"A fate worse than death." He gave a mock shudder, not really concerned over what happened to Ophelia. He had his own problems to solve, and they were much more pressing than hers.

"What am I to do?" she nagged.

"Go live with your mum, I suppose. At this late date, what else can you hope for?"

"You know what Edith is like. I will not care for her! I will not play nanny to the demented shrew."

"What would you have me say, Ophelia? Would you rather he tossed the two of you out on the road?"

"You said it would never come to this!"

"You said the same, but it appears we were both wrong. You'd best pack your bags—as I have done."

She grabbed the lapels of his coat and shook him. "You have to help me! I've been your countess-in-fact for over a decade. I won't sleep in some decrepit bedroom in a hovel down the lane, with only a smattering of the most slothful servants to attend me. I won't abandon my spot to Anne!"

"The wedding is over, which would seem to indicate that you already have."

"This is all your fault."

"How is it my fault? I followed every bit of your advice, and look where we are."

"No, you didn't! I advised you to placate him so that we could keep a hand in the family coffers. But you let your pride get in the way."

"What do you mean?"

"Jack tattled on you."

"About what?"

"You told Jamie that you wouldn't accept any compensation, so because of your arrogance, we're left with nothing."

He hadn't wanted her to hear of that stupid meeting, and his first instinct was to deny her accusation. He'd merely heeded his idiotic lawyers and proceeded according to their instructions. How could he be to blame?

He clasped her by the neck, tightening his grip, loving the fear that came into her eye. With his recent rough treatment of her, he'd learned a fascinating detail about himself: He had a nasty side that reveled in violence.

He hadn't realized how exciting it could be to force himself on a woman, although with Ophelia there wasn't ever much resistance. She was as dissolute as he—often more so—but the discovery had shifted their relationship into an entirely new realm.

He couldn't wait to try out his aggression on other females, perhaps a few of the housemaids, or maybe an innocent debutante in London. It would be the ultimate decadence to viciously ruin some snotty, irritating virgin.

"I'm sick of your denigrating me," he said. "Shut your mouth!"

"What if I don't?" She was clawing at his fingers, gasping for air. "You haven't the nerve to do anything to me."

"Haven't I?"

He shoved her onto the bed, as she sputtered and fought, but he was stronger and more determined. He climbed over her as he fumbled with his trousers and released his cock.

"Suck me off," he commanded, stroking the tip across her ruby lips.

"I won't. Not when you're being a beast."

"Do it!"

He reached inside her dress to painfully squeeze her nipple, and she moaned in agony and opened wide.

He flexed into her, as she gagged and fumed, and he was thrilled by his mastery over her. For much of his life, she'd ordered him about, had disparaged and maligned and insulted, and he was delighted to finally show her who was in charge.

Like a crazed animal, he thrust, and as his seed

poured down her throat, he could barely keep from braying in triumph.

How could he not have known how satisfying carnal supremacy would be? Why hadn't he ravished anyone before? His days of enduring her criticisms and complaints were over. He would make the decisions. He would formulate the plans.

With a deep growl, he pulled away, and he heaved her off the mattress and onto the floor. She was crouched on her hands and knees, muttering and struggling for breath.

"Bastard!" she mumbled.

'I certainly can be, and you shouldn't forget it."

She stumbled to her feet. Her hair was falling, her clothes askew, and he laughed at her disheveled condition. In the past few weeks, the balance of power between them had changed, but she hadn't figured out exactly how. He was tired of letting her walk all over him, and from now on, they would do things his way. Starting with Jamie and Anne and moving on from there.

He stood, straightened himself, then calmly closed the straps on his portmanteau, which had her aghast and scowling.

"You can't leave," she insisted.

"1 have to. For now."

"You can't be serious."

"Oh, but I am. Jamie has demanded my departure, and I don't want him wary, so I'll comply."

"But how will you ever return? As long as you're here, you have a continuing claim. If you trot off to London, Jamie will have won."

"Jamie will never be victorious over me."

"He already is!" she hissed.

"Little sister, you're beginning to annoy me. Now, I must be off. Would you like to come with me?"

"Are you mad? One of us must maintain a presence on the estate."

"So you'd rather remain here and play nursemaid to Edith?" As if his burdens were the greatest in the world, he sighed. "I have everything worked out, Ophelia."

"Really?" she snidely goaded.

"Yes, really. At the moment, I've lost the legal battles, but there are other ways to fight Jamie. Can you honestly tell me that you think he'll make Gladstone his permanent residence?"

"No, I don't believe he will."

"Neither do I. So he'll go shortly, and Anne will be all alone. After all I've done for her, can you actually suppose she'd dare deny me anything?"

"No."

"So once he leaves, I'll come home, and I'll bait the perfect trap, then lure him back."

"What trap? What have you arranged?"

"I haven't decided on the particulars yet, but I'm debating them. In the meantime, I'm off to London to revel before total poverty sets in. When I return, it will be to assume my rightful place."

Jamie would be dealt with like the nuisance he was, and as to Anne ... well... she needed to remember how much she owed Percy for his support over the years. And he knew precisely the sort of payment he'd extract.

 

Edith peeked through the keyhole, catching glimpses of her son and daughter as they flitted past the small opening. She couldn't see all of what they were doing, but a

clear view wasn't necessary to understand the depth of their depravity. At an early age, they had succumbed to unnatural urges, and Edith had never had a clue how to make them desist. She considered bursting into the room, shaming them for their obscene acts, but she was tired and hadn't the energy to endure one of Ophelia's bitter tirades.

Percy was speaking again, and Edith pressed her ear to the hole to listen. She managed a few sentences, enough to discern that she was being evicted from Gladstone—when ho one had said a word to her about it. With the new earl arrived, her future was being bandied as if she were invisible, as if she were a person of no consequence in the ostentatious mansion.

It had always been so. She had always been ignored.

Where was she to go? What was to become of her? Why would no one say?

She was treated like a child, like a half-wit, and to learn that Jamieson Merrick would cast her out, that he would abandon her to Ophelia and Percy, was the most frightening notion imaginable.

She'd been positive Jamieson would help her, that he would change things for the better. How could she have been so wrong about him? After all her scheming, if he was no different from his worthless father, what would she do?

Suddenly, Ophelia marched out in a huff, and Edith reared away and stood. She would have run so as to avoid detection, but before she could, the door was flung open and she was confronting her odious daughter.

"You old witch!" Ophelia seethed. "What are you doing lurking out here? From how much you spy on us, I'm beginning to think you're a voyeur at heart."

"I'm watching you," Edith said, "and God is watching you."

"Then your God certainly got an eyeful. Tell Him for me that I hope He enjoyed the show."

She stormed off, the disgusting smell of fornication hovering in her wake. Edith stared after her, knowing she would eventually even the score. But which revenge would be the sweetest?

 

You tug the cord like this and let fly." "Can I try it?" "That's why I brought it." Jack offered the slingshot to Tim, and the boy eagerly took aim at a stick of wood they'd rested on the fence. He frowned and fussed, but after several attempts, he got the hang of it. When he finally knocked the stick to the ground, he whooped with glee.

He was a smart child, a respectful child. The deceased widow who'd raised him had been very poor, and they'd lived in squalor, but she'd done a good job with him. Tim was courteous and friendly, and Jack liked him very much.

"Did you see that?" Tim asked. "I hit it square on." "You sure did."

Tim tried to give the weapon back, but Jack just smiled.

"You keep it," Jack said. "But... why?" "I made it for you." "For me?"

Tim was confused, as if no one had ever given him a gift before, as if he didn't know how to accept it. His expression was so identical to Sarah's that it was almost painful to observe him.

Jack patted him on the shoulder. "Yes, for you. I want you to practice every day. I want you skilled enough to keep the rats out of the barn and the rabbits out of the garden."

"I will!" Tim vowed. "I'll be the best guard ever!"

"I know you will."

There were squirrels in the trees, and Jack taught Tim how to track the fleet animals. He had no chance of harming any of them, but it was humorous to observe as he concentrated and struggled to improve.

Jack was in no hurry for the lesson to end, and he planned to loiter in the forest as long as he could. The manor was in chaos, so he'd stay away till matters calmed. Percy had left for London. Ophelia and Edith were heading for the Dower House, but complaining every step of the way.

Jamie had wed Anne, against her will, and Jack had assisted in orchestrating the event, and he wasn't sorry. While others might curse Jamie for forcing Anne, Jack never would. No one at Gladstone could be allowed to countermand or disobey Jamie. He was fully in charge and would be from now on. Anne—and everyone else—had to get used to the idea, but it definitely made for a rough afternoon.

The servants were sullen and unruly, Anne was in a state of shock, Sarah was spitting mad, and Jack couldn't stand any of it. Shooting at squirrels with a polite and enthused young boy was preferable to any of the alternatives.

At least one person on the blasted property was glad for Jack's company!

Jack played with Tim till his arm grew tired, till they could find no more stones on the path. They started toward the house, when they rounded a curve on the trail and they came face-to-face with Sarah.

She looked as if she'd been crying, and Jack steeled himself against feeling any sympathy for her. They'd had sex on a few raucous occasions, but he refused to read anything into the episodes.

She had too many problems, more than he could solve, more than he could assume, and he didn't like judging her, but he couldn't help it. Her silence regarding Tim's parentage had Jack wondering about her true character. If she was really as callous as her behavior indicated, he wanted no part of a relationship with her—despite the physical attraction they shared.

On seeing him, she stopped, and she was still visibly angry over his role in Anne's wedding, but it was best for Anne to be Jamie's wife. What other choice did she have?

Jamie had merely kept her from making a dreadful mistake, and one day she'd thank them. That's what Jack was telling himself anyway. If Anne never came round to their way of thinking, Jack cared not. Jamie's goals were paramount, and Sarah's and Anne's protests were naught but insignificant chatter out on the edge of the world.

For a moment, it appeared as if Sarah would stomp off in a snit, but she couldn't resist the opportunity to speak with Tim.

"Hello, Tim."

"Hello, Miss Carstairs."

As she noticed what was dangling from Tim's fingers, she frowned. "What have you got there?" "It's a slingshot, Miss. Mr. Merrick gave it to me."

"He did?"

The information had her extremely upset, but Tim didn't recognize her pique, and he answered eagerly, "We've been practicing shooting at squirrels, so I can keep the rabbits out of the garden."

Her temper flared, and she focused her livid gaze on Jack. "I won't have him killing small animals. I can't believe you'd instigate such an activity without asking me.

"It's not up to you, is it, Miss Carstairs?' Jack taunted.

"I don't give my permission for him to own a slingshot! I don't want him to have one."

Tim was unnerved by her fury, and he peered up at Jack. "It's all right, Mr. Merrick. If she'd rather I not, I don't need it."

"I gave it to you, Tim, and it's yours." Jack glared at Sarah and goaded, "Unless you'd like to enlighten him as to why your decisions should supersede mine?"

She blanched, turning so white that, for a second, he worried she might faint. Tears swarmed to her eyes, and she hurled, "I hate you, Jack Merrick. I hate you and your awful brother, and I wish both of you would slither back to whatever hole you crawled out of."

She began to cry full on, and she whirled away and ran. Jack's heart lurched in his chest, her terrible words hurting him in ways he didn't like or understand, but he wouldn't race after her like a besotted idiot. She was crazy as a bedbug, and he needed to involve himself in her troubles like he needed a trip to the barber to have a bad tooth pulled.

"She's very annoyed with us," Tim said, stating the obvious.

"Yes, she is."

"Should I go to the manor and apologize? I'm not sure what I'd be apologizing for, though. I'm not sure what I did."

"Let this be a lesson to you, Tim," Jack sagely advised. "With women, you never know what it is that you did wrong. As you grow older, that fact will never change."

He walked Tim to the barn, then went to the house, himself, slinking in a rear door, hoping to avoid any of the disgruntled occupants. He'd planned to head to his room, to wash and relax before supper, but his feet had a mind of their own.

At the landing on the stairs, where he should have proceeded to his own bedchamber, he turned to tiptoe to Sarah's, instead. The hall was empty, so he spun the knob and slipped inside.

She was on her bed, her face buried in the pillow, and weeping as if there were no tomorrow. He was as irate as she was, but he'd never been the type to make a woman cry, and he couldn't bear to see her so sad and to know that he'd been the cause.

"Sarah," he murmured.

She raised up and stared over at him. "Oh, go away! Just go away." Then she clutched at the pillow again, her sobs muffled, her shoulders shaking.

He stumbled over and stretched out next to her, and he drew her into his arms.

"Hush now," he soothed. "Hush. It will be all right."

"Where is my sister?"

"She's in the earl's suite—with Jamie."

"Will he beat her?"

"No! Gad! Is that what you think? He'd never harm her."

"I tried to talk to her, but he wouldn't let me."

"She'll be fine," he insisted. No matter Jamie's many faults, he'd never resort to physical violence against a woman. Well, unless the woman did something violent first. Then, the gloves would come off.

"He was so angry with her."

"Yes, he was."

"I swore to her that she wouldn't have to marry him. I swore that I'd protect her."

"She didn't need your protection. Their marriage was for the best."

"I couldn't stop him!" she wailed. "I couldn't help her, and I couldn't help my son, and they're the only two people who've ever needed me. What good am I? I've never done anything worthwhile in my whole life."

"They're both fine. You needn't fret so much."

"But I've failed at every turn. Who can count on me? Why would anyone?"

She was at the end of her rope, and he hated to witness the depth of her despair. He'd spent many hours grumbling over her lack of integrity, and he'd convinced himself that she was a cruel shrew, when he knew she wasn't.

It was simply easier to paint her with a brutal brush, for if he viewed her realistically, he'd have to admit that she was merely a lonely woman who'd made some difficult choices. Then he'd have to admit his strong feelings for her, which would give her too much power over him.

He didn't want to care for her, didn't want to put himself in a position where she could reject him or kill him with her disregard. He'd been snubbed or deserted too many times over the years, and he never attached himself to others.

Relationships were fleeting. People died. People were left behind. People moved on. It was better to remain separate, but Sarah had him yearning for something more, something different from the empty existence of traveling the globe with his rootless, itinerant brother.

He held her for an eternity, calming her as if she were a young child who'd awakened from a nightmare, and the experience was wonderful.

Her anguish had his masculine instincts surging to the fore. He wanted to cherish and shelter, wanted to love and bond. The sensations were new and intriguing, and during this odd period of his life, when his entire world was being transformed, he wouldn't discount them out of hand. He would embrace them and see where they led.

Finally, her tears dwindled to a halt. She shuddered and sighed.

"I'm so pathetic."

"Yes, you are. You're an absolute wretch."

His sarcasm earned him a soft punch in the belly.

"I don't need you agreeing with me."

He chuckled as she drew away to peer up at him. She was utterly despondent, and he was crushed that she was so unhappy.

"Don't be sad, Sarah."

"What's to become of me? What possible reason is there for me to continue on? I'm twenty-six years old, and I have nothing to show for it. No money. No home. No family of my own. I'm such a failure."

"You're very pretty, though."

'Talk about something that matters or be silent."

He grabbed the quilt, using a corner to dry her eyes.

"You don't have to figure it all out today." "I suppose I don't."

She studied him, looking confused and morose, when suddenly she shifted nearer and kissed him. She'd surprised him, but he wasn't about to complain.

They couldn't seem to interact without a sexual incident occurring, especially when they were snuggled on a bed. Sparks always sizzled when they were together, and while he eagerly joined in, she was definitely the one in charge. She needed the contact, and he was enough of a cad that he would indulge her in any fashion she desired.

She groaned with pleasure and dismay, and she rolled them so that she was on top. Her mouth ravaged his, while her hands explored; then she climbed over him, her skirt floating over his thighs, her privates pressed to his loins. Her hot gaze locked on his, she tugged at the bodice of her dress, baring her bosom. Her breasts were full and round, the tips rosy and luring him to his doom.

All modesty gone, she arched forward, urging him to feast, and he clasped her nipples, playing with them, squeezing them so that she moaned in delicious agony. She opened his trousers and took hold of him, stroking him to a painful erection; then she centered herself and eased down.

He'd understood that she had a very sensual nature, but he hadn't seen this side of it. She was demanding control, and he was thrilled to let her have it.

"What do you want from me, Sarah?"

"Just this, Jack. Nothing more."

"But I want to—"

She rested a finger against his lips.

"Don't wreck the moment by speaking of what I can't bear to hear."

"There's something happening between us, and we have to discuss it."

"There's nothing happening. Nothing!" He was about to argue the point, and she said, "Just give me this."

She was on her knees, her toes digging into the mattress, and she was rocking across him, taking him deep, retreating, taking him deep again. As if she were performing for him, she pulled the pins from her glorious brunette hair, and it swirled down to her hips.

He'd never viewed such an erotic sight. Her eyes were closed, her head thrown back, her breasts thrust out, and she kept on and on. Her lust increased, and she fell forward, a nipple at his mouth, and he sucked at it.

"Harder," was all she could say. "Do it harder."

He bit down, making her beg, making her squirm.

So far, he'd restrained himself, but his lust was raging, too, and he needed more than to lie under her like a stump of wood. He began flexing into her, being rough and unrelenting, and as he reached between their bodies, her sheath tightened around him, spiraling her into a potent orgasm. He continued pumping into her, desperate for his own release. He rolled them again, so that she was beneath him, so that she was his, and he delayed the end for as long as he was able.

With a feral growl, he heedlessly spilled himself inside her, his seed flooding her womb. It was the most wild, most reckless thing he'd ever done, and he reveled in the decadence, not caring that she could wind up pregnant. He simply proceeded to the conclusion that seemed unavoidable, like a bad carriage accident.

He jerked away, both of them on their backs and assessing the ceiling like a pair of strangers. Their

breathing steadied, and their pulses slowed. The quiet settled. Ultimately, she curled onto her side, away from him.

"Why don't you go?" she requested, dismissing him as if she were the bloody Queen of England.

"No," he replied. "I don't believe I will. Not this time."

He dragged her to him. Though he'd just fornicated like a randy adolescent, his cock was ready, and he slid over her and wedged himself between her thighs.

"What do you think you're doing?" she snapped. "I asked you to go."

"And / have decided to stay."

He pushed into her and started in again.

 

Fifteen

Jamie stopped at the door that separated the earl's bedchamber from the countess's. As he'd expected, it was locked, and he figured Anne had pulled furniture in front of it, too, as an added barrier to keep him out.

When he'd wrestled her upstairs after the ceremony, and had unceremoniously deposited her inside, she'd been more infuriated than he'd realized a female could be.

His own temper had been in no better shape, and it had taken many hours to calm himself sufficiently to where he figured he could converse with her without tossing her over his knee and giving her a good paddling. He'd never met anyone who was so contrary.

He didn't bother asking her to open up, for he knew she wouldn't. He simply raised a foot and let loose. As the wood shattered, it occurred to him that he ought to have a carpenter reside permanently in the manor. She had a knack for goading him to such violent rages that he'd regularly need repairs.

As he'd predicted, she had items blocking his way,

so a few more heaves and pushes were necessary before he walked across the threshold. She was on the other side of the room, appearing as livid as he'd anticipated and clutching a fireplace poker that she wielded like a sword. At her bravado, he nearly snickered.

How could she assume that a flimsy piece of iron would prevent him from doing whatever he wanted?

"Hello, Anne." He grinned and stalked toward her.

"What do you want now, you beast, you dog, you swine?"

"I'm ready to consummate, but you haven't undressed."

At his crude pronouncement, she was so horrified that he laughed and laughed. She humored him in too many ways to count

"After your antics this morning, you think I'd lie down with you?"

"Yes, and I can guarantee you'll like it."

"You are mad!"

"Not mad. Just lusty as the dickens and looking forward to some romping with my wife."

"I am not—and never will be—your wife."

"It says you are—right in the parish register. Your friendly neighborhood vicar even signed as a witness."

"The man is a weasel!"

"He certainly is, but his name is still there, bold as brass."

Jamie drew closer, closer, and she stepped back, back. "Don't you come near me," she warned, brandishing the poker.

"It's too bad you were having such a tantrum that you couldn't attend our wedding breakfast."

"I'll show you a tantrum, you despicable wretch!" He approached until he was an arm's length away and she'd trapped herself into a corner and could go no farther.

"I'll kill you," she insisted. "I swear it!" "If you did, my brother would miss me." "He'd be the only one!" "I'm sure you're correct."

"I hate you!" she seethed. "I will hate you till the
day I die." *

He lunged and grabbed the poker, and he fought her for it. He was bigger and stronger, and he could have yanked it away, but he understood pride and courage, and he allowed her to continue, letting her believe she had a chance, that she'd given it her all.

Ultimately, he snatched it from her and pitched it over his shoulder. They glared, breathing hard, as if they'd run a long race.

"I hate you," she said again, but with much less rancor.

"I don't hate you," he replied, and he dipped under her chin to nibble her neck.

There was something about her that drove him wild. It provoked all sorts of naughty thoughts, and he could have dawdled there for an eternity, sniffing and nuzzling her skin, yet she was stiff as a board, refusing to relax the tiniest bit.

He picked her up and tumbled them onto the bed, and he hovered over her, an arm braced on the pillow, a leg on her thighs and pinning her down. She was sweet and lovely and so much more than he deserved or ever imagined he'd have, and the strangest wave of tenderness swept through him.

His wife. His! Forever. He was so lucky!

"I'm sorry," he murmured, and he brushed a kiss across her lips. "Don't be angry."

The apology sucked the wind from her sails. She'd planned to argue and harangue, but what could she say to an earnest expression of regret? And it was earnest. For the most part.

He wasn't sorry that he'd bullied her, or threatened the vicar, or tied her up, or locked her in. He simply felt bad that she was so unhappy.

"Liar," she petulantly charged. "You've never been sorry for anything you've done in your whole life."

"I'm glad you're mine."

"I'm not."

He kissed her more slowly, easing her into the notion of a wedding night, even though it was early evening.

He intended to go at it till dark, till the next morning, and he'd keep on and on until she was reconciled to the idea of being his bride. He wasn't proficient at words or flirtation, but he knew more about satisfying a woman in the bedchamber than any man alive. As he'd previously discovered, she had a potent sexual nature, so he would soon have her melting with ecstasy.

She'd forget why she was furious, and her reservations would scatter like leaves on the wind.

She broke away and clasped his shoulders, giving him a slight shake.

"Why did you really marry me? Why go to so much trouble?"

"You know why: The Prince asked it of me."

"But he didn't demand it."

"No."

"Yet you pressed ahead." He chuckled. "I certainly did." "I don't suppose there's any way for me to get out of it, is there?"

"I don't see how you could. The vicar read the vows.

We repeated them." She scowled. "All right, one of us repeated them, there was a witness, and it's all recorded neat and proper."

"So it's final, then."

"It definitely is."

"And you forced me into it even though I was adamantly opposed."

"I prefer to say I chose you."

"You would," she dryly noted. "Are you always so adept at rationalizing your offensive behavior?"

"Yes." He grinned. "I'm never wrong. Just ask me; I'll tell you."

He'd thoroughly exasperated her, and she sighed, sounding like the most miserable person in the world, and her despondency was beginning to aggravate him.

He couldn't describe why he'd hounded her so relentlessly. Some of his resolve was spurred by her rejecting him. He was too vain to let Anne—or anyone at Gladstone—snub him, but there was more to it than that.

Though he couldn't fathom why, he'd been desperate to bind her to him so she could never leave. Whatever had caused the peculiar impulse, it had worked to her benefit, so why was she complaining?

She was now rich and powerful. Her sister, who'd done nothing but irk and chastise him, was safe under Jamie's protection.

What more could she want?

Well, maybe to have it all without his annoying self as her spouse, but that pesky detail couldn't be helped. He was part and parcel of the entire package, but he didn't plan to be in residence at Gladstone that much, so it would all be hers with hardly any bother.

"Apparently, it's my wedding day," she grumbled.

"Can't you at least lie and make a kind remark about why you proceeded? Can you stop being a brute for two seconds and tell me something nice?"

He pretended to ponder, then shook his head. "I can't think of a single thing."

"You are the most vile, unpleasant man I ever met."

"I'll grow on you."

"Like an irritating fungus."

He laughed and kissed her again, encouraged when she didn't shove him away. She didn't join in, but she didn't wrench away, either.

"Dearest Anne"—he rolled onto his back so she was draped across him—"how could we not have wed? What if we've already made a little Jamie Merrick?"

"A baby?" She frowned at her stomach. "Could I be in the family way?"

"That's the usual result from how we've been carrying on."

"But I thought we were... ah..." She blushed, not able to discuss fornication. "I hadn't considered the consequences. Not that it could happen so soon anyway."

"It can happen the very first time."

The prospect of her increasing, her belly swelled with his son, was oddly comforting, and Jamie suffered another possessive thrill that he couldn't comprehend. With her, the strangest sensations kept popping up.

He'd never wanted to be a husband, had never wished to be a father and was convinced he'd be a terrible one, but suddenly he was nearly giddy with what could only be joy.

"I'm a cad, I admit it, but after I ruined you, there was no alternative but marriage."

"So, you wed me because it was honorable?"

"No, I wed you because you make me happy."

"Because I..." She paused and glared at him. "You said something kind."

"Of course I did. I know how. I just don't do it very often. It wreaks havoc with my contemptible image."

"What do I do that makes you happy?"

"You're just you. Can we get on with our wedding night?"

"I know you don't care about our vows, but—"

"I care about them," he indignantly claimed. He'd merely be selective in which ones he heeded.

"Don't he to me!" She shook him again. "I can tell when you are."

He shrugged. "I'll try my best to live up to them."

"I realize that's the most I can expect from you, but I need you to understand that whenever you take another lover, it will break my heart."

He scowled. She made it sound as if he'd have hundreds of lovers, as if he'd have thousands, as if he might rush out that very instant to see which females were lurking in the hall so he could lift a few skirts and have at it.

He didn't like her to have such a low view of his character. While he'd never given her a reason to have a higher opinion, and his moral fiber was nothing to brag about, he wanted her to regard him as a better man than he actually was.

"I'd cut off my right arm before I'd hurt you," he vehemently insisted. "How could you suppose otherwise?"

"I think you really believe what you're saying." "You're my wife. I'll always respect and cherish you." "I hope so, Jamie. I truly, truly do." She studied him, her gaze astute and probing, and he

squirmed under the intense scrutiny. It seemed as if she could peer through bone and pore, clear down to the center of his black soul. She could see every falsehood he'd ever uttered, every swindle he'd ever instigated, every violent act he'd ever committed, and he detested her shrewd perception.

He wanted to be a mystery to her, and it was unsettling to know that he'd never be able to keep any secrets.

He rolled them again, so she was on her back. "I'm tired of talking."

"I'm surprised you let me chatter on as long as I have."

"So am I, and we're done hashing things out. For the rest of the evening, I'm not listening to anything you say, unless it's, 'Oh, Jamie, do that to me again.'"

He'd finally managed to make her smile.

"You're impossible."

"I know, but as I told you: I'll grow on you."

"You already are, but remember this...." She grabbed him, flipped him over, and pinned him down. "If you tie or gag me ever again, I'll wait till you let me loose, then I'll murder you in your sleep."

"It's a deal," he fibbed. He'd behave however he pleased—even if it drove her to distraction. "Now can we get on with it?"

"Yes, now we can."

With the haggling over, he was awkward as a lad with his first girl. She wasn't a virgin anymore, so he didn't need to delay or worry about maidenly anxiety, yet he was suffering from the most insane urge to make the interlude special for her.

All women dreamed of their wedding day, but he'd given her none of the fancy fripperies for which they yearned. She'd have no pleasant memories of the actual day, itself, but if he could proceed in a tender and passionate manner, he could give her the night to recollect fondly over the years.

He slowed, reining in his rampaging desire.

He didn't want to rip off her clothes, to ram his phallus into her and call the marriage an accomplished fact. He wanted to woo and seduce and, in the end, he wanted her to be glad he was the one.

He pulled away and took her hand.

"Come with me."

'To where?"

"We're going to do this like an ordinary married couple."

"In light of our dubious beginning, is that possible?" "Yes."

He led her to the dressing room that separated their bedchambers, and with it containing only her meager wardrobe, the space seemed very empty. He made a mental note to remedy the situation immediately. He'd accouter her in a way that would accentuate her new status, that would have fussy, fashionable Ophelia looking like an old frump.

'Turn around so I can unbutton you." He hesitated. "Unless you'd like me to ring for a maid?"

"At this late date, I don't see why we should be too conventional."

"Neither do I."

He spun her, taking a quick nibble at her nape, then he unfastened her garments, but he didn't remove anything. Instead, he retrieved her robe and offered it to her.

"Put this on," he explained. 'Then come to my bedchamber. Whenever you're ready. I'll be waiting for you."

He'd decided they should finish it in the earl's bed, not the countess's, and she needed to join him of her own accord. He was positive he'd calmed her sufficiently so that she'd accede to his polite request.

She peered over her shoulder, her bodice loose, a fist clutching it to her chest, and the gesture reminded him that though he had stolen her virginity, she wasn't much past it. The realization made him feel like a heel. He was too used to dabbling with whores, and he had limited notions of how to carry on with a genuine lady.

He was always pushing her further than she knew how to go, but then, it was her own fault. She was so wonderful, and he lusted after her as he'd lusted after no woman before her.

He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek; then he left for his own room, and he stripped to his breeches and reclined on the bed. He was so impatient that it seemed an eternity before she arrived, and his relief was so immense that it was a good thing he was lying down or she might have perceived his peculiar fit of nerves.

She came in, and he was tickled to see that she'd taken down her hair, but her robe was cinched so tightly that barely an inch of skin was exposed.

She appeared so young, so shy and lovely, and he smiled and held out a hand to her. With a few faltering steps, she was at the bed, and he seized her fingers and kissed her knuckles.

"Welcome, Mrs. Merrick," he murmured, and he helped her climb up next to him.

"I feel so... scared." She chuckled selfconsciously. "Like I'm a real bride and I don't know what's about to happen."

"You silly goose! You are a real bride."

He eased her down on the pillows, and as he studied her, his heart did the oddest flip-flop, his earlier possessiveness sweeping through him again, but there was another emotion, too, a deeper one he didn't recognize. He was just so very, very thrilled that she was his, and he would never let her go.

"I'm delighted that you're my wife," he blurted out when he hadn't planned to wax on, and she assessed him with a great deal of suspicion.

"You're not just saying that, are you?"

"No. I'm very glad."

He commenced, dawdling as he never had in his amorous pursuits. He had all night, he had the rest of his life, to make love to her, and there was no reason to hurry. He could take his time, and as he did, he was stunned to learn that the journey was as enjoyable as the conclusion—maybe more so.

Gradually, he opened her robe, slackening the belt and tugging at the lapels so he could slip his fingers inside. He toyed and played with her breasts, massaging and stroking, then meandering down to suck a nipple in his mouth.

He nursed till she was groaning in agony, till she was begging for mercy; then he continued on, blazing a trail down her belly, her abdomen. As he reached her woman's hair, she tensed and raised up to glare at him.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Let me show you something."

"Tell me what it is first."

"You trust me, don't you?"

"No farther than I could throw you."

He grinned. "Lie back."

"Jamie!"

"It'll make you feel better."

"I already feel pretty good."

"Lie back," he repeated, and she acquiesced, flopping down and staring up at the ceiling, looking miserable, as if he were about to perform an unspeakable surgery on her innards.

He eased her thighs apart and wedged himself between them; then he leaned in and licked her. She lurched away and sat up.

"What was that?"

"Everything's allowed, Anne? Remember?"

"I know, but when you said that, I never imagined you'd do anything quite so ... so ..."

To stifle further complaint, he simply dragged her to him and tossed her legs over his shoulders. He laved her again and again, while she moaned and writhed.

Her taste and scent inflamed him, luring him to his doom, and he could have kept on and on, but she was rapidly losing the fight against desire. He slid two fingers inside her, and the instant he did, she came and came, bucking and wrestling to escape his torment.

As she spiraled down, he was nuzzling his way up her torso.

"You are so wicked," she said, giggling. "I can't deny it."

"Can we do that again sometime?" "Whenever you wish, my little beauty." "You are going to kill me with pleasure." "That's my intent."

He gazed down at her, letting his affection shine through as he fussed with the buttons on his trousers.

He was so aroused, and she was so eager.

He clasped her hips and entered her in one smooth thrust. As they joined together, he decided that the wedding vows had to be more powerful than he'd understood, because the strangest sensation rushed over him. He felt as if he was finally home, as if he'd finally arrived right where he belonged.

For a fleeting moment, the world narrowed to just her, and it seemed as if it hadn't been Gladstone and the earldom at all that had brought him back to England, but his chance for the universe to ensure that he found her.

He wasn't a romantic, though, and he paid no heed to ridiculous, maudlin premonitions. He wanted only to copulate with her, and to do it over and over again till some of his mad attraction was sated. No woman could keep his interest, and there had to be a limit to his infatuation. He merely needed to reach it, which he was certain would happen soon.

"Mine, Anne," he murmured, his seed rising, the end coming.

"Yours, Jamie," she agreed.

"Mine forever."

He flexed and let go, flooding her womb with a relish that bordered on desperation. The novel coupling had bonded them in ways that went beyond vows or human comprehension, as if they truly could never be separated till death.

He pumped into her till every drop was spent, till his heart was hammering so hard that he worried it might quit beating. Then he fell onto her, crushing her with his weight, as he struggled to breathe, to think.

His erection hadn't waned in the slightest, and it occurred to him that he could have sex with her for a hundred years and never have his fill.

Alarmed, disturbed, he closed his eyes, wondering what he'd gotten himself into and frantic over how he'd ever get himself out of it.

 

Sixteen

“I had no idea it would be like this." "I'm glad for you." "He's a marvelous husband."

"I must say that I'm extremely amazed to hear it."

Anne smiled at Sarah, then stared out the window toward the stables. Jamie was leaned against a fence and talking to his brother, and she relished having the chance to spy on him without his being aware.

He wasn't a typical aristocrat. He couldn't abide sloth, and he worked from dawn till dusk, fixing and changing things so they were done his way instead of Percy's. The tenants and servants seemed to like Jamie, when they'd never liked Percy, so he was gradually winning them over.

It was a hot afternoon, and he pulled off his shirt and dipped his hands in the water trough, splashing his hair and face. As he stood, water trickled off him, the summer sun shining on his bronzed skin, and her breath hitched with delight.

At his instigation, she'd become a wanton, a slave to

him and the naughty deeds he'd taught her to perform. There was nothing she wouldn't do to please him, nothing she wouldn't try at his suggestion. He could be sweet and tender, or stern and demanding, and she was so consumed by desire that she felt he was a sorcerer who had cast a spell on her.

He seemed equally obsessed, and there was no sight in the world so fine as Jamie Merrick gazing at her with love and affection.

And she was positive he was starting to love her. A person couldn't fake such devotion, so her dream was coming true. She was cherished by her husband, and she couldn't believe how lucky she was that he'd forced her into their marriage.

Whenever she remembered how she'd fought to escape his clutches, she shuddered at her stupidity. What if he hadn't been so adamant? What if he'd given up on her?

"Look at him," she murmured, her fondness clear and difficult to mask. "He's posed like a Greek god."

"He certainly is. It annoys me that he's so handsome."

"He knows it, too. The man doesn't have a humble bone in his body."

Sarah chuckled. "You love him, don't you?"

Did she love Jamie? Was it possible? Her feelings were so conflicted, so new and raw. When he was near, she suffered such quivery, insane surges of joy, and if that was an indication of love, she'd never admit it. Sarah would deem her mad.

"No, I don't love him." She scoffed, struggling to appear blas6 about the topic. "I just find him so... so ... remarkable."

"You don't have to explain it to me," Sarah said gently. "I'm happy for you. I just hope ..."

"Hope what?" Anne asked when Sarah couldn't finish.

"It's nothing. Don't pay any attention to me."

"No, tell me."

"I hope he stays, that's all."

"You think he won't?"

Anne was horrified that Sarah could have so little faith in him, but then, in the beginning, before she and Jamie had grown so close, Anne had worried over the same.

But no longer! He'd stay because she was at Gladstone. He would never leave her.

"Don't mind me," Sarah said. "He's totally besotted with you."

"He is? Really?" At the prospect, Anne was as excited as an adolescent girl with her first crush.

"He's too smitten to hide it."

Sarah came to the window, too, as Jamie turned to the trough again, and he soaked his shirt in the water and stroked it across his heated chest. He was sexy and decadent, too delicious for words.

They could see all of his back, and old whip marks were visible, providing silent evidence of his hard life as a boy. Anne had gotten used to all his prior wounds and had ceased to notice the numerous spots where he'd been marred by violence.

Sarah mentioned, "I hate those scars."

"So do I. They're awful."

"Jack has them, too. I can't bear that they were beaten so viciously—and at such a young age."

Sarah froze, realizing how peculiar her comment had been, and there was an awkward pause as Anne tried to digest it.

Tentatively, Anne inquired, "How would you know that Mr. Merrick has flogging scars?"

"I don't," Sarah insisted, her panic palpable, "and I have no idea why I said such a thing."

The two sisters stared and stared. Finally, Anne broke the tense moment.

"Sarah, is there something you'd like to tell me?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Very sure. I... ah ..." She wrenched away and headed for the door. "It's been a tiring afternoon. I should take a nap."

She raced out, and as Anne listened to her go, she was unnerved.

Was Sarah having an affair with Mr. Merrick? How else would she have learned such an intimate detail about his anatomy? It wasn't as if Jack Merrick wandered the estate without his clothes.

If Sarah was cavorting with Mr. Merrick, why lie about it? Anne knew—better than any woman alive— how irresistible a Merrick could be. She was in no position to judge.

She scrutinized the two brothers again, curious as to their similarities and differences. Occasionally, she chatted with Jack, and he was always scrupulously polite, but she had trouble moving beyond his domineering behavior on her wedding day.

Had he seduced Sarah? If so, why hadn't he stepped forward to propose?

At the notion that he might be trifling with her sister, Anne decided she should speak with the earl. Jamie enjoyed reminding everyone that he was in charge, so she'd give him a chance to prove how much power and authority he actually had.

If Mr. Merrick and Sarah were involved, then another Merrick brother needed to tie the knot—and quickly.

Anne walked out to the verandah and down into the yard, watching Jamie as she neared. Where she was concerned, he'd developed a second sense, and as she approached, he spun toward her. His gaze was so hot and so potent that she was weak in the knees, and she pondered—as she often did—how she'd survived before he'd burst into her life.

She kept coming until she was directly in front of him. Her skirt swirled around his legs and she could smell the sweat on his skin. His brother had vanished like smoke, though she couldn't have said when, so they were alone. Not caring who might see, she brazenly wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him to her, and she rose on tiptoe for a stirring kiss that he was happy to bestow.

He was surprised by the bold gesture, but humored, too, and he reveled in the embrace, being so thorough that he curled her toes.

They were the talk of the neighborhood. The scandalous news—that the earl and countess were wild for each other—had spread hither and yon, but she wasn't bothered by the gossip. The tongue-waggers could all go hang!

"Lord Gladstone?" she greeted, and he chuckled at her formal mode of address. "Yes, Lady Gladstone?"

"Is your brother having an affair with my sister?"

He cocked his head, as if he hadn't heard her correctly; then he shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know."

"Would he?"

"Well, he is my brother."

"Which means he probably is."

"He hasn't confided in me, though. What makes you wonder about them?"

"It's nothing important. I'd just like you to speak to him for me. Would you?"

"For you, my dearest Anne, I would do anything. You know that."

"Anything? Hmm...."

She grabbed his hand and started for the house. "Where are we going?" Jamie inquired, following along like a trained pony.

"You did say anything, didn't you?" "Yes."

"I want to see if you're serious."

"Now?"

"Yes, now."

He glanced back at the barn. "I'm a tad busy."

"I need you to attend me. Immediately."

She kept on, leading him to precisely where she wanted him to be, though not nearly fast enough. Between the spot where they were and the spot where they'd end up, there had to be a thousand stairs, each one a petty delay that seemed ridiculous.

Perhaps they should just bring their bed down to the front parlor and save all the climbing.

"I've created a monster," he muttered as she dragged him into the manor.

She glared over her shoulder. "Are you complaining?''

"Not complaining," he said. "Merely stating the facts."

She reached the stairs, and they ran up together.

»

M

y wife asked me the strangest question." "What is that?" Jack turned to look at Jamie. "She wants to know if you're having an affair with her sister."

"Nosy little wench, isn't she?" "She is at that."

Jack kept his expression carefully blank and sipped at his whiskey.

It was early evening, the two of them out on the verandah and discussing the estate before supper, which had become a nightly ritual. Yet Jack vividly remembered when Anne had leaned out a window while they'd been discussing her. Jamie's comments had caused a peck of trouble, and Jack wouldn't make the same mistake.

While Jack usually told Jamie everything, and couldn't recall when he'd last had a secret from his brother, he hadn't confessed about Sarah. He and Jamie had an acute mental connection, and frequently they thought the same thoughts at the same moment, so it was pointless to conceal information from him. Still, for reasons Jack didn't understand, he hadn't mentioned his trysting with Sarah. Nor had he explained about her being Tim's mother, and he couldn't fathom why he hadn't. Women—and his and Jamie's peccadilloes with them—were a common topic of conversation, so Jack's reticence was baffling. Why couldn't he say anything?

"So ... are you?" Jamie pressed.

"I might be."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I might be."

Jamie scowled. "You might be fucking her? You might not? You're thinking about it? What? Don't you know?"

Jack peeked around, searching for eavesdroppers but seeing none. "I've had sex with her a few times." "Really?"

"Yes, and if you tell your wife, I'll cut out your tongue, then slice off your balls."

As if the bloodletting were about to begin, Jamie held up his palms in a sign of surrender.

"She won't hear it from me."

"She better not."

"What's she like?" Jamie crudely queried. "Is she any good under the covers?"

"Shut up, or I'll knock your teeth out, too."

"All right, all right." Jamie studied him, amazed by Jack's surly attitude. "Since she's my sister-in-law, I suppose I ought to learn if you have any intentions toward her."

"Intentions!"

"You know what those are, don't you?" "Don't be a smart-ass."

"Is she going to wind up pregnant? Should I be demanding a wedding?"

Jack shrugged, refusing to discuss Sarah or his insane attraction to her.

She was everything he loathed in a female—fickle, flighty, unreliable, moody—and he couldn't comprehend why he'd been bewitched.

Like a puppet on a string, he kept crawling back to her bed, each fornication dragging him deeper into the morass. Every time he trifled with her, he told himself it would be the last, but the second he saw her again, he instantly capitulated. He was so weak!

"So there's nothing to worry about," Jamie said. "No, nothing."

Except for vicious rumor, scandal, another illegitimate child, plus the chance of the countess's sister being exposed as a fallen woman.

"If I asked Miss Carstairs her opinion about your behavior, what do you imagine her version would be?"

"If you ask her anything—if you so much as glance in her direction—I'll kick your ass from here to Jamaica."

"My, my," Jamie mused, and he whistled softly. "You're hooked like a fish on a line."

"I am not," Jack insisted. "She's very nice, and we've passed some pleasant hours together. That's all there is to it."

If he believed in Hell, which he didn't, he was positive the huge lie would have guaranteed he spent an eternity there. He had jumbled but potent feelings for Sarah and would have proposed immediately if he'd thought she'd have him—but she never would.

He was a vagabond and uncouth sailor, who had naught to show for himself but the fact that he was Jamie's brother. Jack had nothing to offer a snooty, refined lady like Sarah Carstairs, and he wouldn't humiliate himself by giving her an opportunity to spurn him.

Jamie was about to start in with another ribald, offensive remark that would have had Jack out of his chair and eager for an all-out brawl, but an altercation was avoided because Sarah stepped onto the verandah.

Jamie peered over at her and grinned. He had the look

of the devil in his eye. Jack had seen that look before, and he knew it well. If Jamie could stir up trouble, he would, and there was no predicting what he might say.

Jack braced for a catastrophe.

"Hello, Miss Carstairs," Jamie welcomed, as he and Jack stood.

"Hello, Lord Gladstone." She was as formal as if they'd been loitering in a fussy London drawing room.

"Are you ever going to let me call you Sarah?" Jamie inquired.

"Probably not," she coolly replied.

Jamie laughed at the insult and gestured to the chair across from him. "Won't you join us?"

"I'm sure she'd rather not," Jack quickly interjected, and he flashed such a churlish glare at Sarah that he was certain she'd take the hint and scurry off, but Jamie added, "We were just talking about you."

With that bit of news provided, she couldn't resist sauntering over.

"What is there about me," she asked, "that could possibly interest you two?"

Without preamble, Jamie said, "Jack has advised me that you're having a sexual affair with him. Is it true?"

Sarah turned white with shock and muttered, "He told you that?"

"Yes," Jamie answered. "I questioned him about his intentions toward you, but he claims he has none, and I wanted to hear your opinion. Would you like him to marry you? If it's what you wish, I'll make him propose."

She spun to Jack and seethed, "You told him?" Jack felt like a fly caught in a spider's web. "He's my twin brother," Jack pathetically justified. "I tell him everything."

"Everything?" She was aghast.

"Well... not anything about... ah ..."

"You, Mr. Merrick, are an unmitigated bastard."

For the second time in their convoluted relationship, she slapped him as hard as she could; then she whipped away and stomped to the house.

As she reached the door, Jamie called after her, "I take it that means no!”

"I'm not my foolish sister, Lord Gladstone. I wouldn't marry one of you Merricks if my life depended on it."

As the sound of her angry strides vanished, Jamie sighed and said, "She doesn't like me very much."

"Who does?" Jack responded.

"Yeah, well, she doesn't seem too keen on you, either."

"Bugger off."

"I'll send a note to the vicar," Jamie taunted. "I'll have him check his schedule, so we'll know when he's available to preside at the ceremony."

"Go screw yourself blind."

Jack stomped away, too, Jamie's laughter ringing in his ears.

 

Let me in." "No. Go away." "Let me in, or I'll beat the door down." Sarah stared at the knob as Jack rattled it, then began to pound on the wood.

"It's your choice, Sarah. You can open it, or I'll keep on till the entire household comes up to see why there's such a commotion."

He would, too; she had no doubt. If she was overly obstinate, he'd simply kick his way in as his brother liked to do.

Jamie and Jack Merrick were a pair of contemptible, uncivilized scoundrels. They would do anything to a woman, without regard to the consequences. Who could gainsay them?

She stormed over and hissed, "Be silent."

"I'll be silent once you open up."

She fumbled with the lock, yanked at the knob, then grabbed his wrist and pulled him inside. She didn't peer down the hall to see if any of the maids were lurking, for she was too terrified to know. After so many years spent guarding her reputation, if she lost it now because of such a blackguard, she'd be driven to commit murder and at the moment a messy, unrestrained act of homicide would suit her just fine.

"What do you want?" she demanded. "And might I suggest that you be quick about it?"

"I didn't confide any pertinent details to my brother."

"Oh, that definitely makes me feel better." "I didn't! I swear it!" "Then how did he know?"

"Your sister asked him about us, so he asked me. I "couldn't deny it."

"What? You can't lie to the miserable oaf?"

"I never have before, and I'm not about to start."

"Perhaps you should consider turning over a new leaf. I won't have that horse's ass meddling in my private business."

Gad! What a disaster. Jamie knew, so Anne would know shortly. What would Anne say? What would she think? How would Sarah ever justify her conduct?

She couldn't believe how she'd dawdled in the parlor with Anne, the two of them mooning over Jamie and Jack Merrick as if they were handsome gods, instead of mortal men with plenty of flaws. Sarah hadn't meant to comment on Jack's flogging scars, and the words had slipped out before she could stop them.

Without her realizing it, Jack had become an obsession. She drooled over him. She fretted over him. She was so fixated that she could barely eat or sleep.

"Jamie may be an ass, but he was correct," Jack said.

"About what?"

"You have to marry me."

As far as proposals went, it had to be the most cold, unfeeling one ever uttered, and she was incensed.

She'd waited her whole life to wed, had dreamed of it as a girl and yearned for it as a woman. Once, she'd risked all—chastity, reputation, safety, security—in the hopes of having it happen, and finally there was a man who'd mustered the gumption to proceed, but he looked as if he'd bitten into a rotten egg.

"Marry ... you?" she scoffed.

Her tone was much more snide than she'd intended, but she was irate and hurt, and she spoke without reflecting on how she'd sound. As she might have predicted, he didn't react well.

He blanched as if she'd slapped him all over again.

"What if you're pregnant?"

"What if I am?" she blithely retorted, as if she hadn't a care in the world, as if the frightening possibility weren't gnawing at her every second.

"Your history proves that you're awfully fertile."

"Yes, it does. I seem to breed like a rabbit."

"Aren't you worried?" He studied her, his temper as hot as her own. "Or maybe you don't mind. Maybe you'll spit out another bastard and be done with it."

"It's what I'm best at," she sarcastically replied.

"At least this time, the father offered to stay around. When you disavow another of your children, what will your excuse be?"

It was the most despicable, hateful thing anyone had ever said to her. She understood that he was livid, that they were quarreling and ought to shut up till cooler heads prevailed, but common sense was nowhere in sight.

She wanted to slap him again, and she wanted to keep on slapping him till his cheek was raw and her palm bruised. She wanted to find a whip and beat him to a bloody pulp. She wanted to fire a pistol into the center of his cruel heart and smirk as he fell dead on the floor.

"Get out," she snarled.

"No."

"Get out of here—and don't ever return!"

"I'll be damned if you'll order me out."

No longer concerned about discovery, she stormed to the door and flung it open.

"Get out! Get out!" she bellowed like a deranged shrew.

He thought about arguing, but a maid was coming down the hall. She'd heard the shouting, and she tiptoed to the threshold and peeked in.

"Are you all right, miss?" the maid asked.

"I'm just dandy."

Jack glared at both women, then cursed and marched out without a backward glance. Sarah staggered to the bed and eased down on the mattress.

The silence settled, and the maid cautiously queried, "Would you like me to fetch your sister, Miss Carstairs?"

"No, I'm fine. Please close the door on your way out."

The girl wanted no part of whatever had transpired, and she did as Sarah had requested, then hurried away, no doubt to tattle to the other servants about the scandalous scene she'd witnessed.

Sarah sat in the quiet, all alone again.

 

Seventeen

Jamie dawdled in the doorway, staring at Anne and rubbing his wrist that was aching like the dickens. She was asleep on the bed, and he couldn't pull himself away.

It was still early, but the sun had been up for more than an hour. He'd planned to head out before dawn, needing to put as many miles between himself and Gladstone as he was able, but he continued to linger, and he couldn't understand why.

He'd accomplished everything he'd set out to do. He'd established his ownership, had chased off Percy, had relocated Ophelia and Edith, and had confirmed the loyalty of the tenants and servants. Anne and Sarah were protected as the Prince had requested. Jack would stay behind and manage Jamie's affairs as Jamie would trust no other to do, so there was no reason to delay.

He figured it was Anne who kept him from leaving, and the realization was so aggravating. In the beginning, he'd intended to wed her, then go, but it had all grown so complicated.

The estate was like a living being, his roots in the place deep and abiding—when he didn't want them to be. The fertile soil seemed to have talons that had wrapped around his ankles. They were holding him locked to the property until he could accept his connection to it, but he simply couldn't open himself to the possibility that he belonged at Gladstone.

He'd spent the summer with Anne, and it had been magnificent, but he had to move on. He had scores to settle, battles to wage, whiskey to drink, women to seduce, and he had to quit tarrying like a besotted idiot. His infatuation with Anne had gotten completely out of control, and if he remained another second, he was terrified of where he'd end up.

He wouldn't be bound! Wouldn't be tied down or fettered! Not to her or to anyone!

She stirred and touched the spot where he slumbered next to her, and on discovering that he wasn't there, she frowned. Her auburn hair was strewn across the pillows, and a ray of sunshine made the soft tresses blaze with color.

He didn't mean to ever return, and suddenly the thought of never seeing her again was the saddest prospect in the world. He rubbed his hand over his heart, feeling as if it was breaking, which was absurd.

He would be fine without her! Just fine!

Like an automaton, he stumbled over and eased a hip down on the mattress. She was like a weakness in his blood, and he had no idea why he couldn't shake his need for her, but time and distance would quell her allure, as would a few London strumpets.

If he felt a stab of disgust at the notion, if he felt a stab of guilt and shame, he pushed them away. His marriage vows were preposterous, and he wouldn't be constrained by them.

Her pretty eyes fluttered open, and she smiled and stretched.

"What time is it?" she mumbled.

"After six already."

"What are you doing up? And dressed, too! You know I hate it when you get dressed before I have my way with you."

She initiated a luscious, slow kiss, and as he drew away, she sighed with delight.

"Why don't you come back to bed?"

"I must be off."

Usually, he rose for morning chores, so she wasn't aware that this was farewell. Not eager for a maudlin scene, he'd given her no hint of his departure, had made no preparations, had packed no bags. The prior evening, he'd merely instructed one of the grooms to have his horse ready. The animal was down in the yard, sensing a journey, and excited to be away. Jamie need only walk down, mount up, and go.

Why was it so difficult to pry himself away?

"Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are?" he inquired.

"Yes, but tell me again. I'm a glutton for your compliments."

He stole a last kiss, a brief brush of his lips to hers; then he hugged her tight, his face buried at her nape to hide his tormented expression. Once he'd contained his careening emotions, he slid from her arms.

"Bye," he said.

He yearned to say more, to blather on about how much he'd enjoyed their time together, but he was too much of a coward to confess what he was actually doing.

Without another word, he left, marching down the hall, practically running when he reached the stairs. The worst wave of panic swept over him, and he felt that if he didn't escape the house, he'd be trapped inside it forever.

As he sprinted out the front door, Jack was in the drive, waiting by the horse, and Jamie wasn't surprised to see his brother. Jamie hadn't confided to Jack that he was going, but Jack had figured it out nonetheless. They had no secrets.

Jack had packed Jamie a bedroll and satchel, had a pistol loaded and strapped to the saddle. Seeming cool and unaffected, Jack watched as Jamie approached.

"Are you sure, Jamie?" was all he said.

"I'm sure. How about you? You claimed that you wanted to stay here, but have you changed your mind?"

"No."

"Are you sure?" Jamie pressed, wishing Jack would come along and not able to imagine how it would be without him.

"No, but I'm staying anyway. Have you talked it over with Anne?" "No."

"She'll ask me why you went. What should I say?"

'Tell her... oh hell, I don't know. Tell her what a bastard I am. Tell her she's better off without me. She'll agree with you."

"Yes, she will."

Jamie nodded and peered up at the ostentatious mansion, the shiny windows glowing red with the rising sun. "You have my permission to do whatever you want to the property. I'll have the lawyers put something in writing, and I'll send it to you—in case there's any question." "Good."

Jamie studied his brother, his fondness so severe that it was painful.

"We traveled a lot of miles together." "We did at that."

"I'm glad I could bring you back," Jamie said. "I'm glad I could give you this place and this life." "So am I."

"It's what you always wanted. Don't squander it."

"As if I would, you wretch." Jack chuckled. "Shut up and go before I start blubbering like a babe."

A rattling noise sounded overhead, and they both glanced up to where Anne was looming out an upstairs window. Jack and Jamie froze, looking like the guilty conspirators they were, and he was troubled and annoyed. He'd hoped to sneak off without any fuss, but there was about to be an enormous amount of it.

"Jamie?" she called down. "What are you doing?"

"It's too early to be up, Anne," he advised. "Go back to bed."

She scrutinized his horse. "Are you ... leaving?"

There was a lie on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't tell it. She appeared stunned and hurt, and any remark was crushed by the sense of loss he felt at seeing her one last time.

"Don't you dare move!" she scolded, slamming the window. He pictured her racing to the hall, flying down the stairs.

"You're in for it now," his brother muttered, and he strolled away, no more eager for the pending confrontation than Jamie was, himself.

"Dammit," Jamie cursed.

He patted his horse, desperate to leap on and ride away before she arrived, but it was a craven notion.

He'd suffered through many good-byes in his life, and he hated how wrenching they were, so he never willingly participated in them. Anne had never been anywhere but Gladstone, so she hadn't discovered how awful a parting could be, but she was about to learn, and he detested that he would be the one to teach her.

A quick and complete break was for the best, but now they'd quarrel, then Jamie would go anyway. No matter what she said, no matter how prettily she begged, she'd never convince him to do otherwise.

She rushed out the door, and she was a splendid sight in her robe and nightgown, barefoot, her hair tumbling over her shoulders. She kept coming till they were toe-to-toe, and Jamie steeled his expression, determined to conceal how he was raging on the inside. His hands were gripped behind his back, his fingers tightly linked, so he didn't reach for her.

On noting his indifferent gaze, she paused, not as certain as she had been. Nervously, she clutched at the lapels of her robe.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

'To London, Anne."

"For how long?"

He shrugged but didn't answer.

"Forever?"

"Not forever. I'll visit now and again."

"How often is that? Once a month? Once a year?"

"I'll stop by occasionally—to check on things." He pointed to the corner of the house, where Jack was loitering and trying to ignore them. "In my absence, Jack is in charge. If you need anything, let him know. He'll take care of it for you."

She frowned as if he'd spoken in a foreign language she didn't comprehend.

"I thought you were happy here."

"I was."

"Then how could you just... go?" "I never planned to remain." "Never?" "No."

At the callous admission, she nearly collapsed to the ground in a swoon.

"Did I mean nothing to you then?"

"Of course you did."

"What? What did I mean to you?"

"I'm glad I married you. I'm glad you're my wife."

Tears flooded her eyes, and it was the worst moment for him. He couldn't bear it when she was sad, and her woe reinforced what an ass he was, but it didn't alter his decision.

"What will I do without you?" she inquired. "What will become of me?"

"Jack will watch over you."

'I don't want Jack." The tears were falling freely, and she swiped at them. "I want you. I want you here with me. Always."

"I can't be."

"Why?"

He couldn't explain his jumble of feelings. Gladstone was his, and he'd kill any man who tried to say it wasn't, but he loathed the properly and couldn't imagine being tied to it.

He could never fully describe what his past had been like, how he'd struggled to survive, how many times he almost hadn't. When he walked about the estate, every tree and stone seemed to cry out with reminders of how it might have been, how it should have been, and he couldn't stand it.

What if he stayed? What if they had children? His father's blood ran in his veins. Jamie could feel it flowing with wicked intent, and he had to acknowledge that he was the man's son, so he might be capable of any foul deed.

What woman would want such a despicable character around her children? He might do anything to them. He might do anything to Anne.

"It's simply not meant to be," he ultimately said.

"Don't do this, Jamie. Please."

"I have to, Anne."

"Will you... will you ..." She had to swallow twice before she could continue. "Will you at least write once in a while, so I'll know where you are and that you're all right?"

"Jack will know where I am."

She sobbed with regret, and her response was too painful to abide. Jamie tried to hug her, but she stepped away, refusing his comfort, and he couldn't complain. He deserved the petty rebuff.

"We need you here," she claimed. "/ need you here."

"No, you don't. You'll all get on fine without me. Better, in fact." He grinned, attempting to inject some levity into the horrid discussion. "Why ... in a week or two, your life will have returned to normal, and you'll be relieved that I left."

"It will be so quiet without you. How will I bear it?"

He raised a hand to rest it on her shoulder, but she spun away and raced for the house. Though it was the hardest thing he'd ever done, he didn't go after her. He tarried—alone—staring at the spot where she'd been. His heart was pounding, her last comment ringing in his ears.

Eventually, Jack joined him, a look of censure in his eye, but he wouldn't give voice to it. They knew each other too well, and Jack was aware that it was futile to chastise Jamie about anything.

"That was badly done, Jamie," he gently chided.

"Yes, it was."

"She loves you something fierce."

"She'll get over it," Jamie insisted.

"You can always come back," Jack said. "This is your home now. If you don't find what you're searching for in London, come home."

Home...

The word rushed through the grass and trees like a breeze on the wind. It promised and cajoled, and he nearly succumbed, suddenly wanting it more than he'd ever wanted anything, but he shook away the tempting impulse.

"I don't belong here," he asserted. "I never have." He moved to his horse and swung up in the saddle. "Be careful," Jack advised, "and keep me posted about your doings." "I will."

Jamie paused, examining the windows of the manor. He'd hoped that Anne might be there, that he'd catch a final glimpse of her, but she was nowhere in sight.

He bent down, his hand extended, and Jack clutched it with both of his own, the two of them bonded as no other pair could ever be.

"So ... this is good-bye," Jack murmured. "I can't believe it."

"Neither can I." Was he really going? Would he and his brother actually part? If they weren't together, how could either of them manage? "If you get sick of country living, come to London."

"What would I do with myself in London? You know how I hated it there."

"Then we'll ready the ship and set out."

"To where?"

"To wherever you want. To hell with this place."

"We'd just walk off and leave it?"

"Sure. Why not?" Jamie gazed around again; then abruptly he said, "Marry that girl, would you? Make Sarah an honest woman. Be happy with her."

"As if she'd have me," Jack scoffed. "She thinks I'm too much like you."

Jamie laughed, jerked on the reins, and cantered away.

 

Anne huddled behind the drapes in the earl's bedchamber. She was blocked from view, but she could see the drive down below perfectly

well.

She watched as Jamie chatted with his brother and, as nimbly as a circus performer, leapt onto his horse. He leaned down, their dark heads close, their hands clasped in friendship; then, with a quick flick of the reins, he galloped away.

He was smiling, excited to be away from Gladstone—to be away from her!—and as he wound down the lane to the road that would take him to London, he never looked back. Not once.

She touched her fingers to the glass, wishing, praying, letting her mind reach out to connect with his.

At least wave good-bye! she implored, but if her message was received, he gave no sign.

Would he stay in the city? Or would he travel even farther away? Would he simply board his ship and sail away from England, never to be heard from again?

When they'd first met, she hadn't thought he'd remain at the estate, but after their marriage, she'd assumed he'd changed. He'd seemed so content, but apparently it had all been a charade.

How could she not have seen it coming? He'd provided no hint, had uttered no prescient remarks, hadn't even been particularly sad as he'd wakened her for a farewell embrace. Only the odd tension in his shoulders as he'd exited the room had indicated something might be wrong.

If she hadn't run to the window and peeked out, she wouldn't have known his plan. She'd have lounged in bed for hours, presuming him to be riding the fields and unaware he'd gone.

She dawdled till he was a tiny speck on the horizon, till he'd disappeared, and she continued to tarry. Pathetically, she told herself that he'd get a distance down the road and realize he'd made a mistake and he'd return to her.

But he never did.

Like a blind woman, she stumbled to their bed, and she fell onto the mattress, his pillow crushed to her chest. The sheets were still warm from his body's heat, his scent lingering in the fabric.

She stared up at the ceding, contemplating how quiet it was. The house seemed bereft, as if it sensed the loss of his energy. Everything was gray and fuzzy, indistinct, as if nothing were real.

How would she survive it? How would she keep her heart from breaking?

"Oh, Jamie..." she whispered, wondering how anything would ever be right again.

 

Ophelia? What are you doing here?" "Hello, Sarah. It's so dreary down at the Dower House. I sent Mother to visit friends in town, so I'm lonely. I've decided to move home." "To stay?"

"Of course to stay. What would you suppose?"

As if she hadn't been gone a single moment, Ophelia pulled off her gloves and tossed them on the hall table, and Sarah suffered from the strongest urge to march over and push her out the door. Sarah didn't want Ophelia coming back. The manor was in chaos. The servants were moping as if someone had died, and Anne was in a state of shock.

Ophelia would add to the turmoil, would set everyone more on edge than they already were, yet Sarah had no authority to deny entrance. Anne and Jack were the only two people who could tell Ophelia no and mean it, but Anne was ill with grief, and Jack was away, shopping for a new plow.

"Where's Anne?" Ophelia queried. "I imagine I should ask her permission—though it galls me that I should have to:"

"She's a bit indisposed."

"Is that how you're explaining it?"

"Explaining what?"

"The entire county knows he's left her. It's all anyone can talk about. She's a laughingstock, but then, Jamie is a lunatic. What did she expect?"

Ophelia went to the stoop and gestured to someone in the drive, and Sarah walked over to see who'd accompanied her. There was a teamster's wagon parked out front, loaded down with Ophelia's belongings, and she gave brisk orders to have the items hauled upstairs.

Sarah observed, aghast, panicked about what she should say or do.

Ophelia turned, her expression grim. T guess it would be too much to hope that I could have my old bedchamber."

"The countess's suite?"

"Yes."

"Anne is countess now."

"I heard that she's lodged in the earl's quarters since her husband abandoned her."

"Well... yes, she is."

"Then what does she need with my room?"

"We should probably check with her, to be certain...."

Sarah trailed off as some men tromped in, grappling with a large trunk, and she stood in silence, gaping, as Ophelia directed them to the countess's boudoir.

"Ophelia!" she finally protested. "You can't just come in and ... and ..."

"And what, Sarah? This was my home long before you two charity cases ever arrived. Don't presume to command me about."

"But..."

"Look, if it will make you feel better, we'll seek Anne's opinion—once she's up and around. If she wants me in another bedchamber, I'll go. In the interim, I don't think it's any of your business. Do you?"

Sarah was so close to letting loose, to giving the obnoxious shrew the tongue-lashing she'd always deserved, but she couldn't bring herself to expound. It simply wasn't in Sarah's nature to cause a huge scene.

"I'm starving," Ophelia commented. "Go to the kitchen and fetch me a tray of my favorite dishes. You know what I like."

"I... I...," Sarah stammered, stunned by how quickly they'd reverted to form.

"Do you have some problem with doing as I've bid you?"

Ophelia neared, appearing determined and menacing, and Sarah grumbled, "No. I'll see to it immediately."

She stepped aside, and the men passed to the stairs, Ophelia following them up.

At the landing, she leaned over the rail, a smile on her painted lips.

"I have good news," she cooed.

Sarah was terrified over what it might be. "What is it?"

"Percy wrote from London. He's homesick, too. He should be here any day now. Isn't it marvelous?"

"Yes, marvelous," Sarah concurred, but her mouth puckered as if she were sucking on a lemon.

"It will be just like old times."

Ophelia studied the foyer with a proprietary air; then she kept on to her reclaimed boudoir.

 

Eighteen

“My, my, would you look at that?" Anne glanced across the breakfast table at Ophelia, who was skimming the London gossip news and grinning slyly. Some things never changed, one of them being Ophelia's penchant for sowing discord.

Anne should have ignored her, yet she caught herself asking, "What is it?"

"Perhaps I should go to London, too," Ophelia mused. "Obviously, he's having more fun there than I am having here."

"Who are you babbling about?" "Read this paragraph." Ophelia pointed to the appropriate spot. 'The author refers to 'the Rascal Roue, Lord G.S.'" Sarcastically, she added, "Whoever could he mean?"

Anne snatched up the paper, poring over the lurid account. The details—that the man was new to the aristocracy and had previously been a notorious privateer—definitely ruined any attempt at anonymity.

Apparently, Jamie had cut a wide swath through

High Society, having engaged in every decadent deed a person could devise. He was throwing wild parties, consorting with Jezebels, and gambling away his money as if he had no responsibilities, as if he didn't own vast estates that employed people who depended on his fiscal restraint.

Anne knew she shouldn't give the rumors any credence, but stories usually started with some basis in fact, so she imagined at least some of his antics were true.

What had happened to him? Why was he doing this to himself?

She didn't understand him and never had.

Eager to annoy Ophelia, she was all innocence. "This Lord G.S. is certainly a wicked character. Who do you think he is?"

"It's Jamie, you silly goose."

"How could it be? Last I heard, he'd gone to Scotland on business. He's not even in London."

"You're receiving regular correspondence, are you?"

Ophelia chuckled cruelly, her raised brow signifying that she was aware Anne had had no mail and couldn't possibly know where Jamie was.

"He posts a letter once a week," Anne insisted. "Like clockwork."

"Give over, Anne," Ophelia scoffed. "He's an illiterate barbarian. Any note from him would simply contain a large X in the middle of the page. He never learned to read and write."

"That's a lie!" Anne hissed, her undeserved loyalty to Jamie making her ripple with fury.

Jamie was smart as a whip and shrewd like a fox, so the notion that he hadn't been schooled had never occurred to her, and she was embarrassed to realize that she knew so little about her husband that she had no idea if Ophelia was correct or not.

"Poor Anne," Ophelia clucked. "So devoted. So misguided in the affairs of the heart."

She rose, giving Anne a condescending pat on the shoulder, then sauntered out. Anne watched her go and gnashed her teeth.

When Ophelia had initially arrived, Anne had been too distraught to care. By the time she'd been feeling stronger and might have put her foot down, Ophelia was ensconced in the countess's rooms. It would have taken a shovel to dig her out of them.

Jack had begged Anne to evict her, but Anne couldn't muster the energy to wage battles that seemed ridiculous. As she'd explained to Jack, it was a huge mansion. There was space for all of them.

Once Percy arrived, too—an event that Ophelia kept promising—Anne might change her mind and eject both of them, but for the moment she merely wanted peace and quiet.

She reread the torrid article, and she supposed it was an indicator of her improved condition that the information made her fighting mad. While she'd been languishing at Gladstone, grief stricken and bereft over being abandoned by Jamie, he'd been in London, wagering and carousing with loose women.

She scanned the words over and over, and with each repetition her rage sizzled a tad more. She envisioned him adrift in a sea of corruption and vice, his very soul in jeopardy from his dissolution. He needed to come home, where he was safe, where he belonged, where he was loved. And she did love him. She had no doubt. She'd had to lose him to figure it out.

She sat in the silence, mulling, fuming, when a resolution presented itself to her. It was diabolical, it was foolhardy, it was destined to fail, but she had to try.

She folded the paper under her arm and marched outside to where Jack was working with the horses.

She and Jack were necessary companions, charged by the absent Jamieson Merrick with keeping the immense property functioning. Even though they had no concept of how to go about it, they'd muddled forward together, and in the process they'd become friends.

He saw her storming across the yard, and one corner of his mouth quirked in a smile that was an exact duplicate of Jamie's.

"What is it now?" he inquired.

"Tell me why your brother is such an idiot."

"I only plan to live another forty or fifty years, so there wouldn't be enough time."

She snorted. "Was he always this way?"

"What way?”

"Heedless, arrogant, and exasperating?" "Yes, always." "How did you bear it?" Jack shrugged. "He grows on you." "Did you ever think that you'd like to simply reach over and throttle him?" "On a daily basis." "Come with me to the house." "Why?"

"We're packing our bags for a trip to London." "To London!"

"We're going to fetch him home."

"I don't imagine he'll come peaceably." "It doesn't matter," Anne said. "I'm going to kill him first."

"So we'll just be bringing the body for burial?" "If that's what it takes to get him back here." Jack chuckled. "I can't wait to see his face when you show up."

"Neither can I."

"He never lets anyone tell him what to do." "Well, someone needs to start. It might as well be me."

W

hat are you doing here?" "Can't I attend my own brother's soiree without undergoing an inquisition?" "No, you can't," Jamie retorted, glaring at Percy. The more Jamie got to know Percy, the less Jamie liked him. Jamie saw Percy at engagements all over London, had ignored and endured him, but he shouldn't have to tolerate him at his own party, in his own foyer.

"You weren't invited," Jamie continued, "so what do you want? If you're about to beg for another handout, you'd best do it quietly or your snooty acquaintances might overhear."

"I didn't beg—as you so crudely put it. I've never asked for anything that wasn't rightfully mine."

"No, of course not. Why don't you swallow your pride and agree to a stipend, after all?"

"I don't need an allowance from you," Percy boasted. "I'm about to wind up with everything I ever wanted." "And what would that be?"

"Why, Gladstone; what would you suppose?"

"You've repeatedly proven that you're too stupid to wrest it from me. Now why don't you go away before you hurt yourself? Or before / hurt you."

The place was crammed with guests. People were watching them, whispering and curious as to what was being said. Most likely, they were commenting on how much Percy had begun to resemble Jamie. Over the previous few months, dissipation had wreaked havoc on Percy's anatomy, and he'd lost a significant amount of weight.

Jamie had always understood that they were the same height and had similar features, but looking at Percy now, he felt as if he were staring into a mirror and seeing a blond version of himself staring back. Jamie was no longer a twin but a triplet, with Percy the third identical brother.

They were a spectacle, which Jamie typically didn't mind, but he was in no mood to tangle with Percy. Each time Jamie ran into him, Percy's condition was worsened. With no funds, no line of credit, and no true friends, he was in dire straits, but too conceited to admit it.

On one dubious occasion, Jamie had deigned to be charitable and had given Percy some money, but after receiving it, Percy had hurled so many insults that Jamie's patience was exhausted. He wouldn't spit up any more cash.

He studied Percy, disgusted by his deteriorated state. The man was falling apart, his clothes disheveled, wine spilled down his jacket, but he was too intoxicated to notice. He was a lousy drunk, prone to swaggering and confrontation, so eventually he'd cause trouble.

Jamie motioned to a servant—one of his crew members dressed in livery—and he came over and took Percy by the arm to escort him out, but Percy was determined to be obstinate and shook him off.

"I'll have Gladstone in the end," Percy swore, his words slurred. "My lawyers promised me."

"Your lawyers are fools."

"Then again, you might suffer a terrible accident."

"You already tried twice, Percy, remember? Your aim is bad. Besides, if I die, Jack is the heir. Not you. So he'll have to have an accident, too. You're not brave enough or smart enough to murder us both."

"Once you're out of the way," Percy taunted, "don't you wonder what will become of Anne?"

It was a shock to hear him speak Anne's name. From the day Jamie had left Gladstone, no one had mentioned her, and if he hadn't thought about her so often and so poignantly, he might have suspected she'd never really existed.

"I always desired her," Percy absurdly claimed. "Did you know that? With you dead, the first thing I'll do is fuck her blind."

At the vile slur, Jamie was stunned and couldn't believe his ears. "What did you say?"

"I'll fuck her till she can't walk, but I won't marry her! Oh no. Not after you've stuck your filthy rod in her. I'll use her till I'm weary of her; then I'll cast her out. She'll wind up penniless and forgotten."

"Shut up, Percy."

"Is she any good under the blankets?" he coarsely asked. "Would she be worth the bother of raping?"

Jamie hit him so hard that he was lifted off his feet and flung backward into the crowd. He collapsed in a bewildered heap as Jamie stormed over and leaned down so that his face was an inch from Percy's own. Except for the color of their hair, they looked so much alike, and it was odd that they could be so similar on the outside but be so different on the inside.

Percy was Jamie's brother, but he was so weak, so lacking in character. From birth, he'd been given everything a man could ever want, but the largesse had been wasted on him. In a way, Jamie was glad for how their paths had diverged. Jamie's tribulations had made him tough and strong, had filled him with a righteous fury he wasn't afraid to exhibit.

He grabbed Percy by the shirt and threatened, "If you ever speak Anne's name again, I'll kill you."

"She's a cheap whore," Percy replied, too foxed to recognize that he should remain silent.

Jamie hit him again, harder, and he slumped to the floor, his nose oozing blood.

"When next I lay eyes on you," Jamie vowed, "I intend to murder you. Because we're kin, I'll give you a chance to get away, but I suggest you leave London immediately."

Jamie stood, rubbing his knuckles, and he nodded to a group of burly servants who'd hurried over to assist. They seized Percy and dragged him away, the guests parting like the Red Sea, but Percy was too dazed to offer any resistance. He was tossed onto the stoop like a sack of rubbish, and as the door was closed behind him, spectators smirked and murmured over the altercation.

Jamie worked his way toward the stairs, thinking he might sneak up to his room for a drink and some solitude, but he couldn't be gone long. By morning, news of their fight would be all over the city, and he didn't want anyone assuming that he'd been upset by it.

He was tired of London, tired of the rich, lazy nobles who now populated his world. He hated the noise and the crowds and the foul air, and he couldn't recollect what had driven him to come. Though he was loathe to stay, he was as stupidly proud as Percy. Having made one bad decision after the next, Jamie couldn't admit that he was miserable.

He missed Jack and yearned to fetch him, to board the ship and sail away, just the two of them out on the water, as it had always been in the past.

He missed Anne even more, so much so that the pain of it amazed him. Why did she have such a hold on him? Why was he so besotted? By fleeing Gladstone, he'd presumed his obsession would wane, but it hadn't. He wanted her more than ever, and he felt as if he'd lost a piece of himself, as if he'd hacked off a limb and couldn't grow it back.

He knew he should go home, that he should get down on bended knee and beg her to take him in, but he couldn't do it. She deserved better than a philandering libertine who had no loyalty and no constancy, and if he humbled himself by returning, what guarantee was there that she'd have him? Why would she want him?

He reached the staircase, and from the bottom step he could survey the crush of people. There were so many present, but he couldn't stand any of them. He had no friends, not even any cordial acquaintances. They'd come to see and be seen at the earl's latest decadent fete, but if he suddenly dropped dead, nary a one would rush to his aid.

An actress with whom he was regularly linked espied him, and she grinned and pushed her way over.

She pressed her voluptuous body to his, whispering a salacious proposition that made his cock stir, and she pointed up to his private quarters, where he never let any of them go.

Her cloying perfume was suffocating, and she clutched at his arm as if she owned it. He slid away and continued on alone, wishing they'd all leave but not having the energy to instruct the servants to usher them out.

He went into his room, shrugged out of his jacket, and poured himself a whiskey. As he was about to relax in a chair by the fire, he realized that there was someone in his dressing room, and from the sound of it, the person was ... having a bath!

He frowned. Who would dare?

Had some strumpet violated the sanctity of his bedchamber? Would any of them be that brave? That daft?

He gulped his liquor, then stomped over and marched in. The sight that greeted him was so shocking that if the Queen, herself, had been there, he couldn't have been more surprised.

"Anne?"

"Hello, Jamie."

She was lounged—naked—in his bathing tub, and before he could focus on the fact that she'd arrived, she stood, water sluicing down her thighs.

"Would you hand me that towel?"

"Anne?" he muttered again, too astonished to say more.

"The towel, Jamie, if you please. I'm in a hurry." Certain he was hallucinating, he physically shook himself.

"Who the hell let you in?"

"Why ... the butler, who else? I'm your countess; I don't need permission." "But why are you here?"

He couldn't move, and as it became evident that he'd be of no assistance, she climbed to the floor and grabbed the towel on her own. Like the most seasoned courtesan, she stroked it slowly, sensually, across her creamy shoulders, her perfect breasts, down her alluring belly, between her long, shapely legs.

Instantly, he was hard as stone. Though he'd tried his damnedest to forget her, it was obvious he still desired her more than ever. Would this insane lust never fade?

"It was so boring in the country without you," she was explaining, her busy hands meticulously drying every inch of her delectable skin. "And then, when I heard how much fun you were having in the city, I decided I should see for myself what it's like. Did you know I've never been to London before? I can't wait to try everything."

"Everything?"

"Yes. I'm told there are all sorts of amusements for a woman—if she's game."

"Game?" His voice came out as a squawk, and he coughed to clear his throat. "I don't want you here."

"Don't worry; I won't be underfoot. You'll scarcely notice I'm around."

"Not bloody likely."

She wrapped the towel over her lush, curvaceous torso, tucking a corner between her breasts like an African savage; then she went into the opposite bedroom, the room where his wife would sleep—if he had a wife. Which he did, but in name only.

Two maids had accompanied her from Gladstone. One was clutching a curling iron, and the other had fancy undergarments and a red ball gown strewn across the bed.

Anne glanced over to where he was loitering in the threshold like an imbecile.

"Do you mind?" she said. "I need to dress." He didn't budge, and she added, "In light of our estrangement, it's really not appropriate for you to watch."

He scowled. "Where are you going?"

"Jack and I are invited to a dozen parties, and I want to take in as many as I can before dawn."

"Jack is here?"

"Yes, just down the hall. He's getting ready, too. I didn't suppose you'd care, so I picked the bedroom for him that was nearest to mine. It's so convenient that way, isn't it?" She chuckled and winked. She winked!

"What are you talking about?"

"Me? Why ... nothing. He and I have just grown so close since you left. I do so enjoy his company. It's like having you there, but without all the arrogance and bluster."

She made it sound as if she and Jack were ...

Gad! He couldn't finish the thought!

Would his brother have the nerve? Would Anne? She was Jamie's wife! She couldn't start an affair with his brother! It was unseemly.

Was she mad? Was Jack?

A peculiar gurgling noise emanated from Jamie's chest, a growl or a bubbling rage, but she disregarded it and gestured to the door.

"Jamie, I can't dawdle, and I can't dress with you in here."

"It's my fucking house. I'll stay if I want to."

"Oh, don't be a beast. And I don't appreciate that kind of language being used."

He strutted over and pulled up a chair, a boot braced on the end of the mattress, the chair balanced on its hind legs. He studied her, his fury wafting out, his insolent attention raking her exposed body.

"Very well." She sighed with displeasure, then turned to her servants. "Help me, ladies, would you? If we ignore him, maybe he'll get bored and go away."

The maids tittered, then proceeded with their task, and Jamie observed, fascinated, as they curled and combed, as they laced and tied.

With each flick of a brush, with each knotting of a ribbon, Anne was more stunning, and he was disturbed by the transformation. He'd always thought she was lovely, but he'd known her at Gladstone, where the highlight of the day was a casual family supper.

He'd never seen her like this: bejeweled, fluffed, painted. She was ... was ... the most gorgeous sight he'd ever laid eyes upon. At last, corset taut, garters straightened, her gown was carefully drawn over her shoulders, the skirt smoothed down her legs.

Anne scrutinized her face in the mirror, her shapely ass stuck out, all that red silk taunting him with what he'd relinquished. As she smiled at one of the maids, he was miserably uncomfortable, his pants too tight, the temperature too hot.

"What do you think?" Anne asked the girl. "How about a little beauty mark right about here?"

"Oh yes, milady. A marvelous idea."

The girl took a pencil and dabbed the tiniest black dot on Anne's upper Up, which made Jamie vividly recollect the many times he'd kissed that very spot. He couldn't bear to have it emphasized. Every lecher in the world would gaze at it and ponder kissing her, and it was all Jamie could do to keep from rushing over, grabbing her, and rubbing it off.

Anne peered in the mirror again. "Is it too much?"

"No, milady, it's perfect. You are perfect."

"I am, aren't I?" Anne concurred.

She was exhibiting a conceit and confidence he'd never previously noted in her. When had this happened? How had it happened? He hadn't been gone that long!

He felt as if—in his absence—she'd metamorphosed into someone entirely new. The Anne of whom he'd dreamed, the Anne he'd mourned, had vanished, to be replaced by this purring, shimmering goddess.

Anne twirled in a circle, earning oohs and aahs from her servants, and as she spun, Jamie caught a glimpse of her bosom. His brows raised to his hairline. The bodice of her gown was cut so low that he could see nearly all of her breasts.

He leapt to his feet and snarled, "No. I will not allow it."

The three women whirled in unison, gaping at him as if he'd sprouted a second head.

"You won't allow what?" Anne inquired.

"You will not go out in public in that dress."

There was a bewildered pause; then Anne laughed and waved him away as if he were an irksome fly.

"Men!"

She rolled her eyes, and the maids snickered as she sauntered out. Jamie stomped after her, mad as a hornet, but she appeared to have forgotten his existence.

"Anne!" he snapped when she didn't stop. "I don't give you permission to go out like that."

"Oh, Jamie, don't fret over it. I'm really none of your business. Isn't that what you wanted? Now that I've learned how much freedom a married woman has, I have to agree with you. Our split was for the best."

A door opened down the hall, and Jack stepped out. He was so formally attired that he might have been off for a presentation at Court. He was wearing an expensive, exquisitely tailored coat and trousers, his cravat flawlessly tied, his hair slicked back.

"Hello, Jamie," was the only welcome he had for the brother he hadn't seen in months; then Jack noticed Anne, and he lit up and gave a wolfish whistle.

"Look at you!"

"And look at you!" she gushed in reply. "My goodness, you handsome dog!"

She raced to Jack's side. He extended his arm, and she took it, the two of them as cozy as an old pair of slippers. Together, they hurried off.

"We'll be very late," Anne called to Jamie. "No need to wait up."

"When we get home," Jack felt compelled to add, "we'll be busy anyway, so we won't be in the mood to chat."

"We most certainly won't." Anne giggled in a sultry, seductive way Jamie had never heard from her; then she asked Jack, "Where to first?"

"Did Jamie ever teach you to throw dice?"

"No."

"It's my favorite game of chance."

"You'd actually take me to a gambling club? Aren't females banned from them?"

"They're admitted—in some establishments. You have to know the appropriate ones, which I definitely do."

She chuckled again. "You are so wicked."

"I can't deny it." He leaned in and whispered, "While we're there, I intend to teach you more than a bit of gambling!"

They flew down the stairs, and Jamie collapsed against the wall, wondering what had just transpired— and what he ought to do about it.

 

Nineteen