love it," Gillie responded, "I'm sure."

"Your brother is giving him a new breeding bull. Rhys had it shipped earlier this month from England. A champion Hereford. In fact," Tory confided, cutting another slice, "Rhys had Rafe check it over when he was in England, telling Rafe that he was considering it for the Encantadora stock."

Travis appeared. "Mama, Anita sent me to get you. She said Charlotte is hungry."

Tory rose. "Guess I'd better see to her then," she said. She lowered her voice, her comment for Gillie alone. "Trust me," she said, "Rafe will be grateful."

"I want more than his gratitude," Gillie stated softly.

"I know, and I think you'll have it."

Gillie called out to Travis. "Come join me for a few minutes, if your tutor can spare you."

Travis ambled over to the swing and sat down. He was tall for his age, easily topping his aunt's five feet, six inches. "Mr. Snow is out walking with your maid, Nan, actually, so I've got some time to myself," he explained. "With Nan?"

He nodded his head.

"That's most interesting," Gillie commented.

"You're not angry, are you?" Travis asked, wondering if he should have said anything.

Gillie gave him a reassuring smile. "Of course not. Nan is a very fine young woman. And your Mr. Snow seems quite the gentleman."

"He is," Travis responded. "He's very smart too. That's why Mama and Papa hired him." Travis fell silent for a few minutes, then he said, very seriously, "I have a lot of things to learn, you know."

"And a lot of time in which to do it," his aunt said fondly. Gillie leaned over and embraced the boy, who responded in kind. They remained that way for several moments until Travis spoke.

"You're certainly doing a lot for Rafe's birthday," he observed.

Gillie's mouth curved with glee. "I care a lot about Rafe," she said.

"As much as he cares for you?" Travis asked.

"What do you mean?"

"He keeps a picture of you in a silver frame in his study," he told her. "I saw it there just a few months ago. There's one there of Mama and Papa, too, but theirs is in just a plain wooden frame." When he caught her questioning look, Travis rushed out with, "I wasn't spying or anything like that," he assured her. "Rafe's got a collection of some very old maps, and when I spoke to Mr. Snow about them, he asked me if we could ride over and have a look at them. I knew Rafe wouldn't mind our coming over, so we did. That's when I saw it, when Rafe went to get the maps."

Gillie hugged Travis again.

"What's that for?" he asked, puzzled by his aunt's exhuberant behavior.

"For giving me great news."

Sometime later, as she was preparing for bed, Gillie lay curled once again on the tapestried chaise, reflecting on the sweet news that her eldest nephew had shared with her. Reaching over, she adjusted the light from her oil lamp, the cranberry glass giving off a soft glow, and picked up a pen and paper.

Dear Georgie,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and in much happiness, for I have so much to tell you. . . .

Chapter Nineteen

"I want to thank you for this," Rafe said sincerely, truly amazed that so many people had turned out for his party, and that everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time, himself included. On one hand, he had dreaded this, certain that he was going to be miserable with all the fuss; on the other hand, it would be worth enduring whatever he had to to be where Gillie was, even if only for a little while.

The birthday fiesta was in full swing. The Encantadora was host this day to people who lived and worked on Rancho Montenegro, to those from Rafe's own ranch, The Fortress, and on its own property, and to some of the citizens of the town called Derran.

Rafe surveyed the grounds. Children were running around, as were numerous dogs. Long tables had been set up under the live oaks, with white-and-blue cloths covering them, laden with food. Bessie had come and brought with her three maple-baked hams, pans of cornbread, and her delicious pies. Baked beans, roasted ears of corn, fruits, cheeses, a huge turkey, biscuits, and cakes were all set out. To quench whatever thirst one had, lemonade, cider, milk, tea, coffee, wine, and beer were on hand.

"I wish I could take credit for all this," Tory said with a wave of her hand, "but I can't. The person who deserves your thanks the most for today is Gillie." She moved so that they were away from listeners. "This was all her idea. She saw to much of it. I only gave help wherever necessary."

"Why would she go to all this trouble?" Rafe mused aloud.

Tory gave Rafe an arch look. "Come now, Rafe, why do you think?"

"I don't know."

"And I think that you do," Tory insisted. Rafe was being incredibly stubborn and shortsighted, Tory thought. Right now he was barking at a knot, instead of facing outright the facts that were obvious to a blind man. Scolding him like a recalcitrant child wouldn't work. He was too much a man, his own man, for that tactic to prove effective.

Rafe scanned the crowd, his dark blue eyes searching for Gillie. At last he found her, chatting with another woman who had her back to him, a bonnet on her head so that he couldn't identify her. He dismissed the other woman and concentrated on Gillie. She was, as usual to his eyes, lovely beyond belief. Her long black hair gleamed as glossy as a rare, polished gem. She had forgone piling it decoratively onto her head; instead, it was down, waving slightly, to her waist, held back from her heart-shaped face by a simple white ribbon. It drew attention to the garnets she wore in her ears and around her throat. Her dress was simple and flattering. Shunning the closetful of Worth originals he knew she possesed, she wore a dress of deepest blue moire satin, the color of freshly picked ripe blueberries. Around the very low neckline, cream-colored lace, like a froth of delicate cobwebs, added just the right touch. It drew his attention to the swell of her bosom, rising with every breath she took. She moved just slightly, and he could see the yards of ruffles that made up the hem of her petticoats floating gracefully, allowing him a glimpse of her black slippered feet.

He felt a tightening in his groin, a heat flowing in his veins, at the sight of her.

Gillie could almost feel the heat of Rafe's eyes on her as she turned her head and caught the smoldering glance he threw her way. She could feel the palpable connection between them sizzle her skin even though they were more than several yards apart. All during the day, she had tried to keep him within her sights, consciously searching him out whenever she could. She'd avoided saying anything but the basic hellos when he arrived, thinking it better to keep some part of herself in reserve.

She saw that he was walking in her direction, having left Tory with Don Sebastian Montenegro. Rafe looked so handsome that he fairly stole her breath away. He was dressed casually in black denim, with a snowy white shirt and a black leather vest trimmed in silver. He wore no hat, and his black hair was even longer than when he was in England, falling to his shoulders. He was her enchanted princethe man she loved. Tonight he would discover just how much she was willing to gamble on that love.

Gillie's glance flicked back to the woman she was conversing with. "Be prepared, Rafe's coming this way," were her words to the woman.

The other woman tensed, and Gillie laid a comforting hand on the woman's arm. "Courage," she whispered.

"Gillie," Rafe called out.

It was then that the other woman turned.

Rafe was momentarily stunned. Before him stood his mother.

At that precise moment, a kind-faced older man approached both women. He was solidly built, with thick, iron-gray hair and a mustache. He also wore a clerical collar. The man positioned himself next to Martha Rayburne, his arm placed about her shoulders companionably.

"Mother," Rafe said politely.

Martha's eyes drank in the sight of her son, like a starving person in the presence of a banquet. "It's wonderful to see you again, Rafe," she said in a small, frightened voice. "It's been so long."

"Yes," he said stiffly, "I suppose it has. I've been kind of busy, what with the ranch and other things."

"You're always in my thoughts, son," she said, tentatively reaching out her hand toward Rafe, who stood still, not reacting to her touch.

Gillie, the awkwardness of this meeting apparent to her, stepped into the breach, easing her arm through Rafe's, feeling the steely warmth beneath the cloth. "Isn't it just splendid that your mother could join us today in celebrating your birthday?"

"Yes," he answered noncomittally. Rafe had his doubts that his mother truly wanted to celebrate the anniversary of his birth.

Martha shook, her nerves fraying from the strain. She couldn't stand there any longer and pretend. "It's not going to work, Lady Gillian," she sobbed, running in the direction of the main house.

The Reverend Seth Taylor spoke up, his voice deep and resonant. "Mr. Rayburne, I know that you and your mother have some problems to sort out, but it took a lot of guts for her to come here. Martha did it for you, you know. She loves you, in spite of what you may think."

"Perhaps you don't know Martha Rayburne as well as you think you do, Reverend," was Rafe's cynical reply.

"Perhaps you don't either," the reverend intoned. "Give her a chance. What can it hurt you to be merciful?"

"I'm sure that you mean well, Reverend," Rafe shot back, stiffening, "but all I am is a constant reminder of something she doesn't want to remember." If Gillie weren't standing alongside him, he would have added that shame and humiliation was what he believed he was to his mother.

"No, Rafe," Gillie interrupted. "That's not true. It never was. She loves you."

He cocked his head in her direction, his eyes boring into hers. "How would you know?"

"Because I've spoken to her at some length. Please," Gillie pleaded with him, "won't you do the same? For me?"

"For you?" Rafe asked huskily.

"Just talk with heryou'll see that you've been wrong about her."

Rafe sighed. He couldn't refuse so sweet a plea, especially not from Gillie's lips. "Okay." Rafe turned on his heel and went after his mother.

"You've got quite a lot of influence on that young man," Seth Taylor observed.

Gillie acknowledged that comment with a smile. "I sincerely hope so, Reverend." Gillie's eyes followed Rafe until he disappeared from her view. "It seems that you also have some influence with his mother."

"Martha's a good woman whose life hasn't been easy. Sure, she's made mistakeshaven't we all?" he questioned wisely. "Far be it from me to cast the first stone." The Reverend Taylor followed Gillie's gaze. "If it's to be fixed, best to let them fix it themselves," he cautioned. "What say we go and get ourselves something substantial? I don't know about you, but I brought my appetite with me and it's pretty powerful."

"Well," Gillie said sweetly, "that is something we can fix quite simply. Follow me."

As Gillie helped herself from the large selection of foods, part of her mind was somewhere elseinside the house with Rafe and his mother. She made inconsequential small talk when forced to, but her heart wasn't engaged. Had she made a major faux pas in trying to reunite Martha and Rafe?

She silently prayed that she hadn't.

Rafe found his mother sitting alone in the parlor, a handkerchief clutched to her face.

"Mother," he said, his tone softer this time. Rafe couldn't blame her for how he supposed she felt. Loving the child forced upon you by a man of mixed blood would have been difficult in any circumstance. Losing the man you were to marry because of that child would have been another equally hard blow. Then, to marry an evil son-of-a-bitch like Talbot Squire in order to have a man, any man, and then to have that man constantly throw your one fall from grace back in your face had to have been tough.

He thought of his tender-hearted Gillie, always trying to make something better, be it a person or a cause. How like her to try to heal wounds. His sunshine-souled love thought that there was a solution to any problem if you just took the time to examine it. She cared deeply for people; it wasn't in her nature to turn back from a challenge. God, how he loved her for simply being her.

Martha looked up, hope flaring in her washed-out blue eyes, giving them an unusual luster. ''Guess I've always been good at running away, like a frightened rabbit," she declared, "whereas you, Rafe, you've been the strong, resilient one." She crumpled the handkerchief in her hand.

Rafe's baritone rumbled darkly across the room. "If I hadn't been, I would never have survived my childhood."

"No thanks to me," Martha added.

"You did your best."

Tears fell again from her eyes. "That's just it, son, I never did. All my life I was afraid of thingsfirst of disappointing my father, then of life, and finally, you."

"Me?" Rafe asked. "What the hell did you have to fear from me?"

"That you'd recognize the weakness in me and hate me for it. And then I'd be alone again."

Rafe was perplexed. "I'd have thought that you'd be grateful not to have a breed brat around you as a constant reminder of your past." Rafe walked closer to her and hunkered down before her chair. His voice was low, barely above a husky whisper. "Why didn't you get rid of me? If not before I was born, then after?"

Martha's face grew even paler. "I did think about giving you up after you were born, to let someone else raise you. My pa urged me to do it."

"Then why didn't you?"

"Because you were mine," Martha answered him. "My flesh and blood. Someone of my own for me to love, and who would love me."

"But you didn't love me, though, did you?" he demanded.

Martha touched her son's cheek. Rafe didn't flinch from the contact. "I loved you with all my heart," she said simply.

"How could you love me?" he asked, his voice a raw whisper of pain. "You were raped!"

"I never wanted you to know that till you were older, and able to handle it," she said soothingly. "I would have explained it to you then, when I felt that you were ready to hear. It was Talbot who told you, wasn't it?"

"Yes," he replied.

Martha gave a weary sigh. "I thought so. At first, I thought it might have been my pa."

"Your father"Rafe couldn't say grandfather because the man had never treated him as a member of his family, only as some unwanted piece of baggage, an outcast"never said anything to me unless he had to. The only thing I ever remember him saying about me was that I was a worthless bastard. Talbot told me later, after you married him, that my own father was a breed who raped you. He told me that you loathed me, hated the Indian blood in my veins, and that you only kept me around because it was your Christian duty to do so." "Oh, my God," Martha exclaimed, her heart tearing from the pain she could hear in her son's voice. He'd kept it inside for so long.

"I began to think that he was right. You seemed like you were always somewhere else when I tried to talk to you, on those rare occasions when you left your room. You were like a fragile piece of porcelainif I got too close, you might shatter."

Martha took his hard face between her hands. "Rafe, listen to me. I failed you before, and maybe it's too late to atone for my mistakes. However, there is one thing that you must hear and believeI love you, son. You're everything that I'm not. Clever. Brave. Strong." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "It's that strength I admire most about you, my boy. The good Lord only knows where you get that from, for it sure wasn't from my family.

"As for me hating you or being ashamed of youno!" Martha denied vehemently. "You were, and are, my greatest joy. It didn't matter to me, when I held you squalling in my arms moments after giving birth to you, how you came to me. When you first suckled at my breast, your tiny fist lying against my heart, I knew then that I was indeed blessed. You were the best part of my life."

Martha swallowed nervously. "Can you find it in your heart to forgive me for my innumerable sins against you?"

Rafe stood up and pulled Martha into his arms. He held his mother tight against him. His pride had been a barrier to themthat along with the notion he'd harbored for so long that she only tolerated him out of a sense of duty, not love. Now, to find out that he'd been mistakenthat the mother's love he'd thought lost to him was restoredwas overwhelming.

They'd been inside for a long time, Gillie thought as she whirled around the dance floor partnered by her brother. It was a spirited reel, and Rhys smiled down at her as they moved among their guests. Gillie recognized some familiar faces among the crowd: there was the former foreman of the Encantadora, Marshall Kincaid, and his wife Janet; their daughter, Ruth, married to the new foreman, Diego Altivarra, was sitting on the sidelines, as she was heavy with her second child; Don Sebastian and his grandson, Manolito, a tall, darkly handsome boy of about sixteen, were talking with Travis. Gillie was made aware that the still handsome Don was once more a widower, his second wife, Doña Michelle, having died last year. Her nephew's tutor, Mr. Snow, was busy socializing with Nan, who basked happily in the man's attention. Gillie wondered if soon she would be losing Nan altogether.

The sun was fading as lanterns were being lit around the property so that the festivities could continue unabated. Some of Rafe's many gifts were on display, ranging from the practical to the extravagant. "He's done quite well for himself today," Rhys said.

"Oh, I hope so," Gillie replied, thinking that the best gift Rafe could get today was peace of mind, and the knowledge that his mother, among so many others, cared for him.

"Well I'll be damned," Rhys said, "there's something I never thought I'd see anytime soon."

"What?" Gillie asked.

"Rafe and his mother," Rhys murmured, leading his sister off the platform.

Gillie watched as Rafe, his mother's hand tucked in his arm, matched his larger strides to Martha's smaller ones as they headed in her direction. She searched his face for some clue and was rewarded by a devastating smile.

Her heart soared with hope.

Before Rafe could reach her, one of the hands from his ranch stopped him.

"It seems as though we've been issued a challenge, boss," the lanky cowhand said, "from some of the boys here on the Encantadora."

"What kind of challenge?" he asked, relinquishing his mother's arm to the Reverend Taylor.

The cowboy gave his employer a wry smile. "Bronc riding."

"Well," Rafe responded, "you've got my permission to answer the challenge."

"That's just it, boss, they think that it'd be great if you were to ride, too. Sort of get us started." Gillie gripped Rhys's arm. "Isn't that dangerous?" she asked in a husky whisper.

Rhys placed a long index finger over his sister's mouth. "Ssh, scamp. He'll be fine. It's not as if Rafe's a novice at this." Rhys gave her a gentle tug, leading her toward the corral and the people gathered there who'd also heard about the friendly challenge. Wagers were being tossed around, with the safe bet being on either Ace from the Encantadora or Rafe.

Rhys grabbed Sam by the waist as the boy tried to manuever his way under the fence. "Not so fast," he warned his son.

"I wanna see them, Papa."

Rhys hoisted Sam onto his shoulders. "There. That should give you a decent view of the proceedings," he said. "Where's Sebastian?"

"He appears to be in good hands also, Rafe," Gillie said as she pointed to the boy sitting astride Mano's shoulders, Travis and his godfather, Don Sebastian, beside them.

The eager audience stepped aside for Tory as she took her place at her husband's left side. Her right hand slipped down and threaded through his left hand, holding tightly.

"Marsh," Rhys called out, "you be the official timekeeper."

Marsh pulled out a pocket watch and checked it. "Sure thing."

Gillie leaned as close to the fence as she could, her eyes automatically searching for Rafe's tall figure. A sound of wood splitting widened her eyes. The horse two men were trying to keep hold of was a fearsome brute. A wild-eyed bay intent on inflicting harm to anyone who got close enough to his flailing hooves. She watched with apprehension as Rafe mounted the beast. Drat! A wounded Rafe had no part in the schemes that she'd cleverly arranged for later this night.

Oh God, please, don't let his man break his fool neck, not tonight of all times.

A blush crept up Gillie's cheeks. Perhaps praying to God to keep someone healthy so that he could make love to a woman not yet his wife was wrong, but she didn't care at that moment. She'd made her peace with God before leaving England, confessing in her own way to Him while she sat one night at evensong. The small church had been almost deserted, save for only a few worshippers and the boys' choir. She'd bowed her head and spoken her heart as honestly as she knew how. God, she was sure, would forgive her transgression because it was done in love and for love.

Rafe lasted eight seconds before he ended face down in the grass. He rolled quickly aside, standing up to brush off the bits of grass that clung to him.

Gillie breathed a sigh of relief.

"I told you he'd be all right," Rhys reminded her.

Gillie stood on tiptoe and kissed her brother's cheek.

There were six other contestants besides Rafe, but only two other men lasted past a few seconds. The last man to mount the bay was Ace, to the cheers of the crowd. He took his ride and beat Rafe's time by one second.

Rafe clapped the other man on the back and hailed him as the winner. When that was done, he searched for Gillie.

"Are you hurt?" she asked, concern for him written on her face.

Rafe shrugged off the notion. "Just creased a bit," he replied, laughter lurking around his mouth. "Though still well enough to dance with you, Gillie, if you'll have me."

If you'll have me.

"With pleasure, sir," she responded, saving her most dazzling smile for him alone.

"Then let's do it," Rafe said, taking her hand in his, "for I think I hear a waltz."

Gillie was happier than she'd been in a long time. Held in Rafe's arms, she floated across the wooden floor.

Her sunny mood even melted Rafe's reserve. At this moment, he had everything he'd ever wantedand the woman he loved was in his arms. Tomorrow was hours away, and he would take from the rest of this day all that he could before the magic faded.

Chapter Twenty

The china clock on the bedside table showed a little after two a.m. and Rafe was still wide awake.

Pushing up the thick down pillows behind him, Rafe's thoughts turned toward the day that had just passed. It had been a day filled with surprises for himbringing him unexpected rewards and promises.

He linked his hands behind his head, a cocky grin on his mouth as he focused on just how special the day had been, and that the person responsible for it was Gillie.

Rafe closed his eyes and summoned up the vivid memory of their time on the dance floor. Her face was alive, full of joy in the music. Hers was the only face he could recall, the only face that beckoned to him with a power stronger than any he'd ever known. She was the light in an otherwise dull world.

Rafe conceded that sleep was impossible. He was too keyed up to be able to let go in sleep, for if he abandoned himself, then he would have to relinquish the immediacy of his memoriesand that he was unwilling to do.

Unable to simply remain lying in bed, he tossed back the sheet. He rose and searched for a cheroot and, finding one, lit it. Pulling on the gray silk robe that he'd borrowed from Rhys, he moved to the open window.

So much had happenedwonderful things that gave rise to a new hope within him. Was there a chance after all for happiness with Gillie?

As the night had worn on, he'd danced several more times with her, abandoning his plan to keep minimal contact with her. Even with other partners, their eyes managed to find each other. It was as if each couldn't completely let go of the other. Rafe had tried, he told himself. By God, he'd tried to sever the ties he felt for her. It was impossible. Something seemed to continually bring them back to one another no matter how many times he thought it finished between them.

His mother's earlier words played on again in his mind. She'd said that Gillian was an extrordinary woman, and that if he was as smart as she believed him to be, he wouldn't let this woman get away from him. He should marry her, and soon.

There had been too many people around for him to ask Gillie just what she and his mother had discussed. Had Martha filled Gillie in on his early years? Or had she kept the information she possessed to herself? It had been impossible to tell from Gillie's face; she seemed in even better spirits as the night progressed, happy, yet somewhat elusive.

A smile played about Rafe's mouth. He had wanted to keep Gillie at arm's length, yet he wanted her close within those same arms.

Rafe tossed the dying ember of the slim cigar through the open window into the night, watching as it fell onto the dark Texas soil. He should have turned down the offer of staying the night. Knowing that Gillie was just down the hall from the room he occupied was playing havoc with his heart.

Damn! It was gonna be a long night, he thought, still restless. Without turning on a light, Rafe walked to the low bureau and grabbed the bottle of aged bourbon that sat there, and a glass. He'd brought the bottle up with him when the festivities had ended. Just in case. Rafe poured himself a generous amount of Kentucky's finest and tossed back a healthy swallow, the potent blend hitting his throat with a whallop.

He cast a glance at the rumpled, empty bed.

God, was she forever to be so near and yet so far?

Gillie was nervousshe'd had a very long and exhausting day, and it was well past three in the morning. She was so tired that she had almost fallen asleep in the bath she'd taken when she retired.

Now she sat at her dressing table, gazing into the mirror. She picked up a bottle and lifted the stopper, smelling the fragrance contained within the dark blue bottlea light floral scent, with a hint of jasmine. She dabbed it along her wrists, her throat, and, releasing the tiny satin-covered buttons that held her nightgown closed, she daringly trailed it between her breasts.

Gillie replaced the perfume bottle and undid the simple knot that held her hair in place. Taking a brush, she worked it through the shining ebony tresses. Satisfied, she stared at herself in the mirror. Doubts continued to assail her. Suppose he found fault with her? After all, this would be her first time. What did she know of what a man expected of a woman he took to his bed? Knowledge was one thing; experience another. Suppose that she was clumsy and awkward? What if he found that her body wasn't to his liking? Was she too short? Too rounded for his taste? Maybe he preferred women as tall as himself, like her sister-in-law, for example. Or maybe he wanted a woman who looked more like a frail waif? A delicate doll with no opinions or ideas in her pretty, empty head.

No, that was ridiculous! He'd never fancied that kind of woman before that she could tell, so why would she think that he wanted such a woman in his bed?

It was fear that made her doubt. Fear of the unknown. She wanted only to show Rafe how much she cared for him, how much she loved him. And the only way that she could achieve that was to make a gift to Rafe of something of valueherself. Completely. Without hesitation. This was something that she could give only once, and she wanted Rafe to have her innocence and her trust.

But there was a slight hesitation on her part. What if she disliked making love? Gillie was aware that some women professed either distaste or disinterest for the act. Could she be one of these women?

That thought sent a chill through her body.

Gillie wet her lips. She prayed that her fear was ungrounded; it had to be. Resting her chin on her linked fingers, she acknowledged that what she most wanted to experience again was Rafe's disturbing kisses. She wanted to be held close to him again, body to body, soul to soul.

Gillie rose, wondering if she should remove her nightgown and go to Rafe with just her robe for covering. The glow from the cranberry glass lamp on the dressing table cast a golden-pink light across her body, outlining her shape beneath the fine lawn fabric. A blush of rose crept into her cheeks.

No, it was enough that she was inviting herself to his room. She needn't play the part of the flagrant wanton. This was to be a modest seduction.

A nervous giggle erupted from Gillie's throat. A modest seduction indeed, she thought. She reached for her matching robe and drew it on, belting it securely about her waist. She looked at her white slippers and decided it would be better, if she were going to creep along the hallway, to do it with bare feet so as not to waken her nephews, who slept across the hall.

Gillie glanced once more into the mirror. She took a deep breath and lowered the light. The time had come to embrace the longing she felt for Rafe firsthand.

Rafe sat in the dark, sipping the strong bourbon, his thoughts still focused on Gillie.

He heard the click of his door as it opened slowly. He was instantly alert, wondering who in the world would be sneaking into his room at this late hour. He had no reason to fear that it was someone wishing him harmthis house was his second home.

He kept still in the shadows, watching the white-garbed figure move silently into the room and carefully shut the door. The figure glided towards the empty bed, standing before it with its back to Rafe.

It was then that he recognized the figure. Even in the dark, he could tell who it wasGillie.

She approached the bed, staring down at the vacant space in the wide bed. Where was he? she wondered, perplexed. He can't have left without saying something. Tory or Rhys would surely have said something to her if he had, she was sure of that. Gillie sank to her knees on the brightly patterned rug and ran one of her hands over the imprint of his body on the mattress. She grasped one of the fluffy pillows and brought it to her face, inhaling his scent. She hugged the evidence of Rafe to her, turning her cheek and rubbing it against the pillow, bringing him somehow closer to her.

''Gillie."

She started. Dropping the pillow, Gillie shifted so that she faced the unseen voice. She recognized it immediately.

A lamp flamed to life, illuminating Rafe. He sat in a plain ox-blood leather chair, a drink in his hand. He wore a long gray silk robe, loosely fastened with two black velvet frogs. He appeared to be naked beneath, for Gillie could see no nightwear, only his bare calves and feet and a swirl of hair on his chest.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice husky and low.

"I had to see you," she replied.

"Now?" Rafe narrowed his gaze. "Don't you think it's a little lateor perhaps a trifle earlyto be making a social call on a man? And what brings you to my bedroom?"

"You."

The simple reply hung in the air like a fine mist.

"Why?" One of Rafe's hands clenched the arm of the chair tightly. She was breathtaking, he thought, all innocence and appeal kneeling there on the rug, her blue-gray eyes sincere and forthright.

"I had to talk to you."

"It couldn't wait till breakfast?" Gillie wet her lips, folding her hands together in her lap. "No, it couldn't."

"You shouldn't be here," Rafe said again, finishing the contents of the glass. He set it next to the bottle on the floor beside the chair, never taking his eyes from her. "If Rhys found out . . ."

Gillie rose slowly and gracefully, taking a step closer to him. "This is not Rhys's concern."

"Of course it is," he stated. "You're his sister, and if someone were to see you coming and going from this room, they might get the wrong impression. Your reputation could be ruined," he warned her.

"I don't care."

"You damn well should," he asserted. "Some people could draw false conclusions."

"Let them. I don't give a tinker's damn for anyone else's conclusions," she said honestly. Gillie had cast aside all concern for anyone else's moral judgment save her own when she sought Rafe out. The risk was hers to takeand she'd made her choice willingly.

"You ought to care," he pointed out.

"Do you?" she countered.

Rafe blinked in surprise at her salvo. "We're not discussing me. But if we were, I'd have to say that it only matters what people I respect think of me."

"Do you respect me, Rafe?"

"What a peculiar question," he observed.

"Well, do you?"

"Yes." "Then," she went on boldly, "why did you lie to me about your marriage plans whilst you were in England?"

Gillie had nailed her question securely, he thought, feeling her hurt and confusion. She was direct. Ironically, she went right to the heart of the matter.

Rafe stood up, tamping down a deep-seated instinct to rush over to Gillie and gather her into his arms. Instead, he turned his back on her, choosing to stand in front of the window. He braced his palms on the wall.

Rafe answered her as honestly as he could. "To protect you."

"Protect me from what, Rafe? Or should I say from whom?" Gillie asked, unwilling to let him keep this artifical distance between them. "Was it from the truth you didn't think I could hear?"

Rafe inhaled sharply.

"That's it, isn't it?" she persisted, coming up behind him. Gillie slowly extended her hand, placing it on the gray silk sleeve. She could feel his muscles tense instantly. "Rafe," she said with a quiet dignity, "I believe I know all there is to know about who and what you are.'' Gillie deliberately paused, letting him absorb her words.

"Do you know what a mestizo is, Gillie?" he asked, anguish cutting rawly through his voice, as he turned to face her, his dark blue eyes bleak. "It's a mongrel. That's what I am," he stated. "A man without a fancy, impeccable pedigree like the men you're used to. Men of quality who can produce a long string of equally suitable ancestors. That's what you deserve."

"Damn you, Rafe Rayburne," Gillie said softly, her gaze meeting his. "I love you," she declared emphatically. "You! Not your lineage. I care about you," she whispered, squeezing his arm. "All I ask is that you let me show you just how much.

"Make love to me, Rafe," she implored him, winding her arms about his lean waist. "Please! Would you have me beg you?" Gillie asked. "I will if you require it," she stated.

Godhe was only a man. How much temptation was he supposed to resist? How many times could he deny what he wanted when it was within his reach? He was at the breaking point.

Rafe cupped her face in his hands and dipped his head, touching his lips to hers. Gillie relaxed and sighed. He drew back just slightly, hesitating a moment, before moving closer, his hands tunneling through the dark waves of her hair, pulling her towards him as he bent his head once more. His lips blended with hers, relieving some of his hunger as he deepened the kiss. His breath mixed with hers as Gillie opened her mouth beneath his.

Desire uncoiled deep in his belly, spiraling outwards, overcoming his scruples. This was what he desired deepestwhat he loved most passionately.

With a dark groan, Rafe gathered Gillie closer to his body, demanding and receiving full tribute from her lips.

Gillie felt lightheaded, as if she were drowningyet strangely as if she were floating also. How could that be? What was this power he had over her? Her legs seemed to buckle under her, and she grasped him tighter, molding the curves of her body against the hard planes of his. Her searching fingers grabbed the lapels of his robe, seeking the warmth of his hair-roughened chest beneath the expensive material.

Rafe groaned when her fingertips grazed one of his nipples. "Yes," he said thickly.

Gillie repeated the caress, smiling as she heard the sharp hiss of his breath.

His warm hand slid across her neck, feathering against her cool skin; his fingers lifted her chin and stroked across her cheeks, learning the contours of her face.

Slowly, his hands slid back down and met over her collarbone, dipping farther downwards until he grasped the sash that held her robe together. He carefully undid the knot and pulled it free. With a quick movement, Rafe slid the robe from her body. It slithered down her arms and pooled on the bare wooden floor.

His gaze drifted downwards, seeing the way the material of her nightgown draped against her curves. He brought his hand to her breast, cupping its weight. It was his turn to smile as he heard her small gasp. One lean finger flicked her nipple. He felt the bud rise and harden.

Gillie gasped in intense pleasure. Again, her knees threatened to buckle. Rafe bent and scooped her up into his strong arms. He carried her to the bed, laying her down against the white sheet.

"Rafe," she whispered imploringly.

He slid onto the bed, sanity and reason fleeing. This was heaven eagerly summoning him, and he was willing to pay the price for admittance.

Rafe kissed her again, instructing her in the ways lovers communicated. Hers was a mouth well matched to his own.

Gillie experienced such poweras if she were getting stronger and stronger the more she melded with him. Her hands held his head closer, her fingers threading through the black locks as the mystery unfolded.

Rafe's hungry lips left her and trailed a smooth path from neck to shoulders, lightly nipping, paying homage to the silky texture of her flesh.

He slowly undid several of the buttons of her gown and slid his hand inside.

Another gasp escaped Gillie's lips when Rafe's hand made contact with her bare breast. It was like a lick of fire on her skin that burned its way into her blood, heating it as well.

Exquisite, he thought. Rafe brushed her breast with the palm of his hand, savoring the wonderful texture of her flesh. He compared its creamy whiteness against the darkness of his own tanned hand.

He opened more buttons, kissing a path to her waist, then backtracked to her breast, stroking the tip of it with his tongue. Gillie writhed on the bed, an intoxicatingly warm sensation flowing throughout her body. One of her hands grasped the sheet, clutching it tightly as he laved her skin. When Rafe delivered the full power of his mouth on her breast, she moaned, her breath coming in pants. "My God!" she exclaimed in a husky, passion-filled voice.

Rafe smiled, his dark blue eyes gleaming like twin jewels. Her body was pure delightsoft, her skin finer than the most expensive silk. He swept his hand lower, skimming over her slightly rounded belly, which quivered under his touch, until he found the dark curls visible beneath the delicate material.

Gillie's breath hissed through her teeth. Whateverand whereverhe touched turned to flame, igniting a blaze within and without, scorching her sensibilities.

Rafe could feel the energy building within himself, eager to claim this woman as his own. Every kiss, every caress, each look, each gesture, brought him closer to the moment he'd been waiting for all his life. Maybe even the reason he'd been born. To love this woman; to affirm his purpose. She was rain to his soil, warmth to his chill night, sun to his shadow.

Gillie was drifting through a world of pure awareness, her senses heightened and expanded. She was a stranger to this world, navigating the uncharted waters of this sensual sea as best she could with Rafe as her pilot.

He wanted to see all of her. Touch all of her. Possess all of her. He looked into her desire-filled blue-gray eyes and recognized the awakening of a deeply passionate woman. This wasn't a terror-stricken maiden sacrifing herself for a noble cause. Gillie was under the same lovespell as he. She craved his touch as much as he craved giving it.

She was his woman; he was her man.

He pushed the nightgown leisurely up her legs, halting only when he was scant inches from the juncture of her thighs.

"I want there to be nothing between us," he whispered. "Do you understand, Gillie?"

She nodded, speech at that moment impossible.

Her nightgown was dispatched quickly, ending up on the floor. Her normal modesty brought a rush of color flooding her cheeks, shading them a blushing rose. He prevented her hand from shielding her delta of love from his eyes by holding her hand still and flat upon the bed. He knew a much better use for her soft palm. Rafe sat up and drew her hand first to his mouth in a tender salute, then to the fastenings of his robe. "Unhook them," he commanded softly in his smooth baritone.

Gillie obeyed. Her fingers loosened the velvet frogs, pushing the silk aside. She couldn't resist touching his warm skin, skating her novice fingers across the board-hard muscles of his belly, learning the texture of his flesh. It was smooth, the hair that covered it soft to her touch.

Gillie thrilled to the difference in their skin tones, her hand pale against his richer shade. She thought how well they complemented one another.

Her eyes narrowed when she saw a few faint lines of white zigzaging across his lower chest. "What caused this?" she asked, her fingertips tracing the outline of the marks.

"A whip," Rafe said thickly.

"Who did this to you?" She suspected that she already knew.

He confirmed her suspicion. "My stepfather."

"Oh, my love," Gillie said, rising and clasping him to her, offering him comfort, her hands sliding under the robe and around as they embraced. It was then that she felt the ridges of deeper scars along his back.

Scars within and without. But they'd never broken him. Not her Rafe. He'd been stronger. He'd lived through all the trialsbut at what price? Had they robbed him of the belief in love?

Could she break the bonds of memory that kept him from trusting in her love?

She had to.

Gillie wanted a whole future with him, without ghosts and chains from the past.

She closed her eyes and let her instinct direct her.

Deftly, Gillie pushed the silk robe away from his lean body, giving in to her yearning to learn his body as he had hers. She touched his shoulder with her mouth, imitating his gestures. Her tongue tasted his skin like a child with a sweet, enjoying the surprise of the flavor. As Gillie discovered new territory, Rafe's big hands slid up her back, winding into her hair. He drew her closer to him, her breasts brushing his chest. The smell of her perfume, the scent of her hair, captivated him. It awakened conflicting emotionsboth a wildness and a softnesswithin him. With no other woman had he ever felt this alive, this close to heaven. Only with Gillie.

Their lips met, each seeking the full measure of the other. Gillie was just as eager as Rafe to share this. Her heart beat faster and faster as she lost herself in the vortex of his kisses.

She felt the sheet against her back as they tumbled across the bed. Rafe levered himself away from her and sat back on his haunches, tearing the robe from his body. Gillie blinked. He was so incredibly beautiful, she thought, like a Greek or Roman statue come to life before her eyes. So graceful the proportions, the breadth of his wide shoulders, the long, lean length of his chest, the slim hips and thighs. Her eyes widened when she beheld all of him.

Rafe paused, holding himself in control by the merest thread while he watched her eyes on him. He relaxed slightly when he saw that there was no fear, no repulsion, no shame whatsoever in the depths of Gillie's blue-gray eyes. He saw trust and passion blended there, beckoning him.

It was all he needed to see.

Gillie clasped her arms around him, drawing him to her. She was where she wanted to be, with the man she loved, waiting for the moment that would unite them as one. For her there was no holding back.

Her wildest imaginings couldn't compare to the reality of Rafe, to the magic contained in his caresses, his kisses. His skill served to drive her over the edge, pushing her past the brink of containment.

Just as she was regaining some semblance of breath, Rafe showed her there was more. He slid into her waiting body, easing his way past the virgin barrier with a quick thrust of his powerful body, moving deeper, steadily increasing his tempo until she ignored the small pain for the larger pleasure.

Then it happened.

Gillie shattered into a web of exploding colors, bursting within her head as Rafe made his final deep thrust. A hoarse cry erupted from his throat when he spilled his seed into the depths of her womb and drove them both into a realm of complete satisfaction.

Was she still alive? she wondered moments later.

Yes, gloriously so, she answered herself. Her own dark angel had taken her to heaven's gate and beyond, revealing the majesty of paradise.

"Rafe," she whispered.

He shifted his weight from her body, enfolding her in his arms. He tenderly brushed the damp strands of hair from her forehead, kissing the spot where his fingers touched. He'd never known that he could feel this close to another living soulas if they were one. Rafe thought he'd known before just how strong his love for Gillie was. He hadn't realized the half if it.

"Yes?" he questioned, nuzzling her neck.

"I love you," she replied, her eyes drifting shut as she snuggled up against him like a contented cat.

"And I love you," he responded to her already sleeping form, pulling the pristine white cotton sheet over their entwined bodies. Tonight, Gillie had given him more than he expected of this life.

The darkness hid the tears that filled his eyes.

Chapter Twenty-One

Dawn was barely breaking when Rafe quietly left the bed he'd shared with Gillie. He bent and picked up his hastily discarded robe, watching her as she slept. Her face was angelic, trusting. She slept deeply, contentedly, with nary a care.

He wished that he could have slept half that well.

Instead, he'd snatched what little sleep he could, preferring to lie there with Gillie, remembering what they had shared.

But now there was morning to face. And with it came all the doubts and questions.

He walked to the window, listening to the familiar sounds of the birds as they serenaded the new day. Rafe leaned one arm against the wall, his head bowed. A low groan escaped his mouth. Oh, my God, he thought, what have I done?

He'd taken what she had so sweetly offeredaccepted, no, stolenthe essence of her maidenhood from her. He'd betrayed his friends, abused their hospitality, and perhaps ruined Gillie's chances for happiness. What had come over him? Why after all this time had he given in and taken all that she had to give?

It was madness. That had to be it. There was no other plausible excuse.

Except that he loved her. Loved her with all that was in him. As for regretcould he honestly claim that he regretted what had happened between them? Morally, he supposed he should. But being with Gillie had been like discovering another world. A world of inestimable beauty and joy, a world of pure passion and completeness. Loving her had made him feel whole for the first time in his life. And vulnerable.

But what of Gillie? Had he been too selfish, too caught up with the wonder of having her all to himself to put her needs ahead of his own?

He should have waited.

Rafe turned around. He had to get away from here. He had to think clearly, and he couldn't do that with Gillie in the same room, or in the same house. There was so much that he had to think about; there were decisions that he had to make.

He gathered his clothes and dressed as fast as he could. He wanted to be gone before anyone else was awake.

More than he wanted anything, Rafe wanted to get back in that bed and lock the door, shutting them both away from the rest of the world. Yet, that was impossible. And unfair. He stood by the bed, his hand extended as if to touch her. He pulled it back before he did so.

Silently, Rafe left.

Gillie awoke with a smile on her face. She turned over, expecting to see Rafe beside her, and discovered only empty space.

Where was he?

She sat up, pulling the sheet over her bare body. Gillie glanced about the room, looking for some sign of him. ''Rafe?" she called softly.

No one answered her.

Gillie began to panic. What had happened to him? He wouldn't have just left her, would he? She threw aside the sheet and moved to the edge of the bed, her body feeling sore, especially between her legs. Recalling how she'd gotten that way, Gillie blushed. She stood up and bent down to pick up her nightgown. As she did so, her eyes fell on the telltale stain on the white sheets. A smear of her virgin's blood smudged the cotton. Hastily, Gillie grabbed the top sheet and tossed it over the sign.

She pulled her nightgown on, then her robe. Catching sight of herself in the mirror that hung on the opposite wall, Gillie ran her hands through her hair, smoothing some of the tangles away from her face. She touched her mouth, kiss-bruised from Rafe's lips. His lovemaking had been more exquisite than she had believed possible. She'd fairly swooned from the intense delight that she'd experienced. He'd taken her past every fantasy she'd ever imagined, guiding her with a gentle hand, leading her into a kingdom of enchantment, and bewitching her, mind and body.

She slipped into the small adjoining dressing room. He wasn't there, nor were his clothes. Reentering the bedroom, she glanced at the clock and saw that it was almost seven a.m. She had to make it back to her room before anyone was the wiser. If Rafe had been here, she would have stayed. They could have faced anyone together. But she was alone. And frightened. Gillie turned back to the rumpled bed. She couldn't bear to lose him now, not after all she'd gone through to get here.

Rafe had abandoned her.

The question waswhy?

And where had he gone?

Gillie made do with a perfunctory tepid wash. She would have liked to have had a long soak in a warm bath, with perhaps another few hours of sleep, but she was anxious to find Rafe.

Nan knocked softly on her door and entered with a steaming pot of coffee just as Gillie was lacing up her soft brown kidskin half-boots.

"Good morning, Miss Gillie," Nan said, setting down the tray and pouring Gillie a fresh cup of hot coffee.

"Thank you, Nan," Gillie responded, accepting the cup and drinking the contents. The strong brew refreshed her and she held out the cup for a refill.

"Shall I bring you something on a tray or will you be having your breakfast downstairs?" Nan asked as she handed Gillie the cup again.

"Is anyone else awake?" Gillie asked as she carried her cup and saucer to her dressing table. She sat down and chose a ribbon for her hair. It was garnet-red. She tied back her hair at the nape of her neck with the ribbon. Next, she fastened her garnet earrings on. Garnet. It represented faithfulness. Hers to Rafe. And after making love with him, she could never walk away from that implied pledge. For her, there would never be any other man but Rafe. In her heart, he was already her husband.

"I believe that the countess is," Nan responded, "for the cook was fixing something for her when I went into the kitchen to fetch your coffee."

"Then I shall join her."

Nan picked up Gillie's empty cup and set it on the tray. "Will you be needing me later?" she asked.

"Not really. Why?" She gave her servant a questioning look and was surprised when color rose in Nan's cheeks.

"Mr. Snow has asked me to accompany him, with your permission of course, on a carriage ride." Nan smiled. "Actually, I think he called it a buggy."

"Go and enjoy yourself," Gillie said.

"You truly don't mind?" "Of course not," Gillie answered. How could she object to Nan reaching for happiness when she was doing the very same thing? "I shan't be needing you for the rest of this day."

"You're certain?"

Gillie smiled. "Yes. Enjoy yourself, please."

"You're sure, my lady?" Nan was aware that Lady Gillian's bed had not been slept in; she had come in almost an hour earlier with coffee, only to find the room empty.

"I'm certain. Now," Gillie said, "off with you."

Nan threw Gillian another speculative look, then left.

Five minutes later, Gillie walked into the dining room. At the table with her sister-in-law were Don Sebastian and the Reverend Taylor. The conversation ceased as she entered the room, and both men rose politely.

"Buenos días, Lady Gillian," Don Sebastian said cheerfully. He held the chair for Gillie as she joined them at the table. "How grand to have two such beautiful women to grace our morning meal."

"Ah, tío," murmured Tory, "how flattering you are."

The Reverend Taylor nodded his agreement with the Don's statement. "Señor Montenegro is most correct, Mrs. Buchanan. Texas and England have produced flowers of the highest quality. Another example of God's handiwork, I might add."

"For my husband's sister and myself, I thank you kindly," Tory said, a beaming smile on her face.

Don Sebastian was a man used to reading situations and making judgments. He sensed that the younger sister of his friend had something on her mind. He knew that she and Tory were very close, so he assumed that she would want to tell Tory whatever seemed to be troubling her.

Don Sebastian wiped his mouth with the thick linen napkin and stood up, walking the short distance to Tory's chair at the head of the oak table. He bent and placed a kiss on her cheek. "You will pardon me, Victoria, but I should be getting back to Rancho Montenegro, much as I would rather spend the day here with you and yours."

Tory gazed up at him, a warm smile on her face. "Your visits are always too short, tío. You know how much we love having you here." Tory reached up her hand, where she wore the wide gleaming bracelet of silver and turquiose that had been a wedding present from the Don. She lightly caressed his taut, sun-browned cheek. "Vaya con Dios, tío," she said softly.

"Hasta la vista, Victoria," Don Sebastian replied, then straightened and repeated the words to the Reverend Taylor and to Gillie. Before he departed the room, he addressed Gillie again. "You must feel free to come and visit the Rancho Montenegro while you are in Texas, Lady Gillian. My house is always open to you." "Thank you, Don Sebastian," Gillie responded, "I would like that very much."

The Reverend Taylor also rose. "I think I'd better see if our carriage is ready. Mrs. Rayburne and I should be going so that we can catch the train back to San Antonio."

"Please," Gillie said, "convey my deepest gratitude to Rafe's mother for coming. I know how much it cost her to do so."

"I'll be very glad to tell her that," he announced. The Reverend Taylor glanced warmly at both women. "I want to thank you both personally for your kindness to her. Charitable hearts are close to our Lord's, for they show His mercy. May God smile upon you both all your days, and may He reward your goodness."

Tory motioned for the waiting servant when the men left. "What would you like for breakfast?" she asked Gillie.

"Just coffee," Gillie replied.

The flaxen-haired young girl attended to Gillie's request quickly, producing the steaming drink.

"That will be all for now, Marta," Tory said. She waited to speak to Gillie until they were alone. "Now," she inquired, leaning closer to her sister-in-law, "tell me what happened.''

"First," Gillie asked, her blue-gray eyes imploring, "you must tell me where Rafe is."

"I had assumed that he was still abed," Tory stated with a saucy lift of her eyebrow.

Gillie shook her head. "He's gone," she said in a low voice. "Didn't you two talk last night?" Tory demanded.

Gillie looked Tory straight in the eye and told her, "We did more than talkwhich is why I expected that when I awoke, Rafe would still be there beside me."

Tory reached out her hand and gave Gillie's a compassionate squeeze.

"I thought we'd reached an understanding," Gillie said.

"I don't know what to say, Gillie."

"Neither do I, except that I love him and that I cannot let it rest. I have to know just what last night meant to him or I shall go mad."

Tory smiled in understanding. "Yes, I guess you do," she agreed. "If it were me, I'd want to know. While I can't speak for Rafe, and I've no idea why he would have left so suddenly and without a word, it could be that all this is too new for him, Gillie. So much has happened since yesterday." Tory paused. "I want to say something," Tory began, her blue eyes sharp. "I believe Rafe cares very deeply for you. He would never have made love to you if he didn't. Another woman"she shrugged her shoulders philosophically''maybe. You, no. Bedding you and walking away from all that that implies isn't like the boy who lived in my house, nor the man whose birthday we celebrated yesterday." Tory's voice was very serious. "Some hurts are very deepno matter how much time has passed, something, or someone, can ressurrect them. In Spanish there's a phrase that I've always felt suited Rafehambre del alma. It translates to 'song of the starved soul.'

"Rafe is a starved soul, Gillie, and whether he knows it or not, he's been singing a very solitary song, waiting for someone to hear it. Rhys and I have loved him as if he were our blood, but it's not enough. Nor should it be. All his life he's been waiting for you, I think. As Rhys wasand isfor me, Rafe is your heart's partner."

Tory smiled. "I want you both to be happy. Rafe may demand a great deal of you, but I think you're up to the task."

"We will be happy," Gillie said confidently. "I have to believe that."

"Then be patient," Tory urged, chuckling slightly. "I know that's rich coming from me, as patience is not a strong suit of mine; however, it may prove the best course in dealing with Rafe. Give him time."

"You think that I should wait to hear from him?" Gillie asked.

Tory nodded. "It may be the wisest move you could make now. After all," she said, "you've given him a lot to think about."

Gillie considered her sister-in-law's words carefully. She'd wanted to go after Rafe and talk to him. Since she'd arrived in Texas, she'd made all the moves in their dance of love; perhaps it was time to sit back and see what Rafe would do. Gillie acknowledged that, unlike Tory, she could be very patient.

"I think that you're right, Tory. I shall do as you suggest and give Rafe some time." "That's very wise of you, my dear," Tory said. "Now, have you changed your mind about breakfast?"

Gillie flashed a grin. "Yes, I have. Suddenly, I am very hungry."

Tory picked up a small silver bell and rang for Marta. "May I make another suggestion?" Tory proceeded without waiting for Gillie's answer. "Have yourself a warm bath. Then get some sleep. I know firsthand how exhausting it"Tory lifted one brow in a knowing arch"can be."

"What can be?" Rhys asked as he entered the room, walking towards the sideboard.

Gillie blushed and Tory covered herself quite nicely. "Why, planning a big party, of course, and seeing that it all comes off perfectly. Gillie expended quite a bit of herself yesterday," Tory winked at Gillie while Rhys poured himself a cup of coffee, his back to them both.

Rafe sat inside his own version of Lady Allenwood's bathhouse, rivulets of sweat dampening his naked body. He'd had it built when he came back from England, having enjoyed his experience in hers. Surrounded by a grove of live oak, it was within a few feet of a clear, cold stream, which provided the water he needed, and it was far enough away from his house that he could bathe without interruptions.

He threw another ladle full of water on the hot rocks, breathing in the steaming, misty air. He could think clearly here, away from distractions. The person who consumed his thoughts was Gillie. How she'd felt in his arms. How she'd looked when he possessed her.

Leaving her alone in that bed had been one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do. But he couldn't stay. He had to sort things out in his mind.

Rafe realized that Gillie was like the purifying waters of this steambath, a healing force to cleanse him of the past. Being with her had changed him. Gillie had freed him by her unselfish act of loving him. She'd possessed more courage than he, for she had been willing to take the risk. She'd opened all the dark places and let in her light, showing him that he belonged. And he did. To her. With her. She had made him see that he'd been foolishly trying to evade the truth, to ignore what was right and truetheir love.

He thought of his fine house, the house that would never be a home without her. Only she could make itand himcomplete.

He'd been a fool to throw away the love of the only woman for him. Without her he was only half alive.

Yet what of her? He'd claimed her innocence last night. Didn't she deserve something more than a quick tumble? She deserved all that a man could give her. A courtship, for instance. One that would show her she was valued, that she was loved.

But what if even now her body was nurturing his baby? Rafe could never let a child of his be born with the shame he'd known.

Rafe stood up and walked outside. He picked up another bucket of water and sluiced it over himself, feeling the cool tingle of it hitting his warm skin. It was brisk and bracing. He felt gloriously alive. He rubbed his chin, the stubble of his beard scratchy against his palm. He needed a shave. And a change of clothes.

Rafe pulled on his clothes over his still wet body, hurriedly dressing.

It was all so simple.

First, he would wed her.

Then, her would woo her.

Rafe pushed one hand through his damp, dark hair. He would court his wifeflowers, buggy rides, dances. Whatever it took. He might not be a proper English gentleman, but he nevertheless knew what was expected of one. Granted, it was a bit unusual to conduct a courtship after the marriage, but then again, he was a Texan, and Texans made up their own rules.

His mind made up, Rafe grabbed the palomino's reins and vaulted into the saddle, his new saddle, and headed in the direction of his house.

The horse seemed to sense his master's impatience and broke into a gallop, tearing across the countryside.

"You intend to do what?" Rhys asked.

"To ask your sister to marry me," Rafe repeated.

Rhys cast a thoughtful look at his foster son. "Have you asked Gillie yet?" "No," Rafe replied. "I thought it best to clear it with you first."

"I've no objection to this match, Rafe."

"Good. I want to do it as soon as possible. Within a week's time would be best."

"A week? Why so soon?" Rhys inquired. He lit one of his favorite thin cigars, easing back in his chair. Wisps of smoke rose above his head. "How about early in the New Year?" Rhys proposed.

Rafe was quiet. He was aware that what he must tell Rhys was likely to sever the close bond between them. Telling the truth would reveal his betrayal of trust, yet he couln't lie to this man. He owed Rhys, and Tory, his life. The love he felt for them both demanded complete honesty, no matter what the consequences.

"We cannot wait that long to marry," Rafe answered solemnly, his gaze never wavering.

Rhys ground out his cigar in the heavy glass ashtray and looked at the smashed leaves of tobacco, obliterating the crest on the glass beneath. Gillie had sent the ashtray with Rafe this past trip. It had come from a very exclusive men's shop in the Burlington Arcade. It could have come from a village glassmaker for all he cared. That his sister had selected it gave it value to Rhys.

Rhys raised his glance to the younger man, his hands flat on the desk. "Why?" Rhys's voice was softand chillingly direct.

"She may be carrying my child."

The words hung in the air, like a heavy mist, between them. It was Rafe who finally broke the silence. "Say something, Rhys."

"What would you have me say?"

Rafe swallowed. He'd always believed Heaven had a pricenow he was sure of it. Part of the cost was watching the pain in the face of the man he loved more than any blood father. Rafe saw the genuine anguish in the older man's gray eyes. There was nothing he could say to lessen the blow.

"How much do you love her?" Rhys asked, his voice piercing the silence.

"More than my life."

Rhys sighed. "You should find Gillie in the garden. She took Charlotte with her." Rhys flipped open the leather-bound diary on his desk. He reached for his monagrammed silver fountain pen and circled the date. Without looking at Rafe, he said in a quiet tone, "I shall tell Tory the news."

"I do love her, Rhys," Rafe said, emotion clouding his tone as he stood at the door, his hand upon the knob, his head bowed.

"I know," Rhys replied. And he did. Only love could crack the iron composure of a man like Rafe. Only love would have forced him to be so brutally honest. Only love could have forced a man like the one he'd raised to put aside loyalty and instead reach out for happiness. Love, he knew, ripped some bonds asunder as it forged new ones. Rhys, more than most men, understood a love like that. If he hadn't, he might have risen from his chair and beaten the hell out of Rafe for daring to anticipate the wedding night with his sister. He had almost done just that.

Time to let go of the past. His little sister wasn't so little anymore.

Gillie looked even lovelier than before, Rafe thought. A garnet ribbon held back her tumbling mass of black hair, one curl of which was grasped in the tiny hand of Gillie's niece. The warm afternoon sun bathed her in a golden glow. Instead of a fragile flower wilting under the strong rays of the Texas sun, Gillie looked comfortable. And more than that, Rafe conceded, she looked at home.

He stood a few feet away, watching her sing a lullaby to the gurgling baby. This could be the future, he mused. Gillie with a baby of theirs in her arms, its small body held close to her heart as she sang.

"You'd make a wonderful mother," Rafe said softly.

Gillie's head snapped up.

Rafe was here. At last.

Their glances locked across the space of the garden and she saw uncertainty in his. She patted the seat next to her, praying that he would see the love in her eyes.

With one look, Gillie dispelled all his doubts.

Rafe joined her on the wide wooden swing, taking the baby from her arms. Charlotte cooed at him and, sensing a safe presence, she promptly fell asleep in Rafe's strong arms. His mouth quirked in a smile at the situation. Proposing with an infant in hand was not quite what Rafe had in mind.

"Why did you leave me?" she asked.

"I had some thinking to do."

"And did you?"

Rafe turned his head and fixed his dark blue eyes on her face. "Yes."

Nervous, Gillie dropped her gaze. She folded her hands in her lap and linked her fingers together. She wanted to shake him and make him tell her what he was feeling.

So much for patience! she thought, a slight frown marring her features.

"Gillie, will you marry me?"

Had she heard correctly? Or was her imagination conjuring up what she most wanted Rafe to say?

"Did you hear me?" Rafe asked.

"I think so," she answered.

"Well? I know it's not how I planned on asking you, what with Charlotte here and all, but," he repeated, "will you marry me, Gillie?"

Gillie calmly rose and picked up the sleeping infant, carefully placing the baby in her cradle and tucking a blanket about her. She turned and faced Rafe, who'd risen from his seat on the swing. "Yes. Yes. Yes!" Gillie just barely managed to keep her voice from shouting her reply as she launched herself into Rafe's arms.

His hungry mouth captured hers as he swung her up and around.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Today was her wedding day.

Gillie sat upright in her bed, a wide smile on her mouth, her blue-gray eyes bright. Today was the day that she'd prayed for. Now, within hours, her prayers would be answered.

Gillian Rayburne.

Rafe's wife.

Gillie tossed back the quilt that covered her body and sprang form the bed, wishing that she could shout her happiness for all the world to hear. She padded quickly over to the open window and peered outside into the bright Texas sunshine. Her joy was something she wanted to share with everyone. She wanted to revel in it like a child with a new toy. The splendor of this day was upon her and she didn't want to relinquish a moment of it. Gillie looked down at the garnet ring on her finger. Today, Rafe would give her another ringa deeper symbol of their hard-won love. A gold band that would unite them forever. With that ring her life would change.

And how she welcomed that change. From this day forward, she could be free to be with Rafe whenever she wished. They could share a bed without qualms. Stay there all day and make love with no one to gainsay them.

Gillie recalled her meeting with her brother when she'd burst into the ranch office with her good news, Rafe in tow. Rhys had sat there quietly, his gray eyes fixed upon her. ''Would you please leave us alone, Rafe," Rhys requested, "and shut the door so that my sister and I can speak in private."

Gillie had stood there, her new-found joy evaporating under her brother's ruthless stare.

"Did you and Rafe make love?"

Gillie read the concern in her brother's eyes. While it was not something she would have told Rhys, she wouldn't, couldn't, deny the truth. She approached his chair, sinking to her knees upon the carpet. She took his large right hand in hers and clasped it to her cheek, feeling the mark of his wedding band against her skin before she met Rhys's eyes squarely. "I'm not ashamed of what I did, Rhys. I told you before that I love Rafe."

"You weren't forced?"

That word brought back to Gillie all the horror of Georgie's ordealand Rafe's conception. She admitted honestly, "I gave myself to Rafe without force or coercion. It was my choice, freely made."

A dawning smile lifted Rhys's mouth and he stood, pulling his sister up with him, Gillie clasped close to his body. "Then I'm satisfied." He placed a kiss upon her hair and said softly, "It would seem that we're to have a wedding here within the week."

Rhys reseated himself. "Though it isn't the wedding I had in mind for you, sister dear," he added. "I would have preferred giving you a grand ceremony, one that would have been worthy of you."

Gillie wraped her arms about her brother's shoulders. "I don't need that kind of wedding, Rhys," Gillie protested. "All I truly want is to be married to Rafe. An intimate gathering would please me just as well." Her voice took on a wistful note. ''While I wish that I could have had a few of my friends here to celebrate with me, along with Mama and Rothersby, that cannot be helped, nor will it stand in my way."

And it hadn't.

Things were all arranged and in place. Even her wedding dress had been a quick affair, with several seamstresses working well into the night to get the gown ready for its debut. Gillie walked to the dressing room and opened the door, stepping in to gaze at the dress that she would soon wear. Little touches had been added to the cream silk gown at her request. She ran a slim finger across one embroidered feature, tracing the pattern, an interlocking G and R inside a circle of yellow roses. Gillie picked up the whisper-thin veil and smiled at the matching work that bordered it.

The gown had been a gift from Tory, along with a collection of things for her trousseau. From her nephews, she and Rafe received several leatherbound volumes for their library, including a beautifully illustrated book of herbs and plants. Even Don Sebastian had sent them a wedding gifta set of silver candlesticks that had been in his family for generations. Gillie was very pleased with that gift, a bit of the past as she and Rafe made their future together.

A light knock on the door to the bedroom brought Nan, a beaming smile on her face, into the room. She carried a wooden tray that held a large pot of hot chocolate, a smaller container of cream, delicate cups, and a rustic basket, lined with an overflowing lace doily, which held an assortment of freshly baked muffins, along with butter, jams, and serving plates.

Nan was followed into the room by a yawning Tory, a long robe of indigo blue silk draped about her tall body. "I hope you don't mind that I took the liberty of bringing food along," she addressed Gillie before sitting down and pouring herself a cup of the hot chocolate. Tory added cream to her cup, along with a spinkle of cinnamon, and drank contentedly.

Gillie joined her as Nan busied herself seeing to Gillie's bath. "Are you nervous?" Tory asked, buttering a warm corn muffin.

"Just a trifle," she admitted. Gillie found that she was quite hungry and selected a muffin loaded with blueberries.

"That's to be expected," Tory counseled, a knowing look on her face. "I was nervous before wedding your brother. Of course"she shrugged her shoulders"he was a virtual stranger to me. Rafe has no surprises for you."

Tory quickly finished her chocolate, adding, "You'll be just fine, Gillie. I have no doubts about that." She placed her cup on the tray. "Now, I've a favor to ask you."

"Anything," Gillie responded.

"Will you lend me the services of your Nan while you're having your bath so that she can do something with my hair?" Tory picked up the thick braid and wound it around her head with a quizzical glance.

Gillie chuckled softly. "Of course. Nan can do wonders."

After Tory left, Nan accompanying her, Gillie sat enjoying another muffin, wondering if Rafe was as anxious as she. Last evening, while they enjoyed the wedding-eve dinner at the Encantadora, Rafe had seemed overly quiet.

Was this truly what he wanted? Gillie wondered, pouring herself another cup of chocolate, or had she forced his hand by making love with him? Had she touched his heartor merely his body? She sipped her drink while these questions pounded in her brain. Knots twisted in her stomach, forcing Gillie to relinquish the rest of her half-eaten muffin. She thought about risking the answers by going to the room Rafe occupied and confronting him.

Gillie rejected the idea. She loved Rafe, and believed that their marriage would be best for both of them. He loved herin her heart she knew that for a fact. No matter what he'd said to her in England, Rafe couldn't have made love so tenderly, so intensely, if he hadn't. She had to hold on to that thought.

Gillie moved across the room until she located one of her velvet-lined jewelry boxes. She produced the key from the drawer of her dressing table and fitted it into the lock, turning it slowly. She opened the lid and withdrew a small, heavy object wrapped in velvet. She peeled back the soft folds of the material to reveal a miniature portrait encased in an oval silver frame.

El lobo negro. Her own black Texas wolf. Gillie gazed longingly at the handsome face portrayed there. How well Georgie had captured the proud features, the slight flare of the nostrils, the clear, dark, watchful eyes, the high, sculpted cheekbones, the firm mouththe same mouth that had tutored her lips in the subject of pleasure, the same mouth that had tasted every part of her flesh.

Gillie shivered in response to the warm memories. Her nipples tightened against her nightgown; the place between her legsthe same place where Rafe had joined their two bodies as onethrobbed and grew damp. She wanted to be held in his strong arms again, hear his husky baritone whispering words of love in her ear, and be taken once more to heights undreamed of as the world shattered around her.

She had only to wait until tonight. Then they would be man and wife, and she could experience again and again the glory ofGillie thrilled at the wordbedding her solitary wolf.

The soft chime of the clock pulled her away from her pleasant fantasy. She tenderly rewrapped the miniature and locked it away, then walked to the bathroom.

The big clawfooted tub was filled, steam rising, waiting for her. She quickly removed her nightgown and sank into the water. As Gillie lathered the essence of horse chestnuts and herbs into her hair, she smiled in anticipation.

Rafe prowled around the bedroom, the same bedroom that had been his since he was a boy of thirteen; the same bedroom in which he'd lain awake nights thinking about the girl who held his heart; the same bedroom where that girl, now a woman, had surrendered her innocence to him.

This morning the rumpled sheets on the bed held no secrets. He'd been the sole occupant last night.

Not true, came the mocking thought. Gillie had shared the bed with him, if only in his memory.

And from today she would share not only his thoughts, but his name, his house, his very life. Today was a wish grantedhe would marry the woman he loved. It was also a dream deferredfor in obtaining what he had so long desired, Rafe would have to relinquish some of the dream, at least for the time being.

Tonight was his wedding night. A chance for new beginnings.

Rafe ceased his walking. He stood, instead, and stared at the bed, the stolen hours with Gillie flooding back into his conciousness. The powerful storm that had risen between them had been impossible to contain. Heat rushed through Rafe with the memories. His flesh tightened in response. His breath deepened.

How the hell was he going to keep his hands off her? How was he ever going to stay true to his self-sworn pledge to woo Gillie patiently, when all he wanted to do was drag her to the nearest bedroom, lock the door, and make love to her repeatedly?

She would be expecting him to seal their vows tonight in the traditional manner, to make this union a fact in deed as well as on paper.

Rafe had other plans. This night his courtship campaign would commence.

He checked the time on his gold pocket watch. It wouldn't be long now. Lady Gillian Clare Fitzgerald Buchanan would soon become Mrs. Rafael Rayburne. The elegant English thoroughbred in harness with a wild Texas mustang.

Dear God, he prayed silently, don't ever let her regret this. Gillie snuggled closer to her husband, her left arm threaded through his, as the borrowed buggy crossed the boundary between the Encantadora and Rafe's property to the north. Exhilaration flooded her body as the matched pair of chestnuts cantered quickly across the rolling hills. Soon she would see the house that she would share with Rafe.

Sunlight hit the gleaming garnets on her wedding band, as she'd forgone her gloves. Silly to be sure, but she'd wanted to be able to see the ring that had linked her destiny to Rafe whenever she wished. In her other hand she clutched her wedding bouquet, a mixture of yellow and white rosebuds, threaded with ivy and satin ribbons. She brought the flowers to her nose and sniffed at the delicate fragrance.

"I hope that you don't mind our not going on a honeymoon trip right away," Rafe asked Gillie, glancing in her direction.

"It doesn't matter to me where we go, my love," she said in a purring tone, "as long as we're together. Besides," Gillie murmured, "I rather fancy the idea of us being away from others." Color rose in her face as she laid her head against his shoulder. Was she being shameless? Well, if she was, she didn't care because she was so very happy.

Rafe smiled. "We won't be quite alone, Gillie, since your maid will be there, as will Bessie and Aaron."

"They're not strangers." "Then you truly don't regret not making use of the new house in San Antonio?"

Gillie recalled that last night at dinner, her brother had revealed his wedding gift to the couple. He'd handed Rafe the deed and the keys to the house next to his and Tory's in San Antonio, then added, handing Gillie a beribboned document, "This is something I purchased several years ago, little sister," Rhys said. "I intended to give it to you, scamp, for your twenty-first birthday. But I decided, why wait? It's yours, now, with my blessings."

Gillie had opened the thick roll of paper and discovered the deed to another house, this one in fashionable Belgravia Square.

"I want our life to begin at your ranch, Rafe."

He corrected her. "Our ranch."

"I like the sound of that," she said. A small frown wrinkled her brow. "You don't mind about Rhys's generous gifts, do you?"

"Sweetheart, that's like asking if I mind that the sun rises every morning." Rafe chuckled, touched that Gillie was worried about his pride. "I can't fault him for wanting to show us that he cares." He shot her a glance. "Would you have relinquished the houses had I demanded that?"

Gillie didn't hesitate. She responded firmly, "I'm your wife, Rafe. There isn't anything you could ask of me that I wouldn't do." And Gillie knew that was true. Utterly, completely true. It always had been. It always would be. <><><><><><><><><><><><>

Rafe halted the buggy at the top of a ridge. "We're here," he said, holding tightly to the reins. "The Fortress," he announced.

Gillie took the opportunity to study the sprawling ranch house from this vantage point. A wide stone wall surrounded the Spanish-style house. There was a simple wooden gate under a rounded stone arch leading inside. How very apropos, Gillie thoughtRafe's own fortress of isolation.

She narrowed her gaze under the warm Texas sun. Well, Gillie resolved, not any more. And not from me, by God.

He flicked the reins and the horses took off. Within minutes, they were riding through the gate and coming to the front of the house.

Gillie smiled at the flowers that bordered the main house. Big yellow roses predominated. Other flowers adorned the stone walkway; some hugged the cream-colored outside wall, and some hung in clay pots, adding dollops of color, like a splash of paint against a bare canvas.

Mentally, Gillie was already planning on adding her own touches. She would have some Johnny-jump-ups sent from England and plant them; perhaps some mint and wisteria culled from her garden in Dorset.

"Gillie."

Rafe's voice broke through Gillie's musings. He was standing by her side of the buggy, waiting to help her out. The double oak doors to the house opened wide and Bessie, Aaron, and Nan stood there, warm smiles on their faces.

"Welcome to the Fortress, Mrs. Rayburne," Bessie said in a comfortable tone. "Aaron and me hope that you and Mr. Rafe will be very, very happy."

"Thank you," Gillie replied.

Rafe swept Gillie up in his arms, past the beaming threesome, carrying her inside her new home. "Welcome, querida," he whispered in a husky tone as he put her down.

Gillie shivered with delight at the simple Spanish endearment. She placed a light kiss on Rafe's smooth cheek and cast a quick look about the interior.

It was cool inside the house, especially after the heat of the sun. The floor consisted of large reddish-brown tiles, and the bare walls were white.

"Very little compared to the magnificence of Derran House, eh?" Rafe whispered for Gillie's ears alone.

"All the better to make it my own, then," Gillie replied.

"I've unpacked your things, my lady," Nan said, approaching Gillie. "Would you like to freshen up after your journey?"

"Rafe?" Gillie turned her head to consult her husband.

"Before you go along with Nan, querida," he responded, "I would like to toast our wedding with Bessie and Aaron and Nan." ''I think that would be lovely," she said, following Rafe into the library. It was a large room, filled with shelves and shelves of books. One wall was dominated by a huge stone fireplace. The room was bare of furniture, except for Rafe's desk and chair, a single oversized wing chair in oxblood leather, and a small drinks table. Gillie recognized it, for there was one similar to it in Derran House.

Because their wedding ceremony had been very privateat Rafe's requestwith only Tory, Rhys, and Gillie's nephew Travis as witnesses, Gillie understood and approved of her husband's wish to include her maid and the Wests. She would have liked his mother to have been there also, but Gillie hadn't pushed Rafe to include Martha. Later, she reckoned, she would suggest that they combine a trip to see their new house in San Antonio with a visit to Martha.

A cut-glass bowl stood atop the drinks table, filled with a celebratory punch. He shot a glance at Bessie. Rafe had a suspicion that the drink also included several strong shots of good Kentucky bourbon. His mouth curved into a small smile as he ladled a measure all around, handing everyone a glass. "Speeches don't come naturally to me," he began, "since there's not much use for them when you're pushing cattle, but here goes." Rafe lifted his glass, and with the other hand he took one of Gillie's hands in his, lifting it to his mouth for a kiss. "Today, I was very blessed when this lady became my wife." Rafe squeezed her hand, his dark blue eyes shining. "I ask you to drink with me in salute to my wife, Lady Gillian Rayburne."

Nan, Bessie, and Aaron lifted their own glasses and drank.

Gillie was touched by Rafe's declaration. She was saving her own salute till they were alone.

Bessie put down her glass, a twinkle in her dark brown eyes. "I figured you might not want a hot supper tonight, so I fixed some things that will taste just fine cold." She looked at Gillie. "Is that all right with you, Mrs. Rayburne?"

Gillie reluctantly tore her gaze away from Rafe. "Yes, Bessie, that will be fine."

"Then give us a half-hour, Bessie, and serve it in my wife's room," Rafe instructed. Bessie nodded, and she and Aaron left the room. Rafe relinquished Gillie's hand. "I will be with you soon, Gillie."

"I shall hold you to that, Rafe," Gillie responded.

When he was alone in the library, Rafe got himself another glass of the heady punch, staring at the silver ladle. He'd borrowed the set from the Encantadora. Now he was linked not only by love to the Buchanans, but by blood. Now he was brother not only in heart, but in law to Tory and Rhys. Rafe admitted that it wasn't hard to think of Rhys as a brother, for Rhys had been both father and older brother combined to him since he was thirteen. In Tory, he'd found the indulgent older sisterand, in some ways, the kind of mother he'd never had.

Rafe had been relieved that the tension between him and Rhys had at last dissipated. Rafe had seen it in Rhys's eyes during the ceremony and felt it in the embrace the two men shared after the wedding-eve dinner. Once more, it was Gillie who orchestrated the reconciliation, pulling both men close to her, forcing them gently to mend their superficially rent trust.

He wondered what he had ever done to deserve a woman like Gillie.

Rafe finished the glass and refilled it. Was it just a faniciful notion, or had Gillie seemed even lovelier today? When she came down the stairs on Rhys's arm and walked into the drawing room, his sharp eyes detected the entwined initials on her wedding gown and on the veil.

Rafe's body had reacted as if a hot branding iron had been laid against his bare skin.

Even now, he could still feel the heat.

Tory was wrong, Gillie thought. Rafe still had some surprises up his sleeves, as she'd found out when she was escorted to her bedroom by Nan. Believing she would be sharing a room with her husband, she was shocked to find out she was wrong. Her rooms were several doors down the hall from Rafe's.

"There's been some sort of mistake," she'd told Nan.

"No, Miss Gillie," Nan answered, "there hasn't. Bessie told me that I was to put your things in here. Mr. Rafe's orders."

What was the matter? Gillie wondered. Why would Rafe keep her so far from his room? It had to be a mistake. She would ask Rafe as soon as he came to her. Perhaps he thought that she wanted her privacy?

Nonsense. What she wanted, beyond reasoning, was her husband. Now.

Gillie waited, impatiently, for him to come, pacing back and forth across the bare floors. Evening was nigh; the sun had disappeared over the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of smudged blue, pink, and orange.

Where are you, Rafe? she asked silently.

She cast a swift glance at the cold repast Bessie had left. Food enough for two.

Tired of padding the confines of her room, Gillie grabbed her silver-backed brush and decided that she would put this pent-up energy to good use by brushing her hair.

"Let me," came the deep voice from the doorway.

Gillie spun around. "Rafe." A wealth of longing flooded out with his name. He stood there, still clad in the formal attire he'd worn for their wedding, with a few minor differences. Abandoned was the morning coat; shed too was the satin waistcoat. His white shirt, perfection earlier, hung open midway to his waist, affording Gillie a view of her husband's leanly muscled chest.

She found her voice. "Do come in, please."

He did that, quietly shutting the door. Now it was just the two of them.

Rafe urged Gillie to sit at the dressing table. He followed her, taking the brush from her fingers. Deftly, he slipped the cream satin ribbon from her hair and applied the hairbrush, moving with strong, sensual strokes through the long, wavy mass.

Rafe heard Gillie's small sigh as she gave herself up to his ministrations, closing her eyes and leaning back her neck. He loved the feel of her thick hair, bending to smell the fragrance. He lifted it, exposing the vulnerable nape of her neck. Unable to resist, Rafe put his warm lips to the spot, feeling the instant reaction of his bride.

Gillie trembled at the touch of her husband's mouth on her flesh. She raised one arm behind her, caressing the planes of Rafe's face. She could feel the brush of his own hair against her skin creating another, different sensation. Her mind flew back to those precious hours when she'd clutched the damp black locks to her breast as she shivered with the force and skill of his possession.

He shouldn't have done that, Rafe conceded, backing away. Kissing Gillie was a mistake. It only made him ache all the more to possess her once again. And that was dangerous. Too dangerous for his peace of mindand his plan. For if he permitted himself to make love to her now, much as he wanted to, then he couldn't prove that he respected her enough to show her he loved her for more than her obvious charms.

And what potent charms his bride exhibited. His manhood rose and hardened against the confinement of his trousers. He fought against tossing the brush aside and slipping his hands down her body, from cupping those high, full breasts in his callused palms.

She was silk and velvet; he was denim and rawhide.

Rafe stepped back, carefully laying the brush down. "All done."

Gillie's blue-gray eyes flew open. In the mellow light of the lamp, she couldn't read the expression in her husband's eyes in the mirror. She didn't know what to do next. Should she tell him how much she loved him? Or had he heard it enough?

"Have you eaten?" he asked, his voice a husky rumble.

Gillie shook her head. "I thought I would wait for you."

"Then I suggest that we wait no longer. I'm hungry," he said. Rafe mentally admitted that it wasn't just food that his body craved.

Gillie rose and fixed her husband a small plate of cold roast beef and cheese, adding a thick slice of crusty bread before fixing one for herself.

"Wine?" Rafe asked, holding up a bottle.

"Please," she said softly, a small smile curving her lips as she recognized the label. It was from the Encantadora's private stock. The best of the best.

Gillie accepted the drink, and as she did so, her eyes met Rafe's. A chill crept along her veins. All of a sudden, she sensed that there was an intangible barrier between them. But why?

Trying to break through the invisible wall, she said, "Your house is much larger than I expected."

"Yet not as large," Rafe replied, tasting his wine, "as some."

Gillie stifled a groan. What was wrong? she asked herself again. It was as if she and Rafe were polite strangers, not a couple recently wed for love. "Large enough that your wife must have a room of her own?"

"You don't like it?" he inquired.

Gillie shrugged. "It's quite lovely, actually," she said. "However, that isn't the reason for my objection."

"What is?"

"I expected that we would share a bedroom," she said honestly.

"Husbands and wives have separate rooms in England," he pointed out.

"This is Texas," Gillie shot back.

"I'm well aware of that fact." Rafe forced a smile on his face. "We need time to make this adjustment, Gillie."

She blinked in confusion. What was he talking about? She repeated her question out loud.

"Perhaps I'm putting this badly," he said. "I've been alone for a good deal of my life. Any decisions I made affected only me," Rafe explained. "All that changed this afternoon." He rose, putting his plate back on the table, leaving the food untouched. He truly wanted to give her time to get used to being his wife, to woo her to his bed gradually. But he was afraid that if he told her, Gillie would have none of the idea. A terrifing thought struck Gillie. Had Rafe regretted marrying her so quickly? Did he think that he'd been forced? If they kept separate rooms, could he change his mind and demand an annulment, claiming that they had never shared a bed as husband and wife? Or had she disappointed him somehow? Had he found her innocence boring? He couldn't have married her out of pity, could he? Or some misplaced sense of nobility? Oh God, she moaned silently, that would break her heart.

Rafe was unaware of his wife's mental anguish. He only knew that he had to get out of this room before he went crazy with wanting her. Seeing her, especially wearing that whisper-thin nightgown that barely concealed her high breasts and dark delta, and not having her, was agony. "I think that it will be best for us if we sleep in different rooms for the time being."

"You're sure?" she ventured in a small voice.

"Yes," Rafe replied, his voice husky with want. "It's been a long day, Gillie, and I want to show you more of the ranch tomorrow, so I'd better turn in now."

Gillie watched in stunned silence as Rafe turned and made to leave the room. Despite the warmth of the night, she once again felt a chill.

"Must I beg a good-night kiss from my husband?" Gillie beseeched him.

Rafe took a deep breath. "No," he answered.

She stood, waiting for him, her eyes expectant.

Rafe gently touched his lips to hers, intending only to quickly honor her request. That notion was eradicated when their mouths blended, each seeking succor from the other. It was a deeply banked fire that flamed into hot need as their bodies moved instinctively closer, male to female.

Barely regaining his control in time, Rafe pulled Gillie's arms from his neck as he broke the kiss. He spun on his booted foot and left his bride standing there, trembling from the force of their combined passion.

Climbing into her lonely bed, Gillie pulled the quilt over her body and wept.

This was not the way Rafe had ever envisioned spending his wedding nightalone. His beautiful, willing wife was just down the hall. He could put an end to this by getting out of his solitary bed and carrying her to his. But what would that prove? That he wanted her? She already knew that.

But Rafe was determined to do the right thing by Gillie, even if it cost him nights of lost sleep filled with endless hours of self-recrimination.

He loved her.

He cast a glance at the painting hanging over the stone fireplace. In place of the overly ornate gilt frame that had once surrounded the picture, Rafe had framed it in rich, dark wood which was, he'd decided, a much better housing for the painting.

In those soft eyes, Rafe saw all the loving the world was capable of. One day soon, Gillie would understand. She had to, for both their sakes.

Chapter Twenty-Three

"She beautiful, Rafe!" Gillie exclaimed.

"I was hoping that you'd find her so," he responded, handing his wife the reins to the palomino mare. He stepped back and observed how well the gift of the animal was received.

Gillie stroked the horse's neck. "She'll make a fine match to your Paladin." The mare whickered and tossed her small head, enjoying her mistress's gentle touch.

Gillie's eyes filled with delight at the latest gift from her husband. They had been married a little over three weeks, and each day she was rewarded with a token, sometimes small, or at times large, like the horse. One day Rafe had surprised her with a pair of gold-and-garnet earrings; the next, a set of ribbons in the tartan of the clan Buchanan. Each morning produced a new wonder.

But each night was the samethey retired to their separate bedchambers, alone, as if they were brother and sister, not husband and wife. And therefore, each touch of their hands or bodies, whether accidental or on purpose, brought Gillie's physical awareness of Rafe to new heights. For now that she had tasted the delights of the marriage bed, abstinence was hard to maintain. Gillie had lain awake many nights, eager to share some little bit of information, or some passing thought, with her husband, only to realize that she couldn't right then, that she must wait until the morning.

Gillie sighed. She knew no games to play to entice her husband to her lonely bed, nor would she use them if she did. Tory's admonition to give Rafe some time repeated itself daily in her brain, forcing her to restrain her natural inclination to surround her husband with all the love she was capable of giving.

So Gillie carefully bided her time. And prayed that she carried Rafe's baby. She was only a week past her monthly time, too soon to tell if she was pregnant.

''Wherever did you find her?" Gillie asked.

Rafe gave his wife a small smile. "From Don Sebastian's ranch. He's been breeding this type of horse for several years now." He whistled and his mount obediently trotted over to him. Rafe rewarded the animal with a carrot, whispering to the horse as he fed him.

"He responds well to you," Gillie observed. "That's because Paladin knows that I will never harm him or mistreat him," Rafe said, patting the stallion's flank. "Breaking his spirit would have accomplished nothing." Rafe leveled his gaze at Gillie. "Trust. Respect. That's what works. And kindness,'' he added. "I find that they are the best tools for getting what you want. An animal should be gentled slowly, so that it gets used to your touch, your voice. Then it will respondnot because it has to, but because it wants to," he said softly. Rafe whispered a command to the animal and Paladin bent one leg slightly, bowing.

Gillie clapped her hands, enjoying the horse's tricks.

"He likes to show off occasionally," Rafe said as the horse whinnied. Gillie's mount responded with a whicker of her own, slightly tugging at the leather reins still held in one of Gillie's hands. "Especially to the ladies."

"Would you show me how to train my horse?" she asked in a slightly husky tone. This would be a novel experience for her, since Gillie had never given thought to how the grooms at her brother's estate had schooled the horses. She knew that the animals weren't mistreated; neither she nor her brother would have tolerated that. However, there was a certain sameness to the mounts. They weren't overly high-spirited, or even underly so. They were always within the boundaries of what was termed a "damned fine piece of horseflesh." Her own experience with animals was confined mainly to the border collies round the Dorset estate. For them she'd made time, leaving the larger animals to the proper handlers.

Yet that was England. This was Texas, and she was now wife, even if for the time being in name only, to a Texan. Time, she was assured, was on her side. It had to be. She'd come too far and risked too much to admit defeat.

The mare responded to the merest touch of Gillie's booted foot in the stirrup. She flew across the land, keeping a steady pace with Rafe's mount. It had taken only a few days, with Rafe as instructor, to gain the animal's trust and acceptance. Gillie took pride in the accomplishment, and pride in the look that came into her husband's eyes as he watched her. In the pocket of her dove-gray wool riding skirt, she carried a few carrots and some lumps of sugar for the animal.

This picnic had been Gillie's idea. It would be an ideal way, she thought, to give themselves time alone. Since their wedding, Rafe had escorted her to two dances in the nearby town of Derran, introducing her to the citizens there. They'd been given a barbecue by the local minister and his wife. Invitations to dinner at several other ranches followed, including one to Rancho Montenegro. Don Sebastian and his family had been most kind to her and Rafe, making them feel as if they were part of the family.

Gillie recalled in vivid detail the surprise she'd felt when they were shown to their room for the nightand the single large bed it contained. It had been the only night of their short marriage that they had spent in the same bedroom. Even then, Rafe had played the gentleman, insisting on sleeping on the floor and giving Gillie the bed. Neither had slept very well that night, each totally aware of the other's presence in the room.

Today was their anniversary. One month wed. And still her monthly courses had not come. She hugged the knowledge to herself. What better gift to give her husband than the knowledge that their child had been conceived on his father's birthday, when first they had lain together. But Gillie wanted to be sure before she told Rafe. Now was not the time to voice her suspicions lest she be proved wrong.

Rafe was secretly pleased when Gillie suggested this outing. He was well aware of the significance of this day. It was becoming harder and harder to ignore the heated rush of his blood whenever they were together. Each day he discovered more about the woman he loved; each day he fell deeper and deeper in love with her. It amazed him that he could sit and watch her read, taking pleasure in sharing the silences with her. He was touched by the subtle changes she'd made in his household, adding bits here and there to make the Fortress a home.

Now, Rafe acknowledged, Gillie was a part of him that he couldn't bear to lose. She was the largest part of his heart, the part that said love knew no boundaries, no limits.

Much as he could tame a wild horse, she had gentled him. Her patience, love, and respect had made him feel finally free from the hold of the past.

He'd found the perfect spot for their picnic, a mile or so upstream from his bathhouse. A huge live oak spread its branches over the stream, providing shade if needed. Since the day had turned cooler, Rafe decided to set the quilt he'd tied to his saddle out in the open where the sun could reach them.

"I don't know how you managed with that basket," Gillie said as she dismounted, tethering her horse's reins to a low mesquite tree nearby. She immediately went to the basket, sat down upon the brightly colored quilt, and began to unpack the food it contained. Gillie turned her head in Rafe's direction.

"Stay absolutely still," Rafe commanded.

Gillie froze, obeying him instinctively. She heard a strange noise behind her. Around Rafe's slim waist, in addition to the silver concha belt and the fancy tooled-leather sheath that held his knife, he wore a holster.

Gillie saw Rafe reach for his Colt. The action of his hand going for the gun was a blur, followed by a loud report as the Colt fired.

"You can breathe now," he instructed, holstering the gun and walking toward her.

She watched as he bent down and picked up a headless snake, tossing it aside.

"What," she asked, her eyes wide, "was that?" "Rattler."

"Oh," was all she said in reply, taking a deep breath and resuming her task. She knew that the snake was deadly; once while she was visiting the Encantadora, a ranch hand had been bitten by one and died as a result.

Somehow, instead of being scared, Gillie felt immensely safe. Rafe was there to protect her. Danger often lurked nearby in this wonderful land, yet she didn't care. This was where Rafe made his home. Life with Rafe in Texas might be fraught with risks, but it would never, ever be boring.

Rafe admired his wife's British sangfroid. Not by a muscle did she betray fear, not even after the danger was past. She'd remained calm, as if nothing untoward had occurred.

Gillie moistened her dry lips. "I believe I was asking you about your rather handy ability to manage this basket whilst you were riding?" she inquired as she laid out their luncheon.

Rafe threw back his head and laughed.

Gillie watched him, a smile rising on her own mouth. This was the first time she had ever heard Rafe laugh with so much gusto. She found that she liked that sound coming from him. It was deep and surprisingly comforting.

"A trick I learned years ago from an old man who worked on the Encantadora. He was part Comanche, and he showed me how to train a horse and how to ride full gallop without using the reins. It's all done with the legs." He hunkered down, helping her unload the food. "I still had use of one hand, though, and with Paladin, that's enough."

"That reminds me," Gillie said, rising. She retrieved the wrapped, cut-up carrots from her skirt pocket and fed them to her mare, who accepted them quickly.

"Have you given her a name yet?" Rafe asked, watching his wife and her horse. He'd been rightthey were a perfect match.

"I thought Knight's Lady, would be appropriate, considering your stallion's name."

Rafe smiled. "I agree. Knight's Lady it is then." He removed the black hat he wore, laying it on the corner of the quilt. He eased his body onto the material, stretching out his long legs, black-booted feet crossed at the ankles. Through narrowed lids, he observed how Gillie moved with a sensuous grace, kneeling, her teeth worrying her bottom lip as she regarded the choices Bessie had given them.

"It all looks so good I barely know where to begin," she said.

"Try the chicken," Rafe suggested, picking up a piece himself.

Gillie bit into a leg, tasting the crisp cornmeal coating and spices. "Delicious," she pronounced, finishing it off.

While she did so, Rafe opened the bottle of white wine. He checked the basket, looking for glasses.

"What's wrong?" Gillie asked.

"Seems we have no glasses."

"Ooops," Gillie said with a sparking laugh. "I left them back at the ranch." She recalled sifting through the large trunk Tory had given her as a wedding present. It was a sturdy trunk of ponderosa pine, with brass fittings, lined with sweet-smelling cedar, and it contained various items for her new household. Carefully wrapped in linen bags were two crystal goblets. She'd set them aside as she picked out the linen napkins, edged in Battenburg lace, that she'd wanted to bring along today. They were overly fancy for so plain a picnic, but Gillie wanted something elegant and, she admitted to herself, romantic. "I guess we'll have to share," she said, casting him an inquiring look.

Rafe met her gaze, one black brow lifting. "Have you ever drunk from a bottle before?"

She shrugged her shoulders under the silk of her lilac blouse. "No, but I shan't mind giving it a try if you're game for it."

Rafe handed her the bottle. Gillie put her lips to it and drank. When she was done, she handed it back to Rafe; their hands lingered for a moment until he tilted the bottle back and swallowed. Eschewing a napkin, Rafe wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, his eyes never breaking contact with hers.

Gillie felt a flush of heat rise within herself. Lowering her lids, she gave her attention to the food instead of her husband, fearing that if she kept her eyes on Rafe, she would burst into a declaration of her love, or if not that, she would simply beg him to take her there under the sky and assuage the aching need she felt like an intense fever in her blood.

Moments passed as they silently reveled in the goodies spread out before them, sampling a bit of everything, the bottle of wine happily shared between them.

"Would you care for a slice of Bessie's sweet potato pie?" Rafe asked, unfolding the wax paper from around one slice.

"Please," Gillie responded, her eyes on Rafe's hands as he carefully unwrapped a slice for her. Those same hands had wielded a gun, with all its deadly force; those same hands had used a knife to exact vengeance for Georgie; these same hands had held her, caressed her, with all possible tenderness. The memory of those hands stroking her flesh from neck to toes would never fade from her mind. She yearned for a repeat performance.

Oh God, Gillie wondered, how much longer was she to be forced to endure a lonely bed? At first she had worried that she'd displeased Rafe in some way. Bored him, perhaps?

However, his constant attention dissuaded her of that notion. It was, she realized as if he were performing some form of courtship ritual. But how much longer was this going to go on?

Rafe wondered the very same thing himself. Sitting there, sharing this meal with Gillie, he wanted to end the formality. He longed to take her in his arms and confess his deep and abiding love. But was it too soon? He'd wanted to show her he could live by the very rules he'd suggested, giving her time to adjust. Yet each day, his yearning for her grew and grew, till he feared he would explode if he didn't make love to her soon.

Rafe was caught firmly in a web of his own design, and he didn't know how he was going to extricate himself. He could mentally hear Tony's British voice chiding him with cool mockery, "Hoist on your own petard, old chum."

Damn! It wasn't as if he was some kind of animal, bent on easing his lust with any female. He'd been celibate for long stretches in his life, never experiencing the singular urge he felt now for Gillie. Only for her. Powerful, potent, erotic memories of their one night together filled his mind during the daylight hours; in dreams, the memories were embellished with fantasies that left him covered in sweat and gasping.

Rafe tore his thoughts away from that dangerous path. Better to keep his mind focused on something else, for he could feel the swell of his manhood against the confines of his well-worn jeans.

Rafe was so busy thinking that he didn't realize that Gillie had finished her slice of the pie and was casting a covetous look at his half-eaten slice.

"Are you going to finish that?" she asked.

"I take it you like it?" He handed her what remained.

Gillie quickly ate the rest of the pie, sighing as she wiped her mouth. "Delicious."

"Bessie'll be pleased to hear you say that," Rafe said. "When I told her that I would be marrying you, she was afraid that what she fixed wouldn't be up to your standards, and that you'd want to replace her as soon as you could."

Gillie frowned. "I would never have presumed to get rid of someone who obviously means so much to you, Rafe. She needn't be afraid of me.

"And as to her cooking, I've come to be very fond of it." With a wave of her hand, Gillie indicated her empty plate. "Her pie was heavenly. I think I shall ask her for the recipe and send it to Mama's cook."

"The secret," he revealed, "is a dash of strong Kentucky bourbon. Bessie soaks the sweet potatoes in bourbon, then adds a bit to the recipe."

"Oh my," Gillie said, stifling a giggle. "It's no wonder the flavor was intoxicating."

At that remark, both she and Rafe burst into laughter.

Gillie thought about those special hours shared with her husband later that evening while she was sitting in the library at Rafe's desk, reading a slim volume of poetry. At her right hand was a glass of aged port. Gillie knew Rafe had a fondness for it, so on his previous birthday, she'd sent him some bottles from the cellar of Derran House, along with several books.

Gillie steepled her hands in front of her face. Rafe was such a complex man. There would never be anything simple about himor life with him, for that matter. And that was fine with her. She had what she wanted. Well, almost, she amended.

She lifted the glass, looking into the ruby-hued liquid, as if she would find some clue in it to her husband's actions, to his plans for the future. Gillie drank the port as if it could give her some kind of link to her husband.

And just where was Rafe? He's ridden out with Aaron just a few minutes after they'd returned from their picnic, telling her that he wasn't sure when he'd be back. Some sort of problem with the stock, he'd said.

Gillie rose, walking to one of the windows. She released the clasp and opened it, feeling the change in the temperature. A colder wind was blowing. Hastily pulling the window shut, she thought that tonight was a good night for a fire. Autumn had come at last to this corner of Texas. Although spring was Gillie's favorite seasonshe loved the sight of growing things and the sense of new beginningsshe also had a sneaking fondness for autumn.

Then, she thought, there was the wedding to plan.

Nan had asked to speak to her privately after Rafe left. Nan, she knew, had been spending much of her free time with Travis's tutor, Rupert Snow. Gillie recognized the signs of love, so it had come as no surprise when nan told her that Mr. Snow had asked Nan to marry him.

''I love him very much, Miss Gillie," Nan stated.

"That's very evident, Nan," Gillie commented, giving her maid a fond embrace, tears in her eyes.

"Now that the earl's eldest son is going to England to school after the New Year, Mr. Snow has decided to accept the offer to head the school in Derran." Nan blushed with pride. "He's asked me to join him there, if that's all right with you."

Gillie knew how much a teaching position meant to Nan, and to be working with her husband would be icing on her cake. "I wish you happy, Nan, you know that. I shan't stand in your way." Gillie and Nan hugged again. "Though you know that I shall miss you terribly," Gillie added with a sniffle.

Nan also broke into tears. "I'm ever so happy, Miss Gillie, more so than I ever thought I could be, or had a right to be." Nan hesitated for a moment, biting her lower lip, wondering if she should speak her mind or hold her tongue. She was well aware that her mistress and the master did not share the same bed, not since that one night. Nan saw how much love Gillie carried within herself for the tall Texan she'd married. "I wish the same for you," Nan stated simply.

"I know that," Gillie replied. She stepped away and turned her back to Nan to compose herself. "I should like to give you the wedding, Nan, if you will let me."

"Thank you, Miss Gillie, I would like that very much."

She'd miss Nan, Gillie thought as she seated herself again. Nan had always been more than a servant. She was a confident, a person she trusted in many ways.

Nan, she realized, was also one of her last links with the life she'd lived in England. Gillie could, she imagined, write to her mother and tell her that she needed another maid, but then she thought better of it. Gillie knew what kind of servant Lady Agatha would send hera sour-faced dragon who wouldn't fit into the new life she'd chosen. She'd do better to hire someone local and have Nan train her.

Gillie found she liked that idea very much. It was a way to have her old life and her new life merge. She would ask Rafe later if he knew of anyone who would like the position.

Gillie snapped her fingers. Perhaps Bessie knew someone. Yes, that was exactly what she'd do. She'd seek Bessie's counsel first.

Happy with her decision, Gillie went back to reaching her volume of poetry while she waited for Rafe to come home. She enjoyed Mrs. Browning's verse immensely, feeling a kindred spirit with the poet, especially when she read the Sonnets From the Portuguese. Gillie read each one, pouring over the heartfelt sentiments of the woman who so loved her husband that she was compelled to put the words to paper. The beauty of the sentiments expressed never failed to move Gillie to tears, for she too loved with a love made stronger with each day, a love that not even the grave would end. It was deep, true, and everlasting. "Oh, Rafe," Gillie whispered in the silent room.

Rafe pulled on Paladin's reins, certain he'd heard his name called. "Did you hear that?" he asked Aaron.

The burly foreman shook his head as he reined in his mount also. "I ain't heard anything 'ceptin' this damned wind," Aaron answered in his booming bass voice.

Rafe pulled the collar up on his overcoat. "Funny, I could have sworn I heard my name."

Aaron shot Rafe a glance from beneath the brim of his battered Stetson. "There ain't anyone here 'cept you and me, boss, and it wasn't me."

"This was a woman's voice," Rafe declared. He didn't let on to his foreman that the voice sounded like Gillie's.

Aaron's bearded mouth twisted into a smile. Boy's got it real bad, he thought, hearing his woman's voice over the miles, calling to him. His Bessie had confided in him some weeks ago that she didn't think all was quite right with this new marriage, but that it was obvious both partners were crazy about each other. She just couldn't figure out what was going on. Neither could he, for a fact. Rafe was as restless as a high-strung stallion with the scent of a mare in heat filling his nostrils.

Was he going loco? Rafe could have sworn he'd heard Gillie's voice. What the hell was happening to him? They were still several miles from the Fortress, too far away to hear anyone, let alone Gillie.

It was his plan to talk to her that night, broaching the subject of their marriage. He couldn't go on with this polite fiction much longer. Desire coursed heavy and hot throughout his body. With one look, she lit a fire in his belly; with one look she commanded his heart.

Rafe urged the big palomino onward. Toward home, toward Gillie.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Gillie heard the sound of booted feet in the hall and rushed out of the library, not caring that she was in her nightclothes. She stood there, hand upon her heart, pausing to drink in the sight of her husband removing his dirt-streaked overcoat and hat.

"Rafe," she said, drawing closer.

"Gillie." She was a sight for his tired eyes, her welcoming smile able to light the dark places better than any candle or lamp. She looked so right in his home, standing there, her slippered feet peeping out from underneath the hem of her burgundy velvet robe. Her black hair was pinned up onto her head, a few wispy strands hanging about her slender neck, tantalizing him.

When she would have come closer, Rafe held up his gloved hand, halting her. He knew that he looked like hell and probably smelled worse. Already he could see her nose wrinkling slightly as she caught the scent of his clothes and body. "I need a bath," he said in a rough voice.

Gillie moved closer, not caring about that. To her eyes he looked so very weary. "Have you eaten?"

Rafe shrugged his wide shoulders. "Just a few bites of jerky on the trail to take the edge off of my hunger."

"Then you need something else," she insisted. "I can . . ."

"Go to bed, Gillie."

Concern for Rafe prodded her. "Let me see what I can find in the kitchen," she offered. "I'm certain that Bessie left something there for you."

"If she did, I can get it for myself." He had to get away from her or he'd throw caution to the winds and haul Gillie into his arms and kiss her lovely mouth. And it wouldn't stop there. If it began, Rafe knew where it would endwith him taking her right there on the tiled floor.

"Truly, Rafe, it's no bother," she insisted.

"You're not my servant, Gillie," he snapped.

Her blue-gray eyes turned darker with anger. "No," she coolly answered him, "I'm most certainly not. I'm your wife."

"Remember that then," he stated. Rafe walked right past her without another word, leaving her alone.

Gillie, temporarily stunned by the forceful tone he'd used, watched Rafe's departing figure as his long, jean-clad legs quickly navigated the hallway, reaching a decision as she did so. He was heading for the bathroom. Did he think she was useless? Too pampered and protected to look after her husband properly?

Well, Gillie scoffed, she wasn't. Granted, she couldn't turn out a fine-cooked meal as Bessie did. But she could certainly fix him some kind of supper. And she knew how to lay out a proper fire. She should have thought of it earlier. Bessie had let slip once that "Mr. Rafe likes to sleep with his window open." Rafe's bedroom was probably cold. A warm fire and something to eat would be a perfect greeting.

Gillie's mouth curved in an impish smile. It wasn't in her nature to stay angry for too long a time, especially at Rafe. Perhaps, she considered, it was time her husband remembered he had a wife. One who was only too willing to fulfill all her duties.

He shouldn't have bitten her head off when she offered to get him something to eat. It was just the idea of Lady Gillian waiting on him. She was the one used to a staff of servants to attend her every whim and command. To think of her now playing the role of kitchenmaid soured his mood and pricked his pride.

Rafe stripped off his dirty clothes and left them in a heap on the floor of the bathroom. He cast a quick glance around the room, seeing more of her touches. Bits of her personal toilette were scattered about: her bar of soap, her bottle of shampoo, her collection of bath scents, contained in tiny, multi-colored glass bottles.

He ignored his own bar of pine-scented soap as he entered the tub. Instead, he chose hers. Right then it made Rafe feel closer to her, and close to Gillie was where he wanted to be. In this way; in every way.

Rafe relaxed, letting the warm water soak away his physical aches. He'd come to a decision. The time for wooing was past. That door was closed, as well it should be. It was time now to open the door to his marriage and see where it would lead.

Gillie explored the kitchen by lamplight. It really was a very cozy room. In the first weeks of their marriage, they'd taken most of their meals in here until the empty room Rafe had chosen for their formal dining room was ready for use. Gillie discovered that she missed the easy informality of this kitchen.

Gillie felt comfortable in this room, as she did with all the rooms in this casa grande. She'd never been in the kitchens in Derran House, nor watched the cook there prepare a meal. The belowstairs staff wouldn't have appreciated the fuss, or the intrusion into their domain. This house was warm and inviting, with no such divisions. This was the kind of home Gillie could imagine children playing inthe kind of home one could grow old in. It was solid, like Rafe. A place to make memories of their own and fill with love. She found a loaf of freshly baked bread, and with a sharp knife she located in a drawer, she cut several hefty slices. She could have walked the short distance to what she termed the "carriage house," the smaller building behind the main house where Bessie and Aaron lived and Nan had a room, and asked Bessie to make a hot meal for Rafe. Gillie knew the housekeeper-cook would have done the task gladly; she was devoted to Rafe.

That thought brought an even deeper smile to Gillie's face. Rafe was loved by Bessie and Aaron. He treated them fairly and affectionately, as if they were family rather than only hired help, and they reciprocated his feelings. No matter what wounds he'd endured in the past, Rafe still had the capacity for caring. His cruel stepfather hadn't destroyed that emotion in the boy he'd been. It was evident in the man he now was. The man she'd fallen in love with.

Gillie recognized that at times Rafe's bark was sharper than his bite. Like a wary animal, he weighed his actions carefully.

She bent and opened the door to the oak ice-box, bringing out a pitcher of cold milk. She poured Rafe a tall glass and returned the pitcher to its place, noticing as she did a plate piled high with fresh ham. Taking a small slice and sampling it, Gillie pronounced it perfect. She layered several pieces on the bread. On the table, she spied a chocolate cake under a glass cover. She'd had a piece for dessert and it was decadently delicious. Since she couldn't find a tray big enough, Gillie searched the cabinets until she came across something she could use. A large china platter, decorated with fruit and flowers, would suit. She arranged the food on the platter, satisfied with the results and hoping Rafe would be too.

Since she couldn't carry both the lamp and the improvised tray, Gillie left the lamp where it was and trusted her instincts as she made her way along the hall to Rafe's room. After all, it was her instincts that guided her to do what she was about to do anyway.

She prayed that she was right. Their love was worth fighting for, even if that fight took her up against her husband's stubbornness. She, after all, could be just as stubborn as heand even more determined.

She balanced the platter as she reached for the door handle. She was extremely curious as to what was inside. This was the only room in the house she'd never been in. To go inside without express permission was to invade Rafe's privacy.

Gillie hesitated. A tiny remnant of her upbringing rebelled against going into what her mother, Lady Agatha, would have declared a gentleman's sanctum sanctorum.

She took a deep breath. It was too late to turn coward now.

Boldly, Gillie crossed this final threshold.

She felt the chill in the room as soon as she entered. Setting the platter at her feet, she made her way carefully into the room, for it was still in darkness, evidence that Rafe hadn't been in there yet. Gingerly picking her way across the bare floor boards, Gillie soon found the open window and shut it. She shivered and sought out a lamp or candle.

Her hands before her, Gillie located the bed. Walking to its head, she felt for a nighttable and was rewarded when her fingers connected with the lamp resting atop it. She lit it and had at least a modicum of light to see that opposite the bed was a stone fireplace. She crossed to it, bending to put a match to the kindling. That accomplished, she walked back to retrieve the platter and find a place for it. A low chest of drawers fit her purpose nicely.

Gillie returned to the hearth, intent on warming her hands by the blaze of the fire, and as she did so, she cast her eyes upwards.

Over the large stone mantel hung a painting. Not just any painting, either. Gillie gasped in recognition. It was Magdalene. She stood there, staring in amazement. In place of the ornate gilt frame was one of dark wood. She instantly liked it better, feeling it more suited the mood of Georgie's painting.

And the painting itself looked as if it belonged here. As if it always had.

Tears welled in Gillie's eyes. Rafe loved her. Whatever doubts she may have harbored regarding his strange behavior after their wedding were erased in an instant. He loved her. The proof was here, in his bedroom, for her to see. All she had ever asked was Rafe's love and a chance to show him that, for her, he was the only man she would ever want or need.

Rafe exhaled slowly and softly as he stood in the open doorway. He saw the one woman he adored above all others standing in his bedroom. Like a dream conjured up out of his imagination, she was there, bathed in soft light.

He blinked, making sure he wasn't dreaming.

Gillie was no dream, but real. Flesh and blood. Heart and soul. The woman who'd restored his faith and taught him that love was stronger than doubts, deeper than foolish pride.

And he had been foolish. And afraid. Afraid to trust. Afraid to hope. Afraid to take a chance for fear that the woman he wanted more than life itself didn't want him as much. In the end, he'd been arrogantly protecting himself from being hurt, from being all too vulnerable to someone. Within Gillie's brave heart was a courage he admired. She'd fought for him, against all oddseven against himself.

From this moment on, all Rafe would ever ask of her was that Gillie never cease loving him, or allowing him to love her.

A prickle of awareness ran along Gillie's skin. She turned her head slowly and looked in the direction of the door.

Rafe was standing in the shadows, a white towel wrapped around his lean hips. She waited, praying he would utter the words she longed to hear. ''Gillian," Rafe said, his voice dark and compelling, "I love you."

She flew across the space that separated them and threw herself into his arms, laying her head against his chest, his fast-beating heart pounding in her ear.

"Gillie." He groaned her name and scooped her into his arms, carrying her to the bed. When Rafe reached it, he placed her back on her feet, unfastening the velvet robe and pushing it off her body.

Gillie's eyes shone brightly with trust when Rafe looked down at her. Already she was busy undoing the tiny pearl buttons that held the wide cuffs of her apricot nightdress secure, a shy smile on her mouth.

His hands made quick work of the buttons that held the neckline closed. With gentleness, Rafe pushed the material aside, slowly, taking his time until Gillie was completely undressed. He reached out and pulled the pins that held her hair bound. It fell, fluttering around her body.

Rafe closed the gap between them. One hand skimmed across her cheek and jaw before sliding down to capture her throat, where his fingertips found the wildly beating pulse. He lifted her chin to meet his descending lips.

Like a twister, his insides churned with the innocent passion his bride unleashed. Mouth to mouth, their tongues mated sweetly, a foreshadowing of what was to come.

Gillie's arms lifted and inched their way up Rafe's bare back, learning the texture of his warm skin. She stopped when she felt the ridges of scar tissue that criss-crossed his flesh. She felt Rafe stiffen in response momentarily, their kiss broken; then he relaxed.

He pulled the towel from his body, tossing it aside.

She moved closer to him, feeling the pulsing hardness against her body. His large hands cupped her buttocks, pulling her up and over him.

Gillie's eyes widened in surprise. "Wrap your legs around me," he said in a husky whisper. She did so and immediately her breath caught as she experienced the full sheathing of his manhood.

They tumbled onto the bed, wrapped in each other's arms, their lips once again joined as tightly as their bodies. Rafe began the rhythm, each stroke going as deep as possible. He could feel her nails digging into his back as she began to meet him thrust for thrust. He was almost totally lost in desire when he felt her quivering as she struggled to hold back her cries.

"Scream, my love," he said whispered against her ear, "if you want to."

Gillie did, good and loud. It was Rafe's name she called as he showed her the beauty and power of love. It was Rafe's damp flesh she clung to as he followed her into the storm.

Later, replete, they lay quietly within each other's arms. Rafe had been tender and fierce, hard and soft, taking her beyond the limits. She'd touched him and trusted him, surrendering herself to the power of his unleashed love. In his bed, held close to his lean body, Gillie felt alive and satisfied.

She sighed, feathering her hand across his wide chest. "You won't change your mind again, will you, Rafe?"

He slanted a gentle look in her direction. "What are you talking about?"

Gillie blushed. "About what we did. You won't decide that we shouldn't have been together as man and wife, will you?" She scooted away from him, pulling the edge of the navy-blue quilt over her bare body. "I can't go back to the way it was with us before. I can't live here, with you, any longer in a purely platonic state, like a brother and sister." Gillie lowered her eyes. "Don't force me to do that again."

Rafe drew her back into his arms. "Never, my love." He kissed her temple, one hand gathering a handful of her hair in his palm.

"Then why?" she questioned him. "What was the purpose?"

"A courtship."

"A what?" she asked.

"You heard me right. I thought that I should give you a chance to get used to married life."

"But we were wed in name only."

He shrugged. "We didn't have a chance to have a proper courtship. I felt that I owed it to you, Gillie."

"Rafe," Gillie countered, "I didn't care about that."

"Well, I did." He slid his hand over her stomach, fingers splayed. "You could have been carrying my child."

Gillie's hand joined his. "I may be."

Rafe's dark blue eyes lit with joy. "Do you know for sure?"

"It's only a suspicion, but I truly hope so with all my heart."

"You do?"

"Of course I do, my love," she whispered. "It'll be your baby, Rafe. Nothing would give me greater joy than to know I was going to have your child."

Rafe's mouth met hers once more. Their kiss was deep, hot and hungry, promising everything.

A gleam leapt into Gillie's eyes. She tossed aside the quilt, snuggling her body up even closer against Rafe's. "'How do I love thee?'" she said in a lazy, sensual tone, her tongue flicking against his leanly muscled chest, scoring a path downwards across his flat belly as her clever fingers glided along his skin, charting new territory. Gillie paused, head raised, her eyes locking with his. "'Let me count the ways.'"

And she did. As much and more than he could stand. Using her heart as her guide, Gillie gave free rein to her passions and loved Rafe as best she could.

When she was done, and they both lay spent, she murmured softly, "'If God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.'"

All questions were answered; all defenses were down. Bound together endlessly, they were one heart, one life.

EPILOGUE: ANGEL OF SERENITY

Texas: July 4, 1889

The sound of firecrackers exploded in the night, lighting up the sky with their brilliance.

Throughout the din outside, the youngest member of the family gathered at the Fortress slept peacefully.

"He's a fine looker, Aunt Gillie," Travis pronounced, regarding his cousin through solemn eyes. He'd only recently returned from school in England.

Gillie gazed upon her sleeping son in his wooden cradle, a madonna-like smile on her face. "We think so." She laid her hand lightly on the baby's diapered bottom. He was so precious to her.

"He is by far the handsomest baby boy in Texas," spoke his beaming grandmother.

Gillie shot Martha Rayburne a bemused look. "On that, Martha," Gillie said, "we agree, though I imagine Tory thinks her boys the handsomest in Texas."

"And they are," interjected Rhys, entering the nursery, "though my nephew is, I will concede, just as handsome." He walked over and stood next to his sister, his arm draped over her shoulder. "A bonny lad, to be sure, and a grand addition to the family."

Sensing that Rhys might want to be alone with his sister, Martha asked Travis, "Shall we go and see the rest of the fireworks display before it's too late?"

"Delighted," Travis replied, proffering his arm, which Martha gratefully accepted.

"How far you and I have both come from where we started, eh, scamp?" Rhys asked as he hugged Gillie close. "Who would ever have thought that we would both find ourselves wed to Americansand Texans in the bargain?" He laughed softly. Rhys stroked his lean index finger along the baby's tiny clenched fist. "Such is the power of love, Gillie," he stated quietly. "If you had asked me before I met Tory, I would have discounted it; now I know it to be true. I love her more than my life.''

"I feel the same way about Rafe," Gillie mumured, "and this most precious child."

"What say we leave this little man asleep and join the others?" he suggested.

"Did I tell you that Mama sent the baby a lovely christening dress?" she asked as they left the room, throwing one more look in her baby's direction. "It arrived just the other day. She had it made specially for Drew in France."

"Our mother will get used to the idea of you and Rafe one day," he confided. "Give her time."

Gillie gave her brother a bittersweet smile as they moved outside. "I truly hope so, Rhys, for I shall never leave my husband and our home."

"Papa," Sam squealed, running to his father, "come and see this."

Rhys stolled over to where his twin sons stood, one on either side of their seated mother. Travis, standing behind Tory's chair, held his sister Charlotte, her chubby thumb stuck securely in her tiny rosebud mouth.

Rafe joined Gillie, his strong arm slipping around her now slender waist. He found it hard to believe that less than a month ago she'd been big with child. "Happy?"

"Unbelievably so," she responded, leaning into his body to watch the last of the fireworks, though her mind wasn't focused on them. Gillie touched the band of gold and garnets on her finger, recalling her brother's words. She had trusted in the power of love. For had she not, she never would have pursued her dream and seen it through. She and Rafe were closer than ever; he had finally stripped away the remaining layers of bitter memories and sadness, replacing them with warmth and sharing. There was an easiness about her husband nowlaughter came more readily to his lips. Rafe no longer kept his emotions buried; instead, he'd learned to talk to Gillie, confiding in her about his plans for the ranch, about his ambitions, and about the pride he felt in his accomplishments.

And, as he had in the past, he listened to her, encouraging her to continue with the work she had undertaken in England, supporting her decision to help fund a bigger schoolhouse in nearby Derran, one that would educate all the children in the area.

"Can we have more, Papa?" begged Sebastian.

Rhys bent down and scooped his son onto his shoulders. "Not tonight, my boy. Time for bed."

Murmured greetings of "good night" filtered across the compound as Bessie and Aaron headed towards the carriage house; Rhys, Tory and their brood, and Martha, walked to the newly constructed guest house; and several of the ranch hands who'd been invited to share in the festivities of a Fourth of July barbecue gathered their horses and rode back to the bunkhouse.

Gillie yawned.

"Ready for bed, love?" Rafe asked.

"Soon," she replied, basking in the happiness she felt all around her. "I want to check on Drew, and I've invited Rhys and Tory to share a drink with us when they've settled the children."

Rafe steered her to the door. "Let's go see our boy, then." <><><><><><><><><><><><>

Two hours later, Rafe sat in his bed, waiting for his wife, his broad back reclined against the half-dozen goose-feather pillows, a contented smile on his handsome face. He still couldn't believe his luck at timesthat the woman he loved loved him, and that she was here, with him, his own special angel.

He derived pleasure from seeing her with their son, Andrew Michael Rayburne; but he silently acknowledged the fear that had torn at his guts when he watched Gillie fight to give birth to the baby here in this room, this bed. Tory had suggested that perhaps it would be better if he kept Rhys company in the library. Rafe had refused. Nothing could have removed him from Gillie's side as she went through the long process of labor.

Once more he marveled at her courage and determination. Witnessing her giving birth had humbled him. Then, when he'd held his bawling, red-faced son in his arms, he'd known true peace.

All because of Gillie. She was all he could have asked for in a woman, in a wifeand more.

Rafe lifted his hands and linked them behind his head. As if it were only yesterday, he could recall when he'd first felt the child quicken within her body. It had happened while they were in his bathhouse. While a cold wind howled outside, he and Gillie had been warm and adventurous inside, exploring ways of love.

They were both drained, their bodies slick with moisture. Gillie rested atop him, her breathing ragged, when she sat upright. "Rafe," she said, wonderment in her tone. "It's the baby. I felt it move." She grabbed his big hand and laid it against her belly.

He'd felt the slight movement, a mere ripple of sensation. "Yes," he said triumpantly, "I feel it too."

Each day of his life was a feast. His wife and child made it so.

Gillie entered the room quietly, letting the moonlight that filtered in through the lace curtains guide her way.

She'd fed her son, and he slept peacefully in the room across the hall, his nursemaid in attendance. What she wanted now was the solace of Rafe's strong arms.

Beams of moonlight silvered her husband's lean torso, causing a shiver to run through Gillie's body. The want grew increasingly stronger. Soon, she would be able to fulfill this hunger. Having Drew in the midst of a very hot summer had drained her body, but her strength was slowly coming back. Her doctor had insisted that she and Rafe resist intimacy until at least two months had passed. They might be able to postpone their physical joining, but they couldn't ignore their need to be with each other, to hold each other close throughout the night.

Rafe lifted the white sheet and tossed it back.

Gillie removed her thin robe and slipped into bed beside him, ignoring the humid heat and snuggling close to Rafe's body. He cupped her face in his hands and they kissed. It was deep and rich with promise.

Before she drifted off to sleep, Gillie had one last clear thought. That night, at the ball in London, all those months ago, she had made the remark that she meant to have him.

Well, Gillie smiled, she'd gotten what she asked forshe had Rafe. Now, and for all time. I love hearing from my readers. Please write to me at:
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I hope you enjoyed ALL I ASK OF YOU, and that you'll be looking forward to my next novel from Leisure, a reincarnation romance, THERE NEVER WAS A TIME.