“YOU CANNOT MEAN to go outside in this weather.”

They were forced to find shelter within the walls of a small inn. Something heavy hit the scarred wooden table, and Lucy turned from the window to see Sussex tossing his overcoat onto it.

“I must.”

He was rifling through the pockets, pulling something out and placing it to one side, paying no heed to her concerns. “You will freeze out there. Besides, you won’t be able to see a foot in front of you. The snow is blinding.”

He grunted something, and carried on about his business making Lucy’s temper flare. Strange how easily he could provoke her into a temper—or any rash feeling at all. She had thought after all these years, she’d conquered the emotions that had threatened to rule her as a child; she had easily found them once again after she thought he betrayed her.

“Go then,” she grumbled and turned her back to him. Wrapping her arms about her waist, she watched as the innkeeper and his wife ran out into the ravaging snowstorm.

“There’s not enough help for them and the animals. They must be brought into the barns, and I must see to the horses and the servants.”

Why did she care? she thought churlishly. What concern was it of hers?

“You’ll be safe here.”

She whirled around, her skirts in a rustling flurry about her. “It’s not my safety that concerns me!”

Her cheeks flamed, and she darted her gaze away, refusing to look at him. What the devil was wrong with her? Let him go out in the snow; she would not allow herself to care.

She could feel his gaze boring into her back, and she refused to respond to it, to that beckoning call of his mysterious gray eyes.

“Lucy—”

“Go.” She swallowed and squeezed her fingers around her arms in an effort to cease the sudden storm of emotions that suddenly swirled as violently inside her as the storm beyond the windowpane. “The servants need you.”

There was a very long pause, and then she heard the retreat of his boots along the weathered floorboards. His fine clothes would be no barrier to the harsh winds and blowing snow. The bitter chill of the lashing winds would rip through the fine linen shirt and wool jacket he wore. “Your grace?”

He stopped and turned. Lucy went to him, pulling her cloak from the back of the chair. “Take this. It’s lined with fur and will fit well enough over your coat.”

“It will be ruined.”

“Far better that it be destroyed than to have you freeze to death out there. I don’t know where we are, let alone how to find my way back to London. I’m afraid I need you alive.”

Oh, wicked, wicked thing to say, but she could not stop it. He was looking at her in that way again—the way that made her heart ache to know him, to discover the man behind the sad, gray eyes. She couldn’t have that.

He smiled, damn the man, and took the cloak. “Oh, I think I have a far greater chance of freezing to death in this room than out there.”

Her mouth was still hanging open in shock when he closed the door behind him. Arrogant man! He thought it chilly between them now, wait till he returned frozen and chilled from the weather. She would do nothing to help him! Not one thing! Let him freeze to the very marrow, she thought. She would not thaw him.

Strolling to the window, she gazed out, watching the chaos as the small handful of the inn’s employees struggled with the horses’ harnesses. Rosie stood on her hind legs beside her, her front paws balanced on the windowsill, docked tail wagging in happy little circles.

“Stupid man,” she said, and the dog glanced at her, tongue lolling to the side. “Well, we’re well and truly trapped here, Rosie. We might as well settle in and make do. This weather will not let up for some time.”

Rosie jumped down and headed for the fireplace where she snuggled onto a worn mat and immediately fell into a deep, sonorous sleep. Would that she could sleep for twenty-two hours of the day. Then maybe she could avoid her husband, and the unwanted marriage she now found herself in.

She could unpack their things, she supposed, and was about to do so when Sussex came into view. He was shouting to the others, and they stopped, gathered around him as he took control of matters.

He was very good at that, taking control. He was a born leader; people gravitated toward him, listened to him. Soon, he had the flow of help turned to specific tasks, and Lucy could not help but notice that he did not simply order people about, but assisted in the task of getting the animals sheltered and their servants settled.

How long she stood there and watched him, she could not say. His hat had blown off, and his ebony hair was now heavy with snow. His greatcoat swirled around his boots, and she noticed that the innkeeper’s wife now wore her cloak over her threadbare shawl.

And another frozen corner of her heart seemed to chip away and melt into her chest.

I would die for you… Those words crept into her mind, and unconsciously she began to touch her fingertips to her lips, remembering his kiss, the tightly held control that swiftly slipped away, consumed then by a frantic devouring.

I would die for you…

She was lost in that memory, his words. The lonely isolation she saw in his eyes. Inside she warmed, the ice thawing further. Feelings she didn’t want to acknowledge sprung forth and she buried them, but they rose up again as she watched the man she had married that morning rush about the inn yard.

I would die for you… But would she for him? The ice began to form again, and she reached out, pressed her fingers against the iced windowpane.

She was afraid. So damn afraid of the feelings inside her. Conflicting thoughts and emotions. Passion. That was all she had wanted. But this… What she was feeling had nothing to do with passion, and she wanted to run from it, to hide behind the veneer she had erected.

Empty, soulless creature. You want only passion because it’s all you can feel. Because it makes you forget that inside you there is nothing.

“No,” she gasped, pressing her palm against the window. But she could not force herself to look deep within. She didn’t know what resided there. Maybe the voice was right. Nothing dwelt within her. Nothing but her pleasure-seeking impulses.

You wouldn’t die for him.

And she felt the burning sting of tears behind her eyes. Biting her lip, her fingers curled tightly against the glass, as if by squeezing them she could somehow keep the tears from spilling.

She had cried in front of him today. But that had been in frustration and anger. But this was something else. This was self-reflection, a moment of discovery, when one looked deeply within and realized that one was a horrible human being who cared only about her own wishes.

Oh, God, what had she allowed herself to become?

A sob strangled in her throat was about to break free when the door to her chamber opened. The cries of a babe screeched, and she whirled around to see a young woman carrying a bucket of coal in her hands.

“Pardon, your grace, but his grace sent me to fetch ye some coal and build up yer fire.”

The young woman’s hair was clinging to her neck, wet with melting snow, her fragile fingers reddened with cold. She shivered as she curtsied and rushed to the hearth. In moments the fire was roaring. Rosie sighed contentedly, stretching out before the warmth as the babe continued to cry.

“Shall I bring you some warm water for a bath, your grace, or tea perhaps?”

She was cold, this poor girl, and here she was catering to a woman dressed in heavy velvet and wool, with layers of petticoats and lace, and warm, fur-lined boots.

“No, stay. Warm yourself by the fire.”

The girl’s eyes went round, before her gaze darted to the hall, and the now frantic wails of the baby.

“I mustn’t tarry,” she said shyly. “We’re full to bursting now, and I’ve got to get to the kitchens to get the dinner started.”

“Abigail,” a voice roared. “Where is that gel?”

Nervously the maid glanced at her then curtsied. “If that is all, your grace.”

“Abby, get that bairn to bleedin’ stuff it, and get yerself to the kitchens!”

The maid rushed past her, and Lucy reached out, stilling her. “The child is yours?”

Wincing, the girl nodded. “I’ve done me best to soothe her, but she’s getting teeth and, well, she wants ta be held. I’ll move her to another part of the inn so your grace isn’t disturbed by her ruckus.”

“Abby!” the innkeeper roared again. Abigail rushed to the door.

“Bring your child to me,” Lucy said. “I will mind her while you see to your duties.”

“Yer grace, oh, I couldn’t—”

“You’ll be busy with the cooking, and once those men come in they’ll be famished. My husband included.” How strange that sounded, her husband. “Come, bring me your child.”

The sound of heavy footfalls clambering up the stairs sent the maid into action. In seconds she had returned with a red-cheeked and tearstained infant and threadbare blanket.

“My father and mother run this inn, and once things get settled, I’ll be back to fetch the child. I won’t be but a minute,” she said as she fussed to soothe the child. “Oh, yer grace, she’s gnawing on your lovely pearls.”

Glancing down at the chubby baby she held in her arms, Lucy couldn’t suppress her smile. “So she is. And what is her name?”

“Fiona, your grace.”

“Well, Fiona,” she said as she jiggled the baby in her arms. “Let us watch the storm. Have you ever seen snow like this?” she murmured to the child as she turned toward the window. “No, I don’t expect you have. You’re not above half a year, are you?”

Lucy held the baby and watched as she settled. Together they stood by the fire, and soon little Fiona was asleep and Lucy was staring down at the baby she held. She wanted one of these—not out of duty, but created out of love. She wanted its father to love it no matter whether it was a boy or a girl. She wanted this, this sense of family and home and warmth.

She could find this with Sussex, something told her. She just needed to choose the right road.

ADRIAN STILLED when he came into the room and saw Lucy asleep with a babe cradled in her arms. What the devil?

He looked about the room, finding no one else there. The babe stirred. Adrian inched closer to the bed, peering down and studying his wife and the babe nestled to her breast. What a sight. One he wanted more of—one he wanted to see when it was their child.

“Lucy, love,” he whispered, and she came awake with a start. She clutched the child protectively.

“You’re soaked to the bone,” she whispered. “And you have ice in your hair.”

“Yes. I’ll sit by the fire and let you sleep. What have you found here?” he asked, smiling as the baby stretched.

“This is Fiona, and she’s cutting teeth. She was in quite a temper when we arrived and I took her from her mother who was needed downstairs.”

“Ah, I see. Shall I take her from you so you can sleep?”

“Oh, no, certainly not. I feel much better. Here, help me up and I’ll set about getting you dry clothes. I assume your valet is boarded up at the other inn down the road.”

“Yes, but Lucy…” He stilled her. “You needn’t wait on me. I can be quite self-sufficient.” He had been for years, he reminded himself.

A knock at the door interrupted them, and she called, “Come,” and saw that it was Abigail.

“Oh, your grace, I’m sorry. Here, let me just—”

“There is nothing to worry over, Abigail. The child is fine, and as we are newly married we are both marveling at her, wondering when it might be our turn to have one.”

Their gazes met, and Lucy looked away, her cheeks red. How he couldn’t wait to get her with child.

“Well, they’re lovely, but not when teething.”

The babe fussed, but her mother soon quieted her.

“I think I’ll bathe now. There’s a tub room down the hall. The owner’s wife was going to see about setting it up for me.”

“I’ll just unpack,” Lucy murmured.

He wanted to kiss her, to tumble back with her onto the bed, but he couldn’t. One night, she had said. He had to make her wait.