Instinct alone told her she’d made a devastating mistake the moment she laid eyes on the stranger.

Purposely and blatantly defying her husband’s authority, Caroline had sneaked away to the greenhouse, never intending to stay and work but to simply retrieve the letter from Professor Jenson, which she’d forgotten two days before when she’d made her hasty departure. As furious as she was with the pompous idiot she’d married, she’d rather risk being caught and laying witness to his rage than have him learn of her original plan to leave for New York.

So, with resolve she stepped inside the glass structure. Just as quickly as she lifted the folded piece of paper from the desk, in walked the man, as casually and boldly as if he owned the property, catching her completely and immediately off guard not only from his surprise entrance, but also from his stunning appearance.

He had marvelous features—blond hair trimmed to his shoulders, side whiskers framing his hard, square jaw, slate-gray eyes thickly lashed, and an elegant, almost sculpted mouth. He was striking to look at, and never in her life until now had she been made speechless by a man simply because he was so physically attractive.

But at closer glance, his appearance was also odd, not that there was anything wrong with it exactly. He dressed impeccably, wearing lightweight breeches in dark rust, a pale, cotton shirt, starched, wrinkle-free, and buttoned severely to his neck, black riding boots both polished and clean as if they’d never touched a speck of mud or even a horse for that matter, and he carried a black woolen overcoat across his left arm. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he was wearing a costume, although even a costume would surely have gathered dirt or wrinkles when he rode or walked to the greenhouse. This unusually handsome man looked as if he’d stepped out of his bath and into the forest.

He started talking to her, and for no rational reason she felt tiny hairs rise on her neck. His name was Peter Whitsworth, a horse trainer who worked for their neighbor. According to him, he’d suddenly and unexpectedly come upon the greenhouse as he’d wandered north to view the area fully, had seen her enter, and had decided to introduce himself.

Still, something about him didn’t seem right, and although he spoke perfect English, his manner and almost too congenial voice troubled her intuitively. He was too smooth, too pleasant, and because of the strangeness of the entire situation, her instincts told her to start working rather than try to leave, smiling casually as she quickly dropped the letter back on the desk and began moving plants from one table to the other.

For nearly ten minutes he followed her around, discussing pleasantries and the freezing English winter, which in itself seemed strange as this one had thus far seemed unusually warm. It wasn’t until he dropped his overcoat onto one of the benches and started talking of her personally that his voice began to change, to deepen in intensity, his eyes turning dark as he watched her.

“I saw a little girl as I rode in,” he quietly said, moving next to her as she carried a plant in each hand to the basin. “Before I could speak, she ran off.” He snickered. “I don’t think I look so very frightening. Do you?”

Caroline tried to smile, avoiding his gaze, and making every attempt to keep her voice affable. “She’s my daughter and not very used to strangers, I’m afraid.”

“Really? Your daughter?” His voice lowered. “How surprising that she didn’t look at all like you.”

Her head shot up immediately. He stood two feet from her, with his perfectly etched mouth turned up into a smile that never reached his eyes. Keeping her poise intact, she mumbled, “She looks more like my husband’s family.”

“Ahh…”

The urge to run crept under her skin. If she could only keep her cordial demeanor long enough, keep him talking, someone at the house would miss her, probably assume where she was, and perhaps come looking. On the other hand, nobody would have any reason to believe she’d be in danger at the greenhouse. The only person who’d likely care would be Brent, and as she hadn’t spoken to him in days, she had no idea where he was right now.

It was clear she needed to delicately attempt to take her leave.

She wiped her hands on a towel beside the basin. “Well, it was certainly a pleasure, Mr. Whitsworth, but my husband—”

“Let’s talk about your husband,” he interjected softly as he lifted a finger to run it slowly down her arm.

She shivered, her eyes opening wide to his gray, suddenly malevolent gaze. “What do you want?” she coldly, quietly asked.

He smiled again, faintly. “You are indeed audacieuse, are you not, petite dame?”

She had only a vague idea of what he said, but she positively knew he spoke French. And as she grasped the coincidences, this man’s underlying strangeness coupled with Brent’s demand in staying away from the greenhouse, her mind began to clear, and that was when she realized exactly who he was.

As if reading her thoughts, or perhaps it was from the glaze of terror filling her eyes, his expression changed.

“Plain hair, plain features, but exquisite eyes and a figure…tres voluptueuse et érotique.” He moved his hand to boldly cup her breast. “The Raven chose well, I think.”

“Yes, I did.”

Caroline knew she was more startled than the Frenchman when she heard Brent’s clear, deep voice from across the room. But she couldn’t take her eyes from the man beside her, couldn’t move, suddenly paralyzed from a surge of raw fear. He caressed her breast lightly through her gown, daring her to react and certainly taunting her husband; then he dropped his arm to her wrist, grasping it firmly as he turned in Brent’s direction. With one look, pure and centered hatred graced his features.

“Well, mon ami, we meet again.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Brent nonchalantly take three steps inside so that he stood next to the oblong table closest to them, innocently push several potted plants out of his way, and jump up to sit on the table, never looking directly at her but instead to the man, waiting.

The Frenchman turned his attention back to her, lifting his finger to gently stroke her cheek. “She is little and ordinary, Raven. I wonder why you married her?”

“She’s a very good fuck.” He casually leaned back on the table, resting on his palms. “What are you doing here, Philip?”

Slowly, stunned, Caroline turned to stare at her husband. He was so calm, so calculating and controlled, apparently indifferent to her and the danger at hand. And the only sign of anxiety, of any emotion other than apathy he exhibited was the tiny trickle of sweat that slid from his left brow to his hardened jaw. He had run to the greenhouse, she was certain of that, and now he was composed and smooth and desperately attempting to save her life.

The man pulled her against him, her arm twisted behind her back, then cupped her breast once more with his free hand, hard and unexpectedly, making her gasp from the touch.

“I am here for you, mon ami,” he answered pleasantly, gazing down at her, challenging. “But I think, since she is so tempting, I will also have your wife.”

Her heart pounded, her eyes widened, and she swallowed forcefully to maintain control of her fear, keeping her gaze focused on her husband, who didn’t appear to notice her at all as he stared at the man who caressed her so suggestively through the delicate silk of her day gown.

After a long, unbearable moment of silence, Brent gravely maintained, “I don’t think so.”

“Non? You use my woman and do not give me a taste of yours?” He grinned. “The French enjoy sharing their ladies, Raven. I thought you knew that.”

“The French share their whores, Philip, as I shared yours, but the English do not share their wives.” He cocked a sardonic brow. “I thought you knew that.”

Philip’s eyes became dark and dangerous as he dropped his hand from her breast, tightening his grip on her wrist with the other.

“And you are English, aren’t you, Lord Weymerth?”

Slowly, meticulously, he confirmed, “Quite…English.”

If the conversation had taken place at any other time, under any other circumstance, Caroline might have laughed. They sounded like children fighting over a toy or territory of play, but the pain in her hand assured her this was no small disagreement. Pure evil was present—she could feel it slicing the still, cold air—and this confrontation was real. One of them would surely die.

She started shaking, and Philip noticed in satisfaction. “You are scared of me already?”

Her eyes flashed defiantly. “Yes, I’m scared,” she hissed in a frigid, trembling voice. Bravely and without clear thought, she sneered, “You’re a heathen animal. It’s no wonder Christine Dumont didn’t want you—”

“Caroline!”

She heard her husband’s roar above the thunderous crack reverberating through the room before she ever felt the stinging pain of the madman’s hand on her face. She stumbled back against the basin, attempting to catch herself with her free arm, and though she was dazed and startled into submission by his sudden action, he grabbed her by her hair and struck her a second time, violently, the force of it slamming her face into the ground.

“Touch her again, Philip,” Brent threatened carefully, deliberately, his words calculated and thick with loathing, “and I’ll cut off your balls, stuff them down your throat with my fist, and watch while you bleed to death.”

The Frenchman chuckled once more and purposely stepped on the hem of her gown to keep her from crawling away. Shaking and breathing in gulps, she tried to push herself up on all fours, attempting to wipe tears of pain from her eyes, licking her bloodied lips. The skin on her face burned, her cheek throbbed, and her skull felt as if it had been stabbed with a dull knife; but as stunned and hurting as she was, she managed to draw the courage to glance up at Brent.

Just as before, he sat on the table, leaning back on his palms, calmly composed as if she weren’t even present in the room.

Suddenly he started speaking in French, and it was the astonishment of hearing the subtle changes in his voice, his expressiveness, that kept her from breaking down into terrified whimpers, kept her staring at his face both in pride and wide-eyed disbelief. He spoke not just fluent French as Nedda had intimated, but gracefully eloquent, absolutely perfect French. If she hadn’t met him until just now, she’d never suspect him to be English.

Brent felt the only way to get Philip’s mind off his wife was to quickly change the subject, to find another common ground, and truthfully he wanted to switch languages because he refused to risk losing his beautiful, brave Caroline simply because she had confronted and insulted a professional killer. As smart and courageous as she was, she had no vivid understanding of what Philip could do, which in turn made her fragile and helpless, and most definitely dead without his quick action. His hope was that if she was ignorant of the exchange, she’d keep her mouth shut.

“You still haven’t mentioned your reason for coming to me, Philip,” he calmly remarked, trying with difficulty to keep his boiling rage and burning fear under control as he made every attempt to avoid looking at his wife. “I’m no longer your threat, and the risk of returning to England after the emperor’s fall seems a bit stupid, even for you.”

The Frenchman raised a palm in innocence. “Waterloo is over, my friend, but our battle will not be finished until one or both of us is dead. You know that.”

He shrugged indifferently. “How did you know I didn’t die in the trench?”

“Filthy place to die, Raven,” Philip returned quietly, holding his gaze as he reached down to stroke Caroline’s hair, making her physically cringe from his touch. “But I think the excitement I felt by finally having the chance to kill a menace to the emperor heroically while in battle was only surpassed by my joy when I learned you did not die. You lived in hell for days, did you not?” He chuckled as his eyes shone in pools of cold, silvery steel. “Living in a swamp of death is much worse than dying in one. I made you suffer in France, and now you will die in England. Only fitting.”

Brent sat forward, elbows on knees, and glanced quickly at Caroline, who remained huddled next to the water basin, now staring at the ground in front of her. He didn’t want to provoke the man, but he knew she was his target, and any attempt to unsettle Philip could force him to strike her again with something more dangerous and damaging than his fist. He needed him unsettled, though, because catching him off guard would be his only advantage, and unfortunately he could think of no way to do this without endangering his wife. He would simply have to do what he could and be faster and smarter than the killer who now stood only a few feet away.

“The war is over, Philip,” he ridiculed in utter contempt. “The English have won, the French have fallen. You have nothing to fight for now that Bonaparte is exiled for good, the troops are disassembled, the money gone. Why did you come here to continue this game of tactical illusion when you could have stayed on the Continent and become a new person?” He grinned cynically and sneered. “Perhaps you should have given up on me and centered your time on something constructive like…learning to please a woman well enough to keep her in your bed for an entire night.” He chuckled mildly. “Now there’s a novel thought.”

Cords of hard muscle in the killer’s neck stood out against his starched shirt, his side whiskers flared with the tightening of his jaw, and Brent was encouraged.

“You are a fool, Raven,” he spat in abhorrence. “But I should have understood your stupidity because of what you are—an English bastard who still, with all his education and deductive reasoning, cannot clearly grasp why I’m here.”

For the first time since walking into the greenhouse, Brent was uncertain. Philip despised him and wanted him dead, but it was also quite true that in coming to England, to Miramont, he took an extreme risk in never returning to his homeland. They were equally skilled, but he had the advantage this time by being on his ground. Philip knew this.

As if reading confusion in his hesitation, the Frenchman laughed. “It was the woman.”

For several seconds he remained unsure, then slowly the fog began to clear. “Christine.”

“Christine,” Philip repeated through an arrogant grin, “the woman who spread her legs for you but whose heart belonged to France.”

He reached for a lock of Caroline’s hair again, intertwining it with his fingers, and it took every ounce of strength Brent possessed not to lunge at the man for touching her, frightening her, using her to enrage him. He placed his hands on the table, beside each hip, and squeezed it for control.

Suddenly and without provocation, Philip yanked her to her knees with his fist in her hair.

“Brent!”

Her scream of terror and pain consumed him, and he jumped to his feet, eyes blazing in fury, face contorted in absolute hatred.

“Leave her alone,” he warned in a whisper.

Philip’s eyes turned as hard as dark, gray marble, piercing his, defying him to attack, keeping his tight grip on Caroline, waiting.

But Brent refused to look at her, knowing instinctively he’d lose what self-control he still maintained, and she would die before he even reached her. She whimpered softly, her hands in her lap, eyes closed, tears streaming down her cheeks; that much he could see without dropping his gaze. He remained where he was, erect and challenging in his stance, legs spread wide, hands on hips, facing them.

Philip slowly shook his head and switched tongues once again in an attempt, he was certain, to upset and intimidate Caroline with his English words as they became rough and crass.

“You thought you were so clever fucking her, learning about me and my talents from her, but it never once entered your mind that she knew you were an English pig, that she was using you, hating you.”

Brent clutched his hips with his hands as it all finally began to sink in.

“She told you of me on purpose, Raven, to win your affections, your trust—”

“She never had either,” he said almost inaudibly.

A nerve in the killer’s cheek twitched as he gripped Caroline’s hair even tighter around his hand. “I came to this filthy island, to your home, my old friend, understanding the risks, just so I could look you in the eye when I told you it was Christine who betrayed you to the French.”

Slowly Brent whispered, “I know.”

Philip’s eyes widened just perceptibly enough for Brent to realize he’d startled the man with that disclosure. In truth, he didn’t know this at all, but it did make sense. He’d often wondered how Philip had learned he was English when not one other soul in six years had ever suspected, why Christine had not only disowned Rosalyn but despised her as well. She’d dropped their daughter on his doorstep as if she’d never existed—not in England when she was seven months old as he’d originally told Caroline to keep her unaware of his secret life in France, but days after her birth and at the only residence about which the courtesan knew—his home on the Rue de la Politique in the center of Paris.

In all the years he’d bedded the woman, she’d received her own pleasure from the couplings when she so desired, but she’d never wanted closeness, never wanted to really talk, only asking questions of him when it pertained to Napoleon, his court, his government, things that should hold very little interest for a woman of her profession. She’d been spying on him without his awareness, had probably been planted in that position purposely because Philip suspected him from the moment they’d met, and although he’d never divulged information or the fact that he was English, Christine had discerned the truth over time. She was the perfect informant, and he’d never suspected she was anything other than what she appeared.

Brent remained calm as he laughed softly, pathetically. “I knew about Christine from the beginning, Philip, my old friend,” he returned pointedly, allowing just the slightest trace of sarcasm to creep into his voice, dropping his gaze to the table and brushing stray dirt off with his fingers. “I understood who you were, what game she was playing when she took me to her bed, and I was the one who laughed inside each time she spread her legs for me. I used her, and you would have saved your life by confronting me with such old information when you attacked me at Waterloo.”

He looked back to the killer’s face, into cutting gray circles of rancor now conveying fire instead of ice, rage instead of confidence.

Cautiously, quietly he added, “You were the one she betrayed in the end, because you are here, Philip. Christine was your weakness. She made you a fool, and your devotion to a whore has killed you.”

The Frenchman’s body became rigid, his eyes glassy, and in a strained voice he contended, “But I will not die until I kill yours, mon ami.”

Stillness descended on the greenhouse, the air thick and tense, the room filled not with the scent of flowers, but with the smell of sweat and fear. Although Caroline kept her eyes tightly shut, she knew she was going to die in seconds. Her husband couldn’t save her; he had no weapon, was too far away to simply attack Philip, and she was held firmly in his grasp by her hair. He would break her defenseless neck before she had time to realize it was happening.

So, with resolution and in a surge of courage and love, she raised her lids to look at her husband one last time. In the same slice of time, she felt a whoosh of movement, heard the madman at her side grunt heavily; then he slowly released her, stumbling back a foot or two before he fell against the back wall of glass and slid to the ground.

She gulped for air, shaking violently, heart thundering wildly as she forced herself to look back at him.

He stared at Brent with eyes wide in horror, his expression incredulous, and the slender, ivory handle of a knife sticking out from his chest. She watched him reach for it, desperately attempting to pull at it, but his strength waned as blood, thick and ruby red, quickly seeped from the wound and into his stark, pristine shirt.

Suddenly Brent was beside her, grabbing her under her arms and lifting her to hug her against his chest.

“Don’t look, Caroline,” he demanded in a tender whisper of sweetness, cupping her head with his palm.

She buried her face in his shirt, trying to stand on weak, shaky legs, to calm her breathing and her tears as they flowed from her tightly shut eyes of their own volition. She felt the tenseness in his arms, heard his heart pounding rapidly beneath her ear, and with the knowledge that he had been just as frightened, the shock overwhelmed her and she began to sob uncontrollably.

“He—he hurt me…My h-head—”

“Shh…I know, sweetheart,” he cut in brokenly. “I have you now. I have you.”

He held her tightly for minutes, allowing her to cry openly, kissing her temple, weaving his fingers through her hair, rocking her gently.

“H—how did…How did you—”

“Rosalyn told me,” he answered soothingly, understanding her need to know and the numbness created by talking about it. “She found me, agitated, and with a little deduction I figured it out.” He brushed his lips against her forehead. “I grabbed the first weapon I could find, ran here faster than I’ve ever run before, stopped outside to catch my breath, and when I felt it was the right moment to confront him, I tucked the knife into my breeches and moved in to rescue my beautiful wife who foolishly stood up to a killer.”

Trembling again inside and shaking her head in negation, she squeezed her eyes shut and lifted her hand to lightly cover her mouth. “You saved my life,” she whispered against her palm.

With those words he buried his face in her hair, tightening the strong, comforting arms encircling her waist and back. “I would never let anything happen to you, Caroline.”

From the tenderness in his voice, she wanted to mold herself against him, to become a part of him and never let him go as she wrapped her arms around him, hugging him fiercely. “I’m so sorry.”

Gently he raised his hands to cup her cheeks, tilting her face to his. Brushing her tears aside, he waited until she steadied herself with a long, full breath and opened black, damp lashes once more.

“Listen to me carefully. You need to return to the house quickly, find Harolds or Cressing, or even Davis for that matter, and have one of them send for the authorities. Then send Carl here alone. Nobody else.”

“I don’t want to leave without you—”

“You have to,” he insisted. He read uncertainty in her expression and shook his head. “I need to stay here to assure that nothing is touched or moved until the magistrate arrives. There will be questions and a full inquiry, I expect, and I’m afraid I’ll be in the middle.”

After a moment of indecision, she nodded negligibly.

“It’s all right, little one,” he consoled with a grin. “You defied my authority as your husband, and now I’ll have to punish you. That will give you something to think about until I return.”

She stared into his softened gaze, reaching up to touch his jaw with her fingertips. “Brent—”

“I know,” he whispered, kissing her palm, acknowledging each intense emotion gracing her features and radiating from deep in her eyes. “I know, Caroline, but not here. Tell me later.”

Her throat ached as she nodded in understanding and reluctant agreement, and slowly he released her. She walked to the door and, with one hesitant glance back in his direction, swiftly left the green house.

Brent waited, watching her until she disappeared into the thick foliage and growing darkness of late afternoon, then turned back to Philip.

The man had died in stunned awareness that he had been beaten by the Raven, by the English, on their soil. How ironic for him. Even with the shock of death on his face, he appeared cold, remote, his steel-gray eyes like a lifeless doll’s as they gazed blankly into nothingness.

Brent wouldn’t close them, wouldn’t touch the man again, and suddenly, filling with an almost sublime sense of serenity, he realized that what had remained of his violent past of destruction, of death and blood, resentment and loneliness, was finally put to rest. The war was over, the fear was gone, and eventually, finally, the nightmares would cease to exist as well. The best of his life was only just beginning.

With such a calming thought filling his mind, and with every intention of walking to one of the benches and collapsing, allowing the lingering tenseness to drain from his body as he waited for the questions to begin, he turned and saw the small, folded sheet of paper.

He probably wouldn’t have noticed it at all had it been sitting on the desk like the rest of Caroline’s innumerable notes, but it had fallen, conspicuously white against the dark floor. Without thought, he lifted it and gently placed it where it belonged. This, however, was no note but a letter, lying open to his eyes, and the strangeness of it immediately grabbed his attention. Frowning, he began to read.

Brent finished reading each word for a third time and slowly, meticulously, folded the letter. Then, staring vacantly ahead, mind numbed from enlightenment and acceptance, emptied of all thought and feeling, he sat heavily on the cold, hard floor of the greenhouse and leaned his head back against the glass to watch the growing darkness as it fell within the quiet jungle surrounding him.