Night was her favorite time. Arabella loved the endless black of the sky and the wildness of the sea. Breathing deeply of the tangy salt air, she reached the low stone wall that lined the cliff and peered back over her shoulder at Rosemont.

The house was shuttered in darkness, one solitary window gleaming with light.

Lucien. Arabella stared at the light and murmured, “I wonder what you are into now.”

Every day, he received mysterious letters, and on one occasion had left the house immediately, setting out on Satan and returning well after dark. She knew where he spent his days, for he was invariably by her side. But his evenings remained shrouded in mystery.

She kicked at a loose rock in the garden path, huddling deeper into her coat. She’d wanted to follow him, but Sebastian was simply no match for Satan.

The wind lifted, cold and unrelenting, and Arabella began to look longingly at the flicker of the fire she could see reflected on the walls of Lucien’s room. Not that she wanted to actually be in his room, of course. Any room with a warm fire would do. Still…she could just imagine how warm and toasty it would be: the fire flickering in the grate, the huge curtained bed nestled in the corner, the faint scent of candle wax in the air, and Lucien…She closed her eyes and imagined him sleeping in the great oak bed, his hair tousled, his jaw dark with the faintest hint of a shadow, his long lashes covering his remarkable eyes.

Asleep, he would look younger and more boyish, though nothing could detract from the air of latent sensuality that hung about him like the heady scent of sandalwood. Even sound asleep, he would have the power to make any warm-blooded woman yearn to touch him, and trail her lips across the line of his jaw.

Stop it, she silently admonished herself. She sank onto the hard, cracked marble bench beneath the oak tree and shook her head. Obviously, the days of working side by side with Lucien were taking their toll. She shivered as a gust of wind rushed across her, bathing her in icy cold and rattling the branches over her head.

She hugged the coat closer and sank her numb chin into the voluminous folds. Here, on the cliff edge, the wind blew stronger than anywhere else. Even on a calm day, a steady current of air sliced up the cliff face and pummeled the oak tree in a constant struggle to see which was stronger. It was a wonder that the old gnarled oak still stood, but it did, huge and craggy, with thick limbs that stretched out to the sea, defiant to the end.

Restless, she stood just as the crunch of gravel alerted her to Wilson’s arrival, and she turned to see him emerge from the gate. His face was barely discernible in the dim light.

“Are ye ready, missus?”

“Yes.” She took the lantern he proffered and turned to lead the way down the path. The trail was stiff and rocky, filled with treacherous dips and stones, but she walked with the ease of familiarity. The path followed along the cliff face, one side solid rock, the other thin air and deep blackness, filled with the smell and taste of the sea.

As she rounded the last curve, the path angled down a rocky, grass-faced ledge. The wind rose, buffeting the rock face until she thought she could feel it tremble beneath her boots. The moon appeared only periodically between huge black clouds that roiled uneasily over the dark sea.

After what seemed an interminable time, they turned the last bend. They were now almost to the bottom of the cliff and approaching a large boulder. In the light from the lamp, it appeared that the trail went directly to the rock, then stopped. But as they came closer, one could just discern where the path took a sharp left turn and disappeared into a narrow crack in the cliff wall.

Arabella lifted the lantern as she stepped into the crevice. A sudden gust threatened to extinguish the light, but two more swift steps brought her into the damp, still air of a cave.

From behind her came Wilson’s heavy-booted feet. “If’n we don’t hurry, we’ll be caught in the tide. ’Tis harsh tonight.”

“Then we’ll hurry.”

“’Tain’t always that easy when yer dealin’ with two numbskulls like my nephews.” Still grumbling, he took the lantern from her and led the way. The narrow tunnel was treacherous with low ceilings and broken ground, but to Arabella and Wilson, it was as familiar and unremarkable as the entryway at Rosemont.

They rounded a corner and stepped out into a large cavern. There, the hollow dampness rose bold and bleak. The cavern was only half the size of Rosemont’s great hall, but since the lantern shed only a pale circle of light, the blackness left the impression that they had just found the edge of eternity.

She and Robert had found the cave long, long ago. Robert had been certain that this was where the Captain’s lost treasure was hidden. They had searched for weeks with the wholehearted zeal of children, but they’d found only a few markings on the wall and some broken pottery.

Wilson took a step into the cavern, bumping his head on the low ceiling of the entryway. He cursed, his rusty voice echoing hollowly. Large black puddles stretched out before them, the edges white with sea foam. When the tide came in, water overflowed the cavern wall, filling the cave with brackish salt water until it resembled a lake.

Right now the lake was only partially filled, barely touching the bottom lip of the ledge. But when the tide was high, both entrances were completely submerged. Then, only one corner of the cave remained dry—a ledge high to the right.

On the ledge were signs of habitation: several lanterns hung on pegs, the remains of a small peat fire, and a cot that had been shoved against the back wall. The rest of the high ledge was covered with barrel after barrel of the new shipment.

Arabella clambered up the broken rocks that made steps to the ledge, Wilson behind her. He went to light the other lanterns as she silently counted the barrels.

She frowned. “I count only eleven. I thought we paid for fourteen.”

“We did. Where are those blasted nephews of mine?” growled Wilson, looking around. Nothing met his gaze. Yet before he turned the lantern back to the shipment, a longboat came into view through the opening to the sea.

“Late as usual,” muttered Wilson sourly. He lifted his voice to call, “Where have ye been, ye clot-headed shallypin?”

The longboat slipped into the circle of light and Arabella could see the huge, lumbering sailor who rowed. The man was as thick as an oak, every limb seeming wider around than a cask. He nodded a greeting and pulled the boat to the little ledge.

Twekes and his brother Lem were Wilson’s only flesh and blood. Huge and simpleminded, they were amiable and good-natured.

Seeing Arabella beside Wilson, Twekes grabbed his cap and gave a respectful dip of his head.

Arabella nodded pleasantly. “Where’s Lem?”

“Comin’ behind me.”

“Why?” Her brow cleared. “Ah, the other barrels.”

Twekes nodded.

“Excellent. Did you see Mr. Bolder?”

“Aye,” Twekes said. He used his paddle to hook a rope threaded through an iron ring and secured the boat against the ledge. “Smarmy bastard,” he added without rancor.

“Twekes!” Wilson sent an uneasy glance at Arabella.

“Watch yer mouth!”

The giant pursed his lips, a deep crease in his brow. “I cain’t think of no better name fer him.”

“Then don’t call him nothin’ at all,” Wilson snapped.

Twekes shook his shaggy head. “Ye’d call him that or worse if ye knew what he was about. The blighter refused to give us the last three barrels.” The huge man gave a sly grin. “Lem and I waited till most of his men were on shore and then we rowed out and took a peek fer ourselves.”

“What did ye find?” Wilson asked.

“That smarmy bastard standin’ there on his ship, casks stacked as high as his head. When I told him we’d just take the ones he owed us, he refused. Said he had more important people to see to than us and ordered us off his ship.”

Wilson’s face turned bright red. “We’ve already paid fer that shipment!”

Twekes nodded. “So we loaded our boat wif what he owed us. He didn’t like that none and he ordered his men to shoot us.”

“Heavens!” Arabella said, alarm tightening her chest.

Twekes shrugged. “There were only four men on board and they been samplin’ the merchandise.” His grin widened. “They shot holes in their own sails.”

“Good fer them,” Wilson said. “That good-for-nothing, cheatin’ bast—” He clamped his mouth shut. “Wisht I could get my hands on him. I’d clean his bones and toss him into the ocean fer the fish to nibble.”

“Weel, now,” said Twekes, “that’s a good thing to be sure.”

“What’s a good thing?” Wilson asked.

“That ye want to see him. Once we had all of his men trussed up and our barrels in the skiff, the fool jumped in and wrapped hisself about one of the barrels and refused to leave. At first we were goin’ to toss him to the fishes. But then Lem decided that maybe ye’d want a word with him.” Twekes nodded slowly. “So we jus’ left him in the boat. Lem is bringing him here.”

Wilson blinked. “Here?”

Twekes nodded, evidently pleased with himself.

Arabella closed her eyes and pressed a hand to her forehead.

Wilson’s reaction was louder. “Ye idiot! Ye fool! Now he’ll know all about our secret hideaway!”

Twekes rubbed a sausage-thick finger across his nose. “That’s what I said to Lem. But he said he’d fix it all right and no one’d be the wiser.”

As if summoned, the sound of another boat made its way into the small cave. A skiff cut through the water, three barrels proudly resting in the center. Lem steadily pulled at the oars, while in the bow seat sat a plump man, his greasy hair slicked back from a small, cruel face, a wide muffler tied over his eyes. He gripped the sides of the boat as if terrified of falling over, his throat moving convulsively with each wave.

“Damn idiots,” breathed Wilson.

Arabella bit back an agreement. “I’m sure they felt they had to do something. We’ve four months’ profit tied up in this shipment.”

He sighed, his shoulders sagging. “Perhaps. Best ye cover yer face, missus. Don’t want anyone to be able to identify ye.”

Arabella pulled her muffler free and covered her head and most of her face, leaving only a small sliver to see out of.

The skiff pulled up to the ledge and Lem obligingly stepped out. “Ye can take off yer blindfold.”

The fat man grabbed the cloth and yanked, sending a furious glare at Wilson before scrambling out of the boat, no small feat for a man of his girth. Neither Lem nor Twekes made a move to assist him, but watched with appreciative grins.

Wilson stepped forward. “Mr. Bolt, ye—”

“That’s ‘Bolder,’” the man corrected with a black scowl, his shifty gaze darting around the cavern as if trying to memorize every nook and cranny. “I warn ye, if I’m not back with me ship within the hour, me men will come fer me, make no mistake.”

Wilson spat into the tide. “How? They don’t even know where ye are.”

The smuggler’s face reddened. “Ye’re makin’ a mistake, I tell ye! Jus’ wait.”

Arabella made an impatient gestured toward the barrels. “All we want is our cognac.” She nodded to Lem and Twekes and they began to unload the boat.

“Wait!” Bolder started forward, his face flushed a furious red. “Some of that is fer me other customers.”

“Nonsense,” Arabella said. “We paid for three more barrels. Those belong to us.”

“Not these barrels. They are promised to someone else.”

“Mr. Bolder, you will either give us those casks or return our money this very instant.”

“I don’t haf yer money wif me.” A nasty smile curved his mouth. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to ye.”

“Tell me, Mr. Bolder. How long can you tread water?”

His brows drawn, he shot an uneasy glance at the skiff where it rocked gently.

Arabella continued. “Lem will not return you to your ship until we’ve settled our differences. And this cavern has a most unfortunate tendency to fill with water when the tide is high.” She pointed to where the water was already beginning to rise. “With the exception of this ledge, the entire room fills with water.”

His face darkened. “Then I will stay on this ledge.”

“Lem and Twekes wouldn’t like that. There is only one cot, you see.”

Lem nodded solemnly while Twekes grinned and flexed his big hands.

The smuggler pointed to the cave entrance that led to the cliff path to Rosemont. “Then I’ll jus’ find me way out through there.”

“You are a very brave man,” said Arabella admiringly.

“I think that would be an even worse way to die.”

“Die?”

“Wandering about the caves with no food, no water, no light, for days on end. Thinking each corner will bring you to the surface, only to find that you’ve been going ever deeper with each step.”

Bolder tugged at his collar. “I’d find me way out if’n I had to.”

Wilson snorted. “Ye’d be starved afore ye found the way out. That or the snakes’ll get ye.”

“There are…snakes?”

Twekes nodded. “Bigger than my arm.” He flexed his impressive arm for emphasis.

Mr. Bolder seemed unable to look away from the massive sinew. He wiped a hand over his damp face. “I—I’ll let ye haf two of the barrels, but no more.”

“We paid for three.”

Muttering darkly, Bolder grabbed the nearest cask, set it at his feet, and placed his fat rump on it. “I’ll let ye have all but this one,” he said with a belligerent scowl. “It’s me last offer.”

Thump. A knife landed blade-down, biting into the hard wood of the barrel beside Bolder’s plump thigh. The man jumped up, turning a furious face to Twekes. “What was that fer, ye poxy whoreson?”

Twekes rubbed his jaw, the rough scrape of whiskers loud against his callused hand. “It slipped,” he said finally.

“Ye idiot! Ye could have killed me!”

“Now, Mr. Badger—” began Wilson.

“That’s ‘Bolder.’ B-O-L-D-E—Oh!” he broke off, his face dark red. “I’m wastin’ me breath on the likes of ye.”

Wilson stiffened. “I know my letters, I do. And my numbers, which is more than most can say.”

Arabella hurried to intercede. “I’m sure our guest is willing to leave all three of the barrels he owes us. Aren’t you, Mr. Bolder?”

Twekes pried his knife loose from the barrel and began paring his fingernails, the innocent expression on his face making even Arabella wary.

Mr. Bolder’s eyes never strayed from the knife. “Ye’ll pay fer this, all of ye!”

“’Tis time ye crawled back to yer hole, Bolder,” Wilson said. “We’ll not be doin’ business wif ye again.”

“Tide is rising,” commented Lem. He lumbered to the small skiff and sat down, grasped the oars, and looked expectantly at Bolder. “Best put yer muffler on and tie it tight. If I thinks ye’re peekin’, I’ll put out yer blinkers and toss ye overboard.”

Bolder cast one last furious glance at the cask. “Damn ye all!” he snarled. With furious, jerky movements, he climbed into the boat and retied his muffler.

Wilson pointed a finger at Lem. “Jus’ drop ’im on shore and come back.”

Lem nodded and Twekes gave the small craft a shove. Mr. Bolder’s hands gripped the edges and he yelped nervously as it righted itself. Lem grinned and began to row, slipping past the mouth of the cave and into the sea beyond.

Arabella unwrapped her muffler from her face as she turned to Wilson. “What a repulsive man.”

“A pain in the arse. But he don’t worry me as much as the constable.”

Arabella glanced at Twekes. “Did you have trouble?”

“Well, the constable weren’t much help.”

“And jus’ what does that mean?” Wilson asked, sending a disgusted look at his nephew. “That he didn’t assist ye in loadin’ up the cart? Or that he was shootin’ at ye whilst ye were drivin’ away?”

“Neither. But he was sittin’ on the road from Whitby, watchin’ fer us.”

“And?” Wilson asked.

“Nothin’. He was jus’ watchin’. Lord Harlbrook was wif him, too.”

“We will have to keep an eye on him.” Arabella took a sheet of paper out of her pocket and smoothed it over the barrel. “You can begin deliveries after Lem returns. Two casks of cognac go to the Red Rooster, one to the King’s Deer, and four barrels to the Sad Nun.”

Twekes nodded, then slipped the list into his pocket. Water had crept into the far entrance and steadily seeped upward. Only a few more feet and it would reach the mouth of the tunnel that led back to the cliff path.

“We’d best go, Wilson,” Arabella said. “The tide’s rising.”

Wilson and Arabella made their way out of cave, walking quickly to outrun the storm they saw approaching. Arabella’s mind churned. The confrontation with the smuggler bothered her. The location of their cave could hardly remain a secret now. It would be difficult, but they would have to find another hideaway.

Wilson and Arabella reached the cliff path without mishap and retraced their steps past the old oak and through the garden. There, they separated without a word, Wilson crossing to the barn while Arabella hurried toward the marble terrace. Just as she reached the bottom step, the rain broke and poured from the heavens, drenching everything with an icy lash.

She stumbled across the slick marble to reach the library doors, and it was with wet, numb hands that she managed to open the door.

Surprisingly, a gentle blaze crackled in the grate, warming the room. Teeth chattering, she crossed swiftly to the fireplace and stood shivering, water dripping to form a wet ring on the rug around her feet.

“Where have you been?” The voice cut through the silence of the room.

Arabella stiffened and turned. Sitting in a chair, wearing a red velvet robe over his breeches, was Lucien. His skin gleamed golden in the warm light of the fire; his eyes darker, richer. The robe hung open to the waist, exposing his broad chest and a fascinating trail of black hair that narrowed to a point that disappeared behind the belted tie. The draped material across his hips and thighs outlined every hard angle, every corded muscle. The sight sent a pang of heat through her that stilled her chattering teeth.

She cleared her throat. “I was in the barn, seeing to the horses.”

He stood with the grace of cat, his mouth thinned with displeasure. The light glinted off his black hair and played across the hard planes of his face. “I looked for you in the barn. You weren’t there.”

She felt vulnerable, standing there drenched to the skin, her hair plastered down the sides of her face. Vulnerable, yet eager. Lucien circled her, taking in the soaked, shapeless coat, the clinging line of her breeches, and her muddy boots. Both hot and condemning, his gaze devoured her.

Arabella lifted her chin. “I don’t have to explain my actions to you.”

Lucien grasped the lapels of her coat. Arabella took a hasty step away, but a low stool sent her teetering backward.

He caught her, moving with the swiftness of a predator, his hands catching her just before she fell and pulling her upright. Once she’d regained her balance, he yanked her coat off and threw it to the floor.

“Do you know how cold it is out there?” He exuded a raw anger, and a potent sensuality that stole the last of her breath. “Only a fool would wander around in a winter storm.”

She calmed her thundering heart, her numb lips making it difficult to speak. “It wasn’t that cold until it rained.”

His gaze drifted over her hair, her face, her mouth, to the nearly transparent linen shirt that clung to her breasts. Arabella crossed her arms, an embarrassed flush warming her momentarily. A fat drop of water trickled down her cheek and threatened to spill over her mouth.

Lucien rescued the drop, his finger brushing across the curve of her lip. He lifted his gaze to hers, the thick lashes casting shadows until the green appeared black. “Where were you, Bella? What were you doing outside?”

It was so hard to make her brain work. “I—I went to visit one of the tenants—”

He gripped her arm in a painful grasp. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Lucien, I—”

He jerked her against him and claimed her mouth with a furious kiss, overwhelming her so thoroughly that she melted, her chilled body instinctively seeking his heated flesh. Desire washed over her, tearing down her resistance, destroying all thought.

His hands molded her to him, his fingers exploring, seeking through the wet material. Arabella shivered from the wild heat of his hands as they stroked her through her wet shirt, pulling her farther into his arms, her thinly covered breasts pressed against his bare chest. She twined her arms about him and opened her mouth beneath his, losing herself to the raw power of his onslaught.

With a muffled curse, Lucien broke the embrace, his breathing harsh in the silence of the room. “God, Bella.” He cupped her face in his hands, his fingers sunk into her wet hair. Hungrily, he gazed down at her. “I want you.”

He whispered the words as if they were too painful to say aloud. Arabella slid her hands to the opening of his robe and her trembling fingers found the tie at his waist. Slowly, she slipped it loose, the brush of velvet against her bare hands increasing her desire.

The robe slipped from his broad shoulders and fell to pool at his feet. She stepped back to look at him, soaking in the picture of raw male virility. In that instant, she wanted him more than she’d wanted anything in her life. She wanted to feel his arms about her, she wanted to taste the dark sweetness of his sensual mouth. She wanted him naked, fierce and passionate, boldly making love to her as he had done so long ago.

Arabella closed her eyes, remembering how she’d once reveled in passion, welcomed its presence. She wanted to burrow into Lucien’s strength and take it for her own. What did it matter if he left tomorrow? She would have the memories of tonight to hold to her long afterwards. This was what she’d wanted, what she’d dreamed of. She opened her eyes and drew his mouth to hers, her fingers tangling in his hair, her hips lifting. She poured herself into the kiss, thrusting her tongue into his mouth in reckless invitation.

Lucien responded hungrily. This was the woman he’d lost; her arms wrapped around him, her body plastered to his. It was madness, but it was a heady madness. Like deep sweet red wine, her presence raced through his veins and sent his senses reeling wildly. He needed to have her closer, needed to feel her naked skin against his.

Never breaking the kiss, he placed her hand on his bare chest while he slipped his breeches free. His heart beat hotly against the coolness of her palm. Grasping her wrist, he pushed her hand lower, to his stomach, to his hip. He groaned when her fingers closed over his rigid shaft.

Desire poured through Lucien, heating his skin and swelling his manhood until he wanted to roar in agony. He tasted the salty sweetness of her skin and traced the delicate line of her neck with desperate nips and kisses. She moaned and gripped him tighter, her fingers jolting him with pleasure.

God, but she was so inherently honest in her reactions, every move igniting him further. Growling his frustration, Lucien slipped his hands to her waist and pulled her against him, rocking his hips against hers. He tugged impatiently at her shirt, pushing it aside until he could cup the fullness of her breasts. They filled his hands, the nipples already hardened.

He groaned at the feel of those lush globes. Slowly, he backed her against the settee and lowered her to its cushioned softness. She lay against the pillows, her damp hair curling wildly about her, her eyes slumberous with desire.

He loosened her breeches, then bent before her, rolling her wet clothing down, over her hips, down her thighs, his tongue worshiping each inch of dewy skin as it appeared. When he reached the dark triangle at the juncture of her thighs, he stopped, his breathing harsh.

He lifted his head to gaze at her. She watched him, her eyes passion-glazed, her lips moist and swollen from his kisses. Her skin was flushed to soft shell pink, the flickering light caressing the slopes of her full breasts. She looked like a painting, a luscious portrait of a woman who wanted to pleasure and be pleasured. Excitement glimmered over her bare skin, urging him on.

Lucien bent to the tight curls and carefully parted them, finding the soft folds beneath. Her hands moved convulsively as if for one frantic moment she would stop him. But he reached up to lace her fingers with his, then he bent and blew on her damp curls. A quiver traveled across her body, and she gasped, her hand tightening on his. Lucien lowered his mouth. He tasted her sweetness, her erotic response. He savored the scent of her, the feel of her skin beneath his tongue.

Heaven was here, between her thighs. He strained with the need to bury himself here, to sink into her heat. With a groan, Lucien raised himself and covered her body with his. They lay, legs entangled, her arms about his neck, her breath hot on his neck.

For a long moment he savored the contact, riding the swells of his rising fervor. It felt so perfect, so right. She belonged to him; her body so attuned to his that he could feel her need as acutely as his own. It had felt this way before. But this time, Lucien wanted more. More than Arabella had to give. More, even, than he was willing to ask.

Arabella sensed the change the moment it happened. He stilled, his body suddenly rigid, his face set in unyielding lines. The length of his manhood lay against her naked thigh, so tantalizingly close that she had to use all of her force not to lift her legs and force him to sink into her.

He lifted himself on his arms and looked down at her, his face a mask of frustrated passion. “I want you, Bella. But not like this.” He placed a gentle, lingering kiss on her lips. Then he sat back and pulled the lap blanket from the back of the settee over her.

Arabella lay still. The heavy fabric of the settee was rough on her back, and her ankles were bound by the breeches that tangled about her feet. She bit her lip, so confused she didn’t know whether she was going to laugh or cry. Her body ached with need, but the hollowness of her heart pained her more. He was leaving again.

Lucien rose to his feet and watched her with a dark gaze, arrogant in his nakedness. “I don’t want you to wake in the morning and wish we had not been together.” He reached over and brushed a hand over her cheek. “I wish—” He broke off. “But not yet.”

He turned to gather his discarded breeches. Without a word, he pulled them on and then laid his robe across her lap. “Wear this back to your room. Your clothes are too wet.”

Arabella managed to nod, afraid she’d burst into tears if she attempted to speak.

Lucien tipped her face to his. “We will talk about this tomorrow, when daylight has dispelled this madness.” He brushed her cheek with his fingertips and then turned and walked to the door. There, he sent her one last heated gaze. “Good night, Bella.” The door closed softly behind him.

The fire hissed, filling the silence that followed. Arabella remained on the couch, wondering blankly what he meant. Her mind refused to respond even as her spirit struggled to absorb his words.

For one instant, she had let her tiredness weaken the barriers she had painstakingly constructed around her heart. Her face burned to realize how close she had let him come, how near they had been to making love. She should be thankful he had stopped when he did.

Sighing, Arabella forced herself to gather her wits and stand, scooping up Lucien’s robe. The soft fabric carried his scent and she rubbed it against her cheek. After a long moment, she placed the robe on the back of the chair and reached for her breeches. Somehow, wearing his robe seemed to emphasize her defeat. With nerveless fingers, she struggled to pull her wet breeches over her hips, though they adhered to her skin.

Arabella wanted to blame him, to say that he had lured her, but she knew that was untrue. She had wanted him to kiss her, to touch her, to make love to her. And if she were honest, she would admit that she still wanted him to do all that, and more.

She sniffed, her lips trembling as she pulled on her shirt and then buttoned her wet coat to her throat. She couldn’t handle honesty tonight. She needed to forget Lucien Devereaux, and focus on making the cognac runs even more profitable.

A deep, bone-weary sigh escaped her. Only one more year, and she would have everything she needed. The thought did little to slow the tears that seeped from beneath her lashes.