"Of course it is. Why wouldn't it be?"

"I won't permit that womanizing reprobate to marry my sister. I don't care how high-and-mighty he's turned out to be. I'll never agree."

"It isn't up to you." Jack was tired of discussing Jamie, tired of having his older brother be the only topic on anyone's lips. He switched to the sole subject that interested him.

"What is your son's name?"

Panic flared, but she shielded it by tugging off her bonnet and hanging it on a hook in the wardrobe. She dawdled, straightening clothes that didn't need straightening.

"I have no idea who you mean," she contended.

"Don't you?"

"No."

"I saw you, Sarah. Out in the forest."

"You were following me? How crass." "What's his name?"

"Oh, you must be referring to Tim." She'd sufficiently composed herself that she could face Jack, and she tried to be nonchalant, but she couldn't quite manage it. She went to her dresser and pretended to search for something in the drawer. "His mother died recently, and he doesn't have any other family, so he's all alone. I take him food occasionally."

"Liar," Jack hissed, and he uncurled from the chair and stalked over to her.

He leaned in, trapping her against the dresser.

He should have known she'd had a child. While she looked very much like slender, willowy Anne, Sarah had a mother's body. She was pleasingly rounded, with the type of lush bosom and curvaceous hips that only came after childbirth.

"How could you abandon him like that?" Jack charged.

She shoved him off. "If you're caught in here, there'll be a big ruckus. I'm not in the mood for it."

"Tell me about him!" he bellowed.

"Leave it be, Jack. It's none of your affair."

She skirted by him and flitted to the other side of the room, the bed between them as if it were a barrier that could keep him from asking the questions he was desperate to have answered.

"How old is he?"

"Nine."

"So you were sixteen when you became pregnant. Where is his father? Why wouldn't he marry you?"

"I have no details about his parentage. He was a foundling, given to a widow to raise."

With each volley, Jack was advancing on her, and she'd wedged herself into the space between the mattress and the wall. Her only escape would be to crawl across the bed.

"Who is his father!"

"How would I know?" she insisted through clenched teeth, her temper spiking in direct proportion to his own.

"And why is that?" Jack cruelly taunted. "Have you had too many lovers to count?"

She slapped him so hard that he staggered. His ears rang; his eyes watered. He stood like a fool, rubbing his burning cheek, clearing his muddled head.

"Go away," she said with a quiet dignity that shamed him.

"I'm sorry; I'm sorry. I'm being an ass. Forgive me."

He reached out to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, but she batted it away.

"Go!" she repeated, tears threatening to fall.

"Who forced you to renounce him? Your aunt? Your cousin Percy?"

She was stoically mute, but he could see in her expression that he'd hit close to the mark. Her aristocratic relatives had been scandalized, had coerced her disavowal, and from her distraught state it was obvious the situation was eating away at her.

He couldn't fathom the attitudes of the wealthy and privileged. He'd come from a rough world, where babies were the natural result of illicit deeds. A child wasn't forsaken simply because the parents had behaved badly. An unwed mother wasn't shunned or cast out. It was the affluent who punished their pretty girls for doing what was normal, for having base drives that were impossible to ignore.

"Sarah," he said, reining in his fury, "Jamie wouldn't give two figs about that boy's pedigree. Let's talk to him. You can publicly claim Tim, and bring him into the house."

"Are you mad?" she responded, dropping the pretence. "I could never claim him."

"But... why? Who cares what others would say?"

"I care! Me! I've lived here all my life, and the only thing I have to show for it is my good name."

"So Tim should continue to suffer merely because your neighbors might gossip about you?"

"You don't understand anything," she wailed, and she spun away from Jack, but the only place she could go was farther into the corner. She burrowed herself against the wall as if she yearned to become part of it and disappear.

"Then make me understand," he coaxed, and he stepped in and snuggled himself to her.

"Anne never knew," she whispered miserably. "They sent me away for a whole year, and they told her I was at finishing school. She believed I was off on a lark, having a holiday. She'd write me these chatty letters, and -I'd have to write back and pretend that... that..." Her voice trailed off. "If she found out now, I'd die of shame."

"Is Tim aware that you're his mother?"

"No, and I could never tell him. How would I explain that I reside in this grand mansion, but he's not welcome in it with me? How could I admit that I dumped him off on a stranger as if he were a pile of rubbish?"

"You can't leave him out in the woods to fend for himself."

"Oh, I don't know what to do."

The yoke of her secret was too much to bear, and she started to cry. Jack hated that she was so sad, and he turned her so he could take her in his arms.

He stroked her hair and murmured soothingly. Gradually, her tears slowed, and he reclined on the bed and brought her down with him. They stretched out together, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

For a long time, he held her, and she was so still that he wondered if she was asleep, so she surprised him when she mumbled, "I'm not a whore—if that's what you're thinking."

"The prospect never occurred to me," he fibbed.

"I was young and foolish. He said he loved me, that we'd wed."

"Why didn't you?"

"He was engaged!"

"What a cad."

"I certainly thought so."

"Did he marry her?"

"Oh yes. She was very rich."

"Couldn't Percy have provided you with a dowry so he'd have had you instead?"

"I'd never have dared ask for one. Besides, even if Percy had agreed, it could never have been enough money."

"She was that rich, was she?"

"That rich," Sarah echoed, sighing, as if it had happened the previous morning rather than a decade earlier. "Do you ever wish you were someone else? That you could utter a few magic words and change who you are?"

"I've wished it every day of my life."

"So have I."

She peered at him, her beautiful green eyes poignant and glum, and he felt as if he were drowning, as if she'd bewitched him so that he could never do anything but exactly what she wanted.

"Lean on me, Sarah. I have wide shoulders. I can carry your load for a while. I don't mind."

The room grew very quiet, the interval terribly intimate, and he had to kiss her. It seemed that he had no other choice.

While there were now papers that said he was son and brother of an earl, the pesky detail couldn't alter who he was. He'd been orphaned, then kidnapped onto a ship where he'd been beaten and starved and worse. He'd seen and done things that were so foul the average human being would have perished just from witnessing them. He'd fought and won and survived.

He wasn't—and never would be—the type of man a lady like Sarah Carstairs could esteem, but he couldn't ignore the passion that sizzled between them, nor could he ignore the connection he felt.

At the moment, she was hurting, so her defenses were at a low ebb. It was inexcusable to take advantage, but he decided to proceed anyway. He'd dally with her for as long and as often as she'd permit, though he wouldn't behave as reprehensibly as Tim's father. Jack knew how to revel without her ending up pregnant.

He started in kissing her, and she was too weary to complain or quarrel. He was on top of her, his tongue in her mouth, his fingers busy at her bosom. As he caressed her, she moaned with resignation and delight, but when he slipped under the bodice of her gown to clasp her nipple, she stopped him.

"I can't, Mr. Merrick."

"I have my hand on your breast, Sarah. You should probably call me Jack."

She chuckled, but woefully. "I can't, Jack. I don't want this from you."

"It's not a matter of wanting, Sarah. It's a matter of needing. Let me please you. You'll feel better."

There was nothing to distract a person from his troubles like a raucous bout of fornication, so he began again, being forceful and insistent. She clutched at him as if she were dying, as if only he could save her. She pulled and hugged and rasped, digging her nails into his scalp, into his skin, but he didn't care. He wanted her to be heedless of her conduct.

Almost against her will, her hips responded, meeting his in an even tempo that seduced and promised. His cock was so hard, pushing into the soft cushion of her skirt, that he was amazed he didn't spill himself in his trousers like a callow boy.

He reached under her dress, fumbling up her leg like an uncouth oaf. He couldn't delay, couldn't woo her or display any finesse. He was simply desperate to touch her in her most private places.

He shoved two fingers inside her, being rough, being demanding, and with no more stimulation than that, she came in a potent orgasm. She spiraled up and up, until he wondered if her pleasure would ever end, but as soon as she finished, she was crying again. She squirmed away and showed him her back.

"My God," she muttered, "what's wrong with me?"

"There's naught wrong with you, Sarah. You're very fine."

"I should have been born a harlot," she said. "It's the only thing I'm good for. Just lust and lust and more lust."

Suddenly and without warning, they were swimming through some very deep waters, and he didn't understand what direction they were headed. He couldn't remember when he'd last had a partner who was so quick to find her release, but he didn't suppose he ought to mention it.

"You have a sexual temperament," he cautiously ventured. "There's nothing the matter with it."

"Nothing!"

"The people who say a female shouldn't enjoy mating are a bunch of pious idiots."

"But wouldn't you think I'd have learned something from the past?" She rose up on an elbow and glared at him over her shoulder. "You're the first man who's looked at me in an amorous way in an entire decade, and I fell into bed with you before I'd even gleaned permission to use your given name."

"And I didn't mind a whit."

"Well, / mind. I must be mad."

Wretched and furious, she flopped down.

Their brief foray had left him aching. He nestled himself to her bottom, taking a slow, leisurely flex, but she moved away, making sure there was plenty of space between them and indicating—at least in her opinion—that the tryst was concluded.

"Would you go?" she urged.

He didn't budge, and he thought about arguing, but he could tell that words would be pointless.

"Don't be sad," he said.

"I'm not sad," she claimed. "I'm mortified at my degenerate nature. Now I'd appreciate it if you'd let me fume in peace."

He climbed to the floor, and he stood, staring at her, dawdling like an imbecile, then gave up and sneaked

out. His phallus was in terrible shape, and he hoped there was a competent whore in the village. In light of Sarah's fickle disposition, he imagined a throbbing rod would become a constant, so he'd best get acquainted with every trollop in the county.

 

Eight

“It's for the best, Anne." "How can you say that?" Percy Merrick gazed at his cousin and bit down a caustic retort. Didn't she comprehend that she had to marry Jamieson Merrick? How could she think Percy would let her refuse? Stupid girl.

He liked Anne much more than was wise, but it wasn't in a brotherly manner. No, his interest was purely carnal. He'd often considered sinister behavior toward her, and he couldn't understand why he hadn't forced the issue. She was completely beholden to him, and he should have demanded a higher price for his benevolence.

"Won't you help me, Percy?" she begged.

"No, Anne, I won't."

"But you've always been my friend, and you're my only male relative. Why won't you intervene?"

"You're being absurd to spurn him—especially when you've spent the night in his room."

"I didn't do anything!" She threw up her hands in exasperation. "How many times must I tell you? I tried to run away, so he locked me in to keep me in the house. That's all there was to it."

"He was in there with you! Am I to assume that the two of you were merely playing cards and drinking tea?"

"We were sleeping! At least, I was! I don't have a clue what he was doing."

The moment the words left her mouth, she blushed bright red as she realized that many dastardly things could have been done to her as she'd slumbered, and Percy fumed as he speculated as to what some of them might have been.

Jamie was notorious for his rampant fornications. In London, he'd cut a swath through the female members of High Society. No man's wife had been safe.

Had he already raped Anne? Had he taken her virginity as he'd taken everything else from Percy?

"The maids advise me that he ripped your gown from your body and they had to deliver new clothes."

Idiotically, she contended, "It was an accident. My dress ... tore."

He laughed in a snide way, indicating she had no secrets. "What were you required to do that convinced him to let you out?"

"Nothing! I had to swear that I wouldn't sneak off again before the ceremony."

"And will you?"

"Well..."

"Do you imagine the servants haven't started talking? Do you suppose the neighbors haven't heard of your shame?"

She studied the rug and fiddled with her skirt. "I hadn't thought."

"No, you hadn't. You must listen to me, Anne. We tried to bring the vicar back this morning, but he can't come till tomorrow. You have a reprieve for today."

"I don't want a reprieve; I want a rescue."

"You're being silly. Any woman in the land would give her right arm to be in your shoes. You're marrying an earl; you'll be a countess."

"I don't want to be a countess. I've never wanted that."

"Jamie could have searched for years for a bride, but he chose you. You should be grateful."

"I am grateful, but it's all happening too fast. I hardly know him, and I... I... don't love him."

"Bah! Love has nothing to do with marriage. He's offering you a home and a fine position here at the estate. You should go to your room and reflect on your fortunate situation."

"He scares me. I'm afraid of him."

"Your fears are unfounded. I recognize that he's a bit rough around the edges, but you'll get used to his odd habits. Every bride feels the same doubts before her wedding."

"Really?"

She oozed sarcasm, and she was glaring at him so haughtily that she was lucky he didn't slap her. Where had she come by such temerity? Why couldn't she sympathize with his predicament? Did she presume she was the only one with problems?

Though it infuriated him, Percy agreed with Ophelia that he should pretend to be a gracious loser. It kept people off guard. Should a diabolical mishap befall Jamie, the finger of blame had to point in other directions, but Percy was sick with all the unctuous courtesy that was necessary in order to deflect suspicion.

"Yes, really," he sneered. "An approaching wedding is cause for jitters."

"And you know so much about it because ... ?"

"I know so much about it because—as you said yourself—I'm your only male relative, which means I decide for you. And I've decided that you shall wed the new earl." He leaned in, menacing her with his greater size, with the authority he'd always had over her. "Am I being clear enough for you?"

She shrank away, looking very frightened, and he reveled in her anxiety. He'd never been sufficiently stern with her, and at seeing how easily she was intimidated he rippled with an excitement that was almost sexual.

"I understand perfectly," she sulked. "Good. Now I'm weary of your complaints. Leave me be."

She hovered, aggrieved and wanting to persist with her pleading, but at viewing his stony expression she scampered off in a snit, and he frowned at her retreating form.

He might have temporarily lost the status of being an earl, but he'd been in charge of her for most of his life, and despite what Jamie assumed to the contrary, Percy would continue to command her in any fashion he desired. In fact, he'd do more than command.

Anne had never known her place, had never acknowledged the power Percy wielded over her, but she needed to be reminded. It would be so satisfying to creep into her bed, to steal her virginity—if Jamie hadn't already taken it. Jamie would get a ruined bride, which would be a little wedding gift from Percy.

Percy might even impregnate her, so that she'd give birth to Jamie's heir, but the babe would be Percy's. It was such a sweet picture to ponder.

If Jamie had actually proceeded, if he'd actually lain with Anne, then Percy would betray him in other ways.

Jamie wouldn't stay at Gladstone. Eventually, he'd go back to London, to his mistresses and his ship and his obscene parties. His brother would go, too, and Anne would be left behind. She'd be responsible for the house and accounts, and she wouldn't dare deny Percy access to what had been his. She hadn't the nerve.

No matter how futile the lawyers declared his case to be, Percy didn't ever intend to relinquish Gladstone. He would regain his position; then he'd avenge the humiliations Jamie had inflicted.

Anne was the key. If she tried to refuse Percy anything, she would finally learn how ruthless he could be. With Jamie in London, she'd be alone and unprotected. Percy could do whatever he wished to her, and she'd be too terrified to inform Jamie of what was occurring. Jamie was such a hothead that he might murder Anne for any cuckold.

His smile grim, he realized that he was aroused just from contemplating how he'd ultimately best Jamie. Desperate for immediate tending, Percy went to locate his sister.

 

Sarah, come here," Ophelia ordered as Sarah tiptoed by, obviously hoping to be invisible. She trudged to a halt. "What do you want, Ophelia?"

"I left some mending for you in your room. I need it by tomorrow."

There were a dozen maids who could complete the task faster and better than Sarah, and Sarah hated sewing. They both knew it.

"I'm busy, Ophelia."

Ophelia chuckled, relishing the game Sarah occasionally played but could never win. "How is Tim? I haven't seen him around lately."

It was a subtle threat, one that Ophelia used constantly and to great effect. She could and would do anything to Tim without a moment's hesitation, and Sarah had no doubt as to whether Ophelia was vindictive enough to follow through.

For an entire decade, Ophelia had taunted Sarah with the prospect of the accidents that could befall her son, and Ophelia was so humored by Sarah's pathetic bond to the little bastard. Her fondness had allowed Ophelia to garner ceaseless boons, with Sarah unable to decline or fight back.

"The mending, Sarah," Ophelia urged. "When can you have it ready?"

Sarah gnawed on her hp, a thousand rude retorts festering, begging to be spewed; then, like an obedient slave, she nodded. "I'll see to it right away."

"You do that."

Sarah slithered off, and Ophelia smirked, enjoying her petty torment.

Feigning nonchalance, she sauntered down the hall to wait near the salon where Anne was sequestered with Percy. As Anne emerged, looking distraught and furious, Ophelia was simpering with fake sympathy.

"Anne, what is it?"

"Nothing."

Ophelia stepped in, blocking Anne's access to the stairs. Before Ophelia talked to her brother she had to hear Anne's side of the story.

With so much at stake, Ophelia had to ensure she was in the middle of all the intrigue. If she wasn't, how would she ever orchestrate the conclusion she sought?

"Tell me," she demanded.

"It wouldn't interest you, and I'd rather not discuss it."

Anne was still smarting over her catching Ophelia in bed with Jamie. Not that there'd been time for anything relevant to transpire. Anne's inopportune appearance had seen to that, but she wasn't aware of how rapidly Jamie had ended the tryst after she'd fled.

His behavior was enough to make Ophelia suspect he had some scruples.

"You might as well spill it," Ophelia needled, "or I'll go ask Percy and find out his version. I can side with him—or not."

Ophelia could be an ally or an enemy, and her relationship with Percy could be used to benefit or harm. Though Anne was loathe to parley, she considered her options, then tucked away her sour attitude.

"I tried to convince him that I can't marry Lord Gladstone."

"Don't call that pirate Lord Gladstone to my face or I'll rip your tongue out."

"Fine then. He insists that I have to marry Jamie."

"But you don't want to?"

"No."

Ophelia shielded her livid reaction. She wouldn't openly work against Percy, but she'd cut out Anne's heart and feed it to the chickens in the yard before she'd let Anne become countess.

"Did Percy say why you should proceed?"

"He thinks that I'm lucky Jamie picked me and that I should be glad."

"He would," Ophelia falsely commiserated. "He's not the one who will have to live with that barbarian after the ceremony."

"Precisely, but he couldn't fathom why I'd have reservations. Since I was ... ah ..." Embarrassed, Anne cleared her throat. "Since I was forced to spend the night in Jamie's bedchamber, I suppose there's no other result that's possible."

"I can't believe Merrick locked you in like that! I begged him to release you," Ophelia lied, "but the man is insane. He listens to no one."

"I know. I'm scared of him. He chose me, but it should have been you, instead. You're much better suited to be his wife."

Ophelia scowled. Had she just been insulted? She studied Anne, trying to decide, but Anne looked innocent as a cherub painted on a church ceiling.

"Have you spoken with your sister?" Ophelia inquired.

"I was about to."

"I noticed that she's friendly with Jack Merrick. Perhaps she could persuade him to reason with his brother on your behalf."

"That's a marvelous idea."

Anne flitted off, and Ophelia tarried, wondering how the universe could have conspired against her so completely. Was there no justice in the world?

Ophelia had plotted and planned, had managed and directed, while Percy had reveled in his London pursuits. She'd never been able to make him grasp how the estate paid for his amusements. He only wanted to play—and to have money available when he needed it.

She had kept the coffers full of cash, and now Anne might wind up in charge of everything! It was a tonic so bitter that Ophelia couldn't swallow it.

She went to the stairs and climbed, eager to fret and fume in the privacy of her boudoir. She'd occupied the countess's suite for nearly two decades, having evicted her mother from it at the earliest opportunity. It was her sanctuary, her haven, and she hastened toward it, lost in thought, when her mother leapt out from the shadows.

Ophelia jumped a foot.

"Mother, what are you doing?"

"I'm watching you," the demented shrew said. "I'm watching you and him."

"You're crazy as a loon," Ophelia hissed. In case there was a servant lurking who might overhear, she leaned closer and whispered, "As soon as this mess with Merrick is resolved, I'm sending you to an asylum. I intend to select the most disgusting one I can find. Do you understand me, Mother?"

"The Lord will protect me, you spawn of Satan."

Ophelia laughed. "Satan didn't spawn me, Edith. You did. It's all your fault."

"Not my fault," Edith declared. "I knew nothing! Nothing!"

"Are there any bats left in your belfry?"

Ophelia walked on, and Edith began spewing Bible verses, which set Ophelia's teeth on edge. Edith had always been peculiar, but she hadn't really fallen into the abyss of madness till the day she'd stumbled on Ophelia and Percy immersed in a particularly raucous session of fellatio.

She hadn't been the same since.

The old lunatic was growing more deranged by the second, and she should have been committed eons ago. Ophelia had no idea why she was delaying the inevitable, but something had to be done.

She slipped into her bedchamber and was about to lock the door to keep Edith out, but she stopped, stunned to discover a bevy of maids packing her belongings.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded.

Appearing guilty and terrified, the group curtsied as the most senior among them stepped forward to explain, "It's Jamieson Merrick, Lady Ophelia. He commanded us to prepare the suite for Miss Carstairs."

"He what?" Ophelia was so enraged that she was surprised she didn't collapse in a swoon.

"He made us do it, milady," another added. "He told us, himself. We didn't see as how we could refuse."

"Was the impertinent swine kind enough to clarify where he's moving me to?"

"Off to the other wing, to the room next to your brother's."

She was being demoted to a spot reserved for the lowliest, most unimportant guests.

"He said you'll be leaving shortly anyway," the maid continued, "so we should keep out some things for tomorrow but pack the rest. We picked out several gowns for you, but if milady would like to ... to—"

The woman recognized that there was no proper way to end the sentence, and mercifully, her idiotic voice screeched to a halt.

Ophelia stared them down, worried that the top of her head might simply blow off. Then she spun and stormed into the hall, bellowing, "Percy! Percy! Where are you? I need you!"

Her mother was still fluttering about. "Damnation, Ophelia! Damnation! The fires of Hell are nipping at your heels."

"Shut up, Edith!"

Ophelia swept by, looming like a Valkyrie, shouting and carrying on till someone pointed her toward Percy's tiny bedroom located on the far side of the house.

How had this happened to them? Was there no humiliation Jamieson Merrick would fail to inflict? Was there no limit to the indignities Percy would tolerate?

She stalked in like a tempest on the wind, only to find him brooding in a chair and feeling sorry for himself. She slammed the door so hard that the windows rattled.

"I want him dead!" she seethed.

"What's he done now?" Percy's tone was placating, as if he were speaking to a bothersome child.

"He's taken away my boudoir and given it to Anne!"

"Without asking me first?" he stupidly said. He couldn't accept that he no longer had any authority.

"It was my room! Mine! You gave it to me, and he's taken it away."

He chuckled meanly. "Are you finally riled? If he's seized something you cherish, then you know how I've felt for months. You've lost a petty bedchamber, but I've lost everything else."

"I want him dead," she repeated. "Today!"

"And how am I to accomplish it? Have you a magic gun that will automatically hit its mark?"

"I don't care how you do it, just do it."

"Don't order me about, Ophelia. I've told you I won't slay him anywhere near the manor."

"Then I'll deal with it myself," she wildly vowed. "I'll stab him or pour some poison into his soup."

"You won't. / shall have the pleasure of murdering him—but in my own good time."

"You've persuaded Anne to proceed with the wedding!" she accused.

"Of course I have."

"I won't have her as countess. I won't! I won't!" "Darling, Ophelia, I believe the matter is out of your hands."

"If she becomes countess, I'll kill you. I swear it." "Your threats are tiresome, and I'm weary of listening to you. Why don't you put your mouth to better use?" "You wish to fornicate? Now?" "Yes. Lie down on the bed." "No."

"I command you to lie down." "No," she said again.

His passions were inflamed, and his gaze dropped to her bosom. After her race through the house, her pulse was elevated, and her breasts strained against her corset. Their sex was most enjoyable when he was enraged, so as he grabbed her arm and threw her onto the mattress, she fought just enough to make it difficult for him.

They'd been lovers for so many years that she often felt they were naught more than an old married couple, and their wrestling brought a rough edge to their ardor that pushed it to new heights.

He held her down, but she scratched and clawed at him, so he captured her wrists and pinned them over her head.

"If you won't murder him," she taunted, "then I'll marry him, myself. I'll never let Anne wed him and rise above me."

"You would marry my bastard half brother?" "Yes—if that's what it will take to keep Anne in her place."

He was aghast, and she was tickled to have astounded him. He always thought he knew best, always thought he had all the answers. Well, if he didn't make a move, and soon, she would make some moves of her own. And they wouldn't include him!

Her remarks pitched him to a higher level of ferocity. He yanked at her skirt, and impaled himself, and he took her like a harlot, like a scullery maid caught in the kitchen late at night.

He loosed her wrists to clasp his hand around her throat, and as he thrust, he began to squeeze, tighter and tighter, so that she struggled to breathe. It was the most dangerous, most erotic thing they'd ever done, and as his lust spiraled, she grew frightened, worried that—for once—he might not stop, and her fear enhanced the excitement.

He came with a bellow of fury, his seed shooting into her, and as his flexing ceased, he lifted his palm from her neck. She sputtered and gasped, drawing air into her lungs.

"You'll never have him as your husband," he vowed.

"Then you'd better kill him for me, hadn't you?"

She shoved him off and stood, disgusted and seriously questioning why she kept on with him. Had she finally goaded him sufficiently that he'd respond as she wanted? Would he prove his mettle?

If he didn't buck up and assume control, she knew how to spur him on. She'd dabble with Jamie until Percy was provoked into a jealous, homicidal frenzy, which would solve all their problems.

She grinned, deciding that the prospect of seducing Jamie again wasn't repugnant in the least.

 

Edith watched Ophelia storm into the hall, swaying her hips like the whore she was. Ophelia couldn't have been more sinful if she'd worked in a brothel.

Edith smirked, relishing Ophelia's distress at losing the bedchamber she'd stolen from Edith so many years earlier. Edith had suffered constant disregard from her dreadful children, and it was her deceased, loathed husband who'd entrapped her.

In his Last Will, he'd granted total authority to her wicked son, leaving Edith unprotected and at Ophelia's mercy.

She'd never had any power or influence, and she'd endured her horrid plight for three decades. Was it any wonder everyone deemed her mad?

But silent revenge was so sweet.

Ophelia was gradually realizing that her whoring days were coming to an end. Percy had been brought low, too, rendered as insignificant as a man ever could be, and Edith gloated over every degradation Jamie Merrick imposed.

Unnoticed and unobserved, she sneaked after her daughter, aware of where Ophelia had gone and what she'd do when she arrived.

Edith halted outside Percy's door, and she pressed her ear to the wood, eavesdropping as her two children argued, then copulated. She usually let them finish, humored to have them add to their list of sins. The more they transgressed, the greater their damnation, the more potent God's ultimate wrath would be.

"You'd better kill him for me, hadn't you," Ophelia nagged, and Edith had had enough of their antics.

She flung the door open. Her daughter was over by the window, her breasts bared, her gown askew. Edith's slothful, evil son was on the bed, his clothing messy, too, his wormy little phallus hanging out of his trousers.

They both jumped to cover themselves so that she couldn't view what she'd seen a hundred times previous.

"Fornicators," Edith charged, using the taunt that angered them the most.

"Oh, for pity's sake!" Ophelia seethed.

"Will you be ready to meet your Maker? What lies will you tell Him? Do you think they'll save you?"

"Get her out of here," Ophelia hissed to Percy.

Percy sighed and rose. "Come, Mother. You know you're not allowed in my room."

"Fornicators," Edith hurled again as Percy led her out.

"I've had enough, Mother," Ophelia threatened. "Do you hear me?"

"I hear, but I am not afraid," Edith replied. "The Lord will look after me."

"I doubt it," Ophelia said. "He has to be as weary of your harangue as I am. He'll let me do whatever I want to you, and He'll be glad about it."

"Ophelia! Mother!" Percy snapped. "Shut up!"

He dragged Edith out, as Edith smiled, delighted with her afternoon's effort.

 

Nine

“What are our plans?" "I don't know yet." » "Will we return to London?'

"I'm sure we will." "How soon?"

"Probably directly after the wedding. Why?"

Jack studied his brother, wondering how he could be so cavalier about Gladstone. Jack was tired of traveling. He yearned to settle down, to give up his nomad's life, but Jamie couldn't wait to get moving again.

"When you go," Jack said, "I think I'd like to stay here."

Jamie gaped at him as if he'd pronounced that he enjoyed diving into shark-infested waters. They'd always been together, just the two of them against the world, and Jack couldn't imagine an existence where Jamie wasn't smack in the center of it. Maybe Jack would join him later, but for the moment, Jack wanted to hold still.

"Of course you won't stay at Gladstone," Jamie scoffed. "You'll come with me—as you always have in the past."

"To do what, Jamie? What's in London that's so bloody important?"

"My ship. The crew. The women, the food, the parties, the gambling. What would you suppose?"

"So what? You have all this now." Jack swept his hand from horizon to horizon. "Forget about the ship and the crew and the rest of it."

They were loafing on the verandah, talking and sipping whiskey. The sun had set, and the sky was an indigo blue, the green colors of the park so vibrant that it hurt to look at them. As far as the eye could see, the land was Jamie's. It was rich and fertile, the sort of place that represented the very bedrock of British wealth and class.

What more could he possibly want? What more could he possibly need?

"Forget about the ship! Are you insane?" Jamie asked. "What would our men do if we didn't come back? And the ship! You know what it means to me. Should I just abandon it?"

Jamie had never had anything to lose, so nothing scared him; nothing worried him. He was the luckiest individual Jack had ever met, and he was unafraid of any fate, even death, itself. He'd almost been killed so many times that the notion of him actually succumbing was laughable.

They didn't remember how they'd been spirited away from Gladstone or how they'd ended up at sea. Their first memories were as indentured boys, with no history, with just their names to link them to what might have been if they hadn't had a despicable, callous brute for a father.

The adults who'd populated their lives were blackguards with no ethics or scruples. Jack and Jamie had been beaten and starved and worked to the bone, betrayed, tricked, and abused. The few relationships they'd established were fleeting, so they'd stopped caring, had stopped reaching out, deeming it better to be alone.

After years of struggling to survive, Jamie had latched onto their ship like a drowning man. He'd been a brash, wild adolescent, and he'd won it with a toss of the dice. He'd cheated to be allowed in the game, then had wagered what he didn't have to steal it from a drunken captain.

The ship was their foundation, their only constant after a life of chaos and turmoil.

For their sailors, they'd hired the most ruthless criminals, picked for their ability to complete any task without balking. The men were unusually loyal, their allegiance purchased with the large amounts of money they made following Jamie, who would risk any dangerous venture if the price was right.

"Give them each a farewell stipend," Jack suggested, "and let them hire on with other crews. Then sell the ship. It would bring a pretty penny."

"Never."

Jack could read his brother's mind. Deep down, Jamie didn't believe he'd get to keep Gladstone. If they awoke some morning and discovered it had all been a peculiar whimsy, the ship would be all they had.

"Then have the crew carry on without us," Jack said. "We can remain here—where it's safe and easy—and they can send you your share of the loot."

"What fun would that be? Are you hoping I'll die of boredom?"

Jack stood and went to the balustrade, staring out at everything he'd ever wanted. As a cold and hungry boy, he'd dreamed of this very spot, though he was positive he hadn't seen it as a baby. So how could he have pictured it so vividly?

He couldn't have described where it was located, or how he'd ever get to it, but throughout his turbulent childhood, the vision had haunted him.

When he and Jamie had first turned off the lane and ridden up the drive to the manor, it had been the strangest impression, but Jack had recognized every fork in the road, every tree in the woods. Now that he'd arrived, he didn't wish to ever leave.

"Get down," Jamie suddenly murmured, cutting into Jack's reverie.

"What?"

"Get down!"

Jack ducked as he heard a loud bang, as a gun flashed out in the forest. In the increasing dusk, he'd resembled Jamie enough to make a good target, but the person who'd shot was too far away to do any damage. Still, it was disturbing to be fired upon.

Jack straightened and raised a wry brow. "You might have warned me a little sooner."

"That's the second attempt in a matter of days. Would it be remiss of me to point out that you're failing in your obligation to watch my back?"

Jack scrutinized the shrubbery, searching for movement. "Should I have a look?"

Jamie considered, then shook his head. "No. I'm sure he's gone. And it's too dark to see anyway. We'll check his tracks in the morning."

"Is it Percy?"

"Most likely." Jamie shrugged, casual as if they'd been discussing the weather.

"I wouldn't have thought he'd have the nerve."

"He might have hired a local miscreant."

"That sounds more like it." Jack gazed at Jamie over his shoulder. "How can you be so blase? Don't these attacks bother you?"

"Yes, but what would you have me do? Shall I call him out? Beat him to a pulp? Have him whipped in the public square? What?"

"He's a pompous ass. Why not? What's stopping you?"

"It's all mine now, and he's about to lose it forever. Why not let him vent his wrath?"

"What if his aim improves? If he accidentally kills you, when you're not paying attention, it will really piss me off."

"If he manages it, you have my permission to avenge me."

"I will—if I'm not busy."

"Thank you, Brother. You're too, too kind."

They both laughed, a companionable silence growing.

"There's a young lad, about ten or so," Jack abruptly said, when he hadn't realized he was going to speak up. "He's living out in the woods in one of the shacks."

"And ... ?"

"He's an orphan; he reminds me of you and me at that age. I'd like to invite him to the manor, maybe teach him to work in the stables. That way, I can be certain he's fed and clothed."

"Fine. I don't give a shit what you do around here. You know that."

Jamie's flip reply was typical of his slapdash attitude, so Jack was used to it, but on this occasion, he was uncharacteristically annoyed. He couldn't figure out if he was so touchy because the boy was Sarah's or because he hated to see another child suffer as they had suffered.

Jamie's nonchalance was so aggravating. When would something matter to him? Would there ever be anything in the world that he loved?

Jack understood that Jamie's detachment was a result of their wretched upbringing. They'd learned— early on—to establish no ties, but their destiny had changed. Jamie could afford to care and bond. It was all right for him to let down his guard.

That's what Jack intended. He would let down his guard, would trust and hope. He was excited to remain at Gladstone, where he had such a sense of belonging. How could Jamie fail to feel their powerful connection to the estate?

"I don't want to go back to London," Jack asserted.

"So you've said. But I've already decided, and I won't argue about it."

It was the tenor of their relationship that Jamie was the boss, that Jamie chose what they would do and when. Jack had never yearned for a path different from Jamie's, so they'd never bickered. When their existence had been so precarious, one place had been much the same as another, so it would have seemed silly to protest.

Jack would do anything for Jamie, even lay down his life, but he wouldn't do this.

"Not this time, Jamie. When you go, I'm staying behind."

Jamie was aghast, as if the spot were Hell on earth. "You're mad."

"No. I want this. I've always wanted this." "You have not."

"I have," Jack insisted. He'd never told Jamie of his verdant dreams of Gladstone, hadn't mentioned how appropriate it had felt when they'd ridden up the lane.

"I belong here," Jack persisted.

"You might, but I don't, and I'm heading out as fast as I can."

"If you find it so distasteful, why did you fight so hard to claim it?"

"Because it's mine, and I wasn't about to let an ass like Percy keep it."

"And that's the only reason?"

"Yes. Besides, I like flaunting myself in London as the earl. I like forcing our father's snooty friends to see me every day. I like having them fume over the fact that I've returned and they can't make me disappear as they did when I was a baby."

"I don't care about any of that. Neither do those horrid old men."

"Well, / care!" Jamie's near shout rang out across the yard, his words echoing off the hills, magnifying the depth of his outrage.

"It's such a waste of energy, Jamie," Jack murmured quietly. "You can't fix what they did to us."

"And your plan is better? You want to lie to yourself and pretend that these despicable people will eventually accept you. Do you actually think they weren't aware that our mother was pregnant with us? You think they didn't comprehend what had happened when we were sent away? They were silent for three decades! I say: To hell with them and this stupid property! They can all rot!"

"I want to get married," Jack blurted, surprising himself with the declaration. He hadn't known that he craved it so desperately.

"Married! What's come over you?"

"I want to settle down. I want to quit traveling."

Jamie stared at him, pondering whether to continue the quarrel or switch to persuasion and coaxing.

"Stay then," he finally conceded, "if that's what you wish."

"It is."

"I'm thirty years old. I guess I can go on alone. It won't kill me. I don't need you tagging after me as if you're my nanny."

"I'll run the place for you. I'll keep it solvent."

"You do that. You be my gentleman farmer."

"And I'll be here, waiting for you, if you want to come home."

"I have no home, and if I started to assume I might like one, it wouldn't be at Gladstone, where such treachery was inflicted on me."

"What about Miss Carstairs?" Jack asked.

"What about her?" Jamie replied.

"She'll expect to build a life with you, to have you be a real husband. She'll want babies to mother."

"What would I do with a gaggle of brats?"

"Once you speak the vows, you'll owe her children," Jack pressed. "Last I heard, it's impossible to sire them from London. I'm quite sure you have to be in the same location as your bride."

"I don't care about her or what she wants. Why would she have any impact on what I choose to do?"

"She'll be your wife!"

"So?"

"Jamie! What a thing to say!" Jack threw up his hands, his exasperation beyond bearing.

His brother was vain and self-centered, callous conduct his normal condition, so his heartlessness was nothing out of the ordinary. But Jack liked Anne Carstairs very much. She'd be a fine spouse for Jamie. With her calm, cool demeanor, she might be able to curb some of his wilder tendencies. Jamie might even grow fond of her, might form an attachment for a change.

"You know I'm only doing it because the Prince made me," Jamie said.

"And if he hadn't?"

"I'd never have picked her."

Jack winced. Jamie meant that he hadn't wanted to ever marry. He thought he'd be a terrible husband, and Jack agreed, but Jamie could be so harsh in his manner.

"Swear to me that you'll never tell her your true opinion."

"How can it matter? She'll be my wife, so she'll simply have to get over it."

"For a man who supposedly knows everything there is to know about women, you're an idiot."

"Why? Merely because I won't pretend to be a romantic fool?"

"Precisely. I just hope to God she never learns what a cold bastard you are."

 

Anne stood in her room, brushing her hair, when movement out in the forest caught her eye. A distant bang sounded, and she saw a flash. It was eerily reminiscent of the first day Jamie had come to Gladstone, and it was so late in the evening. No one would be hunting.

Was someone shooting at him again?

While she would have happily strangled him with her own two hands, she couldn't imagine him actually being killed, and she was aggravated that the assailant had tried again.

Jamie claimed it was Percy. Could it be? Would Percy dare?

She wondered if, from her vantage point, she might see who it had been. She walked over to the window and leaned out, when she realized that Jamie and Jack Merrick were on the verandah below, their voices drifting up.

If it had been another crack at an assassination, they didn't seem bothered in the least. They were the strangest men she'd ever met. Nothing fazed them. Not even attempted murder.

They were such a magnetic duo, both so tall and dark and handsome. They exuded power and authority, but with a rough edge honed through decades of struggle. She couldn't help watching them, especially when she'd had so few chances to observe them together.

Jack Merrick asked, "What about Miss Carstairs?"

She grinned, delighted that they were talking about her and curious as to what Jamie might say. She was certain she'd hear if not something romantic, then something pragmatic and reasonable as to why they'd be a good match. But of course, as soon as Jamie opened his mouth, she remembered why eavesdropping was such a bad idea.

"What about her?" Jamie answered, his tone dismissive and cruel.

The conversation went downhill from there. Anne was barraged by snippets of it—gaggle of brats...

I don't care about her or what she wants... the Prince made me—and she nearly plugged her ears to shut out the awful remarks, but she couldn't quit listening.

"I'd never have picked her," Jamie said, and the brutal comment cut her to the quick.

While she hadn't expected much from the marriage, she'd assumed fondness would grow, that friendship would blossom. If she bore him his gaggle of children, would he even stay around to be a father to any of them?

A vision of Ophelia, naked and in his bed, blazed in Anne's mind, and she saw years of misery stretching ahead. If he was truly repulsed by her, then he'd never develop any regard for her feelings. There'd be a line of strumpets to humiliate her, and he'd be gone for lengthy periods when she would worry about where he was and what he was doing.

Neighbors would titter behind her back. The servants would assess her with veiled pity. She'd be a laughingstock, the lowly girl who'd put on airs to wed the new earl who'd never wanted her.

Devastated, she collapsed against the sill, and she'd forgotten she was still holding her brush. It slipped from her fingers and tumbled down to the verandah, where it bounced across the smooth stones.

The twins were jumpy, ready to fend off an assault. Jack whipped around with fists clenched, and Jamie leapt to his feet, gripping the hilt of a knife he carried strapped to his waist.

They glared up the wall to where she was staring down on them. As they grasped that she'd overheard every vile word of their discussion, she was mute and horrified. For an eternity, they were all three frozen in place.

Ultimately, Jack Merrick muttered, "Dammit!"

Jamie said nothing but continued to study her, his expression wiped of any emotion. If he was chagrined, if he was embarrassed, if he was feeling anything, at all, not a trace of it showed.

Eventually, a corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk or a smile, and he shrugged as if he couldn't figure out what the fuss was about. Casually, slowly, he turned from her, sat in his chair, and reached for his whiskey.

His brother whispered something, and Jamie responded just as softly. As if she'd ceased to exist, neither of them looked at her again, and she lurched away from the window, desperate to be hidden by the shadows in her room.

 

Ten

Anne slipped a note under Sarah's door, explaining where she'd gone and why, then tiptoed out of the house and headed for the stables. She knew how to saddle a horse, how to ride one, and she was delighted to have the chance to steal one of Jamieson Merrick's prized animals.

It was very late, but she'd have many hours to travel before anyone discovered she'd fled again. It was stupid to leave. Stupid and dangerous and pointless, but she was leaving anyway, and she wouldn't seek refuge with that idiotic vicar, either.

Despite how it often seemed, she and her sister weren't alone in the world. Their mother's childhood friend still resided in Rudwick. The moon was up, and Anne could be there by morning, safely concealed where no one would think to look. She'd be able to reflect and plan, and she'd have an older woman's guidance as to what she should do.

She was scarcely acquainted with Lord Gladstone, and he'd already broken her heart a dozen times over. If she wed him, what would become of her after a month? After a year? She was too gentle a soul to marry him. He'd kill her with despondency. It would be a horrible death, too, and she refused to suffer it.

She reached the edge of the verandah and had nearly made it to the stairs when the smell of a burning cheroot gave him away.

"Hello, Anne. Fancy meeting you here."

She sighed with resignation. "Hello, Lord Gladstone."

As he moved to block her path, she envisioned herself knocking him down, running like a deer, leaping on a horse, and galloping away, but it would never happen. He wouldn't let it happen.

"You've packed a bag. Are you going somewhere?"

"No," she said, dejected. "I'm not going anywhere, at all."

"Good. I'd hate to have you miss our wedding tomorrow."

He took her satchel, and she relinquished it without a fight.

"How did you know I'd be here?" she inquired.

"It's the funniest thing, but I told my brother you'd sneak off again—most likely in the middle of the night—but he insisted that you'd never be that foolish." He paused, his words sinking in so she would recollect that she had no power. "Isn't it interesting how quickly I've figured out how your mind works?"

"You know me well."

"I certainly do. Where were you hoping to hide?" "It doesn't matter now."

"Yes, it does. You must inform me, so that when you next try something this ridiculous, I'll have some idea of where to start searching."

Silent and furious, she glared at him, and he shrugged off her pique.

"Fine then. I'll just ask your sister. She's not as stubborn as you are." He turned her toward the house. "It's chilly out. Let's get you back to your room."

She didn't bother to argue. Like a felon, marching to the gallows, each step conveyed her to the inevitable end of the line.

She trudged into her new, grand bedchamber, the one from which he'd evicted Ophelia without considering the ruckus it would cause. He'd simply pronounced that it was the countess's boudoir and since Ophelia wasn't the countess, it would no longer be hers.

Ophelia was in a snit about the change, and Anne hadn't been too keen on it, herself, but she hadn't been able to dissuade him. She was ensconced in the huge suite, located far from her sister, and feeling like an impostor.

He strutted in behind her, and she didn't attempt to keep him out. If he wanted to enter, he would. If he wanted to lock her in, or stay and guard her, he would, and there'd be nothing she could do about it.

In her haste to depart, she'd left a candle burning, so she could easily see her way to the dressing room. The large space was designed for a countess to use, and Ophelia—with her fashionable and extensive wardrobe—had filled it to bursting.

In comparison, Anne's four gowns looked lonely and ragged.

She hung her bonnet and shawl on a hook, then spun to him. He was over by the door, feet braced, his cheeks dark with stubble, his eyes impossibly blue. He appeared devilish, or maybe like a fallen angel who'd come to earth to entice and torment her.

"Are you even sorry?" she queried.

He was as oblivious as she might have predicted he'd be.

"Sorry for what?"

"For hurting me! You don't care about me, and you don't wish to marry me. At least have the courage to say so aloud, and I won't continue harboring these absurd delusions."

"You imagined I... I... cared for you?"

"Silly of me, I know."

"I've never cared for anyone—except my brother." "I'm sure that's true."

He crossed to her so that he was close enough to touch her, the tips of his boots slipping under the hem of her skirt, and he studied her as if he'd never seen her before.

"I don't understand you," he finally muttered. "I'm giving you everything a woman could ever want—for no reason, at all—yet you're so miserable."

"Why did the Prince make you marry me?"

"The King was a friend of your father's."

"Was he? I wasn't aware of any connection."

"He's always been worried about your plight."

"If I don't wed you, will you still get to keep the estate? Was the transfer contingent on our union?"

"No. It's mine no matter what I choose to do."

He said it with a straight face, so she couldn't discern if he was lying or not. No doubt, he was adept at fabrication. A man couldn't rise as he had without being ruthless and untrustworthy.

"Then why would you agree?"

"It was important to the Prince, and it won't kill me. There seemed no basis to refuse."

It was such a cold remark, and it made her feel so insignificant, so absolutely ordinary. Couldn't he have left her with the illusion that he'd found something about her to be special?

"If we wed—," she began.

"When we wed," he interrupted.

"Have it your way," she replied, capitulating. "When we wed, what kind of life do you expect we'll have?"

"What kind of life?"

"Yes. Have you given any thought as to how we'll carry on? Does it concern you in the slightest?" "No."

She chuckled, but wretchedly. "You are so brutally frank, which isn't what I need at the moment. Couldn't you humor me? Couldn't you pretend we can make it work?"

"Of course it will work. I'll tell you what to do, and you'll do it. We'll get on fine." "Is that how you run your ship?" "Yes."

"So that's how you'll run our marriage?"

"I never learned any other way. It's easier when everyone knows who's in charge."

"You're such a bully. I hate that about you."

"What would you have me say, Anne? I'm not the sort to court you with flowers and poetry."

"No, you're not."

"But I swear to you that you'll never want for anything, that you'll be safe, that you'll be fed and sheltered. Why can't that be enough for you?"

"I just always assumed my husband would love me. It's a dream that's dying very hard."

He sighed and took her hand, their fingers linked as if they were sweethearts.

"Come with me."

'To where?" "Does it matter?" "I guess not."

He led her into the earl's suite and proceeded directly to his bedchamber, where the king's bed sat in the middle of the floor.

"Has anyone ever explained to you what happens in the marital bed?"

"No."

"Then some of what we're about to do may seem very strange."

"Why? What are you planning?"

"I'm going to bind you to me, so you can never leave."

"How?"

"How would you suppose?" "Can I talk to my sister first?" "No." "Please?"

"She can't help you."

"But I don't want to do this."

"I don't care," he said, though gently. "I have to put an end to all your nonsense. We're to speak the vows tomorrow anyway, so we're just pushing ahead with the inevitable."

"You'd take me against my will?"

"If you wish to look at it like that, you're entitled. I'd rather have you disposed and amenable. It will be more enjoyable for you."

"I'll resist," she bravely contended.

"Will you, Anne? Will you really?"

She never would, and as he'd mentioned, their marriage was inevitable. He was determined to have it transpire, and he always got his way. She would have to submit now, or she would have to submit the following evening after the ceremony. She had no power to alter events.

"If I fought you," she asked, "could I ever win?"

"No. Turn around," he commanded, and like a puppet on a string, she obeyed.

He fussed with her hair, pulling at the pins and combs, so that it fell to her hips in an auburn wave; then he unbuttoned her dress and stripped her. Her garments dropped away, piece by piece.

In a thrice, she was bared to her chemise, and he snuggled himself to her back, his arms encircling her, his palms flat on her belly. He nibbled at her nape, taking soft bites along her neck and shoulder.

She shivered, goose bumps cascading across her skin, and he smirked.

"Are you cold?" he inquired.

"No."

"Do you know what I think?" "What?"

"I think perhaps you like me a tad more than you can admit."

He was probably correct, but she'd never fan his inflated ego by agreeing. He was too vain by half, and if he thought she was infatuated, he'd be more unbearable than he already was.

"You were worried about how we'll carry on," he said. "Well, this is how. Every day and every night, we'll be together like this. It's not so terribly bad, is it?"

"Not so far," she allowed, refusing to be anything but surly.

He laughed and urged her onto the mattress. She didn't hesitate, for if she defied him, he'd simply lift her and toss her where he wanted her to be.

She lay on her stomach, her face buried in the pillows, listening as he removed some of his clothes, then climbed up, too. He stretched out on top of her and clasped her flanks. He flexed his loins against her bottom, taking several slow thrusts that made her stomach flutter with butterflies.

"Will it hurt?" she asked.

"Will what hurt?"

"I heard some women gossiping once. They said it hurt."

"They were wrong. It feels very, very good."

He slid to the side and drew her to him. His shirt was off, and the front of his trousers was loose, a few buttons undone, the placard dangling lazily.

At the sight of so much exposed male flesh, she was giddy and reckless. Her body was goading her to try things she'd never imagined, things she couldn't comprehend. She wanted to touch him all over, wanted to lick him and kiss him all over. She was frantic with the need of it.

"There will always be one rule between us," he murmured, dipping to nuzzle under her chin. "What is that?"

"When we are alone like this, anything is permitted." "Anything?"

"Yes. Whatever you say or do, it's all right. Do you understand?" "No."

He smiled. "You will. This endeavor takes some getting used to, so this will seem awkward, but we'll practice till you get the hang of it."

"You sound as if I'm a skittish mare and you're breaking me to saddle."

"In a way, I guess I am."

His gaze drifted down her torso, lingering at each delectable spot. His rapt focus made her throb and burn, made her desperate to try any deed he suggested.

"You're very fine, Anne," he said. "Very beautiful. Have I ever told you that?"

"No."

"Despite what you assume, I'm delighted in my choice of bride. I couldn't be more pleased."

He kissed her so tenderly, so sweetly. A silly flood of tears surged into her eyes, and she was beyond speech. She moaned a sort of pathetic wail and pulled him nearer, deepening the kiss, anxious to halt his compliments. She had no defense against them.

The embrace intensified, his tongue in her mouth, his fingers at her bosom. They'd been down this track on the carnal road before, so she knew what was coming, and her anatomy was disgusting in its eager welcome.

He trailed down her chest, rooting at her cleavage, and he tugged on the thin straps of her chemise, baring her breasts so he could feast. He suckled her, pushing her up and up into the spiral of ecstasy, and she was so disordered that she didn't realize he'd continued ridding her of her chemise, that he was working it down her belly, her legs.

Shortly, she'd be nude, and she grabbed at it, needing the scant protection it provided.

"Let it go, Anne." He appeared tense and annoyed. "I want you naked."

"No, not naked," she protested.

"Yes."

She held on to it as if it were the last wall around the castle, and he the invading army, but he ripped it away.

"This is how I want you," he said, "and how you shall be for me whenever I demand it of you." "But... why?"

"Because I am your husband and it's what I enjoy more than anything in the world." "It's too much, too soon."

"If we went slower, we'd still arrive at the same conclusion, and I can't bear to delay. I want you too badly." "You do?"

"Yes. I always have. From the very first day."

Could that be true? She didn't think so. He'd been complaining about her to his brother.

His hand was between her legs and probing her sheath, making her wet, making her ache. His thumb dabbed at the sensitive nub he'd previously located, and she easily soared to the heavens. With this second demonstration of passion, the ending came more quickly and was much more powerful, and she could only wonder if it grew more potent with each attempt. If so, she'd likely expire from lust.

As the commotion waned, he hovered over her, strained and keeping a firm rein on his control. The ferocious gleam in his eye was terrifying, and it boded ill for whatever was coming next.

Nervously, she licked her lip, the gesture galvanizing his attention.

"What are you going to do to me?" she asked.

He was fumbling with his trousers. "This is the wifely obligation you've heard about, Anne. All women learn it eventually. In the beginning, it might seem peculiar—or even a little scary—so relax as much as you can."

Relax! Was he insane? She was so rigid with alarm that she felt as if she might shatter. 'Tell me what will occur."

"We're about to mate, Anne. I'll join myself to you in a special way."

"What does that mean?" ' "I'll show you."

He clutched her thighs and widened them, his torso dropping between them as if he was created to fit there perfectly. Suddenly, he was pressing something into her, and she panicked and started to struggle.

"What are you doing?"

"Hold still."

"Not till you tell me what's happening." "You trust me, don't you?" "I absolutely don't. You're a fiend and a bully." He chuckled, but it was a tortured sound. "If I'm not inside you immediately, I can't predict what I'll do." "You're talking in riddles."

He flexed against her, again, again. The pressure was extreme, the exploit too odd to be described or believed.

"Jamie, you're frightening me." "I'm almost done." "Stop it. It's too big."

"No, it's not. It's exactly the right size. You're a virgin, so your body is fighting its fate. It's a natural

 

It didn't feel natural, and she wrestled in earnest, but he scarcely noticed.

He yanked her thighs even wider, and with a particularly vicious thrust the object he'd wielded burst into her. She reared up and cried out in agony, but he swallowed down her anguish with a delicious kiss. He was very still, cradling her in his arms.

"Hush," he soothed.

"What was that?" A few tears seeped from the corners of her eyes. Her respirations came in short gasps.

"I've finally made you mine in the only way that counts."

"You said it wouldn't hurt," she accused. "I lied." He wasn't contrite in the least. "But this is the only time it will. After tonight, it won't bother you." "I'm not a virgin anymore, am I?" "No."

She now understood why maidens were kept in the dark about matrimonial duty! What female would willingly submit to such a humiliation?

"What did you push into me?"

"A piece of myself, Anne. We're built differently. I've bonded with you as no other man ever will."

She was trembling with shock, but he wasn't in such a great condition, either. Obviously, he was restraining himself, every muscle taut with anticipation. She took a deep breath and let it out, the simple motion calming her slightly, and she seemed to pull him into her even farther.

He shuddered with what appeared to be pain. Was he suffering as she was suffering? Males were purported to relish the endeavor, but why would they?

"I can't wait," he said. "I have to finish it."

"What should I do?"

"Hug me as tight as you can."

He eased into her over and over, and he was being very careful, trying not to injure her more than he just had. To her amazement, the ache was lessening, the position seeming more normal by the moment.

He growled low in his throat, and he drove in all the way, his anatomy quaking with his attempts at control, then it was ended, and he slumped down onto her. She could feel his heart hammering under his ribs.

They were frozen in place, the rod he'd inserted remaining hard, and he sighed with satisfaction. But as he grew more composed, he glared down at her, almost as if he were angry.

"I want you again," he peculiarly claimed. "Already, I want you again!"

He voiced the comment as if it was a complaint, and he began, once more, but with none of the moderation he'd exhibited prior.

She'd acclimated to the strange coupling, and while she'd found the initial experience unpleasant, the second one was very interesting—as he'd promised it could be. As he kissed and fondled, coaxed and praised, she was stunned to find herself responding quite vigorously.

Her hips adopted the tempo he'd set, meeting him thrust for thrust. He became more focused, more wild, his penetrations working her across the mattress till her head was banging into the headboard.

The tension escalated, and as he reached down and touched the special spot at the center of her torso, she shattered with ecstasy, and he did, too, both of them shouting out with an excitement that was shamefully thrilling.

They soared to the peak together; then they floated down, until they landed—tangled and sweating—in the middle of their marital bed.

"Oh my," she murmured. "Is it always like that?"

"It definitely can be, my little strumpet."

He laughed and slapped her on the rear; then he drew away. As their bodies separated, she winced, her feminine flesh protesting its new state.

He turned her onto her side so that he was spooned to her. As if he cherished her, as if she was his dear bride in truth, he brushed a tender kiss on her bare shoulder.

'That wasn't so bad, was it, Mrs. Merrick?"

"No," she said, her tummy tickling at hearing how he'd referred to her. "Not bad, at all."

"Let's rest a bit; then we'll do it again." He paused. "Unless you're too sore?"

"I'm sore," she admitted, "but if you're game, so am I."

"That's my girl."

He tucked a blanket over them, sealing them in a snug cocoon, and she closed her eyes. In an instant, she was asleep.

 

Eleven

Jamie awakened next to Anne. She was snuggled to him and sleeping like a babe, as if they'd been wed for an eternity

He'd been a beast, and he understood that he had been, but his crude behavior couldn't be helped. He wasn't a calm or patient man, wasn't prone to verbal discussions or romantic wooing. He was a man of action, of few words and plenty of authority.

It was growing painfully obvious that being married to her would never be boring. She had a temper, and she had some backbone, and while he'd always presumed he liked his women to be meek and submissive, he was slowly changing his mind.

He liked her just fine, when he didn't want to like her, and his elevated sentiment scared the hell out of him.

He simply wanted to wed her and get his line of heirs established. His sons and their sons would rule at Gladstone for a thousand years and a thousand years after that. Whenever a new boy was birthed, Jamie's father would roll in his grave, the thought of which tickled Jamie enormously.

Anne stirred, cuddling closer. They were both naked, her lush, shapely body pressed to his all the way down. He was hard as a rock, his cock keen with arousal and demanding a bit of morning delight.

It would be easy to coax her to consciousness, but he wouldn't. He'd had her several times during the night, and she had to be sore as the dickens. After he'd rutted with such reckless abandon, she'd probably need a month to recover, and he'd be lucky if she let him near her ever again.

He couldn't describe what had driven him to such excess. He never lost control with a paramour, yet he'd been randy as a sixteen-year-old lad.

There were so many willing women in the world, and so many of them had drifted through his worthless life. He viewed sex as a physical release, and he'd always deemed one female to be much the same as the next, especially after he blew out the candle.

Why was Anne so different?

He studied her, thinking how beautiful she looked, how sweet she was, and the strangest sensation swept through him. His heart began to ache, and it seemed to swell, as if it didn't fit under his ribs anymore.

She was so perfect, so young and innocent, and she was his. His!

Shortly, he'd marry her true. He'd be expected and entitled to watch over her and keep her safe, and the notion created a possessive wave of excitement so foreign to his character that he was terrified.

What was the matter with him? He was carrying on like a virginal girl with her first swain, and he wouldn't allow himself to be inundated by affection.

He was marrying Anne because the Prince had asked it, because Jamie would have done anything to secure his place at Gladstone. She was a means to an end, very much like a brood mare he might have purchased at an auction.

If he was unsettled, it was merely because he'd been under so much pressure. The stakes were very high, and she was part of the resolution. Plus, he'd been extremely busy and too distracted by events to locate a good whore. The combination of abstinence and tension must have made their fornication seem more refreshing than it actually had been.

She was pretty and interesting, but not unique by any stretch of the imagination. He wouldn't let her be. Nor would he wallow in bed with her like a besotted bridegroom who was too infatuated to leave her side.

Very carefully, he slipped from her arms and eased off the mattress. For the longest while, he stared down at her in a smitten stupor, massaging his wrist and rippling with unfulfilled yearning, but once he realized how pitiful he was acting, he lurched away and hurried to his room. He washed and dressed, then raced downstairs. Briefly, he considered stopping for breakfast, but he was so overwrought that if she waltzed in while he was eating, he'd gape at her like a love-struck fool, which he refused to do.

The chances were great that there'd be no wedding that day, and maybe not for a few days after that. They couldn't possibly proceed until he'd gained some control over his careening, absurd emotions.

He marched out to the stables, saddled his horse, and galloped away, quickly putting as much distance as he could between himself and the manor, and he couldn't predict when he'd return.

 

Hello, Jack. You don't mind if I call you Jack, do you?" "No, I don't mind." Jack glared at Ophelia. She resembled a deadly spider, one that would sneak up and bite without warning. No doubt, her sting would be lethal.

He was perched on a log behind the stables, taking a break in the shade from an afternoon of chores. As she sauntered over, she was very fetching, the bodice of her gown tugged extra low to reveal her large breasts, her bonnet tilted at just the right angle to flatter her winsome face.

He couldn't move beyond the impression that she'd intentionally tracked him down, so instantly he was on guard. He was aware of how she'd crawled into Jamie's bed, which was one of the more bizarre occurrences since their arrival, so Jack wouldn't put anything past her.

She sat next to him, and she took an inordinate amount of time fussing with her skirt so that it was perfectly arranged. Then she shifted and leaned in, surprising him with how much of her body rested against his own.

Her pose had to have been rehearsed for maximum effect, and he almost laughed aloud but didn't. Obviously, she wanted something from him, and whatever it was, his response would be no, but he was humored to have her beg so charmingly.

"I need to ask you a question." She was practically batting her lashes.

"I hope I have an answer."

"Oh, I'm sure you will. I noted that there's a new boy working in the barn." "Yes, there is."

"But no one sought my permission for the change to be implemented." "Really?"

"I've always given the orders as to the house and grounds." "Have you?"

She gave a credible pout, the sort that pursed her lips in an appealing way and would have spurred a more imprudent man to kiss them.

"You're making me feel positively unnecessary."

"We can't have that, can we?"

"Will you promise to consult with me from now on?"

"Why, yes," he lied. She was the last person on earth from whom he'd solicit an opinion. "I don't see why not—if it will make you happy."

She smiled her thanks, and she placed her palm on the middle of his chest, rubbing it in slow, calculated circles.

"I've been watching you around the estate," she said. "You and your brother are so much alike." "We certainly are."

"But you seem so much more manly than him."

She simpered in not-so-subtle invitation. Her nipple was poking into his forearm like a shard of glass.

"I can't believe you noticed," he replied, toying with her. "Everyone thinks he's the best and brightest, simply because he's a few minutes older."

"Who would presume such nonsense? Only an idiot would fail to observe your vigor."

"That's what I've always thought."

"You should have been earl. Not him. It's written in your character as plain as day. Oh, how can you bear it? How can you stand by as he runs amok with all our lives?"

"I can't. It drives me mad."

"It's such an injustice."

"If I was earl," he boasted, "I'd do things differently."

"I just knew you would!" she gushed. "That's why I decided to speak with you." "On what topic?"

Matters were getting interesting. She'd turned so that the front of her torso was flattened to his, and with how her corset was pushing her breasts up and out, his view was intoxicating. Pathetic as it sounded, his cock grew hard merely from pondering the possibilities.

"If you were the earl," she said, "you wouldn't send me away, would you?"

"Definitely not."

"I knew it! I knew you'd be kinder than your brother. This is my home. I shouldn't have to leave it, should I? Will you talk to him for me? Will you convince him to let me remain? I'd be ever so grateful."

She raised up and brushed her lips to his, and if he hadn't detested her so much—if she hadn't been his sister!—he'd have considered her proposition. Unfortunately, he had a few scruples in his sexual affairs. Not many, but a few. More than Jamie had anyway.

Call him crazy, but he wouldn't fornicate with a female he loathed, and when he slid between a woman's thighs he liked to pretend he was the only one who'd been there in a while.

His dear sister failed on both counts.

Who was she fucking to have gleaned such carnal experience? Unless she wallowed with the hired help, which he couldn't envision, the only other man who was constantly underfoot was Percy. The notion would have been funny if it hadn't been so distasteful.

"There's just one problem," Jack murmured, drawing away.

"What is it?"

"Jamie is marrying Miss Carstairs, so it will be up to her to determine who is to stay and who is to go."

At his mentioning Anne Carstairs, Ophelia's flirtatious mask slipped, and she scrambled to keep it from vanishing altogether. "But you can't mean for it to be me who goes. Not when we've just begun to get acquainted. We could become such good friends."

"It's out of my hands, I'm afraid."

"What if Anne sides with your brother? What if she demands my departure?"

"Then there'll be no hope for it. You'll have to leave."

"There must be something I could do to make it worth your while to intervene." "I can't imagine what it might be." "Are you certain?"

She flashed a wicked look of licentious promise that he felt clear down to his toes, and he could vividly picture the whore's tricks she might ultimately perform. It was such a diverting prospect that he nearly relented.

Instead, he clasped her arms and set her on her feet; then he stood, too. She frowned with fury, and suddenly she wasn't quite so attractive.

"You never had any intention of assisting me," she charged.

"No, I didn't."

"Bastard."

"Now, now, let's don't bring my poor mother into it. It's been well established that she married the old asshole."

At the insulting reference to their mutual sire, Ophelia was incensed, but she was anxious to sway him and bit down on any caustic retort.

"Anne hates me. She always has. She'll cast me out in a trice. I'm your sister. Don't you care what will happen to me?"

"You should have thought of that before you and Percy rejected Jamie's offer. It was more than generous."

She paused, murder in her gaze. "What offer?"

"Jamie's not without some empathy for your plight. He proposed that you be given one of the smaller estates and a liberal quarterly allowance."

"And... ?"

"Percy tossed it back in Jamie's face. He claimed he didn't need charity from his own coffers. So you get nothing."

"I was never consulted!"

Jack shrugged. "I guess you should take it up with Percy, next time there's a lull under the blankets."

She rippled with panic, indicating that her lover was Percy, after all, but she hastily tamped down her reaction.

"I have no idea what you mean," she insisted.

"Suit yourself, but you really should watch that temper of yours. In this instance, it's cost you a pretty penny."

She whirled away and stomped off, looming toward the manor like a thundercloud ready to rain mayhem on Percy's parade, and Jack almost felt sorry for the man.

He shook his head in disgust, wondering at the crazed taint of Merrick blood that flowed in his veins. How could he be so closely related to the strange pair? He'd be glad when Percy and Ophelia left, and he wished Jamie would get on with the wedding so that there'd be no reason for them to dawdle.

Only disaster would come from their presence at Gladstone, but it wasn't Jack's province to send them packing. He had to observe from the sidelines and clean up whatever messes they caused.

He turned his mind to more pleasant subjects, like Sarah Carstairs and her son, Tim. Jack hadn't wanted to appear as if he was hovering, so he hadn't checked on Tim in several hours, but he was eager to make sure the boy was adjusting. Tim was working in the stables and sleeping there with the other grooms, but that situation would improve as matters resolved.

Jack hadn't spoken with Sarah about what he'd done, and he couldn't wait to hear how grateful she was for his intervening on Tim's behalf.

Smiling at the prospect, Jack spun and went inside.

 

Anne was having the most splendid dream, where she was relaxed and aroused in the way only Jamie could make her, when it dawned on her that she wasn't dreaming.

Jamie was with her and slowly goading her to consciousness. He was nuzzling her bosom, his fingers on her nipples, the thin fabric of her summer nightgown providing a delightful friction.

She was so happy to see him that she could barely keep from making a fool of herself with silly pronunciations of relief.

After he'd stolen her virginity, he'd vanished. At first, she'd been pleased that he was gone, but as he'd stayed away for an entire day, then another and another, she'd been irate. How could he ravish her so spectacularly, then trot off as if the encounter had been insignificant? She wasn't some London doxy he could use and abuse!

But as his absence had continued, her fury had metamorphosed into mortification. Evidently, he'd pressed the issue of marital relations but had discovered that he didn't enjoy her in an amorous fashion. She hadn't satisfied him, but she hadn't a clue as to how or why she'd failed to entice.

Now, like an unexpected gift on Christmas morning, here he was! How could she be angry?

She sighed and stretched, loving the feel of his body on hers, and she reached down and ruffled his hair. He stopped what he was doing and grinned up at her.

"Hello, sleepyhead," he murmured. "I didn't think you'd ever wake up."

He looked wicked, unrepentant, a sin any woman would gladly commit.

"Where have you been?" she asked. "I was so worried."

"Really? I don't remember anyone ever worrying about me before."

"Then you should know that, with you as my husband, I'm positive I'll fret constantly. And I don't care for it, Jamie. It makes me grouchy."

He chuckled and rolled them so that she was on top of him, braced on an elbow and scowling at him as if he were a misbehaving schoolboy.

"I wasn't going to come back," he oddly admitted.

"Not ever?"

To her surprise, the notion had her catching her breath in panic. Apparently, she was growing accustomed to having him around, and life without him would be terribly dull.

"But... why?"

For a brief moment, it seemed as if he might explain; then he tugged at the strap of her nightgown. Her breast popped free, and he rooted down and sucked the nipple in his mouth.

"Are you still sore?" he inquired.

"No, why?"

"Because I want to make love to you. It's all I thought about the whole time I was away." "So you're not upset with me?" "Why would I be?"

"When you left, I assumed I did something wrong, so you changed your mind about marrying me."

"I didn't change my mind, and I could never be upset with you."

"Never?"

"Well, not about anything that happens in here when we're alone."

"So ... I did everything correctly?"

"Of course. If you'd been any more correct, I'd have died and gone to Heaven. Now about your womanly parts..."

He was pulling her nightgown down and off, quickly stripping her, and he rolled them again, so that she was tucked beneath him.

"My womanly parts are fine," she insisted.

"They certainly are." He slid two fingers into her sheath, and he paused and gazed at her, his confusion plain, his consternation palpable.

"You make me happy," he said. "Why is that?"

She didn't know what sort of answer would be appropriate, so instead, she drew him into a kiss that he abruptly ended so that he could kneel to yank off his shirt. She came up on her knees, too, and boldly she rested her palm on the placard of his pants.

"The other night, you said we were built differently."

"We are."

"I want to see you."

She'd galvanized his attention. He was fixated on the naughty spot where her hand was positioned.

"Are you sure?" he queried. "You won't swoon with maidenly alarm?"

"No swooning. I promise."

"All right."

He started in on the buttons of his trousers, opening the front as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He jerked the fabric down to his flanks, and she was stunned to see the large rod protruding from his loins.

It was very big, very hard, all red and menacing, and it seemed alive, as if it was reaching out to her. How could she be twenty-five years old and not know such a disparity existed?

"My goodness!" she mused. "Would you look at that?"

She pushed him onto his back so that she could move closer for a thorough examination, and she hovered between his legs and explored every inch. The shaft was warm and rigid, but smooth and pliant, too, and she stroked across it, tightening the skin at the crown, letting it go.

Each touch had the most riveting effect on his anatomy. He would tense and relax, would hitch his breath, then exhale and mutter.

"What's it called?" she asked. "A cock, usually. Or a phallus. When I'm feeling friendly, I refer to it as my John Thomas." "You named it?"

He barked with laughter. "I guess I did."

She began again, and he couldn't bear to watch. He flung an arm over his eyes, so she was free to try whatever she liked.

Without thinking, she bent down and kissed the tip, and he lurched away as if he'd been burned.

He appeared horrified or shocked, which made her angry. He was the one who claimed everything was allowed.

"What is it?" she snapped. "What did I do?"

He was up on his knees again, advancing on her like a beast of prey. "Oh, I am going to have such fun teaching you how to use that mouth of yours."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll show you later."

"Show me now."

"No. At the moment, I'm busy."

"With what?"

"With you, my little strumpet. With you."

He tossed her onto the mattress and came down on top of her. He gripped her thighs, widened them, and in a thrice he was impaled and flexing into her with a raucous abandon.

There was a tenderness in his expression, as if— despite his protestations to the contrary—he might be developing fond feelings for her, and she tucked away the realization for subsequent dissection and analysis.

Could he learn to love her? Why couldn't it happen? Why not?

As she was quickly discovering, there was nothing finer than having Jamie Merrick's regard. He made her feel special and needed, and her heart raced with a foolish, giddy joy. For a woman who'd never believed she'd marry but who would get to spend her life rollicking with him, she'd done all right for herself, after all.

 

Twelve

“How dare you!" "What? What did I do?" Sarah stormed into the dark, empty kitchen, as Jack Merrick whirled around.

It was very late, everyone asleep except for the two of them. The cook always heated bathing water after supper, leaving it in a basin behind the stove, and in Sarah's mad dash to locate him she hadn't paused to remember that if he'd come to the kitchen, he was intending to wash.

He'd already removed his shirt and boots, and he was just about to start in on his trousers. He stood before her, all that virile male flesh perfectly flaunted, and of course her harlot's body quivered with unrestrained glee at catching him so indisposed.

A single candle burned on the table, and it starkly outlined the planes of his face, making him look sexy and devilish, and she pulled up short. When she was away from him, she forgot how handsome he was, and she didn't care to be reminded.

She'd been searching for him ever since she'd gone

for her afternoon walk to visit Tim, only to find that he was missing and his hovel had been leveled. Her panic had been so great that she'd worried she might simply drop over dead.

She'd raced to the manor, wondering if Ophelia had sent Tim away. She'd often threatened that she would and had used the possibility as leverage to win concessions from Sarah so that, for the prior decade, Sarah had basically been Ophelia's slave.

Sarah would do anything to keep Tim safe. As a result, whatever Ophelia ordered, whatever Ophelia demanded, Sarah complied without complaint, groveling to Ophelia's petty whims like a drudge.

But while hurrying home, Sarah had seen Tim playing with some boys behind the stables. She'd been so relieved that it had taken a full hour to compose herself before she could saunter over and calmly question him about what had happened.

He'd explained how Jack had tracked him down, how Jack's brother, the new earl—the notorious pirate, himself!—had asked Tim to move to the house to learn a trade. At having the Merrick twins interested in him, Tim had been so proud that Sarah was extremely ashamed.

In all the years since his birth, she'd never aided him in any fashion that mattered, yet in the better part of an afternoon Jack had altered Tim's life forever.

Did Jack have to rub salt in her wounds? She was a disgusting coward, a woman so terrified of a bit of scandal that she'd let her only child wallow in poverty and despair. At Jack's forcing her to confront how pathetic she was, her temper was raging and she was eager to commit mayhem.

"It was none of your affair! None, I tell you."

"What wasn't?" he inquired, confused.

"Tim is my son. Mine!"

"Yes, Sarah, Tim is your son. Poor lad."

The insult had her rippling with fury. "You had no business interfering."

"I had every right. My brother is earl, and I am to be his estate manager."

On top of everything else she'd endured during the dreadful day, the news was too unsettling.

"You're staying?"

"Yes, so it's up to me to pick the employees who'll work the farm, and / have picked Tim. For now."

"What does that mean? For now?"

"It means for now," he said. "I haven't made any final decisions."

Was he saying Tim might be sent from Gladstone? For how long? On what grounds? Jack had the same blood running in his veins as Ophelia and their reprehensible father. He might do anything.

Dismissing Sarah, he turned and went to the table, where he unwrapped a towel. He'd brought a razor, soap, and a change of clothes, and the sight of his toiletries was unbearably intimate. She yanked her eyes away.

"I don't want you to stay here," she declared.

"It's not up to you. And if you must know, I'm not too keen on having you here, either, so I guess we're both stuck. Unless you'd like to hit the road ... ? I can arrange to have you gone like that."

He snapped his fingers, the sound echoing off the walls, and it was frightening to recall her precarious position. Whether Anne married the earl or not, she and her sister would be at the mercy of the Merrick brothers for the rest of their lives, and Sarah abhorred the notion.

Her entire life had been one ordeal after the next, due to her being constantly under the thumb of various males who were never concerned as to her fate. She yearned to be mistress of her own destiny, and she couldn't abide the thought of Jack remaining at Gladstone. She couldn't be bumping into him on the stairs or in the hall by her room, couldn't he awake at night hoping he was about to sneak to her bedchamber again.

"Do you mind?" he queried. "I'd like to get on with my bath."

"I'm not leaving till we hash this out."

"I'm finished discussing it."

"Well, I'm not! Tim is my son, and I won't have you meddling."

"Now you claim him?" Jack laughed cruelly. "Why would you? You tossed him aside as if he was a mutt in a litter of puppies. He's nothing to you, and whatever I choose for him, your opinion is irrelevant."

"What a despicable thing to say to me."

"Name one thing you've ever done for him besides bring him a few scraps of dried bread."

"It wasn't like that!" she insisted.

"Wasn't it?"

"I love him! I've always loved him. I tried to do what was best for him."

"Every time you open your mouth, I like you less. Please go away before I end up despising you completely."

He grabbed the bar of soap and flung it into the washing tub, but she didn't budge.

"I've lived here at Percy's discretion," she tersely explained. "He and Ophelia wouldn't let me keep Tim. What could I have done?"

"First of all, Percy is an ass. And second of all, pardon me if I seem overly touchy on the subject, but

I have no sympathy for a parent who doesn't want his own child. If Tim had been mine, I'd have killed Percy before I'd have denied him." "Bully for you!"

At that moment, she hated Jack Merrick as she'd never hated anyone, and if she'd been holding a pistol, she'd have shot him dead.

What did he know about anything?

She'd been a desperate sixteen-year-old girl, with no mother to guide her. The instant pregnancy was mentioned, her paramour had fled to London. Aunt Edith had offered no advice but had merely railed about sin and damnation. Ophelia had been the only one willing to grapple with the consequences, the only one willing to take charge, and Sarah had been more than happy to follow Ophelia's stern instructions.

It was later, when the enormity of Sarah's loss began to sink in, that she'd grieved over her decision, but by then she couldn't change the charade they'd set in motion. Tim had been ensconced with his new family, the situation accepted by all.

There'd been no way to renege on her devil's bargain, so she'd observed Tim from afar. She was heartsick and guilt ridden over her stupidity, yet Jack Merrick stood there smirking and condemning her as if he were some sort of wrathful god.

"You pompous blowhard!" she seethed. "You have no right to judge me!"

"Sticks and stones, Sarah. Sticks and stones. Now I'd appreciate it if I could have some privacy."

His flip attitude enraged her, and she resolved to tarry simply because he'd ordered her out. She was sick of men telling her what to do, sick of them controlling her every move so that she couldn't so much as swallow a crumb of food without one of them informing her that it was allowed.

"I resided at Gladstone long before you ever arrived," she said. "I'll be damned if I'll scurry off to my room on your say-so."

"Suit yourself."

He shrugged and, as if he hadn't a care in the world, he unbuttoned his trousers. His gaze was locked on hers, and with each flick of his wrist he bared more of his abdomen, until the placard was flopping loose.

He seemed to be daring her to remain, or taunting her with his nudity. Apparently, he was expecting to chase her out in a prudish snit, but he was in for a surprise. She was no squeamish miss who would quail at viewing a man's torso. No, she was Sarah Carstairs, the selfish, faithless woman who possessed the intellect of a ninny and the soul of a harlot.

Nothing would thrill her more than to watch him at his bath. Why, if he but asked, she'd waltz over and wash him. It would be the ultimate wicked pleasure.

With no concern for modesty, he tugged his pants down and off. Then he climbed into the tub, giving her plenty of opportunity to assess his masculine form.

He was a fine male specimen, all muscle and brawn, his chest broad, his waist and hips narrow. His body was that of a warrior, honed by rough living and battle. There were scars everywhere, evidence of prior stab wounds, of prior gunshot wounds, and he'd been flogged, the skin on his back crisscrossed with old injuries.

The sight made her queasy. Mentally, she'd comprehended that his time away from England had been difficult, but until that instant, the truth hadn't really hit home.

He glared over his shoulder. "Why don't you make yourself useful and scrub my back?" "I don't want to." "Liar."

He held out the washing cloth, dangling it like a talisman, but she refused to reach for it.

"You were flogged," she said, stating the obvious.

"I certainly was."

"Did it happen often?"

"Often enough."

"Why were you whipped?"

"On which occasion?"

'That's not funny."

"Who's being funny? I was a slave on a ship, and I wasn't very biddable. I'm contrary that way. Beatings were a common occurrence."

"How old were you when they started?"

"I don't know. Seven? Eight?"

"You were flogged when you were seven years old?"

"Were you thinking our absence from here was all High Tea and rose gardens? I used to curse my father because he hadn't had the courage to simply murder us outright." He hurled the washcloth at her, and it landed at her feet like an accusation. "Go away. You annoy me."

He spun and sank down in the water, sighing as it swirled around his tired torso. He closed his eyes and tipped his head against the rim, shutting her out as if he'd forgotten she was present, and his disregard made her unaccountably reckless.

He'd discovered all her secrets, and he loathed her for them, which was galling and humbling. She craved his esteem and his undivided attention. Frequently, she felt as if she were invisible, and she wanted him to treat her as if she mattered.

She snatched the cloth from the floor and went over to him, perching her hip on the edge of the tub. His reproachful eyes opened, and he stared at her as if he didn't know who she was.

Boldly, she grabbed the soap, and without a word being exchanged, she stroked it across his chest and shoulders. He didn't comment or request that she stop. He merely studied her, his expression mulish, as if he was curious to see how brave she'd actually be, how far she'd actually go, before sanity and morality returned with a vengeance.

She scrubbed him all over, and he let her try whatever she wished. The sensation of being in charge was arousing and exciting, and the longer she continued, the more risqu6 the encounter became.

Finally, she urged him to his knees, the water slapping at his thighs. His cock jutted out, his balls hanging heavy between his legs. Without hesitating, she caressed him as she'd been yearning to do, her fist clutching him and pumping him to a sturdy erection.

He dipped down to rinse; then, looking angry and irked, he clasped the front of her dress and pushed the fabric away, baring a breast. He leaned over and latched onto her nipple, biting it, sucking on it so hard that she cried out in delighted distress.

He rose and stepped to the rug, and she was kneeling before him, at eye level with his phallus. He brushed it against her lips, and she licked the crown over and over, then eagerly took him inside. Silent and stoic, he peered down at her, as he methodically thrust.

Clearly, he assumed she'd call a halt, but she couldn't imagine that she ever would. He was so hot and virile, and she'd been missing this decadence, where her base temperament could run free, where she didn't have to constantly rein it in.

His lust was at a fevered pitch, and vaguely she wondered if he'd spill himself, if she would take him all the way to the end. Just how depraved did she intend to be?

At the last moment, he yanked away and picked her off the floor, laying her on the baker's table. He wedged himself between her thighs, and with no wooing or delay, he shoved into her.

It had been an eternity since she'd had sex, so she was tight as a virgin. She moaned with agony, but he didn't care. Nor did she. He rammed into her again and again, and she reveled in the naughty pleasure, dragging him nearer, goading him on, and it never occurred to her to tell him to slow down or be cautious.

As she'd learned to her detriment, when she was fornicating it wasn't in her nature to exercise prudence, and for some reason, her attraction to him made her even more irresponsible.

He nursed at her breasts, shifting from one to the other. The torment was so delicious that the instant he reached down and touched her, she exploded into an orgasm. Through the tumult, he kept flexing until he, too, arrived at his own conclusion.

Luckily, he had the presence of mind to withdraw and spew his seed on her stomach. After, he retreated and walked to the washtub to swab his privates clean. He was very meticulous, as if he wanted to wipe away every trace of her; then he retrieved his clothes and tugged them on.

She was sprawled on the table, her skirt rucked up, her legs spread wide, as if she was hoping he'd saunter over and mount her again. She forced herself to sit up, and she straightened her garments and mutely observed as he packed his things and tidied up. Low on her belly, the wetness of his seed was soaking into her dress.

He scanned the room to be sure he hadn't forgotten anything; then he turned to go, his face a mask she couldn't read. He appeared cool and unaffected, while she felt like a whore, like a housemaid who'd copulated with him for the promise of a meager penny.

He came over and kissed her, and it was the only kiss he'd bestowed during the entire bizarre episode.

'Tim will be fine," he vowed. "I'll see to him."

"Swear it to me."

"Why should I have to swear for you to trust me? Isn't my word good enough?"

She trusted no man, and she wouldn't pretend he was doing her any favors. If he was acting kindly toward Tim, he had an ulterior motive. Men always did.

"Don't you dare hurt him," she warned. "Don't send him away from me."

Jack must have been expecting gratitude, for her remark angered him. He looked as if he might bite her head off, or plead his case, but instead, he scoffed with derision.

"Next time you put your mouth on me," he crudely said, "I won't hold back."

"I didn't ask you to hold back."

"No, you didn't, and you need to realize that—with me—it's all or nothing. Next time, I won't pull out."

He stomped off, and she dawdled—all alone—in the quiet.

 

Thirteen

“What's your name?" Jamie asked. "Pegeen," the saucy housemaid replied, leaning her delectable bottom on the balustrade of the verandah. "But milord, you can call me Peg, if you'd like."

Jamie grinned. The girl was plump and buxom and pretty as a spring day in May. In blatant invitation, she tossed her hair over her shoulder, advising him—in no uncertain terms—that she was interested and available.

The front of her dress was damp, so the cloth clung to her large breasts. He couldn't decide if she'd intentionally moistened the fabric or if she'd spilled something by accident, but however it had happened, she'd definitely gotten his attention.

He was humored by her offer and wouldn't be averse to tumbling her occasionally. Women were always throwing themselves at him, and he usually caught them. Why deny himself? Especially now that he was an earl.

It was his prerogative to romp with the servants, and when such a lusty female was prancing about right under his nose, how could he be expected to resist?

For the briefest second, he thought of Anne, and instantly he felt guilty as hell, which annoyed him to infinity and back. He'd been spending entirely too much time with her, and he couldn't quash his incessant need to revel in her company.

He'd tried to stay away from her, but his attempts to create distance had failed miserably. He couldn't stop himself from crawling into her bed, and his fixation was putting them both in an untenable position.

She was the sort of person who would read too much meaning into their relationship. She'd think he was doting on her, and he was—in a way. With her being so sweet and wonderful, she was so different from the whores in port towns who'd made up the bulk of his amorous adventures.

He didn't want to hurt her, but if he continued trifling with her, she'd presume that a commitment was forming, when it never would.

He simply wasn't the type of man who grew attached. He didn't know how to care or bond, or perhaps the ability had been drummed out of him during his hard years as an abandoned little boy.

Whatever the reason, he didn't have it in him to cherish her as she deserved. So while he'd support and honor her, he would never fall in love with her, and he had to exert some control over his obsessive conduct.

Pegeen would be a great place to start, and if Jamie copulated with her, who would know? She would add spice to the boring intervals when duty forced him to Gladstone, and if she was particularly adept with that intriguing mouth of hers, she'd keep his mind off Anne and his foolish, unrelenting desire for her.

"Are you Irish, Pegeen?"

"On my mother's side, milord."

"I just love Irish women. They're so"—his gaze drifted to her bosom—"wholesome." "It's the fresh air." "Is it?"

"It's so arousing."

She waved toward the woods, indicating that she was eager to tryst. Any other time, he might have agreed, but it was his wedding day, and he just couldn't go. He wasn't such an ass that he'd roll around in the forest with another woman only moments before he lied and promised himself to Anne.

"I'm getting married," he told her. "In a few minutes."

"I heard. Congratulations."

"So I'm busy right now."

"But later..." She peered up the side of the house, to the windows of the earl's suite, where soon he and Anne would shut themselves in to commence their wedding night. She stepped closer, her pointy nipples poking his shirt. "A real man often finds that a virgin isn't what he requires, at all."

"He often does."

He chuckled, even as he was appalled to note that he didn't move away from her. Like the worst cad, he was leading her on, acting as if he might actually sneak from his marital bed to fornicate with her.

He was so disgusting!

All of a sudden, from inside the manor, an irate female shouted, "Pegeen Riley! Leave my fiancé alone!"

He and Peg froze, then leapt apart like guilty schoolchildren as Anne burst out the door and advanced on them.

"Run, Peg," he whispered. "I'll take care of this."

She flashed a thankful look and slipped down the stairs into the park, racing away like a thoroughbred.

On seeing her go, Jamie sighed, wishing he could have raced off with her.

He wasn't even married yet, and he was already in trouble with his bride. It was a sorry way to begin, and he hoped it wasn't a sign of how the rest of their life would go. Unfortunately, he doubted that he'd ever behave any better. He had no idea how to act like a husband, as Anne was swiftly learning.

She marched up, stopping when they were toe-to-toe, and she studied him as if he were a bug she'd like to squash.

"What was that?" she hissed.

"What was what?'

"Don't play dumb with me, Jamieson Merrick. Have you any notion of how long I've been watching you?" "How long?"

"Long enough for you to make a public spectacle of yourself where the entire estate could see. Why do I feel that I'm living through the same despicable event over and over?"

"She's a silly young girl," he claimed. "Don't work yourself into a lather over it."

"Tell me one thing: If I hadn't come outside just now, how rapidly would you have been out in the woods with her?"

At being apprised of how much she'd truly observed, he could barely keep from wincing.

"Don't be ridiculous. I was teasing her. She's naught but a bit of fluff."

"And what am I in comparison?"

"Well.. .you're Anne."

He thought the comment said it all, but from the hurt expression that crossed her beautiful face, it was clear he'd missed the mark by a wide margin.

"Do you know what time it is?" she snapped. "Ten thirty?"

"We're supposed to marry in half an hour! The vicar is about to arrive. How could you do this to me?"

"What did I do to you? I've merely been chatting with a servant."

Her jaw dropped; tears flooded her eyes. "You are a horse's ass, Mr. Merrick. An unrepentant, unlikable, unpleasant horse's ass."

"I've been called much worse, and if you're going to take that snotty tone with me, it's Lord Gladstone."

"If you ever conducted yourself like a lord, maybe people would treat you like one."

It was the lowest remark she could have hurled, and it cut him to the quick. Not that he'd let her know.

Her attitude enraged him. He wasn't in the habit of permitting others to insult him, and he deemed it quite bold of her. If she'd been a man, he'd have pounded her into the ground. As it was, a muscle ticked in his cheek, his fists clenched with a fury he couldn't vent.

He was aware that he'd behaved badly, but he wouldn't apologize for his natural tendencies, and he refused to be gelded by her. He was who he was. Not a saint. Not a dandy. Not a blushing swain. But a terrible sinner, and she would have to get used to it, because he wasn't about to change. He didn't want to change.

"I won't dawdle out here in the yard, arguing with you," he quietly stated. "Go back in the house."

"You have no intention of being faithful to me, do you? Why am I such an idiot that I can't figure this out?"

"Anne!" he scolded. "I won't discuss such a topic."

"Are the vows irrelevant to you?"

"They will mean everything to me," he brazenly fibbed.

 

 

In truth, he believed in nothing and he trusted no one. Vows were inane, given frivolously and without consideration, and while they were uttered constantly, he'd never met a soul who stuck by what was promised.

She scrutinized him, then shook her head. "You are such a liar."

"Go back in the house," he repeated more sternly, nodding to the manor. "I'll join you shortly so we can get started."

"Do you understand how absurd you sound? You can't practice fidelity for a single day, and you think I'll still marry you?"

"I know you will, Anne. You're letting your temper run away with you over a trifle, and I have to tell you that I don't care for it."

"You don't?"

"No."

"Then let me tell you this, and see if you care for it: I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man on earth. You can chew on that bit of information while you're standing—alone—in the parlor with the vicar."

His cheeks reddened with ire, as she turned and hurried off, shouting, "Sarah! Sarah! Where are you?"

"Anne!" he commanded in his most authoritative, ship captain's voice, but she just kept going.

W

hat time is it now?" "Eleven twenty." The wedding had been scheduled for eleven, but Anne had meant it when she'd said she wouldn't participate. A union between them was wrong, wrong, wrong! She knew it, but he was so good

at cajoling and demanding that she always ended up relenting.

Well, not again. She wouldn't make such a dreadful mistake, and despite how he nagged, she would stick to her guns.

She gazed over at her sister, then at the locked door that led to the hallway. They were huddled in Sarah's room, sitting on the bed like two women about to be stoned to death.

"How long will he wait before he realizes you were serious?" Sarah inquired.

"For hours. He's so vain, it won't occur to him that I didn't arrive. Then again, perhaps he's holding the ceremony without me. He probably hasn't noticed that I'm not there."

"Are you sure about this, Anne?"

"Oh, Sarah, if you'd seen him with Pegeen!"

"It's a man's way," she gently counseled. "They're like beasts in the field, so a dalliance is insignificant to them. If you care for him—"

"That's the problem. I care for him too much. If I go through with it, he'll break my heart on a daily basis. I couldn't bear it; I'm not that strong, and I won't pretend to be blind to infidelity. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I simply want what's best for you. I always had my doubts that it would be Jamie Merrick."

"He'll be so angry. I don't know what will happen to us now."

"We'll figure it out. I'm acquainted with his brother. He might help us."

"I wish Percy would intervene." "He won't; he's been very clear." "Yes, he has, the rat."

Sarah rose and walked to the window, and she stared out. She looked so sad, so weary.

"Are you all right?" Anne queried. "Anymore, you seem so ... despondent."

Sarah snorted at that; then she peered over. "There's something I've been needing to tell you."

"What is it?'

As if Sarah hadn't the strength to stay on her feet, she collapsed against the windowsill, a palm braced on the wall, and on seeing her so beaten down Anne was frightened. She'd been so wrapped up in her own melodrama with Jamie that she'd scarcely spoken to Sarah in days.

"What is it, Sarah?" Anne soothed. "You can confide in me. It can't be that bad."

"You'd never hate me, would you, Anne? If I'd done something awful?"

Her expression was so bleak that Anne grew alarmed, and she rose, too, and rushed over.

"Hate you? Are you mad?"

"Oh, this is so difficult." Tears surged into Sarah's eyes.

"Go on," Anne urged. "Whatever is it, I won't swoon. You can't shock me."

"Do you remember the year I was sixteen, and I went away to finishing school?"

"Gad, yes. I was so jealous."

"Well... I... I..."

She swallowed twice, about to confess her secret when noise erupted in the hall.

"Anne Carstairs!" Jamie bellowed. "By God, when I find you, I will wring your pretty neck!"

He was marching toward them, checking every bedchamber. A door slammed, then another and another, and soon he was directly outside. He tried the knob.

"Whose room is this?" he asked someone.

"Her sister's," his brother answered.

Jamie pounded on the wood so forcefully that it bowed with the blows. "Anne! You have five seconds to let me in, or I will kick my way in. Do you hear me?"

"Shall I open it?" Sarah whispered.

"No," Anne replied. "Let him make a fool of himself. He enjoys acting like a barbarian."

"Five seconds, Anne," Jamie counted. "Four, three, two, one." There was a pause; then he muttered, "Fine. Have it your way."

A hard jolt sent the knob flying, the wood shattering, and he stormed in, looking magnificent and livid and lethal. Anne imagined this was how his enemies saw him when he was boarding ships and plundering booty, and she had to admit that his reputation for menace was definitely deserved.

With all that visible fury focused on her, she was shaking. While she hadn't thought he'd ever hurt her physically, at that moment he appeared capable of any violence. He stomped over to her, and she flinched, as if expecting to be bit, but no strike landed. He simply towered over her, intimidating her with his size and presence, and it was certainly working.

In such an agitated state, he was fearsome and formidable.

"You're late," he seethed. "Everyone is awaiting you downstairs."

"I told you I wasn't coming."

"So you did. Silly me, I didn't believe you." He gestured to his brother. "Bind her hands behind her back."

Jack stepped forward and produced a length of rope he'd brought for that very purpose. Sarah gasped and wedged herself as a shield between Anne and Jamie.

"What are you doing?" she demanded of Jack.

"She's getting married," Jack calmly responded, "and we won't hear any argument."

"Oh yes, you will!" Sarah hurled. "She's my only sister, and I won't have her miserably shackled to a gadabout roue."

"It's none of your affair, Sarah," Jack warned.

"If it's not my affair, then whose is it? Maybe if your brother could keep his trousers buttoned, we wouldn't be in this fix."

Jamie turned his deadly gaze on Sarah. "When I want to be insulted by you, Miss Carstairs, I'll let you know."

He grabbed Sarah by the waist, picked her up, and set her to the side; then he nodded at Jack to proceed.

"I'm weary of both of them," Jamie said. "Let's finish this."

It was over in a thrice. Jamie gripped Anne's arms and pinned them together as Jack twined the rope around her wrists. With a few quick knots, she was trussed like a Christmas goose. She was so stunned that she didn't even consider complaining. What could she say? The man was a lunatic!

"You can drag me to the altar," she bravely boasted, "but you'll never pry any vows out of me."

"We'll see." The retort sounded like a threat and a promise.

He spoke to Sarah. "After this nonsense, Miss Carstairs, you're not welcome at my wedding."

"That's all right," Sarah fumed. "I have no desire to attend a farce."

"Good. You'll remain up here until I inform you otherwise."

"Yes, my lord and master."

Jamie whirled on Jack. "I'll need you as a witness at the ceremony; then you're to come back up and deal with her. You begged me to let her remain at Gladstone. You claimed you could control her."

"Control me!" Sarah stewed, scowling at Jack.

He seemed chagrined but had no comment.

"She must be made to understand," Jamie continued, "that I will not be thwarted in my decisions. Can you get her to comprehend this fact? If you're not up to the task, admit it to me, and I'll handle her myself."

"She'll do as I say," Jack insisted, "and she'll do it gladly. Won't you, Sarah?"

"Go to Hell, Mr. Merrick," she sweetly replied, batting her lashes at him, showing him that she wasn't frightened in the slightest.

"Come, Anne," Jamie commanded.

He took her arm, and she dug in her feet, making a feeble attempt not to acquiesce. He sighed as if he were the most put-upon husband in the world and she the most shrewish wife.

"You've tried my patience beyond its limit," he pointed out. "You may walk down of your own accord, or you shall be hauled down like a sack of flour. The choice is yours. Which is it to be?"

"I'll walk," she grumbled like a petulant child, and she jerked away and started out.

The two brothers followed her, flanking her on either side in case she made a run for it. In a daze, she trudged down the stairs, stumbling along as if in a dream.

How had she arrived at such a bizarre fork in the road? The parents she'd never known, who'd died when she was a babe, came to mind, and she wondered what their opinion would be if they could see her predicament. Would they be horrified? Would they be enraged? Or would they merely think—as everyone but Sarah agreed—that Jamie Merrick was a spectacular catch and Anne was lucky to have him?

She stepped into the front parlor, where Ophelia, Percy, and Edith had assembled. The cowardly vicar was present, too, but no one else had been invited. They spun as a group, gaping at her with varying levels of incredulity.

Jamie entered and said, "Vicar, you may stay. The rest of you will leave immediately."

Percy had the fortitude to inquire, "Anne, are you injured?"

"No, but if you could just—"

"Be silent!" Jamie snarled, cutting her off.

Percy frowned at Jamie. "Are you sure this is the best way?"

"Out!" Jamie hissed.

Ophelia felt obliged to chuckle and butt in. "She seems a tad reluctant, Jamie. Are you positive you should go through with it? She might murder you later in your sleep."

"Out!" he said again, more loudly, and he swept them all with such a contemptuous glare that they scurried away. Jack slammed and locked the door behind them.

The vicar was standing by the hearth, and Jamie led Anne over.

"Get on with it," Jamie ordered, "and don't dillydally over the words. I want this concluded as rapidly as possible."

The vicar stared at Jamie, at Anne, at Jamie again. He studied her bound hands and gulped with dismay.

"Lord Gladstone," he tentatively ventured, "it doesn't appear that she's willing." "So?"

"This isn't the Middle Ages. If she doesn't consent, I can't perform the ceremony."

"Get going, man," Jack Merrick barked, "or I'll take you outside and you can explain to me why it's so difficult for you to do as the earl has requested."

Anne glanced at the Merrick brothers. They were resolved and ferocious, and though mayhem might result against the poor minister, she was certain this was her last chance to enlist an ally.

"I don't want to marry the earl," she interjected. "Any union would be a sham. He told me, just a few minutes ago, that the vows are frivolous and—"

"I never said that!" Jamie protested, seeming aggrieved.

"—and he has no intention of keeping to them. If you marry us, you'll be making a mockery of the entire notion of matrimony."

She deemed it an excellent, persuasive speech, and for a fleeting moment it looked as if the vicar might heed her entreaty and refuse to participate, but Jamie grabbed him by the arm and escorted him across the room. Jamie delivered a whispered, blistering diatribe that she couldn't hear, but whatever coercion he used, he definitely had the vicar's attention.

Obviously, the man was being terrorized with a severe fate. He shivered, assessed her with no sympathy, then hurried back to her, muttering, " 'Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God'—"

"Vicar, please!" she begged.

'Trust me, Miss Carstairs," he responded. "The earl is a fine man. A fine man! You're having reservations now, but in the long term, you won't regret it."

"Are you mad? He's insane! He kicked down my door, and he tied me up, and he threatened my sister, and he—"

"Anne?" Jamie interrupted.

"What?"

"I asked you to be silent."

"Well, I don't choose to obey."

"I haven't asked you to obey. I've merely asked you to be quiet. I'm exhausted by your constant harangue."

She opened her mouth to reply, when he shoved a wad of cloth between her lips, effectively gagging her as if she were a prisoner. In the brief amount of time since she'd met him, she'd suffered numerous indignities, but this was—by far—the most aggravating, humiliating thing that had ever happened to her.

"There! That's better," Jamie mused. He patted her on the head, like a pet dog, as he grinned at the vicar. "Now then, let's proceed. I'm hungry, and I want to enjoy my wedding breakfast before it gets cold."

The vicar began again, and Anne stood there, muffled, shackled, mortified, as he sped through what had to be the shortest recitation of vows ever uttered. Jamie answered his questions in the appropriate spots. Jack chimed in where—in a rational world—Anne would have spoken.

Quickly they were at the end. The vicar closed his prayer book, had Jamie and Jack sign some papers, then raced from the room.

Anne was married to Jamieson Merrick—without ever saying a word.

 

Fourteen

“Let me explain how you've failed me yet again." Percy glared at his sister, then checked his bag to be sure the maids hadn't forgotten to pack any important items.

"I'm not in the mood, Ophelia." "You're not? And why is that? Would my list of grievances be too long? I guess you're so busy running away that you wouldn't have time to listen."

"Jamieson Merrick is like a force of nature. He can't be deterred. You saw how he was with Anne. He's had his way at every turn. There's no stopping him."

"He just banished me to the Dower House—with Mother!"