Arabella frowned at the snow-covered road. “This isn’t the way.”

“No?” Lucien slanted her a glance. She sat in the cart beside him, neatly gowned in an outmoded dress of faded blue wool, her feet encased in worn boots, a shabby fur-lined hat framing her pink-cheeked face. With her chestnut curls tucked beneath her bonnet, her pelisse buttoned to her throat, and her hands tightly clasped around a basket filled with jams and jellies, she appeared as annoyingly respectable as a governess.

But there was nothing respectful in the look she shot him. “It will take us an extra thirty minutes to reach the tenant’s cottage by taking this road. It goes all the way through the forest.”

“This is the way Aunt Jane instructed. She said the view was remarkable.” Lucien peered through the thick foliage. Somewhere off this path was a deserted crofter’s cottage that was, according to Aunt Jane, abandoned and very romantically situated.

Simply compromising Arabella wouldn’t be enough to convince her to marry him; she was far too strong-minded to succumb to such a pale ploy. It would take a full-fledged seduction of mind, body, and reason. He would have to answer her on all levels, meet her parry for parry, argument for argument, and passion for passion. She would not be satisfied with less. And, strangely, neither would he.

Aunt Jane had conveniently remembered the cottage, packed a basket full of tempting food, placed warm blankets in the box on the cart, and had Arabella ready to go within a half hour. She’d done everything but toss her niece into his arms.

The cart rumbled around a bend, and Lucien caught sight of the cottage. Thick ivy grew up the hand-hewn stone walls. Broken, rotting shutters hung in disrepair and part of the thatched roof lay open, allowing access to the room below for whatever animals and weather could fit through the hole.

Lucien grimaced. There was nothing romantic about a sagging roof and broken shutters. He only hoped it would provide sufficient cover for the night.

“The other road would have been much shorter,” Arabella said, a frown between her brows. “Aunt Jane should have known that.”

“I’m sure she thought we’d enjoy spending more time together.” He grinned. “You may not have noticed, but she has developed a fondness for me.”

“That is just because she still harbors the notion that you and I—” She broke off, and stared fixedly ahead.

“That we what?”

“Nothing,” Arabella said hastily. “I simply wish we’d taken the shorter path—I’ve things to do today.”

“Carrying Christmas jams to the tenants won’t take long.”

“You don’t know how much work I have to do. I left Wilson repairing the broken door in the stables, and Ned still has to rescue what he can from the shed.” She straightened her shoulders, her hands tightening on the basket. “I am a very busy woman.”

And a very intriguing, very beguiling woman, at that. “Then admit it is getting warmer.”

“It will probably rain before dark.”

“At least admit that you are happy to escape for a little while.”

“Escape? From what?” she asked, all indignant pride.

“From a daily drudgery that must be as tiresome as it is exhausting.”

“Helping one’s family is not ‘drudgery.’ But then, you wouldn’t know that.”

“Wouldn’t I? Who do you think has been tending Liza since she was a seven-year-old brat with two front teeth missing?”

“Your aunt, most likely.”

“Aunt Lavinia had neither the time nor the heart to raise a seven-year-old, especially one as precocious as Liza.” He smiled, thinking of Liza’s tumultuous childhood. “She was a handful. I taught her to ride and shoot, helped her select her governess—”

“You let her choose her own governess?”

“Of course. How would I know whom she did or did not like?”

“I’m sure her Latin is irreproachable.”

“No, it is execrable, but her Greek is nearly flawless. She loves philosophy and can debate it for hours.”

“Any sister of yours is bound to be good at arguing.”

Lucien laughed and was rewarded with the faintest twitch of Arabella’s lips. His mouth went dry, his body leaping to the ready. Steady, he told himself. Now is not the time.

If Aunt Jane did as she had promised, then by this time tomorrow, he and Arabella would be wed. Despite the circumstances, Lucien felt a dizzy excitement.

Arabella’s gaze narrowed. “You look very smug. Did you find Bolder? Was he at the Red Rooster?”

If they were to become partners in truth, there could be no more secrets between them. Lucien shook his head. “I rode for miles this morning and he wasn’t anywhere to be found. I went as far as Bridlington before anyone had even heard of him, and that was to little avail. No one seems to know where Bolder comes from or where he stays.”

“That’s because he lives on his ship.”

He frowned. “How do you know that?”

“Lem. The tavern maid at the Sad Nun fancies him. She heard Bolder complain about having to live in such close quarters, and say that he would be glad when this job was done so he could live on solid ground once again.”

A man who slept on a ship could escape at a moment’s notice. Lucien would have to send word to the Home Office to keep a fast ship ready should he need it. He had no intention of letting the smuggler escape. “Do you know which ship?”

“The Grande Marie. She’s docked at Aylmouth now, but she’s moving soon. She never stays in one place longer than a few days at most.”

No wonder he’d never been able to locate the smuggler. Perhaps the auction would be held on board, too. “That is very useful information.”

“I thought you would be interested.”

She was fishing for more information and he knew it. To turn her mind to other topics, he asked, “How did you establish your contact with the taverns?”

“Wilson was already supplying several of them himself. It was backbreaking work and he wasn’t getting paid well. Now Lem and Twekes haul the barrels, make sure everything is sorted properly, and watch over the shipment until it is delivered, while Wilson takes orders and makes sure everyone gets what they need.”

“And you?”

“I handle the money, decide how much to reinvest, and hold back a certain percentage for emergencies. I keep forty percent of our initial investment on hand in case we ever stumble on an opportunity. Just last year, Bolder came up with an astounding bargain on some brandy that was too good to pass up.”

He looked down at her. “You are remarkable, did you know that?”

“It doesn’t matter what I am, if I cannot protect Wilson.” Her gaze darkened. “My decision to increase our shipments put him in more danger than he ever was when he worked on his own.”

“You did what you had to, Bella. No one could ask more.”

Arabella bit her lip. There was something different about Lucien today; something that heated his gaze with an intensity that made her exceedingly uncomfortable. She had the feeling he was watching her, waiting for something. Well, she had a few telling questions of her own. “Lucien, the jewelry you found in the cask, where did it come from?”

His gaze flickered just a second before he shrugged. “It was stolen.”

“Obviously,” she said dryly. “But why was it in the cask?”

“That is exactly what I want to know.” The cart turned onto a wide lane that bordered a sturdy cottage set at the edge of a clearing. Lucien regarded the small house with apparent interest. “Who are these tenants Aunt Jane was so adamant we visit?”

“The Marches have been here for almost twelve years. Mary is Cook’s niece, and she and her husband, John, produce almost half of the sheep we take to market.”

The cart lumbered closer. Though small, the cottage was strong and sturdy, the thatched roof thick, the wattle walls free of holes. Arabella surveyed the home with satisfaction. “Wilson and I keep all of the tenants’ homes in the best repair we can.”

The corner of Lucien’s mouth lifted in a half smile. “It seems the only person at Rosemont that you don’t take care of is yourself.”

The door to the cottage burst open, and a swarm of blond children tumbled out. Within minutes Arabella was standing by the cart and trying to carry on five different conversations at once.

Giving it up as a lost cause, she laughed and cast a glance at Lucien. He watched her, his mouth curved in a smile, that strange light in his eyes. For an instant, he shared her amusement, and it was as if their thoughts touched, their minds so of one accord that there was no need for words. Blushing furiously, Arabella looked away.

Mrs. March came outside, her hands covered with flour, the scent of nutmeg and cinnamon whirling about her. “Now, children, leave Miss Hadley be. I’m sure she didn’t come to be mauled by the likes of ye.”

Arabella laughed. “Oh, Mary, but I did! I assure you, I have thought of nothing else. Christmas at Rosemont is sadly lacking without any children.”

“Ye’re welcome to some of mine anytime ye wish it, and well ye know.” Mary’s bright gaze found Lucien. “And who is this, takin’ Wilson’s place?”

Arabella hurried to make introductions. “Mary, this is the Du—”

“Devereaux,” he interjected smoothly. “Lucien Devereaux.” He climbed down from the cart, lifting the heavy basket of jams. “I am charged with carrying the basket. That is my sole purpose.”

Mary’s broad face split into a grin. “If ye got Miss Arabella to let ye do anythin’ fer her, then ye are also a wizard, make no mistake.”

He slanted her a smile and Arabella was instantly aware of how broad and handsome he looked, standing by the cart. He handed the basket to one of the boys who stood on the stoop. “Here, you look like a strong lad. Carry this inside for your mother.”

“Aye, sir,” said the boy, clasping the basket with both hands and casting a triumphant glance at his younger siblings.

Mary stood aside as her son marched into the house. “There, now, Miss Arabella. There’s no need fer ye to bring us anythin’.”

“Oh, don’t blame me for that shocking basket. Aunt Jane knitted socks for each of the children and Aunt Emma bought them sugarplums. All I did was help Cook pack the jams.”

“And brought them out on such a cold, damp day.” Mary nodded to Lucien. “Ye can put the horse under the shed if ye’d like. There’s some hay in there, too. James has no but one horse and he’s out on her today.” She turned to Arabella. “Lost a sheep, we did. Wandered off durin’ the snow. Now come in by the fire. Ye’re like to freeze out here.”

She led the way into the house. “Ye are jus’ in time. I was bakin’ the Christmas cake, and we’ve pudding as well.”

Arabella followed Mary. The inside of the cottage was as homey and warm as the outside appeared. In front of a steadily burning fire sat a long, low table filled with little round cakes that made Arabella’s mouth water. A brightly braided rug covered most of the floor and several sturdy chairs were placed about the room.

Arabella sighed. She loved coming here. The house was always full of warmth and comfort, and everyone worked together. Mrs. March gathered a large bowl and prepared to make plum pudding and Arabella immediately set about helping her.

They had just begun when the door opened and a large, burly man walked in. His hair was as blond as Mary’s was red, his skin pink from the outdoors. The children immediately converged on him, laughing and talking at once until he gruffly ordered them to cease their squealing or he’d think they were Christmas pigs come for supper. Undaunted, they laughed, but soon turned to the sugarplums Aunt Emma had sent them.

He sniffed the air, coming to an abrupt halt. “Is that plum puddin’ I smell?”

Mary watched him with a fond smile. “Ye know what it is, ye silly lummox. Did ye not tell me ye wished fer some today, jus’ before ye left?”

John smacked his lips. “Aye, ’tis the best in all of England.”

“Ye say that every year, and every year I have to remind ye that ye haven’t tasted all of the plum puddin’ in England. There might well be some that is better.”

“But not sweeter,” he said, swinging her into his arms and bestowing a loud kiss on her cheek. “I’d wager me last farthin’ on it.”

“Lawks, John! Not in front of the guests.” Red-cheeked but clearly pleased, Mary pushed him away and nodded to Lucien. “This is Mr. Devereaux, who brought Miss Arabella fer her visit.”

John immediately crossed to Lucien. “There, now, are me boys drivin’ ye to distraction?”

To Arabella’s amazement, Lucien replied easily, and within minutes the two men were engrossed in conversation, discussing everything from hunting to horses.

While assisting Mary, Arabella watched Lucien. It was strange, seeing him sitting on the rough-hewn chair, a child hanging on his knee, another sitting in his lap, as he talked with John. Stranger still was the way he was so completely at ease, as if hearth and home were his usual setting, and not the glittering ballrooms and clubs of London.

Lucien caught her puzzled gaze and grinned. Arabella smiled back, her spirits lifting. Suddenly her burdens didn’t seem so heavy.

Mary shot a sly glance at Lucien. “Yer gentleman friend needs to eat before he takes ye home.”

“I wish we could stay,” Arabella said. It was lovely being here, and she knew that some of the ease she and Lucien had established would disappear once they returned to Rosemont. “But we must get back before dark.”

“A pity. Still”—Mary leaned forward to whisper—

“’tis a handsome man ye’ve found. And the children love him.”

It was true, and Lucien seemed equally taken with them. As she watched, Lucien’s gaze came to rest on little William, the youngest of the March brood. A toddler the age of three, he had a round, plump face topped by a headful of angelic blond curls.

He was too shy to sit with the stranger, but that didn’t stop him from hiding behind a bench and watching Lucien with large blue eyes. Lucien solemnly returned little William’s stare but made no motion toward him. Eventually the little boy edged closer, first rubbing his shoulder on Lucien’s knee and then leaning his full weight.

Lucien winked at William and the boy grinned around his thumb. Soon he was sitting in Lucien’s lap, playing with the emerald pin and hopelessly mussing his cravat. For an instant, Arabella wondered how Lucien would react to a child of his own. But try as she might, she could not conjure up an image. Though he reveled in playing with the Marches’ children for a brief hour or two, he was not the kind of man to wish to raise a family. He’d shouldered that weight once already; he wouldn’t be willing to do so again.

Arabella sighed, her heart aching as John reached over and plucked William out of Lucien’s lap. “Here, now, Willie. Don’t ye mess up the gentleman’s fine clothes.” He shot a narrow stare at Lucien. “Do you live here?”

“No, I live in London most of the time.”

“Ah, that’s a fine town. I went once when I was a lad. Will ye be returnin’ anytime soon?”

“Next week.”

Arabella felt as if the air had suddenly grown too thick to breathe. She should not have been surprised; still, some part of her felt betrayed. When would she learn? For her, Lucien Devereaux was a heartbreak waiting to happen. She picked up some wooden trenchers and set them near the table, trying desperately to keep her face from revealing too much.

Mary came to stand beside her. “He looks like a lovely man.”

“He can be,” she said shortly.

“Oh, lud, child. None of them are perfect. Ye has to make ’em that way.” She set Arabella a sharp glance. “Does he treat ye well?”

“No. He is bossy and interfering.” And then he leaves me. Arabella picked up a rag and began to clean the wooden table, attacking every uneven place as if it were a grease stain.

“Ye can tell he holds ye in respect. He’s not stopped starin’ at ye since ye came in.”

Arabella refused to look his way, afraid her shock might show in her eyes.

“Ye has to have respect fer each other if ye want a solid marriage. ’Tis the only thing that gets ye through the hard times.” Mary nodded toward her husband. “Ye need someone who’ll stand by yer side, Miss Arabella. Someone who’ll take care of ye and let ye take care of him.”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”

“Of course ye don’t. But ’tis nice to have another pair of shoulders to help bear the burdens, especially when ye’ve wee ones.”

John sat with a child on each knee and one leaning over his shoulder. Though he spoke with Lucien, his hands were forever patting the head of this one or ruffling the hair of that.

“He do love them, don’t he?” Mary said with a satisfied sigh. “’Twill be the same fer ye, when ye marry. And ’tis past time ye did. Why, Master Robert’ll take a wife soon, and then where will ye be?”

Robert take a wife? She had never given it any thought, but when Robert married, she would no longer be needed. A lump the size of a boot lodged in her throat.

Mary placed a pudding in the now-empty basket. “There, take this with ye.” She glanced out the window and frowned. “If ye’re goin’ to leave before dark, ye’d best go now.”

“What’s that?” called John from his seat by the fire.

“Ye can’t leave before supper. ’Tis too cold to travel without something to warm yer stomach.” He looked at Lucien. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Devereaux?”

Lucien’s gaze brushed over her face. “It won’t hurt to stay another few minutes.”

Arabella murmured a protest, but Mary would have none of it. Before she knew what she was about, they were all seated at the long table. Mary served a shepherd’s pie rich with gravy and topped with a flaky crust that would have made Cook green with envy. Conversation never ceased and Arabella’s heart eased somewhat.

It was different this time; Lucien hadn’t promised her anything. All he’d done was offer his assistance. If she’d become dependent on him in some indefinable way, well, that was her fault. Coming to such a reasonable conclusion helped her to put on a cheerful face, and she was even able to laugh aloud at some of the antics of the children.

Seated by Lucien’s side, his thigh pressed against her, his warm gaze turning to her frequently, the half hour flew past and lengthened. Arabella found herself lingering more and more. By the time she and Lucien had climbed into the wagon, ready to depart, it was already getting dark.

John stood by the cart and cast a frowning glance at the sky. “It looks like rain.”

“Or sleet,” added Mary, tsking. “It gets cold so quickly. Perhaps ye should stay the night.”

Arabella stared up at the gray sky, where the moon peeked out from behind swirling dark clouds. “Surely we can make it if we hurry.”

Lucien must have agreed, for no sooner had she said the words than he thanked their hosts, tucked a warm blanket across her lap, and set the horse in motion. With a final wave at the Marches, they were soon traveling down the road, Sebastian holding to a steady walk.

The air was crisp and fresh, promising rain before morning. Barren branches rose toward the moon, which slipped between the clouds, casting eerie shadows that seemed to aggravate the rising wind. Arabella found herself leaning closer to Lucien.

He pulled her against him. When she tried to move away, he held her tighter, saying curtly, “Just to keep warm.”

She relaxed and let his heat seep through her pelisse. Though she knew it was only imaginary, the feeling of belonging, of being loved and cherished, was too lovely to let slip away. Next week, when he left, she would deal with her loss. For now, it was enough just to sit beside him.

She must have dozed, for she woke when he pulled her closer, opening his coat and draping it over them both. “In case it rains,” he murmured.

She tried to straighten, but his arm held her close. Sometime while she’d been sleeping, her bonnet had fallen loose and lay on the seat beside her.

“Go back to sleep, Bella. Sebastian and I will take care of everything.”

His voice rumbled beneath her cheek, lulling her. “I am not sleepy,” she said, though she didn’t make a move to sit upright. She closed her eyes and relaxed against him, savoring the feel of his broad chest against her cheek. Had it been anyone other than Lucien, she would never have allowed such impropriety. But he would be gone soon. And she would be alone once more. For now, though, she enjoyed the luxury of being completely enclosed in his arms.

She was just slipping back to sleep when a sudden jar of the cart made her open her eyes and grab the seat. They were standing stock-still in the middle of the forest, the cart tilted to one side. “What happened?”

“The cart slid off the road.” Lucien urged Sebastian on. The horse laid his head low and pulled, but the cart didn’t move.

Arabella looked around, noting the thick trees. “Where are we?”

“On the road to Rosemont.”

“But this isn’t…” She frowned. “You took Aunt Jane’s shortcut.”

“It was the only way I knew,” he said curtly. “And you were asleep.”

“You should have wakened me.” She looked over the side of the cart. “How on earth did this happen?”

“Ice formed across the road, and we slid sideways. I tried to pull on the brake, but it stuck.”

Her heart sank. “We’ll never get out of here now.”

“Surely I can yank it loose,” Lucien said, his strong hands already closing over the brake.

“The only way to loosen it is to—”

Crack. The handle broke in half. Lucien looked at it for a long minute before raising his gaze to her. “You were saying?”

Irritation built. “I warned you!”

“So you did.” He glanced up at the sky and dropped the broken handle into the floorboard. “Well, there’s no way we can fix this tonight. It is going to rain any minute. I saw a cottage near here on the way in.”

He assisted Arabella out of the cart, unhooked Sebastian, and then loaded the horse with items from the cart. Before he had finished, large, soft drops of rain began to plop onto the cart in a steady tattoo.

Arabella shivered. “Perhaps we could walk to the Marches’. Surely we could find our way there.”

“And if we don’t? I, for one, do not fancy freezing to death.”

As much as it galled her, he was right; the night was already frigid. The rain that fell was cold, almost freezing. It would swiftly turn to sleet and then snow. As she followed Lucien into the woods, the skies opened and the light rain became a furious storm, drenching her completely in the first minute.

“This way!” Lucien yelled above the roar. He grabbed her hand and pulled her along until they stumbled through the door of a dark and damp cottage. Lucien immediately went back out, and returned carrying a bundle under his coat.

Lightning lit the interior of the cottage, followed by a crack of thunder. The ground vibrated from the tumultuous crash. Arabella glimpsed their haven and it chilled her as much as the sleet. Half the roof had fallen away, the opening allowing a steady pour of rain that made a small river out the door. Broken tables and a chair lay on the dirt floor, and a single fireplace filled one small wall.

Within an amazingly short period of time, Lucien had started a fire using the broken chairs, adding wet wood that sent smoky swirls up the chimney and puffing into the cottage. Digging through the corners of the hut, he found an old cot, barely wide enough for one person. He turned it upright, draped a wool blanket over it, and pulled it close to the fire. Arabella sat huddled on one end, her arms clasped together, shivers racking her body.

Outside, the whole world seemed to be awash in dull, cold gray, but inside the stone and wattle walls, the fire radiated a welcome heat. “I should have known it was going to rain,” Arabella said in a hoarse voice.

Lucien turned from stoking the fire and caught sight of Arabella’s pale face. With a muffled curse, he strode to her side and hauled her against him. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he lifted her into his arms, sat on the cot, and opened his coat around her.

Enveloped by warmth, Arabella pressed her cheek against his shirt. The heavy wool of his coat had protected him better than her thin pelisse, and his shirt was still warm and dry against her cheek. Gradually her shivers abated.

He rubbed his cheek against her hair. “You are soaking wet. We must get you out of those clothes.”

She shook her head.

Lucien held her tighter. “You will become ill.”

“No. I just need to get warm.” She pushed closer still, hiding her face against his neckcloth.

He didn’t move. He just sat, holding her as the flames crackled and the thrum of rain pitter-patted through the hole in the roof. The only light came from the flickering fire. A slow tremor of awareness trickled down her spine.

“Bella,” Lucien whispered against her temple.

She tightened her grip, unable to release him, unable to forget next week, when he would leave once more.

Lucien cupped her face with a warm hand and turned her face to his. “This morning, during the fire, all I could think was that I would never get the chance to do this.” He touched his lips to hers.

Heat exploded and all the feelings she’d been stifling burst to the fore. She wrapped her arms about him and held him closer, opening her mouth beneath his. Somehow, she was no longer sitting on the edge of the decrepit cot, but lying across it, Lucien’s broad form blocking out the heat of the fire.

But she had no need of the fire now. Her insides burned with a deep heat all their own. His hands slipped down her shoulders to her breasts and beyond, caressing the entire length of her body.

His hand cupped her ankle and she stiffened, cold reason returning. What am I doing? He will leave and I will still be here, alone. The thought banished the last vestige of the spell he’d woven. She pushed him aside. “No.”

He stopped, his gaze meeting hers. Green fire sparkled in the depths of his eyes, but he removed his hand, rocking back on one elbow to look down at her. “Why not?”

Lucien trailed his fingers near the corner of her mouth and she tried to move away. Her heart pounded a furious beat, but she managed to say in a credibly even tone, “It might snow if this continues through the night. We should leave now.”

He dipped his head until his lips were but an inch from her ear. “It would be a pity if we were trapped here. For days. And no one knew where to find us.” The low sound brushed across the delicate lobes of her ears like raw silk.

She rolled to her side, almost falling off the cot in her haste to get away. Tripping a little over the edge of the blanket, she went to the window and peered out into the swirling darkness, shivering at the cold. “The rain will stop soon and it will—”

“Begin to snow.” In a deep, rich voice, he said what she both wanted and feared to hear. “We have no choice but to stay until morning.”

Arabella looked over her shoulder. A slow smile curved his lips. He rolled up on one elbow and lifted the corner of the blanket in invitation. “Come back to bed, Bella. It’s much warmer here.”

She looked at him, at the finely muscled sinew of his arms, at the bronze column of his throat. He was right: It did look warmer. So warm that she wondered if she would melt if he took her in his arms again.

But her other option was to freeze to death by the inadequate fire, alone and cold during an interminable night. Some choice: death by ice or death by fire. The only problem was, she wasn’t sure which would hurt the least.