One

Gladstone estate, rural England, 1813...

Anne Carstairs walked down the path that wound through the woods. Warm June sunlight drifted through the trees, dappling her shoulders in shades of green. The air was thick with the tantalizing odors of a verdant summer day.

Off in the distance, she could see Gladstone Manor. The mansion was nestled against the rolling hills and surrounded by acres of manicured gardens. Horses grazed in the pasture. It was a bucolic site, yet she scarcely noticed.

At any moment, Jamieson Merrick, the recently installed Earl of Gladstone, was due to arrive, accompanied by his twin brother, Jackson Merrick. There were two horses tethered in the drive out front, so apparently some of Jamieson's entourage had already appeared. Soon, his fancy coach-and-four would follow his outriders, and the Merrick family crest would be insultingly visible for all to witness.

As babies, the twins had been sent away from Gladstone, forced to make their way in a cruel world. They'd been called pirates, thieves, smugglers—and

Those were the polite descriptions. Gossip abounded that they'd committed hundreds of murders; that they would kill at the drop of a hat. Jamieson Merrick, especially, was reputed to be violent. He ate small children for his supper; he drank their blood for his wine.

He was coming to Gladstone, demanding justice, demanding recompense and admissions of guilt. What might such a brutal individual do to pursue his goal of vengeance?

Since he held her fate in the palm of his hand, she was terrified to know the answer. Such an angry, evil criminal might be capable of any perfidy.

She approached the stream and stepped out on the ancient rock bridge. It was slick with moss, and she tiptoed carefully, bound for the other side, when movement out on the ridge caught her eye.

She halted and stared.

A man was there, fists on hips, feet spread wide, and he was covetously taking in the view. He was smug, in his element, as if he was finally standing precisely where he was meant to be.

From his shabby condition, he had to be one of Jamieson Merrick's disreputable sailors, down from London to help him lawfully seize the estate from her cousin Percy.

Percy had been Earl of Gladstone for eighteen of his thirty years, having assumed the title at age twelve. But now, with the discovery of a tattered birth certificate and a stained, crumbling marriage license, Jamieson Merrick was earl and Percy Merrick was not.

Anne never ceased to be fascinated by how such a simple event could totally alter the lives of so many. Her future was winging toward her like a bad carriage accident, and now that she'd glimpsed the first member of Merrick's crew, she was more distraught than ever.

What would become of her?

When Percy had initially broached the problem regarding the earldom, the story had seemed too fantastic to be believed. Supposedly, Percy's father had impregnated and secretly married a housemaid who'd died birthing the twins. Afterward, he'd panicked and hid evidence of the union and his two lowborn sons. He'd subsequently wed the appropriate debutante, had sired Percy and his twin sister, Ophelia, and they'd all proceeded on with Percy as the heir, as if the siring of Jamieson and Jackson Merrick had never occurred.

But after three decades of silence, someone had come forward and told the truth, and the whole estate had been pitched into chaos.

Anne had embraced Percy's false hope that everything would be fine. She had dawdled and delayed, had made no contingency plans, but Jamieson Merrick had proved a wily adversary. He'd won every legal skirmish, and he was eager to claim what was his.

Anne and her only sibling, Sarah, were an unwanted pair of hangers-on, two dedicated spinsters with no skills and no money. They had nothing to recommend themselves to Jamieson Merrick—not even kinship. Yet Gladstone was their foundation, the only home they remembered. Where would they be when he was finished with them?

What if he tossed them out on the road? Anne couldn't envision herself trudging away, a satchel slung over her shoulder, like a common vagrant. The concept was too bizarre to imagine, and the man strutting before her was the complete embodiment of all that had gone wrong the past few months. She couldn't quit gaping.

He was tall, every inch of six feet, and he was whipcord lean, his anatomy honed by arduous labour, with Merrick as his brutal taskmaster. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, his legs impossibly long. He looked strong and tough, ready to fight, ready to win.

His hair was black as a raven's, and it was untrimmed and messy, lengthy enough to be tied in a ponytail with a strip of leather. He was wearing what had to be a red soldier's coat, but most of the gold buttons were gone, the cuffs frayed, the hem torn, and she uncharitably wondered if he'd stolen it from the corpse of one of his victims.

His boots were scuffed, his trousers faded. He resembled an impoverished farmer who was down on his luck, yet he exuded a power and determination she couldn't deny.

As if he perceived her attention, he turned toward her, and she was disturbed to note that he was the most handsome man she'd ever seen. He had a perfect face, aristocratic nose and generous mouth, but his eyes! Oh, his eyes! They were a startling sapphire, as dark and mysterious as the waters of the Mediterranean were said to be.

He assessed her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, his rude appraisal as thorough as if she'd been a slave or prized cow. He lingered on her lips, her breasts, her stomach, each torrid glance like a caress that had her squirming and wanting to cover herself even though she was fully clothed.

She was the dreaded poor relative, with no dowry or prospects, so she hadn't spent much time around men. As a consequence, she wasn't overly familiar with seduction, but still, she recognized lust when she saw it. He was a cad of the worst sort, one who might do any reprehensible thing to her. And he'd enjoy it, too!

He seemed to read her mind, seemed to realize the moment she'd decided she should be afraid of him, and he was humored by the notion. He smiled, a roguish, mesmerizing smile that promised all kinds of naughty behavior, and he started toward her, his fleet strides quickly crossing the grass to where she was perched on the bridge.

It was a strange impression, but she felt as if he was her fate, as if Destiny had pushed him into her path when she didn't want him there. He was Doom and Destruction, descending on her like a thundercloud she couldn't outrun.

With a squeal of alarm, she spun to hurry away, but the stones were very slippery. She wobbled, then plunged over the edge into the cold stream. The water wasn't that deep, nor was the current brisk, but the weight of her garments dragged her under before she could gain her balance.

She had a brief instant to consider the ludicrousness of her predicament—would she die in sight of the manor on her last day at Gladstone?—when he reached in and fetched her onto the bank as if he were a fisherman and she a trout.

"There now, I've got you," he murmured, his voice a rich baritone that tickled her innards.

He sat and pulled her onto his lap, their positions appallingly intimate. Her torso was stretched out with his, their chests and bellies melded, her hip wedged between his thighs. One of her breasts was pressed to him, and the placement had a riveting effect on her nipple. It hardened and ached, and she suffered from the most peculiar desire to rub against him like a lazy cat.

"I could have drowned," she said, amazed by the petty disaster she'd averted, and she shivered, which earned her a tight hug.

"You're too pretty," he replied. "I wouldn't have let you."

She was stunned that he'd throw out the word pretty. In her entire life, she didn't think anyone had told her she was pretty before. With her auburn hair and green eyes, her petite frame and shorter height, she was too different from her statuesque, blond cousins, and his opinion was exciting to hear.

"And if I'd been an ugly old hag," she asked, "would you have allowed the stream to carry me away?"

"Maybe."

He grinned his devil's grin, and she was shocked at how her heart pounded. She wanted to fall into that grin, wanted to wallow in it forever, which was embarrassing and horrifying.

He was a wicked one, indeed, and she had to beware, lest she linger when she oughtn't. She shifted, desperate to regain her footing, but the attempt only brought them into closer contact.

"Help me up, you bounder," she scolded.

"In a minute, my little maid. I rather like having you just where you are."

"Well, I don't, and I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your hands to yourself."

His long, crafty fingers were stroking up and down her arms and back. She was chilled to the bone, and the stirring caresses warmed her, but she wouldn't surrender to how marvelous they felt. If it hadn't been so improper, she'd have lounged there all afternoon, letting him massage and fondle.

She put her palms on his chest and shoved him away, creating space, behaving herself.

"Help me up!"

"If you insist," he sighed.

As if she weighed no more than a feather, he lifted her, and he followed so that they were both standing. He peered off into the woods, and whatever he saw made him frown.

"Dammit," he muttered. "Get down."

"What?"

"Get down!"

He was dragging her to the grass, again, and she dug in her heels.

"I will not. I am—"

Like a madman, he tackled her. They landed with a painful thump, with her on the bottom and him on top, his body shielding hers.

A loud bang—that sounded like a gunshot—rang out and echoed off the hillsides. Birds squawked and flew away in a huff; then all was quiet.

Anne was bewildered, speechless and aggrieved, and struggling to figure out what had transpired.

He raised up slightly, shrewdly scanning the trees. Apparently, whoever had been there had fled. When he realized there was nothing to see, he relaxed onto her, but his large torso didn't seem heavy. He felt welcome and thrilling.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm fine."

"Good."

He shuddered with relief and rested his forehead against her own. It was a tender gesture of affection, and when he drew away again he assessed her oddly, as if he didn't know what to make of her.

He dipped down, and for a hesitant second, he brushed his lips to hers. He was very tentative, as if to pretend that the hasty advance had been an accident. Then he pulled away, acting nonchalant and blase, so she tried to ignore the liberty he'd taken, but it was difficult to feign apathy.

It had to have been the quickest, most fleeting kiss in history, but it was her very first, and she reveled in it. For a man who was so rough-and-tumble, his mouth was incredibly soft, his breath sweet and intoxicating, and she knew she'd he awake many nights in the future, pondering the bizarre encounter.

"Let's get you home." He rose and tugged her up.

"What... what happened?" she stammered. "What was that noise?"

"Someone shot at us."

"At us?"

"Yes."

At having him affirm the absurd event—in such a cool and calm manner, too!—she was incensed.

She'd been with him for all of about two minutes, and she'd nearly drowned, then been murdered by an unknown assailant. If she loitered in his company for a whole hour, how would she survive it?

"No one shot at me!" she declared. "I'm the most pleasant person in the world. If anyone was being shot at, it was you!"

"I'm sure you're correct."

She studied the forest, and it seemed much more dense and threatening than it had previously.

"Shouldn't you search for him or something?"

"There's no need. He's gone."

"How can you be so certain?"

"I have a devious mind, so I understand how devious people think. He fired; he missed; he ran."

"What if you're wrong?"

"I'm not."

He was so annoyingly positive, and she couldn't abide such arrogance. She almost hoped their attacker would strike again—merely to prove he was mistaken.

"Why would someone shoot at you?"

"Probably because they don't like me. Why would you suppose?"

"Aren't you the least bit concerned?"

"No. I'm too tough to kill."

"I'll just bet you are."

She was much smaller than he, so he towered over her, and with him being so close, it was easy to see what she hadn't noted prior. There were age lines around his eyes, brackets around his mouth, his skin tanned from outdoor living. He couldn't be more than thirty, but he looked much older. Obviously, he'd had a difficult life, his face providing evidence of years of toil and heartache.

The brief connection they'd shared had vanished, and she was scared of him again. He had a raw, desperate edge that was frightening in its intensity. She didn't care to tarry, didn't care to experience the anxious, disturbing feelings he ignited.

"I'd best be off," she told him.

"What's your name?"

She was about to blurt it out, then thought better of the idea. "It's none of your business." "Tell me anyway." "Miss Carstairs." "Are you Anne or Sarah?"

She scowled, wondering why he'd been apprised of her and her sister.

Anne was twenty-five, and Sarah was twenty-six. After the back-to-back deaths of their parents, they'd been orphaned, tiny girls requiring shelter. Their aunt Edith, Percy's mother, had brought them to Gladstone. For over two decades, the Merricks had grumbled about Anne and Sarah being a burden but had fed and clothed them nonetheless.

Anne and Sarah lived dull, quiet lives filled with monotony and routine. There was no detail about their existence that was curious, that might pique a stranger's interest. Who had informed him about them? Why had he been informed?

"I'm guessing you're Anne," he ventured when she didn't reply.

She neither confirmed nor denied his deduction.

"Thank you for rescuing me from the water. Good-bye."

She was eager to be far away from him, and she was about to spin and go, when he asked, "Don't you want to know my name in return?"

Nothing would have pleased her more. "No."

He laughed, but his voice sounded rusty—as if it didn't occur often.

He shrugged out of his shabby coat and held it out to her.

"If you're going to the manor, you'll need this." "No."

"Trust me. Put it on."

The last thing she'd ever do was prance into the house wrapped in a man's coat. She'd never be able to explain it, but he was staring at her so keenly, his hot gaze drifting to her bosom and remaining there.

She peeked down to see what had captured his attention, and she was shocked by the state of her wet garments. The moistened dress was stuck to her breasts and delineated them so clearly that she might have been wearing nothing, at all. The bodice hugged every curve and valley, especially the pointy tips of her nipples in the center.

"Aah!" she shrieked, and she clasped an arm across her chest. "Shut your eyes, you despicable scapegrace!"

"No. I'm enjoying the view too much."

He reached out, his finger on her chin, and she stood, frozen, as he traced it down to the neckline of her gown. For a mad instant, it seemed that he'd burrow under the fabric, that he would touch her, bare skin to bare skin.

Her cheeks flaming with embarrassment, she whipped away, and he draped the coat over her shoulder, waving it like a flag, urging her to take it. Without further argument, she grabbed it and stuffed her arms in the sleeves, and she was overwhelmed by how his scent clung to the material. It was such an alluring fragrance that she could hardly keep from rubbing her nose in the weave.

Disgusted with herself, she stomped off, but she could feel him watching her. Just as she arrived at a bend in the trail and would have disappeared from sight, he called, "Miss Carstairs?"

Don't turn around! Don't turn around! She whirled around.

"What?"

"I hope to see more of you again. Very soon!"

Even though she was a sheltered spinster, she recognized the salacious innuendo underlying the comment. Burning with mortification, she ran all the way home, more of his rusty laughter ringing in her ears.

 

Two

“Is the family assembled in the parlor as I requested?" "Yes, sir."

"Then announce me. And be quick about it."

At his being forced to tarry in the foyer like a supplicant, Jamie Merrick's infamous temper flared. He glared at the reluctant butler who hadn't moved a muscle.

"How ... ah ... how would you like to be named, sir?"

"Lord Gladstone. How would you suppose?"

The butler's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. He'd spent his whole life referring to Percy as Lord Gladstone, and Jamie's demanding the change had to sound as absurd as if Jamie had suggested he jump off a cliff.

"But he is . .. that is ... I am—" the butler stammered.

"Is Percy here?" Jamie interrupted.

"Yes."

So ... the sneaky weasel had mustered the courage to be present, which was a surprise. Percy was Jamie's

half brother, but they were nothing alike. Percy was too much of a coward to stay and fight like a man. After the failed murder attempt out in the forest, Jamie would have predicted Percy's flight from the property.

Jamie had met Percy on several unpleasant occasions. Initially, Percy had been hostile and threatening, but as the legal tide had turned, he'd grown fawning and conciliatory. Jamie was aware that it was a ruse, that Percy had many schemes fomenting in hopes of reclaiming the estate, but Jamie wasn't concerned about any of them.

Percy wasn't smart enough or driven enough to do what was necessary, so he'd never effect any real damage.

Still, Jamie had instructed Percy to vacate the premises before Jamie's arrival. The transition would be difficult, and having Percy around and underfoot would only make matters worse.

But then, Percy probably had nowhere to go. Jamie had offered him a cash settlement and a London house, which Percy had proudly and stupidly refused. He'd been incredibly ungracious about it, too, so Jamie wouldn't offer again. From this point on, Jamie had no intention of being courteous or sympathetic. He'd waited three decades for this moment, and he would revel in his triumph.

He stepped to the butler so that they were toe-to-toe, and he towered over the smaller man.

"I'll announce myself," Jamie seethed, "and save you the trouble. As opposed to you, I know my true title. But when I next ask you, you'd best proceed immediately, or you won't work here anymore. Am I making myself clear?"

The butler gulped. "Yes, Mr. Merrick."

Jamie raised a brow.

"I mean Lord Gladstone."

Jamie flashed a cold, lethal grin. "That wasn't so hard now, was it?" "No, no, it wasn't." "You're excused."

The butler raced away, and Jamie glanced over his shoulder at his twin brother, Jack. "Worthless bastard," Jack muttered. "He's harmless."

"You should have skewered him with your dagger as an example to the others."

Jamie chuckled. Typically, Jack was the pragmatic, rational sibling, while Jamie was the wild, impulsive one. If Jack would voice such a remark, he was more unnerved by events than he let on.

Jamie and Jack were close as any two brothers could ever be. Jack could read Jamie's mind, could finish his sentences. Jack was the only person in the world who understood what Jamie had been through. Jack was the only person in the world Jamie cared about or trusted.

"Are you ready?" Jamie inquired.

"Of course."

"Watch my back."

"Don't I always?"

Jamie's wry expression reminded them both that Jack had been nowhere in sight when Percy had risked an assassination, but Jamie wouldn't judge Jack too harshly. Neither of them had anticipated the attack, and in a way, Jamie was glad Percy had acted.

Jamie had been preoccupied with Anne Carstairs, so he hadn't been paying attention. With Percy's desperation so blatantly exhibited, Jamie would be more cautious.

"Let's get this over with," Jamie said.

He marched down the hall, Jack directly behind him, and they entered the parlor. The Merricks weren't expecting him to appear without a grand pronouncement, so he was able to scrutinize them without their noticing.

They were attired as the rich, lazy nobles he detested. The four women had on fancy gowns and ribbons, while Percy wore a fussy, expensive outfit that had likely taken his tailor a month to sew. In contrast, Jamie was in frayed woolen trousers, dust-covered boots, and a shirt that he'd pilfered from a dead sailor.

He didn't even have a coat—Miss Carstairs had robbed him of it—so he didn't have the advantage of pretending he'd been taught how to dress. He'd have to meet them in his shirtsleeves, and if they didn't like it, they could all go hang.

On the sofa off to the right, Anne Carstairs was whispering with her sister. Anne had had no clue as to his actual identity, and he was eager to see the look on her face when she heard who he was.

With her hair tidied, and her garments clean and dry, she was even prettier than she'd seemed out in the forest, and he frowned with dismay. He'd enjoyed their encounter much more than he should have, and the realization had him so vexed that he noted he was distractedly massaging his wrist, which was always a sign of extreme distress.

It was an old habit, picked up after he'd almost had his hand chopped off when he'd been caught stealing some bread for Jack when Jack had been ill and starving. Jamie had been very young, just seven or eight, and already a dangerous, cynical criminal, but the near loss of his appendage had been a frightening affair, the terror of which had never totally faded. All these years later, he still occasionally had nightmares that the blade was about to slice down.

He couldn't comprehend why the incident had remained so vivid in his memories. The episode was nothing out of the ordinary. His childhood had been one long trial of misery and woe, a violent and tragic saga of betrayal and duplicity. As a result, he never attached himself to others, never bonded or befriended. His father's cruel decision to forsake him and Jack had seen to that.

Although Jamie's mother had married the despicable swine, Jamie had been treated as a shameful, dirty secret, had been discarded like a pile of rubbish.

He often wondered if his father knew—when he'd cast them out—the sort of existence he'd sentenced his sons to endure. Had he plotted for them to die as a consequence of the indescribable torture and strife they'd suffered? Or had it all gone horribly wrong? Maybe he'd meant for them to be raised by some kindly widow down the road, but without his being aware, they'd been kidnapped, instead.

On considering the notion, Jamie scoffed. He'd discovered the hard way that children were expendable, so most likely, his monstrous father had intentionally delivered them to what he'd prayed would be their abrupt demise.

During Jamie's slavery and servitude on the High Seas, he'd seen and done things that would have killed the average person a thousand times over. He'd survived the ordeal, but not without a steep cost.

He was a callous man, a brutal man, who'd learned early on that it was pointless to trust or hope, and he didn't like it that Anne Carstairs had rattled him so easily.

She'd been humorous and sweet, bumbling and in need of male protection, which had stirred his masculine instincts in a disturbing manner. He hadn't planned to like anything about her, had wanted their introduction to be cool and formal, but circumstances had determined that they'd commence on a different footing.

Time would tell how the alteration would affect their relationship, but he was certain it would be to his benefit. He always got his way. He always came out on top.

"I am Jamieson Merrick, Earl of Gladstone," he said, causing them all to jump. He gestured at Jack. "This is my brother, Jackson Merrick."

There was an astonished silence as they evaluated Jamie—and obviously found him lacking. Slowly, they rose, but no one curtsied or bowed, and the moment grew awkward.

Fat, sluggish Percy slithered forward, feigning amity and support, but his malice was transparent and couldn't be fully disguised. Jamie felt as if they were two cocks in the ring, about to fight. Unfortunately for Percy, he would lose any confrontation, though he didn't seem to fathom that he would.

As usual when Jamie bumped into Percy, he was astounded by the strong Merrick bloodline. Their kinship was undeniable. They were the exact same height, had the same startling blue eyes and facial features, but Percy was bloated from sloth and indolence, his body flaccid, his hands soft. If Percy had ever worked a day in his life, if he'd ever known an instant of adversity, he'd have slimmed down and they could have been triplets, but for the fact that Percy's hair was blond while Jamie's and Jack's was black.

"Welcome, Jamie!" Percy struggled to keep his smile in place. "I see you've arrived. Where is your entourage? What? No company of soldiers? No phalanx of guards?" He chortled as if he'd been making a joke. "With all my money flowing into your pockets, I know you could afford to bring them."

"I have no need of a battalion to take possession of my own property. And it's Lord Gladstone to you."

The gibe was too much for Percy, and he could barely contain his rage. "Don't push your luck."

"Why shouldn't I?" Jamie goaded. "I'm the luckiest man alive. By the way, you've allowed a poacher to roam about in my woods."

"A poacher? Oh my. What makes you think so?"

"He shot at me."

"I take it he missed."

"Pity, isn't it?" Jamie chided. "He should have aimed a little more carefully. From now on, I'll be more vigilant, so he'll never have another chance."

Percy was innocence itself. "Why are you so convinced he was shooting at you? Couldn't it have been a regrettable error?"

"Is there a reason you're still here?" Jamie countered. "If I didn't know better, I might suspect you of trying to kill me."

"Dearest long-lost brother, how could you raise such a dreadful accusation?"

"I can't abide your foolishness. Even if you do away with me, Jack is next in line. We were born nearly a year before you were. Will you slay us both? Have you the nerve?"

A muscle ticked in Percy's cheek. "I wish you no harm."

"You've become a third son. Perhaps you should join the church or the army. If it would guarantee I'd be shed of you forever, I'd pay for your commission myself."

With the taunt, Jamie could see that Percy's motives were revealed, their cards on the table. Percy had arranged to have him murdered—either by his own hand or by hiring another—and Jamie wouldn't underestimate his half brother again.

Rudely, Jamie spun away from Percy, dismissing him, and focused on the others in the room—all female. Aging, senile Edith Merrick, the Dowager Countess of Gladstone, studied him vaguely, clearly not understanding who he was or what was happening.

Her daughter, Ophelia—Percy's twin and Jamie's half sister—understood completely, and her loathing wafted out. Sarah Carstairs looked as if she'd like to be rendered invisible, while Anne Carstairs was about to collapse in a stunned heap.

Where she was concerned, he seemed to have a second sense, and the sight of her blushing and squirming was so enjoyable. She was sincerely wondering if she could tiptoe to the door and sneak out undetected, but he wanted her to know that he was in charge of her and she had no secrets.

He grinned, and her embarrassment was so thorough that if she'd burst into flames he wouldn't have been surprised.

"Hello, ladies," he began. "Here is my plan. It matters not to me if you like it or no, and I won't hear any argument. You may concur and acquiesce—or you may leave my home at once."

They rippled with fury, but none dared berate him. The papers regarding the transfer of tide had been signed so recently that there'd been no opportunity to discuss their fates. They had to be terrified, and he hated to have them fretting, but at the same juncture, he couldn't have them harboring any illusions about his intentions.

"Tomorrow morning," he continued, "I shall marry one of you."

"You can't be serious," Ophelia huffed.

"Oh, but I am. I have a Special License with me, and whichever woman I select, she will be my countess. The running of the household will fall on her shoulders, and whether the rest of you are permitted to stay at Gladstone will be up to her." He glared at Percy. "You're excluded, though. Despite what my wife may decree, you will not remain."

"I have no desire to remain," Percy lied.

"Fine. I expect you to be good as your word. You may attend the wedding; then you'll go."

Percy yearned to storm across the floor and initiate a brawl, but Ophelia stopped him with a subtle shake of her head. Her rapport with Percy was interesting— were they as attuned as Jamie and Jack?—and Jamie tucked away the information for later dissection.

He glanced over at Jack. "Look at my choices, Jack. A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead. How will I ever decide?"

"You've always been partial to blondes," Jack replied, referring to Ophelia but aware that the verdict had already been rendered. "Of course, brunettes are nice. And a redhead, well, you know what they say about redheads."

"Hot in life and hot in ... other places, too."

They shared a laugh, and the ladies were incensed, but Jamie controlled their futures, so they couldn't antagonize him.

"Now then"—Jamie pretended to mull his options— "which one should I pick?"

He stepped to Edith, Percy's mother, a scrawny, older matron who had supplanted Jamie's mother. Edith was thin as a rail, as if she never ate, and her face was covered with frown lines, evidence of decades of misery. Had it been difficult, being wed to Jamie's father? Jamie was certain it had been.

"Countess." Jamie was polite, bowing in respect. He had no quarrel with her. She was slowly going mad, and she seemed as muddled as had been reported.

"Charles?" Apparently, she thought Jamie to be her deceased spouse. "Is it time for church?"

"I'm not Charles, Countess. I'm Jamie. I'm the new earl."

The cloud faded, and as lucidity flowed in, she soured. "Are you finally here, you interloper?"

"Would you like to marry again? You could be my bride, but you're a tad old for me."

"Yes, I am. Besides, one bad husband is enough for any woman."

"You won't mind if I move on to someone younger?"

"Be my guest," she said acidly.

He shifted to Ophelia. She was thirty, as were Jamie, Jack, and Percy. Since she thrived on excess, she'd put on a few pounds, as Percy had, so she was a bit pudgy around the middle. She didn't seem to recognize that she was growing chubby, and in spite of it, she was still quite beautiful, shapely and buxom, with thick, gorgeous blond hair and the Merrick blue eyes. She'd never wed, had remained single, and Jamie was curious as to why.

"What about you, Ophelia?" he needled.

She was his half sister, so his inquiry wasn't genuine, but he'd been told that she was extremely vain about her appearance, about her position as Percy's sister. She lorded herself over everyone in a cruel fashion, and Jamie would love to bring her down a peg or two.

"How do you know my name?" she queried.

"I know all about Gladstone. I made it a point to find out before I came. Considering that I was entering a den of enemies, why wouldn't I learn of you? Did you take me for a fool?"

He could read in her gaze that it was precisely what she'd assumed. She'd believed him stupid, coarse, and illiterate, and at having been so wrong in her calculations she was livid.

"No," she muttered, "I can see you're not a fool."

"She's our sister," Jack interjected. "Marrying her would be quite contemptible—even by your low standards."

"But if I was partial to her," Jamie responded, "do you suppose the church would give me a dispensation?"

"I wouldn't want one!" Ophelia insisted.

"Really?" Jamie pressed. "You wouldn't like to be my countess?"

Obviously, the prospect hadn't occurred to her, and for the briefest second, her greed shone through. Then she and Percy had another furtive exchange, and almost with regret, she declined.

"I'm sure we wouldn't suit."

"I'm sure we wouldn't, either," Jamie concurred. Having her in his bed would be like having a venomous snake.

He continued on to his true prey, Sarah and Anne Carstairs.

They'd come to Gladstone as orphaned toddlers, taken in by their aunt Edith, but for most of their lives Percy had been their guardian. They were his first cousins, with his mother and theirs being sisters, but they weren't exalted Merricks by blood, so he'd never displayed the appropriate attention to them, had never arranged for suitors, let alone coughed up the money for dowries.

With the exception of a fleeting romance Anne had had at age seventeen, the two sisters had puttered about the estate with no means to alter their circumstances.

Sarah was twenty-six and the elder of the two. She was also a beauty, with lush brown hair, big green eyes, and a curvaceous body. She was quiet and restrained, the pragmatic sister, the no-nonsense sister, and she looked very sad, as if she'd never experienced anything but heartache. If she hadn't been so patently unhappy, she'd have been the logical choice.

"What say you, Sarah Carstairs? Would you like to be my bride?"

"No, and I have no idea why you'd ask."

"Don't you? If I don't let you stay, where will you and your sister go? What will you do?"

"We're not even related. How could our plight possibly matter to you?"

"It doesn't. I'm merely allowing my benevolent side to poke through."

"Which is exactly what I expected your answer to be."

"I'm not much for flowers and poetry, so this is as chivalrous as I get. Haven't I swayed you?"

"No, but thank you for the offer."

"I'm afraid it has to be your sister, then."

He turned to Anne Carstairs, who had been his destination all along. Her pretty green eyes were wide with terror, like a frightened fawn about to bolt. At the notion of marrying him, she was horrified, and on viewing her dismay, he was incredibly annoyed.

Who was she to spurn him?

He wasn't too keen on marrying, himself, but the Prince Regent had demanded it as the price for Jamie reclaiming his heritage. The King had once been friendly with the Carstairses' father, and he'd often worried over their situation.

Jamie was a proud man with few loyalties, but he was and always had been a British subject, so he hadn't been able to refuse the royal request. Nor would he have jeopardized his chance to regain his title by saying no.

The Prince hadn't wanted Jamie to join the ranks of the aristocracy, and Jamie had had no doubt that if he'd ignored the Prince's stipulation, His Highness would have found a way to keep Jamie's future from being realized.

Marriage to Anne Carstairs—to any woman—was a small price for Jamie to pay to get what he deserved.

"You shall be my bride," he advised. "We'll wed in the morning—at eleven o'clock. I presume you'll be ready?"

He was being a complete ass, but he couldn't help himself. There was something about her that made him want to misbehave simply to see how she'd react. Besides, it wasn't every day that a fellow tied the knot. He ought to be permitted to have a spot of fun before the drudgery set in.

"Miss Carstairs?" he badgered. "Has the cat got your tongue? Or are you struck dumb by my magnificent self? I guess I'll have to take your silence as consent."

She'd been gaping at him as if he were a ghostly apparition, and the remark spurred her out of her trance.

"Marry you?" she hissed. "Are you insane?"

"People say that I am, but I'm not. Although I must admit that, if the situation warrants, I can be a beast. Such as now."

Frantically, she assessed him, appraising his dishevelled state, his unshorn hair and worn clothes. Her disdain was evident, and it rankled. While he'd learned many things about her, he hadn't heard that she was a snob.

"No, no, no!" She shook her head. "I absolutely will not marry you."

"Excellent! I'm delighted," he gushed as if she hadn't just curtly rebuffed him. "We'll discuss the details over supper."

"Aren't you listening? I won't do it. Not tomorrow, not the next day, not the day after that. I never will."

"And why is that?"

"Because I don't like you."

"So?"

"So! You're rude and overbearing, and I won't have a husband who's an arrogant lout."

"A lout?" He rolled the word on his tongue as if testing its flavor; then he chuckled. "I've been called worse. And I will be called worse, once you get to know me better. You don't throw things when you're angry, do you? I hate women who throw things."

"Are you deaf?" she snapped, exasperated. "I won't marry you!"

She appeared mutinous, and her surging temper flushed her cheeks and deepened the emerald color of her eyes. Her breathing was elevated, drawing his attention to her bosom. Her pert nipples were enlivened and visible against the bodice of her gown.

He vividly recollected how those nipples had been pressed to his chest after he'd rescued her from the stream. As he thought of how soft and sweet she'd been, he was amazed to feel his cock stir between his legs.

His wedding night would be no chore, at all!

She was actually quite spectacular, and if he weren't so adamantly opposed to matrimony, he'd have been thrilled by how affairs had played out. If he had to marry a stranger, and in a hurry to boot, she was definitely a fine choice.

Sarah Carstairs stepped forward, positioning herself between him and Anne.

"She's said no, Lord Gladstone. As her elder sister, I insist that you respect her wishes."

"Why would you deem it appropriate to butt in?"

She blanched as if she'd been slapped. "It's my duty to watch over her."

"Well, you haven't done a very good job of it so far. She's a twenty-five-year-old, poverty-stricken spinster. Unless the two of you can prevail on my charity, she's about to be tossed out on the road. Yet you dare to suppose she should refuse me?"

He studied her casually—as if he hadn't a care in the world. And he didn't really. His life had wended its way around till it was just about perfect. The only nagging remnant that remained unresolved was his burning need to know who had aided his father in sending them away when they were defenseless children. He was also anxious to discover who'd finally felt guilty enough to tell the truth about what had happened.

He wouldn't rest till he had the answer to both questions.

He turned away from the two Carstairs sisters to face the others.

"The ceremony is tomorrow at eleven," he explained, "in this parlor. Ophelia, I trust you to handle the arrangements so that it's an event my bride will never forget."

He spun on his heel and walked out, Jack bringing up the rear.

In Jamie's wake, the family was shocked to speechlessness, and as he made it to the stairs and started to climb, he heard Anne say, "Would you all excuse me?"

Then, she was chasing after him, and he was tickled to note that she had the backbone for a confrontation, though he wasn't about to quarrel with her, so he kept going.

He'd been captain of his own ship for fifteen years, and now he was Earl of Gladstone. He was never denied. His orders were always obeyed.

She would be his wife. No matter what.

 

 

Three

“Lord Gladstone! There you are! I've been looking everywhere." Anne hovered in the threshold of the master suite. She was anxious to appear meek, so she bit down on all the furious remarks she'd like to add.

After his absurd demand for a marriage, she'd wasted the afternoon trying to catch up with him. He'd deftly evaded her till it was so late that the entire house was abed. Except for him. And her. She was frazzled. "Hello, Miss Carstairs." "I'm returning your coat."

She extended it like a peace offering, but when he didn't rise to take it, she felt foolish and she laid it on a table next to her.

"Thank you. Come in."

At the invitation, she hesitated. He was grinning as if he were the cat and she the canary, as if she'd cornered him precisely where and when he'd wanted her to.

His room was a mess, with Percy's belongings only half-removed, but Jamieson Merrick had been

determined to spend his first night at Gladstone in the earl's chamber. He'd definitely made himself comfortable. He was sipping on some of Percy's finest whiskey, and he was lounged in a chair by the hearth. Even though it was a warm June evening, a huge fire blazed in the grate.

"What's it to be, Miss Carstairs? In or out?"

"In." She took a few halting steps, but she dawdled, unable to begin with what she'd intended to say.

"Well... ?"

"Today in the woods ... why were you up on the ridge?"

"Why do you think? I was surveying all I own and gloating."

"Why would someone shoot at you?"

"I'm not wanted here."

"But who would do such a thing?"

"Percy. Or some miscreant Percy hired. Aren't you glad he missed?"

"Percy has many faults, but he's not a killer."

Jamie shrugged, indicating that her opinion was irrelevant. "Shut the door."

"I most certainly will not."

"Why? Are you afraid I'll bite?"

"No. I simply refuse to be in here alone with you. I won't have the servants gossiping."

"Who cares if they gossip? We're getting married in a few hours."

"We are not."

"Yes, we are. Shut the door." "No."

"Do you ever do as you're told?" "I'm a perfectly reasonable person—when I'm dealing with reasonable people."

No doubt, he was used to being blindly obeyed. She'd heard the stories, about his daring, about his bravery and treachery. He'd been a ship's captain for many years, but he had no qualms as to who hired him. Supposedly, he worked for the highest bidders, robbing and pillaging on their behalf and taking his share of what was stolen.

Others catered to his whims. They fawned over him and groveled to please, so in dealing with her he was in for a surprise.

She wasn't in awe of him, nor did he frighten her. His attitude was all bluster, meant to intimidate, so he could snipe and bark to no avail. The very worst thing he could do was kick her out of her home, but that's what she'd been expecting to have happen. He had no hold over her; he had no way to coerce her.

He uncurled from his chair, like a cobra about to strike, and he sauntered over but walked right past her. He closed the door himself and spun the key in the lock. She was stunned, and her mouth fell open in dismay.

"Give me that key!"

"No."

He placed it atop the door frame, putting it so far above her that he might have set it on the moon. "Let me out!"

"No," he said again. "Now then, you had something to say to me ... ?"

He leaned back, arms folded over his chest, making it clear that she couldn't leave until he was ready for her to go. Her temper flared.

"Yes, I have something to say. As a matter of fact, there are several topics I'd like to address."

"Where would you like to start?"

There was a twinkle in his eye, a galling sign that he was humored by her, and she grew even more irate.

How dare he laugh at her! How dare he poke fun! Her world was crashing down around her, the only existence she'd ever known destroyed by a few pieces of paper she'd never even seen, and all he could do was snicker and tease.

"I won't marry you."

"Yes, you will. At eleven tomorrow morning."

"Who are you to strut into Gladstone and command me in my private affairs?"

"I am the new earl. And as you are here in my residence, eating my food, and living off my bounty, you'll do as I bid you—and you'll do it gladly."

"I won't do it, I tell you! I won't! I won't!"

"You're acting like a spoiled child."

He was correct. She was carrying on like a toddler having a tantrum, and she took a deep breath, struggling for calm. There had to be a way to make him see reason. She just needed to stumble on it.

"Why on earth would you wed me?" she asked more levelly. "And so suddenly, too! When you've so recently reclaimed your heritage, there must be a thousand women who would beg to be your bride. Why not pick one of them?"

"I don't want one of them. I want you."

"But you don't know anything about me!"

"I know enough."

The comment sounded like a threat, or a censure, and she wondered what he'd heard, who had spoken of her. Before traveling to Gladstone, he'd been in London. Who in the city had been so familiar that they were competent to discuss her?

"And with this vast store of information you've gleaned, you're content to forge ahead?"

"Yes. Will that be all? If there's nothing else, I'd like to return to my warm fire and my whiskey."

He was dismissing her! Just like that! As if she were a lowly scullery maid or a stranger on the street! In his authoritative universe, was this the sort of one-sided dialogue that passed for conversation? If he actually ended up pressuring her into matrimony, he'd drive her mad the first week!

"This isn't the Middle Ages," she tersely reminded him. "You can't force me."

"No, I can't, and I wouldn't presume to try."

"Then how will you gain my agreement?"

"Once you're countess, you'll decide who stays and who doesn't."

"So?"

"Your sister can stay—for her entire life. She can remain single and benefit from my charity, or if she ultimately chooses to wed, I'll dower her so she can find a husband."

"And if I'm not willing to sacrifice myself for her?" "Then you and she will pack your bags and depart." "Where would we go?"

"Wherever you wish. You'll no longer be my responsibility."

He was silent, letting the import of his cruel words sink in; then he grinned his devil's grin. He'd trapped her, and he knew it.

She would do anything for Sarah. He'd learned Anne's greatest weakness, and he planned to exploit it. How could she fight him and win?

"So you see," he stated, "I won't have to bully you, at all. You'll consent of your own accord."

"But I don't even like you."

"So? Why would your personal feelings toward me matter?"

"If I were ever to wed, I'd want to love my husband." He gaped at her as if she were babbling in a foreign language, and she stupidly added, "I could never love you."

The bounder chuckled. "Well, I'm glad we got that out on the table."

"What about you? Doesn't it bother you that you'd have a wife who doesn't like you?"

"Not particularly."

"What if you eventually discover that you hate me? You'd be stuck with me forever." "I certainly would be." "I might annoy you with my frivolity." "All women do."

"Or I might be rude to your friends." "I don't have any."

"What if I have atrocious manners or laugh like a donkey?" "Do you?"

"I often talk too much. What if I chatter like a magpie until your ears are full?"

"Then I'll order you to be quiet."

"And if I don't heed you?"

"Then I'll bind you and gag you and throw you in a closet till I feel it's safe to let you out."

"You would not."

"I might. If you were sufficiently irritating." "Would you be serious?"

He chuckled again. "You might be right. Maybe I'd merely gag you, but we'd skip the closet."

She shook her head in consternation. "I don't understand you."

"You don't need to understand me. You just need to marry me. Tomorrow morning."

Her shoulders slumped with defeat. Why couldn't she make him listen?

She'd nearly been engaged once, at age seventeen, but her beau had run off with a rich heiress, instead. Anne's heart had been broken, her confidence shattered, and it had taken years to recover from the sting of his rejection.

Afterward, she'd sworn off men, and she wouldn't be so vulnerable ever again. She couldn't bear the wild swings from giddy joy to pitiful misery. She yearned to continue on as a staid, sedate spinster, where each day was the same as the next.

Jamieson Merrick was volatile and unpredictable. He'd bring havoc and change, and she didn't want what he was offering.

"Would you really put us out on the road?" she inquired, not quite able to imagine him doing it to her.

"It will be difficult for me to establish myself as master here. People will remain on my terms, or they'll leave."

She stared at the rug, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment. "Would you ... would you at least give me some money, so Sarah and I can support ourselves while we figure out what to do?"

He didn't speak, but she could feel him studying her. The silence grew, and it underscored how pathetically she'd begged. Had he any compassion for her plight?

"Anne," he started, inappropriately using her Christian name, "would marriage to me really be so terrible? You'll live at Gladstone, and you'll be a countess. You'll be mistress of this grand house and several others. You and your sister will have everything you desire. You'll never go without. I swear it to you."

"It's not about the things you can give me."

"Then what is it? Why are you so reluctant? Are you scared of me? Do I disgust you? Are you pledged to another? What is it?"

She knew her reservations were silly, but with the exception of Sarah, she'd always been alone. No one had ever loved her. No one had ever cared about her. And she was so lonely. Was it too much to ask that any potential husband possess a shred of affection?

"It doesn't matter," she mumbled. "I just can't do it."

He sighed with resignation, or perhaps aggravation.

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

He reached out and took her hand. "Come with me." 'To where?"

"I want to show you something."

"What?"

"You'll see."

He spun and led her toward the inner chamber where his bed was located, and it loomed up at her, hinting at behaviors about which she'd always been curious but couldn't unravel. It was large and wide, fit for a king, situated on a pedestal and positioned so the exalted occupant could gaze out the window on the land below.

She was such an innocent that she'd never peered this far down the matrimonial road to where it would end, and the mysterious possibilities frightened her. She dragged her feet, trying to slow their forward progress, but to no avail. He was bigger and stronger, and he was clasping her hand so tightly. She couldn't pull away.

"I'm not going in there with you," she insisted.

"You keep telling me all the things you won't do, and I hate being denied. It annoys me."

She yanked away and sprinted for the door, but she'd forgotten it was locked. She whipped around and glared at him, but he merely grinned, delighted by her predicament.

"You're not afraid of me, are you, Anne?"

"Of course I'm not. Don't be absurd."

"Then prove it. Come into my bedchamber with me."

He took a step, then another, and she extended her arm, palm out, to ward him off.

"You stay right where you are, you scapegrace."

"No."

"Lord Gladstone!" "Call me Jamie." "No."

"Call me Jamie!"

He swooped in and scooped her off her feet, and though she kicked and hissed, she couldn't wrestle away. In a few fleet strides, they were in the other room. He walked over to the massive bed and dropped her onto the mattress.

"Lord Gladstone! Stop it!" He climbed after her, panicking her as to his intentions. "Mr. Merrick! Jamieson! Jamie!"

At her capitulation, he was very smug. "I love it when I get my way. And so soon, too."

He lunged, grabbing her and hauling her under him, his body weighing her down.

"Get off me!" She pushed at his shoulders, but the oaf wouldn't budge.

"You're very pretty when you're angry."

The comment flummoxed her. He'd said much the same when they'd been out in the forest, and his compliment had the same effect now as it had had then. She was thrilled that he found her attractive, but why would she be? Was she desperate for male attention?

"Get off me!" she repeated. "Don't touch me; don't maul me. Just let me out of this asylum."

"In our dickering over my marriage proposal"—he ignored her protest—"I've been remiss in clarifying some of the more intimate benefits you'll enjoy on becoming my wife."

"There aren't enough benefits in the world to convince me to marry you."

"When I was lying with you in the grass, in the woods—"

"I was not lying with you. You tackled me to the ground. Against my will, I might add. You're a brigand who has lunatics shooting at you."

He kept on as if she hadn't spoken. "It dawned on me that you're precisely the sort of female who ought to have a husband."

She scoffed. "What would I do with a husband?"

"You'd be surprised. Have you ever been kissed before?"

She blushed and glanced away. "Just this afternoon. By you."

"Did I kiss you this afternoon? I don't recall."

Their brief kiss had been wonderful, stupendous, amazing. He didn't recall it?

"You forgot? How could you?"

"I was teasing you. I didn't forget." The swine laughed, then sobered. "Close your eyes."

"Why?"

"I'm going to kiss you again, and this time, I'm going to do it properly."

"I don't want to kiss you," she insisted, but the breathy quaver in her voice belied her words.

"I don't care what you want. I'm going to do it anyway. Now close your eyes."

She should have argued, should have refused, but he looked so beguiling, as if he might possess some fondness for her, after all. The protective wall around her heart started to melt, and suddenly she wanted to be kissed by him more than she'd ever wanted anything.

Her eyelids fluttered shut, and she braced, expecting to be manhandled, but he didn't move, and she grew impatient. She was about to tell him to hurry when his lips brushed hers, the caress light as a butterfly's wings.

Their mouths were barely joined, and it was the sweetest, most enchanting interval of her life. She couldn't have said how long they lingered—perhaps a few seconds, perhaps an eternity—but when he drew away, she was bereft at the loss.

Gradually, she floated out of her sensual malaise and murmured, "Oh my ..."

"Oh my, indeed."

"I want to do it again."

"I think I do, too."

As he began again, there was none of the tenderness he'd exhibited prior. He claimed her in a torrid, exotic manner that was beyond her realm of experience. With his arms wrapped around her, she was crushed to him, her feminine spots pressed to his, and her breasts in particular were elated with the naughty placement. Her nipples swelled and ached.

His fingers were busy, tangled in her hair, yanking at the pins and combs so that it fell in an auburn wave. He massaged her everywhere, as he continued to plunder her mouth, and the feelings he stirred were so powerful that she was glad she was prone. If she'd been standing, she might have collapsed to the rug in a stunned heap.

His tongue flicked against her lips, asking, asking again, and she recognized what he was seeking. She opened for him, and they engaged in a merry dance that had her reeling with sensation.

He shifted so he was more fully on top of her, his torso wedged between her thighs, and of their own accord her legs widened to provide him greater access. He fit perfectly, and she reveled in the odd positioning.

To her surprise, she had an incredible knack for wicked behavior. When he clutched her hips and flexed his loins, she instantly grasped what was required and met him thrust for thrust.

What did it portend? Where were they headed?

His hand was drifting to her chest, and without warning, he slipped it under dress and corset to stroke her bosom. The agitation he created was electrifying, and she moaned with excitement. She was on fire, burning with a strange flame that was about to incinerate her with pleasure. She struggled toward it, anxious to reach its heat, when he halted and pulled away.

He glared at her as if he was angry, as if she'd done something awful, when she couldn't imagine what it might have been. He was a skilled roue, while she was a sheltered spinster. How was she supposed to know what to do? If he made one derogatory remark, she couldn't predict how she'd react.

"What is it?" she demanded. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." He appeared smug again. "Everything's very, very right. Let's get you back to your own bed."

"To my bed! Are you insane?"

"Tomorrow will be hectic, and you should rest." "But I... but we ..."

She hadn't the vocabulary for libidinous discussion, so she couldn't inform him of how ragged she felt on the inside. His ministrations had rattled loose her innards so that it seemed as if she were perched on a high cliff and about to jump off. He'd ignited a blaze, and she was eager for him to extinguish it.

He sat up, and she was irked to note that he was composed and completely unaffected, while she was frantic, confused, and thoroughly undone.

"You need to go," he said.

He tugged her up, her feet dangling over the edge of the mattress. He stood, and she should have stood, too, but her legs were rubbery and too weak to hold her.

"Why must I?" she inquired.

"Because, my little vixen, if you stay another second, I shall be overwhelmed by passion, and I'll do something I oughtn't."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that a man can become aroused to where he can't control himself." "And you are there?"

"Yes, and despite what you may have heard about me, I intend for you to have a wonderful wedding night. So let's get you out of here, while I still have the strength of will to let you leave."

She considered quarreling over his certainty that they would marry in the morning, but at the moment her head was spinning, her body in a dreadful state, and she couldn't put two coherent sentences together.

He guided her to the floor and steadied her. Then he escorted her to the door, finally opening it when she didn't wish to go.

"Would you like me to walk you to your room?" He sounded like a gallant swain. "No, I can find my way."

They stared and stared, a thousand comments swirling between them that couldn't be voiced aloud.

"We'll get on just fine," he murmured. "Don't worry so much. It will all work out."

"But I don't want to—"

He laid a finger on her lips, silencing her; then he leaned down and kissed her very sweetly, very tenderly.

"You don't ever have to be afraid of me," he whispered, and he urged her into the hall.

She dawdled, unable to depart. It seemed wrong to go, wrong to spend the night without him, but his calm expression indicated that the encounter was concluded.

Not knowing what else to say, she whirled away and went to the stairs. All the way up, his keen gaze followed her until she vanished from sight and she was all alone.

 

Four

“We have to kill him." "The bastard is like a cat. He has nine lives."

Ophelia glared at Percy, furious that he had no knack for homicide when she could have slain Jamieson Merrick a dozen times over. She'd offered to pull the trigger out in the forest, but Percy had insisted that he should have the satisfaction of dispatching Merrick to the great beyond. Yet Percy had botched it.

How difficult could it be to murder one lone man?

"Father taught you to shoot when you were three years old," Ophelia nagged. "How could you have missed?"

"Anne was there with him. She was in the way." "So? What has she to do with your failing to rid us of Merrick?"

"I didn't want to hit her by accident." "Oh, for pity's sake. Who cares about her?" "You don't understand." "No, I don't. Why don't you explain it to me?"

"It wasn't as easy as I thought it would be. I'm still getting used to the notion."

Ophelia rolled her eyes in disgust. "Why don't you get used to it a tad faster? The filthy swine is here, and the first night out he's sleeping in your bed!"

"Don't remind me."

"He's stolen your tide, your fortune, and your property, and he's had you moved to a closet that's tiny enough to be a chambermaid's. In the morning, you're to leave Gladstone forever. What will it take to shame you into action?"

"Did you see how he lords it over me?"

"Yes, and how you can tolerate his still breathing is a mystery I can't solve."

"You heard him. He knows I'm the one who attacked him."

"So? How can that paltry fact keep you from trying again?"

"But I can't fathom why he's leery of me. Aside from our initial meeting, I've been courtesy, itself. I followed your advice to be as accommodating as possible, and it had to have put him off guard."

"Obviously, my plan didn't work. He blamed you immediately."

"We must be more cautious. Now that he's made a public accusation, if he were to suddenly perish, fingers would point directly at me."

She stalked over to her jewelry box and retrieved a very small, very sharp knife. "I'll go to his room and stab him to death this very second. Just give me the word, and it's done."

She stared Percy down, daring him, challenging him, but knowing he wouldn't consent. Not right away anyway. He'd need to be cajoled, but in the end, once she'd sufficiently goaded him, he'd be more vicious than she could have imagined.

It had always been thus between them. She was the wicked one, the depraved one, and she enjoyed coaxing him to mischief he didn't wish to attempt. Ultimately, he would relent, eager to prove that he was tougher and stronger than she.

She waved the knife, pretending she was ready to march down the hall and commence the assault. Simmering with rage, Percy stomped over and yanked it away.

"Give me that thing before you hurt yourself."

"You won't use it on him. Why shouldn't I?"

"I won't have him murdered inside this house. If he is, the investigations will never stop, and I'll be the prime suspect."

"I want him to die here—where he's caused so much trouble."

"Not in the mansion. Or anywhere close to the mansion. It has to be somewhere where he won't expect it. Out in the woods or along the road."

Percy leaned in, so that she was pressed to her dressing table, the edge cutting into her buttock. She could feel his hard cock against her thigh. When they quarrelled, he grew aroused, and the more she enticed him, the quicker he'd be incited to do as she demanded.

Their incestuous lust for each other had sparked when they were very young. After their nanny tucked them in at night, Ophelia would sneak to Percy's bed, would slip under the covers and touch him all over. As they became adolescents, the attraction only increased.

Ophelia had never wasted any effort fretting over their abnormal passion. Their amour seemed normal and destined to occur, so it had been a huge surprise when their mother, Edith, had caught them and objected so vehemently. Their deviance was the reason for her mental decline, but Ophelia couldn't care less.

Percy was her love. Percy was her life. Percy was her lump of clay to mold and form so that he behaved exactly as required.

Her world had been perfect. She'd had a husband, without the bother of one. She'd had the acclaim of being a countess without having to suffer an earl's male dominion. She ruled Percy. She'd made the decisions and managed the estate; then, like an evil curse, Jamie Merrick had appeared on her horizon.

He was taking everything from her, and to top it off, he was intending to marry Anne! Anne would be placed above Ophelia. Merrick was piling on humiliations faster than Ophelia could tabulate them, and the affronts couldn't be allowed to stand.

Percy leaned nearer, titillated by her sheer red negligee. He shoved the thin straps off her shoulders, revealing her two spectacular breasts. His gaze heated; his nostrils flared.

"I'll kill Merrick for you," he vowed.

"You haven't the nerve."

"I do. You'll see."

Ophelia couldn't guess if Percy was sincere, but she wouldn't worry about it. Merrick was set to evict Percy in the morning, after the wedding, and if Percy gave up and left without a fight, Ophelia didn't want him.

Merrick's overture, where he'd suggested Ophelia be his bride, was fascinating, and she was considering his proposal. She could scare Anne into fleeing, then Ophelia would be the next logical choice, and now that she'd met Merrick, she wasn't so sure she'd mind being his wife. He looked so much like Percy—as Percy had been before dissipation had made him soft and portly—and possessed a dangerous, assertive air that Percy lacked.

She arched up, urging Percy to feast. She'd shut her eyes, would ride him and make believe he was Merrick, that the filthy pirate was taking her against her will.

Percy had just dipped to suck on her nipple when someone burst into her boudoir.

"Fornicators!" a familiar, croaking voice charged. "Fornicators!"

Percy lurched away as if Ophelia had the plague. She glared over to where aging, crazy Edith was quivering with indignation.

"Oh, for God's sake," Ophelia barked at Percy. "I thought you locked the door."

"I thought I had, too," he barked back.

"I can't deal with this. Get her out of here."

Despite his unholy proclivities, Percy was one of the few people who could still persuade Edith to do anything. With her wits so addled, she frequently assumed that Percy was her deceased husband, and she'd meekly obey his dictates, which was the only reason Ophelia hadn't smothered Edith in her sleep. Once Percy lost the ability to control her, she was a dead woman.

"Edith!" Percy said. "Why are you out of bed? You know you're not permitted to wander."

"You must listen to me! It's a sin, I tell you. A sin!"

"Edith!" he snapped more testily. He grabbed her by the elbow and escorted her out.

As he stepped into the corridor, he peered at Ophelia over his shoulder, his exasperation clear, his lust unassuaged. He was visually promising to return, and Ophelia nodded her assent, though she didn't mean it.

Edith's ranting would keep him occupied for hours, and Ophelia wouldn't wait for him.

The second he walked off, Ophelia raced to the mirror to check her hair and straighten herself. Jamieson Merrick was in the adjoining bedchamber, and it was high time she paid him a visit.

 

Hello, Miss Carstairs." At hearing a male speaking from so close by, Sarah Carstairs jumped in alarm. When Jack Merrick emerged from the shadows, she calmed a bit, but not much.

With all the changes in the house, it had been impossible to relax, and she'd finally given up and strolled outside. Apparently, she wasn't the only one who couldn't sleep.

He'd been quiet as a prowling cat, leaned against the balustrade and watching her from farther down the veranda, and he neared till he was right next to her. He was tall, six feet, and broad shouldered, and with her being just five foot six, he seemed incredibly large and manly in a fashion she enjoyed.

His size and stature flustered her, as did his attractive looks. With his black hair and piercing blue eyes, he had a rough, menacing manner that intrigued her, and she hated that she'd noticed him in such a physical way. It had been an eternity since a man had drawn her attention, and she knew she should spin around and go in, but she didn't.

"Hello, Mr. Merrick," she greeted.

"I see your insomnia is as bad as mine," he said.

"Who could rest with all this drama?"

He chuckled. "Jamie has a knack for theatrics, doesn't he?"

"He definitely does. Was he always this way?"

She was fishing for details, but too polite to come right out and ask what she was dying to know: Would Jamieson Merrick actually force Anne to marry? And what would happen both if she did and if she didn't?

"Yes, he's always had a flair for arrogance," Merrick admitted. "When we learned that he'd been born an earl, I wasn't surprised in the least The tide fit him exactly."

"There have been so many awful stories," she said. "Is he a good man?"

"As good as can be expected."

It was an enigmatic response and did nothing to ease her anxiety.

"If he marries my sister, will he be kind to her?"

"As kind as can be expected."

She scowled. "You're not being very helpful."

"This is new territory for me. If we were on a ship's deck and pillaging another pirate's bounty, I could tell you precisely what he'd do. But in this situation, I haven't a clue."

"But you know his character. It wouldn't alter merely because he's in a different location."

"No, it wouldn't."

It was the perfect opening for him to expound, but he was silent as stone, and she could barely resist the urge to reach over and shake some answers out of him.

He sat on the rail, his hips on the edge, his arms and ankles casually crossed, and he stared up at the mansion, its shape outlined in the moonlight.

"Have you always lived here?" he inquired.

"Since I was a baby. Our parents died, and my aunt Edith brought us to stay with them."

"You're so lucky," he murmured with a great deal of envy.

"Yes, I am," she agreed, not meaning it.

She didn't feel lucky. It was difficult, having to grovel to her Merrick cousins. They were selfish and cruel, and Ophelia in particular was overbearing. She relished tormenting Sarah and had wielded Sarah's painful secrets like an executioner's axe, constantly threatening to tell if Sarah didn't do as Ophelia bid her.

Sarah often felt that she was little more than Ophelia's slave, so for the most part, she tried to be unobtrusive and inconspicuous, to never bother her cousins or yearn for more than she'd been given. Years earlier, she'd been terribly greedy, but that sort of covetous-ness could drive a person insane.

She was older now—and much wiser. The consequences for insatiable conduct were exceedingly dire, so she'd convinced herself that she was contented with her lot. She would never again crave more than what she had.

"And how about you?" she queried, still delving for information. "Where was your home before you returned to Gladstone?"

"I didn't have one."

"Everyone has one, Mr. Merrick."

"Not me. I grew up at sea With Jamie. I'm a nomad. I'd give anything to have a spot like this to call my own."

"Will you and Mr. Merrick—that is, Lord Gladstone—reside here full-time?"

"I doubt it."

"But why wouldn't you?"

"I suppose we're not the type to settle down. We never learned how."

"Why would your brother fight so hard to regain this place if he doesn't care about it?"

Jack shrugged. "It's his, and he's entitled to it, but he doesn't have to like it."

"What will become of Anne? Will he take her away?" "I don't know his plans."

The comment was a bald-faced lie, Sarah was sure. She'd seen Mr. Merrick and his brother together. They were thick as thieves. When one of them inhaled, the other exhaled, their entire existence bound as if by invisible threads. Jack Merrick would have been apprised—down to the most minute detail—of what Jamieson Merrick intended to do, and the fact that he couldn't say, or wouldn't say, was extremely worrying.

It boded ill for Anne; it boded ill for herself.

"I spoke to Anne a while ago," Sarah told him. "She's discussed matters with your brother. He claims that if she weds him, he will let me remain on the property for as long as I wish."

"Did he?" Merrick was completely noncommittal.

"Is he a man of his word?"

"Occasionally."

She snorted. "You're an obnoxious tease, and I have no idea why I'm talking to you."

"What would you have me say?"

"I want you to enlighten me as to what will happen in the morning."

"How would I know? I'm not a fortune-teller."

"Will your brother keep his promise?"

"Will your sister do as he's demanded and wed him?"

"How would I know?" Sarah tossed back, and he was the one who snorted.

"Now who's being a tease?"

She was peering out across the garden, while he was still studying the house. He turned toward her, and it was the strangest impression, but suddenly she felt a powerful urge to fall into his arms and cast caution to the wind.

He felt it, too, the sense of connection flowing between them, and she could perceive his shocked awareness. She was no sheltered virgin like Anne, and she recognized what was occurring. He desired her, and the realization made her heart pound.

A dangerous and blazing need swept through her, and she was desperate to be touched by him, which stunned her to the marrow of her bones.

Her prior scandalous behavior had proven that she was possessed of a weak moral constitution and, given the slightest encouragement, she would do any reprehensible thing. She'd once been a virtual cauldron of smoldering lust, and she continually battled the scurrilous impulses. Yet a man had merely smiled at her again, and she was eager to leap to iniquity.

What was wrong with her? Had she no honor? No strength of will?

"What would it be worth to you," he asked, "to have Jamie's oath that you could remain at Gladstone?"

"Why? Could you get him to promise and mean it?"

"If I wanted to. If the price was right."

"That's the most sordid proposition any man's ever made to me."

"It was horrid, wasn't it?"

"I'm going to pretend that you had too much brandy after supper."

"It's more likely that I'm too exhausted to be circumspect." He scrutinized her, his interested gaze roving down her torso. "I notice that I didn't drive you into a maidenly swoon."

"I'm a bit beyond swooning."

"I'm glad to hear it. I can't abide a timid woman."

He shifted, narrowing the distance between them as she hadn't dared. She could feel his heat, could smell his skin.

"Are you ever lonely, Miss Carstairs?" "No," she lied.

"Well, I'm lonely—every minute of every day. And I'll be here for weeks, maybe months."

It was the very worst thing he could have said to her. She rippled with anticipation, already conjuring how they could arrange a few trysts.

"Good night, Mr. Merrick."

"Call me Jack."

He leaned in and kissed her, and at the feel of him, so warm and solid and masculine, her knees buckled. Instantly, he caught her and dragged her to him, her body wedged between his thighs, a hand fisted in her hair.

He was hard for her, his phallus igniting a flash fire of wanton desire she'd never been able to control. For a mad, wild moment, she joined in the fray, kissing him back with all the passion an unloved, untended spinster could exhibit.

She pulled and scratched and clawed. But as he reached for her breast, as he fondled the soft mound, she yanked away with a moan of anguish.

"I can't do this," she wailed. "I can't. Not again. Not ever again."

She whirled away and hurried into the house.

 

Jamie was awakened by the outer door to his suite being opened. As a female tiptoed toward him, he suffered a brief glimmer of hope that it might be Anne.

When he'd agreed to wed her, he'd scarcely considered what sort of person she'd be. He didn't plan to tarry at Gladstone, so the wife he'd leave behind had mattered very little. It could have been Anne or anyone.

But now that he'd met her, he was intrigued, thinking about her when he oughtn't, and stupidly anxious for her to consent of her own accord.

He knew her stride, though, and it wasn't her sneaking in. He'd left a candle burning, so he could see perfectly well that it was Ophelia.

Her fabulous blond hair was down and brushed out, the golden locks hanging to her waist. She was dressed in a slinky red negligee that outlined every lush curve and valley, and she'd reddened her lips to match her garment. The cosmetic enhancement made her look like a whore, but a very, very sexy one.

"Hello, Ophelia."

He scooted to a sitting position, propping the pillows against the massive headboard. Her interest piqued as she saw his bare chest and realized he'd be naked under the covers.

"Hello, Jamie," she said in a throaty, lusty way. "You don't mind if I call you Jamie, do you?"

"Not at all."

He remembered how cozy she was with Percy. He didn't trust Percy, and he trusted her even less. Had she come to shoot him? To stab him? To poison him?

"It's rather late, Ophelia. What can I do for you?"

"I've been in my room, trying to answer that very same question. What can you do for me?"

She sauntered over, her intentions clear, and he struggled to unravel her scheme. She and Percy were thirty years old, as Jamie was himself. By all accounts, she was a spinster who'd never had a single suitor, but from how she was advancing on him, she was no virgin.

How many lovers had she had? Who had they been?

She perched a hip on the mattress, a palm braced on either side of his lap. The front of her nightgown was loose, and he could see to her navel.

In a practiced move, she licked her bottom Up, by the simple gesture guaranteeing many courtesan's tricks. He was disgusted to find himself pondering how far he'd let her go before he stopped her. And he would stop her.

His standards regarding women were very low. He had no moral qualms, belonged to no church, worshiped no God, but he wasn't about to fornicate with his sister. It was a deed more depraved than he cared to attempt.

"When you initially arrived," she started, "you were throwing around marriage proposals." "Yes, I was."

"You can't seriously mean to wed Anne."

He shrugged. "She's the best choice. Sarah Carstairs is too sad, and you're too old."

"I'm the same age as you," she bristled.

"Every man likes a young, innocent bride. You know that."

"But Anne!"

"What about her? She's sweet; she's biddable. She'll be ideal."

"She's a timid rabbit! You'll eat her alive. You need a wife who possesses your same zest for life."

"And you presume that would be you."

"Of course it would be me. Have you forgotten"—she laid a hand on his belly and rubbed in slow circles— "that your roving eye landed on me first?"

"No, I haven't, but you're my sister."

"So? Affinity be damned. You're lord and master here now. You can make your own rules."

"That's my plan."

"I could be your countess," she purred. "I'd be so good at it. You'd never want for anything." "Wouldn't I?"

"No. I swear it to you." She was spectacular, oozing sexual promise and coaxing him to misbehave. "I know what you want, Jamie. I know what you need."

"Do you?"

"Oh yes."

"I'm very selfish. Whoever becomes my countess, she'll have to please me however I demand. I never permit a woman to refuse me."

"I'm sure you don't. That's why / should be by your side."

"Anne is so pretty and so amiable. I'm not certain I can be dissuaded."

"You'll let me try to change your mind, won't you?"

She crawled across his lap and tugged at the straps on her negligee.

 

Anne gave up trying to sleep and kicked off the tangled blankets. She was hot and sweaty, careening between despair and excitement. She was on fire with strange yearnings she didn't understand.

She slid to the floor and went to the window to stare out. The night was rapidly passing, and in a few hours she'd marry Jamieson Merrick. Or not.

"Oh, what should I do?" she wailed to the stars, but they had no answer.

If she accepted, Sarah would be safe forever. Anne would be a countess and as much in charge of her destiny as any female ever was.

What woman wouldn't kill for such a chance? Was she crazy to dither and debate?

She'd heard horrid stories about Lord Gladstone, but they weren't true. He could be domineering, but he was also smart and shrewd and kind and funny. He had a wry sense of humor and a wicked wit that she enjoyed very much. He was unique in every way, a handsome, dynamic, and brave individual who could be hers if she dared make him her own.

She didn't know the secrets of wifely duty, but it was clear that he grasped what was necessary. He'd ignited a spark that had her craving what he'd provide as her husband. Would it be so bad to revel in the pleasure he'd lavish on her?

"Safe forever," she murmured. "Sarah and I... safe forever." She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on the cool glass of the window. "Oh, how can I do anything else?"

With her decision rendered, she was eager to inform him right away, and she wondered if he was still awake. She tiptoed into the corridor and raced down the stairs.

If she had a more devious, more salaciously personal reason for returning to the master suite, she wasn't about to admit it. Perhaps—just perhaps—he might deign to rollick with her again, and if he suggested a dalliance, she wouldn't complain.

The door to his room was ajar, and she pushed it open and entered.

"Lord Gladstone?" she whispered. When she received no reply, she called more loudly, "Jamie?"

There was a candle lit in his bedchamber, and bold as brass, she marched over and peeked in, but the sight that greeted her was so shocking she couldn't comprehend what she was seeing.

"Ophelia?" she said, the name thick on her tongue.

Her cousin glanced over and chuckled as if she and Lord Gladstone had shared a joke; then she raised up so that her naked breasts were fully visible. Gladstone was naked, too, their nude flesh pressed together. Even the most sheltered of virgins could figure out what was transpiring.

"Anne, what are you doing here?" Ophelia smiled a sultry, malicious smile, intended to humiliate and wound. "Isn't it a little late to be roaming the halls?"

"Ophelia?" she naively repeated.

She was very hurt, very angry, and a surge of potent jealousy rushed through vein and pore. Her accusing gaze shifted to Lord Gladstone, letting him witness how he'd betrayed her, how he'd broken her heart.

"Dammit!" he cursed.

Anne whipped away and fled.

 

Five

“Where is your sister?" "I don't have any idea." Jamie glared at Sarah Carstairs, as the clock chimed the half hour, taunting him with how many minutes it had ticked past eleven.

Jack's boots pounded down the hall, and shortly he entered the parlor where the family was assembled for the ceremony.

"Well?" Jamie asked.

"She's gone. I questioned the maids and had them search her bedchamber. They say a satchel and some of her clothes are gone, too."

"Did she leave a note?"

"If she did, it wasn't in her room."

"Was she observed sneaking out?"

"One of the grooms believes he saw her, about seven o'clock this morning, walking down the road to the village."

Jamie's expression became lethal, and he focused it on Sarah Carstairs.

"I repeat: Where is your sister?"

"It sounds as if she left," Miss Carstairs replied, calm as you please.

"What was her destination?" "I haven't a clue."

Her pretty green eyes were guileless, open wide, brimming with candor, but she was absolutely lying.

He towered over her, but she wasn't intimidated, which made him even more irate. He couldn't abide obstinate females.

"Can the two of you actually presume to best me?" he hissed. "Have you any notion of what I can do to you? To her?"

"I'm not afraid of you."

He was humored by her bravado, but it was so pitifully misplaced. Here on his estate, he could behave in any foul manner he chose, and no one would gainsay him.

"You have managed to incur my wrath. I haven't the slightest concern over you or why you would deem it appropriate to intervene in my personal affairs, but pray tell, why would she dare defy me?"

"In light of your monstrous ego, I'm sure this will come as a huge shock, but she doesn't care to have you as her husband. She wasn't overly impressed by the company you keep."

Her gaze drifted to Ophelia, letting Jamie know that Anne had informed her of the debacle in his bedchamber. Under Sarah's hot scrutiny, Ophelia preened, looking smug, as if she and Jamie had intentionally set out to hurt Anne, which had been the furthest thing from his mind.

Who could have predicted that Anne would return in the middle of the night? What had she wanted? Why had she done it?

She'd seen him with Ophelia! They'd been mostly naked, and though Jamie hadn't planned on any serious mischief, and would never have dabbled with Ophelia in any way that mattered, it had appeared as if they were about to engage in a sordid session of incestuous sex.

Was it any wonder Anne had fled? Considering what she'd witnessed, what woman would have stayed?

Percy stepped forward, determined to butt his nose into the mess. "Jamie, I'm so sorry about this. I counselled her to accept the match. I can't imagine what she was thinking."

"Can't you?" Jamie sharply retorted.

"I've advised her that I can no longer support her. She understood the enormous boon you'd extended."

"Obviously, she failed to grasp a few of the finer points." He spun to Sarah Carstairs. "Pack your bags and get out of my house."

There was a stunned inhalation of breath from everyone, but no one was brave enough to speak against his harsh command, save for his brother.

"Jamie!" Jack chided, a hint of warning in his voice.

"Be silent, Jack," Jamie barked.

Sarah Carstairs peeked over to where Jack lurked like a berserker. A glance flickered between them that Jamie didn't comprehend. Then she curtsied politely.

"As you wish, Lord Gladstone."

If she was frightened about being tossed out without a penny, she gave no sign.

Insolently, she strolled by him, and as she passed, Jamie said, "Jack, before she departs, search her. Make sure she doesn't take anything of mine."

She scoffed. "Don't worry. I wouldn't sully myself."

He recognized that he was being a beast, but he couldn't remember when he'd last been so angry, and he couldn't stop lashing out.

He'd been ready to marry Anne Carstairs, to make her Countess of Gladstone, one of the most respected and wealthy women in the land. He'd been ready to provide for Sarah Carstairs—a female who wasn't even a blood relation—merely so Anne would be happy.

He'd never exhibited such kindness to anyone prior, yet the two sisters had flung his generosity in his face as if it had no value.

They were a pair of ungrateful, thankless curs!

Regal as a queen, Sarah sauntered out, but Jamie ignored her, and instead, stared at Percy, Ophelia, and Edith. They'd observed how Anne had humiliated him, and when he was surrounded by the Merricks he was standing in a nest of vipers. He couldn't let them see the smallest weakness.

"The rest of you will go, first thing in the morning."

Percy frowned, oozing feigned sincerity. "But you wanted us to attend the wedding."

"There will be no wedding."

"I could locate Anne for you," he cajoled. "I could talk to her again."

"There's no need," Jamie said. "She will be cast out, as her sister has been."

Ophelia piped up. "But Jamie, you can't mean to be rid of me. I thought..."

"Thought what?" His eyes were cold and hard.

"Wouldn't it be beneficial if I remained to aid you in the transition?"

"All of you are to go." He swept his hand, indicating mother, brother, and sister. "By tomorrow noon at the very latest."

He stormed into the hall and headed for the front door. Sarah Carstairs was in the foyer, huddled with Jack and whispering animatedly.

"Where are you off to?" Jack asked.

"I'm going to fetch Anne back to Gladstone."

"I thought you didn't know where she is."

"Oh, I know where she is, all right."

"And where is that?"

"The time is eleven forty. Do you see the vicar anywhere? He was supposed to arrive an hour ago to perform the ceremony."

"She's at the church?"

As Jack posed the question, Sarah trembled, proving that Jamie's deduction was correct.

"If not there, then somewhere close by."

"Would you like me to accompany you?"

"No. Stay here and escort Miss Carstairs off the property."

"Can't she at least wait for her sister?"

By arguing with a direct order, Jack was risking much. They were brothers, but captain and first mate, too. Usually, Jack was aware of what parts they were playing.

Apparently, Sarah Carstairs had rattled his wits—as Anne had rattled Jamie's.

"No. She had her chance to revel in my largesse, and she wasn't interested."

"But—"

"Just do it, Jack," Jamie snapped, "and be quick about it or you can return to the ship immediately. If you can't assist me in my endeavors here, then what good are you?"

"They're simply two anxious, poverty-stricken women who need your help."

"No, they don't. They've been very clear, and it's bad enough to have one of them plaguing me. I won't have two. I want her gone."

He marched out, and behind him, Sarah spoke to Jack.

"Will he hurt her?" she said.

"I don't know," Jack replied. "I've never seen him so enraged."

Jamie smirked, wondering himself what he might do. If Anne had been a man, he'd be loading his pistols, sharpening his sword, and checking the dagger in his boot.

No one refused him! No one! From the day he'd told the Prince Regent that he'd wed her, he'd felt that she was his—his charge, his chattel, his responsibility. Her skewed point of view was completely irrelevant, as Anne was about to learn to her peril.

He saddled his own horse in the stables and cantered off, the animal's hooves swiftly eating up the road to the village. Within minutes, he was dismounting outside the rectory. He proceeded to the door, rapped twice, then threw it open without his knock being answered.

They'd obviously been watching for him. He could hear frantic footsteps, hissing, and murmurs. Momentarily, the weasel of a vicar slithered in. He was all smiles and fawning courtesy, the precise sort of individual who aggravated Jamie the most.

"May I help you?" he inquired, pretending he didn't know who Jamie was.

"I am Jamieson Merrick, Lord Gladstone. You're late for my wedding. So is my fiancee. Where is she hiding?"

"Are you referring to Miss Carstairs?"

"Where is she?" Jamie demanded again, out of patience.

"I'm sure we can resolve this situation in a civilized fashion. If you would be so kind as to join me in the parlor . . . ?"

The vicar gestured to the room off the vestibule, a salon crammed with fussy furniture and objects. Evidently, he enjoyed having money to treat himself in frivolous ways.

"As I am now the earl at Gladstone," Jamie threatened, "the vicar's living in this parish is mine to dole out. I can keep you, or I can give it to another."

The vicar blanched with alarm. "You wouldn't."

"I would. Where is Miss Carstairs?"

The man was no fool. He didn't hesitate. "Second door on the right, at the top of the stairs."

"Thank you."

Jamie pushed past him and stalked up. He could sense Anne listening to his approach, could practically feel her consternation. She'd been positive the vicar would be able to reason with him.

What a ninny she was! Jamie had been raised in a world where there were no rules, where only the fittest and most brutal survived.

What force, what power, could one such as she—an indigent female, with no name or family—hope to wield?

Without pausing, without missing a stride, he entered the room, as she stood—mute and mutinous— and stared him down.

In her straw bonnet and worn traveling cloak, she looked so young, so lost, and he steeled himself against any tender feelings.

"Have you something to say to me?" he inquired.

She bit her lip, struggling as to what her response should be. His fury was palpable, and she didn't want to further antagonize him. At the same time, she wasn't sorry for running off, so she wouldn't display any meekness or contrition.

"Spit it out," he pressed, and he stomped across the floor till they were toe-to-toe.

"I can't marry you."

"Why would you presume your opinion in the matter to be requested or welcome?"

"I saw you with Ophelia!" she accused. "On the very night before my wedding! I won't have a husband who is so... so ..."

She couldn't finish the sentence, so he finished it for her. "Who's so what? Dissolute? Reprehensible? Foul in his habits?"

"If you insist on putting it that way ... yes."

"Miss Carstairs, I am a blatant fornicator. I admit it, but my personal associations are not—and never will be—any of your affair. If I choose to copulate with a dozen women, with a thousand women, it's none of your business."

To his amazement, the atrocious comment appeared to wound her.

"You care so little about me. You could be marrying anyone."

"You're correct, I could be, but in order to stabilize your life and your sister's, I agreed to have you over all others. However, it recently occurred to me that I have no idea why I sought to exhibit any compassion when it is so unwarranted and so unappreciated. Now let's go."

"Go?" She was incensed. "To where?"

"To Gladstone Manor."

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"It's not up to you, Miss Carstairs. And you need to realize that it will never be up to you."

He wrapped his hands around her slender waist and, in a smooth, brisk move hoisted her onto his shoulder as if she were a sack of potatoes. Her head dangled down his back, her feet down his front, her shapely bottom hovering next to his ear. Amid much outraged screeching and pounding, he carted her out.

"Vicar!" she cried as they passed him in the foyer. "Vicar! Help me! Stop him!"

Jamie glared at the vicar, flashing a warning.

"Ah, I think this is for the best, Miss Carstairs," the sleazy preacher said, easily selling her out to the fattest purse. "I really do. You'll see. It will all work out in the end. I'll call on you in a few days to check how you're getting on...."

He continued to prattle, but Jamie ignored him and proceeded out to his horse. He tossed Anne over the saddle and jumped on behind her. Within seconds, they were galloping to Gladstone, and she spent the short journey casting aspersions on his mother's character and hurling curses he was surprised she knew.

Once they drew up in the yard, he leapt down and pulled her down, too, and though she fought and complained, he wrestled her up to the master suite. She was like a slippery eel, all arms and legs, and her determination to escape was very intense, but his determination to prevent her was even more strident.

He slammed the door, spun the key, and stuffed it in his pocket.

"Let me out!" she seethed.

"No."

"You can't keep me here against my will." "Yes, I can."

"You're a bully, and I hate you."

She stormed to the door, rattled the knob, and banged on the wood, begging for assistance, but the corridors were suspiciously empty, and no one rushed to her aid.

She whirled around, her eyes blazing. She was spitting mad, a ferocious sight, and he could only marvel at her foolishness.

The pins were gone from her hair so that it was falling. Her bonnet and cloak were lost in the fray. The sleeve of her dress was ripped, as was some of the stitching along the waist, and he couldn't remember how the fabric had been torn.

He'd never been acquainted with a female who spurred him to such pinnacles of temper, and he couldn't decipher what it meant. She was lucky he wasn't holding a switch. If he had been, he'd have thrown her over his knee and given her a good paddling.

"I'm tired of fussing with you," he advised. "I'm not too keen on having to deal with you, either."

"Get your ass into my bedchamber."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"What are you going to do to me?" He hadn't decided, but he threatened, "I'll let you know when we arrive." "Tell me first."

"Walk in there on your own, or I shall carry you." "No." She didn't budge.

"Go!" he shouted with such vehemence that she skirted by him and raced into the other room.

He followed her, and as he entered, he was annoyed to note that she was trembling with terror. He wasn't an ogre unless driven to act like one, and she seemed to have no clue that his current ill humor was all her fault. She'd humiliated him in front of his enemies, yet she hadn't the vaguest notion of how he'd been wronged. The woman was a menace!

When the Prince had insisted they wed, he'd obviously never met her. What rational man—royal or no— would deliberately burden a husband with such a fickle, ridiculous wife?

"I demand to speak with my sister," she bravely said.

"You demand?" Jamie bellowed, causing her to cringe. "By what gall do you demand of me?"

"She's my only family, and I... I wish to see her."

"Sarah has left."

"Left?"

"The terms of our bargain, Miss Carstairs, were that your sister would stay if you married me. Your chance to secure her future passed at eleven o'clock. She was evicted thirty minutes later."

"You sent her away?"

"Why wouldn't I? Do you think this a game? Do you think we play for jest? For sport?"

She was horror-stricken, on the verge of weeping. · He felt as if he were kicking a puppy.

"But where will she go? What will she do?"

"What concern is it of mine?" he heartlessly asked, shamed by his ruthlessness.

He was a hard taskmaster, but he strutted and blustered for the benefit of recalcitrant men. At having reduced her to tears, he was disgusted with himself. What was the matter with him? Why did he allow her to goad him to insanity?

"Have you any idea of where she is?"

"No, I don't. Perhaps you should have thought of her plight a tad more carefully prior to your sneaking off."

"Oh, Jamie, how could you?"

At her use of his Christian name, he was thoroughly chastened, and his cheeks reddened with chagrin. His wrist began to ache, the old memory suddenly plaguing him, and he could barely keep from rubbing it to soothe himself.

She collapsed onto a chair, her head bowed, her hands clasped in her lap. She looked so beautiful, so forlorn, like a Madonna in a painting.

He fidgeted with dismay, trying to deduce what his next move should be. He spent such a small amount of time around women, deigning to fraternize mainly for carnal purposes, most of his encounters having been with whores in port towns. His exchanges were strictly business, money paid for services rendered.

At witnessing her anguish, he was so far out of his element that he might have been standing on the moon.

He was prepared to bestow a life of wealth and ease. Why would she reject such a boon? Why wasn't it enough?

He walked over to where she was sitting, and he reached out, as if he might comfortingly stroke her back or shoulder, but he let his arm fall away.

"We'll wed tomorrow, instead," he gently told her. "I'll have Jack find your sister and bring her home."

It was the largest stab at an apology Jamie had ever taken, yet she peered up at him and said, "Why won't you listen to me? I can't marry you."

"Can't? Can't?" .

Rage made his voice shrill. His gaze narrowed till her saw her through a red haze. A vein pounded so violently at his temple that he wondered if he was about to suffer an apoplexy.

"We'd have to speak vows before God," she explained. "You'd have to promise to be true to me, but we both know you never would be. I can't let you lie to God."

He was offering her the world, yet she balked over petty details like infidelity and God's displeasure! Was she deranged?

Appearing dignified and insulted, she rose. "I'd like to leave now. If I may?"

"If you may ..."

Like a half-wit, he was repeating every word she uttered. He studied her, bewildered and speechless and positive that her absurd feminine hysterics had driven him to imbecility.

When he'd dragged her home, he hadn't known what he'd do with her. He'd simply wanted her back where she belonged. But the fog had cleared, and his motives were gradually growing defined and imperative.

"Take off your dress," he commanded.

"I most certainly will not."

"You will remove it on your own." He grinned wickedly. "Or I will remove it for you." "You wouldn't dare!" "Wouldn't I?"

As if an alien creature had slithered inside him and seized control, he clutched the neckline of her gown and ripped it down the center. The material dropped away and pooled at her feet.

She stood before him, clad in her undergarments, and at being so rudely bared she squealed with affront and crossed her arms over her torso.

"My dress! My dress!" she wailed.

"I'll buy you a dozen more—after the wedding."

He turned and started out.

"Where are you going? You can't leave me like this."

"That's where you're wrong, Anne. I am lord and master at Gladstone, and I can do anything I like—to anyone. At this moment, I'd like you to remain here, and remain you shall."

"But I'm trapped in your bedchamber, and I don't have any clothes!"

"Precisely. I doubt you'll hie yourself off to your precious vicar in corset and drawers."

He started out again, when she snapped, "Lord Gladstone!" When he didn't halt, she implored, "Jamie!"

He stalked over and pulled her to him. At feeling her so exposed and so vulnerable, he was inundated by a wave of lust so potent that he was amazed it didn't knock him over.

"You have tried my patience," he fumed, "beyond what any normal person should have to endure."

"I've done nothing but what I felt was right, which is to keep both of us from making a terrible mistake."

At having her describe their pending union as a mistake, he saw red all over again.

"I am struggling to honor you as I should—when I am not an honorable man." He gripped her shoulders and gave her a slight shake. "I've sworn to myself that I will wait for our wedding night, when you will be my respected and esteemed bride, but I am in such a state that if you continue defying me, I will shed my vow and proceed at once as if you were the lowest sort of harlot. Trust me: You won't enjoy it."

"You would . .. would .. . ravish me?"

"To force this marriage? Absolutely." He stepped away from her. "Stop fighting me, Anne. You can't win."

He strutted out, slamming numerous doors and spinning several keys, sealing her in like a dangerous prisoner, but attired only in her unmentionables.

He tarried a few seconds, then a few more. As her shock abated, she began hammering with her fists, yelling and cursing him again, but it wouldn't do her any good. She wouldn't be able to escape, but if she somehow managed it, he'd make sure the staff knew not to aid her in her folly.

He would not fail in what the Prince had ordered, and she would not foil him in his matrimonial plan.

In the morning, they would be wed, and he would have the chance to fornicate with her as he was burning to attempt. After seeing her, with her hair down and her clothes off, the notion sounded more exciting by the minute.

He left her to her fury, and he hurried down the stairs, eager to find Jack and have him fetch Sarah Carstairs back to the manor.

 

Six

Anne slowly came awake. She was so warm and cozy that she couldn't open her eyes, but she knew she had to rouse herself. There was something important she was supposed to do, but she was too comfortable to remember what it was.

She sighed and smiled, wanting her drowsy malaise to go on just a while longer.

Suddenly, she jerked to full consciousness as she recollected that she was locked in Jamieson Merrick's bedchamber without any clothes.

The man was a demented fiend!

After he'd stomped off and left her, she'd pounded on the door till her limbs grew tired and her voice raw. Finally, exhausted and disheartened, she'd fallen onto his bed and dozed, but from the sunlight streaming in the window she'd slept all night—when she hadn't intended to.

She was about to sneak over and try the door again when it occurred to her that she wasn't alone. Someone was stretched out on the mattress behind her. Their

bodies were spooned together, her back, bottom, and thighs touching where they had no business touching. An arm was lazily draped across her waist, a hand firmly planted on her belly.

She peered over her shoulder, and as she might have guessed, Jamieson Merrick was snuggled with her, but she had no idea of when he'd returned. She attempted to ease away, but he scowled and dragged her to him, as if—even in slumber—he refused to relinquish the slightest authority over her.

She was determined to escape, though, and she shifted away, but the second she moved he was alert and grinning as if he'd played a wicked joke.

She was ready to scold and berate, but he flummoxed her when he murmured, "Good morning, my beautiful Anne."

"Lord Gladstone."

"You call me Jamie when you're angry."

"Then I'm sure I'll be calling you Jamie very soon."

He chuckled and snuggled nearer.

"Can I go now?"

"No."

She was curious if cajoling would work where arguing never had. "Please?" "No."

She could have started another quarrel, could have harangued about Ophelia, about his arrogance and conceit, but she was weary of their constant bickering.

"Have you found my sister? Is she all right?"

"She's fine. Jack was with her; she never left the house."

"Don't send her away again."

"It's up to you, Anne. Not me. Whether she stays or not is completely your decision."

She yearned to tell him what a lying swine he was. She had no actual control over Sarah's fate. Anne could do everything he asked and he might still renege on his promise not to evict Sarah, but any dispute was lost in the fog of their burgeoning intimacy.

Their bitter feud of the previous day had ended with him as the winner, but it wasn't a fair fight. Anne hadn't any weapons with which to battle him, and it was draining, going up against ail that masculine certitude. He was bigger and stronger, and he wanted events to happen much more than she did.

His plans for her seemed inevitable. Wasn't it better to simply relent?

He came over her, his torso pressing her down. His naughty fingers caressed her hip. His lips were mere inches from her own.

Down below he was wearing his trousers, but the upper half of his body was bare. Instantly, she was awash in too much male flesh, but she wasn't alarmed. When he tucked away the bluster, he could be very charming.

"You smell good," he sweetly told her.

"Do I?"

"Yes, and you look so pretty, with your hair down and the sun shining on your skin."

He dipped under her chin and nuzzled her nape. He hadn't shaved, so his face was rough and scratchy, and it tickled, causing goose bumps to cascade down her arms.

He positioned himself between her thighs, and he flexed his loins, the odd gesture making him groan with what could have been pain or a strange sort of ecstasy.

"I'm always filled with lust first thing in the morning," he said.

"So it's a common condition that has nothing to do with me personally?"

"Oh, it has everything to do with you, my dear scamp."

She smiled, a glutton for his compliments.

"After we're wed," he continued, "there'll be no separate beds for us. We'll sleep together every night—so that I can wake up with you just like this."

He kissed her, one of those long, lush embraces he was quickly teaching her to relish. With his anatomy crushed to hers in several delectable spots, she should have pushed him away or at least pretended maidenly outrage, but she didn't want to object. The moment was incredibly precious, and even though he was a bully and she was furious with him, she was bowled over.

He was fussing with the laces on her corset, and as he yanked it away without her protesting, she wondered where her moral fortitude had gone. Whenever she was with him, he swiftly goaded her to iniquity, and he was so clever at tempting her that she forgot to complain or resist.

The thin fabric of her chemise was scarcely a barrier to any advance, and his hand easily drifted to her breast. He fondled the soft mound, gently squeezing the rigid nipple.

She couldn't understand how she'd failed to note that the rosy tip was so sensitive. It seemed to be directly connected to her womb, and with each pinch and tug her insides wrenched in an enchanting way.

"You've never had a lover, have you, Anne?" he asked.

"Of course not. When would I have?"

"So no man has ever touched you here but me?"

"No."

"Not even your beau, when you were seventeen?" She scowled. "How do you know about him?"

"I know all about you. I made it a point to know." "But... why?"

"I had to find out if I was getting a shrew."

"And since I'm not a shrew, you must have been relieved." When he didn't jump in to agree, she added, "I'm not a shrew. Right?"

"Right." His reply was hesitant, and he sounded as if he hadn't quite decided.

"Could you be a tad more certain?"

He laughed, redeeming himself. "You're definitely not a shrew."

"Would it have made any difference to you if I was?"

"I don't think so."

The comment was ominous, as if there'd been negotiations over her, and she wasn't too keen on his having private information to which she wasn't privy. She'd meant to inquire as to how he'd learned of her, who had investigated, and why, but he grinned again, and she was swept up, unable to pull away or fight his potent allure.

He was smug with his possession of her, and as he shoved away the bodice of her chemise, baring her bosom, she was lost. Any argument or discussion was incinerated by the heat he generated.

He gazed at her, rippling with male appreciation.

"My, my, Anne, you are so lovely."

He bent to her inflamed nipple and sucked it into his mouth, and he nursed as a babe would its mother, but with none of the tenderness. He was rough and demanding, his tongue and teeth nipping and laving her.

He played with both nipples, his lips tormenting one while his fingers worked at the other. He shifted back and forth, back and forth, driving her to such a fevered pitch that she was dizzy, and she started to fret. It had to be dangerous for something to feel so good.

"Jamie, stop. Oh, do stop."

"No."

"You never listen to me."

"I would—if you ever said anything worth hearing."

"Someone might come in. They'll see."

"No one will see," he insisted. "Besides, you spent the entire evening in my bedchamber, so you're thoroughly ruined. If a maid walked in just now, you'd be doing precisely what she'd expect."

"Ruined," she muttered with dismay. In the quiet ambiance of the lazy morning, she hadn't thought about the consequences of her being imprisoned in his room. By locking her in, he'd effectively quashed any refusal to wed.

If she spurned him now, she'd be tarred and feathered and run out of the neighborhood by an angry mob.

"There's no fixing the past, my little soiled dove. You'll have to marry me."

"You're a beast, Gladstone."

"Yes, I am, and don't you forget it. And you're to call me Jamie when we're alone. Don't forget that, either."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"I do. I absolutely do."

"I can't abide a surly woman. Don't pout."

He commenced again, and for a brief second she imagined herself rearing up, tossing him off, and strutting out in a huff. But with her downfall complete, it seemed so futile. His mouth was at her breast, and every inch of her—down to bone and pore—was elated.

Though she was loathe to admit it, she was possessed of a previously unobserved licentious character, and he knew that she was. He'd lured it to the fore, had teased and cajoled until she wished to do nothing but lounge in his bed and romp with abandon.

With resignation, and a bit of petulance, she joined in, drawing him close and beginning to explore. She'd never viewed a man's body before, and she was intrigued by the differences. He was so firm and muscled, so strong and solid. She wanted to touch him all over, and she glided her hands over his shoulders and arms, excited by the feel of his hot skin.

To her amazement, he had hair on his chest. It was thick across the top, but it narrowed to a thin line and disappeared into his trousers. She kept riffling through it, never tiring of how soft and springy it was. He enjoyed having her massage him, and occasionally he'd tremble with delight. The realization—that she had the power to titillate him—made her more bold, which spurred him on, too.

His hand was moving down in slow circles, dropping lower and lower. She was too overwhelmed to fully focus on his destination, and before she could clearly discern his intent, he'd eased up the hem of her chemise so that her privates were bared.

He caressed her between her legs, his fingers tangled in her womanly hair. She tried to protest, tried to wiggle out from under him, but he merely held her more tightly.

"Jamie?" She felt as if she were standing on a cliff and he was about to hurl her over. "What are you doing?"

"I'm making love to you, as a husband does to his wife."

"I don't like it." "You will."

"But... but... are you sure this is how it's done?" "Very sure."

"It seems awfully . .. physical." "It is that." "But..." "Hush."

He slid two crafty fingers inside her, and they fit perfectly, as if they'd been created for just that purpose and no other. To her ultimate chagrin, her loins flexed, eagerly trying to drag him deeper.

He smirked. "You are so right for me."

"What do you mean?"

He started pushing in all the way, then withdrawing. The tempo quickened, his gestures more precise.

"Let me show you something."

She was terrified about what it might be. "No. Don't show me anything. Whatever it is, I don't need to know."

He dabbed at a spot she'd never noticed prior, and it set off such a maelstrom of sensation that she arched up, hissing and spitting at him to desist, but he pinned her down and kept on. His thumb flicked out, again, again, until she shattered into a thousand pieces.

She cried out in wonderment and spiraled to the heavens, while he cradled her throughout the tumult. As she reached the peak and floated down, he was smug and chuckling again.

"What was that?" she asked when she could speak.

"Female sexual pleasure."

She glared at him. "Did I scream?"

He considered for a moment. "Yes, I would say that definitely qualified as a scream."

"Do you suppose anyone heard me?"

"Just the entire household—and maybe a few folks down in the village, too."

"Aah! What will they think?"

"They'll assume either that I'm beating you or that you're loose."

She blanched in horror. "I'll never be able to leave this room!"

"Poor me."

She gazed at the ceiling, mortified, but already secretly wishing they could do it again. Was it addicting? Could she become obsessed?

"Can it happen more than once?"

"Yes. Whenever you're in the mood. But only with your husband."

"We're not married."

"A minor technicality, I assure you."

"So ... we could do it in the marital bed?"

"All the time." He nestled close and whispered, "Wouldn't such bliss be worth any price?"

At the carnal promise in his voice, she shivered.

She had a vision of herself, locked in his bedchamber—unwashed, unfed, unclothed—content to loaf and wait for him to inflict his base amusements. She saw herself chasing after him, begging him to proceed. She'd offer anything, would relinquish anything, would do anything, if he'd give her more of the same.

"You're going to kill me, aren't you?" she complained. "That's your plan. For some reason, you've been sent here to drive me crazy, and if that doesn't work, you'll slay me with ecstasy, instead."

"What a way to go." He sighed like the arrogant man he was.

"I hate you," she said again, which made him laugh.

Disgusted with him, with herself, she rolled onto her side and curled into a ball. He rolled, too, and spooned himself to her. With her ardor waning, the air was cold, and he pulled a blanket over them.

She yawned. "I'm so tired."

"Why don't you nap for a bit?"

"I just might."

"When you awaken, if you're very, very nice to me, I'll do it to you again." "I'll never survive it."

He snuggled himself to her bottom, and as he took a slow, languid flex, he shuddered as if he was in pain.

'Tonight, after the wedding," he murmured, "I'll show you the rest."

Despite her lethargy, her body rippled with greedy anticipation.

 

Seven

Jack Merrick stared out the window toward the park that sprawled behind the mansion. Sarah Carstairs had just walked by, headed into the woods with a basket slung over her arm. Without pausing to wonder what he was about, he hurried outside to follow her.

Their encounter on the verandah had been one of the more peculiar episodes of his long and sordid life, and he was fascinated by her.

She was beautiful and educated, serious and proper, her background the total opposite from his own, so he wasn't certain how he'd ended up kissing her with such wild abandon, yet he wasn't sorry.

The taciturn, pragmatic woman was no aging spinster, whiling away at her cousin's country estate. She was hot-blooded and eager. Jack had dabbled with whores who hadn't been as adept as she, and he was extremely curious as to how she'd come by her carnal experience.

If she was a virgin, he'd eat his hat!

Where was she going? Was she off to meet a lover

for a clandestine romp? The prospect disturbed him in ways he didn't care to acknowledge.

What sort of fellow would tickle her fancy? Probably some urbane, snooty aristocrat. He'd have persnickety manners and an annoying, upper-crust hit to his words.

Jack hated the man already.

He hastened after her, keen to keep her in view. If he stumbled on her with a paramour, he wasn't sure what he'd do. He couldn't imagine spying like a pathetic voyeur, but he had to know what she was about.

The path meandered by a dilapidated cottage. The roof sagged; the window glass was missing, the holes covered with old boards. Sarah stopped in the weed-strewn yard and called out to someone. The door opened.

Jack had been expecting a grown man, so when a boy of nine or ten years emerged, he couldn't make sense of the sight. The lad was slim as a rail, half-starved, and dressed in clothes that were little more than rags.

His insolent expression was the same one Jack had observed on children throughout his youth. It was a look of accusation and distrust. He and Jamie had gazed at adults with the same sullen, bitter rage.

Sarah approached the boy, moving cautiously, as if he were a rabbit that might bolt down a hole. Chatting quietly, she set her basket on the ground, and it appeared to be loaded with food.

Jack crept nearer. He couldn't hear them, but he could see them clearly, and he was stunned to note the obvious: Sarah was talking to her son. She had to be. With his thick brown hair and big green eyes, he couldn't be anybody else.

A thousand questions spiraled through Jack's mind. When had this happened? How had it happened? Where was the lad's father? And most important, why was the child living in a hovel and being regarded as a dirty secret? Had Sarah been too ashamed to claim him?

The possibility incensed Jack. Every injustice he'd ever suffered from his own father rose up to torment Jack till he felt as if he were choking on the boy's appalling circumstance. It too closely resembled his own, and he lurched away, too disconcerted to continue watching.

He rushed to the manor, his temper at a slow boil. He'd kissed her once, and for some stupid reason he'd convinced himself that he understood her character. On learning that he didn't know her at all, he was so angry that he couldn't think straight.

Like a deranged lunatic, he proceeded directly to her bedchamber and stormed inside. He pulled up a chair and sat down to wait for her. It was wrong to enter, wrong to accost her over such a private matter, so he couldn't decide on the exact purpose of his mission.

Eventually, she trudged down the hall and slipped into the room. She collapsed against the door, pressed to it as though she might fall if she didn't have its sturdy support. She sighed with dismay and rubbed a weary hand over her eyes.

"Hello, Miss Carstairs."

At the sound of his voice, she glared at him but didn't seem particularly alarmed.

"What are you doing in here, Mr. Merrick?"

"I wanted to speak with you."

"What? You couldn't do it down in the front parlor?"

"No."

"Well, just because your brother abducted my sister and is holding her hostage, don't presume that I'll stand for the same disgraceful treatment." She reached for the doorknob. "Get out, or I'll shout the house down."

"I'll go when I'm damned good and ready."

"Don't curse at me. I've had enough of you Merricks to last a lifetime. Where is my sister?"

"Still locked in my brother's suite."

"What is he doing to her?"

"I wouldn't hazard a guess."

When it came to females, Jamie had no scruples. Any wicked conduct was likely.

"When will he let her out?"

"When the vicar arrives to perform the ceremony. Not a moment before."

"So the wedding is on?"