“Anne, there you are. I've been searching everywhere."

Anne whirled to see Percy lurking in the doorway of her bedchamber.

Without argument, she'd relinquished the earl's suite to him and she'd moved to the other wing of the large mansion. She'd wanted to be far away from him and Ophelia, and in light of the morning's events, she didn't care to have him dropping by.

In the months he'd been away, he'd begun falling apart. He'd lost so much weight, his pudgy torso turning lean and lithe, and his clothes—about which he'd always been so fussy—were stained and messy. She could smell alcohol on his breath and figured he was inebriated, which was his usual condition. She didn't like dealing with him sober, let alone half-foxed.

"What is it, Percy?"

"You've been quarreling with Ophelia."

"It's much more than a quarrel, Percy. She's pushed me to my limit, and we can't go on as we have been."

"I understand that you're upset, Anne, but it's not your place to order her to leave. I've notified her—and the servants—that she'll be staying."

Anne's temper flared, but she reined it in. At that moment, with little power on her side, it was pointless to fight with him. She would trust that Sarah could convince Jamie to come home as she—Anne—could not, but Anne wouldn't count on Jamie.

While Sarah was away, Anne would talk with the vicar, would perhaps discuss the situation with a lawyer and seek legal assistance.

Percy and Ophelia would ultimately be evicted, but Anne would inform them when she had a few brawny men to back her up.

"Sarah told me about her son," Anne said. "You and Ophelia constantly threatened her."

"We hardly threatened her. Everything we did, we did for her own good."

"How can you justify your conduct?"

"If she wants to make a fool of herself and publicly claim the lad, it's fine by me. The two of you simply need to consider the consequences before doing anything rash."

"I plan to have the boy found, then brought into the house to live."

"Then don't come crying to me if Sarah is shunned afterward."

He walked into the room, so he was between Anne and the door, and an odd prickle of fear slithered down her spine. She felt as if he was blocking her in, and he seemed bigger than she remembered.

He took a step toward her, then another, till he was very close, and she forced herself to keep from retreating. She'd never been afraid of Mm, and whatever peculiar whim had spurred him to visit, she wouldn't be intimidated.

"You know, Anne, I've always been particularly fond of you."

"I'm glad to hear it, Percy."

"And I've been very generous over the years. Haven't I been generous?"

"Yes, you have been."

"If you'd like Ophelia to go, I might be amenable. You'd have to persuade me, of course."

"What would you have me say?" she naively inquired.

"Well, you wouldn't have to actually say anything."

He reached out and trailed a finger down her neck, across her nape, and she was so shocked that she stood there and let him do it. When he kept on—as if he might continue down to her bosom—she slapped his hand away.

"What are you thinking?"

"It could be you and me at Gladstone, Anne. We could rule here. Would you like that? It would please me enormously."

"I'm married to Jamie."

"A minor technicality, I assure you."

He leaned in and trapped her against the bedpost, his body pressed to hers, and down below, his cock was on her leg. He had an erection! Was he insane?

What would make him suppose she'd welcome this type of behavior? He was her cousin, like an older brother. She had no passionate feelings for him, and she'd never given the slightest indication that she was interested in him in an amorous way.

"Percy! Stop it!" She shoved him, but he was heavy as a boulder and wouldn't budge.

"Jamie stole everything from me—even you. Do you have any idea how it galls me to admit that I could have had you, but he had you first?"

"You're mad to reflect on it. I would never have lain down with you."

"I shouldn't have given you a choice in the matter."

He cupped her breast, having the temerity to pinch her nipple. For a stunned instant, she wondered how one man—her husband—could have touched the sensitive spot and sent her into spasms of ecstasy, while another could do the very same but merely be an annoying and offensive nuisance.

Then her wits caught up with her brain, and she groped behind her on the mattress, where earlier she'd tossed a shoe. She snatched it up and whacked Percy alongside the head as she let out a bloodcurdling scream that had him staggering away.

Freed from his weight, she scurried to the hearth and grabbed a fireplace poker. She pointed it at him, menacing him, eager for an excuse to inflict more damage.

"Get out of here," she seethed. When he didn't move, she shouted, "Get out, or when Jamie returns, he'll kill you."

"He's never coming back, so you'll never be safe from me."

"He's on his way this very second," Anne retorted, feigning bravado, her knees knocking together under her skirt.

"So trusting," he crooned, "so gullible. You should have wed me, instead of him. You know it, and I know it."

"I know nothing of the sort."

He started toward her again, not deterred by the poker, and Anne swung it, just missing his ribs. He jumped out of range and reined in his aggressiveness.

"I'll go for now," he vowed, "but you can't keep me out forever."

"I have a lock on my door."

"I have many, many keys."

"If you try to use one of them, I have a pistol that's loaded at all times. I'll shoot you right between the eyes, and I won't even blink."

"Who says I'll give you opportunity to aim?"

He stomped out, and as his angry strides faded, she ran over, slammed the door, and spun the key in the lock. She studied it, deciding it seemed very flimsy.

If Percy truly wished to enter, how sturdy would it prove to be?

 

Why aren't you at Gladstone?" Jamie snapped. "I've left," Jack curtly explained. "I thought you loved it there." "I was wrong. I loathe it."

"But... who's watching over Anne?" Jamie sputtered. "You were supposed to; we agreed."

"I guess you'll have to find yourself another nanny."

"I don't want anyone else to do it."

"Well then, you're in a pickle, because you've ended up with Ophelia and Percy."

"They're at the estate?"

At least Jamie had sufficient concern to look aghast. On a half-dozen occasions, Jack had written him but received no response.

"Yes, with Percy fully ensconced in the earl's bedchamber."

"He would dare?" For once, Jamie was completely at a loss, and he commanded, "Get your ass back there. Deal with him."

"No," Jack said. "I'm taking the ship and heading out."

"You're what?"

"I'm leaving England. I'm taking the ship."

"Like hell you are. I can't believe you have the nerve to ask if you can use it."

"I'm not asking, Jamie. This is merely a courtesy visit to say good-bye."

Jack walked toward the hall, prepared to depart that very moment, and Jamie huffed, "Just a damned minute. What are you doing?"

"I've told you, but you can't seem to get it through your thick skull."

"That ship is mine. If you presume you can simply take it and go, you've tipped off your rocker."

Jack was so furious that he wondered if he might explode. He stormed over till they were toe-to-toe, loving his brother, hating his brother.

" 'Mine, mine, mine,'" Jack mocked. "You sound like a fucking parrot."

"I won that ship. Not you."

As if Jack could ever forget the brash, reckless boy Jamie had been! How could it be fifteen years later and nothing had changed?

"I was with you, remember? I know how it was."

"I spent my life on that hunk of wood, and I won't let you have it without a fight."

"I was with you every step of the way," Jack fumed. "I did everything you ever wanted. I went everywhere you ever suggested. I participated in every foolish, dangerous raid you ever planned. I stayed at Gladstone for you, while you were here in London, screwing women and gambling your money away. In all that time, have I ever asked you for a fucking thing?"

"No, but that doesn't mean you can have my ship."

"Why is everything yours?" Jack bellowed, surprising them both with his rage. "Why can't something be mine for a change?"

"You don't want anything badly enough to make it yours. You always give in. You always give up. Now get your sorry ass back to Gladstone. You're trying my patience."

Jack hit him as hard as he could. Jamie hadn't been expecting a punch, so he stumbled to the side and knocked over a fussy decorative table, sending whiskey glasses and figurines crashing to the floor. In all their years together, they'd never come to blows, and Jack couldn't describe the careening emotions that had driven him to lash out.

He had such vivid memories of how it had been when they'd first arrived at Gladstone, and he was tormented by them. There'd been a remarkable sense that he was finally home, but it had all been a chimera, and he was frustrated by how little he'd accomplished, by how unwelcome he'd actually been.

He stood, rubbing his knuckles, as Jamie sat up, then stood, too. Jamie was massaging his jaw and eyeing Jack as if he were a rabid dog.

"What the devil is wrong with you?" Jamie seethed.

"I hate it here," Jack lied, in his heart, yearning for Gladstone as he'd never yearned for anything before, but it wasn't his and never would be. "I hate England, and I'm never coming back."

"Is this because of Sarah Carstairs?" Jamie probed, reading Jack's mind. "Why don't you propose to the blasted woman?"

"I did, and she won't have me."

"So you'd go off and leave me—just because she hurt your precious feelings?"

"No, I'm going because you're an obnoxious prick and I can't stand you anymore. Go help your wife. She needs you."

After that, there wasn't much else worth saying. Jack marched away, hoping Jamie would call for him to halt but also hoping he wouldn't. His pull had always been too strong to resist, and Jack was too weary to battle the subtle pressure Jamie could exert.

As Jack reached the threshold, Jamie said, "Just like that? You're really leaving?"

Jack spun around, studying Jamie, anxious to recollect every detail. "Yes, just like that."

Jamie scoffed. "I'm placing guards at the ship, to make sure it's securely tied to its moorings. Don't even try touching it."

"Fuck you. I don't need your paltry vessel. I have my own funds; I'll book public passage." He started out again, then paused. "If Sarah Carstairs comes sniffing around, tell her I have what she's searching for. Let her know ... that ah ... that I'll keep it safe."

"Did you steal from her? Will she demand payment?"

"No. I have something invaluable that she never wanted. You couldn't put a price on it." "What the hell does that mean?" "She'll know."

Detesting how long their parting had turned out to be, he whipped away and left.

*-

What do you think?" Percy inquired. "Do I look like Jamie?" "Oh yes," Ophelia responded, "you definitely look like him."

She assessed her brother, intrigued by the transformation. She'd known that he and Jamie had similar features, but with Percy's recent loss of weight and his having donned a black wig, a fake ponytail in the back, the resemblance was uncanny. Jamie and Jack Merrick could have been triplets instead of twins, with Percy the third wheel. If Percy was spotted, especially in the shadows, in the dark, any witness would absolutely swear that he'd seen Jamie.

She slackened the collar on Percy's shirt and tugged some of the hem from his trousers, so that the fabric billowed around his chest and waist.

"Jamie never wears clothes that are tightly tailored," she explained. "He doesn't?"

"Haven't you noticed?"

"I wouldn't pay him that much attention."

"Relax your shoulders and hips," she advised. "You have to be more loose limbed." Jamie moved as if he anticipated trouble, as if he was a moment away from slipping a dagger out of his boot.

"Like this?" Percy mimicked as he scrutinized himself in the mirror.

"That's excellent. And your mouth ..." She considered, then suggested, "Can you quirk your lips in a half smile, just there on the right-hand side?"

"How's that?"

"Perfect."

Too perfect. She scowled.

She still recalled the night early in the summer, when she'd gone to Jamie's bed and had been rebuffed. While he'd inflicted many indignities on her, she hated him for that humiliation most of all.

Percy was the only paramour she'd ever had, and she'd presumed herself content in their relationship— until she'd met Jamie. The fact that she desired Jamie and could never have him was infuriating, but she would have her revenge, and it would be so satisfying.

Suddenly, Percy spun from the mirror and lay down on the bed!

"Come here," he ordered.

"Why?"

"I want to fuck you while I look exactly like Jamie. I want to pretend I'm him and that I'm forcing myself on you."

"That's disgusting."

"Did I ask your opinion? Just come here." She glared at him. He could be so tiresome, but she'd been bound to him her whole life and couldn't

imagine another path. Yet she had to admit that it was titillating to picture herself trifling with Jamie rather than Percy. If she blew out the candle, it would be sufficiently dark that it would seem as if she were with Jamie.

Would it be more arousing? Or would it be no different, at all?

"If you want me to believe you're Jamie, you need to be a bit more demanding."

"How so?"

She shook her head in exasperation. The man was thick as a brick.

"You've watched him with Anne. He doesn't take no for an answer. So no, I won't climb into bed with you. You'll have to make me obey."

He frowned, ready to berate her for denying him, when he realized what an amusing game she'd devised. He was as excited to play it as she was.

Ever since Jamie had appeared on the scene, Percy had grown more violent in their couplings, but Ophelia wasn't complaining. She enjoyed his more spirited side. It was thrilling to know that—after so many years—Percy still wanted her so desperately, and that she would forever be his one true love.

He rose up, slowly, deliberately, precisely as Jamie might have done it, and he came to her and seized her wrist. She tried to pull away, tried to run, but Percy wrestled her onto the mattress and pinned her down.

"Don't ever tell me no, Anne." He was totally immersed in their fantasy. "Don't ever assume you can escape me. You can't."

His cock was harder than it had ever been, and Ophelia rippled with lust, certain it would be their best fornication ever, but he was so wrapped up in his vision of her being Anne that he merely rammed himself between her legs and thrust with a vigor he'd never exhibited prior.

He took her in a coarse, despicable way, and she was irritated to discover that he'd found the notion of copulating with Anne—instead of herself—to be incredibly stimulating. He quickly flexed to the end and finished with a loud grunt. Then he rolled away and went to preen in front of the mirror again.

"Jamie couldn't have done it any better," he boasted.

"Jamie would have taken his time."

"Shut up." He admired his reflection. "I wonder what he'd do if I raped her. He'd be so angry."

Ophelia simmered with jealousy. "Anne? You want to rape Anne?"

"Of course. I always have. You know that. Would you like to help me? You could hold her down while I proceed."

"You're going to murder Anne," she tersely reminded him. "You're not going to have sex with her." "Perhaps," he aggravatingly mused. "Percy!"

He glanced over and chuckled. "I was joking, darling. I've never desired anyone but you. So... when should we expect Jamie to arrive from London?"

Sarah had done them such a favor by totting off to London to fetch him. It would make everything so easy, would bring about a conclusion that was nice and tidy.

"Maybe tomorrow or the next day." Percy strutted before her. "Will I pass for Jamie or won't I?"

The wig and the rough love play had altered him, and he was starting to walk differently, to speak differently, as if he were gradually becoming Jamie.

"You'll pass," Ophelia said. "Anne will never suspect that you're not her husband."

"Until it's too late."

"Yes, until it's much too late."

 

Twenty-One

“What do you mean, Edith? You're babbling again." "Sin and damnation," Edith said. "That's what's coming to them."

Jamie laughed at the older woman. She wasn't nearly as crazed as she seemed, and she provided the most interesting messages, but they were always extremely subtle and convoluted.

"Cease with the biblical chatter. You know I can't stand it."

He went to the sideboard, filled a glass of whiskey, then handed it to her. She downed a hearty swig.

He wasn't sure why he'd let her stay with him at his town house, but he supposed he felt sorry for her. She'd been shipped to London by Ophelia, and was to have visited friends, but shortly after Edith had arrived, her hosts had fled to the country.

Edith had shown up on Jamie's stoop, a tad befuddled and thinking the residence was still Percy's. She—the former countess, his father's wife!—had wanted to return to Gladstone but hadn't had the funds

to go. Jamie would have gladly sent her home, but she hadn't seemed in a hurry to leave, nor had he been in a rush to kick her out the door.

In the weeks she'd been living with him, she'd developed an affection for his favorite Scottish liquor, and he wasn't about to tell her to moderate her intake. She was so irritatingly religious and had so few vices. What harm could there be if she became an elderly sot? She couldn't possibly grow more annoying.

"You shouldn't trust Ophelia and Percy," she said.

"This is not news to me, Edith."

"Bad blood. Bad blood in all of them."

"I can't argue with you."

"Your father spawned devils” She frowned. "But Sarah was no angel, either, so perhaps there's something in the water at Gladstone that causes people to constantly transgress."

His curiosity was piqued. "What did Sarah do that was so wicked?"

"Well... the baby. The boy."

"What baby?"

"Her little bastard."

"Sarah had a child? Out of wedlock?"

Edith stared him down. "Did I say that? I must have misspoken. I'm not aware of any child being born."

Jamie chuckled. "You're sly like a fox, you old bat. Why don't you just come out and share all your secrets at once? Why reveal them one at a time, in riddles?"

"No one can ever know."

"Right."

So ... Sarah had an illegitimate son. Was he still at the estate? Or had the Merricks sold him into slavery? There was probably another lost, disavowed boy traveling the globe on a sailing ship. Then again, they might have saved themselves the trouble and simply drowned him at birth.

Had Jack learned of the lad's existence? Was the situation at the root of Jack's problems with Sarah? After Jamie's last quarrel with Jack, it was likely Jamie would never know the answer.

Jack was leaving, and Jamie couldn't convince him not to go. Jamie had been able to deal with Jack being a long horseback ride away at Gladstone but couldn't bear to envision his brother across the ocean, in some unknown, godforsaken place.

A wave of grief swept over Jamie, but he pushed it away and had another drink. He poured one for Edith, too.

To hell with Jack! If he wanted to act like an idiot, he could. Jamie wouldn't beg him to stay. Jack could dig any damned hole he pleased, and Jamie would happily furnish the shovel.

"What is it about Ophelia and Percy that keeps you in such a dither?" Jamie asked. If Edith was in the mood to spill her guts, why not let her? "You're always haranguing about them. Why are they so awful?"

"Fornicators." She nodded as if that explained it all.

"I figured Percy was, but Ophelia? I thought she was a spinster." The remark was a bald-faced he. Ever since the night Ophelia had slithered into his bed, he'd known she was as experienced as any courtesan. "Who is her lover? Or has she had many?"

"Fornicators," Edith repeated, and she made a crude gesture with her fingers that could only be interpreted one way.

"Fornicators ... as in Percy and Ophelia... together?"

Jamie assumed he'd heard it all in his life, but this was definitely something new. But then, he wasn't that surprised. From his own relationship with Jack he understood how close twins could be, but apparently, his half sister and half brother had taken the word close to a whole new level.

"Couldn't let such a reprobate be the earl," Edith muttered. "It would be a sin."

"What do you mean? You couldn't let him be earl?"

"Why ... the papers. The hidden papers."

"Edith, are you telling me that you're the one who came forward? Are you the one who told what had happened to me and Jack?"

She grinned a cunning grin that could have indicated anything, but Jamie was beginning to unravel how her strange mind worked.

"Your father was an asshole, Jamie Merrick."

"Edith! Such language!" He laughed and laughed.

"I never liked the man."

"Neither did I, and I never met him. I can't imagine what it must have been like to be married to him." "It was difficult."

Which had to be putting it mildly. He studied her, pondering her peculiar ways. Was her curious behavior simply a wall she'd erected to protect herself? Had she survived by keeping a mental barrier between herself and her cruel family?

"With me installed as earl, he's probably rolling in his grave."

"He probably is."

She appeared dreamy, as if she was merrily picturing her deceased husband's fury in the afterlife. "Thank you," Jamie murmured. "For what?" Her blank look returned. "You know for what. I'm grateful. I'll always take

care of you, Edith. I'll make sure you're safe and that there's someone to watch over you."

"The Lord's will be done."

It sounded as if it had been the Lord's will, with a little help from a demented woman. Who would have thought?

The discovery certainly sucked the wind from Jamie's sails. He'd been strutting around London for months, insulting his father's peers, gambling, and cheating them out of their money and property. Though Jamie couldn't describe why, he'd been driven to determine who had revealed the secret that had brought him to England. Stupidly, he'd hoped that by inflicting himself on them, he'd learn what he was dying to know.

The lawyers claimed the papers had been delivered to their office anonymously, but Jamie had been positive that if he identified the informant he'd find the answers he sought. Absurdly, he'd yearned to ascertain that somebody had been worried about him, but evidently, it had been naught more than a senile woman's quest for revenge.

He sighed, dismayed at realizing how fruitless it had all been.

The longer he'd stayed in the city, the more lonely he was, and it was increasingly obvious that he'd made all the wrong choices. Anne and his brother—the only two people with whom he'd formed any attachment— had been at Gladstone, but having repudiated them, Jamie was too proud to admit his mistake and go back.

Even when Anne had come to London and tried to lure him home, he'd refused to grab for what he truly wanted. He'd convinced himself that he didn't need the ties she offered, but after spending the summer with her, he'd changed. He hated to be so alone, hated to acknowledge that there was no one in the world—save for Jack—who cared if he drew another breath.

And now, he'd even pushed Jack to his limit. Jamie had only rambling, bewildered Edith Merrick for company. No one else could stand him, which was a sorry state of affairs.

He was such a fool!

Why was he in London? Why continue to remain with nothing to show for himself but a shrinking bank account and a constant hangover? He was no better than Percy—who was now ensconced at Gladstone because Jamie was too lazy to keep him away.

Perhaps Edith wasn't the crazy one.

Needing solitude to fret and stew, Jamie spun to flee, when Edith suddenly, lucidly, nagged, "Don't you ever wonder how your wife is doing?"

"I think about her occasionally."

"I can't believe you left her with Percy and Ophelia."

Jamie glared over at her. "What are you trying to say, Edith?"

"They don't like you, so they don't like her."

"Would they harm her?"

"How would I know? I'm just their mother. What could I have overheard?"

He felt as if he'd tumbled off a high cliff. His half siblings loathed him, but the prospect that they might hurt Anne in his stead had never occurred to him.

Would they dare?

His wrist began to ache, his old childhood worry about his nearly severed hand suddenly plaguing him. He rubbed the throbbing spot, his mind awhirl with dread.

He'd sworn to Anne that she'd be safe at Gladstone, and he'd persuaded himself that simply by establishing her at the estate, with a huge allowance, he was giving her all she needed.

What if something happened to her? What if Percy or Ophelia did something horrid? How would Jamie live with himself?

Confused, torn by what he wanted, by what he should do, he walked to the stairs and climbed to his room.

 

Anne!" Anne forced herself awake and stared at the ceiling. It was so dark that she couldn't see the clock, but it had to be very late. She thought someone had called to her, but she'd been sleeping so hard. It might have been a dream.

"Anne!" the soft cry came again. She crawled out of bed, went to the hall, and peeked out, but no one was there, so she hastened to the window and peered down at the moonlit park. There seemed to be a man hiding in the shadows, and she pulled open the window and leaned out into the cold night air.

"Who's there?" she whispered. "Anne, it's me. I'm home."

Jamie stepped out from under a tree, the moon shining fully on him. A corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile.

After her failed seduction in London, she'd been positive she'd never see him again, and her heart pounded with equal parts excitement and perplexity.

"Jamie?"

"Will you let me in? The doors are locked, and I didn't want to bother any of the servants."

She hesitated, but only because she was afraid that she'd blink and he'd disappear.

"Yes, of course I will. I'll be right down."

She paused, watching him, and a spurt of gladness shot through her. She would always love him. Always. It was like a curse that couldn't be lifted. No matter what he did, no matter how he acted, or how he treated her, she would never move beyond that one true fact.

She grabbed a robe and tugged it over her heavy winter nightgown, but the garments provided scant protection against the frigid temperature. She drew on some woolen socks, too, then flew down the rear stairs and burst outside, but she couldn't locate him anywhere.

"Jamie?" she murmured. "Where are you?"

"I'm here. Down in the yard."

She proceeded toward the sound of his voice. There was a surreal quality to the moment, the shadows seeming very threatening. Her breath swirled about her head. Icy blades of grass crunched under her heels.

"Jamie?" she said again.

"Hush!" he cautioned. "I'm here."

"Where?"

He was down the path, lurking behind some hedges. She didn't understand why he hadn't approached the manor, or why he wanted her to be silent, but she was so surprised by his arrival that she wasn't about to question him.

She continued on till she was a few feet away, then she halted, and oddly, she didn't feel any compulsion to get nearer. In the past, she wouldn't have been able to maintain any distance, and she was saddened to admit that perhaps her attraction was finally waning.

He extended his hand.

"Come with me."

"To where?"

"To a cottage out in the woods."

"Why not just come inside?"

"I have to deal with Percy and Ophelia, and it won't be pleasant. You should be away from the house while I get things under control."

"But I'm in my nightclothes. I don't even have on any shoes."

"It doesn't matter. Let's go."

"Is Sarah with you?"

"Yes, and we found Tim. They're both waiting for you at the cottage. I brought a carriage and some men. The three of you will be escorted to London, and I'll join you there."

She yearned to do as he demanded, but she was unsure of whether she should. It was all too bizarre—the late hour, the chill, the intrigue—and he was different somehow, but she was anxious to please him. With it being his first visit in months, she couldn't have him thinking her obstinate or stubborn. If he grew annoyed, he might depart before she had a chance to spend any time with him.

"I have blankets in the carriage," he coaxed. "You'll be plenty warm."

She vacillated but ultimately replied, "All right."

She took the last few, faltering steps, and he clasped her wrist, spun, and hurried them away without another word being exchanged. Anne could hardly keep up with him and hoped she didn't fall into a hole or crash into a stump.

Shortly, they reached a clearing, and she could see the decrepit cottage he'd mentioned. The door was ajar, a candle burning in the interior and giving off an eerie glow. The threshold loomed, looking like a ferocious beast that was about to devour her.

"Jamie, stop." She was out of breath, uneasy, and she tried to dig in with her heels, but he was practically dragging her along.

"Come on. Almost there."

"Where's the carriage?"

"Out on the road. Where would you suppose?"

He sped inside the hovel, and with a quick yank he hauled her in, too, and hurled her into the center of the only room. The door slammed, and she whipped around, expecting to see Sarah, but being stunned to find Ophelia, instead.

Ophelia grinned. "I guess you were correct, Percy. She was foolish enough to follow you."

"Like taking candy from a baby," Percy agreed as he removed a black wig.

Anne's beloved Jamie wasn't Jamie, at all, and her spirits flagged.

"Where's Sarah?" Anne asked.

"I haven't the foggiest," Percy said. "Lie down on the bed."

Anne glanced to the corner where there was a rickety bed, with a lumpy mattress, a tattered quilt tossed over it.

"Why?"

"Just do it, Anne," Ophelia snapped. "We're not about to stand here debating with you."

Ophelia snatched Anne's arm, and Anne jerked it away.

"What are you doing? What do you want from me?"

"From you? Nothing." Ophelia chuckled. "Now what we want from your husband is another matter entirely."

Ophelia positioned herself in front of Anne as Percy closed in from behind, so that she was trapped between them. The feeling of menace was extreme, the interlude absurd and seeming too strange to be real. Her two cousins, with whom she'd lived all her life, were mad as hatters.

"You can't mean to keep me here," Anne blustered.

"Why can't we?" Percy inquired.

“I’ll be missed."

"Not for hours," Ophelia responded, "and by then, it will be too late."

Percy gripped Anne by the waist, his loins disgustingly pressed to her bottom. He spoke to Ophelia over Anne's shoulder.

"Why don't you head back to the manor?"

"No. I'm staying. If you're intending to hurt her or scare her, I want to watch."

"Jamie could arrive at any second," Percy claimed. "You have to be there to intercept him."

Ophelia scowled. "Why would he show up in the middle of the night?"

"The man's a lunatic," Percy asserted. "Who can predict what he might do?"

"Before I go," Ophelia grumbled, "at least let me help you tie her to the bedposts."

"Fine," Percy consented.

"Are you insane?" Anne gasped.

"No," Percy replied. "I've never been more lucid."

He lugged Anne toward the bed, and she panicked and began struggling. She was kicking and scratching, swinging her fists.

"Grab her hands, Ophelia," Percy instructed. "She might land a lucky blow, and I'd end up bruised, which would be difficult to explain."

Ophelia seized Anne's wrists, and in a trice the deranged pair had her wrestled onto the mattress. There were ropes affixed to the bed frame, despicable evidence of how meticulously they'd planned. As Percy pinned her down, Ophelia swiftly knotted the ropes at Anne's wrists and ankles so that Anne was trussed like a hog at slaughter.

Anne screamed, and Percy clamped a palm over her mouth and nose. Rapidly, she ran out of air and felt as if she was suffocating.

She stopped fighting; she stopped yelling.

"If you promise to be silent," Percy said, "I'll let go."

Anne nodded, and he pulled away. The instant he did, she resumed screaming, but the ruckus was cut off by his clamping down again.

"Stupid bitch!" he seethed.

"Percy, you are such a trusting idiot," Ophelia scoffed. "She's never listened to you her whole life. Why would she start now?"

"She'll listen to me," he vowed. The cold gleam in his eye was terrifying. "My words will be the last she ever hears. Now get out of here."

"Spoilsport," Ophelia complained.

She leaned over and snuggled herself to Anne, and she studied Anne as if memorizing the details. Then she laid her hand on Anne's chest so that it was resting on Anne's breast. Anne didn't think the casual touch was an accident, but she didn't react to it. She was frozen in place, wondering what Ophelia might do.

"You're too beautiful, Anne," she peculiarly said. "I always hated you."

"Why? What did I ever do to you?"

"Nothing. You did nothing, and I hated you anyway." She laughed, and it was the sort of cackle a witch stirring her cauldron might have emitted. "Good-bye, and don't worry about Jamie. After you're gone, I'll comfort him for you."

She narrowed the distance between them, her fingers taking a furtive squeeze of Anne's nipple. Anne was still as a statue, desperate to keep from screaming again, to keep from spitting in Ophelia's face.

To her surprise, Percy saved her by shoving Ophelia away.

"Get out of here!" he griped. "Go to the house." "I'm having too much fun. I don't want to leave." "If you screw this up—after all my hard work—I'll kill you."

"You haven't the nerve."

"I have the nerve. After tonight, I'll have the courage to do anything I please. I won't be foiled ever again."

"From your lips to God's ear, Percy."

She slipped off the bed, and with an amused glance at Anne she left. The click of the door shutting was like a death knell.

"Be quiet," he ordered, "or I'll gag you."

He went and peeked out to ensure that his sister had truly departed. When he turned back toward Anne, he looked dangerous, demonic even, and she jerked on the ropes, but the more she yanked, the more taut the knots became.

He grinned down at her, enjoying her bondage, which was so at odds with the person she knew him to be. He was her oldest male relative, her guardian and benefactor, and she couldn't understand from where this unhinged villain had sprung. She had to reason with him.

"Percy, why are you doing this to me?"

"You know why." "No, I don't."

"I'm very sorry that it has to end like this." "Like what?" Anne demanded. "What are you planning?"

"You have to die, Anne." "Die! You're mad."

"No, not mad. Your husband shouldn't have come to England. He shouldn't have poked his nose in where it didn't belong."

"But what has Jamie to do with your bringing me to this cottage?"

"He has to die, too."

Her heart lurched. She couldn't imagine vibrant, charismatic Jamie dying.

"You're going to kill him?"

"No, not him. I'm going to kill you, then make it appear as if he did it."

"No one would believe he'd kill me!"

"Wouldn't they? Everyone in London gossips about how enraged he was when he thought you were having an affair with his brother. And Ophelia and I will swear that you were having an affair with me, too." He feigned a sad expression. "You'll pass away with the whole world assuming you're a whore who'd have sex with anyone. Poor thing."

She frowned. "But how will any of this result in Jamie's death?"

"He's a jealous maniac. I'll claim that he found out we were lovers, that the news goaded him to a homicidal frenzy, and he murdered you. He'll be hanged for the crime." He smiled with glee. "I won't have to do anything. The precious legal system he used so successfully to steal my tide will do it all for me."

"You'll never get away with it," she insisted, though she wasn't nearly as confident as she should have been.

Jamie was renowned for his violent temper, and he had no associates in High Society who would support him in a crisis. He would be deemed capable of murder, and he'd have no allies and no way of proving his innocence.

Percy crawled onto the bed.

"What now?" she asked, though she was afraid she knew.

"I'm going to rape you."

"Percy!"

"You shouldn't have spurned me, Anne. The other day, you shouldn't have told me no."

"Percy, you're my cousin! You're my friend! You're like a brother to me."

"A brother, yes, but haven't you heard? Incest is extremely satisfying."

"You can't do this!"

"I can. In fact, I have to. I've craved it for years, and I'm not about to strangle you before I find out what it's like."

"No!"

"Yes! Jamie took everything from me. So I intend to take everything from him."

'This is so unnecessary. He doesn't care about me! He won't be bothered by anything you choose to do."

"Oh, he'll be bothered, all right. He may not be fond of you, but he holds his possessions in a tight fist. I want him to go to his grave wretched because I had you in every way that counts."

He stretched out on top of her, and though she struggled mightily, she couldn't escape. He untied the belt on her robe, pushing at the lapels, so that the only barrier between them was the flannel of her nightgown.

He bent to kiss her, and she turned her head to the side, so that he grazed her cheek, instead. At her petty rejection, he chuckled.

"I don't have to kiss you to get what I want."

He gripped the front of her nightgown and ripped it down the center.

 

Twenty-Two

Jamie! You're finally home." "Ophelia, what are you doing in here? Last I knew, that was my bed and this was my bedchamber."

Ophelia stretched and preened, the strap of her negligee sliding down to reveal a perfect breast.

"I've been waiting every night," she purred, "for you to come back."

She thrust out her chest, practically begging him to look, but the bastard's eyes didn't dip the smallest inch.

"I'd heard," he said, "that Percy had claimed this room. Were you sleeping in here with him? That seems a little perverted—even by your low standards."

"Of course I wasn't in here with him," she vehemently declared. "How could you presume something so ludicrous?"

Jamie shrugged, acting as if he had entirely too much knowledge. "Have you any idea where your mother is?"

"My mother! Well... she's in London."

"Were you aware that she's been staying with me?"

"With ... you?"

"Yes, and she's told me the most intriguing stories." "Were you aware that my mother is a demented witch?"

"Really? At times, I've found her to be quite lucid."

"And I've found her to be quite deranged."

He wasn't paying her nearly enough notice, so she climbed to the floor and snuggled herself to him, but it was like hugging a slab of marble.

"Aren't you curious," she asked, "to find out what it could be like between us?"

"No."

"We could be so good together. We could rule Gladstone."

"I already rule Gladstone."

"I could help you."

"I don't need your help."

"But I could prove to be invaluable."

She slithered down the bodice of her nightgown so that the fabric was bunched at her waist. Her bosom was bared, her breasts pressed to his chest.

He surprised her by grabbing her nipples and pinching hard. She'd had sex with Percy often enough to have figured out how to pretend arousal, and she moaned with feigned ecstasy.

"Is this what you want?" he murmured. "Is this what you need?"

"Yes, Jamie, yes!"

"Well, I don't. In my opinion, you're one step down from a harlot. At least they state their price up front. What's yours?"

He shoved her, and as she stumbled away, she struggled to straighten her negligee. Why did she allow him to continue humiliating her? If he didn't want her, if he couldn't see what he was missing, to hell with him!

"How dare you insult me!" she huffed.

"What's it been like," he replied, "humping Percy all these years?"

Damn Edith! Why couldn't she keep her bloody mouth shut?

Ophelia tried to appear hurt. "What are you implying?"

"Give over, Ophelia. Edith told me everything."

"I have no idea what you mean."

"I understand about being close to your twin, but for pity's sake! If /—with all my faults and vices—am shocked by the information, your behavior is really disgusting."

"You think that Percy and I... that we ..." She managed a credible sob. "Is that why you're being so awful to me? If you've spent time with Mother, then you know what she's like. You can't believe her horrid lies."

"I've wondered why you were so hot to crawl between the sheets with me and you made a pass at Jack, too. Have you a fondness for fucking your brothers?"

"What a ghastly accusation! If you were any kind of gentleman—"

"But I'm not and never have been. Our dear, departed father saw to that. Now then, where's Percy?"

"Percy ... oh my." She forced down a grin, faking distress. This was going to be so easy! "Don't ask me, Jamie."

"Why not? Where is he?"

"You don't want to know."

"Humor me."

She walked to the window and stared out at the night sky, acting as if she were torn over her choices, when in reality she was simply hoping Percy was ready.

She might lure Jamie into the trap, but Percy had to spring it, and he'd only have one chance. He seemed more capable lately, but Jamie was no drawing room dandy. If Percy didn't kill him the instant he entered the cottage, Percy would be dead, instead of Jamie, and Ophelia couldn't guess what would happen to her then. If Percy failed, she couldn't claim that she'd been ignorant of his intentions. Anne would tattle, and Ophelia had no desire to incur Jamie's wrath.

He might not care about Anne, but he would fight to protect what was his. Ophelia felt as if she were about to leap off a high cliff. Anything was possible, any ending likely. A reckless wind blew through her, and she whirled to face him.

"Sit down, darling," she coaxed.

"No."

"It's such bad news. I'm not certain how you'll take it."

"Just tell me." "It's Anne."

"What about her?" he casually inquired.

Ophelia had thought he was indifferent to his irksome wife, but there was a tension in his shoulders. His fists were clenched, the air surrounding him lethal with menace.

So ... she'd been correct. If Anne was in danger, he would do any wild thing to save her.

"You've been gone so long, and she decided you were never coming back."

"And ... ?"

"You taught her to enjoy having a man in her bed. In fact, you taught her a tad too well."

"Your point?"

"Percy was here, and you weren't, and he reminds her so much of you."

"What are you suggesting, Ophelia? And please get on with it. I've had enough of your drivel."

She sauntered over, oozing concern. She laid a hand on his stomach and stroked in slow circles.

"They're lovers, Jamie."

"For how long?"

"For several months."

"Where are they?"

"Oh, I can't bear to tell you." She groaned in agony and spun away so she could bite down another grin.

Tm sure you'll find a way."

Was that sarcasm in his voice? Was he laughing at her? She peeked over, but he seemed stoic as ever.

"They've built a little love nest."

"A love nest."

"Yes. In an old cottage out in the woods. They were carrying on in the house, but I insisted they stop. You should have heard the servants gossiping!"

"Where is it?"

He went to the window and gazed out toward the dark forest, the night seeming unusually ominous. She stood next to him and indicated the path that would lead him to his doom.

"There."

"I know where it is. I've been by it before."

He whirled to depart, and suddenly she was panicked by all the things that could go wrong, by how Percy was destined to screw up.

"Would you like me to show you the way?" she offered.

"No."

"I could assist you. I could go in first. I could speak to Percy and advise him that you've arrived. I could try to talk some sense into Anne."

"Thank you, but you've done more than enough."

He started out, halting at the last second. He glared over at her in a manner that made her blood run cold.

"Be here when I return," he said. "If you're not, I'll find you—no matter where you hide."

 

Quiet as a mouse, Jamie tiptoed to the cottage, pleased to discover that there was no guard posted. Whatever Percy was doing, the fool was doing it alone. The door was closed, the sole window nailed shut with some old boards, a shaft of candlelight gleaming through.

At contemplating the ambush Jamie's half siblings had orchestrated, a bitter fury washed over him. They would both pay forever. He only hoped that Anne had survived unharmed.

At the notion that she might not have, that they might have hurt—or even killed!—her, he was so enraged that he could have murdered every person in the land.

Anne was his! He cherished her in ways he didn't comprehend and hated to acknowledge.

To quell his desperate need for her, he'd fled Gladstone, but it hadn't worked. He was more obsessed than ever. He'd toyed with the prospect of leaving England altogether, had almost sailed away a hundred times over, but he couldn't take the final step that would put an ocean between them.

Did he love her? Was that why he was so overwhelmed? He couldn't quit thinking about her, couldn't cease wondering how she was getting on without him. He was sick with wanting her each and every day.

When would it end? How would it end?

He walked to the window and peeked through the slats.

"Jamie took everything from me," Percy was saying. "So I intend to take everything from him."

"This is so unnecessary," Anne replied, and on Jamie's realizing she was alive and well, his knees nearly buckled with relief. "He doesn't care about me!" she declared. "He won't be bothered by anything you choose to do."

"... I want him to go to his grave," Percy boasted, "wretched because I had you in every way that counts."

There were some muttered words, then the ripping of fabric, followed by Anne's soft cry of distress.

Like soup in a pot, Jamie's ire bubbled up and overflowed, his anger so potent that he felt he possessed the strength of ten men. He would tear Percy's head from his body, would slice off his cock and shove it down his throat.

Jamie marched to the door, planting a swift kick to the rotten wood. It flew to pieces, and like a wrathful demon, he loomed in the opening.

He hadn't known what he'd stumble upon, but the sight of Anne—shackled, her garment in tatters, Percy hovered over her and eager to rape—was the most despicable, most galling spectacle Jamie had ever witnessed.

"Get off the bed!" he bellowed. Percy frowned and paused, so absorbed with his filthy deed that he couldn't focus on anything else. He

sat back on his haunches, pinning Anne to the mattress as he peered over.

"Jamie!" Anne breathed.

Percy said the same, though Jamie's name was imbued with a bit of alarm. "Jamie? What are you doing here?"

"Get off the bed," Jamie barked again, approaching.

"Sorry, old fellow, but we weren't expecting you. Anne and I were about to ... to ..." Percy smirked. "I guess you can see for yourself."

"You can stand on your own two feet," Jamie seethed, "and die like a man, or you can perish on the bed like a snake slithering through the grass. It's your decision. What shall it be?"

"Why are you in such a dither?" Percy asked. "We haven't been doing anything Anne didn't want to do." He simpered at Anne. "Isn't that right, darling?"

"Jamie," she said, "I never would have! Never!"

"Hush!" he curtly ordered.

"You've married yourself a real whore," Percy taunted, pointing to the ropes that were cutting into Anne's wrists. "She'll fuck anyone. Even me. While you were gone, she's had half the county."

"That's not true!" Anne jiggled her bindings, squirming, trying to escape. "Don't listen to him!"

Jamie didn't glance at her but kept his eyes glued to Percy.

"She likes it rough," Percy jeered, "but then, you've had her enough times, so you probably already know— shall we call them—her preferences?"

Quick as lightning, Percy's arm came around, and he was holding a pistol, the barrel aimed at the center of Jamie's heart. Jamie was surprised to find Percy so prepared, but he wasn't afraid in the slightest. Percy was too cowardly to pull the trigger, and Jamie was too tough to die.

"You're an idiot, Percy," Jamie scolded. "You only have the one shot. Once you fire, I'll slay you with my bare hands."

"Perhaps," he agreed, "but by then, Anne will be dead. You see, Jamie, she was always the one we planned to kill. Not you."

To Jamie's horror, Percy yanked the gun away and pressed it to Anne's forehead.

Percy would murder Anne? He would do it as Jamie watched?

"No!" Jamie howled like a wounded animal.

A lethal tempest rushed through him, and in a single bound that defied the laws of gravity, he leapt toward Percy. At the same instant, Anne screamed and bucked with her hips, throwing Percy off balance as Jamie slammed into him.

Still, Percy was able to squeeze the trigger.

In such a cramped space, the roar of the blast was deafening. Dust and mattress feathers flew; smoke filled the air, obscuring everything in a murky haze.

Jamie's momentum carried him across the bed, his fists clutching Percy's coat. They tumbled to the floor, and Jamie punched Percy over and over and over again till the man was naught but an unconscious, battered hulk. Jamie lurched away and rose, kicking Percy in the ribs so forcefully that his torso raised off the ground.

The smoke was clearing, the ringing in Jamie's ears fading. Terrified as to Anne's fate, he scrambled onto the bed, not knowing if Percy had hit her, not knowing if his jump had been fast enough to deflect Percy's aim.

"Anne!" he murmured. "Anne! Say something."

"Is he... is he... dead?" she whispered. Jamie hung his head, offering up the only prayer he'd ever uttered in his life. "No, he's not dead." "Cut me loose."

He drew a knife from his boot and sliced the cords. Once freed, she curled into a ball, showing him her back, clasping at the ripped bodice of her nightgown.

"I didn't lie down with him," she said. "I didn't!"

"I know that."

"I never would have."

She started to cry, and he reached out to comfort her, but she flinched, not wanting to be touched by him. He hesitated, then moved away.

Why should he be the one to console her? Why should he presume any attention would be welcome? He'd always been a brute to her.

'Take him away, please?" she implored.

"I will. I will right away."

He eased off the mattress, and as he gazed down at her, such a wave of affection swept over him that he could hardly function. She was weeping, shivering, and he grabbed the corner of the worn quilt and draped it over her shoulders.

On the floor, Percy was stirring, and Jamie leaned down, seized the front of his shirt, and hauled him to his feet. Percy winced in agony. His eyes were swelling shut, his nose dripping blood.

Percy gaped at Anne, who was obviously alive, and he complained, "Dammit! You were supposed to die. Why can't you ever do as I command?"

With one hand, Jamie lifted him into the air, his toes dangling, and Jamie wedged the tip of his knife under Percy's chin.

"If you speak to her again, I'll slit your throat."

In reply, an angry female voice ordered, "Drop the knife, and put him down."

Jamie spun to see Ophelia, who was over in the doorway and brandishing a pistol of her own, and he cursed his folly. He'd been so concerned about Anne that he'd forgotten all about Ophelia, and at the moment he hadn't the patience to deal with her. She'd be lucky if he didn't march over, snatch her gun away, and shoot her where she stood.

"Get out of here, Ophelia," he said. "I won't tell you twice."

"Drop the knife. Release him"—she gestured toward Percy with the gun—"then step away."

Jamie didn't budge, and she shouted, "Step away!"

Usually, Jamie wouldn't have listened to her, but Anne was still in the room, so he wasn't taking any chances. He wasn't worried that they might kill him, but he sure as hell wouldn't let them kill Anne.

He tossed his knife and shoved Percy to the side.

"Ophelia," Percy piped up, "thank God you arrived."

"Why wouldn't I come? I knew you'd mess it up! I knew it!"

"I didn't mess it up," Percy huffed. "I was... distracted."

"By what? All you had to do was strangle her. You had her alone and tied up, yet you couldn't manage to finish the job."

"Shut up!" Percy retorted.

Ophelia ignored him, her weapon remaining pointed at Jamie, which was right where he wanted it. The second it looked as if she might swing it toward Anne, Ophelia was dead. He had another knife tucked in the waistband of his trousers, and before she could blink, he'd throw it straight through her heart.

"I'm sorry, Jamie," Ophelia explained, "but your inopportune appearance has altered the conclusion we'd envisioned. We were just going to murder her, but now, I'm afraid we'll need to stage a murder-suicide."

"What?" he asked, frowning. The woman's mind was a mystery he didn't care to unravel.

"We were about to kill her, then claim you did it in a jealous rage—so you'd be hanged. Instead, we'll murder you both, then claim you caught her with Percy and were so grief stricken that you killed her and yourself, too."

"Very convenient."

He pretended to rest his fists on his waist, but his fingers were slowly sliding to retrieve his knife.

Suddenly, Anne sat up. "No, Ophelia. You will not do this! I forbid it!"

"You forbid it!" Ophelia scoffed. "Oh, that's hilarious. Do be silent, you stupid cow."

Ophelia adjusted her aim at Jamie.

"Ophelia!" Anne wrenched her legs over the edge of the mattress. In her haste, she was off balance, and the quilt flopped down, revealing her torn nightclothes. Desperate to conceal herself, she clasped at the fabric.

Scowling, Ophelia studied the ruined bodice, struggling to make sense of what it indicated.

"What happened to your nightgown?" Ophelia queried.

"Percy tried to rape her," Jamie said. Ophelia gasped. "He what?" "From how aroused he was when I first walked in," Jamie added, "he was extremely eager, too." "That's a lie!" Ophelia insisted.

"Is it?" Jamie taunted. 'Tell her, Anne. Tell her what he did."

He nodded at Anne, with that quick motion imparting what he wanted from her. She understood immediately, their strong mental connection not having waned in the least.

"It's true, Ophelia," Anne concurred. "Percy said he's always desired me. He even said that he liked me more than you, and he wished we were married."

Ophelia whirled on Percy, her glare spiteful and livid. "You were planning to have sex with her? Her?"

"Well..." Percy sheepishly responded.

"You're mine! You can't give away what belongs to me."

"Don't flatter yourself," Percy had the temerity to mutter. "I'm your brother and your elder. I can do as I please, and I've never needed to answer to you."

Ophelia was so irate that steam was practically coming out of her ears. "When I think of how I stayed with you, how I sacrificed for you, how I suffered under your obnoxious authority!"

"Get a grip on yourself," Percy admonished. "You sound like a shrewish fishwife."

"How many others have there been?"

"Really, Ophelia," Percy chided. "You're trying my patience."

"How many?" she shrieked.

Making the worst mistake of his life, he grinned through bruised lips. "A gentleman never kisses and tells."

Ophelia yanked the gun away from Jamie and pointed it at Percy's chest. For a hesitant instant, it wavered there; then she growled like a rampaging bear and lowered it—to his crotch.

Percy froze, shocked realization rattling him, as she pulled the trigger and shot him right between the legs.

He didn't even cry out. He gaped in horror, grabbed at his missing, bloody privates, and crumpled to the floor in a stunned heap.

 

Twenty-Three

I need to speak with Mr. Jack Merrick." A sailor peered down at Sarah and shook his head. "Sorry, ma'am, only passengers allowed on board." "Please?" "Captain's orders."

"Could you at least advise Mr. Merrick that he has a guest on the dock?"

The man hemmed and hawed, and she supposed she looked sufficiently miserable that he took pity on her.

"Wait there."

"Thank you."

He vanished, and she tarried, trying to stay out of the way of the hectic hordes. As far as the eye could see, there were ships being loaded and unloaded. Passengers, sailors, and merchants were milling, yelling, and working.

It was intriguing to observe so many industrious people, and as she watched them, she was envious. She'd never traveled much of anywhere but for the neighborhood surrounding Gladstone. What would it

be like to simply walk onto a ship and sail across the ocean? She couldn't fathom it.

She studied the vessel upon which Jack had purchased his fare and would journey to America. It seemed too small, and she didn't like to picture it rocked by huge waves or blown off course by stormy winds.

For a fleeting instant, she thought about the strong, sturdy woman he might have wed and would take with him to begin his new life, but she chased the vision away. She couldn't bear to ponder Jack's marrying.

What kind of man committed such a reckless, impetuous act? Not reticent, reliable Jack Merrick, certainly. What had come over him? During their brief, aborted affair, she assumed she'd gotten to know and understand him, but obviously, any sense of familiarity had been an illusion.

Voices sounded up on the deck, and shortly Jack peeked over the railing.

For some stupid reason, on seeing him again she was on the verge of tears. She was so happy that he hadn't left England, that she'd caught him before he could go. Since their last fight, everything had seemed wrong.

"Sarah, what are you doing here?" "Could I talk to you?"

T can't imagine what you have to say that I'd care to hear." "Jack—"

She broke off, not sure of what to tell him. He was the only person in the world, besides Anne, who would be concerned over Tim's disappearance, and the realization had jumbled loose many inconvenient emotions.

She wanted Jack's assistance and advice, but she wanted other things, too, things she was afraid to name.

For a long while, he silently debated, and just as she decided he'd refuse her plea for conversation, he shrugged and said, "Give me a minute."

After another lengthy delay, the sailor emerged with instructions to escort her to the captain's cabin, where Jack had received permission to chat with her privately.

Sarah climbed up the gangplank, then down a ladder, into the dank hold, and she paused at the bottom, adjusting to the dim lighting, to the subtle rocking of the ship that made it difficult to balance.

The sailor led her to a door at the end of a narrow hallway, and Sarah stepped into a small room with a low ceiling. The space was graciously appointed with dark paneling, bookshelves, a nook for the captain's bed, and a large table in the center that was strewn with maps.

Jack stood behind the table, using it as a barrier between them, and she was hurt that he would keep his distance, but then, she couldn't blame him. She'd always been cold and spiteful to him, though in her defense, he'd stirred feelings she never thought to feel again. He'd frightened and delighted her, and she hadn't known how to deal with him other than to push him away.

"Why are you here?" he commenced without any opening niceties. "We're sailing with the tide tomorrow morning, and I'm very busy. State your business, then go away and don't come back."

Prior to arriving, she'd rehearsed a dozen speeches she'd intended to give, but with them face-to-face, none seemed appropriate.

"I had to see you," she pathetically said. "Now you have. Will there be anything else?" "I need your help."

"No, you don't," he scoffed. "You've never needed me for anything, except a few tumbles under the blankets, and other than that, I don't see what I could do for you."

"You're being deliberately cruel."

"So leave. I didn't ask you to visit."

"Tim is missing." She raised the only topic that might break through Jack's hard shell. "I'm terrified that Ophelia sent him away from Gladstone, and I'm very scared. I'm not sure what to do or where to search."

"Why are you worrying now? After all these years?"

"I've constantly fretted over him; you know that."

"I know nothing of the sort. Why is it you never fuss about him till he's in trouble?"

Jack's flip, curt answers made her angry, and her temper flared. "You've continually berated me because I don't understand how it was for you and your brother. Why can't you offer me the same courtesy? Why can't you at least try to understand what it was like for me?"

"I don't care what it was like for you. After all this time, it doesn't matter. Your son is the one who's important, but you never figured that out."

"He always came first. Why do you think I gave him away? Have you any idea of how awful it was for me?"

The tears that had threatened surged to the fore, and she started to cry. She hated to be maudlin, but the past weeks had been so arduous, and the pressures had ignited memories of her earlier traumas. Every pain she'd ever suffered seemed to have risen up until she felt as if she was choking with what might have been.

"I was so young," she said, "and I was alone and afraid. I didn't have any parents to guide me. There was only Ophelia. I couldn't win against her, and I've regretted it every day."

"I can't abide a weepy woman," he snapped. "Stop blubbering."

"I can't help it." She swiped at her cheeks. "I'm so sad, and I don't know where to turn. Your brother has left London, and you're about to leave, too."

"Jamie left? Where did he go?"

"I don't know. The servants at his house wouldn't say."

There was a chair next to her, and she sank down onto it. She stared at the planks on the polished floor. At that moment, if someone had painted their portrait, they'd have made an odd tableau: the irate, taciturn man and the defeated, melancholy woman.

She heard him sigh, and he walked to her and rested his hand on the top of her head.

"Don't cry," he grumbled, but gently. "I can't bear it when you do."

He lifted her off the seat; then he slid under her and pulled her onto his lap. She snuggled herself to his chest, relieved, feeling that she'd finally arrived where she was meant to be.

"Tell me what's wrong."

"Everything is so mixed-up, and I'm so unhappy."

"What do you want from me, Sarah?"

"I don't want you to go to America. I don't want you to leave me. And don't you dare wed some... some ... strapping, tough stranger just so you have somebody to take with you."

She halted, a horrid notion occurring to her. What if, that very second, his bride was in his cabin, unpacking her bags and tidying her belongings?

"You didn't marry already, did you?"

"No. I couldn't find anyone as irksome as you."

He chuckled, and she mustered the courage to gaze into his beautiful blue eyes. He was the most handsome, most virile man she'd ever met, and she was attracted to him as she'd never been to another. He was strong and steadfast and true, and if she leaned on him, she just might end up with the man she needed.

She eased forward to brazenly kiss him on the mouth, and she was thrilled to discover that he wasn't immune. He drew her closer and deepened the embrace, savoring it as much as she. They might fight and argue, might rage and bicker, but despite it all, they had a connection that couldn't be severed.

"What should we do?" he inquired.

"I haven't the foggiest."

"What would you like to have happen? If you could have whatever you wished, what would it be?" "I don't know that, either."

"Well, / know," he stated. "I want to get married. I want to have a family. I'm tired of wandering, and I'm eager to settle down."

"In England?"

"That remains to be seen."

Her heart pounded. Was he on the verge of proposing?

"What are you saying?"

"That I'd marry you—if you'd have me. So... I guess I'm asking." She was about to reply when he interrupted. "But before you answer, I have to confess something, and there's a decision you'll have to make."

"What is it?"

A knock sounded on the door, and Jack called, "Come in."

Sarah peered over and was stunned to see Tim in the threshold. She frowned, trying to make sense of what his presence indicated.

"Tim?"

"Yes, it's me, Miss Carstairs." "What are you doing here?" "I'm going to America with Jack." She glared at Jack. "You took him from Gladstone? Without telling me?" "Yes."

"I've been absolutely frantic with worry."

He wasn't repentant in the slightest. "In the eyes of the world, Tim is an orphan with no kin. So am I— except for my worthless brother. Tim has no one, and neither do I. I'm prepared to claim him as my son." He paused. "What about you?"

She probably appeared distraught, and she was, but not in the way they assumed.

Tim stepped farther into the room and said, "Jack told me who you are, Miss Carstairs. If you'd like to continue keeping my birth a secret, I'll understand. It's all right. Don't be upset."

"Oh, Tim..."

For such a young person, it was such a sweet, magnanimous comment. When his natural father had been a philandering libertine and his mother a gullible, impetuous fool, how had he grown to be such a mature, dear child?

She looked at Jack, who was pensive and on edge about what her response would be, and there were so many words bubbling up that she couldn't figure out where to begin. She felt as if a dam was about to burst, that she might start speaking and never stop.

"I don't want to keep it a secret," she declared. "I never wanted to keep it a secret."

Nervous and shy, Tim gave a curt, gangly bow. "I'm glad-She extended her hand to him, and he walked over and took it. After that, she wasn't certain what to say next. The moment was exhilarating, but awkward, too, and Jack rescued her from it—as she imagined he would many times in the future.

"Tim, why don't you wait outside while your mother and I talk?"

At having herself referred to as Tim's mother, she grinned from ear to ear.

Tim hesitated, as if afraid to let her out of his sight, and she explained, "We just need a few minutes. I won't go anywhere. I promise."

At the minor assurance, he left, and once she and Jack were alone, she clasped him by the lapels of his coat and shook him.

"You rat!" She kissed him hard. "I'd nearly convinced myself that he was dead in a ditch somewhere. Don't ever scare me like that again."

He shrugged, not apologetic, not contrite.

"What's it to be, Sarah? You insist that you'll acknowledge the boy, but what does it mean to you?"

"I want to be his mother. It would be my greatest dream come true."

"But it has to be out in the open, where everyone can see. I won't have you acting ashamed or making excuses."

"Jack! I want this. You're giving me such a gift!" He was silent, weighing her resolve, and finally, he nodded. "All right, then. Will you marry me?" "Yes, yes, yes."

She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on like a drowning woman grabbing a rope. He stroked his palms up and down her back, soothing her, claiming her.

"I suppose we don't have to leave England," he mused, "but I won't return to Gladstone. I won't live under my brother's thumb, and I won't have gossip following either of you."

"Whatever you choose is fine with me."

"We could move to a small town someplace else. We could say we've been wed for years. No one would know about his past—or yours."

She was so happy that she felt her heart might simply burst with joy.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"I'll be a good wife to you. I swear it." "I know you will."

He eased her to her feet, and he stood, too.

"What shall we do first?" she asked.

"Well, since I'm not heading out in the morning, I should pack my bags and relinquish my cabin." He leaned down for a quick kiss. "And I think the captain could marry us before we debark. Unless you'd rather find a church and a preacher?"

"No, no. I want to do it now."

"So do I."

He linked their fingers and ushered her to the door, where Tim was waiting impatiently on the other side. Jack laid a hand on Tim's shoulder.

"I guess we're not going to America, after all."

"Are you sure, sir?" Tim was courteous but unable to hide his disappointment at having their grand adventure canceled.

"We'll be too busy here in England. Now, I need you to run topside and locate the captain."

"Why? What should I tell him?"

'Tell him"—Jack smiled at Sarah—"that your mother and I would like to marry immediately, so we'll need him to perform the ceremony."

Tim let out a whoop of delight and raced for the ladder.

 

Don't leave me here!" Ophelia clutched at Jamie's coat, her fists kneading the fabric as if she might tear it to shreds, and he pried her away.

The decaying mansion where she'd been delivered was touted as a convalescent home for the aged, infirm, and deranged, and it had become a veritable House of Merrick. Percy was mortally wounded and being nursed, Edith was senile and kept secluded so she didn't wander, and Ophelia was detained because she'd been judged legally insane. And it was all Jamie's doing. The hospital or asylum or jail, or whatever the hell it was called, was allegedly the most modern facility in the country, when Ophelia couldn't fathom why.

There were bars on the windows, and the individual rooms were little more than cells. The patients and prisoners couldn't be trusted with more than a cot and a chamber pot. Lest they hang themselves in despair, there were no hooks on the walls. They'd taken her clothes; they'd taken her jewels; they'd taken her only pair of shoes!

The property was situated in the middle of nowhere, and it rained all the time, so the roads were a mire of mud. If she could have found a carriage to steal—there wasn't one; she'd checked—it would have bogged down in a trice.

She would die in such a despicable place! She would absolutely die!

Jamie chuckled. "It's so amusing to see you beg."

"You swine! You churl! How can you be so cruel?"

"Actually, it's comes quite naturally."

"I didn't harm your precious Anne. It's absurd to punish me. I'm completely innocent."

He arched a skeptical brow. "Fine, let's just say I'm an unconscionable boor and I'm torturing you for sport."

"Oh, you ... you—"

She broke off. She had to calm herself, had to try a different tactic. He was such a brute that insults didn't faze him. Pleading didn't faze him. Nothing bloody fazed him!

She smoothed her features into an expression of extreme regret.

"I'm sorry," she said.

His chuckling metamorphosed into outright laughter. "You've never been sorry for anything in your entire life. You don't know the definition of the word."

"I am sorry," she lied. "I didn't realize Percy would behave so horridly. I swear it!"

"Do you think I haven't spoken to Anne? Do you think I'm unaware that you helped Percy tie her to the bed?"

"But he was merely going to scare her. How was I to predict what he'd do after I departed?"

"Have you any remorse for shooting off your brother's balls?"

"Of course I do," she falsely insisted. "I feel terrible. It's my temper. It often runs away with me."

"It certainly does."

"He might recover."

"Not his balls! They don't grow back."

"I mean he should live," she petulantly fumed. "The doctors all say there's a good chance."

"He may survive, but being a male myself, I can attest that there will be many days he'll wish he hadn't. He'll blame you, and you'll deserve his scorn. I'll return in six months to see how his wrath is settling on you."

He sauntered toward the door, as if he'd walk out that very second, and she hurried after him and grabbed his arm.

"Jamie!"

"What?"

"You can't abandon me." "I believe I already have."

Using Edith and Percy as his witnesses, Jamie had had her declared insane. He'd had himself installed as her guardian, too, and he could do anything to her without penalty—as he'd proven repeatedly.

After she'd wounded Percy, Jamie had pummeled her to the floor, then locked her in a closet until some burly men took her to a prison in London that had been filled with whores and criminals. Ultimately, she'd been shipped—in chains—to the rural, isolated sanctuary where she now resided. She'd been callously tricked, assuming that she was being sent home, only to find herself incarcerated against her will, with Jamie claiming it would be forever.

"Take me to Gladstone with you," she implored. "No."

"Then buy me another house. In London or anywhere. I'm not choosy." "No."

"Please!" she wailed.

"I know you'll be surprised to hear it, but I've noticed that you're dangerous. You can't be out among normal people."

"My brother attacked Anne! Not me! Why can't you understand?"

"Percy may have attacked her, but with his cock blown off, I doubt he'll assault anybody ever again. Besides, he won't ever leave this hospital. With the stories of his castration being bandied in town, he's a laughingstock."

"He wasn't castrated," she seethed.

"I guess it's all in the eye of the beholder, but I'm not worried about him. You, on the other hand, are a different kettle of fish."

Furious, exasperated, she studied him, wondering how to make him relent. She laid a palm on his chest.

"How can I change your mind, Jamie? I'll do anything."

"Anything?"

"Yes. Just name it. You can't hide the fact that you desire me. Set me up as your mistress. You could love me; Percy always did. You'd be so happy."

She snuggled herself to him, letting him feel her lush torso, and for a moment, she thought she was getting through to him. He smiled at her; then the smile became a scoff.

"You're crazier than I suspected," he charged. "With

every word you utter, I'm more convinced that I made the appropriate decision by keeping you here."

He started out, and she screamed, "Jamie! What is wrong with you? I'm not mad."

"Anne might have an alternate opinion. Shall we ask her? Or how about Sarah? What would she say about you?"

Ophelia gnashed her teeth. Anne and Sarah. Anne and Sarah. Who gave a rat's ass about them? After she sneaked to Gladstone and murdered Jamie, they'd be next!

"I was simply trying to help Percy regain his heritage," she grumbled. "Why is that a crime?"

Weary of dealing with her, Jamie sighed. "I keep talking to you, Ophelia, but you don't listen. So I'll say this one last time. Pay attention. You will stay here until—"

Like a spoiled toddler, Ophelia clamped her hands over her ears, and he grabbed her wrists and pulled them away.

"You will stay here," he began again, "until I'm persuaded that you've reformed sufficiently to be released. Should that day ever arrive—and I admit I'm dubious that it will—you will be transported to Australia on the first available prison ship."

"And Edith and Percy will remain in England as if they played no part in events?"

"Yes."

"But I can't bear being trapped with them. I'll end up killing them."

"You'll do nothing to Edith," he warned. "She will be safe around you, and should she so much as trip on the garden path, I'll come after you."

"And what about Percy? I suppose if he croaks, that will be my fault, too."

"Yes, but I won't care so much. He tried to rape Anne, so he shouldn't expect any mercy from me. Then again, a man who loses his privates to a deranged, gun-toting female has suffered plenty."

"So you won't mind if I finish him off?"

"It's your neck, Ophelia"—he smirked, looking evil and resolute—"and the hangman's noose is very tight. You might wish to consider the consequences before you act."

"Bastard!" she hurled.

"I'm many things, but I'm not a bastard. Our father married my mother, remember? That's why you're in this fix." He knocked for the guard. "I'll check on you in six months."

"As if I need a nanny, you contemptible lout."

She was so angry that she picked a figurine off the table and threw it at him, but as with so much of what she'd done lately, she missed. The figurine thudded into the wall and tumbled to the floor, but it hadn't the decency to break, so she didn't even receive the satisfaction of a loud crash.

"By the way," he mentioned as the door swung open, "I've provided Edith with several boxes of stationery. She's to write me once a week to inform me how you're behaving."

"She can sod off. You can, too."

"Have you ever been to Australia? The climate is very hot—sort of like Hell is purported to be. I don't imagine you'd like it there."

He marched out, the guard quickly securing the lock. With so many barricades in place, she couldn't follow Jamie, but that didn't prevent her from pounding and pounding on the door. She screeched his name till she was hoarse, sounding every bit like the demented shrew he insisted she was.

Finally, worn and exhausted, she slumped to the rug. Footsteps echoed behind her, and she peered over to see Edith watching her. Her mother's expression was much more lucid and clear than Ophelia could ever recollect it being.

"Go away, you crazy loon," Ophelia hissed.

"No, you little sinner," Edith responded. "I've organized a Bible study group, and you'll be required to attend every meeting. Class is about to start. Come."

"I won't participate in any stupid Bible reading with you."

Edith grinned a nasty, malevolent grin. "It appears I'll be using Jamie's stationery much earlier than I thought."

She spun and walked away.

 

Twenty-Four

Anne tarried in the woods, listening to the quiet. Snow was falling, huge flakes drifting down. Off in the distance, the manor beckoned, the windows twinkling in the dim light, smoke curling from the chimneys. It was such a pretty picture, like a scene in a painting, a fantasy spot that no humans inhabited, and often that's precisely how it felt. Everyone had left her.

Sarah had gone to London to find Jamie but had found Jack and Tim, instead. She'd stayed on to marry; then the three of them had moved to the other side of England to build a new life. Anne had no idea when she'd see her sister again.

Edith, Percy, and Ophelia had been whisked away to a private hospital, but with the local surgeon having originally tended Percy's wounds, there was no keeping the type of damage a secret. The injury—and the means by which he'd received it—was so shocking that the rumors never ceased.

What with the furtive, reproving looks of both servants and neighbors, Anne could barely leave her room,

and she definitely wouldn't brave a trip to the village. She wished the entire episode would fade away, but the scandal was too delicious, and the gossipmongers couldn't be silenced. They were having too much fun.

Jamie's disappearance bothered her most of all.

She hadn't had a chance to ask him what had brought him home on that fateful night. By the time Sarah had traveled to London, he'd vanished, so it wasn't Sarah's plea that had spurred him to Gladstone.

So why had he come? Had he missed Anne? Had he hoped to make amends and start over? The likely answers had her abuzz with constant speculation.

After he'd rescued Anne from Percy's clutches, he'd spent several days at the estate, but he'd been distant and excruciatingly polite. Then he'd departed— abruptly and without a good-bye.

She understood that he'd been busy resolving matters with Ophelia and Percy, but would it have killed Jamie to keep in touch? Would it have been too much trouble to inform her of where he was or what he was doing?

As usual, she was left to wonder if he'd ever return, if they'd ever be together again.

In one brief interview, he'd pressed her for the particulars of Percy's attack, and she'd shared every squalid detail, but what if Jamie hadn't believed her? He probably assumed she'd been raped. If so, he'd be disgusted and would never come back, and she was incensed to suppose that she was being condemned for something that hadn't happened.

She sighed, pondering what to do, how it would all play out, and she told herself—as she had a thousand occasions prior—that she was glad he was gone.

Who needed an overbearing lunatic for a husband anyway? Not her! From the moment he'd arrived, there'd been nothing but upheaval and disaster, when she simply wanted peace and quiet. She was better off alone.

She'd reached the stone bridge where she'd first stumbled on Jamieson Merrick all those months ago. It had been such a bright, warm summer afternoon. As she'd watched him survey his property, she'd had such an alarming sense of impending destiny that she'd tried to run from it. At the memory of how she'd tumbled into the stream, how he'd rescued her, she smiled, when she didn't know why she would.

Any fond reminiscence was complete proof that he'd finally driven her crazy. She wouldn't regret his decision to stay away. It was for the best!

Movement caught her attention, and she stood very still, thinking it might be a deer in the trees. She focused in, and to her utter surprise, it wasn't an animal, but her magnificent, horrible, delectable, impossible husband.

He was up on the ridge where he'd initially been, peering out across the fallow fields, and she suffered the worst deja vu—as if Doom was about to chase her down all over again. Her heart pounded, with both joy and dread, and she'd just eased away, anxious to escape undetected, when he spun to face her.

Snow dusted his hair and shoulders, his cheeks rosy from the cold, and—evidence of his improved status— he wore a heavy wool coat and fur-lined boots. In the stark, gray surroundings, his eyes were bluer than ever, and they held her transfixed until he grinned his devil's grin and headed toward her. She knew that look well. It was desire, mixed with some of the false affection he was so adept at exhibiting, and a wave of banked fury washed over her.

How dare he come home after all this time! How dare he absent himself—week after week—without sending word! How dare he blithely show up and expect to be welcomed!

The man was a menace. He shouldn't be allowed to inflict himself on sane, rational people.

"Hello, Anne," he said casually as he approached.

"Hello, Lord Gladstone."

He laughed. The swine!

"Are you still angry with me?"

"I'd have to care about you to be angry."

"But you only call me Gladstone when you're spitting mad."

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I live here."

"No, you don't."

"We'll see."

She didn't like the enigmatic retort. It conjured all sorts of happy endings that were an illusion. Did he mean he planned to remain forever? Or merely until he grew bored?

She'd been down too many devastating roads with him, and she was in no mood to hold on for dear life through another tumultuous ride.

He neared, causing her to ripple with panic. If he got too close, she was lost. She had no defense against him. She loved him, she hated him, and she swirled with every emotion in between the two extremes.

"Stay right where you are," she commanded.

"No."

He stopped a few feet away, studying her intently, his torrid gaze roving over her, burning like a brand all the way down.

"I don't want you here," she insisted.

"You're as uppity as you were the first day I met you." "And you're still a horse's ass." He laughed again. "Ah, it's just like old times." "Not quite."

She wasn't the foolish, sheltered spinster she'd been. He'd seen to that, and she wanted no part of whatever new twist he might insert into her staid, solitary existence.

She was fine without him. Fine!

Pushing past him, she ran for the manor, her cloak billowing out, her breath swirling around her like a cloud. She raced in the rear entrance and up the stairs to her room. With trembling fingers, she slammed the door and spun the key in the lock. She dawdled, steadying herself, listening to hear how rapidly he'd follow. Shortly, he sauntered down the hall and halted directly outside.

"Open up," he cajoled.

"No. I'm pretending you're a bad dream. If I hide in here long enough, maybe I'll wake up and you'll be gone."

"Is that any way for a loving wife to behave?"

"At the moment, I'm not feeling very loving, and I'm barely your wife—as you've worked hard to ensure. Go away."

"Don't you want to know where I've been and what I've been doing?"

Her curiosity soared. "No."

"If you let me in, I'll tell you."

His voice was low and seductive, as if he had a secret he could share with her and nobody else.

"Go away," she said again, which made him sigh.

"I guess I should buy more locks. The ones I own keep getting ruined."

He kicked at the wood, and as it bowed with the force of the blow, she jumped with fright.

She should have simply let him in and avoided all the drama, but she couldn't. There was too much at stake. He'd tarry at Gladstone for a week or two, then he'd depart, and her poor heart couldn't survive another rebuff.

She grabbed the dresser and shoved it over as an extra barrier, but it provided scant fortification and only protracted the wreckage through a few extra jolts. The door gave, the dresser tumbled out of the way, and he marched in.

He took a step toward her, and she stepped back. He took another, and so did she, the two of them gliding across the floor like a pair of dancers until she was at the wall and could go no farther.

He advanced till he was so near that his boots slipped under the hem of her skirt. He'd shed his winter coat, and she could smell the cold air on his skin, the laundered scent of his clothes, the essence of him as a man, and she yearned to reach out and hug him, or to rest her palm on his cheek. He looked so inviting, and she was lured to him like a magnet to metal, but he was lethal to her well-being and, rigid with resolve, she kept her arms pinned to her sides.

After all he'd done—and not done—why couldn't she resist him? What was the matter with her? Had she no shame? No sense?

She flattened herself to the plaster, wishing she could be subsumed by the wall and vanish.

"You get prettier every time I see you," he absurdly said, the comment like a warning shot across her bow.

Buck up! she scolded. She wouldn't be sucked in by a few obsequious words from a maniac.

"Really?" She glared at the wrecked door. "You haven't changed a whit."

"Oh, I have. A little." A corner of his mouth quirked up in that fiendish smile that made him so enticing. "Do you want me to tell you how?"

"No."

"I'm going to anyway." "Why am I not surprised?" Stunning her, he dropped to one knee and clasped her hand in his own. "I'm sorry."

It was the very last remark she'd expected, and she frowned. "You're ... sorry? What for?"

"When I married you, I swore that I'd always protect you, that you'd always be safe here at Gladstone, and you weren't. Can you forgive me?"

He appeared so young, so torn, and she couldn't bear to see him prostrate and begging for absolution. If he was repentant, it would be so difficult to keep him at bay.

"Yes, yes," she hurriedly declared, "you're forgiven, so if that's all you came to say, you can leave now." 'There's a tad more." "What is it?"

He kissed her knuckles, and at the feel of his delicious lips on her skin, she lurched away and went to the window. She peered out across the park, watching the snow trickle down.

Behind her, she heard him rise, heard him approach, and she stiffened as if bracing for an attack. Didn't he understand that each touch was painful? His presence was a petty torment that was deadly in its intensity.

He placed his hands on her hips, and he snuggled himself to her backside.

"You didn't let me finish," he complained. "That's because you've already said more than enough."

He chuckled and nibbled her nape, and she sucked in a sharp breath.

"Let's have sex," he suggested. "Are you insane?"

"No. I want to make love to my wife. It's been ages."

Inundated by fury, she whipped around, eager to do battle, but on seeing the odd, tender expression on his face, she was flummoxed.

"I don't plan to lie down with you ever again," she asserted. "I can't believe you had the gall to ask."

"So who's asking?"

He picked her up and spun them so that they bounced onto the mattress. In an instant, she was trapped beneath him, which was precisely where she didn't wish to be.

"Let me up."

"No."

"Let me—"

He leaned in and kissed her, just a soft brush of his mouth to hers, and he was very tentative, as if he was afraid of being pushed away. Could it be? Could big, bad Jamie Merrick be worried that she no longer desired him? It was ludicrous to think so, but nevertheless, she experienced a vain thrill.

The arrogant prig! Although he had no heart, so he couldn't possibly feel any distress, she yearned to hope that he'd suffered as she'd been suffering.

"I missed you," he contended.

"I didn't miss you."

"Yes, you did. Quit lying. You're terrible at it. Now about what I've been doing ..."

"I said I don't want to hear it!"

From how he was gazing at her, it was obvious that he was about to announce some perfectly charming gesture destined to placate and enchant, and she refused to be tempted with incentives to like him. She hadn't the wherewithal to deflect them.

"I sold my ship."

"You what?"

"I sold it, and I have to admit, it was deuced difficult to let it go." "But... why?"

"I didn't need it anymore. I have the town house for sale, too." He frowned. "You didn't want to ever spend time in London, did you?"

"No, I hated it there."

"So did I. I didn't suppose we should keep a house we'd never use."

What was he saying? He seemed to imply that he'd come home for good, but she'd never trust that he was sincere. He'd tricked and hurt her too often to count, and they were far beyond the day when he could spew any story she'd deem credible.

"We've dispensed with the preliminaries," he continued, "so let's get down to business."

He started kissing her again, and she shoved at his shoulders till he drew away.

"Stop it!"

"Stop what?" he queried, appearing confused. "You've been gone for months!" "Yes, I have."

"You can't just waltz in here and expect that we'll take up where we left off." "Why not?"

"How many reasons do you need? How about your cavorting with strumpets?" She was amazed that she'd mention the humiliating fact aloud, and tears flooded her eyes. "It shamed me."

"Oh, Anne." He kissed one moist eyelid, then the other. "What would you say if I told you I haven't had a lover since I fled Gladstone?"

"I'd call you a bald-faced liar."

"There's been only you and no other. I won't claim I didn't have many chances to misbehave, but why do you assume I came home? I couldn't abide the frivolous coquettes I met in London, and I've been dying for female companionship!"

Could it be true? She had no idea, but she stupidly, desperately wanted it to be. She was struggling to remain firm, but the foundations of her anger slipped a little.

"I can't begin again," she moaned. "You've exhausted me. I can't keep on as we have been."

"But I relinquished my ship for you. It was like cutting off my arm. I need wifely sympathy to get over the loss. Aren't you going to give me any?"

He rolled onto his back, taking her with him so that she was draped across his torso. His hand was on her bottom, her loins pressed to his, and he rooted to her bosom and nestled at her breast through the fabric of her dress.

At feeling him so close to where she wanted him to be, she hissed with agony. He knew how to entice her, how to wear her down, and she was rapidly capitulating.

"What do you want from me?" she wailed.

"Let me show you."

In another quick flip, she was on the bottom, and he was hiking up her skirts and unbuttoning his trousers. To her ultimate disgust, she didn't put up the slightest resistance. Since he was extremely aroused, he didn't bother with any seduction. He simply gripped her thighs and impaled himself.

Immediately, he started to flex, and she groaned with delight and arched into him, meeting him thrust for thrust, and swiftly he was at the end. He came in a deep, satisfying rush of pleasure, and as he emptied himself against her womb, she joined in. They soared to the heavens, then floated down.

But as the commotion waned, he murmured, T love you."

She froze. "What did you say?" "I love you, Anne. That's what I hurried home to tell you."

The remark was the worst, most insulting thing he could have said. He had no notion of what love was, and she was crushed that he'd offer the pathetic sentiment.

"No, you don't. You don't love me."

Her dubious scowl humored him, and he chuckled. "It's shocking, I know. I can hardly believe it myself."

"No ... no ... no ..." She shook her head, her dread rising, her heart aching. "You are not going to do this to me."

"Do what?"

"You are not going to lie—not when the subject matters so much to me."

She squirmed out from under him to perch on the edge of the bed.

He moved to the floor and knelt in front of her.

"How am I lying to you?" he gently asked.

"You've returned to Gladstone—when I have no clue why you would—and you've dragged me off and had sex with me, and now, you're whispering all these ridiculous comments."

"They're not ridiculous."

"They are when you don't mean any of them. This is all a big game to you." "Is that what you think?"

"It's what I know! And I'm such a gullible fool that I'll sit here and listen to you and fall in love with you all over again. Then when you're bored, or your wanderlust takes over, you'll disappear." She grabbed his shirt and shook him. "I won't do this with you. I won't! You never get to break my heart again."

She slid by him, and she wanted to run off, to find a quiet place where he would leave her be, but where could she go that he wouldn't follow? Instead, she went to the window seat and climbed onto the cushion, and she gazed out at the gray day that perfectly matched her mood.

He came up behind her, but he didn't reach for her, and she was glad. When he touched her, she couldn't concentrate, and she made all the wrong decisions. They stood apart, silent and morose, like two strangers on the street.

"I always loved the snow," she finally said.

"I've rarely seen it."

"Really?"

"I hate the cold, so we mostly stayed in the south."

An awkward pause ensued, and she used it to muse over what a little gem of information he'd provided. He never discussed himself or his past. She didn't know his favorite color, his favorite food, or his mother's maiden name. What kind of a marriage was that?

'Turn around," he urged. "Look at me."

"No."

He sighed with resignation. "It's probably better if you don't. Keep staring outside."

"Why?"

"It will be easier for me to tell you things."

She'd rather have bitten off her tongue than inquire, but she caught herself asking, "What things?”

"While I was away, I had a lot of time to think. I couldn't eat or sleep, and I couldn't figure out why."

"And ... ?"

"It dawned on me that I was in love with you," he claimed. "I'd persuaded myself that I didn't care about anybody, that I liked being alone."

"But not anymore?"

"No, not since I was with you over the summer." He swallowed twice and took a step nearer. "I've been so lonely without you, and I want to come home."

The request was so earnest, so filled with emotion, and she pressed her forehead to the cool glass and prayed for guidance.

"I thought you didn't have a home."

"Of course I do, silly. It's wherever you are."

It was the sweetest statement he could have uttered, and a spark of hope flared. She peered at him over her shoulder. He seemed weary and beaten down, his battles against the entire world having taken their toll.

"I left because I was afraid," he admitted.

"Afraid of what?"

"Of caring about you. Everyone I ever loved left me, so I learned to be the one who left first. I didn't know how to carry on any other way."

"You hurt me."

"For which I'm eternally sorry, and I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you. If you'll let me ... ?"

He extended his hand, and it hovered there, a link, a tether, to everything she'd ever wanted. Dare she believe him? Dare she trust him?

She spun toward him. With her on her knees in the window, and him standing on the floor, they were eye-to-eye for a change.

"Swear to me that it's forever."

"I swear it," he said without a flicker of hesitation.

"There can't be any other women."

"I don't want any other women. Only you."

"If I ever hear that you so much as glanced at a parlor maid, I'll do to you what Ophelia did to Percy. That kind of rage appeals to me."

He gave a mock shudder. "You drive a hard bargain, but I agree to your terms. If I hurt you again, I'll accept whatever punishment you choose to inflict."

"I want children."

"I'll give you a dozen."

"And I'll expect you to be around to help me raise them."

"I can't wait."

Tentatively, she reached out and twined her fingers with his.

"You'd better mean it," she warned. "I do."

"If you leave again, I'll find you and kill you for going."

"I won't ever leave. I tried it before, only to discover that everything I need is here with you."

She studied his solemn expression. He seemed truthful, and his promises sounded genuine. She could believe him or not, and she decided to believe him.

Who could say what the morrow would bring? They might be together for the next hundred years, or tragedy could strike the following morning. Wasn't it best to grab for every chance at happiness?

She was an optimist. She would hope for the hundred years, and she would work to make it a reality.

"Stay here, Jamie," she implored, pulling him to her. "Stay right here with me."

"I will," he vowed. "I always will."

"I need you."

"I need you more."

He hugged her till she couldn't breathe, and when he finally drew away, he was shivering.

"This room is cold as the dickens," he said.

"Yes, it is, and you hate the cold."

"Would it be too much to ask that we go over and snuggle under the quilts?"

"To do what... ?" As if she didn't know!

"To make love till next week. What would you suppose? I have some catching up to do."

He swooped her into his arms and walked to the bed.