Brandon slowly came awake the next morning, aware first of the chill of the room and then of the ache in his neck. He was far too large to sleep in a chair, he decided glumly. And far too old.

He pushed himself upright and glanced at the bed. Verena was gone.

Brandon stumbled to his feet. Bloody hell, where was she? He ran to the door and threw it open, almost falling over Herberts.

“There ye be, guv’nor! Oiye came to see if ye wanted to join the missus fer some breakfast.”

Brandon pressed a hand to his heart. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Oiye’ll tell her ye’re on yer way.” Herberts eyed Brandon’s hair. “There’s a comb on the missus’s dresser. Ye moight want to give it a swipe.”

With that sage piece of advice, he turned and left. Brandon returned to the room and straightened his clothing and hair. He was just getting ready to leave when his gaze fell on a small writing desk, fresh paper tucked into the front pocket. Brandon stood, looking down at the paper for some time. Then he opened the ink and began to write.

A short time later, he went downstairs. Verena was sitting at the table, a plate of toast before her. She looked calm and composed though her eyes were shadowed, the bruise on her forehead stark against her white skin.

She met his gaze when he entered, a faint blush touching her cheeks. “How are you this morning?”

Every bone in his body ached, probably because of his fall when he’d tried to save James. “I’m fine. Verena, I meant to tell you last night. James—”

“Is in the guest chamber. I just left him.”

“How is he?”

“In pain. More from the fact that he knows he cannot help us.”

“Help us?”

A strained smile touched her lips. “We received another letter.” She reached over her plate to where a single piece of paper rested.

Brandon opened it.

Brandon looked up. “When did this arrive?”

“The physician found it on the stoop when he came to see James this morning.”

Brandon folded the note and placed it on the table. “It’s addressed to you.”

“Yes. The others were addressed to James. They must know he is injured, which is no surprise considering they probably arranged it.” She stood and he saw that she wore a plain traveling gown. “I’m leaving in an hour.”

“Verena, you cannot—”

“I have to. This must end. Brandon, my brother is lying in a bed, his leg broken. Next time it will be much, much worse.”

“How do you know these men won’t kill you the second you show yourself?”

“Because I have the list. They don’t dare lose it.”

Brand rubbed his forehead. “Damn, damn, damn. I don’t like this.”

“Neither do I.” She placed her hands flat on the table. “Are you coming with me?”

The door opened and Herberts entered with a plate of steaming ham. “Here ye go!”

Brand ignored him, his gaze still on Verena. “The letter said they wanted you to come alone.”

Her lips curved into a smile. “I will be alone. Just me and my coachman.”

Brandon stilled. As coachman, he’d be up high, overlooking it all, which would give him a unique vantage point from which to protect her. It was possible…he caught Verena’s calm gaze, read her intentions in that second.

He nodded. “Very well. I’ll be the coachman. What’s your plan?”

“We will take the carriage to the King’s Deer Inn. Once there, I will make a great scene, weeping and crying and acting frightened. If they think me frozen with fear, they will not expect much in the way of resistance.”

“That is a good plan.” At her surprised glance, he added, “It will also explain why you won’t be getting out of the coach.”

Herberts clucked his tongue knowingly. “Thet makes good sense, missus. Ye should listen to the guv’nor.”

Verena looked down at where her hands were clasped in her lap. “Brand, we don’t have the list. My only hope is to get my hands on James’s letters and get out of there before they realize they have been tricked.”

Brandon nodded. “I suppose it’s the only way.”

Herberts straightened his thin shoulders. “Oiye, fer one, am ready and willin’ to help ye, missus.”

Verena shook her head. “No, no! I don’t think that’s necessary. But thank you for offering.”

“Oh, ’tis no problem. Peters can stay here and watch the door fer me and oiye’ll just—”

“Herberts!” Brandon lifted a brow. “We need you here to watch over Mr. Lansdowne.”

“But oiye—”

“It’s important.”

Herberts’s shoulders slumped. “Oh, very well. Oiye suppose oiye’ll be here a-polishin’ the silver.”

“Correct,” Verena said.

The butler cocked a brow. “Oiye’m a good shot, oiye am.”

“So is Mr. St. John.”

“An’ oiye’ve a way wid horses.”

Verena patted Herberts’s hand. “I’m sure you do, but we need you here to watch over Mr. Lansdowne.”

Herberts sighed. “Very well, but oiye think ye’re makin’ a big mistake not takin’ me wif ye.”

Brandon glanced at Verena. “He certainly knows a lot about what is going on.”

“He reads my mail.”

“Here now,” Herberts protested. “Not all of it.”

She sent him a quelling glance. “You aren’t supposed to read any of it. Well, St. John, what do you think of our little plan?”

“It will have to do.” He eyed her for a long moment, noting how the blue lump that marred her brow made her eyes appear even more violet than before. “Whatever you do, do not leave the carriage. Just get them to hand the letters through the window. The second you’ve handed them the list, I’ll get us out of there.”

He spoke with such confidence that Verena’s heart lifted. It was a simple plan. It involved only two people. And it had the advantage of surprise. Father would be so proud. “We’re settled then. We can leave within the half hour.”

“Herberts.” Brandon reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a letter. He handed it to the butler. “See to it that this is delivered this morning. It’s to my sister, the Countess of Bridgeton.”

Verena wondered what on earth had prompted Brandon to send a letter at a time like this. Unless, of course…“You aren’t divulging anything, are you?”

“Of course not. It’s a personal message for my sister, asking for a favor.”

Herberts sighed. “Deliverin’ a note is an especially important duty. Do ye think ye can trust me? Oiye moight ferget to deliver it and—”

Brandon slipped a coin into Herberts’s palm.

The butler brightened considerably. “Weel, then! Oiye moight jus’ ’member it after all.”

Verena lifted her chin in an effort to see the address on the letter, but found Brandon conveniently in the way. “As I said before, it’s for Sara, my sister.”

“Oh.” Verena wondered if she could bribe Herberts into accidentally opening the missive. Perhaps she could—

“Oiye’ll be off to see to Mr. Lansdowne,” Herberts said. He shambled out the door.

The door closed and she was alone with Brandon. This was it. After today, she’d never see him again. In the interim, she had to hope and pray that he wasn’t injured while helping her. God how she hated this. She hated waiting, hated wondering what horrible thing would next occur, hated everything about this. “I—I hope everything goes well.”

“It will. If you will be careful, that is. No theatrics, if you please.”

Verena nodded mutely. She wanted to run to him, to be enfolded in his arms, to feel his crisp linen shirt beneath her fingers, to smell his wonderful cologne. But something held her back. She felt as shy and awkward as a fifteen-year-old.

“Verena.”

He was beside her, so close she could feel the edge of his coat brushing against her back.

“There is one more thing we must say.” He’d regained most of his voice, but a husky edge lingered.

“What?”

“Look at me.”

She turned, then wished she hadn’t. He was so large, so powerful, so Brandon. She wanted to slip her hands beneath his coat and burrow to safety. She wanted to hold him and taste him and never, ever let him go.

But that was not to be. “Brandon, I—”

He engulfed her in a hug, holding her so tightly she had to fight to breathe. God, but she was going to miss him. Her heart stumbled at the thought and she pressed her cheek against his shirt.

In less than an hour, they’d be on their way. His crisp linen shirt rubbed her cheek, the scent of his cologne lulling her senses. “You’ll have to change your clothing if you’re going to look like a groom.”

“I know. Perhaps Peters will lend me something.”

“Won’t you look fashionable,” she murmured. This was what happened to people in her life. Brandon St. John, society’s darling, would then truly be a Lansdowne.

The thought did more to harden her heart than anything else could have. “We must go. James will be waiting.”

Brandon’s smile faded, his blue gaze narrowed. “Verena, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. But you’d better do something about those hands, too. My father said you can always tell a man by his hands.”

He looked at his perfectly clean hands. “You’re right. I’ll get some soot from the fireplace. Give me a moment.”

Smiling, he walked to the door and held it open, bowing in the most servile manner. “After ye, missus!” he said in a tolerable imitation of Herberts.

Verena managed a faint smile. As she walked past him, he stopped her, placing an arm between her and the door.

She blinked up at him, her throat so tight it ached. “This is not the way a servant would act.”

“It is if I were an impertinent servant.” His blue eyes shimmered with humor and…something else. Something that sent a tremor down Verena’s spine.

No. She would not allow this to happen. It hurt enough to know that she was leaving. “We should go.”

“Not until you’ve kissed me.” He bent forward, his lips within a breath of touching hers. “Verena, there is something between us. When we return, I intend on settling it.”

When we return…There would be no returning. Ever. The second she and James had those letters, they would ride like the wind to Dover where a packet awaited them. She wet her dry lips. “We’ll talk about this later, after everything is resolved.”

“Then kiss me and we’ll be on our way.”

“We don’t have time to—”

He gripped the other doorframe, moving so that she was trapped between his arms. “Verena, one kiss.”

It was the last time she would ever be able to touch him in this way. Within hours, she would be on her way to Italy, and behind her, still in England, would be her heart, resting in the palm of London’s most dashing rake.

He bent his head, his lips brushing softly over hers. That one touch, so gentle, so hesitant, ignited an instant response. She threw her arms about his neck and pressed herself to him, deepening the kiss and opening her mouth to him. Ripples of awareness tingled through her, but she was caught in a whorl of emotion, unable to do more than cling to him, yearning for him even as she possessed him.

It wasn’t enough, this one kiss, no matter how hot, how passionate. It would never be enough.

Verena pressed against him, her breasts flattening against his broad chest. She was being shameless, unprincipled, but she no longer cared. This was the memory she’d always hold dearest.

Brandon felt her desperation and it ignited his senses like a wildfire. He craved this woman, his entire body ached for her, his first thought in the morning and his last thought as he slipped into slumber, was of Verena. Of her violet eyes, of the hint of a dimple that teased her cheek when she smiled, of just…her.

He wanted, no, he needed Verena. Needed her because he—

She broke the kiss and pressed back against the door facing him, her cheeks flushed. “W—we must go.”

“Not yet,” he said, his voice deep.

There was something about the way he said it that made her gasp as if she’d suddenly lost her breath. The air between them was always fraught with tension, but now it grew so thick, she wondered that he couldn’t see it.

He turned to the door, closed it, and to her astonishment, he turned the lock.

“Brandon?”

He faced her and there was no mistaking the look on his face. She swallowed, backing away. Something touched the back of her legs, and suddenly she was no longer standing, but sitting on the edge of the settee, her knees unable to hold her upright.

Brandon stood before her. He stopped down and put his arms about her, gently turning her face to his. “For one moment, don’t think about what happened last night. Or what might happen this afternoon. We are here, this second. Just us.” His voice ran along her senses like a fire, melting everything in its path. “Kiss me, Verena.”

She shook her head.

“Then let me kiss you.” He brushed the tips of his fingers along her cheek, leaving a trail of delicate sensation.

She swallowed, aware that he was deliberately seducing her. And what would be wrong with that? she asked herself. Why not give in to passion? This was the last time she might ever have this chance.

Damn it, she deserved some happiness. She deserved to spend her last day in England in the arms of the man she—Verena caught herself a moment before she committed the worst sin of all, believing herself in love with Brandon St. John.

“Verena,” he murmured. He took her hand and placed a delicate kiss in her palm, feathering her skin with his hot breath. Jolts of shocked desire went up her arm and traveled across her breasts and lower.

Locking her gaze with his, she touched him, sliding her fingers over his mouth. She inserted the tip of her forefinger between his lips. He bit her gently and heat built inside her as his tongue stroked her flesh. God, but he was the most sensual man she knew. Need pooled between her thighs and she clenched them together to still the ache.

He withdrew her finger and trailed his lips over her hand, to her wrist. “I want you with me, beneath me,” he whispered. “Do you want me, Verena?”

In answer, Verena twined her arms about his neck and pulled his mouth to hers. His lips were hot and demanding, his hands cupping, stroking, exploring her as if he’d never before touched her—never before made her his. He groaned as she raked a hand through his hair, holding him to her.

She was never aware of how they undressed. One moment, they were fully clothed, hands desperately seeking buttons and ties, and the next they were naked, their bare skin holding their souls at bay, their clothes pooled on the floor about them.

Verena lifted her arms to twine them about Brandon’s neck, brushing her bared breasts along his chest. Suddenly, touching him was not enough. She wanted to taste him, to fill her senses until there was nothing but Brandon. A wave of longing slammed into her heart and the walls she’d built to protect herself began to crack. She pressed herself to him, rubbing her hips against his, feeling his excitement. She lost herself in the feel of him, his mouth possessing hers, the hot thrust of his tongue inside her mouth, the sensuous feel of his hardened manhood against her stomach.

The edge of the settee pressed against the back of her legs. “Mine,” he whispered hoarsely into her ear. “All mine.”

A flush of power surged through her, making her more wanton, stirring her to new improprieties. With trembling fingers, she reached between them and placed her hand about his manhood. Velvet hard and warm, it sent a pleasurable shiver through her.

“Verena,” he breathed, his face a mask of torment. She reveled in it, stroking him with a featherlight touch.

Brandon moaned. “I can’t take this much longer.”

Neither could she. Her whole body throbbed with desire and if he didn’t touch her soon, she would explode in a whoosh of heat. Brandon slid down until his knees rested on the floor, his mouth even with her chest. The sight of his sensuous mouth so near her nipples caused them to pucker as if he had touched them. He lowered his hands and placed them on her calves. Slowly, ever so slowly, he pushed her knees apart. With hands that trembled ever so slightly, he positioned himself between her thighs.

He leaned forward to kiss her breasts, his tongue leaving a heated path. She tangled her fingers in his thick hair, pulling him closer. Her senses stretched, expanded until she was aware of every feeling, every nuance in the room. The flicker of heat from the fire. The edge of the settee against the back of her thighs. Of Brandon’s hands on her knees. Of his mouth on her breasts. Every cadence burned itself into her memory and added to the ripples of passion that built within.

Verena writhed against him, her hands moving wildly over his neck and shoulders. Brandon fought for control. She was so beautiful, so brazen. She reclined before him, her thighs surrounding his hips, her skin pink and passion-kissed.

Like a man starved, he positioned himself against her. He wanted to take her gently. But she was beyond gentle. Verena threw her arms about his neck, pressing against him, enfolding him into her warm body until they were one. His breath tore from his lips as he sank into her, reveling in the feel of her, the beauty of her that captivated him so completely.

Her fingers curled, her nails biting into his arms. “More,” she whispered hoarsely. “More—”

He thrust home. She gave a startled cry, her head thrown back, her hips arching to meet his. Again and again, he thrust. She clasped his hips tightly with her legs, her body writhing a sensuous dance beneath his. She arched into him, her passions rising, building. He could barely keep his own emotions under control, his body aching with the torture. But Brandon fought against it.

Just as he thought he could withhold no more, she stiffened beneath him, her body arching so wildly that Brandon had to wrap his arms about her to hold her on the settee. Brandon followed her over the edge of passion, his body exploding with a flash of heat before he collapsed against her, cradling her to him.

God how he loved her. Loved her as he could love no other. The realization echoed in his soul. “Verena,” he said into the softness of her hair. “I—”

“No. Brandon, don’t—” She pushed herself upright. “We have to go.”

He leaned away, frowning. “Verena, we—”

“No.” Her smile quavered the faintest bit. “Brandon, we cannot…now is not the time.”

He hated to admit it, but she was right. The clock was ticking and they had much to do. Brandon nodded mutely, dropping his arms and moving away, trying to cool his ardor.

Silently they dressed. Verena’s face was tense, her eyes shadowed. Brandon tried to say something several times, but the haunted look in her eyes made him fall silent.

Finally, she smoothed her hair and managed a wobbly smile. “I—We will talk about this later. After…”

He tilted her face to his. “When you are ready.” He bent and kissed her cheek.

At first, she held herself back, but then, just as he went to move away, she pressed against him, her head nestled to his neck. His arms encircled her and there they remained until the clock chimed.

She stepped away, her color high. She went to the small desk and pulled out a small square of paper and placed it into her reticule. “We must go.”

He nodded. “I’ll borrow a coat and hat from Peters.” She nodded, then left the room, unlocking the door, her soft voice calling for Herberts.

Moments later, dressed in an old coat, a battered felt hat on his head, Brandon helped Verena into the carriage. As he closed the door, he caught sight of a boy in a blue tattered coat, who took off running the instant Brandon whipped the horses to life.

Smiling grimly, Brandon pulled his collar up about his ears and made his way from London.

 

On a normal day, Verena would have been glad for Brandon’s well-sprung carriage. It was far better equipped for the trip than her own, which had weak springs and an unfortunate tendency to sway around each corner. But nothing could make the long, arduous journey to Little Sutton any more palatable.

She was so nervous her stomach ached. And the fact that Brandon was so close yet so far away did not make things easier.

They reached Little Sutton at one and stopped to ask directions to the inn. Another note awaited them there, delivered by an urchin with a dirty face and directing them to a clearing half a mile from town.

Per their plan, she made sure that everyone within earshot knew she was there, that she was tired and famished, that she wanted nothing more than to return home to London. She complained and whined, then burst into tears and allowed a chambermaid to lead her back to her coach.

Brandon never dismounted, watching it all from his position on the coach.

It appalled her how easily the tears came and it took her several minutes to stop crying once the coach was underway. Thus it was that at the appointed time, the carriage pulled into the clearing.

She patted her reticule, the faint outline of a pistol visible. She pulled it out and checked to be sure it was loaded before she leaned out the window.

Thick brush encircled them, dotted here and there with flowers. Tall trees waved overhead.

Verena scanned her surroundings anxiously. She could not see Brandon, but she was agonizingly aware of his presence. He was vulnerable sitting in the open, and she could only pray the villains did not suspect him.

Verena waited. All she could hear were the sounds of birds twittering and the wind rustling the trees. The coach rocked as Brandon climbed down. He walked forward as if checking the horses.

After several moments, she said, “No one’s here.”

“Wait,” Brandon ordered softly.

“I want to get out.” It was tortuous sitting inside the carriage while he was in the line of danger.

“No. You have on skirts. If something goes wrong, you won’t be able to run back to the carriage.”

“You don’t know me well if you think that.”

His gaze ran over her, hot and possessive. “I know you too well to let you out of that coach.”

She curled her hands more tightly about her reticule. “I wonder where—”

“Hold it right there,” came a voice from the edge of the clearing.

Verena’s heart stumbled, her gaze meeting Brandon’s. They knew that voice. Knew it because—she closed her eyes.

When she opened them, there, standing in the clearing, stood Roger Carrington, Viscount Wycham. And in his hand was a pistol, pointed directly at Verena.