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Anne Stuart - A Rose At Midnigh

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Anne Stuart
A Rose At Midnight
CONTENTS

Chap-ter 1
Chap-ter 2
Chap-ter 3
Chap-ter 4
Chap-ter 5
Chap-ter 6
Chap-ter 7
Chap-ter 8
Chap-ter 9
Chap-ter 10
Chap-ter 11
Chap-ter 12
Chap-ter 13
Chap-ter 14
Chap-ter 15
Chap-ter 16
Chap-ter 17
Chap-ter 18
Chap-ter 19
Chap-ter 20
Chap-ter 21
Chap-ter 22
Chap-ter 23
Chap-ter 24
Epi-lo-gue



If you pur-c-ha-sed this bo-ok wit-ho-ut a co-ver, you sho-uld be awa-re
that this bo-ok is sto-len pro-perty. It was re-por-ted as "unsold and
des-t-ro-yed" to the pub-lis-her, and ne-it-her the aut-hor nor the
pub-lis-her has re-ce-ived any pay-ment for this "strip-ped bo-ok."
A RO-SE AT MID-NIGHT is an ori-gi-nal pub-li-ca-ti-on of Avon Bo-oks. This
work has ne-ver be-fo-re ap-pe-ared in bo-ok form. This work is a no-vel. Any
si-mi-la-rity to ac-tu-al per-sons or events is pu-rely co-in-ci-den-tal.
AVON BO-OKS
A di-vi-si-on of
The He-arst Cor-po-ra-ti-on
1350 Ave-nue of the Ame-ri-cas
New York, New York 10019
Cop-y-right © 1993 by An-ne Kris-ti-ne Stu-art Oh-l-rog-ge Pub-lis-hed by
ar-ran-ge-ment with the aut-hor Lib-rary of Con-g-ress Ca-ta-log Card Num-ber:
92-90437 ISBN: 0-380-76740-6

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All rights re-ser-ved, which in-c-lu-des the right to rep-ro-du-ce this
bo-ok or por-ti-ons the-re-of in any form what-so-ever ex-cept as pro-vi-ded
by the U.S. Cop-y-right Law. For in-for-ma-ti-on ad-dress Cur-tis Brown, Ltd.,
Ten As-tor Pla-ce, New York, New York 10003.
First Avon Bo-oks Prin-ting: Feb-ru-ary 1993
AVON TRA-DE-MARK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND IN OT-HER CO-UN-T-RI-ES, MAR-CA
RE-GIS-T-RA-DA, HEC-HO EN U.S.A.
Prin-ted in the U.S.A.

RA 10 987654321



England

Chapter 1

April 1803
The-re we-re few pla-ces as still and si-lent as the kit-c-hens of an
En-g-lish ma-nor ho-use af-ter the ser-vants had re-ti-red to the-ir hall for
the eve-ning. Ghis-la-ine sat alo-ne in the dar-k-ness, wat-c-hing the glow
from the wall of ovens, her small, strong hands res-ting lo-osely in her lap.
The hu-ge cha-ir dwar-fed her slight fra-me, but the kit-c-hen staff knew
bet-ter than to sug-gest re-mo-ving that cha-ir. It was pro-vi-ded for her
com-fort, and the com-fort of Lady El-len Fit-z-wa-ter's per-so-nal French
chef was of the ut-most im-por-tan-ce. Ne-ver mind that the chef was a
fe-ma-le, an un-he-ard-of cir-cum-s-tan-ce. Ne-ver mind that she was on far
too fri-endly terms with her un-con-ven-ti-onal em-p-lo-yer and yet kept a
ca-re-ful dis-tan-ce from ever-yo-ne who dwel-led be-low-s-ta-irs. The staff
at Ain-s-ley Hall un-der-s-to-od rank bet-ter than they un-der-s-to-od the-ir
Scrip-tu-re, and Ghis-la-ine was ru-ler ab-so-lu-te.
It didn't mat-ter that she didn't se-em to pos-sess a last na-me. The staff
cal-led her Mam-zel-le and kept the-ir opi-ni-ons of her an-te-ce-dents to
them-sel-ves. It didn't mat-ter that she was pro-bably no mo-re than thirty
ye-ars old, and lo-oked a gre-at de-al yo-un-ger, with her re-ed-slim, bo-yish
fra-me, her
hu-ge, sha-do-wed eyes, and the fe-atu-res that in so-me ot-her wo-man
wo-uld be cal-led el-fin be-ne-ath the ti-ed-back mop of ches-t-nut ha-ir.
No one co-uld call Mam-zel-le el-fin. Not when only the fa-in-test of
smi-les ever to-uc-hed her mo-bi-le mo-uth. Not when her dark brown eyes
sug-ges-ted tra-ge-di-es the ser-vants co-uld only gu-ess at. Not when the
lit-tle joy and af-fec-ti-on in her so-ul was re-ser-ved for the small black
puppy that slept hap-pily at her fe-et by the over-si-zed cha-ir.
Ghis-la-ine knew what they tho-ught of her, and she was con-tent with it, if
with not-hing el-se in her li-fe. The ser-vants we-re dis-t-rus-t-ful, wary,
and je-alo-us of her. But they wis-hed her no ill, and that was eno-ugh. She
le-aned her he-ad back in the cha-ir, fe-eling the iron ten-si-on in her
mus-c-les, yet hel-p-less to bre-ak its grip. Du-ring the past ye-ar she'd
be-en as clo-se to pe-ace as she'd ever ho-ped to be. En-g-land was a ha-ven,
the kit-c-hens of Ain-s-ley Hall a sa-fe kin-g-dom whe-re ever-y-t-hing was
or-de-red and pre-or-da-ined, sa-uces ne-ver cur-d-led, ro-asts ne-ver
bur-ned, pe-op-le we-re ne-ver tor-tu-red and but-c-he-red and…
She sho-ok her he-ad, lis-te-ning to the stil-lness aro-und her. If only
fa-te hadn't ta-ken a hand on-ce mo-re. Su-rely she de-ser-ved her hard-won
pe-ace. And yet for ye-ars she had pra-yed for one thing, and one thing
alo-ne. Not hap-pi-ness, not lo-ve, not com-fort or fri-en-d-s-hip.
She'd pra-yed for re-ven-ge. So who was she to com-p-la-in when fa-te had
fi-nal-ly an-s-we-red her pra-yers?
Ain-s-ley Hall had twen-ty-se-ven bed-ro-oms, a bal-lro-om, six

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wit-h-d-ra-wing ro-oms of va-ri-o-us si-zes and for-ma-li-ti-es, fo-ur di-ning
halls, three of-fi-ces, twel-ve pow-der ro-oms with in-do-or ame-ni-ti-es, and
the kit-c-hens. In one of tho-se twen-ty-se-ven bed-ro-oms lay the man she had
vo-wed to kill.
It wo-uld ha-ve be-en sim-p-le eno-ugh to find whe-re he slept and ta-ke one
of her but-c-he-ring kni-ves to him. She was adept at hac-king apart mut-ton
and si-des of be-ef-the mus-c-les in her slen-der arms at-tes-ted to that.
Su-rely a li-ving, bre-at-hing ma-le wo-uldn't be that much har-der. A sli-ced
jugu-lar, and her li-fe's am-bi-ti-on wo-uld be com-p-le-te.
But she didn't gos-sip with the ser-vants, didn't jo-in them in the-ir hall
for cards and flir-ta-ti-on and spe-cu-la-ti-on on tho-se abo-ve sta-irs. And
with Ain-s-ley Hall de-ser-ted of the gentry, all but the un-wan-ted gu-est,
she co-uldn't very well wan-der the hal-lways lo-oking for him. The-re was
al-ways the pos-si-bi-lity that he might re-cog-ni-ze her af-ter all tho-se
ye-ars.
It was, ho-we-ver, un-li-kely. Do-ub-t-less she was just part of a dis-tant
me-mory, if that. Ru-ined li-ves wo-uld ha-ve lit-tle me-aning for a man li-ke
her enemy. She was pro-bably one in a long li-ne of vic-tims.
She won-de-red what El-len wo-uld think when she he-ard the news-that her
ram-s-hac-k-le co-usin had be-en sla-ug-h-te-red, and her chef was be-ing held
ac-co-un-tab-le. Most un-tidy, Ghis-la-ine tho-ught with de-tac-h-ment,
sha-king her he-ad. Per-haps she co-uld find a ne-ater way to han-d-le the
prob-lem. If only she knew how long he was plan-ning to stay. She didn't want
to rush in-to so-met-hing that was bet-ter sa-vo-red.
Lady El-len Fit-z-wa-ter had left Ain-s-ley Hall the day he ar-ri-ved, prey
to tho-se odd con-ven-ti-ons the En-g-lish put such gre-at sto-re by. Even
with the pro-tec-ti-on of her half-de-af com-pa-ni-on Miss Bin-ner-s-ton,
El-len co-uldn't re-si-de in a hu-ge ho-use li-ke Ain-s-ley Hall with an
un-mar-ri-ed ma-le of no mo-re than dis-tant con-nec-ti-on. Not when he had
such a shoc-king re-pu-ta-ti-on as Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne pos-ses-sed. So
she'd de-cam-ped, grum-b-ling as she went, and Ghis-la-ine had be-en
en-ti-rely pre-pa-red to ac-com-pany her. Un-til she he-ard the man's na-me.
"Damn my co-usin!" El-len had fu-med, her soft blue eyes in-dig-nant. She
lo-ved to cur-se, and whi-le she prac-ti-ced as of-ten as she co-uld, the
words ne-ver so-un-ded qu-ite right co-ming from her gen-t-le mo-uth. She'd
tri-ed to get Ghis-la-ine to in-s-t-ruct her in gut-ter French, but
Ghis-la-ine had ste-ad-fastly re-fu-sed.
"Why damn yo-ur co-usin?" Ghis-la-ine had in-qu-ired evenly mo-ments
be-fo-re her il-lu-si-on of sa-fety shat-te-red. "If you don't want him he-re,
simply tell him he can't co-me."
"He's al-re-ady he-re. Be-si-des, an un-mar-ri-ed fe-ma-le do-esn't ha-ve
much right to an opi-ni-on in such mat-ters. Ain-s-ley Hall might be my
re-si-den-ce, but it do-es, in fact, be-long to my brot-her, Car-mic-ha-el, up
un-til the ti-me I may cho-ose to marry. If I re-ma-in on the shelf it will be
pas-sed along to his of-f-s-p-ring. If I marry, my hus-band will own it. In
the me-an-ti-me I'm lucky I'm al-lo-wed to re-si-de he-re with Bin-nie. If the
pri-ce I ha-ve to pay for that lu-xury is de-cam-ping every ti-me so-me
ram-s-hac-k-le half-re-la-ti-ve shows up, then I'll pay that pri-ce
wil-lingly."
"Not wil-lingly," Ghis-la-ine po-in-ted out.
"No, not wil-lingly," El-len ad-mit-ted. "If only it we-re so-me-one ot-her
than Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne! Why the blac-kest of all the black she-ep,
the one per-son li-kely to com-p-ro-mi-se every he-althy fe-ma-le bet-we-en
six and sixty who even hap-pens to be wit-hin the sa-me co-unty as he is! A
de-ca-dent, dis-so-lu-te, po-si-ti-vely cyni-cal wretch, and he's dri-ving me
from my… Are you qu-ite all right, Gilly?" Her to-ne of vo-ice chan-ged to one
of sud-den con-cern.
Ghis-la-ine had sunk ab-ruptly in-to a cha-ir. "I'm fi-ne," she sa-id
fa-intly. "Tell me abo-ut yo-ur co-usin."
"He-avens, most of his re-pu-ta-ti-on is so shoc-king I don't know the half

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of it. He's the last of the mad Blac-k-t-hor-nes, from the nor-t-hern branch
of the fa-mily, and a nasty bit of go-ods he is. Co-ol and self-cen-te-red and
un-be-arably wic-ked. If only he we-ren't my co-usin."
Ghis-la-ine ma-na-ged to ro-use her-self to a sem-b-lan-ce of po-li-te
con-ver-sa-ti-on. "Be-ca-use he em-bar-ras-ses you?"
"He-avens, no! Be-ca-use he's such a no-to-ri-o-us flirt, and so sin-ful-ly
go-od-lo-oking that I wo-uldn't ha-ve min-ded… well, I sup-po-se I wo-uld
ha-ve min-ded. It's all very well to say ra-kes are ir-re-sis-tib-le," El-len
an-no-un-ced, "but I don't re-al-ly think they'd be qu-ite com-for-tab-le to
li-ve with. Cer-ta-inly Nic-ho-las wo-uldn't. For all his han-d-so-me fa-ce
the-re's so-met-hing qu-ite… un-ner-ving abo-ut his eyes. Wo-uldn't you say
so?"
"I've ne-ver se-en him," Ghis-la-ine sa-id fa-intly, her hands clen-c-hed
be-ne-ath her en-ve-lo-ping whi-te ap-ron. El-len wo-uld ha-ve no re-ason to
know it was a lie.
"Of co-ur-se you ha-ven't. And you won't this ti-me. He ca-me in a co-up-le
of ho-urs ago, tho-ro-ughly fo-xed, and is sno-ring qu-ite lo-udly in one of
the bed-ro-oms. We'll simply de-camp and wa-it un-til word co-mes that he's
go-ne to the con-ti-nent."
"Why is he go-ing to the con-ti-nent? He's a lit-tle old for a grand to-ur,
isn't he?"
"Gra-ci-o-us, yes. Nicky's be-en out of le-ading-st-rings for do-zens of
ye-ars," El-len sa-id blit-hely. "No, I gat-her he's in-vol-ved in so-me
wret-c-hed scan-dal aga-in. Car-mic-ha-el's no-te sa-id so-met-hing abo-ut a
du-el, and anot-her man's wi-fe. If the man li-ves, Nicky can go back to town
if he so cho-oses. If he di-es, Nicky's off to Fran-ce."
"Fran-ce."
"Nicky's al-ways had a re-al af-fi-nity for Fran-ce. At le-ast for the ti-me
be-ing we don't hap-pen to be at war. Don't lo-ok li-ke that, Gilly. I know
you're sen-si-ti-ve, but you ne-edn't lo-ok va-po-rish every ti-me so-me-one
simply men-ti-ons the silly co-untry. You'll ne-ver ha-ve to go back, I swe-ar
it to you. Let Nicky go, and may-be he'll co-me to the bad end he so richly
de-ser-ves. They're still using the gu-il-lo-ti-ne, aren't they?"
In her mind's eye Ghis-la-ine co-uld see the flash of the bla-de, he-ar the
sud-den ro-ar of the crowd. Co-uld fe-el her own fa-in-t-ness, as she fo-ught,
al-ways fo-ught, the ter-ror. "As far as I know," she sa-id, wis-hing in her
he-art that Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne's black-cur-led he-ad wo-uld end in the
sa-me blo-od-s-ta-ined bas-ket that had held so many ot-hers.
"For-tu-na-tely I ha-ven't had much ex-pe-ri-en-ce with drun-kards. I ha-ve
no idea when he'll co-me to and start de-man-ding things. We'd best le-ave
im-me-di-ately. That odi-o-us man-ser-vant of his can see to his ne-eds."
El-len ro-se, fluf-fing her yel-low skirts aro-und her, and Ghis-la-ine
wat-c-hed her with emo-ti-on-less ab-s-t-rac-ti-on, sud-denly awa-re that this
was the last ti-me she wo-uld see her be-ne-fac-t-ress.
She dres-sed po-orly, ig-no-ring Ghis-la-ine's oc-ca-si-onal tas-te-ful
sug-ges-ti-ons. Her form was vo-lup-tu-o-us and her tas-te ran to-ward the
ex-t-re-me in or-na-men-ta-ti-on. Two rib-bons we-re al-ways bet-ter than one,
three ruf-fles bet-ter than two, bright co-lors bet-ter than the pas-tels that
wo-uld su-it her pink and whi-te pret-ti-ness to per-fec-ti-on. It had be-en
Ghis-la-ine's un-s-po-ken go-al to pass on her in-born Fren-c-h-wo-man's
sen-se of style. For the past ye-ar her ef-forts had fal-len on de-af ears.
And now it wo-uld be too la-te.
"I'm not co-ming," she sa-id.
Ellen simply blin-ked her chi-na-blue eyes. "Don't be ab-surd. Of co-ur-se
you are. I know you usu-al-ly re-fu-se to ac-com-pany me to ho-use par-ti-es,
but this is dif-fe-rent. We're simply go-ing to ta-ke re-fu-ge with
Car-mic-ha-el in So-mer-set whi-le Nicky re-ar-ran-ges his li-fe. A lit-tle
rus-ti-ca-ti-on will do us both go-od. Be-si-des, you pro-mi-sed to te-ach me
how to co-ok."
"Not this ti-me," Ghis-la-ine sa-id in her co-ol, fa-intly ac-cen-ted

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French. When she was ni-ne ye-ars old she'd had an im-po-ve-ris-hed En-g-lish
gen-t-le-wo-man as her go-ver-ness, and her En-g-lish was im-pec-cab-le.
Ex-cept when she spo-ke with the ser-vants.
Ne-it-her wo-man tho-ught it the slig-h-test bit odd that the chef wo-uld
re-fu-se an or-der from her em-p-lo-yer. "But why, Gilly?" El-len wa-iled.
"I'll be so lo-nely up the-re!"
"You'll ha-ve Bin-nie for com-pany."
"Bin-nie's a fo-ol. Why wo-uld you want to stay he-re? Nicky will pro-bably
spend all his ti-me ca-ro-using, and yo-ur co-oking will be was-ted." El-len's
eyes fil-led with te-ars.
"You pro-mi-sed me when I ag-re-ed to ac-com-pany you he-re that you wo-uld
ac-cept my terms," Ghis-la-ine sa-id softly. "I told you I co-uldn't be yo-ur
fri-end, yo-ur con-fi-dan-te, yo-ur sis-ter. If I ac-cep-ted yo-ur of-fer to
co-me to En-g-land it wo-uld be as yo-ur ser-vant or I wo-uldn't co-me."
"But Gilly…!"
"I'm sta-ying he-re, in the kit-c-hen, whe-re I be-long," she sa-id, ri-sing
and ta-king El-len's soft hands in her smal-ler, har-der ones. "I'm su-re I'll
be ab-le to co-me up with so-met-hing su-itab-le for Nic-ho-las
Blac-k-t-hor-ne."
For all her emo-ti-ons, Lady El-len was not a stu-pid wo-man. Her vo-ice was
low when she spo-ke. "Will you tell me?"
Ghis-la-ine didn't pre-tend to mi-sun-der-s-tand. She owed her that much.
"Not in this li-fe-ti-me," she sa-id grimly.
It had be-en less than eight ho-urs sin-ce El-len had left. Li-fe at
Ain-s-ley Hall went on as usu-al, whet-her the mis-t-ress was in re-si-den-ce
or not. The jo-int ru-lers of the staff, Wil-kins the but-ler and Mrs.
Raf-ferty the ho-use-ke-eper, kept strict or-der. They'd ne-go-ti-ated a
tru-ce with Ghis-la-ine shortly af-ter she ar-ri-ved, both of them
re-cog-ni-zing an unas-sa-ilab-le ad-ver-sary when they met one.
A me-al had be-en ser-ved to Nic-ho-las Black-thor-ne, one that was sent
back un-to-uc-hed. Ghis-la-ine had vi-ewed the tray with no emo-ti-on
what-so-ever, but now, as she sat alo-ne in the vast kit-c-hens of the hu-ge
ma-nor ho-use, she felt a tra-ce of so-met-hing as mild as ir-ri-ta-ti-on.
It was sud-denly very cle-ar. She wasn't go-ing to but-c-her Nic-ho-las
Blac-k-t-hor-ne in his bed, much as he de-ser-ved it. The-re we-re far too
many com-p-li-ca-ti-ons, not the le-ast of which was the de-ep, bit-ter
know-led-ge that she might not ha-ve the sto-mach for it, for the re-ven-ge
she'd so-ught for so long.
She co-uld only ho-pe that the gen-t-le-man's ap-pe-ti-te im-p-ro-ved as he
so-be-red up. Be-ca-use she had every in-ten-ti-on of po-iso-ning him, and
then stan-ding over him and wat-c-hing him die.
She he-ard the ste-ady fo-ot-s-teps ap-pro-ac-hing thro-ugh the east pantry,
and she sat very still, pa-nic sli-cing thro-ugh her. She didn't re-cog-ni-ze
tho-se fo-ot-s-teps.
In le-ar-ning to sur-vi-ve she'd had to cul-ti-va-te many skills. Long ago
she'd le-ar-ned that to be sa-fe, she ne-eded to be awa-re of ever-y-t-hing
and ever-yo-ne aro-und her. She knew the so-und of all six-ty-th-ree mem-bers
of the in-do-or and out-do-or staff of Ain-s-ley Hall, in-c-lu-ding the
mem-bers of El-len's fa-mily when they oc-ca-si-onal-ly ca-me to vi-sit. The
man ap-pro-ac-hing her do-ma-in was so-me-one new.
Her puppy, Char-bon, bar-ked sharply when she jum-ped from the cha-ir,
star-t-led by her sud-den pa-nic. The kni-fe she fa-vo-red for mut-ton was in
her hand, her fa-ce and form in the sha-dow, when the man step-ped in-to the
ro-om.
Her hand felt numb, grip-ping the wo-oden han-d-le so tightly. The
sil-ho-u-et-te in the do-or-way was shor-ter than she re-mem-be-red, thic-ker.
And the ha-ir had thin-ned dras-ti-cal-ly.
And then he spo-ke, and she re-ali-zed her mis-ta-ke. An En-g-lish
gen-t-le-man wo-uldn't en-ter the kit-c-hen. He'd send his ser-vant.
"Dark in he-re," the man re-mar-ked.

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Ghis-la-ine put the kni-fe down very qu-i-etly, mo-ving to-ward the che-ap
tal-low can-d-les that we-re con-si-de-red suf-fi-ci-ent for kit-c-hen use and
lig-h-ting them, one by one, fil-ling the ca-ver-no-us ro-om with a fit-ful
light. She knew the man was wat-c-hing her, and if she didn't sen-se out-right
hos-ti-lity she at le-ast co-uld fe-el his re-ser-ve. This was the man she was
go-ing to ha-ve to cir-cum-vent, if Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne was to ha-ve
the fa-te he so richly de-ser-ved.
She tur-ned back, on-ce she'd al-lo-wed him to lo-ok his fill. "You must be
Mam-zel-le," he sa-id. He was a far cry from the usu-al va-lets who'd
in-va-ded her kit-c-hen. He was stre-et-to-ugh, ol-der, so-me-one who lo-oked
as if he be-lon-ged in a ta-vern, not in a gen-t-le-man's em-p-loy.
"Yes," Ghis-la-ine sa-id, not sur-p-ri-sed.
"My mas-ter's hungry."
"Is he?" She tho-ught of the un-to-uc-hed tray. Eit-her he'd so-be-red up
eno-ugh to ha-ve ac-qu-ired an ap-pe-ti-te, or drunk eno-ugh to be hungry
aga-in. It didn't mat-ter. As long as he was re-ady to eat what she pre-pa-red
for him, she was chil-lingly con-tent.
"A cold col-la-ti-on'll do. Me-ats, che-ese, may-be an ap-ple tart if you've
got one handy. And whe-re do-es Lady El-len ke-ep the brandy aro-und he-re?"
"She do-esn't."
"Hor-ses-hit," the man sa-id.
"Lady El-len has a very fi-ne wi-ne cel-lar, but no brandy, I'm af-ra-id."
"You co-ok with it, don't you?"
"I do."
"Send it up. Bet-ter yet, bring it yo-ur-self. My mas-ter says he do-esn't
be-li-eve El-len has a fe-ma-le chef."
Ghis-la-ine was sud-denly very cold. He won't re-mem-ber, she told her-self.
It had be-en al-most thir-te-en ye-ars sin-ce he set eyes on her. Thir-te-en
ye-ars ago, when she was a fra-gi-le, skinny child and he was a yo-ung man out
for his own ple-asu-re and not-hing el-se. He wo-uldn't re-mem-ber.
"You mi-sun-der-s-tand," she sa-id co-ol-ly. "I'm not a ma-id-ser-vant. We
ha-ve no less than se-ven of them who will be mo-re than happy to de-li-ver
yo-ur mas-ter's tray, Mr…?"
"J-ust call me Ta-ver-ner." the man rep-li-ed. "And I don't be-li-eve my
mas-ter is in-te-res-ted in ma-id-ser-vants at the mo-ment, tho-ugh I
co-uldn't say abo-ut the fu-tu-re. He's in-te-res-ted in se-e-ing Lady
El-len's fe-ma-le chef, and my duty is to sa-tisfy his whims. Right now that
whim is you, Mam-zel-le. So I'll wa-it."
She ope-ned her mo-uth to con-ti-nue the ar-gu-ment, then shut it ab-ruptly.
She wo-uld be was-ting her bre-ath, and pos-sibly aro-using sus-pi-ci-on, if
she con-ti-nu-ed. In-s-te-ad, she drop-ped a moc-king curtsy. "Yes, sir," she
sa-id, and the man flas-hed a star-t-led lo-ok at her.
"You ain't li-ke any ser-vant I've met," he an-no-un-ced.
"That’s be-ca-use I'm not a ser-vant. I'm a chef."
"Chefs are men."
"I'm not."
"So I no-ti-ced," the man sa-id with a le-er, and Ghis-la-ine felt a
tric-k-le of cold pa-nic in the pit of her sto-mach. If this ro-ugh
man-ser-vant was any exam-p-le of Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne's prog-ress, then
he'd simply go-ne from bad to wor-se.
She be-gan to busy her-self with pre-pa-ring a pla-te of cold me-ats and
che-eses, ke-eping her hands wor-king whi-le her mind was ab-s-t-rac-ted. "You
aren't much li-ke the va-lets who co-me to Ain-s-ley Hall."
Ta-ver-ner la-ug-hed. "You can bet I'm not. My mas-ter do-esn't gi-ve a spit
abo-ut how well he's tur-ned out. He's not one of yo-ur fancy boys. He ne-eds
so-me-one to stand at his back if ne-ed be, so-me-one who knows how to
dis-pen-se a lit-tle ro-ugh and re-ady. So-me-one who's not af-ra-id of
tro-ub-le."
"Do-es he run in-to tro-ub-le very of-ten?" she in-qu-ired co-ol-ly. The-re
was no way she co-uld slip a but-c-her kni-fe in-to her full skirts, not if he

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ex-pec-ted her to carry the tray. Which do-ub-t-less he wo-uld.
"You co-uld say so," Ta-ver-ner sa-id with a grin that sho-wed se-ve-ral
dis-co-lo-red te-eth.
"And you get him out of it." She to-ok her mas-si-ve ring of keys and
un-loc-ked the do-or to the clo-set whe-re she kept her spi-rits. She had two
bot-tles in the-re-one of the fi-nest French cog-nac ever ma-de, the ot-her of
a ro-ugh co-oking brandy. She to-ok the lat-ter and set it on the tray.
"Hell, no. He can get him-self out of most mes-ses. I just li-ke to ma-ke
su-re the-re's no bac-k-s-tab-bing."
"So-unds li-ke a most pro-duc-ti-ve li-fe for a gen-t-le-man," she sa-id. "I
sup-po-se you wish me to carry the tray?"

"You sup-po-se right. Co-me on, Mam-zel-le. My mas-ter's not go-ing to ta-ke
a bi-te out of you."
She ho-is-ted the tray in her small, strong hands. "He wo-uldn't li-ke the
tas-te," she sa-id.
She fol-lo-wed Ta-ver-ner as he ma-de his way thro-ugh the can-d-le-lit
hal-lways, her soft sho-es qu-i-et on the car-pe-ted flo-ors.
"You know, you don't so-und very French to me," Ta-ver-ner sa-id sud-denly,
stop-ping in the hal-lway out-si-de the tiny, fussy la-di-es' par-lor.
Ghis-la-ine felt cold in-si-de. Only the sup-re-me for-ce of her will kept
the tray from trem-b-ling in her hands; only the sup-re-me for-ce of her will
kept the pa-nic from sho-wing on her fa-ce. She glan-ced at Ta-ver-ner, at the
fer-ret-li-ke fa-ce and sta-ined te-eth, and told him what she tho-ught of
him. In ri-pe, idi-oma-tic, gut-ter French. The lan-gu-age she'd le-ar-ned in
the slums of Pa-ris.
Ta-ver-ner lo-oked im-p-res-sed. "Ye-ah, that so-unds French all right.
Ne-ver co-uld un-der-s-tand the lin-go." He ope-ned the do-or, and Ghis-la-ine
re-ali-zed with hor-ror that for so-me re-ason Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne had
ta-ken up re-si-den-ce in El-len's par-lor.
She had no cho-ice. She co-uldn't turn and run, not wit-ho-ut re-ce-iving
the at-ten-ti-on she was so des-pe-ra-te to avo-id. She wo-uld simply ha-ve to
ke-ep her he-ad down, her ton-gue bet-we-en her te-eth, and ho-pe he'd ne-ver
re-mem-ber.
For a mo-ment she tho-ught the par-lor was empty. The fi-re pro-vi-ded the
only light, and even with the pa-le silk-co-ve-red walls, the ro-om was
plun-ged in sha-dows.
"You ought to le-arn French, Tavvy," a vo-ice sa-id. "Then you might be even
mo-re im-p-res-sed. She cal-led you the son of a rut-ting ape, lac-king
se-ve-ral ne-ces-sary pi-eces of ma-le equ-ip-ment, and she sug-ges-ted you
might be bet-ter off eating don-key fe-ces."
Ghis-la-ine drop-ped the tray.
For-tu-na-tely Ta-ver-ner was in the act of ta-king it from her hands,
cle-arly be-li-eving only he had the right to ser-ve his mas-ter, and the tray
didn't fall far. She was still in the do-or-way, not mo-ving, kno-wing the
light from be-hind her wo-uld cast her fa-ce in-to even de-eper sha-dows, and
Ta-ver-ner mo-ved aro-und her with a di-sap-pro-ving grunt.
He was lo-un-ging on Lady El-len's pink pe-tit-po-int cha-ise. His dusty
black bo-ots had al-re-ady so-iled the de-li-ca-te ma-te-ri-al, and he
cle-arly had no in-ten-ti-on of re-mo-ving them des-pi-te the stab-le-yard
deb-ris and dust that clung to them. He had very long legs, but she co-uldn't
ha-ve for-got-ten that. He'd be-en qu-ite tall when he was twen-ty-two, and
men didn't grow shor-ter as they ma-tu-red. His bre-ec-hes we-re al-so dusty,
clin-ging to his long thighs, and at so-me po-int he'd dis-pen-sed with his
co-at. The whi-te shirt was open at the neck and rol-led up at the sle-eves,
and his long, curly black ha-ir was mus-sed aro-und his fa-ce.
She to-ok the in-ven-tory ca-re-ful-ly, avo-iding that fa-ce, tho-se eyes.
But she co-uld avo-id it no lon-ger. Now that she knew the-re was no
mid-dle-aged pa-unch on that flat tor-so she co-uld only ho-pe age and evil
had ma-de the-ir mark on his on-ce-han-d-so-me fa-ce.

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Age and evil had left the-ir mark. They'd tur-ned a yo-ung man of al-most
une-arthly be-a-uty in-to a satyr, a fal-len an-gel, a man of such po-wer-ful
at-trac-ti-ons that Ghis-la-ine was shoc-ked. She wo-uld ha-ve sta-ked her
li-fe on the cer-ta-inty that she wo-uld ne-ver aga-in find a man
at-trac-ti-ve. And cer-ta-inly not this man, who'd mur-de-red her fa-mily and
ru-ined her li-fe.
The fe-atu-res that had be-en soft and pretty when he was in his early
twen-ti-es we-re now sharply de-li-ne-ated. The high che-ek-bo-nes, de-ep-set
dark blue eyes, and strong bla-de of a no-se we-re the sa-me, and yet
dif-fe-rent. Li-nes fan-ned out from tho-se still-mes-me-ri-zing eyes; li-nes
of dis-si-pa-ti-on, not la-ug-h-ter. Mo-re li-nes brac-ke-ted his sen-su-al
mo-uth, and he hadn't bot-he-red to sha-ve in the past day or so. His long
black ha-ir was tan-g-led, a far cry from the ca-re-ful-ly ar-ran-ged styles
most of El-len's ma-le re-la-ti-ves cul-ti-va-ted, and his man-ner was
in-do-lent, in-so-lent, and just the slig-h-test bit dan-ge-ro-us. It had
be-en a long ti-me sin-ce Ghis-la-ine had be-en aro-und a dan-ge-ro-us man.
She wo-uld ha-ve pre-fer-red it to be even lon-ger.
"Lo-oked yo-ur fill, Mam-zel-le?" he draw-led, a fa-int smi-le on that
ha-ughty, dis-si-pa-ted fa-ce.
She wo-uldn't let him see how dis-tur-bed she was. "Yes, sir," she rep-li-ed
evenly, not mo-ving from her spot in the sha-do-wed do-or-way.
"I, ho-we-ver, ha-ven't had my chan-ce to lo-ok at my se-cond co-usin
El-len's French chef. Step clo-ser, girl."
She kept her fa-ce im-pas-si-ve as chil-ling pa-nic clam-ped a hand aro-und
her small, hard he-art. Wil-ling her-self to be bra-ve, she step-ped for-ward,
in-to the murky light, and let him sta-re.
She wo-uldn't, co-uldn't me-et his ga-ze. She kept her hands clas-ped
lo-osely in front of her, her eyes on the fi-re, as she felt his eyes run over
her slen-der body. With luck he wo-uldn't no-ti-ce the fa-int trem-b-ling that
she co-uldn't qu-ite con-t-rol. With luck he wo-uldn't see the de-fi-an-ce in
her sho-ul-ders and the mur-de-ro-us hat-red in her he-art.
"I wo-uldn't call her a di-amond of the first wa-ter, wo-uld you, Tavvy?" he
draw-led, so-un-ding bles-sedly bo-red.
"No, sir," Ta-ver-ner rep-li-ed, bus-ying him-self with the tray of fo-od.
"I don't be-li-eve I'd he-ard that she was an-y-t-hing spe-ci-al. The-re's an
up-s-ta-irs ma-id na-me of Betsy that’s qu-ite a sa-ucy pi-ece…"
"I don't think I'm in-te-res-ted." He so-un-ded ab-s-t-rac-ted. "Still,
the-re's so-met-hing abo-ut the girl. Wo-uldn't you say so?"
She grit-ted her te-eth just slightly, unab-le to mo-ve, as the men
dis-cus-sed her.
"I wo-uldn't know, sir. She's not to my tas-te. I li-ke 'em with a lit-tle
mo-re me-at on the bo-nes. A warm cud-dle on a cold night, and all that."
"So do I," he sa-id, and she co-uld tell by the so-und of his vo-ice that he
was ri-sing from his lazy perch. Ri-sing, and mo-ving clo-ser. "But the-re's
so-met-hing abo-ut this one…"
He put his hand on her. His lar-ge, ele-gant hand un-der her chin, for-cing
her fa-ce aro-und to his. And then he drop-ped his hand with a star-t-led
la-ugh, mo-ving away. "Such an-ger, Mam-zel-le," he sa-id softly, in French.
"Such hat-red. You qu-ite as-to-und me."
She wo-uldn't spe-ak French with him. She wo-uldn't lo-ok at him, wo-uldn't
bre-at-he the sa-me air he bre-at-hed. If he to-uc-hed her aga-in she wo-uld
ta-ke the kni-fe from the tray that she'd car-ri-ed and plun-ge it in-to his
he-art.
"May I go, sir?" she re-qu-es-ted qu-i-etly, eyes still dow-n-cast.
"Cer-ta-inly. I ha-ve no wish to bed an angry fe-ma-le. At le-ast not
to-night."
That sur-p-ri-sed her in-to lo-oking at him, her mo-uth drop-ping open in
shock. The-re was a spe-cu-la-ti-ve ex-p-res-si-on in his dark eyes, one that
was al-most mo-re dis-tur-bing than his bri-ef to-uch had be-en.
"Mon-si-e-ur is mis-ta-ken. I am the chef," she sa-id. "Not a who-re."

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She didn't wa-it for his reply, or her dis-mis-sal. She tur-ned on her he-el
and left the ro-om, clo-sing the do-or very qu-i-etly be-hind her. The walk
back down to the kit-c-hens was a long one, and she mo-ved ste-adily,
si-lently, fig-h-ting the ur-ge to run as if her li-fe de-pen-ded on it.
I am not a who-re, she'd told the man who'd ma-de her be-co-me one. And she
knew, be-fo-re anot-her day pas-sed, that that day wo-uld be his last.

Chapter 2

Lady El-len Fit-z-wa-ter wasn't happy. She hadn't wan-ted to le-ave Gilly
be-hind, but she'd le-ar-ned, early on in her re-la-ti-on-s-hip with her chef
and fri-end, that the-re was no one mo-re stub-born than a Fren-c-h-wo-man.
They'd had the-ir di-sag-re-ements in the ye-ar sin-ce they'd met un-der
de-ci-dedly bi-zar-re cir-cum-s-tan-ces, and do-ub-t-less they'd ha-ve mo-re.
And Lady El-len Fit-z-wa-ter, a wo-man of a cer-ta-in age who con-si-de-red
her-self strong-min-ded, had lost every sin-g-le one of tho-se bat-tles.
As she'd lost this one. She'd had no op-ti-on but to wit-h-d-raw. Not that
she was af-ra-id of a wrong 'un li-ke Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne.
For-tu-na-tely she wasn't the sort of wo-man to at-tract a man li-ke Nicky. He
wo-uldn't of-fer her a car-te blan-c-he, a slip on the sho-ul-der, or any of
the ot-her myri-ad in-sults of-fe-red to an at-trac-ti-ve lady of a cer-ta-in
age.
Unfor-tu-na-tely the world didn't re-cog-ni-ze that she was sa-fe from
Nicky's ad-van-ces. Had she sta-yed un-der her own ro-of she wo-uld ha-ve
be-en bran-ded a fal-len wo-man. Her brot-her, Car-mic-ha-el, wo-uld ha-ve
be-en for-ced to ta-ke a stand, and if she we-ren't ca-re-ful she'd find
her-self mar-ri-ed to so-me-one as emi-nently un-su-itab-le as Nic-ho-las
Blac-k-t-hor-ne.
Not that he didn't ha-ve his ad-van-ta-ges. He was de-vi-lishly, wic-kedly
at-trac-ti-ve, even she re-cog-ni-zed that. And he pa-id ab-so-lu-tely no
at-ten-ti-on to the ru-les of so-ci-ety, anot-her sa-li-ent po-int. She was
al-re-ady so bo-und by so-ci-ety's stu-pid ru-les that she was be-ing run out
of her own ho-use be-ca-use of them. It wo-uld be mar-ve-lo-us to snap her
fin-gers at the pro-sing old gos-sips.
Ho-we-ver, the-re was a cer-ta-in lack of har-mony in Nic-ho-las
Blac-k-t-hor-ne's na-tu-re. A dis-t-res-sing abun-dan-ce of scan-dal, clo-se
calls, and a cer-ta-in moc-king na-tu-re ma-de him a most un-com-for-tab-le
can-di-da-te for mar-ri-age. He-re he was at al-most six and thirty, past
ti-me to be set-tling down and be-get-ting an he-ir, and what was he do-ing?
Run-ning away from a du-el, for he-aven's sa-ke! And if he kil-led his man,
which was still not out of the qu-es-ti-on, then he'd be off to the
con-ti-nent aga-in, for he-aven knew how long.
Not that an ab-sen-tee hus-band might not be qu-ite ple-asant, El-len
mu-sed. But even a day spent with so-me-one as un-set-tling as Nicky wo-uld be
mo-re than her tem-pe-ra-ment co-uld han-d-le.
It wo-uld be just as well for ever-yo-ne if Jason Har-g-ro-ve did cock up
his to-es. She'd only met him on-ce, and she hadn't li-ked him a bit. A slimy
pi-ece of go-ods, he was the sort of man who sto-od far too clo-se, who-se
hands lin-ge-red, who-se mo-uth was al-ways wet. And he che-ated at cards, or
so Car-mic-ha-el sa-id.
It was no won-der that his wi-fe tur-ned to so-me-one a lit-tle mo-re
pre-pos-ses-sing. It was just un-for-tu-na-te that Jason Har-g-ro-ve had
hap-pe-ned to catch Nicky, in flag-ran-te de-lic-to it was ru-mo-red. A du-el
was una-vo-idab-le, but Nicky didn't ha-ve to ma-ke it a kil-ling af-fa-ir.
Until Har-g-ro-ve re-co-ve-red or suc-cum-bed, all Nicky co-uld do was bi-de
his ti-me in the co-untry, out of re-ach of Bow Stre-et Run-ners and the
aut-ho-ri-ti-es. It wo-uldn't ha-ve be-en so bad if this we-re his first
du-el. In fact it was his se-venth, and if his bad luck held, it wo-uld be his
se-cond fa-ta-lity. Even his mo-re so-ber fa-mily con-nec-ti-ons co-uldn't

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ke-ep him from the con-se-qu-en-ces of his cur-rent mis-de-eds.
She'd told him so, too. She'd go-ne in-to gre-at de-ta-il abo-ut his lack of
man-ners and jud-g-ment, com-p-la-ining bit-terly abo-ut be-ing evic-ted from
her ple-asant ho-me be-ca-use of his im-p-ru-den-ce.
He'd simply ope-ned one eye and sta-red up at her from his lazy perch on her
cha-ise. "You ne-ver used to be such a prig, El-len," he ob-ser-ved.
"Did you ha-ve to mor-tal-ly wo-und him, Nicky?" she res-pon-ded with so-me
as-pe-rity. "After all, you we-re in the wrong. Sho-uldn't you ha-ve
de-lo-ped?"
"And got-ten my he-ad blown off for the tro-ub-le? I'm not such a fo-ol."
"As a mat-ter of fact, he did," Ta-ver-ner an-no-un-ced.
Ellen had jum-ped, star-t-led. She co-uld ne-ver get used to the fact that
Nicky's va-let se-emed to con-si-der him-self an equ-al, jo-ining in-to any
con-ver-sa-ti-on that su-ited his fancy. Not that she didn't try to tre-at
Ghis-la-ine the sa-me way. But Gilly kept erec-ting walls as fast as El-len
tri-ed to te-ar them down.
"What do you me-an, he did?" she de-man-ded ir-ri-tably.
"He me-ans I de-lo-ped, mo-re fo-ol me," Nic-ho-las mur-mu-red. "Every now
and then I ha-ve a nob-le mo-ment. Jason Har-g-ro-ve didn't cho-ose to be
ame-nab-le and ac-cept the to-ken apo-logy. If I hadn't duc-ked we wo-uldn't
be ha-ving this con-ver-sa-ti-on."
"You ne-edn't so-und so sur-p-ri-sed. I me-an, you are sup-po-sed to be
kil-ling each ot-her when you fight a du-el, aren't you?"
"Not ne-ces-sa-rily. In Har-g-ro-ve's ca-se I as-su-med he'd be sa-tis-fi-ed
with my apo-logy, or fa-iling that, first blo-od. In-s-te-ad the man tri-ed to
mur-der me." "Mur-der you?" she ec-ho-ed, con-fu-sed. "His first shot went
wild," Ta-ver-ner of-fe-red. "Blac-k-t-hor-ne bo-wed and tur-ned his back,
as-su-ming ho-nor was sa-tis-fi-ed and all that rub-bish. And then he shot
aga-in." "At yo-ur back?" She was ag-hast. "At my back," Nic-ho-las sa-id.
"Not only that, he had anot-her pis-tol in his gre-at-co-at, and was
re-ac-hing for that. I had no cho-ice. I was for-tu-na-te his bad ti-ming and
ab-y-s-mal lack of skill had sa-ved me twi-ce. I co-uldn't co-unt on that
hap-pe-ning aga-in." "So you kil-led him."
'That re-ma-ins to be se-en. Last I he-ard he was still clin-ging to li-fe
with re-mar-kab-le sta-mi-na. Don't you know that only the go-od die yo-ung?"
"That ac-co-unts for yo-ur ad-van-ced age," El-len sa-id with so-me
as-pe-rity. "But what do-es it say abo-ut me?"
"Only that you might not be such a star-c-hed-up prig af-ter all."
Nic-ho-las was eye-ing her with new, dan-ge-ro-us in-te-rest. "May-be you
sho-uld throw ca-uti-on to the wind and stay he-re af-ter all. You can't
ex-pect to ex-pe-ri-en-ce li-fe if you don't ta-ke a chan-ce or two."
"Don't even think it." Her vo-ice was se-ve-re. "You've known me sin-ce I
was in le-ading-st-rings, and you sho-uld ha-ve eno-ugh sen-se to re-ali-ze
that we sho-uldn't su-it."
He didn't pre-tend to mi-sun-der-s-tand. "I wasn't sug-ges-ting mar-ri-age,
El-len. I ha-ve no in-ten-ti-on of get-ting leg-shac-k-led, ever. That
do-esn't me-an that I can't in-t-ro-du-ce you to a few mo-re… physi-cal
ple-asu-res."
"Put a dam-per on it," she rep-li-ed, much ple-ased with her-self. She
wasn't tem-p-ted, not even for a mo-ment. Tho-ugh she al-most wis-hed she
we-re. "I don't ca-re what Car-mic-ha-el says-I want you to le-ave as so-on as
pos-sib-le. In the me-an-ti-me, don't ca-use tro-ub-le for my ser-vants. Don't
ha-rass the but-ler-he's too old for yo-ur tricks. Don't cha-se my
cham-ber-ma-ids-they're hard to find. And le-ave my co-ok alo-ne!" This was
sa-id with un-be-co-ming fe-ro-city, and the mo-ment the words we-re out of
her mo-uth she knew she'd ma-de a mis-ta-ke.
"The fa-mo-us fe-ma-le chef?" Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne sud-denly lo-oked a
gre-at de-al less drunk than he had mo-ments be-fo-re. "I wo-uld ha-ve
tho-ught she'd tra-vel with you."
"She re-fu-ses to go. You ke-ep away from her, Nicky, or I'll…"

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"The only co-oks I've known ha-ve be-en mo-un-ta-ino-us cre-atu-res,
wal-king ad-ver-ti-se-ments for the-ir skills. I hardly think I'm go-ing to
de-ve-lop a tas-te for lum-pish la-di-es at this po-int in my ca-re-er."
"She isn't…" El-len had the sen-se to stop. "See that you don't chan-ge
yo-ur mind," she sa-id in-s-te-ad.
But drun-ken Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne was far shar-per than she had
ho-ped. "I ta-ke it yo-ur co-ok isn't mo-un-ta-ino-us?" His vo-ice was silky,
dan-ge-ro-us.
"Le-ave her alo-ne, Nicky. For on-ce in yo-ur li-fe, do the de-cent thing."
She was shoc-ked by the ex-p-res-si-on on his fa-ce. A sud-den ble-ak-ness
was-hed over the charm and at-trac-ti-on. "I ne-ver do the de-cent thing,
El-len. It's part of my charm."
"Nicky…"
"Shall I re-ci-te to you my sins? May-be then, in yo-ur so con-ven-ti-onal
go-od-ness, you can ab-sol-ve me. Shall I tell you abo-ut the ta-vern ma-id
who drow-ned her-self when she fo-und she was preg-nant by me? Abo-ut my
mot-her, who was-ted away when my ol-der brot-her di-ed, kno-wing that in me
she had not-hing left to li-ve for? Abo-ut the de Lorgny fa-mily, who went to
the gu-il-lo-ti-ne be-ca-use I re-fu-sed to help them. You know the fa-mily
his-tory-mad-ness and evil abo-und. I co-uld tell you abo-ut the boy I kil-led
in a du-el ten ye-ars ago. A sim-p-le boy, in-no-cent, who had just ma-de the
gra-ve mis-ta-ke of lo-sing his for-tu-ne to me at the ga-ming tab-le and then
ac-cu-sing me of che-ating. He was gre-en, not much mo-re than a child,
re-al-ly, and his fa-mily's pri-de. And I snuf-fed out his li-fe when I was
too drunk to do mo-re than no-ti-ce. Shall I tell you mo-re?"
"No, Nicky," El-len sa-id fa-intly.
The ble-ak ex-p-res-si-on left his fa-ce, and he sud-denly lo-oked ye-ars
yo-un-ger, and alar-mingly at-trac-ti-ve. "And don't think you can sa-ve me
from my de-mons," he sa-id ca-su-al-ly. "Other wo-men ha-ve ma-de that
mis-ta-ke, only to be bro-ught down with me. Run away, El-len. Tell yo-ur
co-ok to ke-ep sa-fe in her kit-c-hen, tell yo-ur cham-ber-ma-ids to hi-de in
the-ir at-tics, tell the fat-hers to lock up the-ir da-ug-h-ters. The
des-po-iler of vir-tue has ar-ri-ved, and no one is sa-fe."
"Don't be ab-surd, Nicky." El-len's vo-ice was gen-t-le.
He lo-oked at her then, and she re-ali-zed the ble-ak-ness hadn't left
af-ter all. It had simply set-tled in his dark, un-fat-ho-mab-le eyes. "Don't
you be ab-surd, El-len. Run away."
She'd do-ne just that. Run, wit-ho-ut even bot-he-ring to pass along Nicky's
war-nings. In Ghis-la-ine's ca-se it wo-uld ha-ve do-ne no go-od. Ghis-la-ine
ne-ver lis-te-ned to war-nings, ne-ver se-emed to lis-ten to a word El-len
sa-id. It was a won-der they we-re fri-ends.
She al-so, ho-we-ver, kept her dis-tan-ce from men, and from the world
abo-ves-ta-irs. She al-lo-wed her mis-t-ress to be her fri-end, but only on
her terms.
When vi-si-tors we-re aro-und, Gilly re-ma-ined in the kit-c-hen. When
El-len was alo-ne in the ho-use with only the half-de-af Bin-nie for
com-pa-ni-on-s-hip, Ghis-la-ine wo-uld jo-in her.
If only she didn't ha-ve this mi-se-rab-le sen-se of fo-re-bo-ding that
le-aving Gilly at Ain-s-ley Hall had be-en tan-ta-mo-unt to se-aling her
do-om. It was ri-di-cu-lo-us, of co-ur-se. Of all the wo-men El-len had known
in her li-fe, no one was mo-re ab-le to ta-ke ca-re of her-self than Gilly.
She had sec-rets, El-len knew. Dark, ter-rib-le sec-rets, that put the
sha-dows in her eyes and the lit-tle catch in her la-ug-h-ter. Tho-se we-re
sec-rets she wo-uldn't sha-re, not with an-yo-ne, even a fri-end who wan-ted
to lig-h-ten the bur-den.
But tho-se sec-rets wo-uld al-so pro-tect her aga-inst the Nic-ho-las
Blac-k-t-hor-nes of the world, and wor-se. Ghis-la-ine had lo-oked in-to the
fa-ce of hell at one po-int in her li-fe, and she hadn't flin-c-hed. She'd
ma-ke min-ce-me-at of an-yo-ne who tri-ed to harm her.
Be-si-des, the-re was so-met-hing to be sa-id abo-ut an en-for-ced stay at

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her brot-her Car-mic-ha-el's se-at in So-mer-set. She truly li-ked her
sis-ter-in-law, Liz-zie; she do-ted on her ni-eces and nep-hews; and, best of
all, Car-mic-ha-el's best fri-end, Tony, was due for an unex-pec-ted vi-sit.
She ado-red the Ho-no-rab-le Sir An-tony Wil-ton-Gre-ening; the-re was no
ot-her word for it. Thank he-avens he was too in-do-lent to no-ti-ce. Or if he
had, too kind to ma-ke fun of her. She'd tra-iled aro-und af-ter him when
she'd be-en an awes-t-ruck child of eight and he'd co-me ho-me from the
uni-ver-sity with her ol-der brot-her. She'd tal-ked his ear off fi-ve ye-ars
la-ter when she was go-ing thro-ugh her hor-se-mad pe-ri-od; Tony was an
ac-k-now-led-ged whip and pri-me ex-pert on all kinds of hor-sef-lesh. And she
suf-fe-red thro-ugh the ago-ni-zing, em-bar-ras-sed she had not-hing left to
li-ve for? Abo-ut the de Lorgny fa-mily, who went to the gu-il-lo-ti-ne
be-ca-use I re-fu-sed to help them. You know the fa-mily his-tory-mad-ness and
evil abo-und. I co-uld tell you abo-ut the boy I kil-led in a du-el ten ye-ars
ago. A sim-p-le boy, in-no-cent, who had just ma-de the gra-ve mis-ta-ke of
lo-sing his for-tu-ne to me at the ga-ming tab-le and then ac-cu-sing me of
che-ating. He was gre-en, not much mo-re than a child, re-al-ly, and his
fa-mily's pri-de. And I snuf-fed out his li-fe when I was too drunk to do
mo-re than no-ti-ce. Shall I tell you mo-re?"
"No, Nicky," El-len sa-id fa-intly.
The ble-ak ex-p-res-si-on left his fa-ce, and he sud-denly lo-oked ye-ars
yo-un-ger, and alar-mingly at-trac-ti-ve. "And don't think you can sa-ve me
from my de-mons," he sa-id ca-su-al-ly. "Other wo-men ha-ve ma-de that
mis-ta-ke, only to be bro-ught down with me. Run away, El-len. Tell yo-ur
co-ok to ke-ep sa-fe in her kit-c-hen, tell yo-ur cham-ber-ma-ids to hi-de in
the-ir at-tics, tell the fat-hers to lock up the-ir da-ug-h-ters. The
des-po-iler of vir-tue has ar-ri-ved, and no one is sa-fe."
"Don't be ab-surd, Nicky." El-len's vo-ice was gen-t-le.
He lo-oked at her then, and she re-ali-zed the ble-ak-ness hadn't left
af-ter all. It had simply set-tled in his dark, un-fat-ho-mab-le eyes. "Don't
you be ab-surd, El-len. Run away."
She'd do-ne just that. Run, wit-ho-ut even bot-he-ring to pass along Nicky's
war-nings. In Ghis-la-ine's ca-se it wo-uld ha-ve do-ne no go-od. Ghis-la-ine
ne-ver lis-te-ned to war-nings, ne-ver se-emed to lis-ten to a word El-len
sa-id. It was a won-der they we-re fri-ends.
She al-so, ho-we-ver, kept her dis-tan-ce from men, and from the world
abo-ves-ta-irs. She al-lo-wed her mis-t-ress to be her fri-end, but only on
her terms.
When vi-si-tors we-re aro-und, Gilly re-ma-ined in the kit-c-hen. When
El-len was alo-ne in the ho-use with only the half-de-af Bin-nie for
com-pa-ni-on-s-hip, Ghis-la-ine wo-uld jo-in her.
If only she didn't ha-ve this mi-se-rab-le sen-se of fo-re-bo-ding that
le-aving Gilly at Ain-s-ley Hall had be-en tan-ta-mo-unt to se-aling her
do-om. It was ri-di-cu-lo-us, of co-ur-se. Of all the wo-men El-len had known
in her li-fe, no one was mo-re ab-le to ta-ke ca-re of her-self than Gilly.
She had sec-rets, El-len knew. Dark, ter-rib-le sec-rets, that put the
sha-dows in her eyes and the lit-tle catch in her la-ug-h-ter. Tho-se we-re
sec-rets she wo-uldn't sha-re, not with an-yo-ne, even a fri-end who wan-ted
to lig-h-ten the bur-den.
But tho-se sec-rets wo-uld al-so pro-tect her aga-inst the Nic-ho-las
Blac-k-t-hor-nes of the world, and wor-se. Ghis-la-ine had lo-oked in-to the
fa-ce of hell at one po-int in her li-fe, and she hadn't flin-c-hed. She'd
ma-ke min-ce-me-at of an-yo-ne who tri-ed to harm her.
Be-si-des, the-re was so-met-hing to be sa-id abo-ut an en-for-ced stay at
her brot-her Car-mic-ha-el's se-at in So-mer-set. She truly li-ked her
sis-ter-in-law, Liz-zie; she do-ted on her ni-eces and nep-hews; and, best of
all, Car-mic-ha-el's best fri-end, Tony, was due for an unex-pec-ted vi-sit.
She ado-red the Ho-no-rab-le Sir An-tony Wil-ton-Gre-ening; the-re was no
ot-her word for it. Thank he-avens he was too in-do-lent to no-ti-ce. Or if he
had, too kind to ma-ke fun of her. She'd tra-iled aro-und af-ter him when

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she'd be-en an awes-t-ruck child of eight and he'd co-me ho-me from the
uni-ver-sity with her ol-der brot-her. She'd tal-ked his ear off fi-ve ye-ars
la-ter when she was go-ing thro-ugh her hor-se-mad pe-ri-od; Tony was an
ac-k-now-led-ged whip and pri-me ex-pert on all kinds of hor-sef-lesh. And she
suf-fe-red thro-ugh the ago-ni-zing, em-bar-ras-sing pa-in of puppy lo-ve when
she was se-ven-te-en and he dan-ced with her at her first ball.
For two ye-ars af-ter-ward the-ir fri-en-d-s-hip had be-en stra-ined. Not
be-ca-use of him. Tony knew how to charm even the most re-cal-cit-rant of
fe-ma-les, and woo them out of the-ir sulks.
No, it was be-ca-use back then she co-uldn't be aro-und him wit-ho-ut
blus-hing scar-let and stam-me-ring, and tho-se im-pe-di-ments we-re so
em-bar-ras-sing that she simply kept away. She had wat-c-hed him from the
win-dows when he ca-me to vi-sit Car-mic-ha-el, she had pe-ered at him from
ac-ross crow-ded bal-lro-oms, she had scur-ri-ed out of his way whe-ne-ver she
co-uld. But at night, when she was alo-ne in her bed-ro-om, she dre-amed such
won-der-ful, im-pos-sib-le dre-ams. Dre-ams that ma-de her blush even de-eper
whe-ne-ver he was aro-und, dre-ams that ma-de her stam-mer even mo-re.
Po-si-ti-vely li-cen-ti-o-us dre-ams, whe-re he lo-ved her with a manly
pas-si-on and not a tra-ce of his in-do-lent ease.
She'd grown out of it, of co-ur-se, as all ado-les-cents, even the shyest
ones, do. He'd hel-ped, tho-ugh she ne-ver knew whet-her he'd gu-es-sed her
dark sec-ret or not. But he'd con-ti-nu-ed to tre-at her with the sa-me
brot-herly charm, te-asing her gently, hel-ping her thro-ugh the tra-uma. The
day his en-ga-ge-ment to the gor-ge-o-us Miss Stan-ley was an-no-un-ced, she
con-si-de-red slas-hing her wrists. The next day she told her-self she was
well on her way to be-ing cu-red.
Still, the fri-en-d-s-hip re-ma-ined. The-re we-re things she co-uld tell
him that she co-uld tell no one el-se, not even her brot-her. And she ne-ver
had to worry abo-ut the stil-ted ru-les of so-ci-ety, or flir-ta-ti-on, or
ma-le and fe-ma-le sil-li-ness. Tony wo-uld ne-ver, ever want so-me-one li-ke
her. Not when every sin-g-le hus-band-hun-ting fe-ma-le of be-a-uty and
for-tu-ne had flung her-self at his he-ad for the last fif-te-en ye-ars. She
co-uld be at ease with him now wit-ho-ut wor-rying what pe-op-le wo-uld think.
She was simply an ho-no-rary sis-ter, and she re-fu-sed to con-si-der
an-y-t-hing el-se.
It was still a won-der to her that Miss Stan-ley had cri-ed off. How
an-yo-ne co-uld ha-ve re-j-ec-ted Tony was be-yond El-len's
com-p-re-hen-si-on, both then and now. But Tony had simply shrug-ged, smi-led
his char-ming smi-le, and sa-id they wo-uldn't su-it.
"But why?" she'd be-en bold eno-ugh to push him, with the ar-ro-gan-ce of
her then ni-ne-te-en ye-ars and her re-cent re-co-very from her pas-si-on for
him.
For-tu-na-tely no one had be-en aro-und to chas-ti-se her for her
bol-d-ness. "Be-ca-use, de-ar El-len, she told me I simply didn't lo-ve her
eno-ugh. That if I had to cho-ose bet-we-en my hor-ses and her, I'd cho-ose
the hor-ses. Sin-ce she was ab-so-lu-tely right, I co-uldn't put up much of an
ar-gu-ment. I'm a sad ca-se, El-len. I sup-po-se I'll simply ha-ve to wa-it
for you to grow up and marry me."
She'd la-ug-hed, ig-no-ring the very fa-in-test rem-nant of a twin-ge. "I'm
al-re-ady old eno-ugh to get mar-ri-ed, Tony. And I'm cer-ta-inly not go-ing
to marry you."
"Why not?" he de-man-ded la-zily, a moc-king glint in his co-ol gray eyes.
"Be-ca-use," she sa-id, "if I had to cho-ose bet-we-en my hor-ses and you,
I'd pick the hor-ses."
He'd sho-uted with la-ug-h-ter at that, and she'd had no com-pun-c-ti-ons
abo-ut her flat-out lie. But she hadn't li-ed abo-ut one thing. Tony wo-uld be
the last man she'd marry. Simply be-ca-use he'd ne-ver ask her. One ne-ver got
one's ho-pes and dre-ams han-ded to one on a sil-ver plat-ter.
She'd ar-ri-ved at Me-adow-lands still fe-eling une-asy, but the word that
Tony had de-ci-ded to ma-ke a last-mi-nu-te vi-sit went a long way to-ward

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ba-nis-hing her con-cerns. She hadn't se-en him sin-ce Chris-t-mas, and she'd
mis-sed him. She al-ways mis-sed him, ter-ribly, but she jud-ged it wi-se to
ra-ti-on her ti-me with him. If she in-dul-ged too much, she might de-ve-lop a
fa-tal tas-te for him, the way cer-ta-in men de-ve-lop an at-trac-ti-on for
rum or ga-ming. On-ce ac-cus-to-med to his pre-sen-ce, she might be far too
un-wil-ling to gi-ve it up. So she only al-lo-wed her-self small do-ses, just
eno-ugh to ke-ep her spi-rits up.
She ne-eded her spi-rits lif-ted to-day. No mat-ter how of-ten she told
her-self that things wo-uld be fi-ne at Ain-s-ley Hall, that Gilly co-uld
ta-ke ca-re of her-self, she still had this dre-ad-ful sen-se of
fo-re-bo-ding. So-met-hing qu-ite de-vas-ta-ting was go-ing to hap-pen. And
her com-for-tab-le, pe-ace-ful li-fe was ne-ver go-ing to be the sa-me
aga-in.
"Such a to-do," Mrs. Raf-ferty cluc-ked, he-aving her mas-si-ve bulk on-to
one of the small kit-c-hen sto-ols. In anot-her pla-ce and ti-me Ghis-la-ine
wo-uld ha-ve wat-c-hed in amu-se-ment, won-de-ring whet-her the sto-ol wo-uld
wit-h-s-tand the as-sa-ult. But not to-day.
"In-de-ed." Wil-kins, the el-derly but-ler, har-rum-p-hed. "I don't know
abo-ut such go-in-gs-on in a gen-t-le-man's ho-use."
Ghis-la-ine ma-na-ged to bes-tir her-self. "Lady's ho-use," she cor-rec-ted
fa-intly, be-ca-use it was ex-pec-ted of her. 'This is Lady El-len's ho-use."
The two ot-her se-ni-or ser-vants had in-va-ded her kit-c-hen, sen-ding the
juni-or staff abo-ut the-ir bu-si-ness. It was la-te the next day, the staff
had fi-nis-hed cle-aning up af-ter sup-per, and Ghis-la-ine had the odd
no-ti-on that the three of them we-re con-s-pi-ra-tors. They we-ren't, of
co-ur-se. She had ac-ted alo-ne. As al-ways.
"Even wor-se," Mrs. Raf-ferty sa-id with a di-sap-pro-ving sniff. "For that
wic-ked man to die in his bed he-re is so-me-how… in-de-cent, thaf s what it
is."
Ghis-la-ine held her-self very still, the fa-mi-li-ar col-d-ness was-hing
over her. "He's de-ad, then?"
"No. Doc-tor Bran-ford ex-pects him to pull thro-ugh, which is a mi-xed
bles-sing as far as I'm con-cer-ned. Mr. Blac-k-t-hor-ne's ne-ver be-en
an-y-t-hing but a tri-al and di-sas-ter as far as his fa-mily is con-cer-ned.
Even so-me-one as dis-tantly re-la-ted as Lady El-len is af-fec-ted." Wil-kins
co-uld lo-ok very do-ur, and he did so now. "It wo-uld do ever-yo-ne a
ser-vi-ce if he we-re to qu-it this earth, but I'd rat-her he didn't do it in
Lady El-len's ho-use. Think of the ne-ig-h-bors."
"Such a mess, too," Mrs. Raf-ferty sa-id with a sigh. "Cas-ting up his
ac-co-unts all over the pla-ce. Gas-t-ri-tis, the doc-tor cal-led it. Se-ems
li-ke an un-p-le-asant way to die."
"I ima-gi-ne it is," Ghis-la-ine sa-id. "Is he past all dan-ger?"
"The doc-tor thinks so," Wil-kins sa-id glo-omily. "But he war-ned it might
re-oc-cur."
For a mo-ment Ghis-la-ine co-uld see Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne's fa-ce in
front of her. The dark, ble-ak eyes; the sen-su-al mo-uth; the dis-so-lu-te
be-a-uty of him. It cal-led to her, for one bri-ef, mad mo-ment.
"I rat-her think it will," she sa-id evenly.
"This we-ren't no ble-edin' gas-t-ri-tis," Ta-ver-ner pro-no-un-ced.
Nic-ho-las ma-na-ged to ra-ise his he-ad. He had abo-ut as much strength as
a new-born puppy, and God knew he didn't want to do an-y-t-hing to jar the
tem-po-rary pe-ace of his in-nards. If he we-re to start the dry he-aves
aga-in, he might re-ach for the pis-tol that had li-kely se-en the end of
Jason Har-g-ro-ve,and fol-low him in-to the gre-at be-yond. Or per-haps
pre-ce-de him.
Accor-ding to that fo-ol of a doc-tor, he al-most had. It had be-en two days
sin-ce he'd ta-ken sick, two days of the most wret-c-hed pur-ging his body had
ever en-du-red. For not the first ti-me in his li-fe he'd wan-ted to die,
an-y-t-hing to stop the fe-eling of ha-ving his in-nards rip-ped out. In the
shaky af-ter-math, such co-war-di-ce as-to-nis-hed him. He'd sur-vi-ved

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gun-s-hot wo-unds, kni-fings, and pro-bably not mo-re than his fa-ir sha-re of
be-arings, and he'd al-ways snap-ped his fin-gers at pa-in.
But the pa-in he'd en-du-red du-ring the last for-ty-eight ho-urs was li-ke
not-hing he'd ever ima-gi-ned. And that dam-ned doc-tor had war-ned him that
it might re-turn, that it might…
Ta-ver-ner's mut-te-red words fi-nal-ly pe-net-ra-ted. "What did you say,
Tavvy?"
"I sa-id it we-ren't no ble-eding gas-t-ri-tis. I've se-en gas-t-ri-tis. My
Un-c-le Ge-or-ge di-ed of it. It do-esn't work this way, not that sud-den. And
not with a yo-ung he-althy co-ve li-ke yo-ur-self."
Nic-ho-las ma-na-ged to pull him-self up in bed, cur-sing the trem-b-ling
we-ak-ness in his limbs. "What are you tal-king abo-ut?" he as-ked, his vo-ice
a flat de-mand.
"Po-ison, Blac-k-t-hor-ne. I think you've be-en po-iso-ned."
"Don't be ri-di-cu-lo-us! Who wo-uld po-ison me? If Har-g-ro-ve di-es, I
ima-gi-ne Me-lis-sa will be not-hing but gra-te-ful to me. No one el-se be-ars
him any af-fec-ti-on, and he has no fa-mily."
"Beg-ging yo-ur par-don, sir, but he's not yo-ur only enemy. You ha-ven't
li-ved a bla-me-less li-fe."
Nic-ho-las ma-na-ged a ghost of a smi-le. "Tru-er words we-re ne-ver
spo-ken, Tavvy. Not many pe-op-le wo-uld mo-urn my pas-sing. But the-re's a
qu-es-ti-on of op-por-tu-nity. I don't think El-len wo-uld ha-ve sprin-k-led
rat po-ison in the brandy be-fo-re she left."
"No mo-re brandy for you," Tavvy an-no-un-ced de-ci-si-vely.
"Don't be ab-surd, man!"
"And I'm go-ing to fix yo-ur me-als myself. I ne-ver did trust the French."
"Now you've re-al-ly go-ne mad. Next thing I know you'll be tel-ling me that
an-ci-ent old Wil-kins is aven-ging his des-po-iled da-ug-h-ter."
"Did you des-po-il his da-ug-h-ter?" Ta-ver-ner as-ked, mo-men-ta-rily
dis-t-rac-ted.
"I ha-ve no idea if he even has a da-ug-h-ter. If he do-es, and she's
pretty, and I was aro-und, then I ima-gi-ne I did just that."
"Tho-se are a lot of ifs. No, my mo-ney is on the Fren-c-hie."
Blac-k-t-hor-ne con-si-de-red this. "I ad-mit she didn't li-ke me much. I
hardly think that con-s-ti-tu-tes a mo-ti-ve for mur-der."
"I don't know what her mo-ti-ve was," Ta-ver-ner dec-la-red. "All I know is
she had a bet-ter chan-ce than an-yo-ne. She's the one who co-oked yo-ur
me-al, isn't she? And it ain't so-met-hing as sim-p-le as not li-king you. I
saw her fa-ce. She ha-tes you. Ha-tes you so-met-hing fi-er-ce."
"Ab-surd," Nic-ho-las sa-id, clo-sing his eyes and con-si-de-ring the
no-ti-on no-net-he-less.
"May-be. But I'm ke-eping a clo-se eye on her. And she don't put her
fo-re-ign hands on an-y-t-hing you eat. No one do-es but me."
"You su-re you're not po-iso-ning me, Tavvy?" he mur-mu-red, ex-ha-us-ted
from the strug-gle his body had be-en thro-ugh.
"Nah," his ser-vant rep-li-ed. "I'd stab you in the back if I'd a mind to.
Po-ison is a wo-man's ga-me."
"Per-haps," Nic-ho-las sa-id we-arily. "But I sug-gest for on-ce in yo-ur
li-fe you try to be sub-t-le. If it was po-ison, and she was the one who did
it, we ne-ed to catch her in the act."
"I'd li-ke to cut her thro-at."
Nic-ho-las wa-ved an im-pa-ti-ent hand. "Wa-it and see. Gi-ve me a co-up-le
of days to re-ga-in my strength. You in-sist on fi-xing all my fo-od, and
watch out for the in-g-re-di-ents she lets you use."
"What do you think I am, a flat?" Ta-ver-ner de-man-ded, in-cen-sed.
Nic-ho-las ig-no-red him. "Then, if the gas-t-ri-tis hasn't re-tur-ned and
I'm fe-eling bet-ter, we'll ha-ve her pre-pa-re me a splen-did me-al."
"We will?"
Nic-ho-las smi-led with ha-un-ting swe-et-ness. "And we'll ma-ke her eat it
first."

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Ta-ver-ner nod-ded, chuc-k-ling. "You al-ways we-re a bad 'un," he sa-id.
"I try, Tavvy. I do try." And clo-sing his eyes, Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne
fell in-to an ex-ha-us-ted sle-ep. Only to dre-am, inex-p-li-cably, of
Fran-ce.

Chapter 3

Nic-ho-las was twen-ty-two when he first went to Bur-gundy. He was old for a
grand to-ur, too old to ha-ve an im-po-ve-ris-hed cle-ric le-ading him aro-und
with a gu-ide-bo-ok. In-de-ed, his ma-in go-al in his to-ur of the con-ti-nent
was to ra-ise as much hell as he co-uld get away with.
He'd be-en sent down from Cam-b-rid-ge, of co-ur-se. It had ta-ken him the
bet-ter part of three ye-ars to ac-com-p-lish that, but in the end he did,
was-ting the ex-pen-si-ve edu-ca-ti-on his mar-ti-net of a fat-her had
pro-vi-ded for him.
It had be-en a clo-se call. The prob-lem was, he fo-und he ac-tu-al-ly
enj-oyed scho-lar-s-hip. He'd be-en on the ver-ge of so-me di-sas-t-ro-us
es-ca-pa-de, so-met-hing gu-aran-te-ed to blac-ken him in the eyes of all and
sundry, when so-met-hing wo-uld ta-ke his in-te-rest. And his in-te-rests
we-re dam-nably wi-de.
He stu-di-ed the la-test met-hods of ag-ri-cul-tu-re, he stu-di-ed the
pro-per-ti-es of elec-t-ri-city and the wor-kings of the hu-man body. He
im-mer-sed him-self in Gre-ek and La-tin, in the study of war-fa-re, in the
phi-lo-sop-hi-es of Pla-to and Sop-hoc-les. He even al-lo-wed him-self to be
tem-po-ra-rily se-du-ced by the wor-kings of the le-gal systems, be-fo-re his
go-al in li-fe re-vi-ved it-self.
That go-al be-ing to hu-mi-li-ate his fat-her. The fat-her who'd
hu-mi-li-ated him, ig-no-red him, tur-ned from him in dis-gust when his el-der
son and be-lo-ved wi-fe had di-ed. Not-hing Nic-ho-las ever did was go-od
eno-ugh for his fat-her; no at-tempt at ear-ning his lo-ve, or even his
ap-pro-val, suc-ce-eded. Even-tu-al-ly Nic-ho-las had gi-ven up trying,
de-ci-ding that if he was do-omed to di-sap-pro-val and dis-li-ke from his
fat-her, then he'd do his best to de-ser-ve it.
Not that his fat-her had li-ved a so-ber, bla-me-less li-fe. The-re was bad
blo-od in the Blac-k-t-hor-nes, the mad-ness ran de-ep, and Jep-t-hah
Blac-k-t-hor-ne, in his di-li-gen-ce to ap-pe-ar un-to-uc-hed by the fa-mily
in-s-ta-bi-lity, had car-ri-ed se-da-te be-ha-vi-or to an ex-t-re-me. And
Nic-ho-las had re-bel-led, flin-ging the dark fa-mily his-tory in his
fat-her's fa-ce on every oc-ca-si-on, un-til fi-nal-ly, when he was clo-se to
gra-du-ating with ho-nors, he'd ma-de his mo-ve. A drun-ken brawl, fol-lo-wed
by a hor-ren-do-us sce-ne in the an-ci-ent and con-ven-ti-onal-ly si-lent
lib-rary, fol-lo-wed by an ineb-ri-ated dis-rup-ti-on of a so-lemn church
ser-vi-ce, and Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne was out on his ear, dis-g-ra-ced.
He hadn't be-en ne-arly so drunk as he'd pre-ten-ded. Just drunk eno-ugh to
gi-ve him-self the co-ura-ge to do it. He'd re-mem-be-red the shoc-ked
ex-p-res-si-ons on the fa-ces of his pe-ers, his se-cond co-usin Car-mic-ha-el
Fit-z-wa-ter, for exam-p-le, and that lazy fop, An-tony Wil-ton-Gre-ening. And
he'd se-en the hor-ri-fi-ed ex-p-res-si-on on his fat-her's fa-ce as he'd
scre-amed im-p-re-ca-ti-ons at him be-fo-re col-lap-sing at his desk.
He'd felt no tri-umph la-ter that night as he'd sto-od by his fat-her's
bed-si-de and wat-c-hed him strug-gle for bre-ath. A mat-ter of ti-me, the
doc-tor sa-id. The next apop-lec-tic fit wo-uld carry him off, and un-less his
black-she-ep son ma-de him-self scar-ce, that fit wo-uld co-me all too so-on.
Nic-ho-las felt no gu-ilt. No-ne at all, he told him-self, as he wat-c-hed
his fat-her strug-gle. He wo-uld ha-ve be-en mo-re than happy to stay and
watch his fat-her die, if it hadn't be-en for the im-p-la-cab-le de-ci-si-on
of his el-derly Un-c-le Te-as-da-le.
His mot-her's ol-der brot-her was a bac-he-lor, one of high-li-ving tas-tes
and an ama-zing amo-unt of to-le-ran-ce. Nic-ho-las had al-ways wis-hed

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Te-as-da-le had be-en his fat-her, in-s-te-ad of the ri-gid, mi-se-rab-le old
man who'd ma-de his li-fe a tor-ment. May-be then the blac-k-ness wo-uldn't
eat in-to his so-ul as it had. But then, blo-od will tell. And the ta-in-ted
blo-od of the mad Blac-k-t-hor-nes ran thick and blue in his ve-ins.
Even to-le-rant Te-as-da-le drew the li-ne at inad-ver-tent pat-ri-ci-de.
He'd sent Nic-ho-las off on his grand to-ur with mo-re than eno-ugh funds from
his own pri-va-te ac-co-unt, and told him to co-me back a man. One re-ady to
le-arn res-pon-si-bi-lity.
And he might ha-ve do-ne just that. He'd dal-li-ed in the brot-hels of
Pa-ris, fal-len in lo-ve with Ve-ni-ce, and be-en be-wit-c-hed by Ro-me,
mo-ving thro-ugh the po-li-ti-cal tur-mo-il that was Euro-pe with a
sin-g-le-min-ded ab-sor-p-ti-on in his own ple-asu-re. He was re-ady to
re-turn ho-me, re-ady to ma-ke pe-ace with a fat-her who was, aga-inst all
odds, re-cu-pe-ra-ting. It was then he ma-de one of the worst mis-ta-kes in a
mis-ta-ke-st-rewn li-fe.
Res-pon-si-bi-lity, his Un-c-le Te-as-da-le had told him. One
res-pon-si-bi-lity was to ma-ke a co-ur-tesy vi-sit to his god-pa-rents in
Bur-gundy, god-pa-rents he'd ne-ver even met. The Com-te and Com-tes-se de
Lorgny had be-en fri-ends of his mot-her's, the-ir po-si-ti-on as his
god-pa-rents only a for-ma-lity. But tho-se for-ma-li-ti-es be-gat mo-re
for-ma-li-ti-es, and the-re was no way he co-uld go an-y-w-he-re ne-ar
Bur-gundy wit-ho-ut spen-ding se-ve-ral nights at the-ir cha-te-au.
For on-ce he was on his best be-ha-vi-or. The long ab-sen-ce from his
fat-her and the sha-dows of his chil-d-ho-od in-s-til-led in him the de-si-re
to be a new man, and he was do-ing his best to li-ve up to that de-si-re. He
was po-li-te and de-fe-ren-ti-al to the old com-te, char-ming to his lit-tle
bir-d-li-ke wi-fe, brot-herly to the yo-ung boy, Char-les-Lo-u-is.
But it was the da-ug-h-ter who dis-tur-bed him. The one with the odd na-me,
Ghis-la-ine, and the hu-ge, trus-ting eyes. The skinny boy's body with
bre-asts just be-gin-ning to bud be-hind the tight silk bo-di-ces of her
dres-ses. The qu-ick, de-li-ca-te ges-tu-res, the sil-very ma-gic of her
la-ug-h-ter. The pu-re, in-no-cent gra-ce of her to-re at his he-art. And at
his lo-ins.
He'd bed-ded a num-ber of wil-ling fe-ma-les du-ring his so-j-o-urn on the
con-ti-nent. Bar-ma-ids and aris-toc-rats, cham-ber-ma-ids and duc-hes-ses,
he'd had his pick of any num-ber of ac-com-mo-da-ting wo-men. He had no
de-lu-si-ons abo-ut his ap-pe-al. He knew he had a way abo-ut him, a cer-ta-in
com-bi-na-ti-on of form and fe-atu-res, that wo-men fo-und at-trac-ti-ve. And
he dis-co-ve-red wit-hin him-self a dan-ge-ro-us kind of charm that ma-de that
at-trac-ti-on even mo-re vo-la-ti-le.
But the wo-men we-re all ex-pe-ri-en-ced. All ol-der than he was, all
bu-xom, sen-su-al fe-ma-les with eager ap-pe-ti-tes and sop-his-ti-ca-ted
prac-ti-ces. He'd le-ar-ned a gre-at de-al from them, and enj-oyed him-self
im-men-sely.
But he'd ne-ver be-en mo-ved by so-me-one lit-tle mo-re than a child.
Wan-ted so-me-one trem-b-ling on the very ed-ge of wo-man-ho-od. His very
lon-ging for her dis-gus-ted him, but as each day pas-sed, and the three-day
vi-sit stret-c-hed in-to we-eks, that lon-ging in-c-re-ased un-til it was an
ob-ses-si-on.
He as-su-med she didn't know. She was too yo-ung, too in-no-cent to
re-ali-ze what was go-ing on in his satyr's mind every ti-me she to-ok his
hand, smi-led up at him, kis-sed his che-ek, and left a tra-il of de-li-ca-te
per-fu-me be-hind.
It co-uld ha-ve go-ne on fo-re-ver. Or at le-ast un-til she was old eno-ugh,
if fa-te hadn't con-s-pi-red to chan-ge his li-fe. To halt the right turn he'd
ma-de, sen-ding him tum-b-ling back in-to blac-k-ness and des-pa-ir. In-to
evil.
He'd known what the let-ter wo-uld con-ta-in the mo-ment he'd re-cog-ni-zed
his Un-c-le Te-as-da-le's han-d-w-ri-ting. Te-as-da-le wo-uld ne-ver wri-te
an-y-t-hing mo-re te-di-o-us than a ga-ming IOU un-less it was a mat-ter of

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li-fe and de-ath. In-de-ed, it was the lat-ter.
Sir Jep-t-hah Blac-k-t-hor-ne had suc-cum-bed to anot-her fit of apop-lexy.
Te-as-da-le hadn't gi-ven any of the par-ti-cu-lars, but Nic-ho-las co-uld
well ima-gi-ne them. He'd pro-bably di-ed la-men-ting the fact that his na-me
and his es-ta-tes co-uld only des-cend to a wor-t-h-less, ram-s-hac-k-le
cre-atu-re li-ke his yo-un-ger sur-vi-ving son. He pro-bably cur-sed him with
his dying bre-ath, ne-ver kno-wing that Nic-ho-las had ma-de his first
ten-ta-ti-ve steps on the ro-ad to-ward re-dem-p-ti-on.
He sat alo-ne in the gar-dens of Sans Do-ute, the ele-gant co-untry es-ta-te
of his god-pa-rents, and crum-p-led the let-ter in his lar-ge hand. The-re was
a cu-ri-o-us bur-ning in his eyes, one that must ha-ve be-en oc-ca-si-oned by
the brig-h-t-ness of the over-cast sun. A si-mi-lar ac-he ho-ve-red
so-mew-he-re mid-chest, and he as-c-ri-bed that to a sur-fe-it of port with
his god-fat-her the night be-fo-re. He sat alo-ne, dry-eyed, and felt the
first fi-ery ten-d-rils of ra-ge be-gin to re-kin-d-le in-si-de him.
It was the-re his god-fat-her fo-und him. Com-te de Lorgny was a kindly man,
but one not gi-ven to sen-si-ti-vity or in-t-ros-pec-ti-on. To gi-ve him his
due, he had a gre-at de-al on his mind at the mo-ment, chi-ef of which was to
ask a hu-ge fa-vor of his char-ming god-son.
"News from ho-me?" he in-qu-ired, ta-king a se-at on the mar-b-le bench next
to Nic-ho-las's tightly strung body.
Nic-ho-las sho-ved the let-ter in-to his poc-ket. "Not-hing to sig-nify," he
rep-li-ed with ut-most ca-su-al-ness. "It se-ems I've got to re-turn to
En-g-land. To-mor-row."
The co-met's ro-und fa-ce pa-led slightly. "Then per-haps now is as go-od a
ti-me as any for our lit-tle talk."
It to-ok a mo-ment for Nic-ho-las to ro-use him-self from his fu-ri-o-us
ab-s-t-rac-ti-on. "Lit-tle talk?"
"Abo-ut the fu-tu-re."
"With due res-pect, sir, I wasn't awa-re that our fu-tu-res we-re in any way
con-nec-ted."
Com-te de Lorgny cle-ared his thro-at and lo-oked mi-se-rab-le. "Not as
yet," he al-lo-wed. "Per-haps you'll al-low me to ex-p-la-in a few things to
you?"
At that mo-ment Nic-ho-las wasn't in-te-res-ted in any ex-p-la-na-ti-ons.
His mind was pre-oc-cu-pi-ed with how he was go-ing to re-turn to En-g-land as
qu-ickly as pos-sib-le. And what he'd find when he got the-je. He simply
nod-ded, pa-ying scant at-ten-ti-on whi-le the lit-tle old man ram-b-led on
abo-ut the un-set-tled so-ci-al con-di-ti-ons in Fran-ce, the up-ri-sings of
the pe-asants, the tro-ub-led si-tu-ati-on in Pa-ris.
"Not that I think it will co-me to an-y-t-hing," he ad-ded hur-ri-edly.
"Fran-ce has sto-od for mo-re than a tho-usand ye-ars-the rab-ble won't be
al-lo-wed to des-t-roy it. Ne-ver-t-he-less, I am tro-ub-led, de-eply
tro-ub-led."
Nic-ho-las ma-de a non-com-mit-tal no-ise. He co-uld hi-re pas-sa-ge on one
of the mer-c-hant bo-ats that pli-ed the-ir tra-de, both le-gal and il-le-gal,
bet-we-en Ca-la-is and Do-ver. He was mo-re than adept at tur-ning a blind eye
to the oc-ca-si-onal cask of brandy. Su-rely he'd be ab-le to find pas-sa-ge…
"So I'd li-ke you to ta-ke Ghis-la-ine," the old man was sa-ying.
"What?" Nic-ho-las for-got abo-ut smug-gling for the mo-ment to sta-re at
his god-fat-her in shock.
"I'd li-ke you to ta-ke Ghis-la-ine with you to En-g-land. I've wor-ked out
an es-ca-pe ro-ute for Ma-de-le-ine and Char-les-Lo-u-is, if things ever co-me
to that. But the-re is only ro-om for three, not fo-ur. And we will not le-ave
if we don't know Ghis-la-ine is sa-fe."
Nic-ho-las was ha-ving tro-ub-le ma-king sen-se of the old man's ra-vings.
"Sa-fe? What the hell are you tal-king abo-ut?"
The com-te flin-c-hed. "The po-li-ti-cal si-tu-ati-on," he sa-id with a
tra-ce of as-pe-rity. "Ha-ven't you be-en lis-te-ning to a word I've sa-id?
It's ex-t-re-mely vo-la-ti-le. If things con-ti-nue as they are, we'll be

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sa-fer if we le-ave the co-untry for a whi-le."
"Then le-ave the co-untry."
"Ifs not that sim-p-le. Cer-ta-inly, if we left now, we co-uld all be
to-get-her. But I'm not pre-pa-red. I ha-ve in-ves-t-ments, ob-li-ga-ti-ons…"
"In ot-her words, no cash."
De Lorgny win-ced. "You put it bluntly. But yes. I will ha-ve to
li-qu-ida-te cer-ta-in hol-dings in or-der to li-ve with a mo-di-cum of
com-fort un-til this un-for-tu-na-te si-tu-ati-on im-p-ro-ves. I am
con-cer-ned that if we wa-it that long, we'll ha-ve to use the fi-nal es-ca-pe
ro-ute I've ar-ran-ged, and that ro-ute do-esn't al-low ro-om for a yo-ung
wo-man. The-re-fo-re, I'm as-king you as a gen-t-le-man and a fri-end to ta-ke
Ghis-la-ine with you."
"No," Nic-ho-las sa-id flatly.
De Lorgny was no lon-ger pa-le. He was red with sud-den an-ger. "No?" he
ec-ho-ed. "Just li-ke that. You can't-"
"I cer-ta-inly can. You know as well as I do what ta-king her with me wo-uld
me-an. I wo-uld ha-ve to marry her."
The words fell in si-len-ce on the gol-den autumn af-ter-no-on. "Per-haps I
ha-ve be-en mis-ta-ken," Com-te de Lorgny sa-id ca-re-ful-ly. "I had tho-ught
the-re might be a… ten-der-ness of fe-eling in yo-ur he-art to-ward my
da-ug-h-ter. A cer-ta-in-"
"You are mis-ta-ken," he sa-id flatly. "Any ten-der-ness of fe-eling is on
yo-ur da-ug-h-ter's si-de, not mi-ne. She is a child. I am not in the ha-bit
of bed-ding chil-d-ren, or of mar-rying them. You will ha-ve to ma-ke ot-her
ar-ran-ge-ments." His vo-ice was cold, im-p-la-cab-le, his he-art a block of
ice. De-li-be-ra-tely he shut out the ima-ge of Ghis-la-ine, with her hu-ge,
mis-c-hi-evo-us eyes; her el-fin fa-ce; the slen-der, bo-yish body that was
far mo-re en-ti-cing than he let her fat-her know. He had no ro-om in his
he-art for sof-t-ness, kin-d-ness, or vul-ne-rab-le lit-tle girls.
"Even tho-ugh you know you might be put-ting Ghis-la-ine in-to mor-tal
dan-ger?"
"It's not my res-pon-si-bi-lity, mon-si-e-ur. It's yo-urs." He ro-se,
fe-eling dis-tant, angry. "I think I'd bet-ter ma-ke ar-ran-ge-ments to
le-ave."
De Lorgny didn't mo-ve for a mo-ment. "I can-not chan-ge yo-ur mind?"
"You can-not."
"Then it wo-uld be best if you left. Now."
Nic-ho-las ma-na-ged a ci-vil nod, tur-ning away from the bit-ter old man.
It was then he saw her.
She must ha-ve he-ard al-most every word that had be-en spo-ken. Her
fat-her's re-qu-est that he ta-ke her with him. His flat-out re-fu-sal and
re-nun-ci-ati-on of her.
She didn't lo-ok li-ke a child at all. Her fa-ce was pa-le, with two bright
red spots of emo-ti-on on her high che-ek-bo-nes. Her eyes we-re very dark in
her whi-te fa-ce, and her wi-de, mo-bi-le mo-uth that co-uld tilt so
en-c-han-tingly was now as-hen and trem-b-ling. She lo-oked at him, and the-re
was mi-sery, lo-ve, and hat-red in her eyes. He was go-ing to turn his back on
her, and ne-ver see her aga-in. And he'd ne-ver wan-ted her mo-re.
Ghis-la-ine sat in her kit-c-hen, the black dog cur-led pe-ace-ful-ly
be-ne-ath her cha-ir, her small fe-et to-get-her, her strong hands clas-ped
lo-osely in her lap. So-oner or la-ter she wo-uld ha-ve anot-her chan-ce, and
next ti-me she co-uldn't ma-ke a mis-ta-ke. It had be-en hard eno-ugh the
first ti-me. Her hands had trem-b-led when she ad-ded the rat po-ison, her
brow had be-en drip-ping swe-at, and one of the scul-lery ma-ids had had the
te-me-rity to ask her if she was fe-eling well.
She'd res-pon-ded with her usu-al co-ol-ness, wi-ping her brow and hi-ding
her trem-b-ling hands from the kit-c-hen full of wit-nes-ses. She sho-uld
ha-ve be-en fe-eling ut-terly glo-ri-o-us. The man who'd des-t-ro-yed her
fa-mily was go-ing to die, at her hands. She wo-uld no lon-ger be a vic-tim.
She wo-uld be a vic-tor, so-me-one who grab-bed ven-ge-an-ce by the thro-at

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and sho-ok it in-to sub-mis-si-on. Tho-se mes-me-ri-zing dark blue eyes wo-uld
be shut fo-re-ver, that han-d-so-me body wo-uld be still and cold. He wo-uld
be de-ad, along with ever-yo-ne el-se she'd ca-red abo-ut. He'd be whe-re he
be-lon-ged.
Except that it hadn't wor-ked out that way. For two days and nights he'd
suf-fe-red, and then, blast him, he'd re-co-ve-red. We-ak, ba-rely ab-le to
to-le-ra-te much mo-re than the broth and to-ast that his evil-lo-oking va-let
pre-pa-red for him, he'd still ma-na-ged to che-at de-ath. This ti-me.
But her chan-ce wo-uld co-me aga-in-it was bo-und to. And next ti-me she
wo-uldn't ma-ke a mis-ta-ke. She'd put eno-ugh in the fo-od to kill a hor-se.
Ma-ke it mer-ci-ful-ly swift for him, tho-ugh he didn't de-ser-ve mercy. And
then she co-uld eit-her ma-ke her own me-al of his po-iso-ned fo-od or ac-cept
the gal-lows.
She was wrong when she tho-ught that ever-yo-ne she ca-red abo-ut had di-ed.
She ca-red abo-ut El-len, abo-ut the scan-dal that wo-uld fol-low. If the-re
was so-me way to spa-re her, she'd ta-ke that way. But short of aban-do-ning
her plans for re-ven-ge, the-re was not-hing. •
May-be, on-ce she was cer-ta-in he was de-ad, she'd run. Just di-sap-pe-ar.
The-re we-re plenty of ponds and la-kes ne-arby, and the oce-an was less than
a day away, even on fo-ot. May-be she'd rat-her no one ever fo-und her body.
Just di-sap-pe-ar.
She'd de-ci-de when the ti-me ca-me. For now, all she co-uld do was be
pa-ti-ent, and de-ter-mi-ned. Her re-sol-ve co-uldn't wa-ver. If it did, she
wo-uld re-mem-ber her pa-rents, small, shri-ve-led, pat-he-tic. And very, very
bra-ve, as they clim-bed the steps to the scaf-fold for the-ir fi-nal me-eting
with Ma-da-me La Gu-il-lo-ti-ne. Or she wo-uld think of her lit-tle brot-her.
Nic-ho-las dre-amed of her that first ye-ar. When day-light ca-me, and his
tho-ughts we-re his own, he ba-nis-hed her pre-sen-ce. But at night, in
sle-ep, she'd re-turn to ha-unt him. Her slen-der body, her rip-pling
la-ug-h-ter, her de-li-ca-te hands and merry smi-le. And he'd won-der whet-her
he hadn't ma-de a very gra-ve mis-ta-ke.
The si-tu-ati-on in Fran-ce went from bad to wor-se, but he told him-self
Com-te de Lorgny was too savvy a man to wa-it too long. He wo-uld get his
fa-mily and his for-tu-ne sa-fely out of Fran-ce, and he'd marry his
da-ug-h-ter off to so-me ot-her we-althy fo-re-ig-ner. Be-si-des, as he'd told
the man, it wasn't his res-pon-si-bi-lity. It wasn't gu-ilt he was fe-eling
when word ca-me that the king had be-en ar-res-ted when he tri-ed to le-ave
the co-untry. That all of Fran-ce was in tur-mo-il. That the gu-il-lo-ti-ne
had star-ted its dre-ad-ful work.
His fat-her had left a gre-at de-al less than Nic-ho-las had ex-pec-ted. The
es-ta-tes we-re en-cum-be-red, fal-ling in-to ru-in, and the-re was no mo-ney
to put them right. He did what any rig-ht-thin-king gen-t-le-man wo-uld do,
and tur-ned to the ga-ming tab-les. So-me-ti-mes he lost, but mo-re of-ten he
won. It was af-ter a par-ti-cu-larly luc-ra-ti-ve night that his Un-c-le
Te-as-da-le had fo-und him at his club, nur-sing a la-te-night brandy be-fo-re
re-tur-ning to the slightly dec-re-pit con-fi-nes of his fat-her's Lon-don
ho-use. He usu-al-ly lis-te-ned to the news of Fran-ce with only half an ear,
pre-fer-ring to ig-no-re the plight of that un-hap-py co-untry and its
in-ha-bi-tants. To-night, ho-we-ver, was fa-ted to be a dif-fe-rent mat-ter.
"Tho-ught you might want to know," Te-as-da-le had sa-id, set-tling his
im-p-res-si-ve bulk in the cha-ir op-po-si-te him and sig-na-ling for his own
brandy.
"I pro-bably don't," Nic-ho-las sa-id la-zily. "When pe-op-le think I
sho-uld know things it's usu-al-ly so-met-hing un-p-le-asant. What do you
think I sho-uld know?"
"Yo-ur god-pa-ren-ts-de Lorgny, wasn't that the na-me? Didn't you stay with
them when yo-ur fat-her di-ed?"
Nic-ho-las was swir-ling the brandy in his snif-ter. He didn't pa-use, just
kept swir-ling it, his eyes in-tent on the rich am-ber li-qu-id. "I did. What
abo-ut them?" he as-ked, tho-ugh he al-re-ady knew.

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"They went to the gu-il-lo-ti-ne. En-ti-re fa-mily, from what I can ma-ke
out; chil-d-ren too. Un-ci-vi-li-zed bas-tards," he ad-ded. "Filthy rab-ble,
ma-king war on chil-d-ren."
Nic-ho-las kept swir-ling the brandy. 'The-re's no do-ubt?" he as-ked in a
ca-re-ful-ly id-le to-ne of vo-ice. "The chil-d-ren too?"
"The-re's al-ways do-ubt-you know what a mess things are over the-re. But my
so-ur-ces, damn them, are qu-ite re-li-ab-le. Too bad. You'd a fon-d-ness for
them, hadn't you?"
Nic-ho-las ra-ised his he-ad and lo-oked at his un-c-le's flo-rid fa-ce and
ex-pan-ding wa-is-t-co-at. He had grown qu-ite used to that empty, hol-low
fe-eling. Grown used to hi-ding what he didn't want se-en. "I scar-cely
re-mem-ber them," he sa-id. "So tell me, are you plan-ning on at-ten-ding the
Ches-ter-tons' ro-ut?"
Te-as-da-le lo-oked at him for a long mo-ment, an odd ex-p-res-si-on on his
fa-ce. As if he didn't be-li-eve what he was se-e-ing. "So-me-how I don't
ha-ve the he-art for it," he sa-id he-avily, dra-ining his brandy and set-ting
the snif-ter down with a tiny, de-ci-si-ve snap. "Didn't de Lorgny ha-ve a
da-ug-h-ter?"
Nic-ho-las shrug-ged. "He may ha-ve. Co-me to think of it, I be-li-eve
the-re was one. Just ba-rely past ado-les-cen-ce. Na-med Gi-sel-le, or
so-met-hing." His eyes met his un-c-le's and he re-ali-zed the old man wasn't
fo-oled. Te-as-da-le knew him far bet-ter than Nic-ho-las knew him-self.
"Ghis-la-ine," he sa-id, ha-ving known it all along. "Her na-me is
Ghis-la-ine."
"Was," Te-as-da-le cor-rec-ted. And then he he-aved his bulk from the
cha-ir. "I'm go-ing to rus-ti-ca-te. This ta-kes the he-art out of a man.
You're wel-co-me to jo-in me at Am-ber-fi-elds."
Nic-ho-las sho-ok his he-ad. "No, thank you, Un-c-le. I'm qu-ite lo-oking
for-ward to the Ches-ter-tons."
Te-as-da-le sta-red at him for a mo-ment lon-ger, then sho-ok his he-ad. "As
you wish, m'boy." And he wal-ked away.
Nic-ho-las wa-ited un-til he was go-ne. The night was dark out-si-de the
club win-dow, dark and si-lent, and he fo-und him-self thin-king that it
wo-uld be a for-tu-na-te thing if the ot-her mem-bers ste-ered cle-ar of him
that night. They might reg-ret tan-g-ling with him.
The ti-me pas-sed. No one ap-pro-ac-hed him-his
tem-per was le-gen-dary, and Te-as-da-le had war-ned them when he left.
Fi-nal-ly, as dawn was stre-aking over the city stre-et, Nic-ho-las de-ci-ded
to re-turn ho-me. He lo-oked down at his hand in re-mo-te won-der.
The brandy snif-ter had be-en crus-hed, the shards of glass dig-ging in-to
his skin. So-me of the blo-od had al-re-ady dri-ed on his long fin-gers, so-me
had po-oled on the flo-or be-ne-ath him.
He sto-od up, brus-hing the sli-vers of glass from his skin, pa-using long
eno-ugh to pick out the lar-ger pi-eces. And then, wrap-ping his silk
han-d-ker-c-hi-ef aro-und his palm, he wal-ked out in-to the ear-ly-mor-ning
light.
One we-ek la-ter he kil-led his first man in a du-el. His Un-c-le
Te-as-da-le di-ed wit-hin the ye-ar, but by that ti-me even the
in-he-ri-tan-ce of his es-ta-tes didn't help Nic-ho-las's fi-nan-ci-al
si-tu-ati-on. He sold what he co-uld, let the rest mol-der, and re-tur-ned to
the ga-ming tab-les with a ven-ge-an-ce.
It to-ok a gre-at de-al lon-ger to go to hell then he wo-uld ha-ve
ima-gi-ned, gi-ven the sin-g-le-min-ded de-di-ca-ti-on he ap-pli-ed to the
task. Even the bot-tle co-uldn't pro-vi-de the ob-li-vi-on he so-ught, and
fle-ecing yo-ung men of the-ir for-tu-nes be-gan to lo-se its charm.
Par-ti-cu-larly sin-ce he re-fu-sed to che-at, and his vic-tims we-re such
ab-y-s-mal-ly rot-ten ga-mes-ters.
He'd be-en half-ho-ping Jason Har-g-ro-ve wo-uld put a mer-ci-ful end to his
exis-ten-ce. He hadn't re-al-ly be-en at-trac-ted to his gre-edy, lust-fil-led
lit-tle wi-fe, but he sel-dom tur-ned down an in-vi-ta-ti-on to bed if the

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wo-man is-su-ing the in-vi-ta-ti-on was mar-ri-ed, we-althy, and qu-ite
be-a-uti-ful. When he'd de-lo-ped he'd known the man he was me-eting wasn't
the type to ho-nor that im-p-li-ed apo-logy.
If only Har-g-ro-ve hadn't be-en such a ter-rib-le shot. Nic-ho-las
Blac-k-t-hor-ne cer-ta-inly wan-ted to die, but he was dam-ned if he was
go-ing to stand aro-und in the ear-ly-mor-ning chill whi-le a bac-k-s-tab-bing
fo-ol to-ok pot-s-hots at him. He'd fi-nal-ly gi-ven up and en-ded the far-ce,
pro-bably en-ding Har-g-ro-ve's li-fe too. And then he'd de-cam-ped, his
long-sub-mer-ged sur-vi-val in-s-tincts co-ming to the fo-re.
And now he-re he was, with so-me-one qu-ite de-ter-mi-ned to kill him.
Hu-man na-tu-re was odd, he tho-ught, dis-da-ining Tavvy's help as he dres-sed
with ca-re. One might wish an un-be-arab-le li-fe to co-me to an end, but it
had to be on one's own terms. He cer-ta-inly wasn't go-ing to sit still whi-le
a petty po-iso-ner fi-nis-hed him off.
The do-or to his bed-ro-om ope-ned. Tavvy of co-ur-se, ne-ver bot-he-ring to
knock. "You su-re you're re-ady for this?" he as-ked, his swarthy fa-ce
di-sap-pro-ving. "You still don't lo-ok qu-ite ste-ady on yer pins."
Nic-ho-las wa-ved an airy hand at him. "I'm per-fectly fit. At le-ast, fit
eno-ugh to de-al with the co-ok, if in-de-ed she is our Luc-re-tia Bor-gia. I
still can't ima-gi-ne why she'd want to kill me."
"Fin-ding pe-op-le who want to kill you isn't the prob-lem,
Blac-k-t-hor-ne," Tavvy sa-id. "Fin-ding pe-op-le who don't want to kill you
will be a gre-at de-al mo-re dif-fi-cult."
Nic-ho-las fo-und him-self amu-sed. "I ha-ven't li-ved an exem-p-lary
li-fe," he al-lo-wed. "As a mat-ter of fact, I was mo-re than re-ady to ha-ve
it en-ded for me. Un-til this."
Ta-ver-ner snor-ted. "You su-re you wo-uldn't want to just eat wha-te-ver
gets put in front of you and ta-ke yo-ur chan-ces?"
"A we-ek ago I wo-uld ha-ve do-ne just that. Now I ha-ve a new in-te-rest in
li-fe. It's ama-zing how ha-ving so-me-one try to mur-der you can gi-ve you a
new le-ase on li-fe."
"It can that," his va-let draw-led, but even Nic-ho-las co-uldn't miss the
dark sha-dow of con-cern in Tavvy's flat black eyes. "I'll tell her to bring
up the tray myself, shall I?"
"Do that," Nic-ho-las sa-id, run-ning a hand thro-ugh his rum-p-led ha-ir
and smi-ling swe-etly. "I'm re-ady to be en-ter-ta-ined."

Chapter 4

“Penny for yo-ur tho-ughts," a gen-t-le, mel-lif-lu-o-us vo-ice bro-ke
thro-ugh El-len's ab-s-t-rac-ti-on as she sat with her brot-her in the
Sha-kes-pe-are gar-den at Me-adow-lands, and she lo-oked up, stra-ight in-to
the warm gray eyes of An-tony Wil-ton-Gre-ening.
"Tony!" she shri-eked, ma-idenly de-co-rum aban-do-ned as she flung her-self
aga-inst his bro-ad chest.
"Ho-nestly, El-len, you'd think you we-re twel-ve ye-ars old in-s-te-ad of
so-me-one on the shelf," her brot-her, Car-mic-ha-el, sa-id ir-ri-tably. "Stop
pa-wing Tony and let the rest of us gre-et him."
At her brot-her's sharp words, sud-den self-con-s-ci-o-us-ness flo-oded her,
tur-ning her pa-le fa-ce pink with em-bar-ras-sment, and she tri-ed to pull
away in sha-me. But Tony, de-ar, swe-et Tony, ca-ught her hand and pul-led her
arm aro-und his wa-ist, ke-eping her snugly by his si-de. "I hap-pen to li-ke
ha-ving El-len paw me," he sa-id la-zily. "And un-less you in-tend to kiss me,
Car-mic-ha-el, the-re's plenty of ro-om left for you to gre-et me. I am
rat-her lar-ge, you know."
"A mo-un-ta-in." Car-mic-ha-el, who-se di-mi-nu-ti-ve he-ight was a so-re
po-int with him, snif-fed, even as he pum-ped Tony's hand with en-t-hu-si-asm.
"It's go-od to see you, Tony."
"Go-od to see you, Car-mic-ha-el. And es-pe-ci-al-ly go-od to see El-len,"

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he sa-id, re-ac-hing down his lar-ge hand and tuc-king it un-der El-len's
chin, til-ting her fa-ce up to his. "How've you be-en, chic-kie? I ha-ven't
se-en you in town the-se ages."
"I've be-en rus-ti-ca-ting, Tony. Town's no pla-ce for me no-wa-days. The-re
are too many pe-op-le still lo-oking for hus-bands. I don't want to crowd the
lists."
"Lord, El-len, next thing I know you'll be we-aring lit-tle la-ce caps and
sit-ting in the cor-ner gos-si-ping with all the old ma-ids," he sa-id,
sha-king his he-ad. "Pro-mi-se me you'll ne-ver go that far."
"I pro-mi-se," she sa-id, smi-ling up at him. He was right, he was a
mo-un-ta-in. A hu-ge, lo-ose-lim-bed gi-ant of a man, he was tal-ler than
al-most ever-yo-ne on the Lon-don sce-ne, with the pos-sib-le ex-cep-ti-on of
Harry de Qu-incy, and Harry didn't co-unt be-ca-use he was all fat. Tony
hadn't a spa-re oun-ce of flesh on him, and every part of him was so-lid,
im-p-la-cab-le mus-c-le. He ne-eded no pad-ding in his ex-qu-isi-tely
ta-ilo-red wa-is-t-co-ats, no saw-dust in his cloc-ked stoc-kings. He was just
a gre-at de-al of very so-lid, very han-d-so-me, very in-do-lent ma-le. His
wa-ist be-ne-ath her arms felt warm and hard, and she was sud-denly
self-con-s-ci-o-us aga-in.
This ti-me he let her go, with only a qu-iz-zi-cal glan-ce in her
di-rec-ti-on as she sat down on the gar-den bench aga-in, pul-ling her shawl
aro-und her sho-ul-ders. His fa-ce was a fit-ting com-p-le-ment to his body.
Han-d-so-me, so-mew-hat lazy, with a de-fi-ant be-ak of a no-se, strong chin,
mar-ked che-ek-bo-nes, and cu-ri-o-usly dark eyeb-rows at odds with his
gol-den-blond ha-ir. Sin-ce he al-most al-ways had a smi-le on his wi-de
mo-uth, he se-emed the gen-t-lest of men. If El-len had the tho-ught that he
co-uld be an-y-t-hing but, she had not-hing on which to ba-se that
sus-pi-ci-on. Just in-s-tinct, and an oc-ca-si-onal in-ten-se ex-p-res-si-on
in his ot-her-wi-se lim-pid, smi-ling gray eyes.
He to-ok a se-at be-si-de her. "So why ha-ve you co-me to vi-sit
Car-mic-ha-el? Just an over-w-hel-ming lon-ging for yo-ur de-ar brot-her's
com-pany?"
Both El-len and Car-mic-ha-el snor-ted in uni-son. "I had no cho-ice in the
mat-ter, Tony," she sa-id, ple-ating her or-c-hid-hu-ed skirt. "Car-mic-ha-el
de-ci-ded to let Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne stay at Ain-s-ley Hall whi-le he
wa-ited to see whet-her his la-test du-el was a kil-ling af-fa-ir. And he
re-fu-sed to let me stay. It's ab-surd, when a wo-man re-ac-hes a cer-ta-in
age, that she's still con-si-de-red com-p-ro-mi-sab-le, but Car-mic-ha-el
de-ci-ded to be stuffy."
"Thank he-avens for that," Tony sa-id la-zily. "You are still emi-nently
com-p-ro-mi-sab-le, El-len, and you pro-bably will be when you're in yo-ur
do-ta-ge. I ho-pe you're not abo-ut to ra-ce off the mo-ment I ar-ri-ve. I've
bro-ught you pre-sents."
"Pre-sents?" she de-man-ded, her old chil-d-ho-od gre-ed re-tur-ning full
for-ce. When she was yo-ung her brot-her's fri-end Tony had ne-ver ap-pe-ared
wit-ho-ut a box of French cho-co-la-tes and a pi-le of bo-oks for her. As she
grew old the cho-co-la-tes re-ma-ined, but the bo-oks we-re now French
no-vels, fil-led with slightly ris-que ro-man-ces.
"Gun-ter's best cho-co-la-tes. This ti-me I bro-ught you two bo-xes. I
mis-sed yo-ur bir-t-h-day."
"At my ad-van-ced age bir-t-h-days sho-uld be mis-sed. Be-si-des, I think
I'd do bet-ter wit-ho-ut too many cho-co-la-tes." She lo-oked down
dis-pa-ra-gingly at her plump cur-ves. "I'm al-ways as-king Gilly to co-ok
so-met-hing slim-ming, and she ke-eps ser-ving me sa-uces that are so
de-li-ci-o-us I can't re-sist them."
"Let us ho-pe she con-ti-nu-es to do so," Tony sa-id, stret-c-hing his
im-men-sely long legs out in front of him. "You're per-fect as you are,
chic-kie. A plump, de-li-ci-o-us lit-tle par-t-rid-ge. I'd ha-te to see you
was-ting away."
'That's not li-kely," Car-mic-ha-el an-no-un-ced with brot-herly tact.

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"What’s the news from town? Any scan-dals? Any de-aths? Any en-ga-ge-ments?"
"Sop-hia Par-kin-son is go-ing to marry the Earl of Ham-p-s-te-ad," Tony
sa-id, pic-king an ima-gi-nary pi-ece of lint off his yel-low sa-tin
wa-is-t-co-at. Tony was a bit of a pe-acock, fond of rich co-lors and ric-her
fab-rics, and his clot-hes we-re im-pec-cab-le.
"You're not se-ri-o-us!" El-len sa-id. "I tho-ught she was go-ing to
ma-na-ge to bring you to he-el. She cer-ta-inly cha-sed af-ter you long
eno-ugh."
Tony shrug-ged. "Even the most de-ter-mi-ned yo-ung la-di-es even-tu-al-ly
gi-ve up on me. They know my he-art is al-re-ady gi-ven." He grin-ned at her.
"To you, swe-eting."
"Of co-ur-se," El-len scof-fed. "What el-se?"
He he-si-ta-ted. "Go-od news for you, bad news for me, I'm af-ra-id. We
ha-ve both a scan-dal and a de-ath."
"J-ason Har-g-ro-ve suc-cum-bed?" Car-mic-ha-el gu-es-sed.
"In-de-ed. His wi-dow is al-re-ady pro-ving her-self a merry one in-de-ed. I
ima-gi-ne Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne will be he-ading for $he con-ti-nent the
mo-ment he re-ce-ives the news."
"And I can go ho-me," El-len sa-id, as re-li-ef flo-oded her.
"You can go ho-me," Tony ag-re-ed. "Tho-ugh I rat-her ho-pe you won't."
"Why not?" She glan-ced up at him in sur-p-ri-se.
"Be-ca-use I ha-ven't se-en you sin-ce Chris-t-mas, and on that oc-ca-si-on
you tro-un-ced me twi-ce at chess. Now, I con-si-der myself a mo-re than
ade-qu-ate chess pla-yer, and to be be-aten twi-ce by an-yo-ne,
par-ti-cu-larly by a snip of a girl, is a blow to my mo-nu-men-tal
self-es-te-em. You ha-ve to gi-ve me a chan-ce to re-de-em my ho-nor. I've
be-en prac-ti-cing."
She was torn. Ho-urs spent with Tony over a ches-sbo-ard had to ac-co-unt
for so-me of the most pe-ace-ful, hap-pi-est ho-urs of her li-fe, even tho-ugh
she sus-pec-ted he let her win. Her worry over Ghis-la-ine and Ain-s-ley Hall,
ho-we-ver, had be-en dri-ving her so-rely. "I re-al-ly sho-uld get back," she
sa-id, he-si-ta-ting.
"But why? Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne will be long go-ne, and you ha-ve a
very com-pe-tent staff. The-re's no re-ason why you sho-uld hurry ho-me."
She con-si-de-red it. Tony was ab-so-lu-tely rig-ht-it was Blac-k-t-hor-ne's
pre-sen-ce that wor-ri-ed her. On-ce he was go-ne, out of the co-untry, she'd
no lon-ger ha-ve any ca-use for pa-nic. If he had run off with the sil-ver, or
the fo-ot-man's da-ug-h-ter, it wo-uld be too la-te to do an-y-t-hing abo-ut
it. Be-si-des, Tony was her best, de-arest fri-end. When he was aro-und she no
lon-ger felt plump or shy or aw-k-ward. She blos-so-med, and every few months
she ne-eded the po-wer-ful sun of his per-so-na-lity.
"I'll stay," she sa-id. "Long eno-ugh to con-vin-ce you that I re-al-ly am
the su-pe-ri-or chess pla-yer."
A sec-re-ti-ve smi-le lit Tony's han-d-so-me fa-ce.
"El-len, my de-ar, pre-pa-re yo-ur-self for a long si-ege."
This must be what it felt li-ke, Ghis-la-ine tho-ught with a no-ti-ce-ab-le
ab-sen-ce of emo-ti-on. To walk down the hal-lway at the pri-son in Pa-ris, to
climb in-to the tum-b-rel and be bor-ne thro-ugh the stre-ets. This must be
what it felt li-ke, to walk to yo-ur do-om, bra-vely, he-ad held high,
pre-pa-red for hor-ror. Pre-pa-red for de-ath.
She grip-ped the tray tightly in her small hands, ig-no-ring the va-let
fol-lo-wing clo-se be-hind her. She knew what lay be-ne-ath the sil-ver
co-vers. So-lid, unex-ci-ting Bri-tish fa-re, the sort to ap-pe-al to a man
li-ke Blac-k-t-hor-ne. An egg cus-tard, in de-fe-ren-ce to his com-p-ro-mi-sed
di-ges-ti-on. Hot sco-nes, slat-he-red with fresh but-ter, and a wed-ge of
pork pie. A sli-ce of ap-ple tart. And a pot of hot her-bal tea, ma-de from
cha-mo-mi-le for the sto-mach, com-f-rey for the blo-od, and ar-se-nic for
long over-due jus-ti-ce.
She had the kni-fe in one poc-ket of her ca-pa-ci-o-us ap-ron. It was not as
lar-ge a one as she wo-uld ha-ve pre-fer-red, but the but-c-her kni-ves we-re

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too big. The we-asel-eyed Ta-ver-ner wo-uld ha-ve no-ti-ced it clan-ging
aga-inst her trem-b-ling kne-es. Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne might very well
dis-da-in so-met-hing as bland as her-bal tea. So she'd do-sed the brandy
bot-tle as well.
Her slip-pe-red fe-et trip-ped on so-met-hing, and the tray al-most went
flying. Ta-ver-ner rig-h-ted her in ti-me, his ham-hand be-ne-ath her el-bow,
ste-ad-ying her. "Wo-uldn't want this fi-ne din-ner to smash on the flo-or,
wo-uld we, miss?" he sa-id with an evil grin, sho-wing his dis-co-lo-red
te-eth.
"No," she sa-id fa-intly. "We wo-uldn't."
She didn't want to watch him die. She told her-self it was sim-p-le com-mon
sen-se on her part. If she had any in-ten-ti-on of es-ca-ping, of get-ting
away with me-ting out her own ro-ugh jus-ti-ce, then she ne-eded to be as far
away from Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne when he met his ma-ker as she co-uld
ma-na-ge.
Be-si-des, she'd se-en eno-ugh pe-op-le die. Per-haps she ought to watch
Blac-k-t-hor-ne in the thro-es of agony, as re-com-pen-se for the loss of her
pa-rents, the loss of her in-no-cen-ce. But she no lon-ger wan-ted to. His
de-ath wo-uld be so-la-ce eno-ugh.
He was still in El-len's fa-vo-ri-te pink sa-lon. Dres-sed just as
neg-li-gently as be-fo-re, he lo-un-ged in one de-li-ca-te sa-tin cha-ir, his
whi-te shirt open at the neck, his em-b-ro-ide-red silk vest un-fas-te-ned,
his
bre-ec-hes al-most in-de-cently tight. He was in stoc-kin-ged fe-et, and his
curly black ha-ir was dis-he-ve-led. She al-lo-wed her-self to me-et his
ga-ze. He was pa-ler than when she'd last se-en him, and his dark eyes we-re
sha-do-wed with a ban-ked kind of ra-ge, for all that he was smi-ling that
dam-nab-le, se-duc-ti-ve smi-le.
"Don't be shy, Mam-zel-le," he sa-id, his vo-ice a sil-ken thre-ad, pul-ling
her in-to the ro-om. "I pro-mi-se I'm no lon-ger at de-ath's do-or. I'm
ne-ed-ful of so-me com-pany, and the ho-use-ma-ids all gig-gle and stam-mer. I
ex-pect you, with that po-li-tely shi-el-ded hos-ti-lity, will pro-ve much
mo-re in-te-res-ting."
The do-or had clo-sed be-hind her, Ta-ver-ner had di-sap-pe-ared. It se-emed
that to-night he had no in-te-rest in ser-ving his lord and mas-ter. It wo-uld
be up to Ghis-la-ine-with her own hands she'd ha-ve to hand him the cup of tea
that wo-uld kill him.
Her hands didn't trem-b-le as she set the he-avy tray down on the da-inty
ga-te-leg tab-le that usu-al-ly held El-len's em-b-ro-idery silks. El-len was
an exec-rab-le ne-ed-le-wo-man-di-sas-ters from her clumsy hands de-co-ra-ted
the sit-ting ro-om. Ghis-la-ine tri-ed to con-cen-t-ra-te on one
par-ti-cu-larly ugly pil-low, sup-po-sedly a rep-re-sen-ta-ti-on of a he-ron
that mo-re clo-sely re-sem-b-led a don-key di-ges-ting it-self, and it to-ok
all her con-cen-t-ra-ti-on to po-ur the man a cup of her-bal tea.
She bac-ked away, to-ward the do-or, when Blac-k-t-hor-ne's eyes im-pa-led
her. "Don't le-ave yet, Mam-zel-le. Su-rely you want to see me enj-oy this
es-ti-mab-le re-past?"
"I… I ha-ve work to do…" She fo-und her self-pos-ses-si-on wasn't qu-ite
what she had ho-ped for. She pul-led it back aro-und her with ste-ely
strength. "I ha-ve my du-ti-es, sir," she sa-id mo-re firmly.
"At this ho-ur ever-yo-ne must be fed. Be-si-des, yo-ur first duty sho-uld
be to yo-ur bet-ters, not yo-ur fel-low ser-vants, is that not true? Sit."
She flus-hed at the de-li-be-ra-tely in-sul-ting to-ne of his vo-ice, and
the ice in his fi-nal com-mand, but she co-uldn't bring her-self to sit. The
do-or ope-ned be-hind her, one of Ta-ver-ner's he-avy hands clam-ped on-to her
sho-ul-der and sho-ved her, with as-to-nis-hing ro-ug-h-ness, in-to the cha-ir
be-fo-re han-ding Blac-k-t-hor-ne a shaggy black bun-d-le.
It was a full mo-ment la-ter that she re-ali-zed what that squ-ir-ming black
bun-d-le was, and the hor-ror of her si-tu-ati-on ca-me ho-me to her.
"A most char-ming dog," Nic-ho-las sa-id, hol-ding the furry lit-tle

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cre-atu-re up to his fa-ce, and for a mo-ment his harsh fe-atu-res sof-te-ned,
gen-t-led, and Ghis-la-ine re-mem-be-red a boy in his early twen-ti-es, a boy
who still pos-ses-sed a he-art. "Ta-ver-ner told me you had a pet in the
kit-c-hen. My fat-her* wo-uldn't al-low me to ha-ve a dog. Filthy cre-atu-res,
he cal-led them. I've al-ways be-en rat-her fond of them myself. What's this
fel-low's na-me?"
"Ple-ase," she sa-id, she who ne-ver beg-ged, ne-ver as-ked; she who was
in-do-mi-tab-le.
"His na-me?" Blac-k-t-hor-ne re-pe-ated with ut-most icy pa-ti-en-ce.
"Char-bon."
His long fin-gers stro-ked Char-bon's black curls. "A lit-tle pi-ece of
co-al, eh? Yo-ur mis-t-ress lo-ves you very much, yo-ung fel-low, do-esn't
she?"
Ghis-la-ine was no lon-ger ca-pab-le of sa-ying a word. She he-ard the do-or
clo-se be-hind her, and knew that Ta-ver-ner had left them alo-ne on-ce mo-re.
She wat-c-hed, trying to pull her-self in-to that sa-fe, sec-ret pla-ce
in-si-de, whe-re not-hing co-uld re-ach her, as Blac-k-t-hor-ne con-ti-nu-ed
to mur-mur to her be-lo-ved pet.
"So-me pe-op-le don't ap-pro-ve of fe-eding ani-mals at the tab-le," he
mur-mu-red. "But then, this isn't re-al-ly the tab-le, is it, Char-bon? We're
much mo-re ca-su-al than that, and I know a li-vely fel-low li-ke you wo-uld
ap-pre-ci-ate yo-ur mis-t-ress's go-od co-oking. What abo-ut a tas-te of this
egg cus-tard? Yo-ur mis-t-ress isn't sa-ying a word, tho-ugh she lo-oks qu-ite
pa-le. Do you sup-po-se she's je-alo-us?"
She tri-ed to pull her-self to-get-her. "I'd re-al-ly rat-her you wo-uldn't
fe-ed him. He's too fat as he is."
Blac-k-t-hor-ne's mid-nig-ht-blue eyes bla-zed in-to hers, full of cold, icy
ra-ge, as his mo-uth cur-ved in-to a char-ming smi-le. "But I'm not
in-te-res-ted in yo-ur wis-hes, ha-ven't I ma-de that cle-ar?" He bro-ke off a
pi-ece of the pastry and held it in front of Char-bon's tiny black no-se. The
dog de-vo-ured it, wag-ging his ta-il in ple-asu-re, and Ghis-la-ine wan-ted
to scre-am.
"You li-ked that, did you?" Blac-k-t-hor-ne mur-mu-red. "I'll ha-ve to try
so-me myself, then," and he pop-ped a pi-ece in his mo-uth. "I'm pro-bably
be-ing fo-olish. What ag-re-es with a dog's con-s-ti-tu-ti-on might not ag-ree
with mi-ne. Wo-uld you li-ke to try a pi-ece of ap-ple tart? De-li-ci-o-us,
isn't it? Yo-ur mis-t-ress is a won-der-ful co-ok."
She wan-ted to scre-am, but her thro-at had clo-sed up en-ti-rely. She
tri-ed to find that sa-fe, cold pla-ce, but it elu-ded her, le-aving her raw,
ac-hing with pa-in. Su-rely re-ven-ge wo-uldn't re-qu-ire this sac-ri-fi-ce
too? She'd lost too much. She co-uldn't lo-se the only cre-atu-re who
de-pen-ded on her, trus-ted her, lo-ved her wit-ho-ut qu-es-ti-on.
And who was this han-d-so-me, smi-ling mon-s-ter who'd calmly sit the-re and
po-ison a hel-p-less, af-fec-ti-ona-te lit-tle puppy who'd ne-ver har-med him?
A puppy fo-olish eno-ugh to wag his ta-il and lick Blac-k-t-hor-ne's long
fin-gers.
He co-uldn't, wo-uldn't, fe-ed a dog her-bal tea or brandy, Ghis-la-ine
fi-nal-ly re-ali-zed. Char-bon was sa-fe. She wasn't-the-re was no way
Ta-ver-ner wo-uld let her es-ca-pe now that so-me-how, so-me way,
Blac-k-t-hor-ne knew.
Char-bon had fi-nal-ly de-vo-ured ever-y-t-hing on Blac-k-t-hor-ne's he-avy
sil-ver tray. Ever-y-t-hing but the tea and the brandy. Blac-k-t-hor-ne's dark
eyes mo-ved from Char-bon's wiggly lit-tle body to Ghis-la-ine's pa-le, set,
fa-ce. "It all se-emed to ag-ree with him," he mur-mu-red, set-ting the puppy
down on the flo-or.
Char-bon im-me-di-ately ra-ced over to Ghis-la-ine, dan-cing in ple-asu-re.
She wan-ted to re-ach down and pick him up, to pull him clo-se to her body,
but she felt stiff, fro-zen, aw-k-ward. Be-fo-re she co-uld catch him he
dan-ced back to the man who'd fed him so well and stro-ked him so ni-cely,
cle-arly re-ady for mo-re at-ten-ti-on.

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"A swe-et dog," Blac-k-t-hor-ne mur-mu-red. "You ne-ed so-met-hing to drink.
Now I know you don't fancy tea much," he sa-id as he po-ured so-me of the
richly scen-ted mix-tu-re in-to a sa-ucer, "but if I add a gre-at de-al of
milk I ex-pect you'll find it pa-la-tab-le. You're…"
This ti-me she co-uld mo-ve. She jum-ped up, knoc-king aga-inst the tab-le,
and her hand ca-ught the Li-mo-ges te-apot, sen-ding it flying, with the
sa-ucer full of hot tea fol-lo-wing su-it, smas-hing on the flo-or.
"De-ar me," Blac-k-t-hor-ne sa-id fa-intly, his eyes dark with
un-fat-ho-mab-le emo-ti-on.
"Milk do-esn't ag-ree with him," Ghis-la-ine sa-id, not mo-ving. The hot tea
had so-aked in-to her dress, scor-c-hing her skin, but she ma-de no mo-ve to
mop it up.
"A sha-me. And all the dis-hes ha-ve be-en smas-hed. I'm af-ra-id yo-ur
mis-t-ress might very well ta-ke that out of yo-ur wa-ges. Ex-cept that yo-ur
mis-t-ress is El-len, and she's a ri-di-cu-lo-usly soft to-uch."
He glan-ced over at the mess on the flo-or. "The-re's no tea left."
Ghis-la-ine re-ac-hed down and sco-oped up Char-bon's body be-fo-re he
co-uld in-ves-ti-ga-te the sta-in on the thick Aubus-son car-pet, squ-e-ezing
him so tightly he yel-ped in pro-test. "You'll ha-ve to ma-ke do with brandy,"
she sa-id, and tur-ned to le-ave.
Ta-ver-ner was at the do-or, bar-ring her way. The-re was an evil smi-le on
his swarthy fa-ce, and he re-ac-hed out and to-ok the puppy from her.
She had no cho-ice. She let Char-bon go. She co-uld see that Ta-ver-ner's
hands we-re gen-t-le on the puppy's black co-at, and she knew she was past the
po-int whe-re she co-uld pro-tect him. He clo-sed the do-or in her fa-ce, and
she sto-od the-re, her back to her ne-me-sis, as she pul-led the last,
fra-ying rem-nants of her self-con-t-rol back aro-und her li-ke a ma-gic
clo-ak.
She tur-ned and lo-oked at him, her fa-ce com-po-sed. Not even the sight of
the brandy bot-tle and the half-full glass co-uld over-set her. Fa-te had
ta-ken a hand, and she co-uld no lon-ger fight it.
"You lo-ok pa-le, Mam-zel-le," Blac-k-t-hor-ne mur-mu-red, ri-sing and
wal-king over to her. She'd for-got-ten how tall he was, to-we-ring over her
own di-mi-nu-ti-ve fra-me. He wal-ked with a cer-ta-in me-na-cing gra-ce,
avo-iding the shat-te-red croc-kery, and the brandy was in one strong hand. "I
think you ne-ed this brandy mo-re than I do."
So be it. With any luck it wo-uld ta-ke long eno-ugh to work that he too
wo-uld par-ta-ke of it, con-vin-ced it was har-m-less. If he didn't, she still
had her kni-fe.
"Per-haps I do," she sa-id, ta-king the glass from his hand and brin-ging it
to her lips be-fo-re she co-uld reg-ret her de-ci-si-on.
He mo-ved as swiftly as a sna-ke, das-hing the
glass out of her hand, so that the po-iso-ned brandy dren-c-hed the front of
her dress.
"Do you think I'm go-ing to let you ta-ke the easy way out?" he de-man-ded,
cat-c-hing her wrist in a hard, bru-ising grip. "I want an-s-wers. I want to
know why you're in-tent on kil-ling me. What ha-ve I ever do-ne to harm you?"
It was the fi-nal pi-ece of dry kin-d-ling on the con-f-lag-ra-ti-on of her
ra-ge. That he didn't even re-mem-ber her, that he'd des-t-ro-yed her li-fe
and her fa-mily wit-ho-ut even fe-eling a pang of gu-ilt, ma-de her fury bo-il
over. She jer-ked away from him, re-ac-hing in-si-de her ap-ron poc-ket for
the kni-fe, de-ter-mi-ned to plun-ge it in-to his he-art.
It was go-ne.
"Ta-ver-ner used to be a pic-k-poc-ket," he sa-id, his fa-ce dis-tant and
un-re-adab-le. "He re-li-eved you of that nasty lit-tle kni-fe when you we-re
too busy to no-ti-ce. Who are you, Mam-zel-le? What do you want of me?"
She co-uldn't bre-ak away. His long fin-gers on her wrist we-re clo-se to
crus-hing the fra-gi-le bo-nes. Not that it mat-te-red. They co-uld hang her
with a bro-ken wrist as easily as not.
"I tho-ught it wo-uld be ob-vi-o-us." She spat the words. "I want you

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de-ad."
His ho-nest con-fu-si-on was all the mo-re in-fu-ri-ating. "But why?"
"Be-ca-use you mur-de-red my pa-rents!"
The-re was no chan-ge in his ex-p-res-si-on. Just a fa-int sha-do-wing of
his dark eyes, a tig-h-te-ning of his thin lips. "Ghis-la-ine," he sa-id, his
vo-ice flat. "I sho-uld ha-ve known my sins wo-uld co-me back to ha-unt me."
"I don't un-der-s-tand why you're de-ter-mi-ned to le-ave," Tony draw-led.
He was lo-un-ging in the east par-lor, a glass of par-ti-cu-larly fi-ne
cla-ret in one lar-ge, well-sha-ped hand, the la-ce from his cuffs drif-ting
aro-und his fin-gers. "Blac-k-t-hor-ne must ha-ve left for the con-ti-nent by
now if he has any bra-ins at all, and I must say I've al-ways fo-und him to be
an-no-yingly in-tel-li-gent. So the-re's no ne-ed to rush back to yo-ur ho-use
li-ke a frig-h-te-ned rab-bit."
Ellen sho-ok her he-ad. "I can't help it, Tony. I fe-el une-asy. That
hap-pens to me so-me-ti-mes, an odd sen-se of so-met-hing be-ing ter-ribly
wrong. It hap-pe-ned just be-fo-re my pa-rents we-re kil-led, it hap-pe-ned
when Car-mic-ha-el and Liz-zie's first baby di-ed. I ne-ed to get back to
Ain-s-ley Hall."
"No one is go-ing to die, El-len. Be-si-des, you ha-ve to be-at me at chess
be-fo-re you le-ave. I've tro-un-ced you so-lidly the-se last three days. You
ne-ed yo-ur re-ven-ge."
Tm too dis-t-rac-ted to con-cen-t-ra-te. Be-si-des, I ex-pect I win when
you're in the mo-od to let me win."
"Are you ac-cu-sing me of che-ating? I co-uld call you out for that if you
we-re a man," he mur-mu-red, stret-c-hing his long, long legs in front of him
and ad-mi-ring his la-ven-der ho-se. Car-mic-ha-el had ta-ken one lo-ok at
tho-se la-ven-der silk stoc-kings and ro-ared with la-ug-h-ter, but as usu-al
Tony was un-ruf-fled by Car-mic-ha-el's amu-se-ment. He'd simply in-for-med
his fri-end that they we-re all the crack, and Car-mic-ha-el was too much of a
co-untry bum-p-kin to re-cog-ni-ze fas-hi-on.
Ellen her-self had her do-ubts abo-ut the la-ven-der ho-se, but she had to
ad-mit Tony had su-perb legs. She for-ced her-self to con-cen-t-ra-te. "But
I'm not a man," she po-in-ted out.
"I've no-ti-ced," he sa-id dryly, an odd ex-p-res-si-on on his fa-ce.
"And be-si-des, you only che-at to lo-se. That's hardly a gra-ve in-sult."

"Any ir-re-gu-la-rity in mat-ters of ga-ming is de-emed worthy of a du-el."
"But you don't fight du-els."
"The-re's al-ways a first. Do you want me to van-qu-ish Nic-ho-las
Blac-k-t-hor-ne if he's still in re-si-den-ce? I co-uld call him out, put a
bul-let in his black he-art, and fi-nish the bu-si-ness the-re and then."
She felt an odd lit-tle start of pa-nic. "Don't be ab-surd, Tony. He'd be
much mo-re li-kely to kill you."
"I didn't know you ca-red."
"Who wo-uld bring me cho-co-la-tes?" she de-man-ded with a mis-c-hi-evo-us
smi-le.
"Or na-ughty French no-vels? Very well, I'll ke-ep myself sa-fe. I can-not
talk you in-to re-ma-ining a few mo-re days?"
"You can-not," she sa-id, stif-ling the pang in-si-de.
"Then at le-ast let me es-cort you back to Ain-s-ley Hall. The ro-ads are
dan-ge-ro-us no-wa-days, with hig-h-way-men and the li-ke. And if Nic-ho-las
hasn't de-par-ted I can at le-ast spe-ed him on the way."
"I won't be ab-le to of-fer you any hos-pi-ta-lity," she war-ned him, much
ple-ased by his of-fer.
Tony wa-ved an airy hand. "I wo-uldn't ex-pect it. Do-es that me-an I'm
con-si-de-red as gre-at a thre-at as Blac-k-t-hor-ne? What a com-p-li-ment."
"Any man is con-si-de-red a thre-at. And if s en-ti-rely ri-di-cu-lo-us. Are
you cer-ta-in you want to ac-com-pany me, Tony? Af-ter all, you'd be
cur-ta-iling yo-ur own vi-sit as well. I tho-ught you plan-ned on sta-ying a
for-t-night."

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Tony smi-led at her with par-ti-cu-lar swe-et-ness. "I find my re-ason for
be-ing he-re to ha-ve di-sap-pe-ared. When you le-ave I'll be mo-re than
re-ady to le-ave too."
He didn't me-an what she tho-ught he did. She was wi-se eno-ugh to re-ali-ze
that. Ne-ver-t-he-less, she was too co-wardly to ask exactly what he did
me-an. On this ra-re oc-ca-si-on, ig-no-ran-ce was in-de-ed bliss.
"When wo-uld you ca-re to le-ave?" Tony con-ti-nu-ed, ob-vi-o-usly una-wa-re
of the tro-ub-led di-rec-ti-on her tho-ughts had ta-ken.
"As so-on as pos-sib-le. To-mor-row mor-ning, at first light. I simply can't
rid myself of the fe-eling that so-met-hing qu-ite ter-rib-le has
hap-pe-ned."
Tony dra-ined his cla-ret. "And I'll be mo-re than happy to pro-ve to you
that not-hing at all is amiss. Yo-ur won-der-ful French chef can pro-vi-de me
with a splen-did me-al, and I'll spend the night at the lo-cal ta-vern. Do-es
that so-und ac-cep-tab-le to you?"
"Per-fect," she sa-id. "As long as…" She let her vo-ice tra-il off in
con-fu-si-on. She was abo-ut to say as long as Gilly was still the-re. But
the-re'd be no re-ason for her to ha-ve left. She cer-ta-inly wasn't go-ing to
fall prey to Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne's wi-les.
"As long as what?"
She ma-na-ged a bright smi-le. "As long as you let me be-at you at chess
aga-in."
"Do-ne," he sa-id, a cu-ri-o-us warmth in his very gray eyes. "You ha-ve
only to ask and I'm yo-ur obe-di-ent ser-vant."
She was used to po-li-te phra-ses from gen-t-le-men who ne-ver me-ant them.
Tony was be-ing just as glib. It was only her fa-ult that she half-be-li-eved
he me-ant them.
Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne le-aned back in the cha-ir, a co-ol cloth held
aga-inst his fa-ce. He was win-ded, dam-nably we-ak, and cur-sing. Not
cur-sing as much as the fe-ma-le now lying fa-ce-down on the bed in the next
ro-om, ne-atly trus-sed and ti-ed by Tavvy and him when the fight fi-nal-ly
ran out of her.
She'd ma-na-ged to in-f-lict a fa-ir amo-unt of da-ma-ge. He'd only sa-id
her na-me and she went wild, ob-vi-o-usly wan-ting to kill him with tho-se
small, hard, pa-in-ful hands sin-ce he'd dep-ri-ved her of any we-apon. He
wo-uldn't ha-ve tho-ught such a tiny cre-atu-re co-uld be qu-ite so
dan-ge-ro-us, but it to-ok all his com-p-ro-mi-sed strength to sub-due her. He
en-ded up sit-ting on her in the mid-dle of the ro-om, ho-ping she wasn't
be-ing cut by the shards of croc-kery she'd smas-hed ear-li-er.
It was ab-surd to be con-cer-ned. She was de-ter-mi-ned to kill him-why he
sho-uld worry abo-ut her well-be-ing was be-yond non-sen-si-cal.
If he had a de-cent bo-ne in his body he'd simply de-camp, le-aving her in
her ig-no-mi-ni-o-us po-si-ti-on un-til one of the ot-her ser-vants fo-und
her. He'd over-s-ta-yed his wel-co-me, and sin-ce he'd had no word on Jason
Har-g-ro-ve he co-uld pretty much as-su-me the old dog was go-ing to
re-co-ver. He and Tavvy sho-uld he-ad back to Lon-don and the op-prob-ri-um of
the-ir fri-ends, he-ad back to the ga-ming tab-les and the fi-ne cla-ret and
the un-po-iso-ned brandy.
But he wasn't go-ing to do that. If he simply left, Ma-de-mo-isel-le
Ghis-la-ine de Lorgny might very well co-unt her bles-sings and be-ha-ve
her-self. But he didn't think so. He'd ne-ver se-en hat-red so in-ten-se
be-fo-re. She wo-uld fol-low him, and he'd end up with a kni-fe bet-we-en his
sho-ul-der bla-des when he le-ast ex-pec-ted it.
No, he wo-uld le-ave Ain-s-ley Hall, all right. But he wasn't go-ing to
Lon-don and his warm, com-for-tab-le ro-oms. He was go-ing to Scot-land, to
the tum-b-led-down hun-ting lod-ge that was part of his en-ta-iled
in-he-ri-tan-ce, a pla-ce he hadn't se-en sin-ce he was ten ye-ars old. A
pla-ce he'd on-ce lo-ved.
And he and Tavvy we-ren't go-ing alo-ne.
The Ro-ad

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Chapter 5

Ghis-la-ine was cold. Mi-se-rably, ac-hingly cold, her en-ti-re body
trem-b-ling with it. She must ha-ve got-ten soft in the last ye-ar, li-ving in
the fat En-g-lish com-fort of Ain-s-ley Hall. She'd pri-ded her-self on be-ing
im-per-vi-o-us to mi-nor dis-com-forts li-ke the we-at-her, and he-re she was,
shi-ve-ring.
Fe-ar had not-hing to do with it, she told her-self, squ-ir-ming aro-und on
the too-soft bed. She was af-ra-id of not-hing on this earth. She'd fa-ced the
worst, and sur-vi-ved, whet-her she'd wan-ted to or not. Fa-te co-uldn't send
her any mo-re cru-el blows.
He'd ti-ed her wrists too tightly, but then she al-re-ady knew he was a
con-s-ci-en-ce-less bully. She'd be-en stron-ger than he was, a fact which
ga-ve her no small ple-asu-re. She'd wor-ked hard for a li-ving, and her
mus-c-les we-re strong, whi-le Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne was not-hing mo-re
than an in-do-lent fop, in-tent on dis-si-pa-ted ple-asu-res. It was no
won-der he was ne-arly bes-ted by a wo-man half his si-ze and we-ight.
His re-cent bo-ut with rat po-ison might ha-ve so-met-hing to do with his
we-ak-ness, she ad-mit-ted re-luc-tantly. If he hadn't spent the last two days
ne-ar de-ath, he co-uld ha-ve de-fe-ated her a gre-at de-al mo-re han-dily. It
had be-en a long ti-me sin-ce she'd had to use her li-mi-ted strength to
pro-tect her-self, and she'd got-ten out of the ha-bit. She was soft,
dan-ge-ro-usly soft.
She rol-led over on her si-de, gri-ma-cing in the dar-k-ness. She co-uld
he-ar the-ir vo-ices drif-ting in from the ot-her ro-om, and she won-de-red
with a kind of emo-ti-on-less cu-ri-osity just what they had plan-ned for her.
Whet-her she was abo-ut to be han-ded over to the lo-cal ma-gis-t-ra-te, or
whet-her Blac-k-t-hor-ne had a mo-re im-me-di-ate, per-so-nal re-ven-ge in
mind. The lo-cal aut-ho-ri-ti-es wo-uldn't ta-ke kindly to her-for one thing,
she was a fo-re-ig-ner, and she'd le-ar-ned all too well the in-su-lar
En-g-lish dis-t-rust for fo-re-ig-ners. For anot-her, she'd tri-ed to kill a
gen-t-le-man, an un-dis-pu-ted mem-ber of the up-per clas-ses. To be su-re, he
was the blac-kest, most dis-re-pu-tab-le gen-t-le-man ever to set fo-ot on
Bri-tish so-il, and he de-ser-ved to die a lin-ge-ring, pa-in-ful de-ath, but
she do-ub-ted the ma-gis-t-ra-te wo-uld ag-ree.
She felt cold and sticky. The brandy had dri-ed and stif-fe-ned on the front
of her dress, and her clot-hes had be-en torn du-ring her fu-ri-o-us
as-sa-ult. Her ha-ir hung aro-und her fa-ce, and she must ha-ve lo-oked li-ke
all the fu-ri-es com-bi-ned. It hadn't even da-un-ted Blac-k-t-hor-ne. He'd
la-ug-hed at her, la-ug-hed at her ra-ge. For that alo-ne she wan-ted him
de-ad.
But she'd lost. She'd half-ex-pec-ted to, from the mo-ment she knew he'd
ar-ri-ved at Ain-s-ley Hall. Her co-ur-se had be-en set in mo-ti-on, and she'd
had no cho-ice but to fol-low it, even kno-wing it was do-omed to fa-ilu-re.
Her only reg-ret was that she hadn't be-en ab-le to bring him down with her.
She ac-hed all over. Her he-ad throb-bed, and she re-mem-be-red his hand
cras-hing in-to her as she'd tri-ed to scratch his eyes out. He didn't ha-ve
any gen-t-le-manly scrup-les, at le-ast she co-uld grant him that. If he had,
he might not be ali-ve now.
She rol-led on-to her back, sta-ring up at the ce-iling, strug-gling to
catch her bre-ath aga-inst the tig-h-t-ness of her bonds. The sha-dows from
the fi-re-light flic-ke-red aga-inst the ce-iling, cas-ting omi-no-us sha-pes
over-he-ad, and she won-de-red how long she had to re-ga-in her strength, her
de-ter-mi-na-ti-on. How long be-fo-re she had to fight aga-in.
The do-or ope-ned wi-der, and she held her-self very still, al-re-ady
pre-pa-red for a re-ne-wal of the bat-tle. And then she he-ard the fa-mi-li-ar
scrab-ble of paws on the par-qu-etry flo-or and an an-xi-o-us yip as Char-bon
hur-t-led him-self at the bed. It to-ok him a num-ber of at-tempts to bre-ach

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it, and then he was po-un-cing all over her, lic-king her an-xi-o-usly with
his ro-ugh lit-tle ton-gue, ma-king a soft whi-ning no-ise in the back of his
thro-at.
They hadn't gag-ged her. The-re was no ne-ed- who wo-uld ha-ve pa-id the
slig-h-test bit of at-ten-ti-on if she cal-led for help? "Po-or baby," she
whis-pe-red, her vo-ice a soft ca-ress. "I'm all right, I pro-mi-se you." Her
vo-ice so-un-ded ro-ugh, even to her own ears, and the dog wasn't pla-ca-ted.
He whim-pe-red aga-in, pla-cing his cold wet no-se aga-inst her che-ek,
lic-king an-xi-o-usly.
"You can't ima-gi-ne how it gra-ti-fi-es me to he-ar that," a ha-te-ful
vo-ice drif-ted to her ears from the open do-or.
She didn't turn her he-ad to lo-ok at him, didn't gi-ve him any
in-di-ca-ti-on that she'd he-ard him. She hadn't many de-fen-ses left-she
in-ten-ded to che-rish each one.
She kept her ga-ze con-cen-t-ra-ted on the sha-do-wed ce-iling as he
strol-led in-to the ro-om. A mo-ment la-ter Char-bon was sco-oped off her
chest, and she bra-ced her-self to he-ar a ca-ni-ne yelp of pa-in.
She'd un-de-res-ti-ma-ted Blac-k-t-hor-ne. "Yo-ur mis-t-ress isn't in the
mo-od for doggy kis-ses," he sa-id to the puppy in a so-ot-hing vo-ice. "And
we don't want you lic-king the brandy off her clot-hes, now do we? Get along
with you." He set the dog on the flo-or and ga-ve him a gen-t-le nud-ge.
Char-bon bo-un-ced back on-to the bed with an in-dig-nant yip, and
Ghis-la-ine had no cho-ice but to lo-ok at the puppy, ig-no-ring the tall,
dark fi-gu-re that lo-omed abo-ve her.
"You're just as de-ter-mi-ned as yo-ur mis-t-ress, aren't you?"
Blac-k-t-hor-ne sa-id, and the-re was a tra-ce of co-ol amu-se-ment in his
vo-ice. "Tavvy?" he cal-led over his sho-ul-der. "Dis-po-se of this
cre-atu-re, will you?"
She co-uldn't help her in-s-tin-c-ti-ve pro-test as he on-ce mo-re sco-oped
Char-bon's wig-gling body off her.
Ta-ver-ner ap-pe-ared be-si-de the bed, ta-king the puppy in pa-ti-ent
hands. "What do you want me to do with him?"
Blac-k-t-hor-ne was wat-c-hing her very ca-re-ful-ly, ga-uging her
re-ac-ti-on, and she con-cen-t-ra-ted all her li-mi-ted ener-gi-es on ke-eping
her fa-ce blank. "You co-uld al-ways drown him," he sa-id in a dre-amy vo-ice.
"Or bre-ak his neck."
"No!" The vo-ice was torn out of her. Sha-me fil-led her at her we-ak-ness,
but she co-uldn't let him die wit-ho-ut a pro-test.
"No?" Blac-k-t-hor-ne ec-ho-ed, le-aning over her. "Are you as-king me to
sa-ve yo-ur lit-tle dog?"
She wan-ted to spit in his fa-ce. She sta-red up at him, in-to his dark,
mer-ci-less eyes, and wis-hed she co-uld cur-se him. "Yes," she sa-id,
for-cing the words.
He smi-led then, a small, co-ol smi-le of tri-umph. "Ta-ke the dog to the
ho-use-ke-eper and tell her to watch over him un-til El-len re-turns, Tavvy.
I'm su-re my co-usin will ta-ke him to her bo-som."
It was the best she co-uld ho-pe for, and part of her des-pi-sed ac-cep-ting
even that much mercy from the man. She bit her lips to-get-her, de-ter-mi-ned
not to show any gra-ti-tu-de, but he was wi-se eno-ugh to ex-pect no-ne.
"What do you want me to tell the old lady?" Ta-ver-ner as-ked, pa-using in
the do-or-way.
"What we'd plan-ned on," Nic-ho-las sa-id, sta-ring down at her, un-mo-ved
by the hat-red in her eyes. "That Mam-zel-le has de-ci-ded a li-fe of
drud-gery can't com-pa-re with that of an En-g-lish gen-t-le-man's
mis-t-ress."
"No!" she pro-tes-ted, but he simply smi-led, his hand re-ac-hing out to
stro-ke the si-de of her fa-ce gently. She jer-ked away fu-ri-o-usly, but he
ca-ught her, his hand hard.
"I didn't say I was ac-tu-al-ly go-ing to bed you, dar-ling," he mur-mu-red.
"I me-rely think it wo-uld be po-li-tic for the ser-vants of Ain-s-ley Hall to

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think you pre-fer my bed to the kit-c-hens. I gat-her you ha-ven't told El-len
abo-ut yo-ur past. Most un-wi-se on yo-ur part. If she knew, she'd ra-ise
he-aven and earth trying to stop me. As it is, she'll simply ha-ve to as-su-me
her ec-cen-t-ric chef was vul-ne-rab-le to the lu-res of sex and mo-ney, li-ke
most of her co-un-t-r-y-wo-men."
"Stop you from do-ing what?" she as-ked in a ro-ugh vo-ice.
For a mo-ment his eyes lit up with a moc-king hu-mor. "Why, I'm not su-re
yet. I'll ma-ke it up as I go along. Are you go-ing to walk with me out to the
car-ri-age in a ni-ce, bid-dab-le fas-hi-on, or am I go-ing to ha-ve to use
bru-te for-ce?"
"I'd pre-fer you ta-ke me to the ma-gis-t-ra-te."
"I'm cer-ta-in you wo-uld, ma pe-ti-te, but I con-si-der that op-ti-on much
too bo-ring. I find I re-al-ly dis-li-ke be-ing po-iso-ned, and so-me small,
ig-nob-le part of me is lon-ging for re-ven-ge. You sho-uld un-der-s-tand that
much, sho-uldn't you, Ghis-la-ine? For wha-te-ver cri-mes you ima-gi-ne I
com-mit-ted aga-inst you and yo-urs, you de-ci-ded you'd mur-der me. Per-haps
I'll re-turn the fa-vor."
"Do it now," she sa-id fi-er-cely.
He simply sho-ok his he-ad, the fa-int, dam-nab-le smi-le on his fa-ce.
"Anti-ci-pa-ti-on is half the ple-asu-re," he sa-id.
"I won't co-me wil-lingly."
"Sub-du-ing de-fi-an-ce is the ot-her half," he sa-id, and for the first
ti-me she no-ti-ced the snowy-whi-te nec-k-c-loth in his hands. A mo-ment
la-ter the gag was in pla-ce, ti-ed be-hind her he-ad, and she stop-ped
strug-gling, kno-wing that the mo-re she strug-gled, the lon-ger his hands
wo-uld to-uch her. And she fo-und the to-uch of his hands un-ner-ving.
He ha-uled her in-to a sit-ting po-si-ti-on, and a sud-den wa-ve of
diz-zi-ness was-hed over her. She'd hit her he-ad du-ring her strug-gles, and
the pa-in was just be-gin-ning to re-as-sert it-self. She re-fu-sed to let
her-self sway, sit-ting very still, wa-iting.
He was fully dres-sed-an omi-no-us sign. He was a symphony in
chi-aros-cu-ro, from his shiny black bo-ots, ca-re-les-sly ti-ed cra-vat,
sil-ver-trim-med black co-at, and dark, black bre-ec-hes. He lo-oked li-ke the
de-vil him-self, and she won-de-red whet-her he was plan-ning to go stra-ight
to hell. And whet-her he was plan-ning on ta-king her too.
He dra-ped the bright gre-en silk ca-pe aro-und her, and she didn't bot-her
pro-tes-ting. He knew full well it was El-len's, and he'd cho-sen it an-y-way.
He fas-te-ned it be-ne-ath her chin, his long fin-gers co-ol aga-inst her
skin, and pul-led the ho-od up over her he-ad.
"Not that the ser-vants will be un-der any il-lu-si-ons," he mur-mu-red,
sur-ve-ying her with a tho-ug-h-t-ful air. "I just don't hap-pen to want them
to re-ali-ze you're not qu-ite wil-ling. They're not overly fond of you; Tavvy
dis-co-ve-red that much in the ser-vants' hall. They think you're
in-suf-fe-rably pro-ud and abo-ve yo-ur-self. They'll be ab-so-lu-tely
de-lig-h-ted to think you lif-ted yo-ur skirts for the li-kes of me."
She lun-ged at him, for-get-ting her an-k-les we-re bo-und to-get-her, and
he ca-ught her as she fell aga-inst him. "So eager, ma pe-ti-te?" he
mur-mu-red. "You're rig-ht-we've over-s-ta-yed our wel-co-me." And he sco-oped
her up in his arms, the en-ve-lo-ping ca-pe wrap-ped aro-und her bo-und arms
and legs, the ho-od hi-ding her fa-ce. "Very ro-man-tic," he sa-id in a dry
vo-ice. "I sug-gest you don't was-te yo-ur ti-me trying to strug-gle. I'll be
ab-le to sub-due you qu-ite ef-fi-ci-ently, but I'd ha-ve to hurt you. I'm not
re-ady to do that. And the ser-vants aren't li-kely to co-me to yo-ur res-cue,
even if they tho-ught you we-re be-ing ta-ken aga-inst yo-ur will. Don't fight
it, Ghis-la-ine. You ha-ve no es-ca-pe."
She'd pri-ded her-self on ac-cep-ting the ine-vi-tab-le, and she
re-cog-ni-zed the truth in his words. For now, for the next few ho-urs, at
le-ast, she was en-ti-rely at his mercy. She ne-eded to con-ser-ve her
strength, her energy. Be-ca-use so-oner or la-ter, her chan-ce wo-uld co-me.
And Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne wo-uld le-arn fir-s-t-hand abo-ut the fi-res of

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hell.
The Ho-no-rab-le Sir An-tony Wil-ton-Gre-ening glan-ced out the car-ri-age
win-dow in-to the storm-clo-uded co-un-t-r-y-si-de. If he'd had any cho-ice in
the mat-ter he wo-uld ha-ve sta-yed at Me-adow-lands un-til the we-at-her
cle-ared. But El-len had be-en de-ter-mi-ned to le-ave, and he'd be-en just as
de-ter-mi-ned, in his own de-cep-ti-vely in-do-lent fas-hi-on, to ac-com-pany
her. Be-si-des, if the we-at-her had be-en cle-ar he wo-uld ha-ve had very
lit-tle ex-cu-se to ri-de in the ex-cel-lently sprung car-ri-age be-lon-ging
to his old scho-ol chum Car-mic-ha-el. El-len knew he had a new gel-ding, and
whi-le he ne-ver li-ked to exert him-self un-ne-ces-sa-rily, he al-so
de-tes-ted en-c-lo-sed spa-ces li-ke car-ri-ages. He wo-uld ha-ve be-en hard
put con-vin-cing her he ac-tu-al-ly wan-ted to be im-mu-red in a car-ri-age
with her for al-most ten ho-urs. Not wit-ho-ut tel-ling her the truth.
She smi-led at him, pus-hing her gol-den-blond ha-ir back from her pa-le
fa-ce, and he smi-led back. She was one of the few wo-men who wo-uldn't be
in-ti-mi-da-ted by his over-si-zed fra-me. Car-mic-ha-el cal-led him The
Mo-un-ta-in, and his most re-cent mis-t-ress, a deftly in-ven-ti-ve ope-ra
sin-ger who-se ta-len-ted mo-uth knew no li-mits, had used ot-her, even
fran-ker terms for him.
He wo-uld miss Car-lot-ta, he tho-ught with a sigh. Miss her bawdy
ri-pe-ness, her scre-aming tan-t-rums, and her en-t-hu-si-asm in bed. He
co-uldn't ho-pe to find that sa-me una-bas-hed en-t-hu-si-asm in a wo-man of
qu-ality. He'd re-sig-ned him-self to the fact that his mar-ri-age bed wo-uld
be a sta-id, po-li-te af-fa-ir, con-duc-ted in dar-k-ness be-ne-ath la-yers of
co-vers. At le-ast he had every in-ten-ti-on of enj-oying the ti-me out-si-de
the bed with so-me-one com-pa-tib-le.
Ellen Fit-z-wa-ter was mo-re than com-pa-tib-le. She was char-ming,
in-no-cent, alar-mingly cle-ver, and pos-ses-sed of bo-un-d-less af-fec-ti-on
for him, rat-her li-ke a well-tra-ined spa-ni-el. And li-ke any true
En-g-lis-h-man, he lo-ved his dogs. She was al-so qu-ite lo-vely, with her
soft cur-ves and En-g-lish-ro-se com-p-le-xi-on. It was so-me ti-me af-ter the
in-c-re-dibly pro-per Miss Stan-ley had bro-ken the-ir en-ga-ge-ment that he'd
first re-ali-zed El-len wo-uld su-it him ad-mi-rably. Part of that de-ci-si-on
had be-en hel-ped by the know-led-ge that he wo-uldn't ha-ve to do an-y-t-hing
abo-ut it for se-ve-ral ye-ars. He was a man of strong opi-ni-ons, li-kes and
dis-li-kes, but pri-ded him-self on be-ing a to-le-rant man. Things ten-ded to
fall in-to pla-ce for him-he'd be-en bles-sed with a res-pec-tab-le for-tu-ne,
a mi-nor tit-le, lo-ving pa-rents, a form that wo-men ten-ded to find
ple-asing, and an abi-lity in mat-ters of ga-ming and sport that ma-de him
uni-ver-sal-ly ap-pre-ci-ated. If oc-ca-si-onal-ly he saw things a lit-tle too
cle-arly, he usu-al-ly ma-na-ged to ma-in-ta-in a po-li-te ve-ne-er. He
suf-fe-red fo-ols, not gladly, but of-ten. He was usu-al-ly just too
even-tem-pe-red to do ot-her-wi-se.
Ellen had al-most dis-rup-ted his well-la-id plans. He'd had eno-ugh town
bron-ze to know that she wo-uldn't ma-ke a splash du-ring her first se-ason.
He'd kept an eye on her prog-ress, re-ady to step in if so-me en-ter-p-ri-sing
yo-ung man ca-me up with an of-fer, but as he'd ex-pec-ted, the yo-ung men of
Lon-don didn't ha-ve the sup-re-me go-od tas-te to ap-pre-ci-ate a sub-t-le
be-a-uty li-ke El-len. Tony was a firm be-li-ever in mo-no-gamy, and he was
too fond of El-len to of-fer her an-y-t-hing less than a du-ti-ful hus-band.
His clo-se call with Miss Stan-ley had gi-ven him a pro-per ap-pre-ci-ati-on
for the joys of bac-he-lor-ho-od, and he simply hadn't be-en in any hurry to
dis-pen-se with its ple-asu-res in ex-c-han-ge for mo-no-gamy and duty.
The Re-ve-rend Al-vin Pur-ser had crept up be-hind his back when he wasn't
lo-oking. Just when he'd tho-ught he had plenty of ti-me, with El-len sa-fely
en-s-con-ced at Ain-s-ley Hall, Car-mic-ha-el had an-no-un-ced his sis-ter's
en-ga-ge-ment.
Tony had con-si-de-red dec-la-ring him-self at that po-int, then tho-ught
bet-ter of it. He pri-ded him-self on be-ing a de-cent man, and Car-mic-ha-el
as-su-red him that El-len was he-ad over he-els in lo-ve. If he'd had any

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no-ti-on that she wasn't qu-ite so ena-mo-red of her lit-tle mi-nis-ter, he
might ha-ve do-ne so-met-hing abo-ut it. But he to-ok his fri-end's word for
it and de-ci-ded to lo-ok el-sew-he-re for a bri-de. Un-for-tu-na-tely no one
had even co-me clo-se to El-len's qu-ali-fi-ca-ti-ons.
And when the idi-otic re-ve-rend had jil-ted her, she'd ta-ken off for the
con-ti-nent be-fo-re he had a chan-ce to ma-ke his mo-ve a few dan-ge-ro-us
we-eks in-to the al-re-ady du-bi-o-us Pe-ace of Ami-ens. When she re-tur-ned
she had her fri-end, the myste-ri-o-us fe-ma-le chef, in tow, and a new, wary
air to her.
He'd wor-ked dam-ned hard at get-ting her to re-lax on-ce mo-re aro-und him.
The re-ve-rend had do-ne mo-re da-ma-ge than Tony wo-uld ha-ve tho-ught
pos-sib-le, and it wo-uld ta-ke ti-me get-ting El-len to co-me to he-el on-ce
mo-re.
He had mo-re than eno-ugh ti-me, and so did she. Whi-le she was sa-fely on
the shelf, she was still only in her mid-twen-ti-es, ti-me and eno-ugh to
pro-vi-de him with a su-itab-le bro-od of chil-d-ren, in-c-lu-ding an he-ir.
If he had any sen-se at all he'd gi-ve it anot-her ye-ar or two.
The prob-lem was, he'd la-tely be-en gro-wing im-pa-ti-ent. Be-en
won-de-ring whet-her co-ha-bi-ting with a go-od wo-man might not be qu-ite as
bo-ring as he an-ti-ci-pa-ted, gi-ven that the go-od wo-man was El-len. He'd
be-en very wary at Chris-t-mas, af-ra-id the sen-ti-ment of the se-ason and
his own res-t-les-sness might push him in-to do-ing so-met-hing
un-c-ha-rac-te-ris-ti-cal-ly im-pul-si-ve. He'd kept away sin-ce then, trying
to ta-ke his ti-me.
But he'd be-en unab-le to ke-ep away any lon-ger. May-be it was past ti-me
to be-co-me just the slig-h-test bit im-pul-si-ve.
He shif-ted in his se-at aga-in, and El-len glan-ced at him. "You ha-te
this," she sa-id. "You sho-uldn't ha-ve in-sis-ted on ac-com-pan-ying me,
Tony. I'm mo-re than ca-pab-le of tra-ve-ling the dis-tan-ce bet-we-en my
brot-her's ho-use and mi-ne wit-ho-ut you. Bin-nie ke-eps me very go-od
com-pany, and Car-mic-ha-el em-p-loys only the most re-li-ab-le of
co-ac-h-men."
Tony glan-ced over at the ad-mi-rab-le Miss Bin-ner-s-ton, now sno-ring
softly as her be-cap-ped he-ad dro-oped over her no-ne-xis-tent bo-som. "I
wo-uld ho-pe my com-pany wo-uld be slightly mo-re en-li-ve-ning," he
draw-led.
A fa-int, at-trac-ti-ve flush dar-ke-ned her soft che-eks. "Of co-ur-se you
are, Tony. But I didn't want to drag you all over the co-un-t-r-y-si-de in
this mi-se-rab-le we-at-her. I just wan-ted to get ho-me. I know my fe-ars are
ri-di-cu-lo-us, but I'm not go-ing to rest easy un-til I know that… that
things are all right."
"That yo-ur lit-tle chef is all right. Ghis-la-ine-isn't that her na-me? Why
didn't she ac-com-pany you in the first pla-ce? I'm su-re Car-mic-ha-el's
staff wo-uld ha-ve ma-de her wel-co-me."
"Ac-tu-al-ly the ser-vants don't tend to ca-re much for her. She's too
fo-re-ign, too self-con-ta-ined for them. She's not a ser-vant, Tony. She's my
fri-end."
"I ha-te to so-und rep-res-si-ve, swe-et-he-art, but you can't ma-ke
fri-ends of yo-ur ser-vants. For one thing, they don't li-ke it abo-ve half.
Ser-vants ha-ve the stron-gest class sen-se of any gro-up I know, and it go-es
aga-inst the-ir dig-nity to be tre-ated li-ke a fri-end."
"I've told you, she's not li-ke ot-her pe-op-le. I owe her a very gre-at
de-al, and it's not so-met-hing I can easily ex-p-la-in."
"You don't ha-ve to. I'll simply ta-ke yo-ur word for it."
She lo-oked ac-ross at him, qu-ite star-t-led, and he won-de-red how long it
had be-en sin-ce so-me-one simply to-ok what she sa-id wit-ho-ut
qu-es-ti-oning. "Thank you, Tony."
She'd ma-ke an es-ti-mab-le wi-fe and mot-her, he tho-ught ab-sently,
wat-c-hing her. Swe-et, do-ci-le, well-bred. But he co-uldn't help won-de-ring
whet-her be-ne-ath that gen-t-le, fa-intly wor-ri-ed ex-p-res-si-on lur-ked

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any ca-pa-bi-lity for pas-si-on.
"Ever-y-t-hing will be fi-ne," he sa-id, ig-no-ring his own way-ward
tho-ughts. "Nic-ho-las will ha-ve de-cam-ped, the ser-vants will pro-bably
ha-ve got-ten in-to the port, and yo-ur… fri-end will be wis-hing she'd had
the go-od sen-se to ac-com-pany you." A sud-den, de-ci-dedly un-p-le-asant
tho-ught struck him, as he re-mem-be-red cer-ta-in proc-li-vi-ti-es, ones he'd
ne-ver tho-ught swe-et El-len wo-uld sha-re. "She is simply a fri-end, isn't
she?" he fo-und him-self as-king.
Cle-arly El-len didn't ha-ve the fa-in-test no-ti-on what he me-ant. "What
el-se wo-uld she be?" she as-ked. "We're not re-la-ted, if that's what you're
as-king."
"That's not what I was as-king."
One thing he fo-und slightly dis-tur-bing abo-ut El-len was her te-na-city.
She wasn't a swe-et, sil-ky-co-ated spa-ni-el, she was a ter-ri-er gna-wing
away at a bo-ne. "I still ha-ven't the fa-in-test no-ti-on what you're
sa-ying, Tony, and I wish you'd be mo-re spe-ci-fic. If it in-vol-ves
Ghis-la-ine I want to know. I'm wor-ri-ed eno-ugh as it is. Ex-p-la-in
yo-ur-self, ple-ase."
Cur-se his ton-gue. He didn't usu-al-ly ma-ke the mis-ta-ke of let-ting it
flap at both ends. "It do-esn't con-cern eit-her of you," he be-gan, ho-ping
she'd let it rest at that. The mu-ti-no-us ex-p-res-si-on on her fa-ce told
him ot-her-wi-se. He sig-hed. If he was go-ing to marry the wo-man, be-get his
he-irs on her, then he might as well be-gin her se-xu-al edu-ca-ti-on he-re
and now. "Occa-si-onal-ly wo-men de-ve-lop a re-la-ti-on-s-hip that is… shall
we say, a bit too in-ten-se."
She still didn't ap-pe-ar to un-der-s-tand. "You'll ha-ve to be mo-re
spe-ci-fic, Tony. Ghis-la-ine and I ha-ve a very clo-se re-la-ti-on-s-hip.
What, pray tell, is the mat-ter with that?"
Oh, Lord, he tho-ught. "Occa-si-onal-ly wo-men pre-fer ot-her wo-men," he
sa-id flatly.
"What's the prob-lem with that? I much pre-fer the com-pany of most wo-men I
know to the men I've met. We ha-ve mo-re in com-mon, we don't ha-ve to
dis-cuss ri-di-cu-lo-us things li-ke hun-ting and bo-xing and po-li-tics-"
"I tho-ught you li-ked po-li-tics," he sa-id, af-f-ron-ted.
"Well, I do. But not to the ex-c-lu-si-on of ever-y-t-hing el-se," she sa-id
frankly. "So ex-p-la-in, Tony. What are you trying to tell me?"
In for a penny, in for a po-und, he tho-ught, wis-hing Miss Bin-ner-s-ton
wo-uld wa-ke up and put a pe-ri-od to this dis-cus-si-on. The dam-ned wo-man
con-ti-nu-ed to sno-re, and the-re was no way out of it.
"Cer-ta-in wo-men pre-fer not just the com-pany of ot-her wo-men, de-arest,"
he sa-id. "They pre-fer the bo-di-es of ot-her wo-men."
She sat very still, as the no-ti-on sank in. If her che-eks had be-en
flus-hed with pa-le co-lor be-fo-re, they we-re now fla-ming crim-son. "You
me-an they…?"
He nod-ded, fi-nal-ly be-gin-ning to enj-oy him-self. "Inde-ed," he sa-id.
"But how… No, don't an-s-wer that," she beg-ged.
He fo-und him-self smi-ling in the dimly lit car-ri-age. "It wo-uld be
dif-fi-cult to ex-p-la-in," he sa-id, "sin-ce you pro-bably don't even
un-der-s-tand what go-es on bet-we-en men and wo-men in the first pla-ce. Most
gently bred En-g-lish girls don't."
"I do," she sa-id, sur-p-ri-sing him. "Gilly told me."
He didn't was-te his ti-me as-king how Gilly knew. "That so-unds li-ke a
most im-p-ro-per con-ver-sa-ti-on to be ha-ving with one's co-ok," he
ob-ser-ved.
"Gilly and I aren't pro-per, we're ho-nest. You're right, most gently bred
En-g-lish girls don't un-der-s-tand what go-es on bet-we-en men and wo-men. I
wan-ted to know, so I as-ked Gilly."
"You co-uld ha-ve as-ked me."
She lo-oked up at him then, sur-p-ri-se strip-ping her fa-ce of its co-lor,
but be-fo-re she co-uld spe-ak Miss Bin-ner-s-ton cho-se that mi-se-rab-le

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mo-ment to awa-ken.
‘'De-ar me," Bin-nie sa-id, pus-hing her bon-net and her wig back on her
he-ad. "I must ha-ve do-zed off. Ha-ve I mis-sed an-y-t-hing in-te-res-ting?"
Calm, even-tem-pe-red Tony wan-ted to snarl. In-s-te-ad he le-aned back,
let-ting his eye-lids dro-op sle-epily. "Not a thing, Miss Bin-ner-s-ton. Lady
El-len and I we-re just dis-cus-sing the we-at-her."
Miss Bin-ner-s-ton had her vir-tu-es, which in-c-lu-ded ne-it-her
sen-si-ti-vity nor si-len-ce. She pro-ce-eded to la-unch in-to a ram-b-ling
dis-co-ur-se abo-ut the chilly spring we-at-her, and Tony clo-sed his eyes. He
fo-und he co-uldn't lo-ok at El-len or at her shoc-ked ex-p-res-si-on, for
anot-her in-s-tant. If he did, he might star-t-le all of them by le-aning over
and kis-sing her on her as-to-nis-hed mo-uth. And it was much too so-on to
bes-tir him-self.
Ghis-la-ine felt dizzy, flo-ating, as Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne car-ri-ed
her down the long swe-eping sta-irs at Ain-s-ley Hall. She'd
un-de-res-ti-ma-ted his strength. Af-ter the-ir abor-ti-ve bat-tle he se-emed
to ha-ve no dif-fi-culty at all car-rying her out to the car-ri-age, the
en-ve-lo-ping ca-pe shi-el-ding her from the cu-ri-o-us ser-vants. He was
right; strug-gling wo-uld ava-il her not-hing. No-ne of the pe-op-le the-re
wo-uld co-me to her aid, even if they knew she was be-ing ta-ken aga-inst her
will. And whi-le she might bre-ak her neck, and qu-ite pos-sibly his, if she
ma-na-ged to wrench her-self out of his grip, the chan-ces we-re just as
li-kely that she'd simply bre-ak her leg. The-reby ru-ining any fu-tu-re
chan-ce for es-ca-pe.
For the mo-ment she re-ma-ined do-ci-le. The-re was a cold ra-in fal-ling
when he step-ped out in-to the ear-ly-mor-ning air, and the bright silk ca-pe
was no pro-tec-ti-on at all. She re-fu-sed to shi-ver in his arms.
She re-fu-sed to do an-y-t-hing as he dum-ped her in the cor-ner of the
car-ri-age, thro-wing him-self down op-po-si-te her. The ho-od ob-s-cu-red her
vi-si-on, and for that much she co-uld be glad. She'd fo-und an unex-pec-ted
me-asu-re of pe-ace at Ain-s-ley Hall, and she knew full well she'd ne-ver see
it aga-in. She didn't want to risk any sen-ti-men-tal we-ak-ness by wat-c-hing
it di-sap-pe-ar.
That's what had bro-ught her to this sorry pass, sen-ti-ment and we-ak-ness.
If she'd simply ta-ken the but-c-her kni-fe in the first pla-ce and
dis-pat-c-hed Blac-k-t-hor-ne, she co-uld ha-ve ma-de go-od her es-ca-pe
be-fo-re an-yo-ne fo-und his body.
Fa-iling that, her fa-tal we-ak-ness had be-en Char-bon. She hadn't ow-ned a
pet sin-ce she was fif-te-en ye-ars old, hadn't al-lo-wed her-self to ca-re
for even the low-li-est of God's cre-atu-res. But when El-len had pre-sen-ted
her with the swe-et black puppy, she'd be-en unab-le to re-sist.
And that puppy had be-en her dow-n-fall. If she co-uld ha-ve sto-od idly by
and wat-c-hed Char-bon drink po-ison, then Nic-ho-las wo-uld ha-ve fol-lo-wed
su-it.
It was a les-son she tho-ught she had le-ar-ned long ago. Ne-ver al-low
yo-ur he-art to sof-ten, even for a mo-ment. The most in-no-cent of
cre-atu-res co-uld en-gi-ne-er yo-ur dow-n-fall.
The car-ri-age star-ted with a jerk, and she re-ali-zed that the
om-nip-re-sent Ta-ver-ner was now-he-re to be se-en. She sho-ok her he-ad,
knoc-king the ho-od cle-ar, and sta-red at Nic-ho-las in the murky mor-ning
light.
He lo-oked both ele-gant and dis-si-pa-ted, his legs stret-c-hed out in
front of him, his nec-k-c-loth slightly awry, and he was wat-c-hing her with a
cer-ta-in dan-ge-ro-us in-te-rest.
"We're on our way," he sa-id, and the un-ne-ces-sary an-no-un-ce-ment
fil-led her with fo-re-bo-ding. "I don't know how long we'll be on the ro-ad
this first day, but I ima-gi-ne we'll ha-ve a gre-at de-al of ti-me to kill.
Let's see how in-te-res-ting we can ma-ke it, shall we?" And he le-aned
for-ward and be-gan to un-fas-ten her gag.

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Chapter 6

“She can't be go-ne!" El-len sa-id flatly, sta-ring at her smugly cor-rect
ma-j-or-do-mo. Wil-kins had ne-ver li-ked Gilly, had al-ways di-sap-pro-ved of
her po-si-ti-on in the ho-use-hold, and the-re was a fa-int gle-am of tri-umph
in his flat brown eyes.
"Mr. Blac-k-t-hor-ne per-so-nal-ly in-for-med me, Lady El-len, that
Mam-zel-le wo-uld be ac-com-pan-ying him on his trip to Scot-land. That she
had grown ti-red of wor-king for a li-ving, and de-ci-ded the-re we-re easi-er
ways to earn her ke-ep." Wil-kins's pin-c-hed ex-p-res-si-on ma-de it cle-ar
that one co-uld ex-pect no less from a French up-s-tart.
"Scot-land," Tony sa-id be-hind her. "Then he mustn't ha-ve got-ten the word
abo-ut Jason Har-g-ro-ve's un-for-tu-na-te de-mi-se. Ot-her-wi-se he'd be
he-aded in the op-po-si-te di-rec-ti-on."
"The-re's be-en no com-mu-ni-ca-ti-on from out-si-de Ain-s-ley Hall," Mrs.
Raf-ferty spo-ke up, her mo-uth pur-sed in di-sap-pro-val. "Just a cre-ased,
dirty let-ter for Mam-zel-le, and that ar-ri-ved af-ter they to-ok off. I've
left it in yo-ur ro-om, Lady El-len. But then, Mr. Blac-k-t-hor-ne wasn't in
any sha-pe to re-ce-ive mes-sa-ges."
"Drunk, was he?" Tony mur-mu-red in un-s-y-m-pat-he-tic to-nes, co-ming up
be-si-de El-len and put-ting a sup-por-ti-ve hand on her arm.
"No, sir. Sick as a dog. It was a ne-ar thing for a whi-le, and I was qu-ite
un-su-re how to han-d-le it. It wo-uldn't ha-ve do-ne for Mr. Blac-k-t-hor-ne
to ha-ve di-ed un-der yo-ur ro-of. What wo-uld pe-op-le ha-ve sa-id?"
"They wo-uld ha-ve sa-id Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne was tho-ug-h-t-less to
the end," Tony sa-id.
"Tony, they're in-sis-ting Gilly to-ok off with Nic-ho-las. That she… she's
go-ing to be his mis-t-ress. That is what you we-re im-p-l-ying, isn't it?"
El-len tur-ned back to Wil-kins with a fi-er-ce de-mand.
Wil-kins had the go-od sen-se to re-ali-ze his own tri-umph wasn't sit-ting
well with his mis-t-ress. He wi-ped the smug ex-p-res-si-on off his fa-ce,
on-ce aga-in the im-pas-si-ve but-ler. "That's what his lor-d-s-hip and that
evil-eyed man of his sa-id."
"But she can't… she wo-uldn't… not wit-ho-ut a word…" To her ab-y-s-mal
sha-me, El-len co-uld fe-el the sud-den stin-ging warmth of te-ars as they
be-gan to sli-de hel-p-les-sly down her che-eks.
The three wat-c-hed her in mi-se-rab-le si-len-ce, Raf-ferty and Wil-kins's
smug ple-asu-re long sin-ce va-nis-hed at the sight of the-ir be-lo-ved
mis-t-ress's mi-sery. Tony was the one who to-ok mat-ters in hand, put-ting
his arm aro-und her un-hap-py fi-gu-re and le-ading her to-ward her pink
wit-h-d-ra-wing ro-om with uner-ring in-s-tinct and me-mory.
He set-tled her down on the cha-ise, re-fu-sing to let her say a word un-til
Wil-kins ar-ri-ved with the sherry, and then sto-od over her un-til she
dow-ned half the glass and her si-lent te-ars had aba-ted slightly.
"That's a gre-at de-al bet-ter," he sa-id, ta-king his own sherry and
sit-ting op-po-si-te her, lo-oking han-d-so-me and calm and glo-ri-o-us in her
fussy lit-tle ro-om. "Now sup-po-se you tell me what's got-ten you in-to such
a puc-ker? You've had a long, ti-ring jo-ur-ney, and I know you we-re pas-sing
fond of the
wo-man, but su-rely you're be-co-ming much too over-w-ro-ught."
"Tony, I'm mo-re than pas-sing fond. I owe Gilly my li-fe, and I can't turn
my back on her when she's in tro-ub-le."
For a mo-ment Tony didn't mo-ve. "What ma-kes you think she's in tro-ub-le?"
he as-ked fi-nal-ly. "I ha-te to so-und con-des-cen-ding, but what wo-uld be
in-sup-por-tab-le for a lady of qu-ality might be qu-ite com-for-tab-le for
so-me-one less for-tu-na-tely si-tu-ated."
"Li-ke yo-ur mis-t-ress," El-len sa-id with a snif-fle.
Tony didn't bat an eye. "I don't ha-ve a mis-t-ress."
"The-re's no ne-ed to lie to me. I know all abo-ut the Di-vi-ne Car-lot-ta.

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Car-mic-ha-el told me abo-ut her, and I must say, she so-unds very
ex-ci-ting." She co-uldn't dis-gu-ise the mo-ur-n-ful to-ne in her vo-ice.
Tony lo-oked mo-re than a lit-tle an-no-yed. "He had no bu-si-ness do-ing
so. As a mat-ter of fact, that con-nec-ti-on has be-en se-ve-red."
"I tho-ught you might ha-ve had a fal-ling out," El-len sa-id,
mo-men-ta-rily dis-t-rac-ted.
"Did you? I can't ima-gi-ne why you sho-uld ha-ve tro-ub-led yo-ur-self with
such spe-cu-la-ti-on, or what might ha-ve ma-de you co-me to that
con-c-lu-si-on." He so-un-ded de-fi-ni-tely dis-g-run-t-led and al-most
em-bar-ras-sed, a fact which wo-uld ha-ve amu-sed El-len in hap-pi-er ti-mes.
"Why, the fact- that you we-re spen-ding so much ti-me with me. I fan-ci-ed
you we-re angry with yo-ur mis-t-ress, and gi-ving both of you ti-me to co-ol
off."
"You spend far too much ti-me with yo-ur fan-ci-es," he sa-id. "Inclu-ding
yo-ur la-test abo-ut Ghis-la-ine - that is the wret-c-hed wo-man's na-me,
isn't it?"
"She's not a wret-c-hed wo-man. She's my fri-end, and I can't turn my back
on her when she's in tro-ub-le."
"What ma-kes you think she's in tro-ub-le? Why can't you ac-cept the fact
that she simply de-ci-ded the-re we-re easi-er ways to earn her li-ving?"
"Be-ca-use she knew per-fectly well that she had no ne-ed to earn her
li-ving. I wan-ted her as my com-pa-ni-on, my fri-end. She was the one who
in-sis-ted she li-ve be-low-s-ta-irs, that she ser-ve as my chef in-s-te-ad of
enj-oying li-fe as my de-arest fri-end. I wo-uld ha-ve de-ni-ed her
not-hing."
Tony con-si-de-red the in-for-ma-ti-on for a mo-ment. "Per-haps it was a
ca-se of lo-ve at first sight? Blac-k-t-hor-ne is rat-her a das-hing fi-gu-re.
She might ha-ve over-co-me her dis-li-ke of the ma-le gen-der."
"Per-haps," she sa-id do-ub-t-ful-ly. "You're right abo-ut Nic-ho-las-he is
qu-ite wic-kedly at-trac-ti-ve. I sup-po-se Gilly might ha-ve fal-len in lo-ve
with him."
For so-me re-ason her ag-re-ement didn't se-em to ple-ase Tony. "I can
as-su-re you, far wi-ser wo-men ha-ve fal-len un-der his spell. His amo-urs
are ne-it-her dis-c-re-et nor ho-no-rab-le. And I'm af-ra-id that lo-ve ne-ver
has much to do with the-se ar-ran-ge-ments."
"Gilly wo-uld ne-ver ha-ve run off if she we-ren't in lo-ve. And sin-ce they
sa-id Nic-ho-las was ho-ve-ring at de-ath's do-or for most of the ti-me he was
he-re, that didn't gi-ve them much ti-me to fall in lo-ve."
"De-ar El-len, even if the es-ti-mab-le Ghis-la-ine hap-pe-ned to ima-gi-ne
her-self in lo-ve with Blac-k-t-hor-ne, I'm cer-ta-in he was suf-fe-ring from
no such ro-man-tic de-lu-si-ons."
Ellen sho-ok her he-ad, clut-c-hing her half-fi-nis-hed sherry in her hand.
"I don't be-li-eve it, Tony. I sup-po-se I'm be-ing fo-olish. I sho-uld simply
ac-cept the fact-af-ter all, she co-uld hardly ha-ve be-en ab-duc-ted in
bro-ad day-light. But why wo-uld she fa-il to le-ave me a mes-sa-ge, a word of
fa-re-well?"
For the mo-ment ne-it-her of them he-ard the scrat-c-hing on the do-or. Then
Tony's eyes met hers. "Rats, El-len?" he in-qu-ired smo-othly.
The do-or was pus-hed open, and Ghis-la-ine's tiny black dog bo-un-ded in-to
the ro-om with an in-dig-nant yip, fol-lo-wed clo-sely by a plump
un-der-ho-use-ma-id. She le-aped for the puppy, but the dog was too fast for
her, hur-ling him-self on-to El-len's silk-co-ve-red lap with a pla-in-ti-ve
howl.
The ho-use-ma-id tur-ned bright red, ma-na-ging an aw-k-ward bob. "Beg-ging
yo-ur par-don, yo-ur lad-y-s-hip," she stam-me-red, and El-len knew with
sud-den sympathy that the po-or girl was to-tal-ly unu-sed to con-ver-sing
with an-yo-ne mo-re exal-ted than the first cham-ber-ma-id. "The lit-tle dog
got away from me, and I swo-re to Mrs. Raf-ferty I'd watch over it. I'll ta-ke
him right away…" She re-ac-hed out her plump, work-worn hands for him, but the
un-g-ra-te-ful wretch grow-led low in his thro-at.

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"What's yo-ur na-me?" El-len as-ked, using her most so-ot-hing to-ne of
vo-ice to put the girl at her ease.
"Gladys, yo-ur lad-y-s-hip. I didn't me-an to ca-use no harm, and Mrs.
Raf-fer-ty'll-ha-ve my he-ad if she knew I was he-re, tal-king to you, but the
lit-tle dog got away from me, and be-si-des, Mam-zel-le was kind to me, and I
don't think it's right that they sho-uld just let that man ta-ke her away from
he-re when may-be she didn't want to go at all, and why wo-uld she le-ave
Char-bon be-hind if he was go-ing to set her up all ni-ce and fancy, that's
what I wants to know." Her words tum-b-led to an em-bar-ras-sed halt as she
re-ali-zed the enor-mity of what she'd sa-id.
That sick, bur-ning fe-eling in the pit of El-len's sto-mach ex-p-lo-ded,
and for a mo-ment she was af-ra-id she might throw up the sherry Tony had
for-ced her to drink. "Are you tel-ling me she didn't go wil-lingly?" she
as-ked in a de-cep-ti-vely calm vo-ice.
Gladys was still ter-ri-fi-ed by the se-et-hing emo-ti-ons in the ro-om. "I
don't know, yo-ur lad-y-s-hip. All I know is that when Mam-zel-le to-ok Mr.
Blac-k-t-hor-ne his din-ner tray she didn't re-ap-pe-ar, but I he-ard the
so-unds of a fight. And whi-le he was wan-de-ring aro-und the ho-use la-ter, I
was told I wasn't to go in-to the ro-om to cle-ar away the dis-hes. And when I
did go in, the next mor-ning, the dis-hes we-re shat-te-red all over the
flo-or, and the bed was torn up so-met-hing fi-er-ce."
"I ha-te to say it," Tony draw-led from ac-ross the ro-om, "but the-re's a
very ob-vi-o-us ex-p-la-na-ti-on for that."
"A sur-fe-it of pas-si-on?" El-len shot him a fu-ri-o-us glan-ce. "I don't
think so. What el-se, Gladys?"
"I saw them when they left. He was car-rying her, miss."
"And was she strug-gling?" Tony de-man-ded in a prac-ti-cal vo-ice.
"Not so's I co-uld no-ti-ce," Gladys ad-mit-ted re-luc-tantly.
"And what was she do-ing in Mr. Blac-k-t-hor-ne's arms?" He pur-su-ed it
re-len-t-les-sly.
"I co-uldn't see all that cle-arly. She was wrap-ped he-ad to fo-ot in her
lad-y-s-hip's gre-en silk ca-pe. It lo-oked li-ke she had her he-ad on his
sho-ul-der."
"The-re you ha-ve it," Tony sa-id. "She was cur-led up in her lo-ver's arms,
dres-sed in yo-ur pil-fe-red ca-pe. Off on lo-ve's yo-ung dre-am, le-aving her
dog and you be-hind wit-ho-ut a se-cond tho-ught. Trust the French. Any ra-ce
of pe-op-le who'd but-c-her each ot-her so blo-odily wo-uld ha-ve no
com-pun-c-ti-ons at all."
"The-re are ti-mes, Tony, when I don't think I ca-re for you very much,"
El-len sa-id se-ve-rely. "It's not that I don't ap-pre-ci-ate yo-ur
ac-com-pan-ying me ho-me in this dis-mal we-at-her, and yo-ur ef-forts to
ma-ke me dis-miss Gilly's di-sap-pe-aran-ce as a Gal-lic fre-ak, but why don't
you con-ti-nue on to the inn? I'm cur-rently unab-le to pro-vi-de you with a
de-cent me-al, sin-ce my chef se-ems to ha-ve de-cam-ped, and I'm not in the
mo-od for so-ci-ali-zing."
Tony ro-se, lo-oming very lar-ge in the small, fe-mi-ni-ne ro-om. "Ta-ke the
dog back to the kit-c-hens," he sa-id ple-asantly eno-ugh, and Gladys
scam-pe-red to do his bid-ding.
She pa-used at the do-or, clut-c-hing the in-dig-nant dog to her bo-som.
"Per-haps I ought to gi-ve you this, yo-ur lad-y-s-hip," she sa-id, sho-ving
one hand in her ap-ron poc-ket and co-ming up with a crum-p-led pi-ece of
pa-per. "Mrs. Raf-ferty as-ked me to bring it to her, but sin-ce it's from
yo-ur ro-om it must be me-ant for you."
Ellen to-ok the let-ter in her hand. "Ci-ti-ze-ness Ghis-la-ine de Lorgny,"
she re-ad. "Odd, I didn't think they re-fer-red to each ot-her as ci-ti-zen
an-y-mo-re. And I tho-ught Ghis-la-ine's last na-me was Sa-hut. But it's
ad-dres-sed pro-perly."
"De Lorgny," Tony sa-id in a me-di-ta-ti-ve vo-ice. "I know that na-me. Why
don't you re-ad it?"
"Cer-ta-inly not!" El-len sa-id sharply. "That wo-uld be dis-ho-no-rab-le."

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She ga-ve Gladys her war-mest smi-le. "Thank you very much, Gladys. You've
be-en very hel-p-ful."
She clo-sed the do-or be-hind the ma-id's sto-ut lit-tle fi-gu-re, put-ting
the crum-p-led let-ter in her own poc-ket be-fo-re she tur-ned to fa-ce Tony.
She knew she'd ha-ve a hard ti-me re-sis-ting his for-ce of will and his
de-vas-ta-ting charm, but she was de-ter-mi-ned to do so.
"And now, El-len," he sa-id, ad-van-cing on her, "you will tell me what’s
go-ing on in that far too de-vi-o-us bra-in of yo-urs."
She held her gro-und, but just ba-rely. "Not-hing at all, Tony. You've
po-in-ted out that Gilly must simply ha-ve ta-ken off for a li-fe of ram-pant
sen-su-ality, and I ha-ve de-ci-ded I see the wis-dom of yo-ur words. I will
miss her, but the-re's not-hing I can do abo-ut it." She ma-na-ged to gi-ve
him a de-mu-re smi-le.
Tony didn't even blink. "Li-ar," he sa-id flatly. "I've known you sin-ce you
we-re in le-ading-st-rings, El-lie. You can't ho-pe to bam-bo-oz-le me. You're
mo-re con-vin-ced than ever that she was ab-duc-ted."
She aban-do-ned all at-tempts at lying to him. Tony knew her far too well.
"It's the ca-pe," she sa-id ear-nestly. "Gilly ha-ted that ca-pe. It was a
cer-ta-in un-for-tu-na-te sha-de of yel-low-gre-en, with pu-ce trim, and she
of-ten told me it sho-uld be bur-ned. She was al-ways trying to im-p-ro-ve my
tas-te in clot-hing." Her vo-ice fal-te-red on the last.
"She's not de-ad, El-len," Tony sa-id in a kind vo-ice. "Even if you'd be
wi-ser to think of her as such."
"I can't, Tony. She wo-uld ne-ver ha-ve ta-ken that ca-pe of her own
ac-cord, ne-ver wo-uld ha-ve worn it on a ro-man-tic as-sig-na-ti-on. She
wo-uld ha-ve wan-ted to lo-ok her best if she we-re go-ing off with her
lo-ver, not li-ke a… a… sal-low pea-go-ose."
"All right," Tony sa-id. "For the sa-ke of ar-gu-ment, sup-po-se Nic-ho-las
did ab-duct her? Why? Yo-ur ma-j-or-do-mo sa-id he'd be-en ter-ribly ill
whi-le he was he-re. Do you sup-po-se it might ha-ve over-set his mind? The
Blac-k-t-hor-nes are no-to-ri-o-usly un-s-tab-le as it is. Do you think he's
go-ne mad?"
"I ha-ve no idea," she sa-id stub-bornly. "All I know is that-Gil-ly didn't
go with him wil-lingly."
Tony didn't mo-ve, didn't even blink. And then he re-ac-hed out his lar-ge
hands and drop-ped them lightly on her sho-ul-ders. "And I don't sup-po-se
the-re's any chan-ce at all that you'd let the mat-ter rest the-re?"
"No-ne at all. Gilly sa-ved my li-fe. I'm not go-ing to aban-don her when
she's in tro-ub-le."
"What do you me-an, she sa-ved yo-ur li-fe?" he de-man-ded, sud-denly
ten-se. "When we-re you ever in dan-ger…?"
Ellen sho-ok her he-ad. "It's too com-p-li-ca-ted to ex-p-la-in. Suf-fi-ce
it to say that Gilly me-ans a gre-at de-al to me. I'm not go-ing to turn my
back on her."
"When I get to Lon-don I can put out in-qu-iri-es," he sug-ges-ted. "They've
be-en go-ne at le-ast two days now-yo-ur fri-end has al-re-ady be-en
com-p-ro-mi-sed, if you think it's a sim-p-le qu-es-ti-on of ra-pe. But I
co-uld see what I can co-me up with. The-re'll be a hue and cry for
Blac-k-t-ho-me as it is-what with Har-g-ro-ve me-eting his de-mi-se at
Nic-ho-las's hands. So-oner or la-ter he'll be bo-und to turn up, and Gilly
can be re-tur-ned to you."
She did her very best to put a gra-te-ful ex-p-res-si-on on her fa-ce. "That
wo-uld be very kind of you," she mur-mu-red in a ne-ut-ral to-ne of vo-ice.
"The hell with my kin-d-ness. You won't be he-re wa-iting for word, will
you?" he sa-id with a wry smi-le. "You're go-ing af-ter them."
She con-si-de-red den-ying it. It wo-uld be no use- Tony was right. He knew
her very well in-de-ed, and knew that she wo-uldn't simply wa-it for word.
"I'm sorry, Tony," she sa-id with re-al ho-nesty. "I simply ha-ve to. You can
tell Car-mic-ha-el you tri-ed to stop me."
"I ha-ve no in-ten-ti-on of tel-ling Car-mic-ha-el a thing," he sa-id.

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"You don't?"
"I won't be an-y-w-he-re ne-ar him to im-part that in-for-ma-ti-on." He
so-un-ded re-sig-ned. "I'll be off ha-ring af-ter the fu-gi-ti-ves."
She flung her-self upon him, her arms hug-ging him tightly. "Bless you,
Tony, I knew I co-uld co-unt on you!" she cri-ed. To her as-to-nis-h-ment his
arms ca-me aro-und her, hol-ding her aga-inst him for a long, bre-at-h-less
mo-ment.
"Don't for-get it," he sa-id, lo-oking down at her, and she had the od-dest
no-ti-on that he wan-ted to kiss her.
Absurd, she tho-ught, as a se-cond la-ter he re-le-ased her. "I don't
sup-po-se the-re's any chan-ce you might be wil-ling to stay be-hind whi-le I
go af-ter them?" he con-ti-nu-ed in a neg-li-gent to-ne.
"Not a chan-ce in the world. And don't worry abo-ut my re-pu-ta-ti-on be-ing
com-p-ro-mi-sed. We'll ta-ke Bin-nie, and yo-ur va-let, and no one ne-ed ever
know what we we-re up to. We'll catch up with them in no ti-me-Nic-ho-las
wo-uld ha-ve no idea we'd co-me af-ter her. He pro-bably tho-ught po-or Gilly
hadn't a fri-end in the world."
"You might find that it's al-most im-pos-sib-le to hi-de so-met-hing from an
in-te-res-ted so-ci-ety," Tony po-in-ted out.
Sud-den do-ubts as-sa-iled her. "Oh, Tony, I co-uldn't do that to you," she
sa-id. "If you think we'll be dis-co-ve-red, per-haps I ought to go alo-ne. I
co-uldn't be-ar it if… well, if things tran-s-pi-red that you… that I…"
Gen-t-le-man that he was, Tony calmly over-ro-de her em-bar-ras-sed
stam-me-ring. "Don't gi-ve it a tho-ught, in-fant. I ha-ve mat-ters well in
hand. Not a so-ul will he-ar abo-ut this that I don't want to."
She smi-led up at him, her eyes shi-ning with gra-te-ful te-ars. She co-uld
think of no gre-ater di-sas-ter than Tony be-ing for-ced to marry her. But she
be-li-eved him when he sa-id no one ne-ed ever know of the-ir
in-dis-c-re-ti-on. She be-li-eved Tony ca-pab-le of just abo-ut an-y-t-hing.
"In the me-an-ti-me," he con-ti-nu-ed, "I'd best ta-ke myself off to the
Crown and Bo-ar and bes-pe-ak a ro-om for the night. I'll pre-sent myself
first thing to-mor-row mor-ning, af-ter you've had a de-cent rest, and we'll
ta-ke off af-ter our fu-gi-ti-ves."
"Bless you, Tony," she sa-id. "I knew I co-uld co-unt on you."
She wat-c-hed him le-ave, her eyes still mis-ting with te-ars. It wo-uld
ta-ke her at le-ast an ho-ur to put to-get-her a por-t-man-te-au of sturdy,
ser-vi-ce-ab-le clot-hes. Anot-her ho-ur to talk Bin-nie in-to the-ir
ad-ven-tu-re. In that ti-me she co-uld only ho-pe the ra-in wo-uld ha-ve
aba-ted. She had a strong dis-li-ke of ri-ding in a fre-ezing dow-n-po-ur, and
Bin-nie wo-uld pro-ve dow-n-right ob-s-ti-na-te.
But they had no cho-ice. If she went me-ekly to bed, Tony, true to his word,
wo-uld go af-ter Ghis-la-ine and her ram-s-hac-k-le half-co-usin. Le-aving
El-len be-hind to mol-der and wa-it.
Which she had no in-ten-ti-on of do-ing. She was go-ing to be wa-iting for
him when he des-cen-ded the sta-irs at the Crown and Bo-ar, and if they didn't
find Gilly by sun-set, at le-ast she'd ha-ve Bin-nie be-si-de her to sa-tisfy
the dic-ta-tes of prop-ri-ety.
And she'd ha-ve the un-de-ni-ably tre-ac-he-ro-us de-light of Tony's
com-pany for at le-ast anot-her twen-ty-fo-ur ho-urs. She co-uld al-most be
wic-ked eno-ugh to re-j-o-ice in Gilly's ab-duc-ti-on.
Ghis-la-ine ex-pec-ted they we-re he-ading north. Not that her ne-me-sis
bot-he-red to con-ver-se with her. His va-let-cum-bod-y-gu-ard al-so ser-ved
as co-ac-h-man, so she co-uldn't even gle-an in-for-ma-ti-on from the-ir
ca-su-al con-ver-sa-ti-ons. But she co-uld see it in the chan-ging
lan-d-s-ca-pe even tho-ugh she'd ne-ver be-en much be-yond the in-su-lar
com-forts of Ain-s-ley Hall be-fo-re, and she co-uld fe-el it in the
in-c-re-asing chill of the spring air.
Spring! The cold-blo-oded En-g-lish had lit-tle ex-pe-ri-en-ce with the
se-ason. The icy winds and cold ra-in con-ti-nu-ed even in-to the he-ight of
sum-mer, and early Ap-ril might as well be De-cem-ber to Ghis-la-ine's

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chil-led body. In Pa-ris the tre-es wo-uld be blos-so-ming. The air wo-uld be
soft and warm. And the stre-ets wo-uld still be sta-ined with the blo-od of
too many de-aths.
She didn't be-li-eve the so-cal-led Pe-ace of Ami-ens, the du-bi-o-us
tran-qu-ility that had set-tled over Euro-pe sin-ce last March. She didn't
be-li-eve the French we-re re-ady to re-bu-ild the-ir li-ves in-to so-met-hing
mo-re or-derly. She didn't be-li-eve Bo-na-par-te's pro-mi-ses; she didn't
be-li-eve in an-y-t-hing mo-re than the mo-ment, the ho-ur, the day.
She was bet-ter off whe-re she was, even im-p-ri-so-ned by the man she
ha-ted most in this world. His very pre-sen-ce was a to-nic. Her hat-red for
him kept her ali-ve, fu-ri-o-us at li-fe and at him. As long as he was in her
re-ach, re-ven-ge was still pos-sib-le. And as long as re-ven-ge was
pos-sib-le, li-fe was worth li-ving.
She hadn't be-en too su-re of that when she'd first be-en im-mu-red in that
hell-bo-und car-ri-age with her dis-so-lu-te ne-me-sis. The ear-ly-mor-ning
light had ba-rely pe-net-ra-ted in-to the sha-dowy in-te-ri-or of the slightly
thre-ad-ba-re co-ach, and his hands aga-inst the skin of her che-ek we-re
hard, he-ated, as they un-ti-ed the nec-k-c-loth that had gag-ged her.
She'd wan-ted to fight him. Ob-vi-o-usly he ex-pec-ted that much from her,
and he hadn't mo-ved back, le-aning ac-ross the car-ri-age, gi-ving her plenty
of spa-ce to at-tack him.
"What abo-ut my hands?" she sa-id in a small, bit-ter vo-ice.
"What abo-ut them?"
"Are you go-ing to un-tie them?"
He ap-pe-ared to con-si-der it. "What gu-aran-tee ha-ve I that you won't
at-tack me aga-in if I'm fo-ol eno-ugh to do so? Yo-ur word of ho-nor?"
"I wo-uldn't gi-ve it."
He nod-ded, and the-re was a fa-int gle-am of amu-se-ment in his dark eyes.
"I didn't ex-pect you wo-uld. Sin-ce I'm not in the mo-od for anot-her bo-xing
match I think I'll le-ave you just as you are. Un-less you've de-ci-ded to try
to charm me out of my plans."
"What are yo-ur plans?"
"I wo-uld think you of all pe-op-le wo-uld un-der-s-tand, ma pe-ti-te. You
ne-arly kil-led me, not on-ce but twi-ce. The first ti-me with that
po-iso-no-us brew, and I owe you for two days of the worst mi-sery I've ever
en-du-red in a fa-irly mi-se-rab-le li-fe. The se-cond when you tri-ed to kill
me with yo-ur ba-re hands. I swe-ar, I be-ar the bru-ises."
"A mi-se-rab-le li-fe?" she co-un-te-red, trying to con-t-rol her al-most
frig-h-te-ning ra-ge. If she ga-ve in to it, all wo-uld be lost. "And how,
pray tell, has yo-ur li-fe be-en so mi-se-rab-le? Ha-ve you star-ved? Ha-ve
you be-en be-aten? Ha-ve you lost yo-ur pa-rents to a blo-od-t-hirsty crowd?
Ha-ve you…?"
"Ha-ve you be-en star-ved?" he co-un-te-red. "Be-aten? How did you ma-na-ge
to es-ca-pe Ma-da-me La Gu-il-lo-ti-ne's in-sa-ti-ab-le thirst for blo-od?" He
so-un-ded no mo-re than ca-su-al-ly in-te-res-ted. "I was in-for-med that
yo-ur en-ti-re fa-mily pe-ris-hed on the block. I was char-med"-he
ac-com-pa-ni-ed his bald-fa-ced he with a fa-int, su-per-ci-li-o-us smi-le-"to
dis-co-ver you had es-ca-ped. How did you ma-na-ge it, Ghis-la-ine? Whe-re
ha-ve you spent the last ten ye-ars of yo-ur li-fe?"
"In a con-vent," she sa-id flatly.
He to-ok her at her word, a fa-int tra-ce of de-ri-si-on on his
too-han-d-so-me fa-ce. "It do-esn't ap-pe-ar as if you be-ne-fi-ted from the
exam-p-le of Chris-ti-an pi-ety set be-fo-re you. Didn't Jesus te-ach abo-ut
tur-ning the ot-her che-ek? Yo-ur thirst for re-ven-ge se-ems ex-ce-edingly
Old Tes-ta-ment to me. What is it you ima-gi-ne I've do-ne to me-rit such a
blo-ody de-si-re on yo-ur part? I wasn't part of the mob, or the Re-ign of
Ter-ror. If I'd be-en an-y-w-he-re in-si-de the bor-ders of Fran-ce, they
pro-bably wo-uld ha-ve ha-uled me up the-re too, as a per-fect exam-p-le of
how de-ge-ne-ra-te and prof-li-ga-te the up-per clas-ses re-al-ly are."
"If you've for-got-ten yo-ur cul-pa-bi-lity, then I won't was-te yo-ur ti-me

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re-min-ding you," she sa-id, tur-ning her he-ad away to fa-ce the ver-dant
co-un-t-r-y-si-de.
He ca-ught her chin in one hard, mer-ci-less hand, tur-ning her to lo-ok at
him. "Ref-resh my me-mory," he sa-id softly, the ste-el in his vo-ice a match
for the ste-el in his hand.
She fo-und she had the most ab-surd we-ak-ness, not wan-ting to re-mem-ber
tho-se aw-ful mo-ments in the gar-den at Sans Do-ute. Not wan-ting to
re-mem-ber her sha-me, when her in-no-cent ado-ra-ti-on had be-en flung in the
mud. To re-mind him wo-uld be to re-mind her-self of her own
vul-ne-ra-bi-lity, and to re-mem-ber might be to re-li-ve it.
"You'll find," she sa-id in a soft vo-ice, "that I am qu-ite im-per-vi-o-us
to pa-in. If you think you'll find out what you want by hur-ting me, you'll
only be was-ting yo-ur ti-me. Un-less you are one of tho-se who re-ce-ive a
cer-ta-in per-ver-se ple-asu-re in in-f-lic-ting pa-in."
For a mo-ment he didn't mo-ve. His hand on her fa-ce didn't gen-t-le-it
still ma-in-ta-ined its pa-in-ful grip. And then his eye-lids lo-we-red as he
sur-ve-yed her. "I ha-ve ot-her per-ver-se ple-asu-res," he sa-id softly.
"Allow me to de-mon-s-t-ra-te." And to her shock and hor-ror he le-aned
ac-ross the car-ri-age and kis-sed her.
She co-uld ha-ve wit-h-s-to-od a bru-tal as-sa-ult, his mo-uth grin-ding
aga-inst her. She co-uld ha-ve wit-h-s-to-od a ro-ugh ra-pe of her mo-uth, and
she was fully pre-pa-red to di-sap-pe-ar in-to that qu-i-et pla-ce in her mind
whe-re no one co-uld re-ach her.
But she was un-p-re-pa-red for the sof-t-ness of his lips aga-inst hers. The
dam-nab-le gen-t-le-ness as he brus-hed his mo-uth aga-inst hers,
fe-at-he-ring it lightly, so lightly that it was a ca-ress. And she hadn't
be-en ca-res-sed in mo-re than a de-ca-de.
If her hands had be-en free she wo-uld ha-ve kil-led him. As it was she had
no cho-ice but to sub-mit. His fin-gers we-re pa-in-ful on her fa-ce, hol-ding
her still for the de-vas-ta-ting swe-et-ness of his kiss.
And then he pul-led back, re-le-asing her, le-aning aga-inst the le-at-her
squ-abs of his fa-intly shabby car-ri-age, and his eyes we-re spe-cu-la-ti-ve
be-ne-ath his half-clo-sed lids. "They didn't te-ach you much in the
con-vent," he mur-mu-red. "I'll ha-ve to see abo-ut im-p-ro-ving yo-ur
edu-ca-ti-on." And wit-ho-ut anot-her word he le-aned back in-to the cor-ner
and fell as-le-ep.
Le-aving her to watch him in the gra-du-al-ly in-c-re-asing light of the
car-ri-age, her hands and fe-et still ti-ed, her mo-uth damp from his, her
body shi-ve-ring with ra-ge and so-met-hing she co-uldn't even be-gin to
fat-hom. Un-til she fi-nal-ly drif-ted off in-to a nig-h-t-ma-re-pla-gu-ed
sle-ep, only to wa-ke and be-gin the bat-tle aga-in.

Chapter 7

Ghis-la-ine was used to har-d-s-hip. To cold so de-ep, so pe-net-ra-ting
that you co-uld ba-rely walk for the chil-b-la-ins on yo-ur fe-et, cold that
ate in-to yo-ur bo-nes and sho-ok you from the in-si-de out. She'd li-ved
thro-ugh hor-ror and the stench of de-ath all aro-und, thro-ugh star-va-ti-on
and bru-ta-lity. Be-ing tos-sed aro-und in an ill-sp-rung car-ri-age was
su-rely far from the worst she'd ever en-du-red, and even with her wrists and
an-k-les bo-und so that she co-uldn't bra-ce her-self aga-inst the roc-king
and swa-ying of the equ-ipa-ge, she told her-self she'd sur-vi-ved far wor-se
or-de-als than this dis-mal dis-com-fort.
She told her-self that, but she didn't qu-ite be-li-eve it. Par-ti-cu-larly
sin-ce tho-se mo-re hor-ri-fic ti-mes had at le-ast be-en blis-sful-ly free of
Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne's odi-o-us pre-sen-ce.
He slept, ob-li-vi-o-us to the bum-pings and jar-rings of the co-ach,
ob-li-vi-o-us to the bo-ne-num-bing chill, ob-li-vi-o-us to his hos-ta-ge's
mi-sery. He slept so so-undly that Ghis-la-ine al-lo-wed her-self to ho-pe

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that so-me er-rant tra-ce of po-ison had sur-fa-ced to put a pe-ri-od to his
exis-ten-ce. Un-til he star-ted sno-ring.
She kic-ked him then, swin-ging her shac-k-led fe-et ac-ross the
se-pa-ra-ting fo-ot of spa-ce to knock his an-k-le. He didn't awa-ke, but the
sno-ring stop-ped, at le-ast for a whi-le, as he shif-ted and grum-b-led in
his sle-ep.
She ne-eded to con-cen-t-ra-te on so-met-hing, an-y-t-hing, to ke-ep her
mind off the ra-pidly in-c-re-asing dis-com-fort of her body. She sta-red at
her ne-me-sis, tel-ling her-self it was a won-der that even at fif-te-en she'd
be-en so ho-pe-les-sly be-sot-ted. And kno-wing, even as her hat-red
sim-me-red, that it was no won-der at all.
At twen-ty-two Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne had be-en be-a-uti-ful. Pa-le gold
skin, black ha-ir, the mid-nig-ht-blue eyes of an an-gel. Twel-ve, al-most
thir-te-en ye-ars la-ter he no lon-ger lo-oked li-ke an an-gel. De-ep li-nes
sco-red his on-ce-be-a-uti-ful fa-ce, li-nes of dis-si-pa-ti-on and cyni-cism.
His eyes we-re ho-oded, we-ary, his mo-uth an iro-nic twist, the lips thin-ned
and moc-king. His ha-ir was still long, still very black, tho-ugh one stre-ak
of sil-ver at-tes-ted to the pas-sa-ge of ti-me.
Wo-men do-ub-t-less fo-und him ap-pe-aling. His body was still le-an and
strong, his te-eth whi-te, his vo-ice a lazy se-duc-ti-on. It wo-uld be an
easy mat-ter to fas-hi-on day-d-re-ams abo-ut a man of his dan-ge-ro-us
at-trac-ti-ons. She'd gi-ven up day-d-re-ams a de-ca-de ago. She sta-red at
him ac-ross the way, won-de-ring which was mo-re im-por-tant. Es-ca-pe? Or
kil-ling him?
"Lo-oked yo-ur fill?" he in-qu-ired in a ple-asant eno-ugh vo-ice, not
bot-he-ring to open his eyes.
Which was just as well, sin-ce she co-uldn't con-t-rol her in-s-tin-c-ti-ve
re-co-il. She sa-id not-hing, hun-c-hing her body back aga-inst the se-at,
wa-iting.
His eyes ope-ned, and they we-re very dark, al-most black. "Next ti-me you
kick me," he mur-mu-red, "I'll kick you back."
She tur-ned her fa-ce away from him, sta-ring out the win-dow. It was early
af-ter-no-on, they'd be-en on the ro-ad sin-ce dawn, and it was ta-king all
her con-cen-t-ra-ti-on to ke-ep her body ri-gidly up-right. She felt
un-com-for-tably dizzy, and that we-ak-ness in-fu-ri-ated her.
He le-aned for-ward, too clo-se to her, and she wis-hed she had the energy
to spit in-to that han-d-so-me, dis-si-pa-ted fa-ce. "Any re-qu-ests?" he
as-ked, his soft vo-ice ta-un-ting. "Anything I can do to ma-ke yo-ur
jo-ur-ney mo-re com-for-tab-le?"
She tur-ned to lo-ok at him, not bot-he-ring to dis-gu-ise the hat-red in
her eyes. "You can jump out of the car-ri-age."
He smi-led then, and it wasn't a ple-asant sight. "Don't you want to ask me
to stop the car-ri-age? I'd think that af-ter so many ho-urs you might wish to
use the ne-ces-sary."
She ig-no-red him. If she ga-ve in on one is-sue, she'd gi-ve in on ot-hers.
She'd sit the-re, jos-t-led abo-ut in the car-ri-age, un-til she ex-p-lo-ded,
be-fo-re she'd ask a fa-vor of him.
He le-aned back, wat-c-hing her. "I sup-po-se I can be ge-ne-ro-us in this
mat-ter. So-oner or la-ter you'll be on yo-ur kne-es in front of me, beg-ging
me. I can wa-it." He le-aned for-ward, past her im-mo-bi-le body, and rap-ped
twi-ce on the ro-of of the co-ach.
She wan-ted to flinch away from his ne-ar-ness, but she held her-self as
still as the jos-t-ling car-ri-age wo-uld al-low. "Of co-ur-se," he
con-ti-nu-ed in a dre-amy vo-ice, "the-re are ot-her, mo-re in-te-res-ting
acts you co-uld per-form on yo-ur kne-es. I might find I pre-fer that."
She kept her fa-ce im-pas-si-ve, wil-ling her-self not to la-unch her body
at him in ra-ge. She co-uld do lit-tle da-ma-ge, trus-sed up as she was. She
kept very still, ho-ping her an-ger wo-uld aba-te.
"But then a con-vent-bred miss li-ke you wo-uld ha-ve no idea what I'm
tal-king abo-ut," Nic-ho-las mur-mu-red. "Which is just as well. I'm go-ing to

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enj-oy te-ac-hing you."
The co-ach jer-ked to a ro-ugh stop, and Ghis-la-ine's trus-sed hands
co-uldn't ke-ep her from hur-t-ling for-ward ac-ross the car-ri-age, fal-ling
aga-inst him.
He ca-ught her, and his arms we-re strong and not un-gen-t-le. "Such
eager-ness, ma bel-le," he sa-id softly. "At le-ast wa-it un-til we get in-to
the inn."
She jer-ked her-self away from him, col-lap-sing on the se-at op-po-si-te
him. "We're go-ing to an inn?" she as-ked, so-mew-hat bre-at-h-les-sly. "Won't
it lo-ok a lit-tle stran-ge if I'm ti-ed up?"
"You won't be," he sa-id ca-re-les-sly. "I'm co-un-ting on yo-ur go-od
be-ha-vi-or."
"And why sho-uld you? I wasn't awa-re that I had an-y-t-hing left to lo-se.
If I scre-am for help per-haps so-me-one will stand up to you…"
"I do-ubt it," he sa-id la-zily. "But by all me-ans fe-el free to try.
You'll find you ha-ve two very dis-tinct di-sad-van-ta-ges. One, des-pi-te
yo-ur per-fect dic-ti-on, you're ob-vi-o-usly French, and the En-g-lish will
al-ways ta-ke the si-de of an En-g-lis-h-man over a fo-re-ig-ner.
Par-ti-cu-larly a mem-ber of a ra-ce who but-c-he-red its ru-ling class and
wa-ged war aga-inst us for clo-se to a de-ca-de. Se-condly, you're dres-sed as
a ser-vant, and I'm a gen-t-le-man. We've a class-rid-den so-ci-ety. No one
wo-uld ra-ise a hand aga-inst a gen-t-le-man to help a pe-asant."
"Pe-asant?" Ghis-la-ine ec-ho-ed, se-et-hing.
"Pe-asant," Nic-ho-las re-pe-ated firmly. "So I le-ave it up to you. My
ad-vi-ce, not that you'll be in-c-li-ned to ta-ke it, wo-uld be to wa-it
un-til a mo-re op-por-tu-ne mo-ment. If you ra-ise a fuss the mo-ment we stop,
who knows when you'll get to use the privy. And su-rely if you're pa-ti-ent
eno-ugh you co-uld still find an op-por-tu-nity to mur-der me."
It was just as well her hands we-re bo-und. She wo-uld ha-ve slap-ped his
smug, fa-intly bo-red fa-ce. "You're wrong," she sa-id, her vo-ice low and
ca-re-ful.
"Abo-ut what?"
"I in-tend to fol-low yo-ur very ex-cel-lent ad-vi-ce. If I beg-ged for
help, the best I co-uld ho-pe for wo-uld be to get away from you. I'd much
rat-her kill you first."
"How de-lig-h-t-ful-ly blo-od-t-hirsty," he mur-mu-red. "I knew I co-uld
co-unt on you. Hold out yo-ur wrists."
"Why?"
He sig-hed, ob-vi-o-usly ti-red of her qu-es-ti-ons. "Can't you fe-el the
car-ri-age slo-wing? We're ne-aring the inn. I wo-uld think you'd want to be
ab-le to get in-si-de as swiftly as pos-sib-le, and I'm be-ing gen-t-le-manly
eno-ugh to un-tie yo-ur hands first so that you can un-fas-ten yo-ur an-k-les.
Trust me, I'd gre-atly enj-oy del-ving be-ne-ath yo-ur skirts, but I do-ubt
I'd stop be-low the kne-es, and I don't think you'd ap-pre-ci-ate that."
Wit-ho-ut a word she held out her arms, no-ting ab-sently that they
trem-b-led with fa-ti-gue. The-re was not-hing she co-uld do abo-ut it. She
ha-ted to show we-ak-ness in front of her enemy, but her body fa-iled her. She
wo-uld simply ha-ve to con-ser-ve her strength. Grow stron-ger still, if she
we-re to ha-ve any chan-ce of van-qu-is-hing him.
He sa-id not-hing abo-ut the trem-b-ling in her arms. At le-ast he hadn't
ti-ed her tightly. Still, the en-for-ced im-mo-bi-lity of her arms ma-de them
ex-qu-isi-tely pa-in-ful on-ce they we-re free, and she muf-fled a tiny cry of
pa-in as she fle-xed them.
She re-ac-hed down for the ro-pe aro-und her an-k-les, but her fin-gers
we-re numb, clumsy, and her long skirts kept get-ting in the way. She co-uld
fe-el Nic-ho-las's eyes on her, wat-c-hing her, with amu-se-ment, no do-ubt,
as she fum-b-led with the knots.
She ma-na-ged to ke-ep her ba-lan-ce as the co-ach pul-led to a stop, but
just ba-rely, and the knots we-re no clo-ser to be-ing un-ti-ed.
Nic-ho-las le-aned down, pus-hed her hands away, and un-fas-te-ned the

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ro-pes with brisk, com-pe-tent hands. "You may be in no par-ti-cu-lar hurry,"
he draw-led, "but I've be-en too dam-ned long in this car-ri-age as it is."
Ta-ver-ner had al-re-ady ap-pe-ared at the do-or, let-ting down the steps.
Nic-ho-las bo-un-ded down with res-t-less energy, then re-ac-hed up a hand to
help her, a pa-rody of po-li-te con-cern on his fa-ce.
She had no in-ten-ti-on of ta-king his hand. She had no in-ten-ti-on of
ac-cep-ting his help. Ho-we-ver, the mo-ment she at-tem-p-ted to climb out of
the car-ri-age her legs col-lap-sed un-der-ne-ath her, and she clung to the
ne-arest thing at hand. Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne.
He sco-oped her up in his arms, ef-for-t-les-sly eno-ugh. "M'wi-fe's ill,"
he sa-id ple-asantly as he sho-ul-de-red his way in-to the small, shabby inn.
"Her ti-me of month, y'know."
She used her el-bow, jab-bing him be-ne-ath his ribs, and he ga-ve a
sa-tis-f-ying grunt of pa-in. His hold on her slip-ped for a mo-ment, and she
won-de-red if she was go-ing to be drop-ped on the hard wo-od flo-or, when his
arms tig-h-te-ned aga-in, and she re-ali-zed he'd be-en in no dan-ger of
drop-ping her at all. They fol-lo-wed the short, ro-und pub-li-can thro-ugh
the dark inn, up a win-ding flight of sta-irs to a pri-va-te par-lor.
Nic-ho-las dum-ped her in a cha-ir, hard eno-ugh to jar her bo-nes, and she
ga-ve him a swe-et smi-le.
"Thank you, dar-ling," she mur-mu-red in dul-cet to-nes.
The in-nke-eper be-amed at them. "If s not of-ten we ha-ve the qu-ality
sta-ying with us," he sa-id. "We'll do our best by you, that we will, yo-ur
wor-s-hip. The best of fo-od-a bo-iled mut-ton ten-der eno-ugh even for the
lit-tle lady, and a go-od En-g-lish pud-ding, swim-ming in but-ter and
clot-ted cre-am."
Ghis-la-ine's fal-se smi-le fa-ded at the tho-ught. She had a cer-ta-in
af-fec-ti-on for her re-cently adop-ted land, the lush gre-en of the
co-un-t-r-y-si-de, the stra-ig-h-t-for-ward stub-bor-n-ness of its pe-op-le
who di-sap-pro-ved of her so strongly. She even had a grud-ging to-le-ran-ce
for the cold we-at-her and in-ces-sant ra-in.
But she des-pi-sed En-g-lish co-oking.
Nic-ho-las's own smi-le wi-de-ned, and she had the une-asy no-ti-on he
co-uld re-ad her mind. "My wi-fe is fa-mis-hed," he an-no-un-ced. "In the
me-an-ti-me, per-haps we'll le-ave her a bit of pri-vacy, shall we, whi-le you
mix me up a ni-ce rum punch. Er… the-re's no back way out of this pla-ce, is
the-re?"
The in-nke-eper was still so be-mu-sed by the ad-vent of the up-per clas-ses
that he didn't find the qu-es-ti-on the slig-h-test bit odd. "No, sir. Not
from up he-re. Just the one sta-ir-ca-se, I'm af-ra-id. We're a small
hos-telry, not used to ca-te-ring to the qu-ality, and I'm af-ra-id…"
Nic-ho-las put his arm aro-und the lit-tle man's sho-ul-ders, ste-ering him
from the ro-om ad-ro-itly. "Ne-ver mind, my go-od man. I just don't want my
wi-fe to lo-se her way if she cho-oses to le-ave the qu-i-et of our ro-oms.
I'll be cer-ta-in to sit whe-re I might com-mand a go-od vi-ew of the
sta-irs."
"You can see the sta-irs from any se-at in the com-mon ro-om," the
in-nke-eper sa-id ear-nestly.
Nic-ho-las lo-oked back over his sho-ul-der, and his smi-le was moc-king.
"Go-od," he sa-id. "Enj-oy yo-ur pri-vacy, my de-ar."
She wa-ited un-til the do-or clo-sed be-hind them be-fo-re she at-tem-p-ted
to walk. Her first steps met with bit-ter de-fe-at: she sank to her kne-es on
the fa-ded car-pet. It to-ok all her strength to pull her-self up-right,
anot-her fi-ve mi-nu-tes be-fo-re she co-uld re-con-no-iter eno-ugh to find
the ne-ces-sary cre-atu-re com-forts.
Once she'd at-ten-ded to her mo-re pres-sing ne-eds she felt a gre-at de-al
mo-re hu-man. Un-til she lo-oked at her ref-lec-ti-on in the mir-ror.
Ellen's hi-de-o-us gre-en ca-pe was still dra-ped aro-und her sho-ul-ders.
Her dress was stiff and sticky with the brandy that had be-en spil-led down
her front, her ha-ir was a witch's tan-g-le aro-und her pa-le fa-ce, and her

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eyes sho-ne bright with fury. The pro-per ser-vants at Ain-s-ley Hall
wo-uldn't re-cog-ni-ze the qu-i-et, re-ser-ved Mam-zel-le if they co-uld see
her now.
She splas-hed so-me wa-ter on her fa-ce, tri-ed to push her ha-ir in-to
so-me sem-b-lan-ce of or-der. Not that it sho-uld mat-ter. What mat-te-red was
get-ting away from Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne be-fo-re it was too la-te.
Too la-te for what? she as-ked her-self. It was al-re-ady too la-te for her
fa-mily, for her mot-her and fat-her, for her baby brot-her. It was too la-te
for her, for the in-no-cent she on-ce was. She'd had very lit-tle-an une-asy
pe-ace and a so-lid fri-en-d-s-hip. With Blac-k-t-hor-ne's fa-te-ful ar-ri-val
at Ain-s-ley Hall she'd lost both, left with the one dark tre-asu-re she'd
ho-ar-ded for ye-ars. Ven-ge-an-ce.
She had no in-ten-ti-on of ma-king her es-ca-pe wit-ho-ut first sen-ding
Nic-ho-las to his re-ward, but she sur-ve-yed her sur-ro-un-dings li-ke a
ge-ne-ral plan-ning a stra-te-gic ret-re-at. The ca-se-ment win-dows we-re
lo-ose in the-ir fra-mes, the wind rat-tling them no-isily. The-re we-re no
shed ro-ofs be-ne-ath them-if she cho-se to le-ave by the win-dow, the fall
wo-uld li-kely bre-ak her leg.
The par-lor was small, drafty; the fi-re fit-ful and smoky. The cha-irs
we-re un-com-for-tab-le; the tab-le no-ne too cle-an; the flo-or co-ve-red
with a fa-ded car-pet. The adj-o-ining bed-ro-om so-me-how fa-iled to add to
her pe-ace of mind.
Per-haps it was the fact that the-re was only one bed. A lar-ge one, dra-ped
with qu-ilts that we-re qu-ite li-kely flea-in-fes-ted. She won-de-red how his
lor-d-s-hip wo-uld lo-ok co-ve-red with flea bi-tes. He'd pro-bably ne-ver
even se-en a flea.
She had. She'd ma-de her ac-qu-a-in-tan-ce with all sorts of ver-min, from
fle-as and li-ce to mag-gots and rats and the most des-pi-cab-le of all
cre-atu-res, man. She was af-ra-id of not-hing and no one. Ex-cept her own
we-ak-ness.
The ma-id who en-te-red the front par-lor was ri-pe, bu-xom, and che-er-ful,
and the tray she car-ri-ed re-eked of gre-ase and mut-ton. Ghis-la-ine had to
stop her-self from sen-ding it away. If she we-re to pre-va-il she ne-eded to
ke-ep up her strength. She ^ hadn't eaten in what se-emed li-ke days-ever
sin-ce Nic-ho-las had ar-ri-ved at Ain-s-ley Hall, her me-ager ap-pe-ti-te had
fled in the fa-ce of mo-re de-vo-uring con-cerns.
"Yer hus-band sa-id as how I was to bring you up a tray, mis-sus," she
sa-id, her eyes bright with cu-ri-osity. "He sa-id you we-re par-ti-cu-larly
fond of mut-ton."
Yes, Nic-ho-las had re-ad her qu-e-asi-ness at the very word. Ghis-la-ine
ma-na-ged a fa-int smi-le. "Par-ti-cu-larly," she sa-id, sit-ting down at the
tab-le.
"I'm Gert," the girl sa-id, bus-t-ling aro-und. "You're to call me if you
ne-ed any help. They'll be brin-ging yer trunks up in a mo-ment, and then I
co-uld bring you so-me fresh wa-ter…"
"I don't sup-po-se I co-uld ha-ve a bath?" she as-ked, scho-oling her-self
to ex-pect di-sap-po-in-t-ment.
Gert scrat-c-hed her he-ad, not a pro-pi-ti-o-us sign in the pos-sibly
li-ce-in-fes-ted inn. "I don't see why not."
"And fresh bed-ding?"
If she was af-ra-id she'd of-fen-ded Gert, she ne-edn't ha-ve wor-ri-ed. The
girl simply lo-oked im-p-res-sed. "I've he-ard qu-ality's dif-fe-rent than the
rest of us," she sa-id, scrat-c-hing her he-ad aga-in. "Or then, may-be it's
be-ca-use you're a Frenchy. They li-ke things ex-t-ra cle-an."
The dirt un-der Gert's fin-ger-na-ils lo-oked as if it had be-en the-re at
le-ast a for-t-night. "We're silly that way," Ghis-la-ine sa-id fa-intly.
"Well, then, that's all right. I'll just ta-ke ca-re of things, tidy up a
bit, and he-at the wa-ter for you. I don't think the-re's much of a ne-ed to
hurry if you're wan-ting yer pri-vacy. Yer hus-band se-ems set-tled in the
tap-ro-om for a go-od long ti-me. Mr. Hos-kins ma-kes the best rum punch in

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this co-unty, he do-es, and yer hus-band lo-oks li-ke a man what
ap-pre-ci-ates a go-od rum punch."
"I'm su-re he do-es," Ghis-la-ine sa-id fa-intly, sta-ring down at the
con-ge-aled gre-ase on her pla-te.
"He's a han-d-so-me man, yer hus-band is. Be-en mar-ri-ed long?"
Gert might be a che-er-ful slat-tern, but she knew whe-re a wed-ding ring
ought to re-si-de, and Ghis-la-ine's long, ba-re fin-gers we-re in pla-in
sight.
"Not long," she sa-id, pic-king up the fork.
"J-ust my luck. We fi-nal-ly ha-ve a go-od-lo-oking rich man co-me to the
inn and he's al-re-ady ta-ken," Gert sa-id with a sigh.
Ghis-la-ine lo-oked up, and her eyes met Gert's with the age-old know-led-ge
of wo-men. "Fe-el free to dis-t-ract him," she sa-id evenly. "I'd
ap-pre-ci-ate a night alo-ne."
Gert didn't find the sug-ges-ti-on mo-re than slightly sur-p-ri-sing. "He's
a go-od-lo-oking man," she sa-id aga-in with a lusty sigh.
"Pretty is as pretty do-es," Ghis-la-ine mur-mu-red. And she ap-pli-ed
her-self to the fat-en-ca-sed mut-ton with stal-wart de-ter-mi-na-ti-on.
The bath was no mo-re than lu-ke-warm, the wa-ter clo-udy, the so-ap a
ro-ugh lye con-coc-ti-on that tur-ned her skin raw and red. The to-wels we-re
ro-ugh, the fi-re con-ti-nu-ed to smo-ke, and Ghis-la-ine knew her first
mo-ments of re-al hap-pi-ness in lon-ger than she co-uld re-mem-ber. It to-ok
des-pe-ra-ti-on to ma-ke one ap-pre-ci-ate li-fe, she tho-ught. The fi-nest
me-al she'd ever had was a thin, tas-te-less stew, days old, and a cup of
ran-cid cof-fee on an ice-co-ated stre-et in Pa-ris. She hadn't eaten in mo-re
than a we-ek at the ti-me, and she'd de-vo-ured the stew wit-ho-ut pa-using to
con-si-der the ori-gin of the me-at or the length of ti-me it had be-en
sit-ting in the ket-tle; eaten it so qu-ickly she'd thrown it all up mi-nu-tes
la-ter. And then she'd wept hot, bit-ter te-ars for was-ting the first bi-te
of so-lid fo-od she'd se-en in ages.
She'd be-en se-ven-te-en ye-ars old at the ti-me. That was the day she'd
ag-re-ed to sell her body on the stre-ets of Pa-ris. And that was the last day
she'd cri-ed.
Dra-ping the re-aso-nably cle-an blan-ket aro-und her, she ope-ned the
va-li-se Gert had car-ri-ed up, sta-ring at the jum-b-led in-te-ri-or in
dis-may. She knew tho-se co-lors. The pu-ce, the pur-p-le, the li-me-gre-en
and the star-t-ling ca-nary-yel-low. Her own war-d-ro-be had con-sis-ted of
som-ber blacks and browns and grays, as be-fit-ted an up-per ser-vant. The
to-tal-ly un-su-itab-le clot-hes be-lon-ged to El-len, who-se tas-te ran to
the flam-bo-yant. The co-lors we-re en-ti-rely un-su-ited to El-len's pa-le
pink En-g-lish lo-ve-li-ness, and they'd pro-bably ma-ke Ghis-la-ine lo-ok
li-ke a par-rot.
Even wor-se was the fact that El-len was tall and ro-bust, a sturdy
En-g-lish flo-wer. Ghis-la-ine was tiny, half a fo-ot shor-ter. She'd swim in
El-len's clot-hes.
It was hardly her prob-lem, un-less the ex-ces-si-ve length of her skirts
ham-pe-red her ge-ta-way. Sin-ce Nic-ho-las was un-li-kely to let her es-ca-pe
easily, she'd ha-ve mo-re than eno-ugh ti-me to cob-ble up the hems.
The only prob-lem was she co-uldn't sew. She co-uld ba-ke an-y-t-hing, from
bri-oc-hes to cro-is-sants to the most suc-cu-lent bo-e-uf en da-ube. But she
co-uldn't ma-na-ge to set a stra-ight stitch. She co-uld re-mem-ber her
mot-her's mock des-pa-ir as she sur-ve-yed her da-ug-h-ter's ne-ed-le-work…
She slam-med the do-or down on the me-mory, shoc-ked at the fres-h-ness of
the pa-in, the raw-ness of a de-ca-de-old loss. Damn Nic-ho-las
Blac-k-t-hor-ne! As if she didn't owe him eno-ugh, his pre-sen-ce had set
things in mo-ti-on, me-mo-ri-es and fe-elings that she tho-ught she'd
ma-na-ged to bury long ago. If she hadn't wan-ted to kill him be-fo-re, she
wan-ted to now.
The-re we-re no nig-h-t-gowns in the va-li-se. She co-uld al-ways con-si-der
it a sim-p-le over-sight, but she knew she was be-ing op-ti-mis-tic. Who-ever

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had pac-ked the bag, whet-her it was the evil-eyed Ta-ver-ner or Nic-ho-las
him-self, hadn't tho-ught she ne-eded to be tro-ub-led by a night ra-il.
Nic-ho-las's va-li-se had ma-de an ap-pe-aran-ce as well. Fe-eling no
com-pun-c-ti-ons what-so-ever, she ope-ned it, pul-ling out one of his
be-a-uti-ful cam-b-ric shirts and put-ting it on, let-ting the blan-ket drop
to the flo-or. It hung to her kne-es; the sle-eves dan-g-led well be-low her
fin-ger-tips; and it was the sof-test, most ele-gant thing she'd worn in
ye-ars. She was half-tem-p-ted to rip it off her body, but her cho-ices we-re
not ap-pe-aling. El-len's clot-hes we-re fancy, scratchy, hardly fit for
sle-eping. Her own dress was sticky and stiff from the spil-led brandy, and
she co-uldn't stand the tho-ught of put-ting it back on. And El-len's fi-ne
lawn un-der-gar-ments we-re too re-ve-aling.
No, Nic-ho-las's shirt wo-uld ha-ve to do. If she was go-ing to end the
night in a bat-tle, it wo-uld pro-vi-de as much pro-tec-ti-on as an-y-t-hing
she had with her.
The ho-urs pas-sed; long, empty ho-urs. Gert re-tur-ned and had the hip bath
re-mo-ved, to-ok the tray with its half-eaten me-al, and wis-hed her a go-od
eve-ning. Ghis-la-ine al-most wis-hed her go-od hun-ting in re-turn. If only
Nic-ho-las we-re drunk eno-ugh to fall for Gert's abun-dant, ob-vi-o-us
charms, she co-uld ha-ve a de-cent night's sle-ep to gat-her her strength back
aro-und her. She wasn't in any con-di-ti-on to fight him off. And she had no
do-ubt what-so-ever that that was what Nic-ho-las had in mind.
She co-uld al-ways sub-mit. In the end, it was pro-bably what she'd ha-ve to
do. She'd le-ar-ned the trick of clo-sing her mind and ears, and let-ting her
dre-ams so-ar out in-to the clo-uds, whi-le so-me man hun-c-hed and pan-ted
and swe-ated over her body. She'd dis-tan-ced her-self and sur-vi-ved.
But a small, nag-ging lit-tle part of her won-de-red whet-her she co-uld be
just as ef-fi-ci-ent dis-tan-cing her-self from the de-vil in-car-na-te who'd
ab-duc-ted her. The man who lo-oked li-ke an an-gel from hell.
Nic-ho-las was get-ting very drunk. He con-si-de-red stop-ping. The
lan-d-lord's punch was a fi-ne one, re-do-lent of cin-na-mon and nut-meg and
rum, but he'd ne-ver be-en ex-ces-si-vely fond of rum punch. The ser-ving girl
was well-ro-un-ded and ob-vi-o-usly wil-ling, brus-hing her qu-ite
im-p-res-si-ve bre-asts aga-inst him every chan-ce she got. Tavvy had
al-re-ady clo-sed his eyes and sunk back aga-inst the set-tee, and wo-uld
pro-bably awa-ke six ho-urs from now stiff and so-re and bles-sed with a
co-los-sal he-adac-he.
The lan-d-lord wo-uld pro-vi-de an al-ter-na-te bed that he co-uld sha-re
with the girl, if he ga-ve any sign that he was in-te-res-ted. In-de-ed, he
was mad not to be. The cre-atu-re up-s-ta-irs was a mur-de-ro-us har-ri-dan,
do-ub-t-less a vir-gin, bles-sed with a skinny body and a wasp's ton-gue.
Be-si-des which, she wan-ted to kill him. That sort of thing had ne-ver do-ne
won-ders for his ar-dor, and he'd be much bet-ter off sam-p-ling the ser-ving
girl's mo-re ob-vi-o-us wa-res.
But he co-uldn't ke-ep his mind off the wo-man up-s-ta-irs. He had to for-ce
him-self to re-mem-ber that she was a wo-man, not a girl. She re-min-ded him
of that in-no-cent child he'd half-fal-len in lo-ve with so long ago, and yet
she was dif-fe-rent eno-ugh that he knew the-re was ab-so-lu-tely no dan-ger
of his suc-cum-bing on-ce mo-re to that unex-pec-ted we-ak-ness.
She'd had no idea, of co-ur-se. All she re-mem-be-red was his flat
re-j-ec-ti-on of her, con-vin-ced that that re-j-ec-ti-on had cost her her
fa-mily. She didn't know the ye-ar-ning that had bur-ned be-hind his
dis-mis-sal of her, the cyni-cal de-ni-al that had eaten away at his so-ul.
All the rum punch in the world co-uldn't ma-ke him for-get her. It ne-ver
had, over the long in-ter-ve-ning ye-ars, tho-ugh it and cla-ret and brandy
had co-me clo-se. He'd go-ne days, we-eks, even months wit-ho-ut thin-king
abo-ut her, so that she'd fi-nal-ly be-co-me a dis-tant me-mory, a fa-ded
dre-am that so-me-how no lon-ger se-emed qu-ite re-al. Un-til she re-tur-ned
to his li-fe li-ke a fla-ming fury, re-ady to ta-ke her re-ven-ge for his
tran-s-g-res-si-ons, both re-al and ima-gi-ned.

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He sup-po-sed he ought to be un-der-s-tan-ding eno-ugh to al-low her her
il-lu-si-ons. It was easi-er to ha-te a per-son than a system of
go-ver-n-ment, a blo-od-t-hirsty mob, a smug old man who was so busy trying to
ta-ke his for-tu-ne with him that he wa-ited un-til it was too la-te. If he
we-re nob-ler he'd sho-ul-der that bur-den of gu-ilt, let her ha-te him and
des-pi-se him and bla-me him if it ma-de her fe-el bet-ter.
He drew the li-ne at let-ting her mur-der him, ho-we-ver.
He co-uld al-ways go up-s-ta-irs and bed her. Then she'd ha-ve no do-ubts at
all abo-ut what an un-re-ge-ne-ra-te mon-s-ter he was. He'd ti-ed her up,
ab-duc-ted her, ta-un-ted her. Su-rely the-re was no ne-ed to stop the-re.
He'd ne-ver he-si-ta-ted in the sin-g-le-min-ded pur-su-it of his sen-su-al
ple-asu-res be-fo-re.
But he'd ne-ver ta-ken a wo-man by for-ce eit-her, and he had no do-ubts at
all that with Ghis-la-ine it wo-uld be for-ce. For so-me oddly qu-ixo-tic
re-ason he didn't want to bru-ta-li-ze her. At le-ast, he told him-self
co-ol-ly, not to-night.
And for so-me equ-al-ly ab-surd re-ason he didn't want to ava-il him-self of
the ser-ving girl eit-her. She smel-led of the mut-ton she'd ser-ved, and
whi-le he had no do-ubts at all that he'd enj-oy her en-t-hu-si-asm, he simply
didn't want her. An un-set-tling sta-te of af-fa-irs, and one he co-uld thank
Ghis-la-ine de Lorgny for.
He ro-se on sur-p-ri-singly ste-ady fe-et, pic-king up the half-empty brandy
bot-tle. "Ti-me to jo-in m'wi-fe," he an-no-un-ced.
The girl po-uted. "She's pro-bably as-le-ep by now," she sa-id boldly. "And
didn't you say it was her ti-me of the month?"
Had he re-al-ly be-en crass eno-ugh to an-no-un-ce that? Pro-bably. He
smi-led with swe-et drun-ken-ness. "We don't let such things bot-her us," he
con-fi-ded. "She's French, you know."
That se-emed to say eno-ugh. The ser-ving girl di-sap-pe-ared in-to the
kit-c-hen with a sul-len set to her plump sho-ul-ders, but he'd be
sur-p-ri-sed if she didn't de-ci-de to wa-ke Tavvy up for a bit of fun.
The sta-irs we-re too dam-ned dark and nar-row, but he ma-na-ged to ma-ke it
up the-re wit-ho-ut spil-ling a drop of his pre-ci-o-us brandy. The fi-re in
the front ro-om had bur-ned down low, and the-re was no sign of Ghis-la-ine.
She had to be in the bed-ro-om be-yond. Was she wa-iting for him, lying in the
bed, nu-de and re-ady? Was she stan-ding be-hind the do-or with a kni-fe,
pre-pa-red to un-man him?
He pus-hed open the do-or ca-uti-o-usly. The fi-re-light il-lu-mi-na-ted her
pa-le fa-ce, and he had no do-ubt what-so-ever that she was so-und as-le-ep.
She lo-oked no mo-re than fif-te-en ye-ars old, lying in the mid-dle of that
big bed, the co-vers drawn up to her chin. He'd felt li-ke a satyr then; he
felt li-ke a rut-ting stag now.
He bac-ked out of the ro-om, le-aving the do-or open, and went to sit by the
fi-re. From his van-ta-ge po-int he co-uld still see her, lying in the bed,
and he told him-self he had to ke-ep an eye on her in ca-se she wo-ke up and
de-ci-ded to push him in-to the fi-rep-la-ce or so-met-hing equ-al-ly nasty.
He drank out of the bot-tle, let-ting the fi-ery stuff burn its way down his
thro-at. And he knew he was lying. He wan-ted to watch her as she slept.
Be-ca-use he wan-ted to pre-tend it was thir-te-en ye-ars ago, be-fo-re the
world had go-ne mad.
Be-fo-re he had lost his so-ul com-p-le-tely.

Chapter 8

Sir An-tony Wil-ton-Gre-ening didn't sle-ep well. The Crown and Bo-ar
pro-vi-ded a de-cent eno-ugh re-past, the beds we-re cle-an and well-aired,
the cel-lar to-le-rab-le. Nor-mal-ly he wo-uld sle-ep li-ke the de-ad, wa-king
up at his cus-to-mary ele-ven o'clock to start his day.
He knew he didn't pos-sess that lu-xury. He ne-eded to be off by dawn if he

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was go-ing to es-ca-pe wit-ho-ut El-len jo-ining him. Not that the-re we-ren't
de-ci-ded ad-van-ta-ges to ha-ving her along. For one thing, he had no
gu-aran-tee that the myste-ri-o-us Ghis-la-ine wo-uld pre-fer his
pro-tec-ti-on to that of an at-trac-ti-ve bad 'un li-ke Nic-ho-las
Blac-k-t-hor-ne. Even as-su-ming she had go-ne un-wil-lingly, and he was by no
me-ans con-vin-ced of that, she might ha-ve co-me to terms with her
ab-duc-tor. Par-ti-cu-larly sin-ce Nic-ho-las wo-uld pro-bably at-tempt to
ke-ep her in a style to which she co-uld easily grow ac-cus-to-med, and Tony
had no in-te-rest in her du-bi-o-us charms at all. He fo-und he had no tas-te
for French ga-mi-nes-he pre-fer-red En-g-lish ro-ses.
He'd be-en com-p-le-tely trut-h-ful when he'd told El-len that no one wo-uld
find out if she ac-com-pa-ni-ed him if he didn't want them to know. If he had
be-en for-ced to ta-ke her with him, he wo-uld ha-ve ma-de su-re exactly
tho-se pe-op-le ne-ces-sary had fo-und out-tho-se pe-op-le ne-ces-sary to
en-for-ce a spe-edy mar-ri-age. It wo-uld cut thro-ugh a gre-at de-al of
bot-her. El-len, for all her mat-ter-of-fact go-od na-tu-re, was a dre-amy
ro-man-tic at he-art. If he wan-ted to marry her, and he most de-fi-ni-tely
did, he'd be for-ced to go thro-ugh so-me ri-di-cu-lo-us sham of a
co-ur-t-s-hip, and he simply didn't ha-ve the energy for it. He wan-ted his
ni-ce, com-for-tab-le li-fe, with an af-fec-ti-ona-te, un-de-man-ding spo-use
li-ke El-len to ma-ke su-re his ho-me was run pro-perly, his es-ta-tes we-re
craw-ling with he-irs, and his ma-ri-tal duty wasn't im-pos-sibly one-ro-us.
It had ta-ken him a whi-le to co-me to the de-ci-si-on that El-len wo-uld
su-it him, but on-ce that de-ci-si-on had be-en ta-ken, the-re was no swa-ying
him from his pur-po-se. He just didn't want to ha-ve to exert him-self mo-re
than ne-ces-sary.
No, a for-ced mar-ri-age had de-fi-ni-te ad-van-ta-ges, not the le-ast of
which wo-uld be El-len's fe-elings of gu-ilt and gra-ti-tu-de. It wo-uld ke-ep
her from ma-king im-pos-sib-le de-mands if she felt she'd for-ced him in-to
it.
On the ot-her hand, he was fond eno-ugh of her not to wish her the bur-den
of gu-ilt and gra-ti-tu-de. And the-re was al-ways the out-si-de chan-ce that
he might just enj-oy her im-pos-sib-le de-mands.
No, bet-ter to do it in a stra-ig-h-t-for-ward man-ner. Go af-ter the
mis-c-re-ants, fetch Ghis-la-ine back, and co-me up with a re-aso-nab-le
of-fer for El-len's hand. If she de-man-ded it, he sup-po-sed he co-uld even
ma-na-ge to co-urt her a bit. Af-ter all, she did ha-ve the most mel-ting
smi-le.
His man wo-ke him at the un-godly ho-ur of fi-ve in the mor-ning with a mug
of warm por-ter, a plat-ter of ham, and fresh bre-ad that al-most ma-de such
an in-de-cent ho-ur ac-cep-tab-le. He ac-com-p-lis-hed his to-ilet in re-cord
ti-me, tying the most ba-sic of cra-vats, al-lo-wing his man to sha-ve him
bet-we-en sips of the be-er, and sur-ve-ying his brightly po-lis-hed
hes-si-ans with a we-ary sigh. The ra-in had aba-ted, but even in the slowly
lig-h-te-ning mor-ning sky he co-uld see the clo-uds ho-ve-ring, re-ady to
des-cend on-ce mo-re. He was not in the mo-od for a ja-unt to Scot-land.
Unfor-tu-na-tely, that was whe-re Nic-ho-las had cho-sen to ta-ke his
ab-s-con-ded fe-ma-le. Not that he had much cho-ice. As-su-ming
Blac-k-t-hor-ne still tho-ught Jason Har-g-ro-ve wo-uld re-co-ver, he knew
he'd be per-so-na non gra-ta in town. Pe-op-le to-le-ra-ted a gre-at de-al
from so-me-one of Nicky's du-bi-o-us charms, but this ti-me he'd go-ne a bit
too far, and the man had the sen-se to lie low.
Unfor-tu-na-tely the Blac-k-t-hor-ne es-ta-tes we-re mostly go-ne, sold to
pay ga-ming debts. His Un-c-le Te-as-da-le's co-untry se-at, Am-ber-fi-elds,
had be-en the last to go, which left only a small ma-nor ho-use in the La-ke
Dis-t-rict and a hun-ting lod-ge over the bor-der in Scot-land.
Accor-ding to the ser-vants at Ain-s-ley Hall, Scot-land had be-en the-ir
even-tu-al des-ti-na-ti-on. It co-uld be dam-ned cold the-re this ti-me of
ye-ar, and ab-so-lu-tely de-ad of com-pany. Tony had every in-ten-ti-on of
get-ting up the-re as fast as he pos-sibly co-uld, fet-c-hing Ghis-la-ine,

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wil-ling or not, and ha-ring back to Ain-s-ley Hall.
Of co-ur-se, the-re was al-ways the de-ci-dedly un-p-le-asant pos-si-bi-lity
that Blac-k-t-hor-ne might chal-len-ge him to a du-el. Blac-k-t-hor-ne had
cer-ta-inly fo-ught eno-ugh of them to ha-ve de-ve-lo-ped a tas-te for them.
Tony only trus-ted that he wasn't li-kely to want to kill an op-po-nent twi-ce
wit-hin a month.
The car-ri-age was wa-iting out front, Car-mic-ha-el's car-ri-age, his
hor-ses well-fed and res-ted, his man and the dri-ver per-c-hed on top,
awa-iting Tony's ar-ri-val. He didn't li-ke the tho-ught of be-ing im-mu-red
in that car-ri-age for anot-her few days, par-ti-cu-larly wit-ho-ut El-len's
com-pany, but he ac-cep-ted his fa-te with a sigh. If this was the way to win
the pro-per wi-fe, then he co-uld ma-ke the sac-ri-fi-ce.
Has-tings was abo-ut to dis-mo-unt and open the do-or for him when Tony
wa-ved him back to his perch. "I can ma-na-ge," he sa-id, clim-bing in-to the
car-ri-age and set-tling back he-avily, pul-ling the do-or clo-sed af-ter him.
It was dark in the in-te-ri-or, the pre-dawn light fil-te-ring in, but the-re
was no qu-es-ti-on that he was far from alo-ne. He lo-oked ac-ross, di-rectly
in-to El-len's in-no-cent blue eyes.
"I tho-ught I'd sa-ve you the tro-ub-le of ha-ving to fetch me," she sa-id.
For a mo-ment he was too dum-b-fo-un-ded to say a word. Miss Bin-ner-s-ton
sat be-si-de El-len, as-le-ep as usu-al, and even his in-ten-ded bri-de
lo-oked a bit we-ary. "Very tho-ug-h-t-ful of you," he sa-id fi-nal-ly, as the
co-ach star-ted smo-othly. "How long ha-ve you be-en wa-iting?"
Ellen yaw-ned, too ti-red to ma-ke any pre-ten-se at co-ve-ring it.
"Awhi-le," she ad-mit-ted. "I just wan-ted to ma-ke su-re you didn't for-get
yo-ur pro-mi-se."
"My pro-mi-se?"
"To ta-ke us with you. We won't be any tro-ub-le, Tony, I pro-mi-se you."
She le-aned for-ward, sud-denly in-tent, and he co-uld smell the swe-et,
flo-wery scent she fa-vo-red. An in-no-cent per-fu-me, free of musk, it
re-min-ded him of spring af-ter-no-ons. And El-len. "Ple-ase don't ta-ke us
back."
It was exactly what he'd in-ten-ded. It was the ple-ading in her eyes and
the scent of her per-fu-me that chan-ged his mind. "I pro-mi-sed, did I?" he
mur-mu-red. "Then I can't very well bre-ak my word. You'll be-ha-ve
yo-ur-self, El-lie? Do exactly as I tell you?"
"Of co-ur-se," she sa-id eagerly.
He won-de-red what she'd say if he or-de-red her to put her arms aro-und him
and kiss him. He wo-uldn't, of co-ur-se. He'd ac-cep-ted his
res-pon-si-bi-lity, and in do-ing so, ma-de it im-pos-sib-le for him even to
sug-gest so-met-hing im-p-ro-per.
So he simply smi-led at her, ke-eping his hands at his si-de. "I'll ta-ke
you at yo-ur word."
"We'll find her, won't we, Tony?" El-len as-ked, her pa-le fa-ce cre-ased
with worry. "Nic-ho-las won't re-al-ly hurt her, will he?"
"I can't ima-gi-ne why he wo-uld. Any mo-re than I can ima-gi-ne why he'd
ab-duct her in the first pla-ce. Are you ab-so-lu-tely cer-ta-in…?"
"Cer-ta-in," El-len sa-id firmly. "She ne-ver wo-uld ha-ve go-ne with him
wil-lingly. I ha-ve gre-at fa-ith in you, Tony. We sho-uld ha-ve her sa-fe by
nig-h-t-fall."
"Con-si-de-ring they ha-ve a two days' he-ad start, I fe-ar you're be-ing
slightly op-ti-mis-tic," Tony draw-led. "But we'll find them as so-on as we
can."
"I know you will. You know, Tony," she sa-id, her fi-ne blue eyes
spar-k-ling in the murky light, "we're go-ing on a splen-did ad-ven-tu-re."
Tony tho-ught lon-gingly of his com-for-tab-le bed in Lon-don, his
syba-ri-tic ple-asu-res, com-pa-red to li-fe on the ro-ad with a pa-ir of
fe-ma-les. "Splen-did," he ec-ho-ed fa-intly. And he won-de-red how long it
wo-uld ta-ke him to get rid of El-len's cha-pe-ron.
She co-uld smell the fi-re. He-ar the fla-mes lic-king thro-ugh the old

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wo-od struc-tu-re, the scre-ams of the ser-vants still trap-ped in-si-de. The
ro-ar of the angry mob, de-man-ding ven-ge-an-ce, ta-king it on in-no-cent
pe-op-le as they ha-uled her pa-rents away.
Ghis-la-ine had sto-od on the ed-ge of the fo-rest, Char-les-Lo-u-is's hand
clas-ped in hers, too numb to worry abo-ut whet-her they wo-uld be se-en or
not, as Sans Do-ute, the ho-me of the de Lorgnys for three hun-d-red ye-ars,
bur-ned to the gro-und.
Her mot-her's clot-hes we-re rip-ped half off her body as she was sho-ved
and moc-ked. Her fat-her was ble-eding from a gash in the si-de of his he-ad
as he stum-b-led af-ter his wi-fe, hel-p-less to pro-tect her. And in the
bac-k-g-ro-und, the scre-ams from the ser-vants trap-ped in-si-de Sans Do-ute,
the smell of the fi-re, the stench of bur-ning flesh, the hor-ror that left
the two chil-d-ren ro-oted to the gro-und, un-til sa-nity fi-nal-ly
pre-va-iled and Ghis-la-ine tug-ged her brot-her in-to the wo-ods, away from
the hor-ri-fic sight.
At le-ast her pa-rents we-ren't de-ad. They hadn't be-en but-c-he-red, or
left in-si-de the bur-ning cha-te-au to die a hi-de-o-us de-ath. She'd he-ard
the crowd sho-uting so-met-hing abo-ut Pa-ris. If her pa-rents sur-vi-ved that
long, they wo-uld be ta-ken and tri-ed. The-re was lit-tle do-ubt as to the-ir
even-tu-al fa-te. Ma-da-me La Gu-il-lo-ti-ne had al-re-ady be-gun her fo-ul
work.
But as long as they we-re ali-ve the-re was still ho-pe. And Ghis-la-ine was
yo-ung eno-ugh then to no-urish that ho-pe, for her yo-ung brot-her's sa-ke as
well as her own.
The trip to Pa-ris was an en-d-less nig-h-t-ma-re. Her sa-tin
em-b-ro-ide-red slip-pers, ma-de for not-hing mo-re stre-nu-o-us than dan-cing
on par-qu-et flo-ors, we-re shred-ded by the se-cond day, Char-les-Lo-u-is was
sul-len and we-eping, un-wil-ling to un-der-s-tand the ca-tas-t-rop-he that
had over-ta-ken the-ir li-ves, in-s-te-ad de-man-ding his nur-se-ma-id
Je-an-ne-Ma-rie and his tu-tor.
Mr. Co-te-a-ux had be-en trap-ped in-si-de the bur-ning
cha-te-au-Ghis-la-ine had se-en him il-lu-mi-na-ted in a fla-me-fil-led
win-dow. And swe-et, ma-ter-nal Je-an-ne-Ma-rie had wal-ked be-hind the-ir
mot-her, sho-ving her in-to the dirt when she stum-b-led.
She tra-ded the-ir silk clot-hes for ro-ugh pe-asant garb and so-me sta-le
bre-ad and che-ese on the mor-ning of the se-cond day. Char-les-Lo-u-is
com-p-la-ined that the ro-ugh cloth hurt his skin, the wo-oden sho-es hurt his
fe-et, and his sto-mach was empty. Ghis-la-ine con-t-rol-led her sis-terly
tem-per and pro-mi-sed him bon-bons when they re-ac-hed the-ir un-c-le's
ho-use in Pa-ris, iced ca-kes if he was si-lent when they hid from the ro-ving
bands of angry pe-asants, new silk clot-hes if he co-uld just walk anot-her
few steps.
It to-ok them a we-ek to re-ach Pa-ris, a se-ven-te-en-ye-ar-old and a
twel-ve-ye-ar-old, and two gre-ater in-no-cents had ne-ver be-en on the
stre-ets. By the ti-me they re-ac-hed the-ir un-c-le's ele-gant town ho-use,
his body hung from the lam-p-post out-si-de.
Ghis-la-ine shud-de-red, trying to block the me-mory from her
sle-ep-drug-ged mind. She ha-ted the nig-h-t-ma-res, ha-ted re-li-ving the
past. Why co-uldn't she re-mem-ber the happy ti-mes, the ye-ars at Sans
Do-ute, her pa-rents smi-ling at her, her lit-tle brot-her in-no-cent and warm
and lo-ving? Why did she al-ways re-mem-ber de-ath and des-pa-ir?
"Bad dre-ams, ma bel-le?" a fa-mi-li-ar vo-ice drif-ted in from the front
ro-om. For a mo-ment Ghis-la-ine was di-so-ri-en-ted, kno-wing that vo-ice,
for a bri-ef, mad in-s-tant wel-co-ming it. And then she re-mem-be-red whe-re
she was, and who held her pri-so-ner.
She sat up in the lumpy bed, bre-at-hing a qu-i-et sigh of thanks that she
had slept alo-ne. It was mor-ning-a sul-len light fil-te-red in the win-dows,
pre-sa-ging anot-her gray, ra-iny day. "It is my pre-sent exis-ten-ce that is
the nig-h-t-ma-re," she sa-id.
She sho-uld ha-ve known bet-ter than to go-ad him. She co-uld see him by the

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fi-re, spraw-led in the cha-ir, an empty de-can-ter be-si-de him. She
wat-c-hed as he ro-se, gra-ce-ful, let-hal, and ca-me to-ward the open do-or.
She wan-ted to pull the co-vers up to her sho-ul-ders, but she re-sis-ted
the im-pul-se. If she ga-ve him any sign that he un-ner-ved her, he wo-uld use
that know-led-ge. He al-re-ady had most of the we-apons in the-ir un-holy
bat-tle-she wasn't go-ing to put anot-her in his long, ele-gant hands.
He stop-ped at the do-or-way, lo-un-ging neg-li-gently. He ne-eded a sha-ve
and fresh clot-hes, he ne-eded a de-cent night's sle-ep and ab-s-ti-nen-ce
from the brandy de-can-ter. She wat-c-hed him, ke-eping her fa-ce
com-p-le-tely blank, and won-de-red how long this was go-ing to ke-ep on.
"What do you want from me?" she as-ked ab-ruptly, awa-re of the fact that
this was hardly the best ti-me to con-f-ront him. Not whi-le she sat in bed
dres-sed in not-hing mo-re than one of his fi-ne cam-b-ric shirts.
Nic-ho-las simply smi-led a small, co-ol smi-le. "What do you think I want?"
he co-un-te-red.
She for-ced her hands to re-ma-in still on the co-ver-let. "I won't ma-ke
the mis-ta-ke of thin-king you want me," she sa-id calmly. "You cer-ta-inly
don't ha-ve to ab-duct wo-men if you're de-si-ro-us of a tum-b-le, and I'm
cer-ta-in a wil-ling fe-ma-le wo-uld be gre-atly pre-fe-rab-le."
"Usu-al-ly," he ag-re-ed, not mo-ving from his spot in the do-or-way.
"So that le-aves re-ven-ge. But it wo-uld ha-ve be-en much sim-p-ler to turn
me over to the lo-cal ma-gis-t-ra-te. If it we-re yo-ur word aga-inst mi-ne,
they wo-uld of co-ur-se ha-ve ta-ken yo-ur word."
"Per-haps. Un-for-tu-na-tely my re-pu-ta-ti-on is not un-k-nown aro-und
Ain-s-ley Hall. They might just pos-sibly ha-ve be-li-eved you af-ter all. Not
that the-re was much you co-uld ha-ve sa-id. You did try to fe-ed me po-ison,
didn't you?" He so-un-ded no mo-re than ca-su-al-ly in-te-res-ted.
"I did."
She half-ex-pec-ted him to re-act with ra-ge. In-s-te-ad the nar-row smi-le
re-ac-hed his hypno-tic eyes. "I rat-her tho-ught you'd ad-mit it," he sa-id.
"And I sup-po-se that wo-uld ha-ve be-en the ho-no-rab-le thing to do. Hand
you over to the lo-cal aut-ho-ri-ti-es and go on abo-ut my merry way. The
prob-lem is, the lo-cal aut-ho-ri-ti-es might very well ha-ve de-ci-ded that
an-yo-ne who tri-ed to kill me pro-bably had just ca-use."
"If they had any sen-se," Ghis-la-ine sa-id flatly.
"And I co-uldn't ha-ve that, now co-uld I? Be-ca-use if they cho-se to let
you go, even tre-ated you as a he-ro-ine as cer-ta-in out-ra-ged fat-hers
might, then you'd turn up aga-in, wo-uldn't you? You're not go-ing to simply
ac-cept de-fe-at and pro-mi-se ne-ver to co-me ne-ar me aga-in. You're not
go-ing to rest un-til you ma-na-ge to stick a kni-fe bet-we-en my ribs."
"Oh, I don't know. I co-uld al-ways sho-ot you," she sa-id.
"That wo-uld re-qu-ire a cer-ta-in know-led-ge of fi-re-arms, which I do-ubt
you pos-sess."
Ghis-la-ine sa-id not-hing. Her know-led-ge of we-apons was not
ex-ten-si-ve, but she had no do-ubt what-so-ever that she co-uld ma-na-ge to
blow his he-ad off at twenty pa-ces, gi-ven half the chan-ce. "Or the-re's
al-ways po-ison," she ad-ded.
"In-de-ed," he sa-id, mo-ving in-to the ro-om with that gra-ce-ful
in-do-len-ce. "So I in-tend to ke-ep you by my si-de un-til I fi-gu-re out a
way to ren-der you har-m-less."
"The an-s-wer is ob-vi-o-us," she sa-id, wat-c-hing him ca-re-ful-ly. "You
co-uld kill me. Then I wo-uldn't tro-ub-le you aga-in."
He sat down on the fo-ot of the bed, lif-ting his legs to stretch them out
be-si-de her. She didn't squ-irm away, much as she lon-ged to, and she co-uld
fe-el the he-at of his leg aga-inst her body. "You'd li-ke that, wo-uldn't
you?" he sa-id la-zily. "I don't be-li-eve they hang the up-per clas-ses, but
in my ca-se they'd pro-bably be wil-ling to ma-ke an ex-cep-ti-on."
"You might get away with it."
He lo-oked at her, and whi-le a smi-le ho-ve-red on his thin, sen-su-al
mo-uth, the-re was cold ble-ak-ness in his mid-nig-ht-blue eyes. "And then I'd

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ha-ve yo-ur ghost to ha-unt me. No, thank you. I ha-ve eno-ugh ghosts, eno-ugh
reg-rets in my li-fe to last me se-ve-ral cen-tu-ri-es. I pre-fer you ali-ve
and brim-ming with hat-red. I pre-fer wat-c-hing my back to pe-ace of mind.
Par-ti-cu-larly sin-ce I wo-uldn't re-cog-ni-ze pe-ace of mind if I we-re ever
so bles-sed as to re-ce-ive it." He le-aned for-ward ac-ross the bed, and his
long fin-gers to-uc-hed her tan-g-led ha-ir. "Be-si-des, ma bel-le, you don't
re-al-ly want to die, do you?"
Ghis-la-ine sta-red at him, fe-eling the warmth of his fin-gers so clo-se to
her fa-ce. It had be-en ten ye-ars sin-ce she sto-od alo-ne on the small
brid-ge in the he-art of the city, re-ady to hurl her-self in-to the icy,
murky depths of the Se-ine. Ten ye-ars sin-ce she had tur-ned her back on
de-ath, and cho-sen li-fe in-s-te-ad. Cho-sen the pa-in of go-ing on over the
swe-et ob-li-vi-on that had bec-ko-ned.
She glan-ced down at his hand. The-re wo-uld be a cer-ta-in sa-tis-fac-ti-on
in me-eting de-ath at tho-se whi-te, ele-gant hands. Hands that had be-en
res-pon-sib-le-from a sa-fe, cle-an dis-tan-ce-for the de-ath of her fa-mily,
the de-ath of her in-no-cen-ce. It was only right that he le-arn to be-ar the
fi-nal res-pon-si-bi-lity.
His hand mo-ved up to her ex-po-sed thro-at, and the-re was ste-ely strength
in his fin-gers. "I co-uld, of co-ur-se, chan-ge my mind," he mur-mu-red. "It
wo-uldn't ta-ke much to snap yo-ur neck. Such a small, fra-il neck. One that
ma-na-ged to avo-id the gu-il-lo-ti-ne, un-li-ke the rest of yo-ur fa-mily.
Tell me, is that yo-ur prob-lem? Do you ha-te me be-ca-use you so-me-how
ma-na-ged to sur-vi-ve, and you fe-el gu-ilty that you didn't pe-rish with
yo-ur fa-mily? You can't bla-me yo-ur-self, so you bla-me me."
She didn't blink, didn't mo-ve as his fin-ger tig-h-te-ned. "Do it," she
sa-id in a fi-er-ce vo-ice, wa-iting for de-ath.
"I rat-her think I will," he sa-id. And he put his mo-uth on hers, kis-sing
her with a qu-ick bru-ta-lity that left her stun-ned and bru-ised.
And alo-ne. Be-fo-re she co-uld gat-her her scat-te-red wits he was
strol-ling out of the ro-om. Her lips stung, her thro-at felt raw and
pa-in-ful, and her so-ul felt lost, sha-ken. He clo-sed the do-or be-hind him,
and she sat wit-ho-ut mo-ving. As she re-ali-zed the pa-in in her thro-at
ca-me from the tig-h-t-ness of un-s-hed te-ars, not from the strength of his
fin-gers.
He ro-de out-si-de the car-ri-age that day, and the next. The bed-ro-om he
bes-po-ke was for her alo-ne-he didn't even sha-re her me-als. She sho-uld
ha-ve be-en gra-te-ful for the rep-ri-eve.
Inste-ad, her an-ger grew. He was simply tor-tu-ring her, put-ting off the
ine-vi-tab-le rec-ko-ning. And sin-ce she wasn't su-re what that rec-ko-ning
wo-uld be, her ner-ves we-re stret-c-hed to the li-mit.
By the third mor-ning of the jo-ur-ney, she knew she co-uld be-ar no mo-re.
She was ti-red of wa-iting for the axe to fall, ti-red of sit-ting alo-ne in
an ill-sp-rung car-ri-age, in a shabby inn, sta-ring in-to the fi-re, with no
com-pany but her me-mo-ri-es. She was de-ter-mi-ned to ha-ve it out with him.
She dres-sed qu-ickly in the early mor-ning light, in El-len's over-si-zed
cam-b-ric che-mi-se and dra-wers, in the le-ast of-fen-si-ve of the day gowns
Ta-ver-ner had pac-ked, tuc-king the lo-ose wa-ist in-si-de it-self to
shor-ten it to a ma-na-ge-ab-le length. And she went off in se-arch of her
ja-iler.
The com-mon ro-om was de-ser-ted at that ho-ur. No one was in sight,
ne-it-her the lan-d-lord nor his portly wi-fe, the bo-ots nor the ma-id nor
Black-thor-ne's mi-se-rab-le ser-vant. She mo-ved si-lently thro-ugh the
dar-ke-ned ro-om, in-to the kit-c-hen, whe-re at last she fo-und signs of
li-fe.
"Beg-ging yo-ur par-don, miss." The yo-ung scul-lery ma-id tur-ned from the
sto-ve, her fa-ce red from exer-ti-on. "Wo-uld you be wan-ting so-met-hing? I
can ma-ke you bre-ak-fast if you'd li-ke-we've a ham and a si-de of be-ef,
fresh bis-cu-its and por-ter and…"
"I don't sup-po-se you ha-ve any cof-fee?" she as-ked wis-t-ful-ly, put-ting

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her mo-re des-pe-ra-te ne-eds asi-de for the mo-ment. En-g-lish
es-tab-lis-h-ments we-re still wary of the con-ti-nen-tal tas-te for cof-fee,
and she hadn't had a tas-te of it sin-ce Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne had
ha-uled her away from Ain-s-ley Hall.
"No, miss. Ni-ce hot tea, I co-uld ma-ke you."
Gilly shud-de-red. "Not-hing for the mo-ment. I'm lo-oking for…" Her vo-ice
tra-iled off as she won-de-red what in the world she co-uld call the man who'd
ab-s-con-ded with her. She knew for a fact that he'd gi-ven a fal-se na-me at
the first inn they stop-ped at, tho-ugh she co-uldn't ima-gi-ne why. He
co-uldn't be af-ra-id so-me-one wo-uld co-me in se-arch of her. No one, apart
from an es-sen-ti-al-ly po-wer-less El-len, wo-uld ca-re.
"Yo-ur brot-her?" the girl fil-led in hel-p-ful-ly.
"My brot-her," Gilly ag-re-ed, sec-retly ag-hast at the tho-ught. Tho-ugh
she and Blac-k-t-hor-ne we-re both dark, the-re all re-sem-b-lan-ce en-ded,
eit-her physi-cal or spi-ri-tu-al. Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne was an amo-ral,
mur-de-ring de-vil. She was an aven-ging an-gel.
Well, per-haps an-gel was go-ing a bit far, she tho-ught with the first
tra-ce of hu-mor she'd felt in days. She ma-na-ged a wry smi-le. "Whe-re is
he?"
The girl's fa-ce red-de-ned fur-t-her, and this ti-me it was from
em-bar-ras-sment as well as from the he-at of the fi-re. "I re-al-ly can't
say, miss. I can get him for you…"
"I can find him myself," she sa-id firmly. "If you'll tell me whe-re he
is."
"I can't…" she sa-id aga-in.
Ghis-la-ine cros-sed the small kit-c-hen. She was small, shor-ter than the
bu-xom ser-ving girl, dres-sed in ri-di-cu-lo-usly baggy clot-hes, but her
will was ten ti-mes stron-ger. "Whe-re is he?" she sa-id aga-in, and the-re
was no den-ying her.
"He's in the bed-ro-om down the hall. Se-cond do-or, miss. But he's not
alo-ne."
"I didn't ima-gi-ne he was," she sa-id dryly, fol-lo-wing the girl's
di-rec-ti-ons.
She didn't bot-her knoc-king on the do-or. She ope-ned it, fully pre-pa-red
to dis-com-fit Blac-k-t-hor-ne as he rom-ped with one of the ser-ving girls,
fully pre-pa-red to la-unch in-to her well-re-he-ar-sed spe-ech.
Inste-ad she sto-od the-re, shoc-ked in-to si-len-ce, as a tho-usand
unex-pec-ted emo-ti-ons was-hed over her.
He was as-le-ep, the ser-ving girl awa-ke, sta-ring at her with a mix-tu-re
of wa-ri-ness and de-fi-an-ce. Nic-ho-las lay with his dark he-ad crad-led on
the girl's full, milky bre-ast, and the ro-se da-mask co-ver that must ha-ve
be-en bor-ro-wed from one of the ro-oms up-s-ta-irs ba-rely co-ve-red him. She
sto-od in si-len-ce, sur-ve-ying the li-ne of his back, the cur-ve of his flat
but-tocks, the length of his legs wrap-ped aro-und the girl's short, stocky
ones.
His hands we-re en-t-wi-ned in the wench's ha-ir, his long fin-gers
thre-aded thro-ugh the co-ar-se dark stuff. The ro-om smel-led li-ke a
bor-del-lo: it smel-led li-ke che-ap per-fu-me and swe-at and sex. Ghis-la-ine
sto-od the-re for a mo-ment lon-ger, re-mem-be-ring tho-se smells, and then
she tur-ned on her he-el and left, clo-sing the do-or si-lently be-hind her.
She had no idea whe-re the privy was. In-s-te-ad she das-hed out-si-de,
in-to the chilly mor-ning air, en-ding on her kne-es in the kit-c-hen gar-den,
lo-sing what lit-tle she had in her sto-mach.
It was an eter-nity la-ter when she fi-nal-ly sat back, still and sha-ken,
both by her bo-ut of na-usea and by her sha-me. She hadn't ex-pec-ted to be
vul-ne-rab-le, ever aga-in. But the smell of the ro-om, the sight of
Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-ho-me's be-a-uti-ful back, the pi-le of gold co-ins on the
ro-ugh tab-le be-si-de the bed, had co-me to-get-her to un-do her
com-p-le-tely. It bro-ught back a past she tho-ught she'd ma-na-ged to bury.
Ot-her ro-oms. A pi-le of co-ins. But it had ne-ver be-en Nic-ho-las

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Blac-k-t-ho-me's body be-si-de hers, his long fin-gers en-t-wi-ned in her
ha-ir.
So dis-t-ra-ught was she that she didn't he-ar the no-ise in the inn yard.
The so-unds of vo-ices, the stamp of hor-ses, the jin-g-le of the brid-les and
the calls to ma-ke has-te. It wasn't un-til she stum-b-led back in-to the
sud-denly li-vely kit-c-hen that she re-ali-zed the inn was awa-ke, awash with
new cus-to-mers.
She mo-ved thro-ugh the kit-c-hen, half-af-ra-id Blac-k-t-hor-ne wo-uld
sud-denly ap-pe-ar, but cle-arly he slept on, ob-li-vi-o-us to his un-hap-py
wit-ness. The com-mon ro-om was fil-led with half a do-zen we-ary tra-ve-lers,
do-ing the-ir best to cram in a he-arty bre-ak-fast be-fo-re the pub-lic
co-ach con-ti-nu-ed nor-t-h-ward. Ghis-la-ine pa-used in the do-or of the
com-mon ro-om as the first ten-d-rils of ho-pe was-hed over her. At the
blac-kest mo-ment of her li-fe, the-re was sud-denly a chan-ce of res-cue.
It was ar-ran-ged in a mat-ter of mo-ments. The-re was ro-om in the co-ach
he-ading north to New-cas-t-le-if miss we-re set to tra-vel and if she ca-me
equ-ip-ped with the re-ady.
She knew re-al ter-ror as she ra-ced up-s-ta-irs to her ro-om,
half-ex-pec-ting to find Blac-k-t-hor-ne wa-iting for her. The-re was no sign
of him. No sign of any mo-ney eit-her.
She threw a few of the le-ast of-fen-si-ve clot-hes in a va-li-se, then
he-aded back dow-n-s-ta-irs and out in-to the inn yard. She co-uldn't very
well go back to the ma-id's ro-om and rif-le thro-ugh Blac-k-t-hor-ne's
dis-car-ded bre-ec-hes for the re-qu-isi-te shil-lings. The-re-fo-re,
Ta-ver-ner was her ob-vi-o-us an-s-wer.
He was as-le-ep in the car-ri-age, an old blan-ket pul-led up aro-und his
thick neck. For a mo-ment she ho-ped he slept so-undly, dul-led by whis-key
and por-ter, but when she ope-ned the car-ri-age do-or he was awa-ke, sta-ring
at her in sle-epy sur-p-ri-se.
She to-ok ad-van-ta-ge of his mo-men-tary di-so-ri-en-ta-ti-on. "It's half
past ni-ne," she sa-id sternly. "His lor-d-s-hip's re-ady to le-ave."
Ta-ver-ner stum-b-led for-ward, out of the car-ri-age, be-fo-re he had ti-me
to re-ali-ze that it was much too dark for half-past ni-ne, and that
Ghis-la-ine wo-uld hardly be pas-sing mes-sa-ges. By the ti-me he tur-ned,
re-ali-zing his mis-ta-ke, she'd bro-ught the empty wo-oden buc-ket down over
his he-ad, shat-te-ring it in-to pi-eces on the gro-und.
Ta-ver-ner lay in a he-ap, and she won-de-red bri-efly whet-her she'd
ma-na-ged to kill him. She ho-ped not. For all that he was her enemy, he was
me-rely do-ing his mas-ter's bid-ding. Her hat-red and mur-de-ro-us in-tent
we-re still re-ser-ved for Blac-k-t-hor-ne.
Ten mi-nu-tes la-ter she was tuc-ked in-to the mid-dle se-at on the
over-full co-ach. They star-ted with a jerk, ta-king off in-to the
ear-ly-mor-ning light, and Gilly held her bre-ath, lis-te-ning for the cri-es
of ra-ge when so-me-one dis-co-ve-red Ta-ver-ner's body hid-den be-hind a
clump of bus-hes, or when Blac-k-t-hor-ne ro-used him-self from the wo-man's
bed. But the-re was not-hing but the so-und of the car-ri-age, the jin-g-le of
the re-ins, the po-un-ding of the ho-oves, as she was car-ri-ed away from her
last ho-pe of ven-ge-an-ce. And le-aning back, she clo-sed her eyes, wis-hing
she had a god to pray to for her de-li-ve-ran-ce. But the god of her
chil-d-ho-od had be-en long si-lent, out-la-wed by the re-vo-lu-ti-onary
go-ver-n-ment of Fran-ce. As al-ways, she had only her-self to rely on. Only
her-self to pray to. She co-uld only ho-pe it was eno-ugh.

Chapter 9

Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne had al-ways pri-ded him-self on his truly ugly
tem-per. He had no com-pun-c-ti-ons abo-ut in-f-lic-ting it on an-yo-ne when
the ra-ges ca-me upon him, and he ga-ined a cer-ta-in me-asu-re of
sa-tis-fac-ti-on at se-e-ing strong men flinch and mo-ve back a step or two.

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He didn't even mind frig-h-te-ning wo-men, which just went to pro-ve how far
from be-ing a gen-t-le-man he re-al-ly was, he tho-ught, lying in the
ser-vant's bed and wat-c-hing the ani-mal wa-ri-ness in her so-mew-hat va-cant
eyes. She was pro-bably used to be-ing struck, but the fact was, he had no
in-ten-ti-on of hit-ting her. He might be fo-ul-tem-pe-red, but he was sel-dom
a bully, at le-ast not physi-cal-ly. He me-rely sta-red at the wo-man who-se
bed he'd be-en drunk eno-ugh and frus-t-ra-ted eno-ugh to sha-re last night,
and she slunk from the ro-om, no lon-ger even con-si-de-ring a re-ne-wal of
the-ir stre-nu-o-us nig-h-t-ti-me ac-ti-vi-ti-es.
The do-or clo-sed be-hind her. He glan-ced over at her bed-si-de tab-le.
She'd ma-na-ged to palm the co-ins he'd dum-ped the-re, and he'd pro-bably
find his bre-ec-hes con-si-de-rably lig-h-ter as well. He sat up in bed,
dis-da-ining the ro-se co-ver-let, and tri-ed to ig-no-re the po-un-ding in
his he-ad, a su-re sign of ove-rin-dul-gen-ce and gu-ilt.
Tho-ugh why he sho-uld fe-el gu-ilty was a com-p-le-te mystery. Just as
myste-ri-o-us was his sud-den hat-red for the bu-xom ser-ving girl who'd
en-ter-ta-ined him so en-t-hu-si-as-ti-cal-ly the night be-fo-re. Nic-ho-las
was a man who des-pi-sed in-t-ros-pec-ti-on, but he des-pi-sed stu-pi-dity
even mo-re. And he knew per-fectly well it wasn't the wo-man he ha-ted, but
him-self.
The was-h-ba-sin and pit-c-her we-re of a hig-her qu-ality than was
usu-al-ly fo-und in a ser-ving girl's bed-ro-om, just as the da-mask
co-ver-let was. Cle-arly she'd be-en ex-pec-ting his com-pany. At le-ast he
was ab-le to wash the tra-ces of last night from his body with the co-ol
wa-ter and ro-se-scen-ted so-ap. He wis-hed he co-uld cle-an-se his mind as
easily.
The kit-c-hens we-re in an up-ro-ar when he strol-led thro-ugh, the
ser-vants cle-aning up the rem-nants of a lar-ge bre-ak-fast, but the com-mon
ro-om was blis-sful-ly de-ser-ted. He sank down in front of the fi-re,
ac-cep-ting the mug of por-ter from the lan-d-lord's hands and sta-ring in-to
the bright fla-mes.
"Er… chilly mor-ning, yer lor-d-s-hip," the lan-d-lord an-no-un-ced
une-asily.
Nic-ho-las ig-no-red him. The man pro-bably wan-ted so-met-hing for the
ser-ving girl's fa-vors, but Nic-ho-las wasn't in the mo-od to pay for it
twi-ce. Par-ti-cu-larly sin-ce he reg-ret-ted in-dul-ging in the first
pla-ce.
"The ma-il co-ach just ca-me thro-ugh," the lit-tle man con-ti-nu-ed,
un-da-un-ted, and Nic-ho-las to-ok a me-di-ta-ti-ve sip of the warm brew,
wis-hing it we-re cof-fee. He'd ha-ve to ha-ve the re-so-ur-ce-ful Ta-ver-ner
ma-ke him so-me if he had any ho-pe of sur-vi-ving the next few ho-urs.
"It we-ren't full this ti-me of ye-ar," the lan-d-lord pus-hed dog-gedly
on-ward, and fi-nal-ly Nic-ho-las tur-ned to sta-re at him out of ho-oded,
un-ner-ving eyes. Why did all lan-d-lords se-em the sa-me, no mat-ter what the
si-ze of the-ir inn, the class of the-ir cli-en-te-le, the area of the
co-untry? He'd met the sa-me ner-vo-us, ob-se-qu-i-o-us lit-tle man a do-zen
ti-mes over du-ring the last few ye-ars. It ma-de it dam-ned hard to
re-mem-ber whe-re he was.
"How fas-ci-na-ting," Nic-ho-las fi-nal-ly res-pon-ded in wit-he-ring
to-nes. "Is the-re a re-ason be-hind this dis-co-ur-se?"
If the man had be-en we-aring a hat he wo-uld ha-ve snat-c-hed it off his
he-ad and crus-hed it be-ne-ath his small, ner-vo-us hands. As it was, he had
to ma-ke do with simply wrin-ging tho-se no-ne-too-cle-an ap-pen-da-ges. "Yes,
my lord."
Nic-ho-las wa-ited. He was too ti-red, too angry, and still a bit cup-s-hot
to ma-ke the ob-vi-o-us men-tal le-ap. And then it was mo-re than cle-ar. "The
ma-il co-ach," he sa-id blankly.
"Yes, my lord. It was full when it left he-re, abo-ut half an ho-ur ago."
He sur-ged up-ward, knoc-king the half-fi-nis-hed mug of por-ter in-to the
fi-rep-la-ce with a ro-ar of fury. He to-ok the steps three at a ti-me, but

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the-re was no do-ubt that he'd find an empty ro-om.
He sto-od in the mid-dle of the ro-om, cur-sing vi-ci-o-usly. He he-ard the
un-s-te-ady fo-ot-s-teps mo-unt the sta-irs, and a dis-tant part of his mind
de-ci-ded that his cur-rent in-nke-eper must be a dif-fe-rent bre-ed of man,
to ha-ve so lit-tle re-gard for his own sa-fety. Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne
was a very dan-ge-ro-us man at that mo-ment.
"She got away, did she?" In-s-te-ad it was Tavvy's vo-ice in-t-ru-ding on
his blo-ody-min-ded ra-ge. Nic-ho-las tur-ned to lash in-to him, and then
stop-ped, as a re-luc-tant tra-ce of amu-se-ment lig-h-te-ned his fury.
"I ne-ver tho-ught I'd li-ve to see the day that a wo-man got the bet-ter of
you," he sa-id, sur-ve-ying his va-let's bru-ised and ble-eding he-ad and
dis-he-ve-led ap-pe-aran-ce.
"Me ne-it-her," Tavvy sa-id grimly. "She's no or-di-nary wo-man. She bas-hed
me on the he-ad with so-met-hing, then must ha-ve drag-ged me in-to the
bus-hes. I don't know how long I lay the-re. She's strong for such a lit-tle
bit of a thing."
Nic-ho-las re-mem-be-red the-ir full-blown bat-tle in El-len's sa-lon, just
af-ter he'd be-gun to re-co-ver from the ef-fects of the po-ison she'd
ad-mi-nis-te-red to him. He still bo-re the bru-ises.
"She is, in-de-ed. She's got a half-ho-ur he-ad start on us, Tavvy. Ha-ve
you put the hor-ses to?"
"They're re-ady and wa-iting," he sa-id grimly.
"Then pay off our in-com-pe-tent in-nke-eper and gat-her up our lug-ga-ge.
I'll han-d-le the rib-bons. The day won't co-me when I can't catch up with a
ma-il co-ach." He glan-ced on-ce mo-re at the de-ser-ted bed-c-ham-ber. "Damn
her eyes," he sa-id. "And damn the rest of her, as well."
"You aren't go-ing to be sick, are you?" the lar-ge, red-fa-ced wo-man
smel-ling of go-ose-fat in-qu-ired in a dis-tinctly un-s-y-m-pat-he-tic to-ne
of vo-ice.
Gilly con-si-de-red in-for-ming the wo-man that if she had at le-ast a
pas-sing ac-qu-a-in-tan-ce with so-ap and wa-ter, the air in the en-c-lo-sed
co-ach might be a de-al mo-re be-arab-le, but she de-ci-ded aga-inst it. The
si-tu-ati-on wo-uld al-so be im-p-ro-ved if so-me-one ope-ned a win-dow to let
the fresh, co-ol air in, or if she co-uld tra-de se-ats and not ri-de
bac-k-ward, so-met-hing that had ne-ver ag-re-ed with her.
But she simply sa-id, "No," in a vo-ice that en-co-ura-ged no fur-t-her
qu-es-ti-ons.
She knew what an odd sight she ma-de. A small, dark wo-man in over-si-zed,
over-b-right clot-hes, tra-ve-ling alo-ne on a pub-lic co-ach, was
re-mar-kab-le eno-ugh. One with a dis-cer-nib-le French ac-cent was a
dan-ge-ro-us ano-maly. She'd do-ne her best to strip her vo-ice of any Gal-lic
ten-den-ci-es, but a fa-int tra-ce still re-ma-ined. Par-ti-cu-larly when she
was ner-vo-us. And the-re was no den-ying that she was very ner-vo-us
in-de-ed.
She didn't know how much of a he-ad start she had on Blac-k-t-hor-ne. She
had no do-ubt he'd co-me af-ter her. He wasn't a man who li-ked to be bes-ted,
and even if he'd ti-red of his ga-me of cat and mo-use with her, he wo-uldn't
be li-kely to al-low her to es-ca-pe. A re-aso-nab-le man wo-uld see it as the
best pos-sib-le out-co-me of an im-pos-sib-le si-tu-ati-on. But Nic-ho-las
wasn't a re-aso-nab-le man.
The next stop was New-cas-t-le. She'd ne-ver be-en the-re, but su-rely it
was a lar-ge eno-ugh city that she co-uld di-sap-pe-ar in-to it. She was mo-re
than adept at fa-ding in-to the filth and tur-mo-il of a crow-ded
po-pu-la-ti-on, and New-cas-t-le had the ad-ded ad-van-ta-ge of be-ing a port
city. She co-uld al-ways find pas-sa-ge off this is-land, well out of re-ach
of Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne's re-ven-ge. En-g-land was no lon-ger ho-me to
her, a fact she ac-cep-ted with bit-ter-s-we-et reg-ret. Her short-li-ved
ha-ven had va-nis-hed.
Nic-ho-las wo-uld be qu-ite out of her re-ach, al-so. It was just as well.
The lon-ger she was with him, the less cer-ta-in she was of her abi-lity to

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ex-t-ract that re-ven-ge she'd dre-amed of for so long. It wasn't any
we-ak-ness of fe-eling for the man. He was a con-s-ci-en-ce-less bas-tard, a
smi-ling, dam-nab-le vil-la-in, and her fe-elings to-ward him hadn't
sof-te-ned in the slig-h-test. They we-re still a so-lid mass of hat-red.
But in ot-her ways she'd we-ake-ned. She'd slept too many nights in warm,
cle-an beds, with abun-dant fo-od and warmth, even a fri-end to talk with.
Tho-se things bro-ught back ci-vi-li-za-ti-on to her bat-te-red so-ul. A
ci-vi-li-za-ti-on that might very well ke-ep her from cold-blo-oded mur-der,
no mat-ter how much she lon-ged to ad-mi-nis-ter the jus-ti-ce he de-ser-ved.
She was bet-ter off ad-mit-ting de-fe-at. Her own de-fe-at, at her own
hands, not his. Only a few mo-re ho-urs un-til they re-ac-hed the-ir next
stop, and she'd be out of his re-ach fo-re-ver.
She clo-sed her eyes, lon-ging for the mer-ci-ful ob-li-vi-on of sle-ep. Her
sto-mach was ro-iling, with her ten-si-on and the up-sets of the
tran-s-por-ta-ti-on. If she co-uld only pass the next few ho-urs in sle-ep…
"What are we spe-eding up for?" a dis-g-run-t-led fel-low tra-ve-ler
de-man-ded. "The co-ach is tra-ve-ling too qu-ickly as it is. He-re you…" He
ope-ned the win-dow, let-ting in a bles-sed blast of fresh air, and sho-uted
at the dri-ver. "Slow down, fel-low!"
"So-me flash co-ve is trying to over-ta-ke us," the go-ose-fat lady
an-no-un-ced, ope-ning her own win-dow to pe-er be-hind them. "He's dri-ving
fit to be-at the de-vil. He'll run us off the ro-ad at this ra-te, that he
will, and we'll all be kil-led!"
Pa-nic erup-ted in the car-ri-age, all the pas-sen-gers shri-eking and
tal-king at on-ce, but it was not-hing com-pa-red to the si-lent pa-nic in
Ghis-la-ine's he-art. She knew who was co-ming up fast on the ma-il co-ach,
dri-ving li-ke a mad-man. And for one bri-ef se-cond she had her own mo-ment
of mad-ness, won-de-ring, if she flung her-self from the car-ri-age whi-le it
was mo-ving at such a ra-pid pa-ce, whet-her she might che-at Nic-ho-las of
his tri-umph af-ter all.
But she was cram-med in the mid-dle of fo-ur burly pas-sen-gers, far from
the do-or. And if she hadn't en-ded her li-fe ten ye-ars ago, she wo-uldn't
let Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne dri-ve her to it now.
She clen-c-hed her fists in her lap, the swa-ying of the co-ach knoc-king
her back and forth bet-we-en the ot-her pas-sen-gers. The-ir dri-ver se-emed
to show no in-c-li-na-ti-on to be over-ta-ken, and the-re was al-ways the
out-si-de chan-ce that he might out-run Nic-ho-las. That Blac-k-t-hor-ne might
over-turn his own car-ri-age in his has-te to catch up with them. Mi-rac-les
co-uld hap-pen. They just didn't hap-pen to her.
"He's ga-ining on us," the go-ose-fat lady an-no-un-ced, tur-ning to cast an
ac-cu-sing ga-ze at Ghis-la-ine. "And we can all gu-ess who he's af-ter.
You'll bring us all to our de-ath, that you will, yo-ung lady, with yo-ur
ho-ity-to-ity airs."
"I don't know what you're tal-king abo-ut," she pro-tes-ted fa-intly, trying
to ke-ep her vo-ice flat.
To no ava-il. "She's a Frenchy!" Go-ose-fat scre-ec-hed. "Pro-bably a spy!
Stop the car-ri-age, be-fo-re we're all kil-led!"
In the end it was a mo-ot po-int. Blac-k-t-hor-ne's shabby tra-ve-ling
co-ach was bu-ilt for spe-ed, des-pi-te its dec-re-pit ap-pe-aran-ce, and it
pul-led even with the mo-re cum-ber-so-me ma-il co-ach just as they we-re
ne-aring a bend in the ro-ad. The dri-ver mis-cal-cu-la-ted, sho-uting a
cur-se at Blac-k-t-hor-ne, and then the co-ach jer-ked, ve-ering off the ro-ad
and over-tur-ning.
Ghis-la-ine ca-ught sight of him a mo-ment be-fo-re the co-ach left the
ro-ad, and it was a fit-ting vi-si-on to ta-ke to her de-ath. He lo-oked li-ke
the de-vil in-car-na-te, his black ha-ir stre-aming be-hind him, his
han-d-so-me fa-ce dark with ra-ge and da-ring as he pus-hed his hor-ses
be-yond en-du-ran-ce.
And then he was lost from sight as the co-ach cras-hed with a hor-ren-do-us
shud-de-ring no-ise, pas-sen-gers flying thro-ugh the air, and Ghis-la-ine had

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a mo-ment to con-si-der that per-haps the cho-ice was be-ing ta-ken from her,
af-ter all, and the-re might in-de-ed be a mer-ci-ful god.
It didn't ta-ke her long to re-vi-se that no-ti-on. The world was dark,
he-avy, and odo-ro-us, fil-led with no-isy gro-ans and angry we-eping.
Ghis-la-ine strug-gled for bre-ath, unab-le to mo-ve, and she knew with
bit-ter des-pa-ir that the go-ose-fat lady had lan-ded di-rectly on top of
her.
And then she was blin-ded, as-sa-ul-ted, by light and air, as the we-ight
was lif-ted from her, ac-com-pa-ni-ed by an out-ra-ged shri-ek.
Blac-k-t-hor-ne pa-id no at-ten-ti-on to the cri-es of her fel-low
pas-sen-gers. He pa-id no at-ten-ti-on to her un-con-t-rol-lab-le shrin-king
away from him, as he simply ha-uled her out of the up-tur-ned car-ri-age, his
hands ro-ugh, his fa-ce cold and bit-ter.
He sho-ved her in-to his car-ri-age, clim-bing in af-ter her and slam-ming
the do-or be-hind him. Ta-ver-ner star-ted the co-ach im-me-di-ately, and
mo-ments la-ter they we-re tra-ve-ling on-ce mo-re, the only slightly mo-re
se-da-te pa-ce the re-sult of the va-let at the re-ins. She'd had ti-me to
no-ti-ce the whi-te ban-da-ge on his we-asel-ly fa-ce, and told her-self she
wis-hed she'd hit him har-der. Then she might ha-ve had ti-me to re-ach
New-cas-t-le.
The over-tur-ned co-ach was ra-pidly di-sap-pe-aring from sight, the
bed-rag-gled pas-sen-gers sha-king angry fists af-ter them. "Aren't you go-ing
to do an-y-t-hing to as-sist them?" she as-ked fa-intly. "So-me-one might be
hurt…"
'They're lucky they're not all de-ad," he snar-led, his vo-ice vib-ra-ting
with ra-ge. He sta-red at her, his eyes li-ke chips of ice. "You're lucky
you're not de-ad."
She met his ga-ze le-vel-ly. Her en-ti-re body ac-hed, she co-uld still
smell the go-ose fat, and her one chan-ce of es-ca-pe had be-en shat-te-red.
He wo-uldn't gi-ve her a se-cond chan-ce. "Per-haps I'm lucky," she sa-id.
"Per-haps not."
"Ap-pa-rently I've be-en too le-ni-ent with you," he sa-id. "Don't think
I'll ma-ke that mis-ta-ke aga-in. I don't li-ke be-ing ma-de a fo-ol of. And
I'm rat-her fond of Ta-ver-ner-his he-ad is so-rely bru-ised. I'm
138 An-ne Stu-art
only sur-p-ri-sed you didn't go in se-arch of me to exact yo-ur
ven-ge-an-ce."
"I did," she sa-id, be-fo-re she co-uld jud-ge the wis-dom of that
par-ti-cu-lar con-fes-si-on.
For a mo-ment the dark ra-ge lif-ted, and he simply sta-red at her. "I must
ha-ve be-en sle-eping qu-ite so-undly. Eit-her that, or I was…
dis-t-rac-ted."
She co-uld fe-el her fa-ce red-den, a fact which ama-zed her. How co-uld she
be mis-sish, af-ter all she had be-en thro-ugh? "You we-re as-le-ep," she
sa-id flatly.
"If you we-re fe-eling left out," he mu-sed, "you co-uld al-ways ha-ve
jo-ined us."
It was a small eno-ugh thing, to be the fi-nal straw, but so-met-hing
in-si-de Ghis-la-ine snap-ped. She la-un-c-hed her-self ac-ross the swa-ying
car-ri-age, all con-s-ci-o-us tho-ught va-nis-hing in her ne-ed to hurt him.
A mo-ment la-ter she was flat on her back on the op-po-si-te se-at, his body
pres-sing down on top of hers, his hands a ma-nac-le aro-und her wrists, his
long legs sub-du-ing her fla-iling ones. She was bre-at-h-less, pan-ting. He
only lo-oked amu-sed, the mad-ness fa-ding from his mid-nig-ht-blue eyes. And
for one crazy mo-ment she ac-cep-ted the fact that his we-ight was far
swe-eter than that of the go-ose-fat lady.
"You've re-co-ve-red yo-ur strength," she ob-ser-ved in a low, bit-ter
vo-ice.
"We-re you re-al-ly fo-ol eno-ugh to think you co-uld over-po-wer me?" he
sa-id. "The last ti-me you went for me I'd spent the pre-vi-o-us two days

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spe-wing my guts out. That tends to we-aken a man, at le-ast tem-po-ra-rily."
"I wish I'd kil-led you."
"Don't be ti-re-so-me. Of co-ur-se you wish you'd kil-led me-we both know
that. The fact re-ma-ins that you didn't. The fact al-so re-ma-ins that I'm
the one in com-mand now. You can't es-ca-pe me, no mat-ter how hard you try."
"Get off me," she sa-id, her vo-ice a tight, fu-ri-o-us knot.
He was very still, con-si-de-ring it. And then he shif-ted, pres-sing his
hips mo-re tightly aga-inst her, pres-sing his gro-in aga-inst hers, and she
re-ali-zed with shock that he was aro-used. De-fi-ni-tely, mas-si-vely
aro-used.
Pa-nic swept over her, and for a mo-ment she strug-gled. It was use-less, of
co-ur-se-he was very strong. She for-ced her-self to be still, kno-wing it was
fru-it-less. "Ha-ven't you had eno-ugh to-day?" she as-ked in-s-te-ad. "You
cer-ta-inly ap-pe-ared sa-ted as you lol-led in that girl's bed."
He roc-ked aga-inst her, just slightly, and a shi-ver of re-ac-ti-on swept
over her. A re-ac-ti-on she co-uldn't, wo-uldn't put a na-me to. "You'd be
sur-p-ri-sed at how in-sa-ti-ab-le I can be," he sa-id in a rut-h-less vo-ice.
And he put his mo-uth aga-inst hers.
She'd be-en kis-sed li-ke that be-fo-re. Not of-ten. His mo-uth gro-und
aga-inst hers, pa-in-ful-ly, un-til her lips par-ted be-ne-ath his as-sa-ult.
He thrust his ton-gue in-si-de, a ro-ugh in-t-ru-der, and she lay as still as
she co-uld, pas-si-ve, se-ar-c-hing for that dark, in-ner pla-ce that
nes-t-led bet-we-en her bre-asts, the black, angry he-art of her, whe-re she
co-uld hi-de from him un-til he fi-nis-hed with her. It was a pla-ce she knew
well, a pla-ce of vel-vet com-fort, of to-tal blac-k-ness, of li-vely
des-pa-ir. It was her ha-ven, her only pro-tec-ti-on.
She co-uldn't re-ach it. He'd ca-ught her fa-ce in his hands, and the la-ce
cuffs spil-led over her che-eks, as his mo-uth mo-ved aga-inst hers, hard with
an-ger, bur-ning with a de-si-re that lit an an-s-we-ring spark wit-hin her,
so that for a bri-ef, wild mo-ment she clo-sed her eyes and sur-ren-de-red to
the un-le-as-hed po-wer of his angry pas-si-on. Her bre-asts felt hot,
ten-der, pres-sed aga-inst the fi-ne cam-b-ric shirt; her hands, trap-ped
be-ne-ath his body, wan-ted to re-ach out and to-uch him, to stro-ke him, to
hold him as she hadn't held an-yo-ne in such an im-pos-sibly long ti-me.
And then awa-re-ness of her own mad-ness was-hed over her, and she be-gan to
strug-gle anew, kic-king at him, squ-ir-ming un-der-ne-ath his pi-ni-oning
we-ight, her ra-ge all the mo-re in-ten-se sin-ce so much of it was di-rec-ted
at her-self.
He lif-ted his he-ad, sta-ring down at her, his eyes glit-te-ring in the
sha-dowy car-ri-age, his bre-ath co-ming in ra-pid gusts. "I tho-ught you
we-re be-gin-ning to li-ke it," he sa-id.
"Don't flat-ter yo-ur-self," she rep-li-ed. Her mo-uth was wet from his kiss
and she wan-ted to wi-pe the dam-p-ness, the fe-el of his mo-uth, away from
hers, but her hands we-re still trap-ped bet-we-en them. "You dis-gust me."
She strug-gled aga-in, squ-ir-ming be-ne-ath him.
"If you don't stop mo-ving li-ke that," he sa-id mildly, "I'm li-kely to
in-c-re-ase yo-ur dis-gust."
She im-me-di-ately stil-led. She wan-ted to scre-am at him, but her scre-ams
had do-ne lit-tle go-od. She wan-ted to fight him, but he'd al-re-ady pro-ven
she was no match for him in a physi-cal bat-tle. She wan-ted to kill him, and
she wo-uld, the next pos-sib-le chan-ce she had, she swo-re it to her-self.
She wan-ted to cry. It had be-en so very long sin-ce she'd ac-tu-al-ly shed
te-ars, she had tho-ught she wo-uld ne-ver be ab-le to aga-in. It wasn't as if
she didn't long to. For the first few ye-ars she was glad that par-ti-cu-lar
fe-mi-ni-ne we-ak-ness had left her. The-re was no ro-om in her li-fe for
reg-rets, for te-ars, for be-mo-aning her fa-te.
But la-ter, when things got bet-ter, she'd so-me-ti-mes lon-ged for the
re-le-ase te-ars co-uld ha-ve bro-ught her. But not-hing sum-mo-ned them
forth.
Not re-li-ving the hor-ror of se-e-ing her pa-rents on the block. Not the

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me-mory of Char-les-Lo-u-is when she'd last se-en him, his fa-ce ga-unt with
hun-ger, his eyes dark and ha-un-ted, his body no mo-re than skin and bo-nes.
Not the nights she'd sold her-self to fe-ed her brot-her. Not the first and
only man she'd kil-led, Mal-vi-ver, the scum of the earth, but a hu-man be-ing
no-net-he-less.
But lying he-re, trap-ped be-ne-ath a man who co-uld ha-ve had her so-ul if
he'd wis-hed it, she sud-denly wan-ted to cry the te-ars of a shat-te-red
fif-te-en-ye-ar-old vir-gin. Wan-ted to so much that she co-uld al-most fe-el
the stin-ging he-at in the back of her eyes.
Sud-denly he rol-led away, sit-ting up and cros-sing to the ot-her si-de of
the car-ri-age. He ma-de a gre-at bu-si-ness of stra-ig-h-te-ning his co-at,
re-ar-ran-ging his di-sar-ran-ged nec-k-c-loth with ca-su-al ex-per-ti-se as
if the-re we-re not-hing mo-re pres-sing to do. As in-de-ed, the-re might not
be.
Ghis-la-ine scram-b-led in-to the cor-ner, as far away from him as she
co-uld ma-na-ge. She felt li-ke a cor-ne-red ani-mal, and yet he se-emed to
ha-ve lost all in-te-rest in her. And then he glan-ced up, his eyes sta-ring
in-to hers, and she re-ali-zed he hadn't dis-mis-sed her at all.
"I mis-sed my bre-ak-fast," he sa-id. "Not to men-ti-on my mor-ning sha-ve.
And the-re is al-ways the dis-tinct pos-si-bi-lity that I wo-uld ha-ve
enj-oyed an ad-di-ti-onal ho-ur spent in the pur-su-it of my ot-her bo-dily
ple-asu-res as well, if you hadn't ta-ken off. You've dep-ri-ved me of my
cre-atu-re com-forts, Ghis-la-ine. You're go-ing to ha-ve to supply them
yo-ur-self."
"I'd be mo-re than happy to sha-ve you," she sa-id in a de-cep-ti-vely
swe-et to-ne of vo-ice.
He smi-led wryly. "I'm cer-ta-in you wo-uld be. I think it might be wi-ser
to re-ser-ve that task for Tavvy. I'd pre-fer to emer-ge with my thro-at
in-tact." He le-aned back, stret-c-hing his long legs out in front of him, and
she co-uldn't help her in-s-tin-c-ti-ve re-co-il, pul-ling her own fe-et up
un-der-ne-ath the vo-lu-mi-no-us skirt.
He didn't miss her mo-ve, of co-ur-se, and his thin smi-le wi-de-ned. "And
whi-le sha-ring my bed might pro-ve a no-vel ex-pe-ri-en-ce for us both,
that’s not whe-re yo-ur ta-lents lie, is it?"
She con-t-rol-led her ini-ti-al start of re-vul-si-on. "What do you want of
me?"
'’To co-ok me bre-ak-fast. We'll stop at the next pos-ting ho-use, and you
can pro-vi-de me with so-met-hing to put me in a bet-ter fra-me of mind. An
ome-let, per-haps, with fresh ham and mus-h-ro-oms. Wit-ho-ut the rat
po-ison."
"But as a fla-vo-ring it's es-sen-ti-al," she rep-li-ed, un-wil-ling to be
co-wed.
"You'll be my of-fi-ci-al tas-ter. And trust me, even yo-ur hat-red of me
wo-uldn't be worth go-ing thro-ugh the un-p-le-asan-t-ness of po-iso-ning. I
know from re-cent ex-pe-ri-en-ce." He stro-ked his ro-ugh, stub-bled che-ek
with his long fin-gers, sur-ve-ying her tho-ug-h-t-ful-ly. He le-aned ac-ross
the car-ri-age, and des-pi-te her ef-forts to flinch away he to-uc-hed her
fa-ce. "I've mar-ked you," he sa-id, his vo-ice dre-amy. "I pro-mi-se to
sha-ve be-fo-re I kiss you aga-in."
She jer-ked her he-ad away from him. "Pro-mi-se not to kiss me aga-in," she
sa-id, "and I might for-go the rat po-ison."
"Cer-ta-inly," he sa-id easily, le-aning back, and she re-le-ased her
pent-up bre-ath.
She co-uldn't qu-ite be-li-eve her go-od luck. "You pro-mi-se?" she as-ked,
as-to-nis-hed.
"Of co-ur-se." His smi-le held a ru-eful swe-et-ness. "The prob-lem is, I
al-ways bre-ak my pro-mi-ses."
It shoc-ked her. "Ha-ve you no ho-nor?"
"Not a tra-ce." He so-un-ded as-to-nis-hingly mat-ter-of-fact abo-ut it. "I
wo-uld ha-ve tho-ught you knew that by now. An ho-no-rab-le man wo-uldn't

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ha-ve left a fif-te-en-ye-ar-old girl be-hind in a dan-ge-ro-us co-untry,
par-ti-cu-larly when that girl was most char-mingly in lo-ve with him. An
ho-no-rab-le man wo-uldn't cuc-kold a man and then half-kill him in a du-el.
And an ho-no-rab-le man wo-uldn't ha-ve ab-s-con-ded with his half-co-usin's
fe-ma-le chef simply be-ca-use she had the bad man-ners to try to kill him."
He shrug-ged. "It’s easi-er wit-ho-ut ho-nor, ma pe-ti-te. You sho-uld try
it."
"You dis-gust me."
"Don't be ti-re-so-me, ma bel-le. I know you de-test me, you don't ne-ed to
in-form me of it con-s-tantly. As long as you ma-ke me a de-cent ome-let and
brew me so-me cof-fee, you can ha-te me all you want."
"Cof-fee?" She co-uldn't ke-ep the fa-int tra-ce of ho-pe out of her
vo-ice.
Nic-ho-las was too dis-cer-ning a man to miss even that tiny glim-me-ring.
"I al-ways ha-ve Ta-ver-ner carry my fa-vo-ri-te be-ans. The inns I can
af-ford to fre-qu-ent are un-re-li-ab-le, and a day wit-ho-ut cof-fee isn't
worth li-ving." He ga-ve her an ami-ab-le smi-le. "If you're very ni-ce to me,
I might even let you ha-ve a cup."
"My pri-ce is a gre-at de-al hig-her than a cup of cof-fee," she sa-id
sharply.
"Oh, I don't know. I think I might ha-ve just fo-und yo-ur bre-aking po-int.
Cof-fee, Ghis-la-ine, and yo-ur pro-mi-se not to run away aga-in."
She wo-uld ha-ve tra-ded her body for a cup of cof-fee. But not what
re-ma-ined of her so-ul. "No," she sa-id, her vo-ice flat with fresh
des-pa-ir.
"Put out yo-ur hands then." He so-un-ded bo-red.
"What?"
"I sa-id put out yo-ur hands. Un-less you want me to co-me over the-re
and…"
She put out her hands.
The nec-k-c-loth was soft, sil-ken, and very strong. He bo-und her wrists
tightly, his fin-gers deft and co-ol, then drop-ped them back in her lap.
'’I’ll le-ave yo-ur an-k-les free," he sa-id, le-aning back aga-in. "At this
po-int Tavvy wo-uld pro-bably sho-ot you in the back if you de-ci-ded to run.
He's not in cha-rity with you this mor-ning."
She sa-id not-hing, fu-ming. She wo-uldn't use her un-bo-und fe-et to run.
She'd use them to kick him.
"And if you smi-le at me," he con-ti-nu-ed in a lazy vo-ice, "I might still
let you ha-ve so-me of my cof-fee."
Ghis-la-ine grow-led, low in her thro-at.
"Clo-se eno-ugh, ma bel-le," Nic-ho-las mur-mu-red. And cros-sing his arms
ac-ross his chest, he ga-ve her a moc-king smi-le as the car-ri-age lum-be-red
nor-t-h-ward.

Chapter 10

She was a most sur-p-ri-sing fe-ma-le, Nic-ho-las tho-ught, a day and a
night la-ter, as his dec-re-pit car-ri-age con-ti-nu-ed its jo-ur-ney. No
mat-ter what he did to her, no mat-ter what har-d-s-hips she had to en-du-re,
she ne-it-her com-p-la-ined nor beg-ged, bar-ga-ined nor ple-aded. They'd
be-en tra-ve-ling sin-ce the pre-vi-o-us mor-ning, when he'd pluc-ked her from
that dam-ned tan-g-le of pas-sen-gers in the over-tur-ned ma-il co-ach. When
he'd se-en the mo-un-ta-ino-us cre-atu-re who'd lan-ded on top of her, he'd
had very re-al do-ubts abo-ut her chan-ces of sur-vi-val. But she'd emer-ged,
fu-ri-o-us, un-s-cat-hed, not even her for-mi-dab-le tem-per and
de-ter-mi-na-ti-on squ-as-hed.
They'd stop-ped a num-ber of ti-mes, to chan-ge hor-ses, to eat, to
re-li-eve the-ir bo-di-es, and each ti-me he'd kept her hands ti-ed,
al-lo-wing her only the bri-efest il-lu-si-on of pri-vacy. She'd sat hud-dled

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in the cor-ner, knoc-ked aro-und by the ram-s-hac-k-le car-ri-age, and she'd
ne-ver sa-id a word of com-p-la-int. He knew for a fact how un-com-for-tab-le
she must be-every bo-ne in his own body ac-hed, and his mus-c-les felt as if
they'd be-en pul-led in every di-rec-ti-on. She had to be fe-eling wor-se,
wit-ho-ut even the du-bi-o-us cus-hi-on of her hands to bra-ce her-self every
ti-me they hit a par-ti-cu-larly one-ro-us pot-ho-le.
But she'd sa-id not-hing, ex-cept to cast an oc-ca-si-onal gla-re in his
di-rec-ti-on. She'd slept fit-ful-ly thro-ugh the long night, the jos-t-ling
of the car-ri-age knoc-king her in-to wa-ke-ful-ness, and when he'd hel-ped
her down the next mor-ning she'd al-most col-lap-sed in his arms.
But she'd ma-na-ged to right her-self al-most im-me-di-ately, swa-ying
slightly in her de-ter-mi-na-ti-on, and he had to ad-mi-re her. Not eno-ugh to
un-fas-ten one of his best nec-k-c-loths from aro-und tho-se dan-ge-ro-us
wrists of hers, but eno-ugh to char-ge Tavvy to ma-ke mo-re stops than he
wo-uld ha-ve con-si-de-red strictly ne-ces-sary.
It was dark on-ce mo-re, and from the ten-si-on aro-und her mo-uth, the
pa-le-ness of her skin, he tho-ught she'd pro-bably inu-red her-self to the
no-ti-on of spen-ding anot-her night on the ro-ad. She wo-uldn't know that
they'd cros-sed the bor-der in-to Scot-land ho-urs ago, and that they we-ren't
far from his hun-ting lod-ge. Not far from a fi-re, and a bed, and an end to
this in-ces-santly roc-king car-ri-age.
He had no in-ten-ti-on of tel-ling her eit-her. To tell her wo-uld be to
gi-ve her ho-pe, gi-ve her mo-re re-ason to ke-ep fig-h-ting, and she
al-re-ady had too much fight in her. He'd do-ne what he co-uld to
de-mo-ra-li-ze her, but she'd re-fu-sed to be co-wed. On-ce they re-ac-hed the
hun-ting lod-ge he'd fi-nish the job, tho-ro-ughly, ef-fi-ci-ently, but part
of him was lo-ath to do so. He didn't re-al-ly want to see her shat-te-red,
aba-sed. He wasn't su-re why not. It co-uldn't be any ten-der emo-ti-on such
as pity or mercy. He didn't pos-sess eit-her.
Actu-al-ly, he co-uldn't even ima-gi-ne her hum-b-led. But he knew that was
non-sen-se on his part. The-re wasn't a man ali-ve he co-uldn't bre-ak, if he
put his mind to it, and a wo-man, even one as fi-er-ce and de-ter-mi-ned as
Ghis-la-ine de Lorgny, wo-uld be child's play. As so-on as he rid him-self of
any lin-ge-ring, fo-olish scrup-les.
He'd ta-ke her to bed, of co-ur-se. She'd pro-bably fight li-ke a
wil-d-cat-she did every ti-me he to-uc-hed her. But she al-so pur-red. He'd
se-en that lo-ok in the back of her mag-ni-fi-cent dark brown eyes,
half-aro-used, half-star-t-led, and he knew he co-uld ta-ke her. And knew in
the end that the fight wo-uld le-ave her, pan-ting and bre-at-h-less in his
arms.
He li-ked the idea, li-ked it very much. He hadn't be-en so in-te-res-ted in
a wo-man, so in-te-res-ted in an-y-t-hing, even the fall of the cards, in
lon-ger than he ca-red to re-mem-ber. His mur-de-ro-us lit-tle Ghis-la-ine was
aro-using his tem-per, his in-te-rest, his body, in a truly me-mo-rab-le
fas-hi-on. He al-most reg-ret-ted that he was go-ing to turn her in-to one
mo-re for-get-tab-le fe-ma-le.
Almost was the ope-ra-ti-ve word. For thir-te-en ye-ars she'd ha-un-ted him;
her fa-te, his gu-ilt. With one ill-ad-vi-sed act of re-ven-ge she'd ma-na-ge
to wi-pe out his gu-ilt. On-ce he fi-nis-hed with her, she'd be go-ne from his
con-s-ci-o-us-ness, for the first ti-me in tho-se long ye-ars. He won-de-red
if he'd miss her.
It was abo-ut twen-ty-fi-ve ye-ars sin-ce he'd ven-tu-red to Scot-land-not
sin-ce he was a yo-ung boy, still pos-ses-sed of dre-ams for the fu-tu-re.
He'd kept away sin-ce then-the-re was no ro-om in his li-fe for co-untry
so-j-o-urns or fis-hing trips. But du-ring the en-d-less, un-com-for-tab-le
trip north he fo-und he was lo-oking for-ward to be-ing in Scot-land aga-in,
even in such an un-p-re-dic-tab-le se-ason as spring. Rus-ti-ca-ti-on was
go-od for an-yo-ne-his Un-c-le Te-as-da-le used to swe-ar by it at re-gu-lar
in-ter-vals. May-be he'd set-tle in, ta-ke his ti-me with the re-bel-li-o-us
Ghis-la-ine, not re-turn to the city un-til autumn. He used to li-ke the

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co-untry aro-und his fat-her's se-at in the La-ke Dis-t-rict. The glory of the
ap-ple blos-soms, the tas-te of fresh cre-am and ho-ney, the gre-en of the
hills, and the cle-ar blue of the la-kes. He'd fish this ti-me-didn't pe-op-le
co-me to Scot-land to fish? He hadn't in-dul-ged in the sport sin-ce his last
trip the-re, but he co-uld still re-mem-ber the thrill of cat-c-hing a
fi-ve-po-und sal-mon. And how go-od that sal-mon had tas-ted, co-oked over an
open fi-re, just him and old Ben, the hos-t-ler who'd be-en his bod-y-gu-ard,
his ke-eper, his bo-on com-pa-ni-on un-til a fe-ver had car-ri-ed him off.
"How are you at co-oking sal-mon? Ha-ve you ever co-oked it be-fo-re?" he
as-ked ab-ruptly.
She lif-ted her he-ad, sur-p-ri-se lig-h-ting the dar-k-ness in her eyes.
"Of co-ur-se. I can co-ok an-y-t-hing." It wasn't a bo-ast-she was too we-ary
and mi-se-rab-le to bo-ast. It was a sim-p-le sta-te-ment of fact.
"I'll catch a sal-mon for us in the mor-ning," he sa-id. "If you pro-mi-se
not to po-ison it. It wo-uld be too gre-at a cri-me, to po-ison a Scots
sal-mon."
"The mor-ning?" she ec-ho-ed we-arily.
The car-ri-age was slo-wing in the twi-light, and Nic-ho-las glan-ced out
the win-dow at the fa-mi-li-ar co-un-t-r-y-si-de. He co-uld see the hun-ting
lod-ge up ahe-ad, and even in the sha-dows he co-uld see that it hadn't fa-red
well in the in-ter-ve-ning ye-ars. Part of the ro-of had ca-ved in, and he had
lit-tle do-ubt that va-ri-o-us forms of wil-d-li-fe had ta-ken up re-si-den-ce
in the de-re-lict old bu-il-ding. He only ho-ped that they we-re edib-le
forms. Tavvy was an ex-cel-lent trap-per, and he was fa-mis-hed.
"In ca-se you hadn't no-ti-ced, ma bel-le," he mur-mu-red, "we're he-re. The
jo-ur-ney is over."
He ex-pec-ted so-me sign of en-t-hu-si-asm. He got no-ne, only in-c-re-ased
wa-ri-ness. Pro-bably with so-me jus-ti-fi-ca-ti-on, he ad-mit-ted to
him-self. She had to know that his plans for her we-re not of the nob-le
sort.
"What next?" she as-ked, her vo-ice flat and emo-ti-on-less, and he
won-de-red what had hap-pe-ned to her du-ring tho-se lost ye-ars, when she
sa-id she'd be-en in a con-vent. What had ta-ught her to bury her fe-elings,
her re-ac-ti-ons, to fa-ce the world with blind, ac-cep-ting eyes.
"Next?" he ec-ho-ed. "Next, ma mie, you co-ok din-ner for me. So-met-hing
sum-p-tu-o-us-I'm ab-so-lu-tely star-ving."
"What abo-ut yo-ur co-ok?"
"Pe-er out the win-dow at our des-ti-na-ti-on, Ghis-la-ine. You will find
that my hun-ting lod-ge do-esn't co-me equ-ip-ped with an in-tact ro-of, much
less a re-ti-nue of ser-vants. If we're to eat to-night, you're go-ing to
ha-ve to con-coct so-met-hing. I think I'd pro-bably even pre-fer po-ison to
Tavvy's cu-li-nary at-tempts. At le-ast yo-ur fo-od do-esn't tas-te as if it
wo-uld kill you, even if it's mo-re im-me-di-ately ef-fec-ti-ve."
She did lo-ok out the win-dow at the de-re-lict bu-il-ding as Ta-ver-ner
pul-led the hi-red hor-ses to a we-ary halt, but if she felt dis-may she
ma-na-ged to hi-de it. As she ma-na-ged to hi-de most things. "And how am I
sup-po-sed to co-me up with din-ner?" she as-ked sharply, and he knew with
sud-den re-li-ef that she'd ac-tu-al-ly do it.
"We ha-ve a few ba-sics with us. Su-gar, flo-ur, cof-fee, and brandy. Tavvy
can pro-bably fo-ra-ge so-met-hing fresh. I'm co-un-ting on you to do the
rest-you French are en-d-les-sly re-so-ur-ce-ful."
"Aren't we, tho-ugh?" she rep-li-ed, eye-ing his thro-at with a fon-d-ness
that he knew sig-ni-fi-ed dan-ge-ro-us in-ten-ti-ons.
He didn't wa-it for Tavvy, le-aping down from the car-ri-age with an
ex-ha-us-ted sigh. The air was damp and cold-he co-uld see the icy va-por of
his bre-ath in front of him, and he re-ali-zed ab-sently that he'd be-en
chil-led for the last few ho-urs. He hadn't even no-ti-ced.
He tur-ned to Ghis-la-ine. She sto-od in the do-or-way of the car-ri-age,
her hands still bo-und in front of her, and she lo-oked past him at the
tum-b-led-down bu-il-ding. "Just what I wo-uld ha-ve ex-pec-ted you to li-ve

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in," she sa-id sharply.
He'd ho-ped she'd stum-b-le when she clim-bed down, but she didn't. He knew
he co-uld put his hands on her an-y-way-the-re was no one to stop him ex-cept
him-self. But he wan-ted to wa-it. To sa-vor the an-ti-ci-pa-ti-on.
The lod-ge had be-lon-ged to his fat-her, the last rem-nant of a
squ-an-de-red in-he-ri-tan-ce. No-ne of the Blac-k-t-hor-nes had be-en
par-ti-cu-larly fond of Scot-land, with Nic-ho-las be-ing the so-le
ex-cep-ti-on, and for a mo-ment he felt re-al gri-ef at the sta-te of the
be-lo-ved old bu-il-ding. And then he ba-nis-hed it. Tavvy co-uld ma-ke it
ha-bi-tab-le-Tav-vy co-uld ma-ke any squ-alid ho-le ha-bi-tab-le.
The in-si-de of the lod-ge was even wor-se than the ex-te-ri-or had led him
to ex-pect. The ma-in hall was ro-of-less-fil-led with deb-ris from the
fo-rest sur-ro-un-ding them, and he co-uld see that a fi-re had be-en
par-ti-al-ly res-pon-sib-le for its swift de-cay. The back of the bu-il-ding
was in bet-ter sha-pe, with two ro-oms un-to-uc-hed by the fi-re, tho-ugh
the-re was no gu-aran-tee what con-di-ti-on the hu-ge fi-rep-la-ce wo-uld be
in. One ro-om had be-en used for sto-ra-ge, the ot-her was a bed-ro-om. Tavvy
and Ghis-la-ine sto-od on eit-her si-de of him, sur-ve-ying the di-sar-ray.
"Lo-oks li-ke we've got our work cut out for us," Nic-ho-las an-no-un-ced
briskly. "First things first. Tavvy, you find us so-met-hing to eat. Rab-bit,
qu-a-il, an-y-t-hing that'll fill our empty bel-li-es. The-re's a farm just
over the next ri-se-you might be ab-le to find so-me eggs, milk, even but-ter.
The-re's no tel-ling what Ghis-la-ine co-uld do with such won-ders."
"I'm go-ne," Tavvy sa-id with a nod. "Once I un-lo-ad the co-ach. You'll be
wan-ting yo-ur things in this ro-om?"
"It lo-oks the most pro-mi-sing," Nic-ho-las sa-id, glan-cing aro-und him at
the sag-ging bed fra-me, the lit-te-red fi-rep-la-ce.
"And Mam-zel-le's?"
Nic-ho-las ga-ve him a bland smi-le. "In he-re as well."
If his reply dis-tur-bed Ghis-la-ine she re-fu-sed to show it. "If you'd
un-tie my hands," she sa-id evenly, "I'll see what I can find of the
kit-c-hens."
"The kit-c-hens we-re on the west si-de of the ho-use, and they've ca-ved in
com-p-le-tely. You'll ha-ve to ma-ke do with this fi-rep-la-ce. As-su-ming
it's not stuf-fed with birds' nests or the li-ke."
"Very well," she sa-id, hol-ding out her wrists with ut-most pa-ti-en-ce.
Tavvy had al-re-ady qu-it the ro-om, le-aving the two of them the-re in the
murky light. "Now why do I think un-t-ying you might be a very dan-ge-ro-us
thing to do?" he mu-sed, ma-king no mo-ve to re-le-ase her.
"I can't be yo-ur ser-vant with my hands bo-und," she sa-id, ten-si-on
cre-eping in-to her vo-ice.
"But you can't stab me in the back eit-her," he po-in-ted out.
She grow-led, low in her thro-at. "Very well," she sa-id, drop-ping her arms
aga-inst her long skirts.
He ca-ught them, glad of the ex-cu-se to to-uch her, glad of the ex-cu-se to
fe-el her jerk ner-vo-usly at the fe-el of his hands on her, kno-wing it
wasn't as sim-p-le as fe-ar or hat-red. "I sup-po-se it wo-uld be a was-te of
ti-me to ask you for yo-ur word of ho-nor."
"It de-pends on what you ask."
"That you not try to mur-der me to-night? A

small re-qu-est, su-rely. Even a blo-od-t-hirsty cre-atu-re li-ke yo-ur-self
must long for din-ner and a de-cent night's sle-ep."
"Am I go-ing to be al-lo-wed a de-cent night's sle-ep?" she as-ked,
glan-cing po-in-tedly at the sin-g-le bed.
"Of co-ur-se," he sa-id, not he-si-ta-ting. She wo-uld sle-ep, all right. He
wo-uld ti-re her out so much she wo-uld sle-ep for days.
She didn't be-li-eve him, of co-ur-se, but she nod-ded. "Very well, then. I
gi-ve you my word."
He was still hol-ding her bo-und wrists. Her hands we-re li-ke ice aga-inst

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his, but they re-ma-ined mo-ti-on-less in his grip. "Why sho-uld I be-li-eve
you?" he sa-id, not wan-ting to re-le-ase her.
"Be-ca-use, un-li-ke you, I ha-ve a sen-se of ho-nor. If I gi-ve my word, I
do not bre-ak it."
He be-li-eved her. Most wo-men of his ac-qu-a-in-tan-ce had scant
ap-pre-ci-ati-on for ho-nor or trut-h-ful-ness, but he al-re-ady knew that
Ghis-la-ine had lit-tle in com-mon with the das-hing wi-dows and mus-lim
com-pany he spent his ti-me with. Even at fif-te-en, she'd be-en so-met-hing
qu-ite out of the or-di-nary. He sho-uld ha-ve gu-es-sed she'd turn out to be
as-to-nis-hing.
He un-fas-te-ned the rum-p-led nec-k-c-loth, tuc-king it in his poc-ket for
fur-t-her use. "See what you can find for us to eat," he sa-id, "and I'll
start a fi-re."
Her ex-p-res-si-on was frankly dis-be-li-eving. She tur-ned from him, and he
had to ad-mi-re her un-con-s-ci-o-us gra-ce, ham-pe-red as she was by his
co-usin El-len's over-si-zed clot-hes. She wo-uld pro-bably be a gre-at de-al
mo-re gra-ce-ful wit-ho-ut them, he tho-ught for a bri-ef, dre-amy mo-ment. He
had every in-ten-ti-on of fin-ding out. He'd put off that par-ti-cu-lar
ple-asu-re for too long as it was, and the wench at the last inn hadn't sa-ted
his ap-pe-ti-te, me-rely in-c-re-ased it.
In the me-an-ti-me, he ne-eded to con-cen-t-ra-te on get-ting so-me warmth
in the ro-om. If he was go-ing to di-vest Ghis-la-ine de Lorgny of her
clot-hes, and he plan-ned to do just that, he wan-ted it to be warm eno-ugh
for her to enj-oy it. And for him to enj-oy her.
The he-at of the fi-re ma-na-ged to pe-net-ra-te to the cen-ter of the
lar-ge ro-om, but not much be-yond that. It had as-to-nis-hed Ghis-la-ine that
a dis-so-lu-te was-t-rel li-ke Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne co-uld ac-com-p-lish
so-met-hing as pro-fo-undly prac-ti-cal as star-ting a fi-re, but
ac-com-p-lish it he had, in-c-lu-ding re-mo-ving the old bird's nest that had
clog-ged the chim-ney and sent bil-lows of smo-ke out in-to the ro-om. He'd
al-so drag-ged the bed clo-ser to the cen-ter of the ro-om, dis-tur-bing a
nest of fi-eld mi-ce from the aging mat-tress. The-re we-re no li-nens, but
he'd bro-ught in the lap ro-bes from the car-ri-age and spre-ad them ac-ross
the tic-king. He'd used all the lap ro-bes, she no-ti-ced, le-aving only one
bed equ-ip-ped. And she won-de-red aga-in who was go-ing to sle-ep whe-re.
Su-rely he didn't in-tend the three of them to bun-d-le to-get-her on that
sag-ging mat-tress. Tho-ugh it might be the war-mest, sa-fest al-ter-na-ti-ve.
Or per-haps not, she tho-ught be-la-tedly, re-mem-be-ring things she'd be-en
told by the mo-re ex-pe-ri-en-ced wo-men she'd met in Pa-ris.
It had ta-ken all her con-si-de-rab-le self-con-t-rol not to bolt when he'd
left her alo-ne in the ro-om, sur-ro-un-ded by the most dep-res-sing
as-sor-t-ment of fo-od-s-tuf-fs. But she'd gi-ven her word, and even if he
didn't ex-pect ho-nor from her, she ex-pec-ted it from her-self. Even mo-re so
now that she knew how de-vo-id he was of that par-ti-cu-lar tra-it.
Blac-k-t-hor-ne had even ma-na-ged to une-arth a bro-om from so-me part of
the ru-ined ho-use, but when he to-ok to stir-ring the dust up in-to
swir-ling
clo-uds that set-tled in the fo-od she was trying to as-sem-b-le, she to-ok
it from him with wi-fely hands and ba-nis-hed him to sit by the fi-re. The act
ga-ve her a be-la-ted fe-eling of des-pa-ir. How easy it was to gi-ve in, to
fall in-to ple-asant ways, for-get-ting her de-ter-mi-na-ti-on, for-get-ting
his vil-la-iny.
Ta-ver-ner was bet-ter than she wo-uld ha-ve tho-ught, re-tur-ning with
but-ter, eggs, thick cre-am, and a slab of sharp aged che-ese. Whi-le the two
men bu-si-ed them-sel-ves in the ot-her ro-om she ma-na-ged won-ders-a swe-et
cus-tard spi-ced with a few wit-he-red ap-ples from last fall's har-vest, a
he-arty pe-asant ome-let with po-ta-to-es and the last of an aging slab of
ba-con, and cof-fee, won-der-ful cof-fee. If it we-re up to her she wo-uld
ha-ve cof-fee with every me-al. It had be-co-me the one pu-re ple-asu-res left
to her, and she sa-vo-red the scent and fla-vor of it as it bre-wed over her

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ma-kes-hift co-oking fi-re.
The tab-le had only three wor-king legs-she'd had to prop it aga-inst a
wall. She fil-led the pla-tes evenly, fil-led the mugs with cof-fee, and sat
down, wa-iting.
She didn't ex-pect pra-ise, and she didn't re-ce-ive it. Nic-ho-las threw
him-self down in a cha-ir that was far too dec-re-pit to ma-ke such
be-ha-vi-or wi-se, re-ac-hed over, and to-ok her pla-te, ex-c-han-ging it with
his. "You ha-ve no obj-ec-ti-ons, I as-su-me?" he as-ked with fal-se
po-li-te-ness.
"No-ne at all," she mur-mu-red.
Ta-ver-ner wat-c-hed this byplay from his shifty eyes. "May-be you'd bet-ter
ta-ke mi-ne," he sa-id, re-ac-hing ac-ross the tab-le and ex-c-han-ging
pla-tes with his mas-ter. "She's a downy one, the Mam-zel-le is."
"If you li-ke, I'll eat ever-yo-ne's din-ner," Ghis-la-ine of-fe-red with
fal-se swe-et-ness. "I'm fa-mis-hed,and the fo-od is get-ting cold whi-le you
two ar-gue. Cho-ose yo-ur pla-te and let me eat in pe-ace."
Nic-ho-las le-aned back in the cha-ir. "Now the-re's a chal-len-ge if ever
I've he-ard one. Can't let the girl think we're co-wards, Tavvy. We've at
le-ast a one in three chan-ce of sur-vi-ving. Un-less she's de-ci-ded to put a
pe-ri-od to all three of us at on-ce, li-ke so-me dam-ned Sha-kes-pe-are
tra-gedy."
"Trust me," she sa-id, "I'm no lon-ger wil-ling to die in or-der for you to
me-et yo-ur just re-ward."
He and Tavvy had be-en dep-le-ting the bot-tle of brandy in the back ro-om,
and now he to-ok it and tip-ped a ge-ne-ro-us amo-unt in-to Ghis-la-ine's mug
of cof-fee. "No martyr, is that it? Just as well. Mar-t-y-r-dom is
un-be-li-evably ti-re-so-me."
"I gat-her you spe-ak from ex-pe-ri-en-ce," she sa-id.
"Only from ha-ving to suf-fer from ex-po-su-re to them. Sa-ints are very
te-di-o-us, my pet. I much pre-fer sin-ners."
"I ima-gi-ne you do." The ome-let was de-li-ci-o-us, even tho-ugh she
mo-ur-ned the ab-sen-ce of any herbs. It was just as well, tho-ugh.
Blac-k-t-hor-ne wo-uld ha-ve pro-bably de-ci-ded thyme was an ar-ca-ne form of
ar-se-nic, and con-sig-ned her lo-vely ome-let to the fi-re.
Once he de-ci-ded to risk it he ate well, mo-re than she'd se-en him eat in
the-ir days to-get-her. The-re was an odd light to his eyes, one that ma-de
her une-asy. As if he'd be-en bi-ding his ti-me sin-ce he'd ta-ken her away
from Ain-s-ley Hall, but now that ti-me of wa-iting was over. She didn't now
whet-her she was frig-h-te-ned or re-li-eved.
His next words pro-ved her right. "I'll want you to go in-to town, Tavvy,"
he sa-id ca-su-al-ly, le-aning back with his own mug of brandy. He'd
fi-nis-hed the cof-fee, fol-lo-wing it with stra-ight li-qu-or, and he lo-oked
calm, re-la-xed, and very dan-ge-ro-us. "The-re was an inn we pas-sed not
mo-re than fi-ve mi-les away whe-re you can bes-pe-ak a ro-om. See if they've
any word from Lon-don. I ima-gi-ne Jason Har-g-ro-ve is well on his way to
go-od he-alth, ot-her-wi-se we wo-uld ha-ve he-ard. See if you can find so-me
la-bo-rers to do so-met-hing abo-ut the ro-of. Per-haps you might see if
the-re are any yo-ung la-di-es clo-ser in si-ze to Mam-zel-le. She must be
ti-red of dres-sing in a gi-ant’s clot-hes."
"El-len's not a gi-ant," she sa-id in-dig-nantly, at-tack in this
unex-pec-ted qu-ar-ter sli-cing thro-ugh her de-fen-ses.
"So the-re is so-me-one or so-met-hing you ca-re abo-ut," Nic-ho-las sa-id.
"I tho-ught yo-ur emo-ti-ons had va-nis-hed. Don't think the-re's an-y-t-hing
El-len can do to sa-ve you. She might be equ-al-ly fond of you, but she can
hardly co-me ha-ring af-ter us all over the co-untry. You've se-en the last of
her, my pet. Ac-cept it."
"I ac-cep-ted it three days ago, when you drag-ged me away from Ain-s-ley
Hall."
"It was fo-ur days ago, ma mie. I'm glad to know the ti-me has flown for
you. I know I've be-en un-s-pe-akably cru-el, when all you wan-ted to do was

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mur-der me. I do tend to lo-se my tem-per in the fa-ce of such mi-nor
in-con-ve-ni-en-ces-it's one of my be-set-ting sins." He to-ok anot-her sip.
Tavvy had ri-sen, mo-ving to-ward the do-or.
"When do you want me back?" he as-ked, and for the first ti-me Ghis-la-ine
no-ti-ced that Tavvy sel-dom re-fer-red to his em-p-lo-yer by a tit-le or a
na-me.
Nic-ho-las didn't bot-her to glan-ce at him-his dre-amy, con-tem-p-la-ti-ve
smi-le was all for Ghis-la-ine's wary fi-gu-re. "La-te to-mor-row," he sa-id.
"Ta-ke yo-ur ti-me."
That sol-ved the qu-es-ti-on of sle-eping ar-ran-ge-ments, she tho-ught, not
mo-ving, not let-ting her fa-ce bet-ray her. She ro-se slowly, cle-aring the
tab-le, as she let her mind run ri-ot. The-re was no ne-ed for pa-nic, she
re-min-ded her-self. She had sur-vi-ved far wor-se than the man lo-un-ging
neg-li-gently at the tab-le, wat-c-hing her. She had sur-vi-ved, stron-ger and
mo-re de-ter-mi-ned than ever. She wo-uld sur-vi-ve Nic-ho-las
Blac-k-t-hor-ne.
The we-eks af-ter she and Char-les-Lo-u-is had ar-ri-ved in Pa-ris had be-en
a hor-ri-fic blur. The days they spent hi-ding-be-ca-use even ro-ugh clot-hes
and dirt co-uldn't dis-gu-ise the-ir pat-ri-ci-an ori-gins from a
blo-od-t-hirsty mob. The nights they spent fo-ra-ging for fo-od and fig-h-ting
off the cre-atu-res that ru-led the night. Cre-atu-res that at ti-mes had
mo-re in-te-rest in her be-a-uti-ful, in-no-cent yo-ung brot-her than in her.
She knew the day it had hap-pe-ned, far too well. Twen-ty-th-ree ther-mi-dor
on the new French ca-len-dar. They'd be-en two days wit-ho-ut eating, and
Char-les-Lo-u-is had be-en crying in-ces-santly, the ri-vu-lets of te-ars
was-hing the filth from his fa-ce. She'd left him in the al-ley-way be-hind
the wi-ne shop, a sa-fe eno-ugh pla-ce, whi-le she'd go-ne to find a scrap of
fo-od. She'd fo-und far mo-re than she'd bar-ga-ined for.
Je-an-Luc Mal-vi-ver. She co-uld still see him, his fer-ret-li-ke fa-ce with
its long, ugly bla-de of a no-se, his thin lips and dark, sta-ined te-eth.
He'd be-en yo-ung that night, she re-ali-zed, tho-ugh to her se-ven-te-en
ye-ars he'd se-emed very grown-up. He pro-bably wasn't much mo-re than thirty,
but his fa-ce was age-less. Evil, tho-ugh she hadn't known it then.
He'd fo-und her on her kne-es next to a man who'd just left the wi-ne shop.
The man had be-en too drunk to stag-ger mo-re than a few pa-ces be-fo-re he'd
col-lap-sed on the pa-ve-ment, pas-sed out.
She'd be-en wat-c-hing him from her cor-ner of the sha-dows, and she'd
mo-ved qu-ickly, kne-eling to re-li-eve the cor-pu-lent bo-ur-ge-o-isie of his
pur-se, when a cru-el hand had clam-ped down on her sho-ul-der and ha-uled her
up-right.
He swo-re when the light ca-ught her fa-ce. "The-re are bet-ter ways to
ma-ke a li-ving, my be-a-uty," he sa-id, pus-hing her ha-ir from her fa-ce
with a filthy hand. She was equ-al-ly filthy from her we-eks of li-ving on the
stre-et, but she re-co-iled an-y-way.
"What's yo-ur na-me, he-in?" he de-man-ded. "You mustn't ha-ve be-en in town
long, to still be ma-king ends me-et. I can ta-ke you so-mep-la-ce whe-re
you'll ha-ve pretty clot-hes, a bath if you so de-si-re, and go-od fo-od. Lots
and lots of fo-od."
She sta-red at him, mu-te, de-fi-ant. She was still in-no-cent eno-ugh,
des-pi-te the-ir we-eks in Pa-ris, not to un-der-s-tand what he was tal-king
abo-ut, but she knew if she spo-ke he'd re-cog-ni-ze the dif-fe-ren-ce in
the-ir vo-ices, in the-ir ac-cents. And she'd be-en an un-wil-ling wit-ness to
too much vi-olen-ce aga-inst an-yo-ne with pre-ten-si-ons to gen-ti-lity.
She tri-ed to pull away from him, but it was use-less. She con-si-de-red
cal-ling out for help, but she knew with crus-hing cer-ta-inty that she wo-uld
be tra-ding one de-vil for the next. She had no cho-ice but to stum-b-le
af-ter him as he drag-ged her along the stre-ets, her puny strug-gles ma-king
no in-ro-ad on his de-ter-mi-na-ti-on.
"You'll li-ke Ma-da-me Cla-ude's," Mal-vi-ver had sa-id. "All you ha-ve to
do is be ag-re-e-ab-le, and you'll ha-ve a bet-ter li-fe than most of yo-ur

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sort. Be glad you we-re lucky eno-ugh to be born with a pretty fa-ce. It's
bet-ter than the stre-ets, my girl."
The ho-use had be-en too warm, fil-led with girls with yo-ung fa-ces and old
eyes, cle-an hands and so-iled bo-di-es. When she'd fo-ught they'd hurt her;
when she'd re-fu-sed to co-ope-ra-te they'd for-ced her. Ma-da-me Cla-ude had
sur-ve-yed her, sa-tis-fac-ti-on on her grim fa-ce as she of-fe-red Mal-vi-ver
a han-d-ful of co-ins. Her sa-tis-fac-ti-on had in-c-re-ased when the ro-ugh
bru-te of a wo-man who'd bat-hed Ghis-la-ine and clot-hed her and po-ked her
un-mer-ci-ful-ly an-no-un-ced that she was the last li-ving vir-gin in the
de-ca-dent city of Pa-ris.
"She'll be worth a for-tu-ne," Ma-da-me Cla-ude had chor-t-led gle-eful-ly.
"I might find it in my he-art to gi-ve Mal-vi-ver an ex-t-ra sou for the
tre-asu-re he bro-ught me."
That was the first ti-me she'd he-ard his na-me, the man who'd sold her
in-to who-re-dom for a han-d-ful of co-ins. It had ta-ken ti-me, en-d-less
ti-me, but she'd kil-led him for what he'd do-ne to her. Just as she wo-uld
kill Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne.
Tavvy had bro-ught her wa-ter be-fo-re he to-ok him-self off. Whi-le she had
no de-si-re to act as Blac-k-t-hor-ne's scul-lery ma-id, was-hing the dis-hes
at le-ast de-la-yed the rec-ko-ning she knew was co-ming. And with his dark,
fat-hom-less eyes wat-c-hing her from be-yond the fi-re, Ghis-la-ine sud-denly
ex-pe-ri-en-ced the first stra-ins of co-war-di-ce she'd felt in many, many
ye-ars.
She scrub-bed. As a Fren-c-h-wo-man, she knew how to scrub, and the
three-leg-ged tab-le was spot-less. Nic-ho-las simply sat the-re, his legs
stret-c-hed out in front of him, his nec-k-c-loth long sin-ce dis-car-ded, and
wat-c-hed her as she bus-t-led aro-und the ro-om.
"Are you re-ady to alight, ma mie?" he in-qu-ired la-zily, when she was
trying to de-ci-de whet-her she co-uld get away with was-hing the flo-or. "Or
are you still plan-ning to put off the ine-vi-tab-le?"
She sto-od very still, wat-c-hing him. She wasn't go-ing to fight him-he'd
al-re-ady pro-ven it wo-uld do no go-od. The-re was no kni-fe wit-hin re-ach-
Ta-ver-ner had se-en to that-and the-re was not-hing el-se she co-uld do,
not-hing short of trying to sho-ve him in-to the fi-re. It was ine-vi-tab-le.
"I am hardly go-ing to as-sist at my own ra-pe," she sa-id flatly. "If you
want me, you'll ha-ve to ma-ke me."
He smi-led then, and his de-ca-dent be-a-uty was re-mar-kab-le in the
flic-ke-ring fi-re-light. She won-de-red sto-nily how she co-uld re-sist him.
And re-ali-zed with sud-den daw-ning hor-ror that she was not su-re if she
co-uld.
"I'm very go-od at ma-king pe-op-le do what I want," he sa-id softly,
ri-sing from his se-at. The fit-ful light cast a lar-ge sha-dow be-hind him,
so that he lo-oked even tal-ler than his for-mi-dab-le he-ight, and qu-ite
dan-ge-ro-us. It wasn't an il-lu-si-on, Ghis-la-ine told her-self. He was the
gre-atest dan-ger she had ever known. And for re-asons she didn't want to
con-tem-p-la-te.
He mo-ved slowly ac-ross the ro-om, gra-ce-ful, let-hal. She re-ma-ined
still, awa-iting him, tel-ling her-self to hold still when he to-uc-hed her,
tel-ling her-self to clo-se her eyes and ret-re-at in-si-de her-self and it
wo-uld so-on be over. Tel-ling her-self that fig-h-ting him wo-uld only ma-ke
it wor-se.
But when he re-ac-hed out and to-uc-hed her sho-ul-der, so-met-hing in-si-de
her snap-ped, and she slap-ped him ac-ross his ele-gant, be-a-uti-ful fa-ce,
as hard as she co-uld.

Chapter 11

Nic-ho-las's he-ad whip-ped back from the for-ce of her blow, but his
fin-gers ne-it-her tig-h-te-ned nor re-le-ased her sho-ul-der. "That was

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un-wi-se of you, Ghis-la-ine," he mur-mu-red, but the-re was no dis-gu-ising
the tight thre-ad of an-ger be-ne-ath his in-do-lent to-ne. "Don't you know
what they say abo-ut me?"
"Get yo-ur hands off me." She tri-ed to squ-irm away, and this ti-me his
hands did tig-h-ten, pa-in-ful-ly.
"They say I'm half-mad. A bad 'un, thro-ugh and thro-ugh, with no sen-se of
de-cency or ho-nor. They say to cross me is to put one's li-fe at risk. Most
pe-op-le ste-er cle-ar of me and my hot tem-per." His vo-ice was as thin and
moc-king as his smi-le.
"Are you?"
"Am I what?"
"Half-mad."
He sta-red at her for a long, me-di-ta-ti-ve mo-ment, and the-re was no
dis-cer-ning the ex-p-res-si-on be-hind his dark, fat-hom-less eyes. "Su-rely
I must be," he sa-id. "To still want you." And he pul-led her up aga-inst him,
his mo-uth co-ming down on hers, hard.
She strug-gled, but it was use-less. He was far too big, too strong, his
arms hol-ding her tight aga-inst his aro-used body as his mo-uth plun-de-red
hers. She tri-ed to push, but her hands we-re trap-ped bet-we-en the-ir
bo-di-es. She tri-ed to jerk her mo-uth away, but whi-le one of his strong
arms held her im-mo-bi-le, his ot-her hand was free to hold her chin still for
his ma-ra-uding mo-uth. He tas-ted of the brandy he'd drunk with aban-don; he
tas-ted of the cof-fee she'd ma-de him. He tas-ted of an-ger and
de-ter-mi-na-ti-on and sex. She only wis-hed he tas-ted of po-ison.
She stop-ped her strug-gles, for a bri-ef, de-cep-ti-ve mo-ment. And
bro-ught her knee up, hard, bet-we-en his legs.
He was too fast for her. He mo-ved, just in ti-me, spin-ning her aro-und and
fal-ling on-to the bed with her be-ne-ath him, his mo-uth ne-ver le-aving
hers, and she wan-ted to scre-am.
It wo-uld do no go-od. The-re wo-uld be no one to he-ar her. She'd
sur-vi-ved ra-pe be-fo-re; she co-uld do so aga-in. She clo-sed her eyes,
clo-sed away the sight of him, and wit-h-d-rew, cur-ling up in that small,
dark pla-ce in-si-de, away from him, away from ever-yo-ne.
She was ba-rely awa-re of the mo-ment when his mo-uth left hers. She lay
very still, wa-iting for him to rip the dress off her. Per-haps he in-ten-ded
to be mo-re fru-gal, simply tos-sing her skirts over her he-ad and pul-ling
them back down when he was fi-nis-hed. It didn't mat-ter. She co-uldn't fe-el
a thing.
His hands slid ac-ross her che-eks, his fin-gers en-t-wi-ning in her long,
tan-g-led ha-ir, and she felt the fall of la-ce aga-inst her bru-ised mo-uth.
She wa-ited, wa-ited for the vi-olen-ce that wo-uld help her des-cent in-to
for-get-ful-ness, but not-hing ca-me. Not-hing but si-len-ce, bro-ken by the
crac-k-le of the fi-re, the harsh, gra-du-al-ly slo-wing so-und of his
bre-at-hing.
Fi-nal-ly, un-wil-lingly, when the si-len-ce had grown so that it fil-led
the ro-om, she ope-ned her eyes. He was strad-dling her body, lo-oking down at
her, an odd ex-p-res-si-on on his fa-ce. "You're back," he sa-id.
She bra-ced her-self, wa-iting for the as-sa-ult to be-gin on-ce mo-re. But
he ma-de no mo-ve, his hands still cup-ping her fa-ce, his eyes in-tent.
"Back?" she ma-na-ged to ec-ho, her vo-ice a ro-ugh whis-per. It so-un-ded as
if she'd be-en scre-aming for ho-urs. Per-haps she had.
"From that lit-tle world whe-re you go," he sa-id, his thumbs brus-hing,
ca-res-sing, her soft mo-uth.
Long ago, one of the ol-der wo-men at the inn whe-re she used to co-ok
tri-ed to ex-p-la-in to her the joys of mar-ri-ed sex. It wasn't the act, so
much, the old wo-man had sa-id. A messy, over-ra-ted thing, as far as she was
con-cer-ned. It was the hol-ding, be-fo-re and af-ter, that mat-te-red. Sex
was simply the tra-de-off wi-ves had to ma-ke.
Ghis-la-ine had scof-fed at the no-ti-on. No amo-unt of ten-der-ness
be-fo-re or af-ter co-uld ma-ke the act be-arab-le. To be su-re, a yo-un-ger

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mat-ron, one with a bro-od of six ho-pe-ful chil-d-ren, had dif-fe-red with
old Mag, in-for-ming Ghis-la-ine that with the right man, sex wasn't the
pri-ce she had to pay; it was the re-ward.
That no-ti-on struck her as even mo-re ab-surd. Still, lying be-ne-ath
Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne, his hands in her ha-ir, she co-uld be-gin to
un-der-s-tand the swe-et-ness of a soft to-uch. And sympat-hi-ze with tho-se
wo-men who we-re wil-ling to pay the pri-ce.
It to-ok all her for-mi-dab-le will to re-sist the se-duc-ti-on of his warm
hands on her fa-ce, but she ma-na-ged. "If you're go-ing to do it," she sa-id
in a hard lit-tle vo-ice, "then I wish you'd get on with it. I'd li-ke so-me
sle-ep."
If she ex-pec-ted to go-ad him she fa-iled. In-s-te-ad, a moc-king smi-le
twis-ted his mo-uth. "You know, my pet, it's dam-ned hard to ra-pe a wo-man
who do-esn't fight. And it's just as dif-fi-cult to ma-ke lo-ve to a wo-man
who simply li-es the-re in a tran-ce."
"My apo-lo-gi-es," she snap-ped.
"I don't sup-po-se the-re's any chan-ce I co-uld con-vin-ce you to show a
lit-tle mo-re en-t-hu-si-asm for this pro-j-ect? No? Then may-be we sho-uld
both con-cen-t-ra-te on get-ting so-me sle-ep."
To her as-to-nis-h-ment he re-le-ased her, clim-bing off her body and
sin-king down on the pal-let be-si-de her. The mo-ment he mo-ved away she
tri-ed to bolt off the bed, but his hand shot out and ca-ught her wrist,
ha-uling her back aga-inst him, her skirts co-ve-ring his long legs. "That
do-esn't me-an I'm abo-ut to let you go," he sa-id, le-ve-ring him-self up on
his el-bow. "I ne-ed my sle-ep as much as you do, and I'm frankly mo-re
con-cer-ned with my well-be-ing than with yo-urs. The only way I ex-pect to be
ab-le to sle-ep well is if you're ta-ken ca-re of. I'd ho-ped to se-du-ce you
in-to a ni-ce lit-tle pud-dle of ac-qu-i-es-cen-ce, but sin-ce that se-ems
un-worth the ef-fort, we're simply go-ing to ha-ve to re-sort to bon-da-ge."
"Bon-da-ge?" she sa-id, her eyes wi-de-ning in the fit-ful light.
"Bon-da-ge," he sa-id, pus-hing him-self off the bed.
She tri-ed to bolt on-ce mo-re, but he simply ca-ught her aro-und the wa-ist
and threw her back down on the bed, no-ne too gently. "I wo-uldn't do that
aga-in if I we-re you," he sa-id calmly. "Next ti-me I ha-ve to throw you down
on the bed, I might not mind yo-ur pas-si-vity. Stay put, and co-unt yo-ur
bles-sings."
"Mer-ci," she sa-id, her vo-ice rich with sar-casm.
"You ne-ver let up, do you?" he sa-id, sit-ting down be-si-de her, ta-king
her wrists in his. He'd be-co-me adept with his nec-k-c-loth, only the jerky
def-t-ness of his hands bet-ra-ying his ten-si-on as he bo-und her hands
be-hind her back. "That's one of the things that I ad-mi-re abo-ut you,
Ghis-la-ine." Le-aning for-ward, he flip-ped up her skirts, ex-po-sing her
legs, and she jum-ped.
"You pro-mi-sed…" she be-gan, as she tri-ed to squ-irm away from him.
"I pro-mi-sed not-hing." He so-un-ded com-p-le-tely im-per-so-nal. "I'll
ta-ke you when and whe-re I want to. And how. For the mo-ment, I'm simply
go-ing to tie yo-ur an-k-les. I don't want to ha-ve to worry abo-ut you
cre-eping aro-und lo-oking for a we-apon whi-le I ma-na-ge to catch up on my
sle-ep." He was as go-od as his word, tying her an-k-les and pul-ling her
skirts back down aro-und her. He sta-red at her, then sig-hed. "I ha-ve the
fe-eling, my pet, that it might be a very long night." He stret-c-hed out
be-si-de her, and she did her best to mo-ve away from him. The bed, ho-we-ver,
was con-ca-ve, and she simply rol-led back, up aga-inst him.
He sta-red down at her with un-holy amu-se-ment. "The qu-es-ti-on that
re-ma-ins, ma mie, is what do we do with that mo-uth of yo-urs."
She gla-red at him. "Apart from gag-ging me, the-re's not a dam-ned thing
you can do."
"But that's whe-re you're wrong." He slid down be-si-de her, cup-ped her
fa-ce with his long fin-gers, and brus-hed his mo-uth aga-inst hers, very
gently.

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"Don't," she sa-id, trying to pull her he-ad away.
"Grant me this much," he sa-id, and it wasn't a re-qu-est. "Sin-ce I'm
be-ing such a go-od boy to-night." He kis-sed her aga-in, just as gently, his
lips clin-ging to hers for a long, bre-at-h-less mi-nu-te.
She co-uldn't fight him. Not with her limbs ti-ed, not with his hands
hol-ding her fa-ce still, not with his mo-uth so im-pos-sibly soft and
gen-t-le that it bro-ught te-ars to her he-art.
He nud-ged her lips apart with his own, using his ton-gue this ti-me, not as
in-va-der but to stro-ke her, se-du-ce her, tas-ting her lips, the swe-et
in-si-de of her mo-uth and ton-gue, as he wrap-ped his long, le-an body
aro-und hers.
She shut her eyes, won-de-ring if she co-uld es-ca-pe from this, the most
de-vas-ta-ting as-sa-ult of all. She co-uld fe-el him thro-ugh the thic-k-ness
of her skirts, and she knew he was tho-ro-ughly aro-used, even tho-ugh he
se-emed to ha-ve de-ci-ded aga-inst ra-ping her. Per-haps he tho-ught he
co-uld se-du-ce her. She wo-uld simply ha-ve to show him it was a lost
ca-use.
But he was de-man-ding not-hing from her, con-tent to hold her in his arms
and kiss her, lin-ge-ringly, every inch of her trem-b-ling mo-uth, be-fo-re
tra-ve-ling up her fa-ce, to press his lips aga-inst her flut-te-ring
eye-lids, then mo-ving down to the un-be-arably sen-si-ti-ve lo-be of her ear.
So-met-hing was bur-ning in-si-de her, so-met-hing she told her-self was
dis-gust.
She clo-sed her eyes, trying to shut him out, trying to calm the po-un-ding
of her he-art, trying to still the ra-cing of her pul-ses, but when his mo-uth
fi-nal-ly to-uc-hed hers aga-in, star-ting at one cor-ner and nib-bling on her
lo-wer Up, she co-uldn't ke-ep from mo-ving her own lips, to catch his, to
ke-ep him the-re, to kiss him, and his qu-i-et lit-tle so-und of ple-asu-re
bro-ught an an-s-we-ring rush to her own he-art un-til she sud-denly
re-ali-zed what she was do-ing…
A cry of an-gu-ish was torn from her as she tri-ed to pull away from him.
But for all the gen-t-le-ness of his mo-uth, his hands we-re still
ine-xo-rab-le, hol-ding her still for his mer-ci-less ga-ze. "What's the
mat-ter, Ghis-la-ine?" he mur-mu-red. "Afra-id you might li-ke it?"
'The-re was a tra-ce of blo-od on his mo-uth, blo-od that must ha-ve co-me
from her own mo-uth, bru-ised from his ear-li-er harsh kiss. She sta-red up at
him, shoc-ked to re-ali-ze she wan-ted to kiss the blo-od from his thin,
moc-king mo-uth. She wan-ted to kiss him, aga-in and aga-in and aga-in. It was
li-ke a drug, one that wi-ped away com-mon sen-se and sa-fety, ho-nor and
re-ven-ge, the past and the fu-tu-re. All that mat-te-red was the damp
swe-et-ness of his mo-uth aga-inst hers.
"If you kiss me aga-in, I will kill you," she sa-id fi-er-cely.
He sho-ok his he-ad. "Tell me so-met-hing new, my an-gel. You're al-re-ady
plan-ning to gut-stick me the first chan-ce you get. I might as well enj-oy
myself in the me-an-ti-me."
"By ra-ping a bo-und wo-man?"
"No, lo-ve. By se-du-cing a wo-man who is not qu-ite cer-ta-in whet-her she
ha-tes me mo-re than an-yo-ne she's ever known, or is still torn by an
ado-les-cent pas-si-on she ne-ver had a chan-ce to out-g-row." Then, even as
the words struck a de-ath knell in her he-art, he re-le-ased her, kis-sing her
on-ce mo-re, a bri-ef, hard kiss on her bru-ised mo-uth, be-fo-re sin-king
back be-si-de her.
She co-uld fe-el his body pres-sing along hers, the he-at and har-d-ness of
him. On-ce mo-re she tri-ed to ed-ge away. On-ce mo-re she slid back.
"I wo-uldn't do that if I we-re you." He so-un-ded al-most me-di-ta-ti-ve in
the dar-k-ness. "You're ke-eping yo-ur chas-tity by only a thre-ad. If you
ke-ep bum-ping aga-inst me I might reg-ret my first act of no-bi-lity in at
le-ast twenty ye-ars."
Ghis-la-ine held still. The tho-ught of her chas-tity was a joke, a so-ur
one, one she was tem-p-ted to sha-re. Ex-cept that it wo-uld gi-ve him

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li-cen-se to to-uch her aga-in, and she didn't think she co-uld be-ar it. Her
he-art was inu-red to cru-elty, to har-s-h-ness and bru-ta-lity, even to
ra-pe. It was pat-he-ti-cal-ly vul-ne-rab-le to gen-t-le-ness.
Nic-ho-las had al-re-ady as-cer-ta-ined that fact. He was an in-tel-li-gent
man-he knew all he ne-eded to do was be gen-t-le with her and she'd ha-ve no
de-fen-ses at all. She co-uldn't help but won-der why he had stop-ped,
kno-wing the su-re way to ha-ve her.
Per-haps, bles-sed be, he didn't re-al-ly want her all that much. This ga-me
of cat and mo-use might ha-ve not-hing to do with re-al de-si-re, and
ever-y-t-hing to do with an-ger and re-ven-ge.
And then she re-mem-be-red the un-mis-ta-kab-le fe-el of his body pres-sed
aga-inst hers, and knew wit-ho-ut do-ubt that the de-si-re was very re-al. On
his part, at le-ast.
She wan-ted to cry. No, she didn't, she re-min-ded her-self. It was a
bles-sing she co-uldn't. If she we-re to cry, he wo-uld know it. If she we-re
to cry, he wo-uld com-fort her. And she knew with chil-ling cer-ta-inty just
what form that com-fort wo-uld ta-ke.
She wo-uldn't mo-ve, wo-uldn't bre-at-he, wo-uldn't let her he-art po-und.
Wo-uldn't bet-ray her con-fu-si-on, her agi-ta-ti-on, any mo-re than she had
to. Not when he gu-es-sed the ca-use al-re-ady.
He wasn't the be-a-uti-ful yo-ung man she'd fal-len in lo-ve with when she
was yo-ung and in-no-cent. He wasn't the han-d-so-me En-g-lish boy with the
fa-ce of an an-gel, who smi-led at her with a swe-et-ness just for her, who
to-ok her small hand in his lar-ge, strong one, who lo-oked at her with such
in-ten-sity that it had frig-h-te-ned her as much as it cal-led to her. That
boy had ne-ver exis-ted.
He was the mon-s-ter who moc-ked and re-pu-di-ated her to her fat-her, who
left her fa-mily to fa-ce di-sas-ter and tra-gedy. He was a ga-mes-ter, a
drun-kard, a wo-ma-ni-zer, and a mur-de-rer. He was res-pon-sib-le for all
that had go-ne wrong in her li-fe, and if she simply kil-led him, then
ever-y-t-hing wo-uld be fi-xed.
Fo-olish, fo-olish con-ce-it on her part. Kil-ling Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-ho-me
wo-uldn't bring her pa-rents back from the gu-il-lo-ti-ne, or re-turn her
sa-fe, bu-co-lic li-fe. It wo-uldn't bring Char-les-Lo-u-is back from
wha-te-ver hor-rif-ying fa-te had be-fal-len him. It wo-uldn't re-turn to her
all the things she had lost. And it wo-uldn't fill the black ho-le in her
he-art that she had wan-ted to fill with re-ven-ge.
She wo-uld let it go. Let him go. She sho-uld ha-ve known her thirst for
jus-ti-ce wo-uld only re-bo-und on her own nar-row sho-ul-ders. Even at his
worst, Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-ho-me was no match for the pu-re evil of Je-an-Luc
Mal-vi-ver. And the sight of Mal-vi-ver af-ter she'd kil-led him, was a
vi-si-on that wo-uld ha-unt her till her own gra-ve. And per-haps be-yond.
She he-ard a soft, gut-tu-ral no-ise, one she didn't re-cog-ni-ze. Un-til
she re-ali-zed with a shock that the enemy be-si-de her was as-le-ep, her
tor-ment and tro-ub-les ca-su-al-ly dis-mis-sed. She wan-ted to kick him. She
wan-ted to roll from the bed and ma-ke her es-ca-pe, even if her bo-und fe-et
for-ced her to hop all the way to the bor-der.
She told her-self she da-red not risk it. He'd al-re-ady war-ned her of the
con-se-qu-en-ces if she wo-ke him, and tho-se we-re con-se-qu-en-ces she da-re
not pay. She wo-uld ha-ve to lie the-re, pres-sed up aga-inst the fi-ery
warmth of his body, and en-du-re.
She clo-sed her eyes. Only for a mo-ment, she told her-self. The-re was no
pil-low on the ma-kes-hift bed. No pla-ce to rest her we-ary he-ad but on his
sho-ul-der.
In his sle-ep he mo-ved, tuc-king her he-ad aga-inst him, smo-ot-hing her
ha-ir away from her fa-ce as she snug-gled up aga-inst him. He wo-uld ne-ver
re-mem-ber, she told her-self, drif-ting off. He must be so used to sle-eping
with anon-y-mo-us fe-ma-les that his ges-tu-res we-re in-s-tin-c-ti-ve.
Still, it se-emed to her sle-ep-fog-ged mind that a smi-le might ha-ve
cur-ved his mo-uth as he stro-ked her. And for the first ti-me, that smi-le

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was com-p-le-tely de-vo-id of moc-kery.
Things we-re go-ing sur-p-ri-singly well, the Ho-no-rab-le Sir An-tony
Wil-ton-Gre-ening de-ci-ded. In two days on the ro-ad they'd ma-de
re-mar-kab-le prog-ress, so that now they we-re only a day or so be-hind Nicky
Blac-k-t-hor-ne and his sup-po-sed hos-ta-ge.
They'd ma-na-ged to find de-cent inns along the way, and res-pec-tab-le
hor-sef-lesh when they'd be-en for-ced to re-li-eve the hor-ses. Miss
Bin-ner-s-ton pro-ved her-self es-ti-mab-le as al-ways by sle-eping li-ke a
cat, at le-ast twenty ho-urs a day. His own va-let, Hig-gins, was his usu-al
unob-t-ru-si-ve self, and it hadn't ta-ken long to put El-len at her ease. By
the end of the first day she was chat-te-ring to him with
un-sel-f-con-s-ci-o-us charm, rat-her as she had when she was an aw-k-ward
ado-les-cent, be-fo-re the pangs of ill-ad-vi-sed puppy lo-ve had in-t-ru-ded
on the-ir com-for-tab-le re-la-ti-on-s-hip.
He won-de-red if he sho-uld ha-ve han-d-led that dif-fe-rently. She had
be-en all of se-ven-te-en when she sud-denly star-ted blus-hing and
stam-me-ring and sta-ring at him qu-ite fi-xedly when she tho-ught he
wo-uldn't no-ti-ce. She'd re-al-ly be-en qu-ite lus-ci-o-us back then, with
her soft cur-ves and her shy smi-le, and he'd be-en so-rely tem-p-ted to
sam-p-le that yo-ut-h-ful ad-mi-ra-ti-on and see whet-her he might de-ve-lop a
tas-te for it.
But she'd be-en his best fri-end's baby sis-ter, not the sort one co-uld
trif-le with. Any mo-ve on his part wo-uld ha-ve be-en ta-ken very
se-ri-o-usly in-de-ed, and he simply hadn't be-en re-ady to set-tle down.
The-re we-re too many wo-men in Lon-don, too many hor-ses, too many ga-mes of
chan-ce.
He cer-ta-inly wo-uld ha-ve had a much mo-re com-for-tab-le li-fe if he had
sha-ken off his cus-to-mary in-do-len-ce and gi-ven El-len Fit-z-wa-ter what
she'd be-en un-con-s-ci-o-usly as-king for. They'd ha-ve be-en mar-ri-ed
the-se last eight ye-ars, do-ub-t-less with at le-ast a co-up-le of lit-tle
ones to en-li-ven the mo-re stif-ling as-pects of mar-ri-ed li-fe. They
wo-uldn't be ha-ring off to Scot-land in the mid-dle of the wet-test spring
pe-op-le co-uld re-mem-ber, en-cum-be-red by her com-pa-ni-on and his va-let,
so that every night he re-ti-red to a so-li-tary bed and tho-ught of her;
alo-ne, de-pen-dent on him, just a few do-ors away.
He won-de-red whet-her Car-mic-ha-el wo-uld ha-ve got-ten his mis-si-ve yet,
and what he plan-ned to do abo-ut it. Tony had be-en ar-ro-gant eno-ugh abo-ut
the mat-ter, simply sta-ting that he plan-ned to marry Car-mic-ha-el's
sis-ter, and it was up to him to in-sert the no-ti-ce in the Ti-mes whe-ne-ver
he saw fit. With Tony's cur-rent string of ill luck, Car-mic-ha-el was
pro-bably cha-sing af-ter them with as much di-li-gen-ce as they we-re
cha-sing af-ter Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne.
Lord, what a tan-g-le! As they we-re get-ting clo-ser and clo-ser to
ac-hi-eving the-ir go-al, he was slip-ping fur-t-her and fur-t-her back.
El-len was tre-ating him with the che-er-ful, sis-terly ca-ma-ra-de-rie she'd
felt be-fo-re she'd de-ve-lo-ped that crush on him. And he fo-und him-self
lon-ging for just a tra-ce of that ro-man-tic awa-re-ness. He was be-gin-ning
to ha-ve the de-ci-dedly un-com-for-tab-le sus-pi-ci-on that she saw him in
the light of an aging un-c-le.
He was only ten ye-ars ol-der than she was, for he-aven's sa-ke! Hardly in
his do-ta-ge. If they we-re in Lon-don she might see him dif-fe-ren-t-ly-he
was con-si-de-red a vastly eli-gib-le par-ti, with his unen-cum-be-red,
re-aso-nably com-for-tab-le for-tu-ne; his lack of bad ha-bits, and his not
in-con-si-de-rab-le physi-cal charms. What he co-uldn't un-der-s-tand was how
a girl co-uld be so be-sot-ted one ye-ar and so im-mu-ne the next?
He sta-red at the mug of mul-led wi-ne in front of him. She was al-re-ady
sa-fely tuc-ked up in bed, her dra-gon of a com-pa-ni-on sle-eping with her.
Lucky dra-gon. He won-de-red what El-len wo-re to sle-ep at night. She had a
fon-d-ness for over-b-right co-lors- chan-ces we-re she es-c-he-wed the
nor-mal vir-gi-nal whi-te lawn in her night ra-il and went in for pinks and

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pe-ac-hes.
He shif-ted une-asily in his se-at at the tho-ught of El-len's own pink and
pe-ach body dra-ped in her nig-h-t-c-lot-hes. Lord, if an-yo-ne was be-co-ming
be-sot-ted, he was. He had be-en too long wit-ho-ut a wo-man. Sin-ce first
co-ming to town he'd ava-iled him-self of all the gen-te-el forms of
gen-t-le-manly sport, and he'd sel-dom be-en long wit-ho-ut a lad-y-bird
li-ving un-der his pro-tec-ti-on. It had all be-en very po-li-te, mu-tu-al-ly
enj-oyab-le, and he'd be-en ge-ne-ro-us when the re-la-ti-on-s-hips had
en-ded.
He'd ne-ver be-en at the mercy of his ur-ges be-fo-re. But so-me-how, be-ing
co-oped up in that car-ri-age with El-len was ha-ving the most alar-ming
ef-fect on him. He even dre-amed abo-ut her, for he-aven's sa-ke. He co-uldn't
re-mem-ber when he'd last dre-amed abo-ut a wo-man.
If they con-ti-nu-ed to ma-ke the prog-ress they had in trac-king down
Blac-k-t-hor-ne, this lit-tle in-ter-lu-de wo-uld co-me to an end a bit
so-oner than he wo-uld want it to. In-s-te-ad of brin-ging him clo-ser to
El-len, it se-emed to be set-tling them in-to an un-com-for-tably
com-for-tab-le re-la-ti-on-s-hip. He'd co-me to co-unt on her ado-ra-ti-on.
The wit-h-d-ra-wal of it, rep-la-ced by fri-en-d-li-ness com-p-le-tely
de-vo-id of ro-man-tic awa-re-ness, was mo-re dis-tur-bing than he ever wo-uld
ha-ve gu-es-sed.
He was go-ing to ha-ve to exert him-self, the-re was no do-ubt abo-ut that.
He was con-ce-ited eno-ugh to think it wo-uldn't re-qu-ire that much ef-fort,
but he'd al-re-ady be-en dis-co-ve-ring his ear-li-er con-ce-it had be-en
sadly mis-p-la-ced. If he didn't watch it, so-me-one wo-uld snatch her away
from him be-fo-re he had ti-me to gi-ve her an al-ter-na-ti-ve. The ti-me had
co-me for just a tra-ce of rut-h-les-sness. The cha-pe-rons wo-uld ha-ve to
go.
Ellen lay awa-ke in the warm, soft bed whi-le Bin-nie sno-red gently
be-si-de her. She still co-uldn't qu-ite un-der-s-tand Bin-nie's in-sis-ten-ce
on clin-ging to her, night and day, up to and in-c-lu-ding sha-ring a bed. It
wasn't as if the-re was any re-al thre-at to her re-pu-ta-ti-on, or, he-aven
for-fend, her chas-tity. Mo-re's the pity.
She pri-ded her-self on han-d-ling things ex-t-re-mely well with Tony. Not
for a mo-ment had she gi-ven in to ro-man-tic lon-gings. She'd be-en brisk,
fri-endly, no-non-sen-se, all that he co-uld ha-ve as-ked for in a for-ced
com-pa-ni-on-s-hip. Not on-ce had she ex-hi-bi-ted any of the qu-ite
sha-me-ful lon-gings that had grown stron-ger than ever with each pas-sing
ho-ur.
She'd be-en so cer-ta-in she'd out-g-rown him. Out-g-rown that silly,
gir-l-ho-od crush, so that now she co-uld ta-ke sim-p-le ple-asu-re in his
com-pany, wit-ho-ut blus-hing, wit-ho-ut stam-me-ring, wit-ho-ut we-aving all
sorts of im-pos-sib-le fan-ta-si-es.
If only he'd mar-ri-ed the ines-ti-mab-le Miss Stan-ley. They wo-uld ha-ve
de-alt so well to-get-her, she with her starchy, ele-gant man-ners, he with
his in-do-lent, neg-li-gent charm. He'd ha-ve grown smug and portly; he might
very well ha-ve na-med her god-mot-her to one of his chil-d-ren, and the-re'd
be no mo-re qu-es-ti-on of any ro-man-ti-cal non-sen-se.
But as long as he wasn't mar-ri-ed, as long as he was still os-ten-sibly
ava-ilab-le, then the-re was al-ways the re-mo-te, im-pos-sib-le
pos-si-bi-lity that he might turn to her.
Every mor-ning she ga-ve her-self a stern tal-king-to, be-ra-ting her-self
for fo-olish day-d-re-ams that bor-de-red on the shoc-king. Every night she
tho-ught of him, just a few do-ors away, and her body grew hot. On-ce, just
on-ce, she'd li-ke to sha-re a bed with so-me-one who did mo-re than sno-re.
They wo-uld catch up with Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne in less than two days,
ac-cor-ding to Tony. She hadn't tho-ught any fur-t-her than that, only
kno-wing she had to res-cue Ghis-la-ine. But what if Tony was right? What if
Gilly had go-ne wil-lingly? He-aven knew, Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne was
eno-ugh to tempt even the most de-ter-mi-ned spin-s-ter from her la-ce caps.

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Per-haps he'd be-en ab-le to se-du-ce Gilly from her hat-red of men and her
af-fec-ti-on for El-len.
But she didn't think so. She had no do-ubt at all that Gilly wo-uld co-me
with them. The one qu-es-ti-on that had be-gun to pla-gue her, one that she
had con-si-de-red far too la-te, was what if Nic-ho-las didn't cho-ose to let
her go?
Tony hadn't ta-ken her be-la-ted con-cern in go-od ste-ad. He'd se-emed
af-f-ron-ted that she co-uld even con-si-der the pos-si-bi-lity that
Nic-ho-las co-uld best him in a du-el. But in-de-ed, it was only com-mon
sen-se. As far as she knew, Tony had ne-ver fo-ught a du-el in his li-fe.
Nic-ho-las had kil-led his man at le-ast twi-ce.
When had things got-ten so com-p-li-ca-ted? If only Nic-ho-las
Blac-k-t-hor-ne had ne-ver shown up at Ain-s-ley Hall! El-len had grown
ac-cus-to-med to her qu-i-et li-fe, the long, empty fu-tu-re stret-c-hed
ahe-ad of her, hus-ban-d-less, chil-d-less, but rich with the fri-en-d-s-hip
of pe-op-le li-ke Gilly and Tony.
And now, sud-denly, fri-en-d-s-hip wasn't eno-ugh. She lon-ged for Tony in
the most in-de-cent, un-lad-y-li-ke ways. And the mo-re she tri-ed to rep-ress
it, to act as if he we-re her fa-vo-ri-te aging un-c-le, the mo-re the
lon-ging in-c-re-ased.
She wan-ted this so-j-o-urn to end. She wan-ted the sa-fety of Ain-s-ley
Hall, the com-fort of her or-di-nary li-fe.
She wan-ted the so-j-o-urn to last fo-re-ver. Tony's com-pany was
ad-dic-ti-ve, and as pa-in-ful as her fo-olish day-d-re-ams might be, she had
to cling to them, to him, for the short pe-ri-od that had be-en gran-ted her.
Bin-nie snuf-fled lo-udly, flop-ping over in the bed and set-tling down
in-to a qu-i-eter sno-ring. Did Tony sno-re? What did he sle-ep in? What was
he li-ke when he was aro-und the Di-vi-ne Car-lot-ta or one of his ot-her
ina-mo-ra-tas? Did he tre-at them with the sa-me in-do-lent charm?
She wo-uld ne-ver know. And if she had her wish, Tony wo-uld ne-ver
dis-co-ver that she'd ne-ver qu-ite out-g-rown that chil-dish lon-ging she had
for him.
Except that it wasn't qu-ite chil-dish an-y-mo-re. She didn't want to dan-ce
with him at the lo-cal as-sembly, to flirt with him over cha-ra-des, to marry
him with all pomp and glory in St. Pa-ul's with her fa-mily pro-ud of her at
last.
She wan-ted to lie na-ked with him. To ha-ve his chil-d-ren. To kiss him on
his mo-uth. She wan-ted him to lo-ok at her with he-at and lon-ging in his
gray eyes, with the he-at and lon-ging she felt every ti-me she lo-oked at
him.
Day-d-re-ams. Fo-olish fan-ci-es. She ne-eded to get back to Ain-s-ley Hall,
to her la-ce caps and her gar-de-ning. She ne-eded Gilly's com-mon sen-se to
set her stra-ight.
But, Lord, don't let it hap-pen too so-on. Just a lit-tle whi-le mo-re,
ple-ase. Be-fo-re she be-ca-me go-od Aunt El-len on-ce mo-re.

Chapter 12

Ghis-la-ine felt warm, and sa-fe, and che-ris-hed. She knew she was back at
Sans Do-ute, still a child, her baby brot-her as-le-ep in the nur-sery, her
pa-rents in the-ir sum-p-tu-o-us apar-t-ments. She co-uld be no mo-re than
fif-te-en-at fif-te-en her li-fe had ta-ken a dark, pa-in-ful turn, and she'd
ne-ver felt that sa-fe and lo-ved aga-in.
Per-haps it had all be-en a dre-am. An en-d-less, hi-de-o-us nig-h-t-ma-re,
full of de-ath and des-pa-ir, but a dre-am no-net-he-less. If she ope-ned her
eyes she'd see the pa-le ma-uve walls, li-ned in silk. She'd see the bright
blue sky and he-ar the birds sin-ging.
The sky was al-ways blue at Sans Do-ute. The birds al-ways sang. Ex-cept for
the day they to-ok her pa-rents away, and she and Char-les-Lo-u-is fol-lo-wed

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in the-ir wa-ke.
It must still be dark out-si-de-the-re was no te-asing light be-yond her
clo-sed eye-lids. The silk co-ver-lets we-re he-avi-er than usu-al, the
pil-low be-ne-ath her he-ad mo-re so-lid, mo-re li-ke bo-ne and mus-c-le than
fe-at-hers.
But they had to be fe-at-hers be-ne-ath her he-ad. If they we-ren't, then
she wo-uldn't be at Sans Do-ute, and her nig-h-t-ma-re wo-uld be re-al. The-re
wo-uld be no com-fort or sa-fety, only dan-ger.
His arms we-re aro-und her wa-ist, pul-ling her
clo-se aga-inst him. One leg lay bet-we-en hers, a pos-ses-si-ve
in-t-ru-der, and his hand was tan-g-led in her ha-ir. She co-uld pic-tu-re it,
the long, whi-te fin-gers en-t-wi-ned in her ches-t-nut curls, co-uld
re-mem-ber the sa-me ima-ge from the ram-s-hac-k-le inn. Wo-uld she find a
pi-le of co-ins be-si-de the bed?
But she hadn't ear-ned tho-se co-ins. Wo-uldn't earn tho-se co-ins. He
co-uldn't buy her. He co-uld kid-nap her, ke-ep her hos-ta-ge, ta-ke her by
for-ce if he had a mind to. Even kill her. But he co-uldn't buy her
ac-qu-i-es-cen-ce.
A man's sho-ul-der sho-uldn't be com-for-tab-le. Es-pe-ci-al-ly a man as
le-an and mus-cu-lar as Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne. But it was. His chin
res-ted on her fo-re-he-ad, and she told her-self she didn't da-re mo-ve. If
she did, he might awa-ke and fi-nish what he'd star-ted the night be-fo-re. It
was a risk she didn't want to ta-ke. Her only al-ter-na-ti-ve was to re-ma-in
ut-terly still, trap-ped in his arms, pi-ni-oned aga-inst his strong, hot
body. She wo-uld simply ha-ve to en-du-re.
He'd un-ti-ed her arms and legs so-me-ti-me du-ring the night, and she
hadn't even be-en awa-re of it. Her own arms we-re aro-und him, clin-ging to
him li-ke a we-ak, hel-p-less fe-ma-le. Li-ke so-me-one who wan-ted to be in
his arms. Ab-surd.
His chest was smo-oth and warm, his cam-b-ric shirt ha-ving co-me
un-fas-te-ned du-ring the night. Sin-ce she had not-hing el-se to
con-cen-t-ra-te on, she de-ci-ded to sta-re at his chest, lo-oking for signs
of sag-ging mus-c-les, the flab of a was-ted li-fe.
Cur-se him, the-re was no sign at all. His skin was smo-oth, ta-ut, a whi-te
gold in the murky dawn, his nip-ples flat and hard amid the fa-int -tra-cing
of dark ha-ir. She sur-ve-yed him, tel-ling her-self that it was dis-gust
bur-ning a ho-le in her sto-mach, dis-gust and the strong cof-fee of the
night
be-fo-re. But she co-uldn't help won-de-ring how he wo-uld tas-te.
She knew sud-denly that he was awa-ke. That he'd be-en awa-ke for so-me
ti-me now, and her cir-cum-s-pect be-ha-vi-or had be-en a was-te of ti-me.
"Let me up," she sa-id in a small, angry vo-ice.
His hold on her didn't tig-h-ten, but she didn't ma-ke the mis-ta-ke of
thin-king she had any chan-ce of es-ca-pe. Not un-til he was re-ady to
re-le-ase her. And he wasn't the slig-h-test bit re-ady.
His hand slid over her jaw, smo-othly, de-li-ca-tely, a ca-ress that ma-de
her shi-ver in re-ac-ti-on as he tip-ped her fa-ce up. "You sur-vi-ved the
night, Ghis-la-ine," he mur-mu-red, "yo-ur chas-tity in-tact. Don't you think
I de-ser-ve a re-ward for my for-be-aran-ce?"
Be-fo-re she co-uld tell him what he de-ser-ved, his mo-uth drop-ped down on
hers, lightly, kis-sing her with bri-ef tho-ro-ug-h-ness be-fo-re she co-uld
pull her wits to-get-her to pro-test. Just when she was abo-ut to ra-ise her
hands and sho-ve him, he rol-led away from her, sit-ting up on the sag-ging
bed and run-ning a hand thro-ugh his long, rum-p-led dark ha-ir.
A mo-ment la-ter he glan-ced back at her, and the-re was a qu-iz-zi-cal
ex-p-res-si-on in his dark eyes. "My fri-ends wo-uldn't be-li-eve it," he
sa-id.
"You ha-ve fri-ends? That as-to-nis-hes me."
He smi-led, his usu-al moc-king grin. "Still fig-h-ting? May-be I sho-uld
ha-ve ta-ken you af-ter all. You wo-uldn't be fe-eling qu-ite so cocky. And

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I'd be fe-eling mo-re so."
He sur-ged off the bed, stret-c-hing his arms over his he-ad, and for a
mo-ment she wat-c-hed him, mes-me-ri-zed. He was tall, en-d-les-sly tall, with
long legs and arms and tor-so, le-an and well-mus-c-led, lit-he and
gra-ce-ful. It was a cri-me for such a de-mon to be so at-trac-ti-ve, she
tho-ught. It ma-de ever-y-t-hing so much har-der.
"Dre-aming of po-isons, ma mie?" he mur-mu-red. "You'll ha-ve to wa-it. For
now I think a pe-ri-od of rus-ti-ca-ti-on is in or-der. We'll be char-mingly
bu-co-lic-you can co-ok for me, I'll fish and sho-ot and be the per-fect
co-untry gen-t-le-man. At night we'll sit aro-und the fi-re and hold hands and
talk abo-ut our happy li-fe."
"Sho-ot?" She be-la-tedly no-ti-ced her skirts we-re hi-ked up to her
kne-es. She pul-led them down to her an-k-les, but he didn't ap-pe-ar to
no-ti-ce.
"Did I men-ti-on sho-oting? Fo-olish me. Now that you know I ha-ve a gun,
I'll pro-bably ha-ve to tie you up aga-in. I don't fancy a bul-let in my
back."
"I co-uld al-ways sho-ot you in the front," she sa-id.
"A char-ming of-fer, but I can just ima-gi-ne what por-ti-on of my ana-tomy
you wo-uld cho-ose as yo-ur tar-get. I think I'd pre-fer the back." He sto-od
over her, lo-oking down. "Are you go-ing to loll abo-ut in bed all day, or are
you go-ing to fix me so-me bre-ak-fast?"
So-met-hing wit-hin her bal-ked. "I'm yo-ur hos-ta-ge, not yo-ur ser-vant,"
she snap-ped.
"If you pre-fer to stay in bed, then I co-uld al-ways be per-su-aded to
jo-in you. I ha-ve ot-her ap-pe-ti-tes you co-uld fill."
She got out of bed, ed-ging away from him.
"Much bet-ter," he mur-mu-red. "I'm cer-ta-in you'd wel-co-me cof-fee just
as much as I wo-uld. And if last night s din-ner was an-y-t-hing to go by,
you've a ra-re ta-lent when it co-mes to eggs. I've a po-wer-ful hun-ger,
wench."
He was simply trying to go-ad her. Un-for-tu-na-tely, it was wor-king. If
she'd had an-y-t-hing handy she wo-uld ha-ve thrown it at him. He se-emed
cu-ri-o-usly lig-h-t-he-ar-ted in that dark, ram-s-hac-k-le ro-om, the
glo-wing em-bers from the fi-re war-ring with the ear-ly-mor-ning light. As if
he'd shed a clo-ak of an-ger and cyni-cism du-ring the night, and she had the
sud-den frig-h-te-ning tho-ught that if he smi-led at her, truly smi-led at
her, she might find him as char-ming as she had so long ago.
He must ha-ve known that it wo-uld de-mo-ra-li-ze her. He cros-sed the ro-om
with a swift de-ter-mi-na-ti-on that left her no ti-me to run. He didn't
to-uch her, which in it-self was a sur-p-ri-se. He was al-ways to-uc-hing her,
run-ning his hand aga-inst her che-ek, hol-ding her arm, re-min-ding her of
her cap-ti-vity. And of her stran-ge vul-ne-ra-bi-lity to-ward him. He was
stan-ding too clo-se; he hadn't but-to-ned his shirt, and she wasn't su-re
which was the le-ast dan-ge-ro-us pla-ce to rest her ga-ze: on his cyni-cal,
alar-mingly at-trac-ti-ve fa-ce, or on his smo-oth ba-re chest. Or lo-wer
still.
She de-ci-ded his left sho-ul-der was the sa-fest pla-ce to fo-cus her eyes.
It was un-com-for-tably clo-se to his moc-king mo-uth, but far away from
ot-her, mo-re se-duc-ti-ve dan-gers. "Why don't we call a tem-po-rary tru-ce,
Ghis-la-ine?" he sa-id, and he so-un-ded de-cep-ti-vely re-aso-nab-le. "It
will do you no go-od to fight me-if you push me too far, I'll simply tie you
to the bed. You wo-uldn't li-ke that, even if I fo-und it re-aso-nably
en-ter-ta-ining. Why don't we ha-ve one day of pe-ace, be-fo-re the bat-tle
starts aga-in?"
She won-de-red whet-her it wo-uld do any go-od to beg him to re-le-ase her.
She do-ub-ted it. He wasn't a man gi-ven to acts of cha-rity or
for-gi-ve-ness, and her in-do-mi-tab-le pri-de was the only we-apon she had
left to her. If she aba-sed her-self, she wo-uld be truly de-fen-se-less.
"What do you want with me?" she as-ked aga-in, un-wil-ling to

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com-p-ro-mi-se.
He shrug-ged. "I re-al-ly don't know, ma mie.

May-be I'll let you go. May-be I won't. I ha-ven't de-ci-ded."
"And you ex-pect me to be a go-od lit-tle girl un-til you ma-ke up yo-ur
mind to kill me."
"You ne-edn't so-und so in-cen-sed abo-ut the who-le thing. You're the one
who first in-t-ro-du-ced the no-ti-on of mur-der in our char-ming
re-la-ti-on-s-hip."
"We don't ha-ve a re-la-ti-on-s-hip!" she shot back.
"Oh, the-re I di-sag-ree. We most de-fi-ni-tely do ha-ve a
re-la-ti-on-s-hip. I'm just not su-re what kind it is. So what's yo-ur
de-ci-si-on, Ghis-la-ine? Are we to ha-ve a day of pe-ace, or a day of war?"
She knew that to gi-ve in, even on such a small is-sue, was the first step
to ig-no-mi-ni-o-us de-fe-at. But she was al-so mor-tal-ly ti-red of
fig-h-ting. Her body still felt tre-ac-he-ro-usly warm and res-ted, and she
knew it was simply the clo-se-ness of anot-her hu-man be-ing that had wi-ped
out her de-fen-ses. Any body wo-uld ha-ve had the sa-me ef-fect, she told
her-self. Not just his.
"One day," she sa-id. "On one con-di-ti-on."
He sig-hed, run-ning a hand thro-ugh his long ha-ir. "Trust you to ha-ve a
con-di-ti-on. What is it?"
"That you don't to-uch me."
His mo-uth twis-ted in a cyni-cal grin. "Not at all?"
"Not at all. I don't li-ke be-ing pa-wed. Spa-re me for one day, and I'll
for-go the ple-asu-re of stic-king a kni-fe bet-we-en yo-ur ribs."
"You don't ha-ve a kni-fe."
"If you ex-pect me to get yo-ur me-als, I'll ne-ed one."
"Po-int well ta-ken. I sup-po-se I can con-t-rol my ani-mal lusts for one
day," he sa-id, sur-ve-ying her from be-ne-ath ho-oded eyes, ma-king the very
act se-em both bo-red and in-sul-ting. "Any wo-man can lie on her back and
lift her skirts. Few of them can co-ok."
She simply sta-red at him sto-nily. "You pro-mi-se?"
"I pro-mi-se." He to-ok anot-her step clo-ser to her, so clo-se that she
co-uld fe-el the he-at ema-na-ting from his body. Clo-se eno-ugh to thre-aten
her te-nu-o-us self-con-t-rol, yet he didn't even brush aga-inst her. It was a
very ef-fec-ti-ve way of sho-wing her that he didn't ne-ed to lay hands on her
to to-uch her. "What in-te-rests me, my pet, is how you ma-na-ge to
wit-h-s-tand my de-li-be-ra-te cru-de-ness wit-ho-ut an ex-cess of ma-idenly
blus-hes. I wo-uld ha-ve tho-ught yo-ur ye-ars in a con-vent wo-uld ha-ve
ma-de you even mo-re pru-dish than my co-usin El-len."
"I've ne-ver be-en in a con-vent in my li-fe."
She'd ho-ped to shock him, to an-ger him, to star-t-le him in-to mo-ving
away. In-s-te-ad he simply smi-led that small, dan-ge-ro-us smi-le of his. "I
know."
And then he tur-ned away, and she wo-uld ha-ve gladly gi-ven the rest of her
li-fe to ha-ve a kni-fe in her hand. It to-ok a mo-ment, and the me-mory of
her pro-mi-se, for calm to re-ach her aga-in. One day. Twen-ty-fo-ur ho-urs.
She co-uld last that long, re-gat-her her strength and de-ter-mi-na-ti-on.
Twen-ty-fo-ur ho-urs to lull him in-to trus-ting her.
And then eit-her she'd be go-ne or he'd be de-ad.
Lord,' what a qu-ixo-tic fo-ol he was, Nic-ho-las tho-ught ho-urs la-ter. He
must ha-ve be-en half-shot when he'd de-ci-ded to cart Ghis-la-ine de Lorgny
away with him. No, it wasn't al-co-hol he'd be-en in-dul-ging in-it was the
af-te-ref-fects of rat po-ison lin-ge-ring in his system that had blown his
com-mon sen-se to hell and back aga-in.
Not, of co-ur-se, that com-mon sen-se had much to do with the way he
usu-al-ly con-duc-ted his li-fe. Jason Har-g-ro-ve and his bitch of a wi-fe
we-re a go-od ca-se in po-int. He sho-uld ha-ve kept away from Me-lis-sa from
the very be-gin-ning, kno-wing she pos-ses-sed both a bru-ta-li-zing bully of

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a hus-band and a per-ver-se tas-te for in-ci-ting him. In-s-te-ad he'd gi-ven
in to the de-si-re of the mo-ment, and he'd be-en pa-ying the con-se-qu-en-ces
ever sin-ce.
Car-ting his mur-de-ro-us lit-tle cap-ti-ve off with him had be-en anot-her
ma-j-or mis-ta-ke, just as co-ming to Scot-land had be-en, and for the sa-me
re-asons. He fo-und both of them too dam-ned se-duc-ti-ve. Oh, not in the
usu-al sen-se. He'd be-en trut-h-ful when he told Ghis-la-ine that any wo-man
co-uld pro-vi-de his body the ease it ne-eded-he wasn't par-ti-cu-lar whom he
to-ok to his bed, as long as she was free of di-se-ase and pos-ses-sed of
mi-ni-mal be-a-uty.
Ghis-la-ine drew his body as any be-a-uty wo-uld. But her fi-er-ce-ness, her
co-ura-ge, her in-do-mi-tab-le na-tu-re drew his so-ul. It ma-de him ca-re
abo-ut her, and he ma-de it a ba-sic te-net of his li-fe ne-ver to ca-re
abo-ut an-yo-ne ot-her than him-self.
Scot-land was just as bad. He'd for-got-ten he lo-ved the co-untry, the
smell of damp earth and fresh air and sun-s-hi-ne, away from the stinks of
Lon-don, the smells of over-c-row-ded sa-lons, fil-led with pe-op-le who used
he-avy per-fu-me to co-ver the odor of un-der-was-hed bo-di-es. He'd grown
inu-red to the he-at and smells of the pla-ce; it had fit well eno-ugh with
his dark, cyni-cal vi-ew of li-fe and so-ci-ety.
But Scot-land was re-min-ding him of light. Re-min-ding him of a
chil-d-ho-od not com-p-le-tely de-vo-id of ple-asu-re. And it ma-de him ye-arn
for it aga-in, for the long-lost in-no-cen-ce that he co-uld ne-ver re-ga-in.
For the abi-lity to bre-at-he fre-ely, to smi-le, to be happy. And his dam-ned
com-mon sen-se told him tho-se things we-re long go-ne in the dark turns his
li-fe had ta-ken. The-re was no light, no hap-pi-ness for the last of the mad
Blac-k-t-hor-nes.
He co-uldn't even co-unt on Ghis-la-ine for dis-t-rac-ti-on. He'd fo-und it
in-te-res-ting that she'd ex-t-rac-ted that pro-mi-se from him. Not that he
had any in-ten-ti-on of ke-eping it. He'd al-re-ady in-for-med her he bro-ke
his pro-mi-ses. He simply wan-ted to wa-it long eno-ugh to lull her
sus-pi-ci-ons, so that when he to-uc-hed her her re-ac-ti-on wo-uld be all the
mo-re po-wer-ful.
She was ex-t-re-mely vul-ne-rab-le to his to-uch, he knew that. Just as he'd
co-me to the con-c-lu-si-on that of all the pla-ces she'd be-en du-ring the
in-ter-ve-ning ye-ars, a con-vent wasn't one of them. It was too hard to shock
her. She'd trot-ted out that in-for-ma-ti-on in ho-pes of go-ading him, and
had fa-iled mi-se-rably. That wo-uldn't ke-ep her from trying. She didn't
re-ali-ze she was out-mat-c-hed-no mat-ter what we-apons she used, he'd
al-ways mas-ter her. And one of the su-rest ways to do so was to to-uch her.
She didn't even re-cog-ni-ze her own re-ac-ti-on. When he to-uc-hed her
small, per-fect bre-asts, her nip-ples har-de-ned in in-s-tin-c-ti-ve
res-pon-se. When he to-ok her mo-uth, she wan-ted to kiss him back, even as
she fo-ught it and him. Her he-art thud-ded, her skin grew flus-hed, her
pul-ses ra-ced. He'd bed-ded eno-ugh wo-men to be in-ti-ma-tely awa-re of the
signs of aro-usal, but he'd ne-ver had a wo-man so ob-li-vi-o-us to her own
res-pon-ses.
Or may-be she wasn't ob-li-vi-o-us. May-be she was simply fig-h-ting them.
As she was busy fig-h-ting him.
Per-haps that wo-uld be the re-ven-ge he'd ta-ke. Mas-tery of her body. He
was adept at ma-king lo-ve. He knew how to ple-asu-re a wo-man-it was one of
his many skills. He co-uld apply tho-se skills to fi-er-ce lit-tle Ghis-la-ine
de Lorgny, strip her of her
vir-gi-nity, her de-fen-ses, her fe-ro-ci-o-us pri-de as he strip-ped her of
her clot-hes. The tho-ught was be-gu-iling.
The-re was just one tro-ub-le-so-me tho-ught, one that didn't usu-al-ly
dis-turb his self-des-t-ruc-ti-ve ab-sor-p-ti-on. What wo-uld he do with her
when he fi-nis-hed?
He wo-uldn't think abo-ut that. Wo-uldn't con-si-der the fact that he'd
aban-do-ned her on-ce, and her li-fe had be-en des-t-ro-yed. He was

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res-pon-sib-le for no one but him-self, and even that res-pon-si-bi-lity he
to-ok far too lightly.
The sun had ri-sen, war-ming the land, and the in-ces-sant ra-in had
fi-nal-ly let up. Odd, that. Pe-op-le ten-ded to think of Scot-land as a cold,
ra-in-bo-und land, yet the we-at-her was swe-eter, war-mer than it had be-en
in En-g-land for as long as he co-uld re-mem-ber.
Ta-ver-ner had be-en wi-se eno-ugh to hi-de the shot-gun, but,
un-for-tu-na-tely, Nic-ho-las co-uldn't find out whe-re. The-re'd be no bra-ce
of qu-a-il or fat rab-bits for the pot to-night, a fact which rat-her ple-ased
him. For so-me ob-s-cu-re re-ason he wasn't in the mo-od for kil-ling.
Tro-ut we-re anot-her mat-ter. Ob-vi-o-usly Tavvy had de-ci-ded Ghis-la-ine
co-uldn't do much harm with a fish ho-ok, we-re she to get hold of his
fis-hing tac-k-le. He to-ok him-self off in the la-te mor-ning, he-ading in
the di-rec-ti-on of the fast-mo-ving stre-am he'd first dis-co-ve-red when he
was ten ye-ars old. And Ghis-la-ine wat-c-hed him go.
She lo-oked ab-surd, with tho-se ca-nary-bright, over-si-zed clot-hes
bel-ted aro-und her small body. He hadn't con-si-de-red the dif-fe-ren-ce in
si-ze bet-we-en the wo-men when he had had Tavvy pack so-me of El-len's
clot-hes. He simply hadn't wan-ted to see his lit-tle cap-ti-ve dres-sed in
her drab co-ok's clot-hes.

She had to roll the sle-eves up over her arms, belt the tra-iling skirts
aro-und her nar-row wa-ist. At le-ast the co-lors su-ited her bet-ter than
they did his co-usin. Per-haps he might ta-ke Ghis-la-ine to Lon-don with him,
dress her as she ought to be dres-sed. In rich silks that skim-med her
nar-row, bo-yish body. And in jewels. She was a wo-man ma-de for di-amonds, he
tho-ught, tram-ping thro-ugh the thick growth.
Unfor-tu-na-tely, he wasn't a man to pro-vi-de them. Even if he had the
mo-ney, he wo-uldn't spend it on a wo-man. But that might be the an-s-wer to
her fu-tu-re. He co-uld ini-ti-ate her in the de-lights of the flesh, ta-ke
her to Lon-don, and then pass her on to so-me-one wil-ling and ab-le to ke-ep
her in a mo-re lu-xu-ri-o-us style. All in all, it se-emed li-ke an emi-nently
prac-ti-cal so-lu-ti-on to the prob-lem, one that wo-uld as-su-age what
pas-sed for his con-s-ci-en-ce.
Of co-ur-se, le-ading the only da-ug-h-ter of the Com-te de Lorgny in-to the
li-fe of a de-mi-mon-de might not be con-si-de-red qu-ite the thing in most
qu-ar-ters. But her fat-her was de-ad, the fa-mily es-ta-tes long sin-ce eaten
up by the hydra-he-aded mon-s-ter of the re-vo-lu-ti-on, and it su-rely wo-uld
be a bet-ter li-fe than that of a co-ok. At le-ast she wo-uldn't ha-ve to
re-ma-in be-low-s-ta-irs.
He fo-und he didn't want to think abo-ut it. Didn't even want to think
abo-ut whet-her she'd ke-ep her word and be wa-iting at the de-re-lict
re-ma-ins of the old hun-ting lod-ge. The-re we-re too many con-co-mi-tant
emo-ti-ons, gu-ilt and reg-ret among them, to dis-t-ract him from the be-a-uty
of the day. And he wasn't a man to was-te his ti-me on gu-ilt and reg-ret.
Right now the tro-ut and sal-mon we-re a gre-at de-al mo-re im-por-tant than
the fu-tu-re of one mur-de-ro-us lit-tle Fren-c-h-wo-man. He'd de-al with her,
pre-sent or ab-sent, when he re-tur-ned.

The land aro-und the small ri-ver had grown up in the twen-ty-so-me ye-ars
sin-ce he'd go-ne fis-hing the-re. It to-ok him a whi-le to find just the
right spot, and even then he wasn't cer-ta-in. Mas-te-ring the
in-t-ri-ca-ci-es of the old equ-ip-ment Tavvy had fo-und was anot-her
chal-len-ge, one he met, and in no ti-me at all he was stret-c-hed be-ne-ath a
tree, the sun be-ating down, war-ming his ci-ti-fi-ed bo-nes, his li-ne in the
wa-ter, awa-iting the first tug.
For now all he had to do was empty his mind and con-cen-t-ra-te on the fish.
The rest wo-uld co-me in ti-me.
He do-zed in the bright sun-light. It was se-ve-ral ho-urs la-ter when she
ca-me to him. She wasn't par-ti-cu-larly si-lent in her ap-pro-ach. He he-ard

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her from far off, mo-ving ste-al-t-hily thro-ugh the thick un-der-g-rowth, and
he al-lo-wed him-self a wry smi-le. Do-ub-t-less she tho-ught she was be-ing
ex-t-re-mely cir-cum-s-pect.
He didn't mo-ve, stret-c-hed out la-zily in the sun-light as he
con-si-de-red the op-ti-ons. Had she de-ci-ded to ig-no-re the-ir tru-ce? He'd
ne-ver known a wo-man with a sen-se of ho-nor be-fo-re; it wo-uld be
un-li-kely that one har-bo-ring such mur-de-ro-us ten-den-ci-es wo-uld be the
first. Be-si-des, he'd in-for-med her po-int-blank that he didn't ho-nor his
own pro-mi-ses. Why sho-uld she con-si-der her-self ho-nor-bo-und when he
didn't?
He'd left her with a kni-fe. A dull one, to be su-re, but she'd had eno-ugh
ti-me to shar-pen it. He'd be-en go-ne se-ve-ral ho-urs at le-ast, and his
empty sto-mach told him it was get-ting past ti-me to eat. Or may-be she'd had
mo-re luck in se-ar-c-hing for the fi-re-arms than he had.
That tho-ught ga-ve him pa-use. He had no do-ubt abo-ut his abi-lity to fend
off a kni-fe-wi-el-ding ga-mi-ne. He was mo-re than a fo-ot tal-ler and a
gre-at de-al he-avi-er, as she'd al-re-ady le-ar-ned in the-ir pre-vi-o-us
en-co-un-ters.
A gun was a dif-fe-rent mat-ter. She co-uld blow his he-ad off at twenty
pa-ces if she fo-und his old shot-gun. The tho-ught was only slightly
un-ner-ving.
She wo-uld be un-li-kely to be ab-le to mas-ter the in-t-ri-ca-ci-es of
lo-ading and pre-pa-ring a gun. If she ma-na-ged that, she wo-uld still be
un-li-kely to hit even as lar-ge a tar-get as he. And then aga-in, he had the
ad-van-ta-ge of he-aring her ap-pro-ach. With the most let-hal in-ten-ti-ons
in the world, she wo-uld still ha-ve a hard ti-me fin-ding her in-ten-ded
vic-tim easy to kill.
She was pan-ting slightly from exer-ti-on-he co-uld he-ar the soft lit-tle
so-unds of her bre-at-hing over the rus-t-le of the grass. Which me-ant she
must be car-rying so-met-hing fa-irly he-avy. It was ro-ugh go-ing to the
ed-ge of the ri-ver, but he'd al-re-ady trod the path down, and she was a
strong, re-si-li-ent yo-ung wo-man. May-be she'd fo-und the rif-le af-ter
all.
She was clo-ser than he'd re-ali-zed, mo-ving in his di-rec-ti-on with a
kind of rec-k-less de-ter-mi-na-ti-on. He'd be-en a fo-ol to le-ave such a
well-mar-ked path, he tho-ught la-zily, not bot-he-ring to open his eyes. He'd
be-en a fo-ol to think he co-uld even be-gin to trust her. His in-ci-pi-ent
de-mi-se was just as much the fa-ult of his own stu-pi-dity as of her
mur-de-ro-us in-ten-ti-ons.
She was too clo-se for him to hi-de, and so-me-how he didn't fancy
scur-rying in-to the bus-hes to get away from her. It wasn't that he
par-ti-cu-larly va-lu-ed his dig-nity, he tho-ught, sig-hing. He just didn't
think his li-fe was worth the bot-her.
The brig-h-t-ness of the sun be-yond his eye-lids dar-ke-ned, and he knew
she was stan-ding over him. He co-uld fe-el her pre-sen-ce, smell the fa-int
tra-ce of flo-wers and lye so-ap. He didn't mo-ve, wa-iting for the shot-gun
blast.
"Nic-ho-las," she sa-id, af-ter a long pa-use.
He ope-ned his eyes, ex-pec-ting to con-f-ront the bar-rel of a gun.
In-s-te-ad he saw Ghis-la-ine, stan-ding the-re li-ke a shep-her-dess, a
he-avy bas-ket in her hand, no we-apon in sight.
He sat up, sta-ring at her. She'd ma-na-ged a bath. Her ches-t-nut ha-ir was
wet and spiky aro-und her fa-ce, just be-gin-ning to curl as it dri-ed, and
she'd do-ne so-met-hing abo-ut her clot-hes. She was we-aring one of the day
dres-ses they'd bro-ught along, but she'd shor-te-ned the sle-eves and hem
with what he co-uld only as-su-me was the kni-fe he'd left be-hind. The top
two but-tons we-re open at her thro-at, and tho-se few in-c-hes of damp, pink
skin had to be the most ero-tic thing he'd se-en in his li-fe.
"You try my re-sol-ve, my pet," he sa-id slowly. "If I'm not al-lo-wed to
to-uch you, you might at le-ast ma-ke an ef-fort not to lo-ok so

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de-lec-tab-le."
She blus-hed. It as-to-nis-hed him. He wo-uldn't ha-ve tho-ught her
ca-pab-le of such a thing. The co-lor fa-ded as qu-ickly as it ap-pe-ared, and
on-ce mo-re she had a stern ex-p-res-si-on that sub-du-ed the pi-qu-ant
be-a-uty of her fa-ce. "I bro-ught you so-me lun-c-he-on."
"Did you, in-de-ed? How very tho-ug-h-t-ful. What sum-mo-ned up this ex-cess
of Chris-ti-an cha-rity in yo-ur ble-ak lit-tle so-ul?" He re-ac-hed out his
hand for the bas-ket.
She ma-de no mo-ve to gi-ve it to him. "I wo-uldn't be pas-sing jud-g-ment
on the sta-te of my so-ul if I we-re you. Yo-ur own isn't in any too spot-less
a con-di-ti-on."
"True eno-ugh. You've ne-ver ac-tu-al-ly kil-led an-yo-ne, much as you'd
li-ke to, whi-le I ma-na-ged to ac-com-p-lish that act. At le-ast this ti-me
my vic-tim ap-pe-ars to ha-ve re-co-ve-red." He ga-ve up wa-iting for her to
pass the bas-ket to him, pul-ling it from her hand and del-ving thro-ugh it.
"This is a lot of fo-od for one man. Wo-uld I be too brashly op-ti-mis-tic to
ho-pe you might be plan-ning to sha-re it with me?"
She lo-oked un-com-for-tab-le. "I didn't know I had any cho-ice in the
mat-ter. Wo-uld you trust my co-oking?"
"Not in the slig-h-test," he sa-id. "Are you go-ing to con-ti-nue to lo-om
over me, or are you go-ing to sit?"
She sat. She pro-bably as-su-med she was out of his re-ach, and he for-bo-re
to in-form her that she wo-uld ne-ver be out of his re-ach for long. He co-uld
mo-ve fas-ter than she co-uld, if he so de-si-red. He was me-rely bi-ding his
ti-me.
"I didn't ha-ve much to work with," she sa-id de-fen-si-vely, as he pul-led
out warm bre-ad and but-ter and che-ese. She'd in-c-lu-ded one of the bot-tles
of wi-ne from the ca-se Tavvy had pac-ked, and he won-de-red whet-her she
ho-ped to get him drunk. It wo-uld ta-ke mo-re than one bot-tle to put him
un-der the tab-le.
She'd bro-ught the kni-fe, and he was right; it was a gre-at de-al shar-per
than when she'd first ta-ken pos-ses-si-on of it. They ate in si-len-ce for a
whi-le, lis-te-ning to the so-unds of the rus-hing ri-ver, slightly swol-len
af-ter the ra-ins, the fa-int bre-eze in the le-aves over-he-ad. It was an odd
si-len-ce, Nic-ho-las tho-ught, wat-c-hing her out of ho-oded eyes as he
la-zily con-su-med the best me-al he'd eaten in twenty ye-ars. Con-si-de-ring
they we-re mor-tal ene-mi-es, con-si-de-ring that she fe-ared and ha-ted him,
it was sur-p-ri-singly pe-ace-ful sit-ting by the bank of the ri-ver with
her.
And then he bro-ke that pe-ace, not wil-lful-ly but ef-fec-ti-vely
no-net-he-less. "Why don't you tell me how you ca-me to be with my co-usin
El-len, wor-king be-low-s-ta-irs?" he sa-id. "Sin-ce you've ad-mit-ted a
con-vent had no part in yo-ur li-fe, I'd be in-te-res-ted in how you
sur-vi-ved the ye-ars sin-ce the Ter-ror."
Her fa-ced tur-ned whi-te. He'd ne-ver se-en that hap-pen, tho-ugh he'd
cer-ta-inly he-ard abo-ut the phe-no-me-non. Ghis-la-ine had
por-ce-la-in-fa-ir skin an-y-way, with a fa-int to-uch of ro-se in her high
che-ek-bo-nes. Now she lo-oked as-hen.
"A day's tru-ce do-es not me-an I'll pro-vi-de you with en-ter-ta-in-ment,"
she ma-na-ged to say in a tight lit-tle vo-ice.
She was go-ing to pro-vi-de him with mo-re than en-ter-ta-in-ment, but he
wasn't in the mo-od to po-int that out to her. "Do you want any wi-ne?" he
as-ked in-s-te-ad. "You for-got to bring mugs, so you'll ha-ve to sha-re the
bot-tle." He to-ok a long drink. Sac-ri-le-ge to tre-at a fi-ne cla-ret so,
but it still tas-ted bet-ter than any ser-ved in Irish crystal in a Lon-don
dra-wing ro-om.
"No, thank you…" She star-ted to ri-se, but he ca-ught her wrist, hol-ding
her still.
"Ha-ve so-me wi-ne," he sa-id in a de-cep-ti-vely gen-t-le vo-ice.
She didn't mo-ve. "You pro-mi-sed you wo-uldn't to-uch me."

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"Do as I ask, and I'll re-le-ase you."
She gla-red at him, her hu-ge eyes bur-ning with tightly sup-pres-sed ra-ge.
The iri-ses we-re small in the bright sun-light, and one co-uld drown in the
tur-bu-lent dark brown depths, if one was fe-eling fan-ci-ful. He wasn't the
fan-ci-ful type. "One drink, Ghis-la-ine, and I'll re-le-ase you."
She to-ok the bot-tle in her free hand, bro-ught it to her mo-uth, and to-ok
an im-p-res-si-vely he-althy gulp. He wat-c-hed with mi-xed fe-elings. He'd
half-ho-ped she wo-uld con-ti-nue to defy him, enab-le him to pro-long the
con-f-ron-ta-ti-on.

He re-le-ased her wrist, when he wan-ted not-hing mo-re than to pull her
down aga-inst him, and his smi-le was co-ol and bland. "That wasn't so
dif-fi-cult, was it? Li-fe is a gre-at de-al sim-p-ler when you cho-ose to
co-ope-ra-te."
She scram-b-led to her fe-et, knoc-king over the wi-ne. He wat-c-hed the
dark li-qu-id di-sap-pe-ar in-to the gro-und with only a tra-ce of reg-ret. "I
will ne-ver co-ope-ra-te," she sa-id. "I will ne-ver com-p-ro-mi-se."
"What do you call our tru-ce?"
She was out of re-ach, at le-ast tem-po-ra-rily, and he cho-se to let her
go. She smi-led then, and her icy de-ter-mi-na-ti-on wo-uld ha-ve qu-el-led a
les-ser man. "Lul-ling my vic-tim," she snap-ped. She tur-ned and wal-ked
away, wit-ho-ut anot-her word.
Le-aving him to sta-re af-ter her in si-lent ad-mi-ra-ti-on. If all the
French had her de-ter-mi-na-ti-on, it was a lucky thing Na-po-le-on had
ag-re-ed to a pe-ace at Ami-ens. Ot-her-wi-se En-g-land wo-uld be in a gre-at
de-al of tro-ub-le.

Chapter 13

Ghis-la-ine's hands we-re sha-king as she mo-ved thro-ugh the thick growth,
away from the ri-ver. Away from her smug, dan-ge-ro-us cap-tor. It
as-to-nis-hed her, his abi-lity to en-ra-ge and dis-turb her. She'd had ot-her
ene-mi-es in her li-fe; cru-el, evil, im-p-la-cab-le ene-mi-es. She'd
le-ar-ned the trick of tur-ning in-ward, of si-len-cing her emo-ti-ons and
re-ac-ti-ons, of fa-cing tho-se ene-mi-es with co-ol de-ter-mi-na-ti-on. So
why did Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne des-t-roy her self-con-t-rol?
The wo-ods we-re an-ci-ent and be-a-uti-ful, with the sun-light shi-ning
down thro-ugh the le-aves, dap-pling the fo-rest. It re-min-ded her of the
wo-ods ne-ar Sans Do-ute, with its an-ci-ent oaks and ches-t-nut tre-es, the
smell of the damp, spring-re-ne-wed earth, the lazy so-und of baby birds
de-man-ding a me-al. If only she co-uld go back to that pe-ace-ful ti-me and
pla-ce. If only she had che-ris-hed it, in-s-te-ad of ta-king it for gran-ted
with the self-ab-sor-p-ti-on of yo-uth.
The wo-ods thin-ned out in-to a cle-aring, and the grass was spring-gre-en
and soft. She sank to her kne-es, then lay down, fa-ce-first, ab-sor-bing the
smell and the warmth of it in-to her bo-nes. She hadn't be-en that clo-se to
the earth sin-ce the Ter-ror
She rol-led over on her back, sta-ring up in-to the bright sun-light of a
per-fect day. If only she co-uld empty her mind, empty her so-ul, simply drink
in the glory of na-tu-re.
But in-s-te-ad the me-mo-ri-es re-tur-ned, the me-mo-ri-es she'd pus-hed
away so as-si-du-o-usly du-ring the in-ter-ve-ning ye-ars. They at-tac-ked
only at night, in her dre-ams, when her de-fen-ses had va-nis-hed. In
day-light she was too strong to gi-ve in to them, too strong to re-li-ve the
pa-nic and gri-ef and des-pa-ir.
But to-day was dif-fe-rent. To-day, lying on the soft grass with the
swe-et-smel-ling wo-ods all aro-und her, she wo-uld let the me-mo-ri-es
re-turn. Be-ca-use if she didn't, she might for-get. Her re-so-lu-ti-on wo-uld
fa-il. And when Nic-ho-las put his hands on her, his mo-uth on her, she might

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ma-ke the fo-olish mis-ta-ke of wan-ting it. And then the-re'd be no help for
her at all.
The-re was pro-bably a sim-p-le eno-ugh ex-p-la-na-ti-on for her cur-rent
we-ak-ness. Li-fe had grown com-pa-ra-ti-vely easy du-ring the last few
ye-ars. The ti-me she had spent at the Red Hen, le-ar-ning to co-ok, had had
its own ti-me-less tran-qu-ility, a kind of num-b-ness that had ma-de ni-ne
ye-ars pass al-most wit-ho-ut her no-ti-cing. The shabby inn had be-co-me a
ho-me of sorts, even wit-hin the ha-ted con-fi-nes of Pa-ris.
Much as she wan-ted to, she wo-uld ne-ver for-get the ter-rib-le night she
had first stum-b-led in the-re, bo-ne-we-ary, the last te-ars dra-ined from
her body, the last oun-ce of ho-pe go-ne. She had be-en stan-ding on the
brid-ge for ho-urs in the po-uring ra-in, sta-ring down in-to the muddy,
fast-mo-ving depths of the Se-ine, wa-iting. Wa-iting for the fi-nal burst of
energy that wo-uld ha-ve sent her over, tum-b-ling to her de-ath in the
wa-ter.

The ra-in had was-hed the blo-od from her hands, Mal-vi-ver's blo-od. It had
so-aked her clot-hes and run down her back in icy ri-vu-lets. She had go-ne as
far as she co-uld go, and now the-re was no ho-pe. She had be-co-me one of
them. And that know-led-ge had be-en the de-ath knell for her so-ul.
The-re had be-en so many nights. So many hor-rib-le nights. The night she
and Char-les-Lo-u-is had fi-nal-ly ar-ri-ved in Pa-ris, only to find the
blo-ated cor-p-se of the-ir un-c-le swin-ging gently abo-ve the stre-ets. The
night Mal-vi-ver had sold her to Ma-da-me Cla-ude. Who in turn had auc-ti-oned
her off to the hig-hest bid-der, a rad-dled old Bri-tish nob-le-man with a
cor-pu-lent body and a tas-te for cru-elty.
At first she'd be-en drug-ged in-to sub-mis-si-on, and she'd wat-c-hed it
all from a dis-tan-ce, al-most as if it we-re hap-pe-ning to so-me-one el-se.
At the ti-me she'd be-en gra-te-ful, ab-surdly gra-te-ful that she had that
buf-fer. Un-til she'd se-en him.
They we-re le-ading her up-s-ta-irs, to awa-it the high bid-der's eager
vi-sit, when she glan-ced blankly in-to one of the si-de ro-oms. Two of the
yo-un-ger girls we-re the-re, with a fully dres-sed man, and they we-re
la-ug-hing, the three of them, lo-oking cu-ri-o-usly yo-ung and ca-ref-ree.
The so-und of the-ir la-ug-h-ter had bro-ken thro-ugh her stu-por and she'd
ma-de a stran-g-led so-und of pro-test.
They must ha-ve he-ard her. The man tur-ned to lo-ok, and he wasn't a man,
he was a boy, one of al-most an-ge-lic be-a-uty. Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne.
He was drunk, and he sta-red at her wit-ho-ut re-cog-ni-ti-on as they ha-uled
her away, but be-ne-ath the ro-ugh hands that gag-ged her she'd scre-amed his
na-me. And then he'd tur-ned back to the two girls, and the la-ug-h-ter had
so-un-ded aga-in.
The dis-so-lu-te Bri-tish nob-le-man not only had a tas-te for vir-gins, he
al-so pre-fer-red that they fight him. She lay ti-ed to the bed, awa-iting
him, un-til the drug wo-re off. She lay long eno-ugh to still he-ar the
la-ug-h-ter, and the so-unds that fol-lo-wed that la-ug-h-ter, the gro-ans and
thumps and rhythmic so-unds that we-re fo-re-ign to her, and the pa-in in her
he-art so-li-di-fi-ed in-to a knot of hat-red so in-ten-se it bur-ned thro-ugh
her. It wasn't the fat, fo-ul-bre-at-hed mon-s-ter who to-ok her ma-iden-he-ad
a few ho-urs la-ter who ear-ned that hat-red. In-s-te-ad she fo-cu-sed on
Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne, who dis-por-ted in a Pa-ris brot-hel whi-le she
was be-ing de-ba-uc-hed.
If she hadn't for-got-ten him, at le-ast she'd kept her-self from thin-king
of him du-ring the in-ter-ve-ning ye-ars. His bet-ra-yal had run de-ep, but
her ne-ed to ca-re for Char-les-Lo-u-is, to try to find her pa-rents, had
be-en too over-w-hel-ming for her to in-dul-ge in her own he-ar-t-b-ro-ken
an-ger.
She no lon-ger had that lu-xury. As she lay in that soft bed, ble-eding and
de-fi-led, she had no one to think of but her-self. And no one to bla-me but
Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne.

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Ma-da-me Cla-ude had un-de-res-ti-ma-ted her. "The earl was most ple-ased
with you last night, che-rie," she cro-oned as she un-fas-te-ned her wrists.
"Even tho-ugh yo-ur ma-iden-he-ad is go-ne, he still con-si-ders you a
va-lu-ab-le com-mo-dity. He can be very ge-ne-ro-us to us both, che-rie. You
will find this li-fe much mo-re to yo-ur fancy than you ever ima-gi-ned."
Ghis-la-ine hadn't sa-id a word; she'd simply sta-red at the old har-ri-dan
with dark hat-red in her eyes. Ma-da-me Cla-ude was unim-p-res-sed. "Of
co-ur-se, you mustn't be too en-t-hu-si-as-tic abo-ut the com-forts. One of
the things the earl fo-und most ap-pe-aling abo-ut you was the way you
strug-gled aga-inst him. I do-ubt he'd ap-pre-ci-ate com-p-li-an-ce. Un-less,
of co-ur-se, he was ab-le to pro-perly tra-in you in-to it. And you ne-edn't
fe-ar that the rest of yo-ur wor-king li-fe will in-vol-ve only pe-op-le li-ke
the earl. To be su-re, they ma-ke up the bulk of our gu-ests, but we
en-ter-ta-in all ages, all se-xes. If you pre-fer wo-men, I know the wi-fe of
a high-ran-king go-ver-n-ment of-fi-ci-al who wo-uld find you ab-so-lu-tely
de-lig-h-t-ful. And the yo-ung man last night was as-king abo-ut you."
The com-ment ro-used her from her tight, con-t-rol-led ra-ge. "What yo-ung
man?" Her vo-ice ca-me out raw and al-most un-re-cog-ni-zab-le, the first
co-he-rent words she had spo-ken sin-ce Mal-vi-ver had drag-ged her in-to the
ho-use.
Ma-da-me Cla-ude hal-ted in her ef-forts to un-tie Ghis-la-ine's an-k-les,
sta-ring at her in frank cu-ri-osity. "You spe-ak li-ke an aris-to," she
sa-id. "Had I known, I co-uld ha-ve held out for a hig-her pri-ce." She
so-un-ded pa-tently dis-g-run-t-led. "But then, the pri-ce you fet-c-hed was
go-od eno-ugh. And you ne-edn't worry yo-ur pretty lit-tle he-ad abo-ut what
yo-ung man. You're to be kept for the earl's ex-c-lu-si-ve use for as long as
he wis-hes. He grows bo-red easily-chan-ces are you'll be ab-le to
ac-com-mo-da-te ot-her pat-rons wit-hin se-ve-ral we-eks, but by then the
yo-ung En-g-lis-h-man will ha-ve left Pa-ris. He was easily dis-t-rac-ted when
I sa-id you we-re ot-her-wi-se en-ga-ged. Don't wor-ry-the-re will be ot-her
han-d-so-me yo-ung men to com-pen-sa-te you for the ones li-ke the earl."
The one bri-ef fla-re of ho-pe had di-ed, smas-hed in-si-de her. He'd se-en
her. He hadn't re-cog-ni-zed her, she knew that, but so-met-hing abo-ut her
had ca-ught his eye. It hadn't be-en a la-tent me-mory. It hadn't be-en
sud-den con-cern for a hel-p-less vic-tim. It had be-en a pas-sing wa-ve of
lust, easily di-ver-ted.
She sat up in the bed, her mind mo-ving at a ra-pid pa-ce. First and
fo-re-most, she had to get away from this pla-ce, back to Char-les-Lo-u-is.
And to do so wo-uld re-qu-ire every oun-ce of her in-tel-li-gen-ce and
cun-ning.

"I ima-gi-ne," she sa-id slowly, "that I wo-uld find the ex-pe-ri-en-ce
mo-re ple-asant with a han-d-so-me yo-ung man." She co-ar-se-ned her vo-ice
just slightly. Too much so wo-uld ha-ve be-en un-be-li-evab-le. In-s-tinct was
ta-king over, tel-ling her that sub-t-lety co-uld be her gre-atest ally.
Ma-da-me Cla-ude be-amed at her. "I knew you we-re a smart one. You'll do
well at this li-fe if you can co-me to terms with it, and the-re's no bet-ter
li-fe for a wo-man. You get pa-id for what men wo-uld ta-ke from you for free,
and you le-arn how to mas-ter them. How to ma-ke the men do what you want. You
le-arn to ta-ke yo-ur ple-asu-re whe-re you can find it, and you can li-ve a
com-for-tab-le li-fe of le-isu-re. A few ho-urs of work on yo-ur back every
night is bet-ter than sla-ving all day in a dress shop."
"I can't sew."
"You see. You've ma-de a wi-se cho-ice, my de-ar. You'll go far in this
bu-si-ness, see if I'm not right."
Ghis-la-ine ne-ver sa-id a word. Ma-de the right cho-ice, had she? Cho-ice
had ne-ver co-me in-to play sin-ce she'd be-en drag-ged in-to this wic-ked
pla-ce. But she wo-uld cho-ose-ne-ver aga-in wo-uld she be a hel-p-less
vic-tim.
It to-ok her two days to es-ca-pe. Two days of en-du-ring the earl's re-turn

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vi-sits, two days of en-du-ring the vi-ci-o-us cru-el-ti-es with which he
as-sa-ul-ted her body. Two days of lis-te-ning to his ful-so-me
com-p-li-ments, his mo-ans of ple-asu-re. Two days of pa-in and
deg-ra-da-ti-on dis-gu-ised as an act of lo-ve.
He'd smi-led ble-arily at her as he'd rol-led away. "Dem-me if I don't ta-ke
you back to En-g-land with me," he sa-id. "You've qu-ite won my he-art, gel."
He re-ac-hed over and pin-c-hed her bre-ast, and it to-ok all her
self-con-t-rol not to flinch. "I ha-ve fri-ends who'd ap-pre-ci-ate a fi-ne
lit-tle thing li-ke you. And I've al-ways enj-oyed wat-c-hing."

He sat up, his back to her as he pan-ted slightly. She lay the-re,
wat-c-hing his soft, whi-te skin, puffy and un-mar-red. She glan-ced down at
her own body, deg-ra-ded by his, and her re-sol-ve stren-g-t-he-ned.
"You'd li-ke that, wo-uldn't you?" he whe-ezed, re-ac-hing down for his
clot-hes. "You're still a bit re-luc-tant, but I've al-ways li-ked that in a
wench. I'm very go-od at te-ac-hing obe-di-en-ce. I don't know when I've be-en
qu-ite so ena-mo-red of a slut."
The hu-ge va-se was ma-de of he-avy, che-ap por-ce-la-in. Had she used one
of the de-li-ca-te Chi-ne-se va-ses that had de-co-ra-ted Sans Do-ute, it
wo-uld ha-ve hardly slo-wed him down. The hi-de-o-us crac-king so-und as she
bro-ught it down on his he-ad so-un-ded li-ke a skull split-ting, and he slid
on-to the flo-or wit-ho-ut a so-und.
She won-de-red if she'd kil-led him. She scram-b-led off the bed to sta-re
at him, but des-pi-te an ex-p-res-si-on of fa-int sur-p-ri-se on his fa-ce, he
se-emed to be so-und as-le-ep.
A sha-me, that. She wan-ted to kill him. If she'd had a kni-fe, she wo-uld
ha-ve do-ne much wor-se than that. As it was, she had no cho-ice but to le-ave
him, slum-ped na-ked on the flo-or. She pa-used only long eno-ugh to dump the
con-tents of the cham-ber pot in his lap.
She had no clot-hes but the whi-te night ra-il he de-lig-h-ted in rip-ping
off her. She to-ok his clot-hes in-s-te-ad, the baggy pants and bil-lo-wing
shirt dwar-fing her small body. She clim-bed out the win-dow, she who was
de-athly af-ra-id of he-ights, not even no-ti-cing that she had to drop two
flights to the filthy al-ley-way be-low.
She twis-ted her an-k-le when she lan-ded, but she ma-de no so-und. Mo-ments
la-ter she was hob-bling off in-to the dar-k-ness, se-ar-c-hing for her
brot-her.
Du-ring the-ir we-eks on the stre-et, she and
Char-les-Lo-u-is had kept to them-sel-ves, wi-sely trus-ting no one. The one
ex-cep-ti-on had be-en a rag-pic-ker known by one and all as Old Bo-nes. He
pli-ed his way thro-ugh the stre-ets, pul-ling a cart be-hind him, tra-ding
and sel-ling odd pi-eces of re-fu-se. The man was age-less. Word had it that
he was one of that des-pi-sed ra-ce, a Heb-rew, and his rhe-umy old eyes
co-uld see far-t-her than most. He'd be-en kind to Char-les-Lo-u-is, gi-ving
the fret-ful boy a crust of bre-ad when he co-uld ha-ve used it him-self,
war-ning Ghis-la-ine when a gro-up of ma-ra-uding ci-ti-zens had stum-b-led
drun-kenly thro-ugh the stre-ets ne-arby, lo-oking for an-yo-ne worth
but-c-he-ring.
In re-turn, she'd bro-ught Old Bo-nes bits and pi-eces of things that he
co-uld find a bu-yer for, as-king not-hing in re-turn. A stran-ge
fri-en-d-s-hip had grown up bet-we-en them. If an-yo-ne knew whe-re
Char-les-Lo-u-is was, he wo-uld.
It to-ok her anot-her day and a half to find them. And in the end, she
fo-und them in the worst pla-ce of all.
She'd avo-ided the Pla-ce de la Re-vo-lu-ti-on as-si-du-o-usly du-ring the
we-eks in Pa-ris. Every day she he-ard the na-mes of pe-op-le who'd be-en
be-he-aded. She'd wept the day the king had di-ed, wept when the silly lit-tle
qu-e-en had fol-lo-wed. But on this day she co-uldn't ke-ep away. This was the
day her pa-rents we-re among tho-se sche-du-led to die.
She wasn't su-re what drew her to that blo-od-dren-c-hed pla-ce. Per-haps

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her pa-rents wo-uld ha-ve pre-fer-red to go to the-ir ine-vi-tab-le de-aths
thin-king she was sa-fe, far away from the hor-ror that was Pa-ris.
But she had no cho-ice. For her own sa-ke she had to be the-re. To be with
them, in lo-ve and sor-row. She co-uldn't let them die sur-ro-un-ded by a
ven-ge-ful mob, with no one to we-ep for them.

They didn't see her as they ro-de in the tum-b-rel, amid the je-ers of the
blo-od-cra-zed on-lo-okers. They didn't see her as they clim-bed the
scaf-fold, and for that she was glad. She held her bre-ath as the bla-de fell,
but the-re we-re no te-ars. Her te-ars we-re go-ne.
She he-ard the scre-am, a short, shrill one, en-ding in sud-den si-len-ce.
And ac-ross the crow-ded squ-are she saw the fi-gu-re of her brot-her,
strug-gling as Old Bo-nes tri-ed to res-t-ra-in him.
Anot-her vic-tim mo-un-ted the scaf-fold, and the crowd pa-id no
at-ten-ti-on to the dis-rup-ti-on in the squ-are. It to-ok her a long ti-me to
re-ach him, but by the ti-me she ca-ught Char-les-Lo-u-is in her arms he was
si-lent. She ne-ver he-ard him spe-ak aga-in.
Bet-we-en the two of them, she and Old Bo-nes kept him fed and warm. He
res-pon-ded to not-hing, ha-ving va-nis-hed in-to a chil-d-li-ke world whe-re
he co-uld ba-rely ta-ke ca-re of his bo-dily fun-c-ti-ons. She'd even
ma-na-ged to find a few sou for a doc-tor, but the man had simply sha-ken his
he-ad, hel-p-less to aid Char-les-Lo-u-is. Shock, he'd sa-id, co-uld do that
to a mind. The boy had ret-re-ated so-mep-la-ce sa-fe, whe-re no one co-uld
harm him. And only God knew whet-her he'd ever emer-ge from that
self-im-po-sed co-co-on.
She'd do-ne her best to pro-tect him, wat-c-hing over him, with ba-rely
eno-ugh to eat as win-ter clo-sed in aro-und them. Un-til Old Bo-nes ca-me to
her with a gen-t-le sug-ges-ti-on.
"The-re is no fo-od," he'd sa-id.
Ghis-la-ine had la-ug-hed bit-terly. "Tell me so-met-hing new. The-re's
be-en no fo-od for days."
"The-re ha-ve be-en scraps. Crumbs, most of which you've fed yo-ur brot-her.
It's No-vem-ber now. Yo-ur brot-her will fre-eze to de-ath on the stre-ets.
Most days he do-esn't even re-mem-ber to put on his clo-ak. He ne-eds sho-es,
he ne-eds a blan-ket, he ne-eds de-cent fo-od. As do you."
She had held her-self very still, kno-wing in her he-art what was co-ming
next. She hadn't told Old Bo-nes whe-re she had be-en du-ring tho-se lost two
days in July, but he was old and wi-se as ti-me, and he had to ha-ve known.
And that it hadn't be-en her cho-ice.
She'd grown hard, cold in the last few months. The only lo-ve she had in her
he-art was for Char-les-Lo-u-is. Even Old Bo-nes she ba-rely to-le-ra-ted, and
only if he didn't to-uch her. As he was a man who didn't ca-re much for ot-her
hu-man be-ings eit-her, they ma-na-ged well eno-ugh.
"You are not tel-ling me an-y-t-hing I don't al-re-ady know," she sa-id
qu-i-etly. "Do you ha-ve any sug-ges-ti-ons?"
"The ob-vi-o-us one. You ha-ve so-met-hing you co-uld sell. In the stre-ets
of Pa-ris few pe-op-le are for-tu-na-te eno-ugh not to sell wha-te-ver they
can."
"Be qu-i-et," she snap-ped, cas-ting a wor-ri-ed glan-ce at
Char-les-Lo-u-is. Des-pi-te the hard li-fe and lack of no-uris-h-ment, he'd
grown. His clot-hes we-re rag-ged, torn, and too small for his ado-les-cent
body. He was thir-te-en ye-ars old, and the-re was not-hing but chil-d-li-ke
blan-k-ness in his eyes.
"It do-esn't mat-ter, Ghis-la-ine. His ears may he-ar, but his mind can-not.
He won't know if you de-ci-de to sell yo-ur body on the stre-ets to fe-ed and
clot-he him."
It was sa-id, out in the open. Sud-denly she co-uld fe-el the
En-g-lis-h-man, pan-ting and swe-ating on top of her, his bre-ath fe-tid in
her fa-ce, his hands hur-ting, hur-ting…
"No!" she cri-ed, the pro-test torn from her.

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Old Bo-nes had me-rely shrug-ged. "I for-got. An aris-to has stan-dards."
"I wo-uld kill," she sa-id, her vo-ice flat and full of des-pa-ir. "I wo-uld
stab pe-op-le and ste-al the-ir pur-ses. I wo-uld rob the cor-p-ses of my
fa-mily. But I can-not sell myself on the stre-ets. I wo-uld go mad."
"Mur-de-ring pic-k-poc-kets sel-dom ma-ke eno-ugh to fe-ed them-sel-ves,
much less three pe-op-le," Old Bo-nes po-in-ted out.
A bi-zar-re sen-se of hu-mor sur-fa-ced. "You ex-pect to li-ve off the
re-wards of my who-re-dom?"
"It's lo-gi-cal. I can find the cus-to-mers, ma-ke cer-ta-in you're sa-fe."
"You can pro-tect me?" Her la-ugh was cold as ice.
"No one can pro-tect you. No one can pro-tect any of us. But I can help. You
sur-vi-ved on-ce- don't bot-her to deny it. I've li-ved on the stre-ets of
Pa-ris for too long not to ha-ve an idea of what hap-pe-ned to you when you
di-sap-pe-ared this sum-mer. You sur-vi-ved, but you fa-iled to pros-per. You
can do it aga-in, this ti-me for a go-od ca-use."
"Damn you, I can't…" Her cry of pro-test was in-ter-rup-ted by
Char-les-Lo-u-is's sud-den hac-king co-ugh.
"He ne-eds a blan-ket," Old Bo-nes sa-id, his crac-ked vo-ice pi-ti-less.
"He ne-eds warm so-up and me-di-ci-ne. He'll die, so-oner or la-ter. And he'll
die be-fo-re you do-he's much we-aker. Do you want to watch that?"
She shi-ve-red. It was cold, so very cold. She tho-ught back to Ma-da-me
Cla-ude, with her smug fa-ce and fi-ne she-ets, and she tho-ught of her
cus-to-mers. Of the rad-dled old earl with his tas-te for pa-in. Of Nic-ho-las
Blac-k-t-hor-ne, glan-cing at her and dis-mis-sing her as a fa-ce-less
pros-ti-tu-te.
"I won't go back the-re," she sa-id fi-er-cely.
"You don't ha-ve to go an-y-w-he-re. M. Por-cin at the but-c-her shop as-ked
me whet-her you might be ame-nab-le to ear-ning a lit-tle mo-ney. You wo-uld
go to his ho-use, and he wo-uld pay you." If he had be-en sympat-he-tic or
kind, she wo-uld ha-ve re-fu-sed. As it was, he was only mat-ter-of-fact. "An
ho-ur or less, Ghis-la-ine. Lying on yo-ur back, thin-king abo-ut all the ways
you co-uld spend a few ex-t-ra francs. How can you say no?"
She won-de-red. And then she knew that she wo-uldn't, co-uldn't say no. If
she had sur-vi-ved be-ing bo-und and ra-ped, she co-uld sur-vi-ve M. Por-cin's
gruff ple-asu-res. He was not a cru-el man-he oc-ca-si-onal-ly ga-ve her a
scrap or two of me-at for her brot-her, and his eyes we-re sad, not evil. She
co-uld ta-ke his mo-ney, and sur-vi-ve.
In the end, she did it three ti-mes. Twi-ce with M. Por-cin, when the
hun-ger grew too bad and Char-les-Lo-u-is's bo-nes be-gan to show thro-ugh his
pa-le, dirt-st-re-aked skin. She had ca-use to bless the chil-d-li-ke
si-len-ce that had des-cen-ded upon him. He didn't know what she was do-ing
for him. He ne-ed ne-ver know the sha-me his sis-ter had cho-sen.
The third ti-me was the fi-nal one, and she was ne-ver cer-ta-in if it
co-un-ted with the sins en-g-ra-ved on her so-ul or not, sin-ce the act wasn't
com-p-le-ted. It hardly mat-te-red. She'd lost her so-ul long ago. She'd lost
her God shortly the-re-af-ter.
"I won't," she told Old Bo-nes, when he'd in-for-med her so-me-one el-se had
de-man-ded her ser-vi-ces. "M. Por-cin is one thing. He's a kind man, and he
fi-nis-hes qu-ickly. He ex-pects not-hing of me. I won't go to a stran-ger…"
"Por-cin was ta-ken to-day," Old Bo-nes sa-id we-arily, too inu-red to show
sor-row or dis-may. "He was de-no-un-ced by a mem-ber of the ne-ig-h-bor-ho-od
com-mit-tee. They don't was-te the-ir ti-me with pe-op-le li-ke Por-cin. Mo-re
fod-der for Ma-da-me La Gu-il-lo-ti-ne."
Ghis-la-ine ac-cep-ted his fa-te with not-hing mo-re than a shrug,
dis-mis-sing a man who, in his way, had tri-ed to be kind. "So you ha-ve
al-re-ady fo-und a rep-la-ce-ment," she sa-id.

Old Bo-nes sho-ok his he-ad. "Not exactly. The man who de-no-un-ced Por-cin.
He had his re-asons."
Ghis-la-ine felt the first tiny tric-k-les of fe-ar pe-net-ra-te her

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de-fen-ses. "They we-re?"
"Por-cin's shop is a thri-ving bu-si-ness. The man wan-ted it. He al-so
wan-ted you."
She didn't flinch. "I ima-gi-ne the pros-pe-ro-us shop was a gre-ater
en-ti-ce-ment," she sa-id flatly. "I re-fu-se to ta-ke res-pon-si-bi-lity…"
"Stu-pid aris-to!" Old Bo-nes spat. "This isn't a ga-me. The man is
dan-ge-ro-us. He's as-ked for you. You can-not say no."
"I can! I can cho-ose."
"He'll find you. He's a po-wer-ful man, gro-wing mo-re po-wer-ful every day.
He's one of the le-aders of the new so-ci-ety, adept at stab-bing a
ne-ig-h-bor in the back, at fin-ding a we-ak-ness. He's al-re-ady ri-sen far
in the re-vo-lu-ti-onary go-ver-n-ment. The-re'll be no stop-ping him."
"I won't…"
"You will. You will go to his ho-use, and you will do an-y-t-hing he asks of
you. If you don't, Char-les-Lo-u-is will die."
"How co-uld he even know of us? Of me, of Char-les-Lo-u-is…?"
"You're a dis-tin-c-ti-ve sight, Ghis-la-ine. For all that you stay in the
sha-dows, the pe-op-le know of the aris-to and her brot-her, hi-ding in the
night. You're far too pretty, even in yo-ur rags, to es-ca-pe no-ti-ce. And
the man ma-kes it his bu-si-ness to know ever-y-t-hing. Don't think you can
pro-tect Char-les-Lo-u-is eit-her. You can pro-tect no one from this man. The
best you can ho-pe for is to ap-pe-ase him."
Once mo-re she glan-ced at Char-les-Lo-u-is. His eyes we-re clo-sed, his
mat-ted ha-ir ob-s-cu-ring his filthy fa-ce as he le-aned aga-inst the wall,
his thin chest ri-sing and fal-ling with the ef-fort of bre-at-hing. Every
word wo-uld ha-ve re-ac-hed his ears. She ho-ped and pra-yed that Old Bo-nes
was right, that no-ne of it re-ac-hed his mind.
"When?" she as-ked, kno-wing she had no cho-ice. "Whe-re?"
"Por-cin's old ho-use. He's al-re-ady ta-ken pos-ses-si-on. To-night. You
don't know the man, but don't be fo-oled if he pre-tends to be ple-asant. He's
a wolf who'd te-ar yo-ur thro-at out for ple-asu-re. Watch yo-ur-self."
"And who is this wolf?" she as-ked we-arily.
"His na-me," sa-id Old Bo-nes, "is Je-an-Luc Mal-vi-ver."
It to-ok Ghis-la-ine a mo-ment to re-ali-ze whe-re she was. Lying on her
back in a Scot-tish me-adow, the sun bright over-he-ad, the swe-et smell of
spring flo-wers te-asing her sen-ses. The gro-und was hard be-ne-ath her, but
no har-der than the stre-ets of Pa-ris. The sun was warm, bles-sedly so, and
the sky was very blue. The dark, stin-king city stre-ets we-re long go-ne. She
wo-uld ne-ver ha-ve to set fo-ot in Fran-ce aga-in.
For the first ti-me she wel-co-med the tru-ce Nic-ho-las had cal-led. If she
had no sen-se of ho-nor she co-uld be well on her way, out of his re-ach, and
for so-me re-ason she was lo-ath to go. She knew eno-ugh abo-ut hi-ding from
an im-p-la-cab-le, ra-pa-ci-o-us enemy to get away from him. But she'd gi-ven
her word, and she in-ten-ded to abi-de by it. Be-si-des, this day of pe-ace,
of warmth and sun-s-hi-ne and na-tu-re, was gi-ving her back so-met-hing she'd
lost long ago.
She sat up, sta-ring aro-und her with sim-p-le ple-asu-re. She'd ne-ver
tho-ught much abo-ut the fu-tu-re-li-fe was so-met-hing to be got-ten
thro-ugh, one day at a ti-me, and to re-pi-ne wo-uld be just as de-adly as to
ho-pe.
But if the winds of fa-te we-re kind, she wo-uld li-ke to li-ve in the
co-untry. So-mep-la-ce de-vo-id of city stinks and pe-op-le, a pla-ce with
tre-es and flo-wers and birds, with the smell of fresh earth and
swift-flo-wing wa-ter.
She li-ked this pla-ce. The pur-p-le-blue mo-un-ta-ins in the dis-tan-ce,
the an-ci-ent tre-es, the rocky so-il. It was un-li-ke any pla-ce she'd ever
be-en-both lo-nely and pe-ace-ful. She co-uld be happy in a pla-ce li-ke
this.
She had no idea whet-her it was the se-ason for ber-ri-es, but she ro-se
un-hur-ri-edly to her fe-et. Her ha-ir had dri-ed in a tan-g-le down her back,

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and she con-si-de-red hac-king it off with the now-sharp kni-fe Nic-ho-las had
gi-ven her. She co-uldn't do it. The vic-tims of Ma-da-me La Gu-il-lo-ti-ne
had the-ir long ha-ir crop-ped, so as not to in-ter-fe-re with the bla-de.
Every ti-me she tho-ught of chop-ping off her own locks she co-uld fe-el the
cold ste-el aga-inst her vul-ne-rab-le neck.
The-re we-re no ber-ri-es, but the-re we-re flo-wers. She knelt down,
brin-ging her fa-ce clo-se to in-ha-le the frag-ran-ce, lo-ath to end its
short swe-et li-fe by pluc-king it, when she he-ard a fa-mi-li-ar,
in-fu-ri-ating drawl.
"How char-mingly bu-co-lic, Ghis-la-ine," Blac-k-t-hor-ne sa-id. "Rat-her
li-ke Ma-rie An-to-inet-te pla-ying mil-k-ma-id. If I knew you we-re lon-ging
for ru-ral ple-asu-res, we co-uld ha-ve stop-ped so-oner."
She didn't mo-ve, un-wil-ling to gi-ve him that sa-tis-fac-ti-on, but the
scent of the flo-wer shar-pe-ned, gro-wing ac-rid. She ro-se, slowly, lo-oking
at him ac-ross the short ex-pan-se of cle-aring.
"Did you catch an-y-t-hing?" It was a po-li-te qu-es-ti-on, but he me-rely
sho-ok his he-ad, ad-van-cing on her, and her wa-ri-ness ex-p-lo-ded in-to
sud-den pa-nic.
"Not un-til this mo-ment," he sa-id.
She stum-b-led bac-k-ward when he re-ac-hed her, des-pe-ra-te to avo-id him.
"You ga-ve me yo-ur word you wo-uldn't to-uch me," she sa-id, not ca-ring that
her vo-ice sho-wed her fe-ar much too cle-arly.
His smi-le was nar-row and very dan-ge-ro-us. "What can I say, ma mie? As
usu-al, I li-ed."

Chapter 14

Ghis-la-ine lo-oked li-ke a frig-h-te-ned fawn, sta-ring at him out of
hu-ge, dark eyes. She sel-dom sho-wed fe-ar, but this mo-ment was dif-fe-rent.
Her de-fen-ses had mo-men-ta-rily fled, and Nic-ho-las told him-self he was
glad. The small tra-ce of com-pun-c-ti-on he felt was easily ig-no-red.
"I'm only go-ing to kiss you, ma bel-le," he mur-mu-red, his vo-ice low and
so-ot-hing, the vo-ice he used for cal-ming res-ti-ve hor-ses and ner-vo-us
wo-men. He was very go-od at using that vo-ice; few wo-men co-uld re-sist its
se-duc-ti-ve purr.
Ghis-la-ine was ma-de of ster-ner stuff, of co-ur-se. He ex-pec-ted no less
of her. She con-ti-nu-ed to back away from him, as if he we-re the fi-end
in-car-na-te, so-met-hing he'd ex-pect of a we-aker so-ul. She wasn't a wo-man
who was easily co-wed-an-yo-ne who used po-ison so ef-fec-ti-vely was hardly a
shrin-king vi-olet. But the-re was so-met-hing abo-ut him that sho-ok her.
That know-led-ge ple-ased him im-men-sely.
"You pro-mi-sed," she sa-id aga-in, still bac-king away.
"I ha-ve no ho-nor, I war-ned you of that," he sa-id, ad-van-cing ste-adily.
"Be-si-des, it's a be-a-uti-ful af-ter-no-on, the-re's a soft bre-eze and a
lo-vely wo-man ne-arby. It's too much for even the sa-in-t-li-est so-ul to
re-sist."
"And you're hardly the-" She trip-ped as she mo-ved bac-k-ward, and he
ca-ught her as she fell, pul-ling her up aga-inst him with only the lig-h-test
of clasps. She strug-gled, but he knew a to-ken strug-gle when he felt one.
She was ca-pab-le of much mo-re for-ce.
"J-ust a kiss, lo-ve," he sa-id, put-ting his fin-gers un-der her chin and
til-ting her he-ad up to me-et his mo-uth. She held very still as his lips
tas-ted hers, but he co-uld fe-el the fa-int tre-mor that ran thro-ugh her
small, strong body, and he won-de-red idly what ca-used it. Hat-red? Or
de-si-re?
He lif-ted his he-ad to lo-ok down at her. Her eyes we-re clo-sed, and her
fa-ce lo-oked whi-te, stra-ined. "Open yo-ur mo-uth," he mur-mu-red. "The
so-oner you gi-ve in, the so-oner it will be over. It's not-hing mo-re than a
sim-p-le kiss."

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It re-qu-ired only the slig-h-test pres-su-re of his fin-gers to ma-ke her
open her mo-uth, and he kis-sed her slowly, le-isu-rely, with all the
ex-per-ti-se he had at his com-mand. She sto-od in his arms, if not
ac-qu-i-es-cent, at le-ast not fig-h-ting him. Her body was stiff at first,
and then slowly grew mo-re pli-ant, her hips til-ting up aga-inst his with the
light en-co-ura-ge-ment of his hand at the small of her back, her per-fect
bre-asts thro-ugh the thin la-yers of clot-hing pres-sing aga-inst his chest.
He co-uld he-ar the lazy buzz of be-es in the bac-k-g-ro-und, the dis-tant
song of birds, and the wind rus-t-led thro-ugh the le-aves over-he-ad as he
kis-sed her, un-til she was sha-king, un-til he was sha-king, un-til he
wan-ted to push her down in the swe-et-smel-ling grass and te-ar away her
clot-hes and his, un-til he wan-ted to find com-fort in the swe-et dan-ger of
her body.
He was ne-ver qu-ite cer-ta-in what stop-ped him.
Su-rely not a lack of de-si-re-he was as randy as a yo-ung boy, re-ady to
burst if she even to-uc-hed him.
May-be it was the way her hands tig-h-te-ned on his sho-ul-ders in
hel-p-less ple-ading. May-be it was the sof-t-ness of her body and the
fe-ro-city of her so-ul. May-be for on-ce in his li-fe he wan-ted to do a
de-cent thing.
He re-le-ased her slowly, bre-aking the kiss first, tra-iling his mo-uth
ac-ross her che-ek un-til he knew she co-uld stand wit-ho-ut fal-ling. Un-til
he knew he co-uld stand wit-ho-ut fal-ling. And then he step-ped back.
"You see," he sa-id in a vo-ice that so-un-ded com-p-le-tely un-mo-ved.
"Not-hing but a sim-p-le kiss."
Her eyes flut-te-red open, and she sta-red up at him in shock and dis-may.
An odd re-ac-ti-on, to be su-re, to so-met-hing as com-mon-p-la-ce as a kiss,
he tho-ught.
"If that was a sim-p-le kiss," she sa-id, "I can't ima-gi-ne what a
com-p-li-ca-ted one wo-uld be li-ke."
"I co-uld al-ways show you," he sa-id, re-ac-hing for her, but she was
qu-ick this ti-me, dan-cing out of his re-ach. "Whe-re are you go-ing?"
"Back to the ho-use. If you've fa-iled to pro-vi-de us with fish for
din-ner, I'm go-ing to ha-ve to do so-met-hing abo-ut it myself. That
an-ci-ent chic-ken Ta-ver-ner bro-ught back will ta-ke ho-urs be-fo-re it's
edib-le."
"I sup-po-se you'll want me to wring its neck," he sa-id in a
long-suf-fe-ring to-ne.
Her smi-le was just slightly un-set-tling. "Not at all. I'm very go-od at
kil-ling… chic-kens."
He co-uldn't help it, he let out a sho-ut of la-ug-h-ter, one free of the
dar-k-ness that usu-al-ly ho-ve-red aro-und him. "Just so long as you don't
po-ison the po-or cre-atu-re."
She was sta-ring at him as if she'd ne-ver se-en him be-fo-re, her hu-ge
brown eyes wi-de and wary, her de-lec-tab-le mo-uth open in sur-p-ri-se. She
lo-oked as if she'd se-en a ghost.
"Why are you lo-oking so stric-ken?" he as-ked, still
un-c-ha-rac-te-ris-ti-cal-ly go-od-hu-mo-red. "Did I dis-co-ver yo-ur fo-ul
plan? If you'll par-don the pun."
He co-uldn't co-ax an an-s-we-ring smi-le from her at his dre-ad-ful joke.
She simply sta-red at him, as-hen-fa-ced. And then she tur-ned and ran.
He was half-tem-p-ted to cha-se af-ter her, but he kept still as she ra-ced
ac-ross the me-adow, her skirts and ches-t-nut ha-ir flying be-hind her. She
lo-oked li-ke a wo-od spri-te; in-no-cent, de-lec-tab-le, and he knew if he
cha-sed her he'd catch her all too easily. He wasn't re-ady to do that, as he
felt his light mo-od dar-ken on-ce mo-re.
He'd left his fis-hing tac-k-le down by the ri-ver when he'd gi-ven in to
tem-p-ta-ti-on and co-me in se-arch of her. He'd go back and fetch it. For one
bri-ef mo-ment she'd co-me sur-p-ri-singly clo-se to kis-sing him back.
Per-haps he'd be ab-le to co-ax an even mo-re en-t-hu-si-as-tic res-pon-se

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from her as the sha-dows len-g-t-he-ned.
He wasn't qu-ite su-re if he wan-ted her en-t-hu-si-asm. It was the most
ob-vi-o-us re-ven-ge of all, se-du-cing the ha-te-fil-led Ghis-la-ine,
strip-ping her clot-hes, her an-ger, her de-fen-ses away, un-til she was lying
en-t-wi-ned with him, pan-ting, bre-at-h-less, sa-ted and di-sar-med. It
wo-uld be far too easy. He knew how to ma-ke a wo-man res-pond to him-he was
adept at it, and even so-me-one as mur-de-ro-usly ven-ge-ful as Ghis-la-ine
wo-uldn't be ab-le to wit-h-s-tand him for long.
He smi-led mir-t-h-les-sly. As a ta-lent, se-duc-ti-on ran-ked so-mew-he-re
abo-ve skill with cards and a step be-low fi-ne hor-se-man-s-hip. He
pos-ses-sed tho-se two ta-lents as well. Why wasn't the world his to
com-mand?
His ear-li-er, equ-ab-le mo-od had va-nis-hed with
day-light as he ma-de his way back to the dec-re-pit ho-vel that had on-ce
be-en a gen-t-le-man's ele-gant hun-ting lod-ge. Smo-ke was is-su-ing from the
chim-ney, the ri-pe smell of wo-od smo-ke te-asing the air, and he re-ali-zed
it had grown chilly on-ce mo-re. He pa-used, sta-ring at the ru-ined ho-use,
and won-de-red whet-her, if things had be-en dif-fe-rent, he co-uld ha-ve
sa-ved it. And then he shrug-ged. The da-ma-ge had be-en do-ne long ago,
de-ca-des of neg-lect ta-king the-ir toll and the fi-re be-ing the fi-nal
straw. His mar-ti-net of a fat-her had be-en unin-te-res-ted in fri-vo-lo-us
ple-asu-res such as hun-ting, and the mad Blac-k-t-hor-nes we-ren't no-ted for
the ca-re they ga-ve the-ir pro-perty. Tho-ugh gi-ven the ex-tent of the
ru-ina-ti-on, it was pro-bably his gran-d-fat-her who had first let the pla-ce
di-sin-teg-ra-te.
That gran-d-fat-her had be-en mur-de-red in his mar-ri-ed mis-t-ress's bed.
One un-c-le had be-en kil-led in a du-el, anot-her by his own hand. It was no
won-der the pla-ce in Scot-land had fal-len to rack and ru-in. The
Blac-k-t-hor-nes we-re too busy des-t-ro-ying them-sel-ves to pay he-ed to a
sim-p-le co-untry ho-use.
What wo-uld it ta-ke to put the pla-ce in go-od he-art aga-in? Mo-re than he
pos-ses-sed, that was cer-ta-in. He wasn't su-re why he'd held on to the
pla-ce-it was pa-tently ab-surd when you con-si-de-red the fi-ve hun-d-red
ac-res of pri-me hun-ting and fis-hing land that sur-ro-un-ded the bu-il-ding.
He co-uld ha-ve sold it ti-me and aga-in to pay a por-ti-on of his
mo-nu-men-tal debts, to sta-ke him-self to a new ro-und of ga-ming. But he
hadn't, and he co-uld only bla-me an er-rant sen-ti-men-tal stre-ak.
The-re was no ro-om in his li-fe for sen-ti-ment, for warmth or we-ak-ness.
The be-a-uty of the co-un-t-r-y-si-de had al-most tric-ked him in-to thin-king
ot-her-wi-se. By now he sho-uld ha-ve le-ar-ned that the only thing he co-uld
co-unt on was him-self.
One thing was for cer-ta-in; he wasn't go-ing to spend anot-her chas-te
night in bed with Ghis-la-ine. He was go-ing to se-du-ce her out of her
mur-de-ro-us in-tent and then aban-don her. His ear-li-er fancy of ta-king her
back to Lon-don was dis-car-ded. She was ha-ving a de-mo-ra-li-zing ef-fect on
him. He was star-ting to ca-re abo-ut her. And he had no in-ten-ti-on of
ca-ring abo-ut an-yo-ne.
He no-ti-ced no sign of Tavvy, a fact which both ple-ased and dis-tur-bed
him. He knew only a mo-ment's dis-com-fort when he saw the re-ma-ins of the
chic-ken Ghis-la-ine had but-c-he-red and gut-ted. The-re wasn't a chef in the
world who co-uld stay squ-e-amish.
The chic-ken might ha-ve be-en old and to-ugh, but it cer-ta-inly smel-led
won-der-ful when he step-ped in-to the-ir ma-kes-hift ro-om. Ghis-la-ine was
at the far end, eye-ing him wa-rily, and he no-ti-ced with pas-sing reg-ret
that she'd bun-d-led her silky ches-t-nut ha-ir be-hind her.
He was ti-red of wa-iting. She was the-re, at his mercy, and he wan-ted her.
Why in God's na-me sho-uld he he-si-ta-te? He'd al-ways pri-ded him-self on a
to-tal lack of de-cen-cy-ur-ges and de-si-res we-re to sa-tisfy, and to hell
with the cost. He co-uldn't af-ford to we-aken now. If he sho-wed Ghis-la-ine
any pity, he'd end up with a kni-fe in his thro-at or a belly full of

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po-ison.
He might very well end up that way des-pi-te his best ef-forts. It only
ma-de sen-se to enj-oy what his ho-pe-ful exe-cu-ti-oner had to of-fer. Even
re-luc-tant, her mo-uth was very swe-et. And the en-t-hu-si-as-tic ser-ving
ma-id at the inn a few nights back had only ma-na-ged to whet his ap-pe-ti-te.
No sub-s-ti-tu-te wo-uld do. It was Ghis-la-ine he wan-ted writ-hing be-ne-ath
him, ta-king him in-to her tight, fi-er-ce lit-tle
body. It was Ghis-la-ine he wo-uld ha-ve.

***

Ghis-la-ine knew that her ti-me had run out. She ac-cep-ted that fact with
de-ter-mi-ned fa-ta-lism. So he wo-uld ta-ke her body. It was only to be
ex-pec-ted. If she had any sen-se at all she'd be glad of it, joy-ful that he
was gi-ving her even mo-re ca-use for her bit-ter hat-red of him. At a ti-me
when that hat-red was fal-te-ring, she ne-eded all the fury she co-uld
mus-ter.
If only he hadn't smi-led. To-day had be-en a di-sas-ter from start to
fi-nish, an as-sa-ult on her de-ter-mi-na-ti-on and her de-fen-ses. The dark
satyr had di-sap-pe-ared, rep-la-ced by a wor-ld-we-ary co-untry gen-t-le-man
with a dan-ge-ro-us sen-se of hu-mor and a smi-le that wo-uld melt the he-art
of a gor-gon. Whi-le she had do-ne her best to har-den her own he-art, a part
of it was still omi-no-usly vul-ne-rab-le, and his smi-le had be-en
sun-s-hi-ne to her win-ter so-ul.
But the-re was no smi-le on his fa-ce now, no lig-h-t-ness. If she hadn't
known ot-her-wi-se, she wo-uld ha-ve tho-ught he'd spent the last ho-urs
clo-se-ted with a brandy bot-tle. The warmth of the af-ter-no-on, the
in-no-cen-ce of a co-untry me-adow had va-nis-hed in-to so-met-hing dark and
twis-ted. And she told her-self she wel-co-med the dar-k-ness. The-re wo-uld
be no dan-ger of suc-cum-bing.
"I'm ti-red of wa-iting, ma bel-le," he sa-id, and the-re was fa-int
con-tempt be-hind the ca-su-al en-de-ar-ment.
Ghis-la-ine held her-self very still. The wa-ter sur-ro-un-ding the chic-ken
car-cass was too far from bo-iling to do any las-ting da-ma-ge, and she wasn't
cer-ta-in of the ex-tent of her strength. How far co-uld she hurl the cast
iron? To be su-re, if she ma-na-ged to bring it down over his he-ad, she might
very well kill him, but he was a gre-at de-al tal-ler than she was, and she
didn't think she co-uld re-ach that high. And she co-uldn't very well ask him
to bend down and pre-sent a bet-ter tar-get, co-uld she?
The-re was the but-c-her kni-fe she'd used on the hap-less bird. Des-pi-te
her blo-od-t-hirsty stan-ce, she'd ne-ver be-en over-fond of but-c-he-ring,
not even so-met-hing as stu-pid and me-an and dirty as a chic-ken. She was
still fe-eling slightly sic-ke-ned by the fe-el and smell of the kni-fe
sli-cing in-to li-ve flesh-she sin-ce-rely do-ub-ted her abi-lity to per-form
that act aga-in in the ne-ar fu-tu-re. Even on the man sta-ring at her with an
in-fu-ri-ating com-bi-na-ti-on of moc-kery and lust.
She was not de-fen-se-less, she tho-ught. No, she was ne-ver de-fen-se-less.
As long as she had her wits and her ton-gue, she co-uld still fight him off.
"No," she sa-id. "Don't co-me any clo-ser."
The she-er re-aso-nab-le-ness of her sta-te-ment star-t-led him in the midst
of his dan-ge-ro-us prog-ress. If she co-uld just stall him un-til the wa-ter
bo-iled she might ha-ve a fig-h-ting chan-ce.
"No?" he ec-ho-ed. "I don't think you ha-ve any say in the mat-ter."
"Is ra-pe one of yo-ur many hob-bi-es? I knew you we-re des-pi-cab-le, but I
as-su-med even you might ha-ve so-me stan-dards."
His smi-le wasn't re-as-su-ring. "I've ne-ver ra-ped an-yo-ne in my li-fe,"
he sa-id, ad-van-cing slowly. "I de-ci-ded it was ti-me for a new
ex-pe-ri-en-ce. If it co-mes to that. I don't think it will."
She wan-ted to ex-p-lo-de with fury. "You think I'll gi-ve in wil-lingly?
You think I'm fo-ol eno-ugh to be be-sot-ted with you, so that all you ha-ve

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to do is to-uch me and I'll melt?"
"No. I think you're an emi-nently prac-ti-cal Fren-c-h-wo-man who knows I'm
a gre-at de-al stron-ger than she is. Fig-h-ting wo-uld be a was-te of ti-me.
Par-ti-cu-larly when I'm co-ming to the con-c-lu-si-on that yo-ur
ma-iden-he-ad isn't at sta-ke he-re."
She fo-und she co-uld match his moc-kery. "You me-an you do-ubt my
in-no-cen-ce? Lud, sir, how in-sul-ting!"

"You co-uldn't ha-ve sur-vi-ved in Pa-ris for long wit-ho-ut lo-sing yo-ur
vir-gi-nity. It's of no im-por-tan-ce to me."
"I'm so glad you still find me worthy of yo-ur at-ten-ti-ons," she sa-id,
her ton-gue li-ke acid. A stray shim-mer was for-ming in the wa-ter in the
pot. A few mo-re mi-nu-tes and it wo-uld be a full, rol-ling bo-il. "If you're
ex-pec-ting an ar-ray of ero-tic ta-lents, I fe-ar you'll be sadly
di-sap-po-in-ted."
"I don't," he sa-id, and he was too clo-se. "Obvi-o-usly yo-ur
ex-pe-ri-en-ces ha-ven't left you with any par-ti-cu-lar af-fec-ti-on for the
sport. You fight yo-ur own res-pon-ses every ti-me I to-uch you."
"I fight you!"
He shrug-ged, his smi-le dark and moc-king. "If you in-sist. You can tell
yo-ur-self an-y-t-hing that will ma-ke you happy. That the soft lit-tle
so-unds you will ma-ke are so-unds of pro-test. That the way yo-ur body will
clench aro-und mi-ne is in re-vul-si-on. That you only kiss me be-ca-use you
must. It mat-ters not to me."
Almost bo-iling. She ed-ged clo-ser to the sto-ve, ho-ping the mo-ve se-emed
na-tu-ral, a con-cer-ned co-ok chec-king on the din-ner. "If you to-uch me,
I'll fight you," she sa-id fi-er-cely, tes-ting the we-ight of the pot with a
sur-rep-ti-ti-o-us mo-ve-ment. It was so dam-nably he-avy!
"If I to-uch you, you'll suc-cumb. Shall I de-mon-s-t-ra-te?" He'd re-ac-hed
her. The bed was just be-hind him, and she knew he co-uld drag her over the-re
qu-ite easily and ta-ke her with all the fi-nes-se and spe-ed of the but-c-her
in Pa-ris.
"To-uch me and I'll kill you." She co-uld at le-ast tip the pot, splas-hing
the bo-iling wa-ter aga-inst his legs. Aga-inst hers as well, but the pa-in
wo-uld be worth it, and she'd be po-ised to run whi-le he to-ok the brunt of
the bo-iling stew.
"So you ha-ve sa-id, in-nu-me-rab-le ti-mes," he sa-id pa-ti-ently. "But you
know, my swe-et mur-de-ress, it might just be worth it."
She mo-ved with lig-h-t-ning spe-ed, tip-ping the he-avy pot for-ward. It
ba-rely mo-ved, her wrist ca-ught in a bo-ne-crus-hing grip as he ha-uled her
away from her only we-apon. "I'm on to you, lo-ve," he sa-id.
"It will be ra-pe," she sa-id in a wild fury.
"No," he sa-id. "It won't."
She sur-vi-ved the fi-er-ce pos-ses-si-on of his kiss. She sur-vi-ved his
over-po-we-ring strength, as he pul-led her to the bed, pus-hing her down and
co-ve-ring her fla-iling limbs with his strong body. She sur-vi-ved the to-uch
of his hands on her bre-asts, the fe-el of his aro-usal aga-inst her sto-mach.
But she co-uldn't sur-vi-ve the sud-den gen-t-le-ness, the slow start of he-at
in her belly, the warmth in her bre-asts, the dam-nab-le ye-ar-ning that
blos-so-med in her he-art.
He lif-ted his he-ad and lo-oked down at her, and his eyes glit-te-red in
the dim light. "You see, Ghis-la-ine? No ra-pe at all."
He le-aned for-ward to kiss her aga-in, and she knew that if his lips
to-uc-hed hers one mo-re ti-me, she wo-uld be lost. She jer-ked her he-ad away
from him, won-de-ring at the unex-pec-ted tig-h-t-ness in her thro-at, the
bur-ning at the back of her eyes. "If you do this," she sa-id, "I won't worry
abo-ut kil-ling you."
His smi-le was in-fu-ri-atingly smug. "I tho-ught not."
"I will kill myself."
It stop-ped him, at le-ast for a mo-ment. Her sta-te-ment was bri-ef,

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im-p-la-cab-le; and at the mo-ment she me-ant every word of it. He was wi-se
eno-ugh to know that.
"Don't be me-lod-ra-ma-tic," he sa-id, his vo-ice strip-ped of pas-si-on.
"We've al-re-ady as-cer-ta-ined this won't be the first ti-me. What wo-uld
yo-ur Cat-ho-lic God say?"
"My Cat-ho-lic God di-ed on the gu-il-lo-ti-ne. I'm a true child of the
re-vo-lu-ti-on-I ha-ve no fa-ith. If the-re is an af-ter-li-fe, it has to be
bet-ter than this one. If you con-ti-nue what you're do-ing, I'll find out."
"I can stop you."
Slowly she sho-ok her he-ad. "You might be ab-le to stop me from kil-ling
you. It wo-uld be a gre-at de-al har-der to stop me from kil-ling myself.
The-re are cliffs, ri-vers, oce-ans. I co-uld jump out of a fast-mo-ving
car-ri-age. I co-uld kill myself with a kni-fe fas-ter than you co-uld
ima-gi-ne. The-re are parts of the body whe-re one ble-eds fre-ely and
qu-ickly, brin-ging a swift end. You co-uldn't stop me."
Still he didn't mo-ve. His hands res-ted aga-inst her bre-asts but they
we-ren't ca-res-sing, and his ex-p-res-si-on was ble-ak. "What ma-kes you
think I wo-uld ca-re?"
She'd won, and she knew it. She smi-led bit-terly. "You wo-uldn't. But you
might ha-ve a ca-re for yo-ur own li-mi-ted con-s-ci-en-ce. La-te at night, I
wo-uld ha-unt you. I wo-uld dri-ve you mad."
"My swe-et Ghis-la-ine," he sa-id we-arily, "that wo-uld be not-hing you
ha-ven't al-re-ady do-ne to me." He mo-ved his hands from her bre-asts,
run-ning them up her body to crad-le her stub-born fa-ce. "And I'm not su-re
that it wo-uldn't be worth it." He put his mo-uth on hers then, damp, wet, and
open, and kis-sed her, slowly, ca-re-ful-ly, using his ton-gue, and she
wan-ted to cry out in agony and gri-ef. She ra-ised her hands to push at his
sho-ul-ders, kno-wing it wo-uld be fru-it-less aga-inst his he-ar-t-less
de-ter-mi-na-ti-on. But in-s-te-ad her hands slid aro-und his neck, pul-ling
him clo-ser, and for the first ti-me in her li-fe, she kis-sed him back.
It was a won-der. She felt as if she we-re flo-ating, lost in the fe-el of
his lips on hers, the shoc-king in-ti-macy of his ton-gue in her mo-uth, mo-re
in-ti-ma-te than an-y-t-hing she'd en-du-red du-ring her en-for-ced
co-up-lings. She wan-ted to dis-sol-ve, to lo-se her-self in the se-duc-ti-ve
won-der of his mo-uth pos-ses-sing hers. She wan-ted it ne-ver to stop, to
last fo-re-ver in a bil-lo-wing clo-ud of pas-si-on wit-ho-ut end.
"Ahem!" Ta-ver-ner's fa-mi-li-ar coc-k-ney to-nes bro-ke thro-ugh the
dre-am-li-ke ha-ze that sur-ro-un-ded her. "Blac-k-t-hor-ne…"
"Get the hell out he-re, Tavvy!" Nic-ho-las sa-id in a vi-ci-o-us vo-ice,
not bot-he-ring to lo-ok at his in-t-ru-si-ve ser-vant. "Now!"
"Beg-ging yer par-don, but that's so-met-hing I'm not pre-pa-red to do.
We've got tro-ub-le, and the-re's no ti-me for dal-lying."
For a mo-ment Nic-ho-las drop-ped his he-ad be-si-de hers, bur-ying his
fa-ce in her ha-ir, and she co-uld he-ar his la-bo-red bre-at-hing as he
strug-gled to bring him-self back un-der con-t-rol. And then he bo-un-ded from
the bed, aban-do-ning her swiftly, and she wan-ted to curl up in a tiny ball
of sha-me and mi-sery.
"This had bet-ter be dam-ned go-od!" he snar-led, and from her van-ta-ge
po-int on the bed Gilly re-cog-ni-zed the fury that had pos-ses-sed him when
he'd co-me af-ter her.
Ta-ver-ner was unim-p-res-sed. "It's dam-ned bad!" he sa-id frankly. "Jason
Har-g-ro-ve di-ed a lit-tle over a we-ek ago. Bad eno-ugh, con-si-de-ring, but
ap-pa-rently his lady wi-fe has felt the pub-lic dis-g-ra-ce to be a lit-tle
mo-re than she fan-ci-es, and she's be-en tel-ling a story whe-re-in you
fi-gu-re mig-h-tily as a vil-la-in."
Ghis-la-ine sat up, re-ac-hing to pull her clot-hes back aro-und her, when
she re-ali-zed with shock that they we-re still de-cently fas-te-ned. She'd
only felt na-ked in his arms. "Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne a vil-la-in?" she
sa-id, ma-na-ging to ma-ke her vo-ice light and moc-king. "Who co-uld ever
be-li-eve such a thing?"

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He spa-red her a glan-ce. "You re-co-ver qu-ickly, ma bel-le," he
mur-mu-red, and she won-de-red if she reg-ret-ted her ras-h-ness.
"She's sa-ying you ra-ped her," Ta-ver-ner con-ti-nu-ed, un-da-un-ted. "And
that in-s-te-ad of fig-h-ting a fa-ir du-el, you shot her hus-band in the
back."
"I've ne-ver ra-ped a wo-man in my li-fe," Nic-ho-las draw-led, un-mo-ved by
this ca-ta-lo-gue of his cri-mes. "Yet." He spa-red a me-anin-g-ful glan-ce at
Ghis-la-ine as she slid off the bed and mo-ved over to the fi-re. "You and I
both know the truth of my en-co-un-ter with her hus-band, not to men-ti-on our
se-conds. I don't sup-po-se an-yo-ne has bot-he-red to spe-ak in my
de-fen-se?"
"Not that I know of. They're af-ter you, and that’s a fact. Word's be-en put
out, and the lo-cal ma-gis-t-ra-te is just wa-iting for a chan-ce to ma-ke
him-self a he-ro. And that's not all."
Nic-ho-las sig-hed. "It was too much to ho-pe for."
"Her mis-t-ress is af-ter you." He jer-ked his he-ad in Ghis-la-ine's
di-rec-ti-on.
"El-len?" Gilly mur-mu-red, hor-ri-fi-ed.
"I don't be-li-eve you!" Nic-ho-las sa-id. "My prim co-usin wo-uld hardly go
ha-ring off af-ter a ser-vant. But then, Mam-zel-le is mo-re than a ser-vant,
isn't she? Still, I can't ima-gi-ne her brot-her wo-uld sit still for that."
"I do-ubt her brot-her knows. She's not alo-ne. She's tra-ve-ling with
so-me-one by the na-me of Wil-ton-Gre-ening, and they're pro-bably less than a
day away from us."
"God help us," Nic-ho-las sa-id fa-intly, re-ac-hing for the bot-tle of
brandy. Ghis-la-ine wat-c-hed in fas-ci-na-ti-on as he tip-ped a ge-ne-ro-us
por-ti-on down his thro-at. "How'd you find this out?"
"Ap-pa-rently this gent sent word ahe-ad to bes-pe-ak ro-oms at the inn. And
the stuff with the merry wi-dow is the la-test on-dit." The French term sat
oddly on Ta-ver-ner's ro-ugh ac-cent. "I've ta-ken the li-berty of se-e-ing to
tran-s-port."
"I knew I co-uld co-unt on you," Nic-ho-las sa-id, mo-ving to-ward the
fi-re. Ghis-la-ine scut-tled back, out of his re-ach, and his re-ac-ti-on was
to sho-ot her a wry, kno-wing smi-le. "What ha-ve you got?"
"Two ships, le-aving from Dun-s-ter. One for Fran-ce, with de-cent
ac-com-mo-da-ti-ons. The se-cond for Hol-land. That one's an ol-der ship, a
har-der cros-sing, and why sho-uld you want to go to Hol-land? I bes-po-ke
pas-sa-ge on the French ship."
"For the three of us, I trust?" Nic-ho-las sa-id in a sil-ken vo-ice.
"Aye."
Ta-ver-ner's word of as-sent was drow-ned out by Ghis-la-ine's cry of
hor-ror. "No!" she cri-ed.
Nic-ho-las glan-ced at her. "You don't li-ke oce-an vo-ya-ges, my pet? You
suf-fer from mal de mer, per-haps? Don't worry, I'll hold yo-ur he-ad."
"I won't go back to Fran-ce."
"Hol-land is ow-ned by Fran-ce at the mo-ment. I can't see why it sho-uld
ma-ke any dif-fe-ren-ce to you."
"I can't," she sa-id, he-aring the des-pe-ra-ti-on in her vo-ice and ha-ting
it. "Ple-ase. An-y-t-hing is pre-fe-rab-le to Fran-ce."
"Ple-ase, Ghis-la-ine? Do I he-ar you beg-ging? You've thre-ate-ned, you've
as-ked, but I ha-ven't he-ard you beg yet," he mur-mu-red. "Let me sa-vor the
ex-pe-ri-en-ce."
"The French ship's a bet-ter cho-ice," Ta-ver-ner sa-id in a ne-ut-ral
vo-ice. "She's ne-wer, the ro-ute's mo-re di-rect, and she le-aves a day
ear-li-er. That gi-ves you one less day to risk get-ting ca-ught by tho-se who
are af-ter yo-ur blo-od."
Nic-ho-las glan-ced at her, al-most ca-su-al-ly. She'd gi-ven him
in-con-tes-tab-le po-wer over her, and the-re was no way she co-uld pre-tend
ot-her-wi-se. Now that he knew what most ter-ri-fi-ed her, he wo-uld ha-ve his
re-ven-ge, at his le-isu-re, and the-re was not-hing she co-uld do abo-ut it.

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"We'll ta-ke the la-ter ship," he sa-id, tur-ning away. He was in no
par-ti-cu-lar hurry to hum-b-le her, now that he had the key to her gre-atest
fe-ars. The-se things we-re bet-ter sa-vo-red. "I've a lon-ging to see
Hol-land. You know what a pas-si-on I ha-ve for… che-ese. Be-si-des, I fancy
we might tra-vel down to Ve-ni-ce. I don't ima-gi-ne Ghis-la-ine has ever
se-en the Grand Ca-nal. Ha-ve you, my pet?"
She felt we-ak with re-li-ef. All she co-uld do was sha-ke her he-ad as she
tur-ned to sta-re down at the stew. Her eyes we-re hot, stin-ging, and she
knew it had to be be-ca-use of the ste-am.
"As you wish," Ta-ver-ner sa-id. "If I we-re you I wo-uldn't plan on
spen-ding any mo-re ti-me he-re. Pe-op-le know you own this pla-ce-it's the
lo-gi-cal spot to lo-ok for you if so-me-one has a mind to find you."
"Ob-vi-o-usly Tony Wil-ton-Gre-ening do-es," Nic-ho-las mur-mu-red. "Tho-ugh
it's dif-fi-cult to ima-gi-ne him bes-tir-ring him-self to do an-y-t-hing
qu-ite so ener-ge-tic. He must be in lo-ve with my shy co-usin El-len." His
fa-ce dar-ke-ned for a mo-ment. "Or is he in lo-ve with you, ma bel-le? Has
Tony be-en trif-ling be-low-s-ta-irs?"
"Don't be dis-gus-ting," she ro-used her-self to say, an-ger bur-ning away
that stran-ge, achy fe-eling.
Nic-ho-las's smi-le was fa-int and dan-ge-ro-us. "I wo-uldn't bla-me him.
But for ever-yo-ne's sa-ke I ag-ree with Ta-ver-ner. As so-on as we eat
Ghis-la-ine's no-do-ubt de-lec-tab-le din-ner, we'll get back on the ro-ad
aga-in. I don't fancy ha-ving to kill so-me-one el-se, and if Tony hasn't
chan-ged sin-ce I knew him at Cam-b-rid-ge, I ima-gi-ne he won't ta-ke no for
an an-s-wer. Be-si-des, I don't want to risk lo-sing my pri-ze."
"It'll ta-ke us the bet-ter part of a day to re-ach Dun-s-ter as it is,"
Ta-ver-ner ag-re-ed. "That car-ri-age do-esn't ha-ve the spe-ed of a sin-g-le
hor-se."
"Don't lo-ok so dis-t-ra-ught," Nic-ho-las sa-id, his long fin-gers lightly
ca-res-sing Ghis-la-ine's che-ek be-fo-re she jer-ked away. "We'll find a bed
so-on eno-ugh."
She'd be-en gran-ted a rep-ri-eve. So-mew-he-re bet-we-en this de-ser-ted
pla-ce and bo-ar-ding the ship for Hol-land, she'd find a way to es-ca-pe. All
she had to do was slip away and hi-de, wa-iting for El-len to co-me. If she
co-uld hi-de from all the ma-ra-uding evil in Pa-ris, she co-uld hi-de from
one de-ter-mi-ned man, even one who knew her far too well.
She might al-most ha-ve tho-ught he'd ta-ken pity on her when he'd told
Tavvy they'd ta-ke the ship to Hol-land. She sho-uldn't ha-ve bet-ra-yed her
pa-nic. He co-uld go to Fran-ce if he wis-hed, be-ca-use the-re was no chan-ce
in hell she'd be on that ship. Even if he ma-na-ged to drag her on bo-ard, she
wo-uldn't last long eno-ugh to re-ach Fran-ce.
She wo-uld ne-ver set fo-ot on French so-il aga-in. She had sworn it, a
fi-er-ce pro-mi-se to her-self that over-ru-led ever-y-t-hing, in-c-lu-ding
her vow to aven-ge her-self.
But it had simply be-en a qu-ixo-tic ges-tu-re on his part. Her fe-ar of
Fran-ce wo-uld only ha-ve in-c-re-ased his de-ter-mi-na-ti-on to ta-ke her
the-re. Why did she ke-ep for-get-ting he was the enemy, the agent of her past
tra-ge-di-es, the in-s-t-ru-ment of her des-t-ruc-ti-on?
God help her, why had she kis-sed him back?

Chapter 15

Sir An-tony Wil-ton-Gre-ening had ne-ver tho-ught of him-self as be-ing
par-ti-cu-larly rut-h-less. To be su-re, he usu-al-ly knew what he wan-ted,
and he ma-na-ged to get it with the mi-ni-mum of fuss. He hadn't tho-ught of
him-self as the sort to simply ri-de ro-ug-h-s-hod over ob-s-tac-les in his
path. The-re-fo-re, his plan to in-ca-pa-ci-ta-te the es-ti-mab-le Miss
Bin-ner-s-ton both sur-p-ri-sed and amu-sed him.
She didn't trust him aro-und her hel-p-less lit-tle lamb. Not that El-len

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was the slig-h-test bit hel-p-less-in the three days on the ro-ad, he'd co-me
to the con-c-lu-si-on that she was far mo-re ca-pab-le and de-ter-mi-ned than
he had ever gu-es-sed. But Miss Bin-ner-s-ton knew her li-ve-li-ho-od
de-pen-ded on El-len be-ing both on the shelf and bid-dab-le, and she was
do-ing her best to en-su-re that un-hap-py sta-te con-ti-nu-ed, up to and
in-c-lu-ding sha-ring El-len's bed when the-re was ab-so-lu-tely no ne-ed of
it.
He sho-uld be flat-te-red that Bin-nie con-si-de-red him eno-ugh of a
dis-ho-no-rab-le, ma-ra-uding ma-le that he might bre-ach the fas-t-ness of
El-len's vir-gi-nal bed-c-ham-ber, but in-s-te-ad he was pro-fo-undly
ir-ri-ta-ted. Who did she think he was, Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne? An-tony
Wil-ton-Gre-ening had ne-ver do-ne a shabby, dis-ho-no-rab-le thing in his
li-fe.
Until to-day.
"Whe-re's Bin-nie?" El-len as-ked as he clim-bed up in-to the car-ri-age
la-te that mor-ning.
He scho-oled his fe-atu-res in a lo-ok of de-ep con-cern. "Go-ne," he sa-id
suc-cinctly, thin-king of the wo-man he'd left loc-ked up-s-ta-irs, po-un-ding
on the do-or of the bed-c-ham-ber and shri-eking li-ke a harpy.
"Don't be ri-di-cu-lo-us, Tony," El-len sa-id in a com-for-tab-le vo-ice. "I
just saw her."
"I told her I'd tell you the dre-ad-ful news." He kept his vo-ice so-lemn,
won-de-ring at his sud-den ac-ting abi-lity. "She's had word that her sis-ter
is de-athly ill."
"Sis-ter? Bin-nie's ne-ver men-ti-oned a sis-ter. I tho-ught she was an only
child."
"Half-sis-ter," Tony sa-id promptly.
"But she ne-ver men-ti-oned-"
"On the wrong si-de of the blan-ket," he con-ti-nu-ed, the ta-le gro-wing
mo-re co-lor-ful. "They've be-en es-t-ran-ged, due to her mot-her's mo-ral
out-ra-ge over the en-ti-re af-fa-ir, but now her sis-ter may be on her
de-at-h-bed, and Bin-nie has no cho-ice but to rush to her si-de. I left her
the whe-re-wit-hal for a pri-va-te co-ach, and Hig-gins will ac-com-pany
her."
"This is un-be-li-evab-le!" El-len sa-id.
"Tra-gic," Tony sa-id.
"And you left yo-ur va-let be-hind as well?"
"Hig-gins in-sis-ted. It gri-eved Bin-nie ter-ribly to aban-don you in yo-ur
ho-ur of ne-ed, but blo-od is thic-ker than wa-ter and all that. And it was a
mat-ter of li-fe and de-ath." He ma-na-ged to lo-ok su-itably so-lemn.
Ellen sho-ok her he-ad. "Unbe-li-evab-le," she mur-mu-red aga-in. "At le-ast
she de-ci-ded she co-uld trust you."
Tony wasn't su-re how to ta-ke that, but sin-ce the co-ac-h-man had
al-re-ady star-ted on the fi-nal leg of the jo-ur-ney to-ward Scot-land, he
was pre-pa-red to in-ves-ti-ga-te. "Was the-re ever any qu-es-ti-on?"
"Not in my mind, of co-ur-se," El-len sa-id with ar-t-less can-dor. She was
we-aring a gown of a not-too-flat-te-ring sha-de of yel-low, and Bin-nie had
con-t-ri-ved to dress her ha-ir in a se-ve-re knot be-fo-re Hig-gins had
way-la-id her. She still ma-na-ged to lo-ok un-de-ni-ably lus-ci-o-us. "I know
as well as you do that my re-pu-ta-ti-on stands in no dan-ger from you," she
con-ti-nu-ed, una-wa-re of the lus-t-ful di-rec-ti-on his tho-ughts we-re
ta-king.
"What do you me-an?" He won-de-red how tightly she was la-ced un-der that
too-fus-sy dress. He won-de-red what she'd lo-ok li-ke in so-met-hing
sim-p-ler, with flo-wing li-nes to com-p-le-ment her won-der-ful-ly ro-un-ded
fi-gu-re. He won-de-red what she'd lo-ok li-ke in ab-so-lu-tely not-hing at
all.
"All of so-ci-ety knows that Sir An-tony Wil-ton-Gre-ening is abo-ve
rep-ro-ach. No one wo-uld ever think you might do so-met-hing
dis-ho-no-rab-le. Why, you're li-ke an un-c-le to me."

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He simply sta-red at her, out-ra-ge ren-de-ring him mo-men-ta-rily si-lent.
"An un-c-le?" he sa-id fi-nal-ly, his vo-ice co-ming out in an un-dig-ni-fi-ed
squ-e-ak.
She smi-led. "Well, an ol-der brot-her," she tem-po-ri-zed. "I don't think
it in yo-ur na-tu-re even to con-tem-p-la-te do-ing so-met-hing less than
ho-no-rab-le. You simply don't ha-ve it in you to be a ra-ke."
Every man sec-retly con-si-de-red him-self so-met-hing of a ra-ke. At
he-aring his pre-ten-si-ons das-hed so ru-dely by his in-ten-ded, Tony felt a
sur-ge of qu-ite dis-ho-no-rab-le in-tent bur-ge-on wit-hin him. "I'm not
Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne, that's for cer-ta-in," he sa-id in a sil-ken
vo-ice, fu-ming.
Ellen la-ug-hed. "You cer-ta-inly aren't! That's one thing I li-ke abo-ut
you, Tony, you're so com-for-tab-le. We don't ne-ed to stand on ce-re-mony
with each ot-her. Whe-re-as Nic-ho-las is de-ci-dedly… un-set-tling. Even to a
lowly dis-tant co-usin."
Tony gro-und his te-eth. He wan-ted to be the one to un-set-tle her. As she
was un-set-tling him. "May-be I sho-uld cul-ti-va-te so-me of
Blac-k-t-hor-ne's ec-cen-t-ri-ci-ti-es. I wo-uldn't want to be con-si-de-red
im-pos-sibly sta-id and pre-dic-tab-le." He wa-ited for her to pro-test.
"Com-for-tably sta-id and pre-dic-tab-le," El-len sa-id with a soft la-ugh
that gra-ted on his ner-ves. "I con-fess, I'm not sorry Bin-nie had to go to
her sis-ter, tho-ugh of co-ur-se I reg-ret the re-ason."
This was so-un-ding slightly mo-re pro-mi-sing. "Why aren't you sorry?"
"She'd grown ri-di-cu-lo-usly over-p-ro-tec-ti-ve. On the one hand, I
sympat-hi-ze. She knows that to en-su-re her fu-tu-re she ne-eds to ke-ep me
pro-perly de-pen-dent on her. She kept war-ning me abo-ut you. I sup-po-se she
was af-ra-id you we-re ma-le eno-ugh to let yo-ur ba-se na-tu-re over-co-me
you and of-fer me an in-sult. Isn't that the most ri-di-cu-lo-us thing you've
ever he-ard?"
"Ri-di-cu-lo-us," Tony grow-led.
"She's not be-en aro-und men much, of co-ur-se, and she as-su-mes they're
all ra-ve-ning be-asts who only ne-ed to lo-ok at a fe-ma-le to be con-su-med
by ani-mal in-tent. I tri-ed to ex-p-la-in to her that you we-re per-fectly
har-m-less, but she wo-uldn't lis-ten."
"Per-fectly har-m-less," Tony ec-ho-ed.
Ellen's be-a-uti-ful fo-re-he-ad cre-ased in sud-den dis-may. "Are you
fe-eling all right, Tony? You so-und a lit-tle… dis-tur-bed."
De-ran-ged, he tho-ught, ke-eping his fa-ce blank. Ra-ve-ning, lus-t-ful,
in-fu-ri-ated, and frus-t-ra-ted. He won-de-red what his swe-et El-len wo-uld
do if he pul-led her in-to his arms and pro-ce-eded to de-mon-s-t-ra-te just
how far from har-m-less he ac-tu-al-ly was.
And then his sen-se of hu-mor, badly sha-ken, sur-fa-ced, and he ga-ve her
an iro-nic smi-le. "I must con-fess, El-len, my an-gel, that even the most
phleg-ma-tic of men don't li-ke to con-si-der them-sel-ves sta-id,
pre-dic-tab-le, and per-fectly har-m-less."
She snug-gled de-eper in-to the se-at, and the smi-le she shot him was
ab-so-lu-tely en-c-han-ting. "But, Tony, su-rely you wo-uldn't want me to
har-bor any ro-man-ti-cal fe-elings for you? Think how in-con-ve-ni-ent they
wo-uld be."
He tho-ught abo-ut it. Tho-ught abo-ut how he'd felt the sa-me thing, a few
short days ago. He'd wan-ted a du-ti-ful, af-fec-ti-ona-te wi-fe, one who
ca-me to the mar-ri-age bed with a swe-et, com-p-li-ant na-tu-re and no
high-flown, emo-ti-onal de-mands.
And now, per-ver-sely, he wan-ted de-mands. He wan-ted El-len to sigh and
blush and trem-b-le. He wan-ted that sin-g-le-min-ded ado-ra-ti-on he'd ta-ken
for gran-ted when she was se-ven-te-en. To hell with com-fort.
He le-aned back, stret-c-hing his long legs out in front of him, and
ma-na-ged a tight smi-le. "De-fi-ni-tely in-con-ve-ni-ent," he ag-re-ed.
"Gi-ven our un-con-ven-ti-onal cir-cum-s-tan-ces."
"And you are the most con-ven-ti-onal of men."

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That was al-most the last straw. He was abo-ut to sur-ge off the se-at and
grab her when his hap-less co-ac-h-man dro-ve over one of the pot-ho-les that
lit-te-red the king's hig-h-ways, tos-sing him off-ba-lan-ce, back on-to his
own se-at. By the ti-me he fi-nis-hed his mut-te-red cur-sing, he had his
tem-per back un-der a sem-b-lan-ce of con-t-rol. "Com-p-le-tely
con-ven-ti-onal," he ag-re-ed, thin-king of the way-la-id Miss Bin-ner-s-ton.
He de-ci-ded to chan-ge the su-bj-ect be-fo-re he throt-tled her. "We're
dra-wing ne-ar the bor-der," he sa-id. "If our luck holds, we sho-uld catch up
with them by to-night. You'll be-co-me each ot-her's cha-pe-rons, and the-re
won't be any hint of im-p-rop-ri-ety."
"I've told you…"
"Ple-ase don't tell me aga-in," he beg-ged. "It un-mans me to he-ar how
har-m-less I am. Al-low me so-me il-lu-si-ons. We'll dri-ve stra-ight to
Blac-k-t-hor-ne's hun-ting lod-ge, fetch yo-ur co-ok, and dri-ve on to a small
inn a few mi-les dis-tant whe-re I've al-re-ady bes-po-ken ro-oms. It will be
a long day, but it will be worth it in the end."
"What if he won't let her co-me?" El-len as-ked in a qu-i-et vo-ice.
"What if she do-esn't want to co-me?" he co-un-te-red.
"I told you, she ha-tes men."
"Nic-ho-las can be very per-su-asi-ve. In the fi-ve days they've be-en go-ne
he might ha-ve ta-ught her to li-ke them very much in-de-ed."
"I can't ima-gi-ne it," she sa-id frankly.
He smi-led then, sud-denly fe-eling mo-re self-as-su-red. It was ama-zing
what El-len's de-vas-ta-ting can-dor co-uld do to his mas-cu-li-ne va-nity. He
wo-uld ta-ke gre-at ple-asu-re in dis-pel-ling her no-ti-on that he was
har-m-less. And in te-ac-hing her just how be-gu-iling physi-cal lo-ve co-uld
be.
"We'll de-al with that prob-lem when it ari-ses," he sa-id in-s-te-ad. "I'm
not abo-ut to let Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne hold an un-wil-ling fe-ma-le
pri-so-ner. Be-si-des, he cle-arly do-esn't know that he's be-ing so-ught for
kil-ling Jason Har-g-ro-ve. I ima-gi-ne on-ce he dis-co-vers that fact he'll
be a gre-at de-al mo-re in-te-res-ted in re-ac-hing the con-ti-nent than in
mat-ters of the flesh."
"I ho-pe so," El-len sa-id do-ub-t-ful-ly. "I don't want you hurt, Tony."
Tony gro-und his te-eth. "I can ac-qu-it myself well eno-ugh in a du-el,
swe-eting."
"But Nic-ho-las can be qu-ite rut-h-less."
He wat-c-hed the de-lec-tab-le ri-se and fall of her bre-asts be-ne-ath the
bright yel-low dress. "So," he sa-id blandly, "can I."
Lady El-len Fit-z-wa-ter was torn. Not an unu-su-al oc-cur-ren-ce in the
te-nor of her li-fe, of co-ur-se. She'd al-ways ad-mi-red Gilly's
de-ci-si-ve-ness. She her-self had a la-men-tab-le ten-dency to con-si-der all
si-des of an is-sue, af-ra-id to act for fe-ar of ma-king the wrong mo-ve.
When she did do so-met-hing im-pul-si-vely, ig-no-ring the con-se-qu-en-ces,
the re-sults we-re of-ten di-sas-t-ro-us.
For in-s-tan-ce, when she'd ac-cep-ted the most Re-ve-rend Al-vin Pur-ser's
con-des-cen-ding pro-po-sal, she'd do-ne so in-s-tantly, out of she-er
gra-ti-tu-de and the un-de-ni-ab-le lon-ging for chil-d-ren. She'd known Tony
was fo-re-ver be-yond her to-uch, and she'd de-ci-ded to be prac-ti-cal, to
ta-ke wha-te-ver hap-pi-ness she co-uld find.
Even tho-ugh she hadn't li-ked to ad-mit it, the-re was a cer-ta-in com-fort
in the know-led-ge that she wo-uld be mar-rying be-ne-ath her. Al-vin was of
de-cent eno-ugh stock, a yo-un-ger son with no ex-pec-ta-ti-ons out-si-de the
church. A mar-ri-age to the da-ug-h-ter of the aris-toc-racy was a prac-ti-cal
mo-ve on his part, and her own unac-k-now-led-ged su-pe-ri-ority in the match
hel-ped her pri-de.
Only to ha-ve it das-hed all the mo-re ef-fec-ti-vely when he sum-ma-rily
jil-ted her. If she hadn't felt si-lently, pat-he-ti-cal-ly su-pe-ri-or to the
match, its dis-so-lu-ti-on wo-uldn't ha-ve hit so hard. She wo-uldn't ha-ve
felt qu-ite so sha-med, that even a pe-dan-tic, un-p-re-pos-ses-sing, prosy

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cle-ric jud-ged her and fo-und her wan-ting.
The blow to her pri-de, the one pos-ses-si-on she had, was al-most
un-be-arab-le. The pit-ying glan-ces, the con-des-cen-ding com-ments, the
ut-ter deg-ra-da-ti-on of it all we-re over-w-hel-ming, and she'd simply
ta-ken the first es-ca-pe she co-uld find.

She'd run away to Pa-ris a few short we-eks af-ter pe-ace had be-en
dec-la-red, ho-ping to hi-de from ever-yo-ne who knew her. For a we-ek she'd
be-en re-la-ti-vely con-tent, al-most ab-le to con-vin-ce her-self that
pe-op-le wo-uld for-get. That the ap-pe-aran-ce and di-sap-pe-aran-ce of the
Re-ve-rend Al-vin Pur-ser in her li-fe was not-hing mo-re than a mo-men-tary
aber-ra-ti-on. Un-til she'd chan-ced to run in-to a ma-li-ci-o-us
ac-qu-a-in-tan-ce, one of Tony's ex-flirts, who ma-de it mo-re than cle-ar
that El-len was the la-ug-hin-g-s-tock of Lon-don so-ci-ety. And that de-ar
Tony was hor-ri-fi-ed.
The ne-ed to put a pe-ri-od to her exis-ten-ce se-emed pa-in-ful-ly
ob-vi-o-us in that city of do-omed lo-ve and ex-t-re-me emo-ti-ons. El-len
hadn't tho-ught of her-self as the me-lod-ra-ma-tic type, but the pros-pect of
re-tur-ning to Lon-don and fa-cing the con-tempt of so-ci-ety was mo-re than
she co-uld con-tem-p-la-te.
She'd aban-do-ned the ever-lo-yal Miss Bin-ner-s-ton and wal-ked the
stre-ets of Pa-ris blindly, ob-li-vi-o-us to any dan-ger she might run, trying
to work up the co-ura-ge to do what she had to do. She en-ded alo-ne on a
brid-ge in one of the shab-bi-est parts of the city, sta-ring down in-to the
swift-flo-wing, murky wa-ters of the Se-ine, and won-de-ring how long it
wo-uld ta-ke to drown her-self.
She'd just be-gun to climb up on the sto-ne ra-iling when a vo-ice ca-me to
her out of the foggy night, and for a mo-ment she tho-ught it was an an-gel.
Ex-cept for the ru-de-ness of the words.
'The-re is not-hing mo-re stu-pid," the vo-ice sa-id, in pre-ci-se,
Fren-ch-ac-cen-ted En-g-lish, "than to kill yo-ur-self over a man."
Ellen had pa-used, per-c-hed in-con-g-ru-o-usly on the sto-ne ra-iling of
the brid-ge, won-de-ring if it was the vo-ice of her con-s-ci-en-ce. And then
thro-ugh the swir-ling fog a small, clo-aked fi-gu-re ap-pe-ared, ad-van-cing
on her with a stern ex-p-res-si-on.
"Ce-ase this fo-olis-h-ness at on-ce," she had snap-ped, but El-len still
didn't mo-ve, sta-ring down at the small wo-man with the in-no-cent, pi-qu-ant
fa-ce and the an-ci-ent brown eyes. She was dres-sed pla-inly, in the clot-hes
of the ser-ving clas-ses, but her vo-ice, and her know-led-ge of En-g-lish,
bet-ra-yed her.
"I don't see what bu-si-ness it is of yo-urs," El-len ma-na-ged to say in a
starchy vo-ice.
"You lo-ok ri-di-cu-lo-us up the-re, hal-f-way up, hal-f-way down. Trust the
En-g-lish to botch things. If you want to die, do so whe-re pe-op-le don't
ha-ve to watch."
"I didn't know an-yo-ne was aro-und."
"The stre-ets of Pa-ris are ne-ver empty, even at fo-ur-thirty in the
mor-ning."
She'd ma-na-ged to star-t-le El-len even mo-re. "It isn't fo-ur-thirty in
the mor-ning, is it?" she'd as-ked na-ively.
For a mo-ment her con-f-ron-ter's fa-ce sof-te-ned with a sympathy that for
so-me re-ason wasn't of-fen-si-ve. "Pa-uv-re pe-ti-te," she sa-id. "How long
ha-ve you be-en wan-de-ring aro-und in mi-sery? It's only ten o'clock. Long
past yo-ur bed-ti-me. Climb down from the-re, che-rie, and co-me with me. I am
Ghis-la-ine."
Ellen cast a last, lon-ging lo-ok at the swift-flo-wing ri-ver. It smel-led
ter-rib-le. For so-me re-ason that de-ci-ded her. She didn't want her de-ath
to be a smelly af-fa-ir. She wan-ted ro-man-ce; her pa-le, tra-gic cor-p-se
dra-ped in whi-te, sur-ro-un-ded by ro-ses, with ever-yo-ne fe-eling very,
very sorry they'd tre-ated her so shab-bily. The muddy pro-mi-se of the Se-ine

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was far too rank.
"Much bet-ter," the wo-man who cal-led her-self Ghis-la-ine sa-id when she
clim-bed back down on-to the cob-bles-to-ne stre-et. "No man is worth it." She
ca-me up to her, and El-len no-ti-ced ab-sently that she was tiny, much
shor-ter than her own ad-mit-tedly sta-tu-es-que he-ight, and her hands we-re
small, well-sha-ped, and very cle-an. She re-ac-hed up and pul-led El-len's
fur-trim-med ca-pe aro-und her. "You're lucky so-me-one didn't ta-ke the
de-ci-si-on out of yo-ur hands," she sa-id frankly. "To walk aro-und the
stre-ets of Pa-ris, dres-sed in a clo-ak that wo-uld fe-ed a fa-mily for half
a ye-ar, is not a cle-ver thing to do. When did you last eat?"
"I… I don't know," she stam-me-red.
"I will ta-ke you to the inn whe-re I work. I'm a co-ok, a very go-od co-ok.
You won't be ab-le to re-sist my ra-go-ut. I will fe-ed you, I will lis-ten to
yo-ur wo-es, and I will gi-ve you a tal-king-to such as yo-ur own mot-her
sho-uld ha-ve do-ne."
"My mot-her is de-ad."
Ghis-la-ine had shrug-ged. "So is mi-ne. That do-esn't me-an you ne-ed to
ma-ke any has-te to jo-in her. Co-me with me, ma-de-mo-isel-le, and I will put
strength in you."
And the mi-ra-cu-lo-us thing was, she had. With a com-bi-na-ti-on of stew,
fresh bre-ad, bul-lying, and sympathy, Ghis-la-ine had hel-ped El-len mo-ve
from pa-ral-y-zing self-pity to a new de-ter-mi-na-ti-on. It was clo-se to
fi-ve in the mor-ning when she'd sent El-len ho-me in a hi-red car-ri-age, and
she was ab-so-lu-tely right. Even then the stre-ets of Pa-ris we-re far from
de-ser-ted.
Ellen had go-ne back, of co-ur-se, sur-p-ri-sing Ghis-la-ine, sur-p-ri-sing
her-self. She'd go-ne back for be-ef ra-go-ut and ba-gu-et-tes, for com-mon
sen-se and a fri-en-d-s-hip such as she'd ne-ver ex-pe-ri-en-ced. And when it
was ti-me for her to re-turn to En-g-land, she'd beg-ged and ple-aded for
Gilly to ac-com-pany her.
It was a joy-ful sur-p-ri-se when she'd ac-cep-ted. A di-sap-po-in-t-ment
when she in-sis-ted on co-ming as a ser-vant only. Du-ring the past ye-ar
she'd tri-ed to ke-ep tho-se bar-ri-ers in pla-ce, but Gilly tal-ked to her as
no one el-se ever had; frankly, ho-nestly, for-cing her to see things as they
we-re. She owed her her li-fe. The very tho-ught that she'd be-en re-ady to
des-t-roy her-self over so-me-one as in-sig-ni-fi-cant as Al-vin Pur-ser, for
so-met-hing as shal-low as pri-de, was an em-bar-ras-sment. Ne-ver aga-in
wo-uld she al-low her emo-ti-ons to over-set her.
Fi-nal-ly she was be-ing gi-ven a chan-ce to re-pay her mo-nu-men-tal debt.
She had no idea why Nic-ho-las wo-uld ha-ve ab-s-con-ded with Gilly, but she
knew full well that it was aga-inst her will. Gilly had be-en con-s-tant in
her dis-t-rust and dis-li-ke of the ma-le sex-even a dan-ge-ro-usly
at-trac-ti-ve ra-ke such as Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne wo-uldn't be ab-le to
bre-ak thro-ugh her de-fen-ses.
It was icing on the ca-ke that re-pa-ying her debt in-c-lu-ded spen-ding
ti-me with Tony. The-se last few days had be-en he-aven, she-er he-aven, and
its own kind of tor-ment. So-oner or la-ter Tony wo-uld find so-me pretty,
de-li-ca-te miss, fresh from the scho-ol-ro-om, and marry her. And she wo-uld
at-tend the wed-ding with Car-mic-ha-el and Liz-zie, and she wo-uld smi-le.
She wo-uld do it, of co-ur-se, ne-ver bet-ra-ying that her he-art was
bro-ken. Just as she had sur-vi-ved the past few days with her ar-mor in-tact.
Not by any lin-ge-ring glan-ce, or sigh, or way-ward tho-ught wo-uld she
bet-ray the vastly dis-t-res-sing truth she'd just dis-co-ve-red. That she
still lo-ved him as much as she al-ways had.
And that bro-ught her to her pre-sent pre-di-ca-ment. To be su-re, day
af-ter day of be-ing tos-sed aro-und in her brot-her's well-sp-rung car-ri-age
ma-de her bo-nes ac-he, her te-eth rat-tle, and her tem-per be-co-me sadly
di-sar-ran-ged. But that was mo-re than ba-lan-ced by the fact that she was
with Tony. On-ce she left the car-ri-age she'd be le-aving him, and this
bri-ef, mad pe-ri-od wo-uld ne-ver co-me aga-in. She was as-to-nis-hed that

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she'd got-ten away with it so far. Even mo-re as-to-nis-hed that God had se-en
fit to re-mo-ve Bin-nie's stul-tif-ying pre-sen-ce. For now, for to-day, Tony
was all hers. And she had every in-ten-ti-on of enj-oying him to the
ful-lest.
Odd, tho-ugh, he'd lo-oked very dis-g-run-t-led when she'd re-as-su-red him
abo-ut her lack of ro-man-tic no-ti-ons. She wo-uld ha-ve tho-ught he'd be
glad to he-ar her well-craf-ted re-as-su-ran-ces, which we-re, of co-ur-se,
ar-rant li-es. In-s-te-ad, he'd se-emed al-most of-fen-ded.
He didn't want her-su-rely he wasn't ar-ro-gant eno-ugh to ex-pect her to
long for him when he didn't re-cip-ro-ca-te? Gilly had war-ned her most men
wo-uld. She'd al-ways tho-ught Tony to be abo-ve that sort of thing. Now she
won-de-red.
Be-ca-use the-re was only one ot-her ex-p-la-na-ti-on for his pa-tently
dis-g-run-t-led re-ac-ti-on when she'd set out so tac-t-ful-ly to re-as-su-re
him. And that ex-p-la-na-ti-on was fra-ught with its own emo-ti-onal im-pact.
Su-rely he co-uldn't re-al-ly want her af-ter all, co-uld he?
She dis-mis-sed that no-ti-on as qu-ickly as it en-te-red her bra-in. He was
lo-un-ging in the se-at op-po-si-te her, sta-ring out the win-dow as they
mo-ved as swiftly as the wret-c-hed hig-h-ways al-lo-wed. The-ir si-len-ces,
as al-ways, we-re com-pa-ni-onab-le, and the long ti-me they'd spent in each
ot-her's com-pany sin-ce they'd first left Car-mic-ha-el's ho-me hadn't
chan-ged that. He was still Tony. Tall, lo-ose-lim-bed, ele-gant, and a
lit-tle pro-per. He co-uld ha-ve an-yo-ne he wan-ted. All he had to do was
smi-le his sle-epy smi-le, lo-ok at a wo-man from his be-a-uti-ful gray eyes,
and she'd be lost fo-re-ver. As El-len her-self had be-en for the past ten
ye-ars.

"Tony," she sa-id, her vo-ice shy and he-si-tant.
"Yes, lo-ve," he sa-id, mo-re alert than she wo-uld ha-ve gu-es-sed.
"I've enj-oyed myself tre-men-do-usly the-se last few days." She had to say
it, be-fo-re she was too co-wardly to do so, be-fo-re she lost her only
chan-ce.
His wi-de, mo-bi-le mo-uth cur-ved in a gen-t-le smi-le, and she won-de-red,
for one bri-ef, self-in-dul-gent mo-ment, what that mo-uth wo-uld fe-el li-ke,
pres-sed aga-inst hers. The mo-uth of Al-vin Pur-ser had be-en soft and dry
and flabby, his kis-ses few and chas-te and res-pec-t-ful. She'd ne-ver be-en
kis-sed with any ar-dor. She wo-uld go to her gra-ve wit-ho-ut be-ing kis-sed
with ar-dor.
"How can you say so?" he pro-tes-ted. "Thrown aro-und in a co-ach for days
on end, a suc-ces-si-on of only me-di-oc-re pos-ting inns, with the sle-epy
Miss Bin-ner-s-ton and yo-ur hum-b-le ser-vant for com-pany? I won-der you
aren't re-ady to scre-am from bo-re-dom."
A sud-den worry struck her. "Ha-ve you be-en bo-red, Tony?" she as-ked
na-ively.
"Ne-ver for a mo-ment."
She be-li-eved him. Fo-olish on her part, wis-h-ful thin-king, but she
wan-ted him to enj-oy be-ing with her. As long as they we-re fri-ends, at
le-ast she'd re-ta-in that por-ti-on of his li-fe, to ke-ep clo-se to her
he-art and che-rish.
"How will you sur-vi-ve wit-ho-ut yo-ur va-let?" she as-ked.
"I be-li-eve I'm mo-re than ca-pab-le of dres-sing and sha-ving myself," he
draw-led, ac-cep-ting her chan-ge of su-bj-ect. "How will you do wit-ho-ut
Miss Bin-ner-s-ton to ser-ve as yo-ur abi-ga-il? As-su-ming we fa-il to
ret-ri-eve Ghis-la-ine be-fo-re nig-h-t-fall."
"Is the-re any do-ubt?"
"This en-ti-re en-ter-p-ri-se is fra-ught with do-ubt.
When you de-al with so-me-one li-ke Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne, the-re are
no cer-ta-in-ti-es what-so-ever. I'm ho-ping we'll set-tle things by to-night,
but the-re's no gu-aran-tee."
She ac-cep-ted that, simply be-ca-use she had no cho-ice but to do so. "I'm

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su-re I can pre-va-il upon one of the ma-ids at the inn to as-sist me."
"Or I can as-sist you," sa-id Tony blandly.
She dar-ted a lo-ok at him, wis-hing she co-uld re-ad what lay be-hind that
smo-oth ex-p-res-si-on, tho-se cle-ar gray eyes. He might ha-ve be-en
sug-ges-ting ca-nary in-s-te-ad of cla-ret for din-ner, so in-no-cent did he
se-em. And if he truly did see her in the light of a sis-ter, his
sug-ges-ti-on pro-bably wasn't as shoc-king as it first ap-pe-ared to be. Was
it?
"Thank you, but I think I can ma-na-ge by myself," she sa-id, ke-eping her
vo-ice even.
He shrug-ged, and his smi-le was slight. "As you wish. If you chan-ge yo-ur
mind, I've had a cer-ta-in amo-unt of ex-pe-ri-en-ce hel-ping la-di-es out of
the-ir clot-hes." He le-aned back aga-in, lo-oking lazy and dan-ge-ro-us.
"Clo-se yo-ur mo-uth, El-len."
Ellen clo-sed her mo-uth.
The ra-in be-gan by la-te af-ter-no-on, a ste-ady, he-avy dow-n-po-ur that
tur-ned the la-te spring hig-h-ways in-to a sea of mud. Even Car-mic-ha-el's
ex-cel-lent equ-ipa-ge had a hard ti-me na-vi-ga-ting the ro-ad, and Tony
wat-c-hed his ca-re-ful-ly la-id plans dis-sol-ve in the dow-n-po-ur.
He vi-ewed this with a fa-ir amo-unt of equ-ani-mity. His own co-ac-h-man
was a ta-len-ted whip-the-re was no qu-es-ti-on but they'd be sa-fe if the
he-avens ope-ned com-p-le-tely. The slow prog-ress was a ne-ces-sary evil.
El-len had drif-ted to sle-ep, lul-led by the ste-ady be-at of the ra-in on
the ro-of of the car-ri-age, and he'd tuc-ked a lap ro-be aro-und her,
con-t-rol-ling his com-p-le-tely dis-ho-no-rab-le and to-tal-ly
over-w-hel-ming ur-ge to smo-oth it over her ro-un-ded bre-asts. The ho-ur
wo-uld be much ad-van-ced by the ti-me they re-ac-hed Blac-k-t-hor-ne's
es-ta-te. Whi-le he had no very gre-at fa-ith in Blac-k-t-hor-ne's be-ing
re-aso-nab-le, he al-so knew that the man was a ra-ke-hell, a
ca-re-for-not-hing, and if by any chan-ce he had ab-s-con-ded with Ghis-la-ine
aga-inst her will, it wo-uldn't ta-ke much for him to re-lin-qu-ish her.
Mo-re li-kely he'd simply ma-na-ged to en-ti-ce her. Wo-men had in-for-med
Tony, El-len in-c-lu-ded, that Nic-ho-las was a very en-ti-cing fel-low, that
a stre-ak of mad-ness and dan-ger only ad-ded to his al-lu-re. By this ti-me
he'd do-ub-t-less grown ti-red of her-he wasn't known for his long-term
af-fa-irs. The news that Har-g-ro-ve had suc-cum-bed ought to put all ot-her
con-si-de-ra-ti-ons out of his mind.
Pro-bably El-len wo-uld in-sist that Ghis-la-ine sha-re her ro-om that
night. Pro-bably Nic-ho-las wo-uld put up a pro-test. Things we-re dra-wing to
a ra-pid clo-se, and it was past ti-me for Tony to ma-ke his mo-ve. If
an-yo-ne was go-ing to sha-re El-len's bed-ro-om to-night, it was go-ing to be
he.
Tony co-uld pic-tu-re it now-the pa-ne-led bed-ro-om, a warm fi-re bla-zing,
a hu-ge bed with cle-an whi-te she-ets. Thank God Blac-k-t-hor-ne had his own
ho-use up he-re. Tony had got-ten he-ar-tily sick of inns.
He glan-ced over at El-len. Her tightly bo-und ha-ir had be-gun to co-me
lo-ose from its pins, the gol-den strands fra-ming her soft, pa-le fa-ce. The
ti-me for cir-cum-s-pec-ti-on was past. By this ti-me to-mor-row they'd
pro-bably be he-ading back to-ward Lon-don. He ne-eded to ma-ke cer-ta-in she
knew she was co-ming with him.
Cle-arly she'd for-got-ten the shy, ten-der fe-elings she used to hold for
him in her he-art. Cle-arly he ne-eded to re-mind her. Gen-t-le
flir-ta-ti-o-us-ness had ava-iled him not-hing. It was ti-me to ra-ise the
sta-kes.

Chapter 16

Tony had long lost track of the ti-me. It had be-en dark for ho-urs, the
ra-in still co-ming down at a dis-mal ra-te, when the co-ach lur-c-hed to a

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sud-den, ab-rupt stop. He co-uldn't qu-ite be sorry for it, sin-ce it sent
El-len hur-t-ling ac-ross the car-ri-age to land aga-inst him in a
de-lig-h-t-ful, swe-et-smel-ling he-ap. He ca-ught her in-s-tin-c-ti-vely,
hol-ding her tight aga-inst him, tel-ling him-self he ne-eded to pro-tect her
in ca-se the car-ri-age over-tur-ned. But the fe-el of her he-art po-un-ding
thro-ugh the-ir va-ri-o-us la-yers of clot-hes, the soft de-light of her
bre-asts aga-inst his chest, we-re de-ci-dedly dis-t-rac-ting. She lo-oked up
at him out of star-t-led, vul-ne-rab-le eyes, her lips par-ted in
bre-at-h-less won-der, and he be-gan to con-si-der whet-her she ac-tu-al-ly
saw him in the light of an un-c-le af-ter all. It wo-uld be a sim-p-le eno-ugh
mat-ter to find out. Simply drop his mo-uth the few in-c-hes to hers and see
how she res-pon-ded. If she didn't shy away in hor-ror, he might even
con-si-der using his ton-gue.
She was wat-c-hing him, mes-me-ri-zed, as he slowly clo-sed the dis-tan-ce
bet-we-en the-ir lips, when the car-ri-age do-or was yan-ked open,
ef-fec-ti-vely des-t-ro-ying the mo-ment.
His co-ac-h-man, Dan-vers, was the most dis-c-re-et of men, and if he
no-ti-ced that Lady El-len Fit-z-wa-ter was lying on top of his mas-ter,
abo-ut to be tho-ro-ughly kis-sed, he ma-de no men-ti-on of the fact. Nor
wo-uld he ever. "We've got a prob-lem, Sir An-tony," he an-no-un-ced.
Tony re-le-ased El-len wit-ho-ut the fa-in-test show of re-luc-tan-ce. "So I
gat-he-red," he sa-id in his ple-asant vo-ice. "What's the dif-fi-culty?"
"Left le-ader stra-ined his hock. It's too dark to tell how bad it is, but
he's not go-ing any far-t-her to-night, that I can tell you. We pas-sed a
far-m-ho-use a ways back. I can see if they've got a spa-re hor-se, tho-ugh
I'm do-ub-ting they'll ha-ve one tra-ined to work in a fo-ur-so-me. At le-ast
they co-uld of-fer us hos-pi-ta-lity, or a ri-de to Blac-k-t-hor-ne's pla-ce.
By my rec-ko-ning it's not mo-re than a mi-le away, per-haps less."
"J-ust our luck," Tony sa-id grimly, sta-ring past his co-ac-h-man as he
sto-od fra-med in the do-or. The ra-in was co-ming down in tor-rents, ma-king
the night im-pe-net-rab-le. "We'll awa-it yo-ur re-turn. See if you can bring
so-me warm blan-kets for her lad-y-s-hip when we con-vey her back to the
far-m-ho-use."
Dan-vers nod-ded and shut the do-or be-hind him, but not be-fo-re El-len
sa-id in a very calm, very de-ter-mi-ned vo-ice, "I'm not go-ing to the
far-m-ho-use."
"I beg yo-ur par-don?"
"You he-ard what yo-ur co-ac-h-man sa-id. Ghis-la-ine is less than a mi-le
away. If you think I'm go-ing to spend the night at a far-m-ho-use, kno-wing
she's in re-ach, suf-fe-ring…"
"We ha-ven't as-cer-ta-ined that she's suf-fe-ring in the slig-h-test. As a
mat-ter of fact, our ar-ri-val at this ti-me of night might be de-ci-dedly de
trop. We'd be much bet-ter off ava-iling our-sel-ves of the hos-pi-ta-lity of
the farm we just pas-sed, and mo-ve on to Blac-k-t-hor-ne in the mor-ning,
when we're res-ted, and when this dam-nab-le ra-in has stop-ped."
Frus-t-ra-ti-on was ma-king him less than dis-c-re-et with his ton-gue, but he
de-ci-ded he'd be-en aro-und El-len eno-ugh that he didn't ha-ve to worry
abo-ut an oc-ca-si-onal damn he-re and the-re.
"No, Tony," she sa-id, pul-ling her ca-pe mo-re clo-sely aro-und her and
lif-ting the ho-od over her he-ad. For a mo-ment he was too as-to-nis-hed to
do an-y-t-hing but watch as she re-ac-hed for the do-or han-d-le, but then his
wits re-tur-ned, along with his ref-le-xes, and he ca-ught her slen-der wrist
and yan-ked her back with lit-tle re-gard pa-id to gen-t-le-manly
be-ha-vi-or.
"You're not go-ing wan-de-ring off in a dow-n-po-ur alo-ne, dres-sed li-ke
that," he sa-id, his vo-ice gro-wing sharp in the dark and damp. "You'd end up
in a bog, or so-met-hing equ-al-ly dis-tas-te-ful."
"I'm go-ing af-ter her, Tony." Her vo-ice bro-oked no ar-gu-ments.
"To-night."
"And how do you in-tend to find her?"

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"Fol-low the ro-ad. I pre-su-me it will le-ad to Nic-ho-las's lod-ge
even-tu-al-ly."
"That, or to a bog. Lis-ten to re-ason, El-len."
"I'm go-ing."
He cur-sed aga-in. Not a po-li-te damn or hell, but so-met-hing vi-vid
eno-ugh to bring bright co-lor to her che-eks. Wit-ho-ut a word he shrug-ged
in-to his gre-at-co-at, wrap-ped his muf-fler abo-ut his he-ad, and kic-ked
the do-or open, knoc-king the steps down in-to the ra-iny night. He sprang
down, shud-de-ring as the icy ra-in des-cen-ded on his he-ad, and held out his
hand for El-len. "Let’s go," he sa-id, ha-ving to ra-ise his vo-ice over the
din of ra-in and wind.
She step-ped down, es-c-he-wing his hand, and the storm hit her full for-ce,
knoc-king her bac-k-ward slightly. He ma-de no mo-ve to as-sist her, me-rely
wat-c-hing as she im-me-di-ately be-ca-me as wet as he was. "I'm not go-ing to
the far-m-ho-use," she war-ned.

He con-si-de-red pic-king her up and tos-sing her over his sho-ul-der. He
co-uld do it-she was a big wo-man, but he was a much big-ger man, and he
co-uld han-d-le her. In ef-fect he had two cho-ices. He co-uld walk half a
mi-le in a dow-n-po-ur, a lar-ge, angry wo-man strug-gling on his sho-ul-der,
or he co-uld walk a mi-le with a de-ter-mi-ned yo-ung lady wal-king be-si-de
him. Sin-ce the bed and the me-al that awa-ited him at Blac-k-t-hor-ne's
es-ta-te wo-uld do-ub-t-less be far su-pe-ri-or to the sim-p-le far-m-ho-use
fa-re, he de-ci-ded he might as well gi-ve in with go-od gra-ce. Be-si-des, if
he car-ted El-len to the far-m-ho-use, she was mo-re than ca-pab-le of ta-king
off thro-ugh a win-dow and con-ti-nu-ing her qu-est. Le-aving him to fol-low
in her wa-ke.
"Dan-vers," he sa-id in a long-suf-fe-ring vo-ice, "you'd best ta-ke the
hor-ses back to the far-m-ho-use and se-ek shel-ter for yo-ur-self. Her
lad-y-s-hip and I will con-ti-nue on to Blac-k-t-hor-ne's." He gla-red up at
El-len. "You're a dan-ge-ro-us wo-man, you know that?" he sa-id, do-ing his
best to ig-no-re the ra-in that tric-k-led down the col-lar of his
gre-at-co-at. "Yo-ur co-ok had best be all she's crac-ked up to be. I ex-pect
to be well fed when we get the-re." He held out his arm, wa-iting for her to
ta-ke it.
She did no such thing. She flung her-self aga-inst him, her arms aro-und his
neck, and kis-sed him so-lidly, aw-k-wardly, en-t-hu-si-as-ti-cal-ly on his
mo-uth. "Bless you, Tony. I knew I co-uld co-unt on you." She re-le-ased him
be-fo-re he co-uld res-pond. Be-fo-re he co-uld dis-co-ver whet-her they might
ge-ne-ra-te a lit-tle body he-at on this cold, wet night.
"I'm an ab-so-lu-te sa-int," he grum-b-led, ta-king her arm in his. And
to-get-her they set off in-to the wa-ter-log-ged dar-k-ness.
It was mo-re than a mi-le. Not that El-len was ter-ri-fi-cal-ly go-od at
jud-ging dis-tan-ces, but su-rely the en-d-less mi-sery of trud-ging thro-ugh
the icy ra-in, the mud so-aking her bo-ots and pul-ling at her, the wind
whip-ping thro-ugh her clot-hing un-til she tho-ught her very bo-nes might
rat-tle to-get-her, su-rely that had to ha-ve las-ted the length of a do-zen
ho-urs. Tony's arm was strong and su-re be-ne-ath hers, ste-ad-ying her when
she wa-ve-red, ha-uling her up-right when she trip-ped, half-sup-por-ting,
half-drag-ging her thro-ugh the icy hell. Why hadn't Nic-ho-las sto-len Gilly
away to Cor-n-wall, whe-re the sun al-ways se-emed to shi-ne? Why hadn't he
car-ri-ed her off to Por-tu-gal, to an-y-p-la-ce warm and sum-mery?
She sne-ezed on-ce, then aga-in, but Tony didn't slow his ste-ady pa-ce, and
it was all she co-uld do to ke-ep up with him, her shor-ter legs mo-ving at a
swif-ter pa-ce to match his long stri-des. Hot cho-co-la-te, she tho-ught
wis-t-ful-ly. Or cof-fee, thick and swe-et and black, the way only Ghis-la-ine
co-uld ma-ke it. If she re-al-ly had be-co-me Nic-ho-las's lig-ht-o'-lo-ve,
she pro-bably wo-uldn't be co-oking. That pos-si-bi-lity didn't be-ar
thin-king of, in terms of eit-her El-len's sto-mach or Ghis-la-ine's so-ul.
"We sho-uld be the-re," Tony mut-te-red un-der his bre-ath. "Whe-re the hell

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co-uld it be?"
Ellen cast a ner-vo-us glan-ce up at him. His hat was pul-led low over his
he-ad, ob-s-cu-ring his fa-ce, but she co-uld well ima-gi-ne the truly
ter-rif-ying glo-wer on his usu-al-ly af-fab-le, han-d-so-me co-un-te-nan-ce.
He ha-ted her, she knew he did. And in fa-ith, she didn't bla-me him. "Do you
sup-po-se we to-ok a wrong turn so-mew-he-re?" she sug-ges-ted ner-vo-usly,
her vo-ice ba-rely audib-le.
"I ha-ve an ex-cel-lent sen-se of di-rec-ti-on," Tony sa-id flatly. "And
ac-cor-ding to my di-rec-ti-ons, we sho-uld be the-re. But the-re's not-hing
he-re but an over-g-rown dri-ve and a few aban-do-ned bu-il-dings. The-re's no
sign of li-fe an-y-w-he-re."

Ellen sne-ezed aga-in. "I don't know abo-ut you, Tony, but I ne-ed to get
out of this ra-in. If any of the-se bu-il-dings pos-sess a ro-of, I in-tend to
get un-der it."
She wa-ited for him to re-mind her that it had be-en her own stu-pid idea
that they co-me in se-arch of the hun-ting lod-ge. He he-si-ta-ted for a
mo-ment, and she ste-eled her-self. "Co-me on, then," he sa-id in-s-te-ad, and
wit-hin mo-ments they we-re out of the ra-in, in-si-de a tum-b-le-down
bu-il-ding that in the dark se-emed scar-cely mo-re than a ho-vel.
She co-uldn't see a thing, but for-tu-na-tely Tony se-emed bles-sed with
bet-ter night vi-si-on, or at le-ast uner-ring in-s-tinct. He to-ok her cold,
wet hand in his and led her thro-ugh a ma-ze of ro-oms, with ga-ping win-dow
fra-mes let-ting in the storm, da-ma-ged ro-ofs po-uring ra-in down on the-ir
he-ads, un-til they fi-nal-ly fo-und a me-asu-re of com-fort and stil-lness in
a small dark ro-om at the back of the struc-tu-re.
"Sit down," he or-de-red her, his vo-ice un-na-tu-ral-ly lo-ud in the
sud-den qu-i-et. The so-und of the storm was dis-tant, muf-fled, and this
sec-ti-on of ro-of held no le-aks.
"Whe-re?" she had the te-me-rity to ask, rub-bing her chil-led hands
to-get-her.
"The-re's a bed be-hind you. Sit the-re, and wrap yo-ur-self in the co-vers
whi-le I see what I can do abo-ut a fi-re."
"The chim-ney's pro-bably bloc-ked," she sa-id, per-c-hing gin-gerly on the
ed-ge of the mat-tress she'd fo-und by re-ac-hing aro-und in the dar-k-ness.
"I do-ubt it. The-re are still co-als."
"You me-an so-me-one's be-en he-re?"
"I'm af-ra-id so. I don't think our luck has held to-night, El-len." His
vo-ice so-un-ded mat-ter-of-fact in the dar-k-ness, and in a few mo-ments a
bla-ze of light bil-lo-wed forth from the fi-rep-la-ce, dis-pel-ling so-me of
the glo-om. "Ni-ce of them to ha-ve left so-me wo-od," he mut-te-red,
drop-ping a few dry pi-eces on-to the bla-ze be-fo-re stan-ding up. He lo-oked
at the man-tel-pi-ece and sho-ok his he-ad. "Our luck has de-fi-ni-tely ta-ken
a turn for the wor-se," he sa-id, strip-ping off his hat and wa-ter-log-ged
gre-at-co-at.
She was shi-ve-ring, des-pi-te the qu-ick burst of he-at ema-na-ting from
the fi-re. "What do you me-an?"
"I me-an, my de-ar, that this is the hun-ting lod-ge of the
Blac-k-t-hor-nes. The-re are no warm cozy ro-oms, no cle-an beds, no hot
me-als, and worst of all, no Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne or his hos-ta-ge."
"Are you cer-ta-in?" She didn't re-al-ly do-ubt him, but the tho-ught was
al-most too de-vas-ta-ting to be-ar. All this way for not-hing.
"Lo-ok at the co-at of arms over the man-tel. Do you re-ad La-tin? The
mot-to of the Blac-k-t-hor-nes is very sim-p-le: Pros-pe-ro. 1 pros-per.' Not
that Nic-ho-las or his re-cent kin li-ve up to that one, tho-ugh I sup-po-se
it's as-to-nis-hing eno-ugh he's li-ved this long."
She wo-uldn't cry. It didn't mat-ter that she was so-aked to the bo-ne,
star-ving to de-ath, and so cold she tho-ught she might bre-ak apart. She'd
drag-ged Tony out he-re; she cer-ta-inly wo-uldn't com-po-und her cri-mes by
crying.

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He cros-sed the ro-om and squ-at-ted down be-si-de her, ta-king her numb
hands in his. "Don't lo-ok so dis-t-ra-ught, lamb," he sa-id in his kin-dest
vo-ice. "We'll find them. They can't ha-ve be-en go-ne long."
"You me-an they we-re he-re?" She hadn't even con-si-de-red that
pos-si-bi-lity.
"I as-su-me so. Who el-se wo-uld ha-ve be-en he-re re-cently eno-ugh to
ha-ve left co-als? Let me see if I can find any can-d-le stubs aro-und. Who
knows, they might even ha-ve left us so-met-hing to eat. In the me-an-ti-me,
why don't you ta-ke off yo-ur ca-pe and dra-pe it ne-ar the fi-re? You're
go-ing to want to dry it out be-fo-re you we-ar it aga-in."
For a mo-ment she didn't mo-ve. Her hands we-re swal-lo-wed up in his
lar-ge, warm ones, and his eyes we-re too kind. She wan-ted to fling her-self
aga-inst him, to ab-sorb so-me of his warmth, so-me of his com-fort.
In-s-te-ad she ma-na-ged a shaky smi-le. "If you find so-met-hing to eat," she
sa-id in a soft vo-ice, "I'll be yo-ur sla-ve for li-fe."
His eyes crin-k-led in a smi-le. "I'll re-mem-ber that pro-mi-se."
He di-sap-pe-ared in-to the next ro-om whi-le El-len strip-ped off her
ca-pe, all the whi-le ta-king stock of her sur-ro-un-dings. It was far from
re-as-su-ring. The ro-om was un-p-re-pos-ses-sing, with only a three-leg-ged
tab-le, a co-up-le of cha-irs, and a sag-ging ro-pe bed for fur-nis-hings.
The-re was an old car-ri-age ro-be on the ro-ugh mat-tress, for which she
than-ked God. She didn't ca-re if it we-re in-fes-ted with fle-as, or even
so-met-hing wor-se. At le-ast she'd find a sem-b-lan-ce of warmth.
"We're in luck," Tony sa-id as he ca-me back in the ro-om, his lar-ge fra-me
thro-wing an even lar-ger sha-dow aga-inst the wall. "The-re's so-me stew in
the bot-tom of a ket-tle, and a hunk of che-ese. Best of all, I fo-und this."
He held up a flask.
"Wi-ne?" she as-ked in a ral-lying vo-ice.
"Bet-ter still. Brandy. Ta-ke off yo-ur wet bo-ots, El-len. We're not go-ing
an-y-w-he-re for the next few ho-urs." He drop-ped down on the cha-ir that
held his ste-aming gre-at-co-at and be-gan re-mo-ving his own muddy top
bo-ots.
"You don't sug-gest we spend the night he-re?" she qu-es-ti-oned, both
ag-hast and not a lit-tle ex-ci-ted at the she-er im-p-rop-ri-ety of the
no-ti-on.
"I cer-ta-inly don't sug-gest we go back out in-to the storm and ret-ra-ce
our fo-ot-s-teps, then tra-vel an ex-t-ra half-mi-le in this hel-lish
we-at-her. It's cozy eno-ugh for the mo-ment. We'll ta-ke things as they
co-me."
"Tony, the-re's only one bed," she felt for-ced to po-int out.
"That's all right, lo-ve," he sa-id che-er-ful-ly. "I trust you."
She had to la-ugh. "At le-ast no one is go-ing to know abo-ut this," she
sa-id, un-fas-te-ning her damp bo-ots and kic-king them to-ward the fi-re.
"Even if they did, they wo-uldn't be-li-eve it of two so-ber cre-atu-res li-ke
our-sel-ves."
He glan-ced over at her. "I don't know that you're at all so-ber, El-len
Fit-z-wa-ter. As a mat-ter of fact, I think you've had a sadly
de-bi-li-ta-ting ef-fect on my so-ber na-tu-re. Too much ti-me spent in yo-ur
com-pany and I'm be-co-ming qu-ite alar-mingly mad-cap. Ha-ve so-me brandy."
She glan-ced at the sil-ver flask he held out to her, too be-mu-sed by his
ban-te-ring to-ne to qu-ite re-mem-ber that drin-king brandy was de-fi-ni-tely
not the thing. She'd had so-me on-ce be-fo-re, with Gilly, and she'd got-ten
so silly that her fri-end had in-for-med her with so-me se-ve-rity that she
had no he-ad for spi-rits and sho-uld avo-id them at all costs. She re-ac-hed
for the flask.
"I sho-uldn't be drin-king this," she sa-id, still he-si-ta-ting.
"The-re's not-hing bet-ter for a chill," he sa-id. "Don't wor-ry-if you
drink too much you'll simply fall as-le-ep. Not-hing shoc-king in that."
It se-emed to her that her pre-vi-o-us ex-cur-si-on in-to the world of
spi-rits had in-vol-ved a gre-at de-al of gig-gling, a fa-ir amo-unt of

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diz-zi-ness, and even a sur-fe-it of te-ars. At le-ast she hadn't cast up her
ac-co-unts. If she was spa-red that ig-no-mi-ni-o-us com-p-li-ca-ti-on, then
she co-uld cer-ta-inly ta-ke just a sip or two with equ-ani-mity. Af-ter all,
Tony had he-ard her gig-gle be-fo-re.
It bur-ned all the way down her thro-at, for-ming a ni-ce warm po-ol in her
sto-mach, spre-ading out her limbs and then back up in-to her bra-in. "It's
very ni-ce," she sa-id po-li-tely, tip-ping back the flask to ta-ke anot-her
so-lid gulp. She cast a sur-rep-ti-ti-o-us glan-ce at Tony, won-de-ring if he
was go-ing to warn her abo-ut the dan-gers of im-bi-bing ex-ces-si-ve brandy.
He didn't ma-ke a mo-ve, me-rely wat-c-hed her from his se-at ne-arby, an
un-re-adab-le ex-p-res-si-on on his han-d-so-me fa-ce.
So be it, she tho-ught, ta-king a third gulp. "Are you cer-ta-in you don't
want any?" she as-ked po-li-tely.
"We-re you plan-ning on drin-king it all?" he co-un-te-red la-zily.
"I was con-si-de-ring it." She sa-id it with so-me dig-nity. It se-emed to
her that dig-nity was cal-led for. She was sit-ting on a bed out in the
mid-dle of now-he-re, her stoc-kin-ged fe-et cur-led up un-der-ne-ath her, her
ha-ir tum-b-ling down aro-und her sho-ul-ders, and no res-pec-tab-le per-son
in sight, ex-cept, of co-ur-se, for the very res-pec-tab-le Sir An-tony
Wil-ton-Gre-ening. She told him so.
"I can't ima-gi-ne why you ke-ep in-for-ming me how sta-id and
res-pec-tab-le I am," he mur-mu-red, not the slig-h-test bit in-cen-sed by the
tho-ught. "You've go-ne out of yo-ur way to men-ti-on it to me on se-ve-ral
oc-ca-si-ons. Why?"
Ellen was fe-eling very warm in-de-ed. Her bright silk gown was a de-mu-re
eno-ugh af-fa-ir, with tiny but-tons re-ac-hing up to her neck. She
un-fas-te-ned the first two, stret-c-hing her long legs out on the bed. "Don't
you think you're res-pec-tab-le?"
"Not par-ti-cu-larly. A trif-le set in my ways, but they are my ways, not
so-ci-ety's. I do what I ple-ase." He le-aned back in his cha-ir, wat-c-hing
her out of fa-intly ho-oded eyes.
"I wish I co-uld," she sa-id mo-ur-n-ful-ly, ta-king anot-her sip of the
de-lig-h-t-ful brandy be-fo-re re-ac-hing for her ha-ir. Sin-ce it was
al-re-ady es-ca-ping its pins, she might as well let it down com-p-le-tely.
Af-ter all, she had no wit-ness but Tony, and he cer-ta-inly wo-uldn't ca-re.
"Wo-uld you?"
"Wo-uld I what?"
"Ca-re if I let my ha-ir down." She was al-re-ady in-tent on do-ing so, an
in-t-ri-ca-te eno-ugh af-fa-ir to ma-na-ge with one hand, whi-le the ot-her
held on to the flask. Bin-nie had used an inor-di-na-te amo-unt of pins that
mor-ning, ca-using El-len to suf-fer the he-adac-he thro-ugh most of the day.
One mo-re pin, and her ha-ir was free, fal-ling over her sho-ul-ders in a
sil-ken wa-ve.
"Not at all," Tony sa-id po-li-tely. "Whe-re did you put the ha-ir-pins?"
"In the bed."
"I was af-ra-id of that. I ima-gi-ne Miss Bin-ner-s-ton has put a cur-se on
them. If I for-get myself in my sle-ep and of-fer you an in-sult, they'll
pro-bably co-me to li-fe and at-tack me."
Ellen gig-gled. "I do-ubt it."
"Do-ubt what?"
"E-it-her. That you'll of-fer me an in-sult or that they'll co-me to li-fe.
I'm com-p-le-tely sa-fe with you," she sa-id hap-pily, sli-ding down in-to the
sag-ging bed, the flask of brandy still clut-c-hed in one hand.
He ro-se then, cros-sing the ro-om to lo-ok down at her, and his fa-ce was
in sha-dows, un-re-adab-le. She co-uld ima-gi-ne his ex-p-res-si-on. Be-nign,
to-le-rant, pa-ren-tal. "I think you've had eno-ugh of this," he sa-id,
pluc-king the brandy bot-tle from her hand. "I ha-ve ne-ver se-en an-yo-ne get
qu-ite so drunk qu-ite so fast."
Ellen gig-gled. "Sha-me-ful."
"I di-sag-ree," he mur-mu-red, kne-eling down by the bed, and his fa-ce swam

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in-to her vi-si-on. "You're qu-ite, qu-ite sha-me-less."
It must ha-ve be-en the brandy, she de-ci-ded. He didn't lo-ok the
slig-h-test bit be-nign, or pa-ren-tal for that mat-ter. He lo-oked down at
her with an odd, pos-ses-si-ve light in his eyes, and for such a
res-pec-tab-le gen-t-le-man he lo-oked very dan-ge-ro-us in-de-ed.
"I'm go-ing to go to sle-ep now," she an-no-un-ced pla-cidly, her vo-ice
softly slur-red. "Don't wa-ke me when you co-me to bed."
Tony sta-red down at her. She was in-s-tantly as-le-ep, her bre-at-hing
no-isy, her lips par-ted, her eye-lids clo-sed. She had qu-ite mag-ni-fi-cent
eye-las-hes, fan-ning out aga-inst the whi-te-ness of her che-eks, and he knew
tho-se eye-las-hes, un-li-ke the ones be-lon-ging to the Di-vi-ne Car-lot-ta,
owed not-hing to a pa-int pot. She was drunk, was his El-len, pas-sed out, her
hand cur-led un-der-ne-ath her wil-lful chin, ob-li-vi-o-us to the dan-ger she
might run from the sta-id and res-pec-tab-le ma-le kne-eling by the bed.
He won-de-red just how drunk she was. He ro-se, fi-nis-hing the brandy with
one swal-low, not reg-ret-ting that it had go-ne to a bet-ter use. He wan-ted
El-len cup-s-hot and com-p-la-cent. He wan-ted just a tas-te, of her, not the
brandy.
He to-ok his ti-me, sa-vo-ring the an-ti-ci-pa-ti-on. He bu-ilt the fi-re
in-to a res-pec-tab-le bla-ze, flo-oding the ro-om with he-at. He strip-ped
off his co-at, not wit-ho-ut dif-fi-culty, and un-ti-ed his nec-k-c-loth. When
he slid in-to the bed be-si-de El-len she ba-rely mo-ved.
He lay on his si-de, wat-c-hing her, fe-eling li-ke a star-ving man at a
fe-ast, un-su-re of what de-light to sam-p-le first. He de-ci-ded the sil-ken
fall of ha-ir wo-uld be a go-od pla-ce to be-gin. He pic-ked up a strand,
run-ning it thro-ugh his fin-gers, and it was
soft and lu-xu-ri-o-us. He bro-ught one thick lock to his fa-ce, in-ha-ling
the flo-wery frag-ran-ce of it, and ran it aga-inst his che-ek. She pro-bably
had no idea how be-a-uti-ful her ha-ir was. If she did, she wo-uldn't ke-ep it
bun-d-led be-hind her.
He let the ha-ir sli-de out of his fin-gers, re-ac-hing for-ward to to-uch
her par-ted lips. They we-re warm aga-inst his skin, the ebb and flow of her
bre-ath stir-ring so-met-hing de-ep in-si-de him. He wan-ted to drink in her
bre-ath, her swe-et-ness. He wan-ted to pull her in-to his arms and in-to his
he-art. He wan-ted to jo-in with her in every sen-se of the word.
He brus-hed his lips aga-inst hers, very lightly. She sig-hed then, a soft,
se-duc-ti-ve so-und, and ed-ged clo-ser to him in the sha-dowy ro-om. He
kis-sed her aga-in, his lips clin-ging to hers for a mo-ment lon-ger, and when
he drew away she ma-de a soft, sle-epy so-und of pro-test.
For a mo-ment he didn't mo-ve. A man had cer-ta-in stan-dards, a co-de of
ho-nor he up-held all his li-fe. Right now his co-de of ho-nor se-emed to
ha-ve va-nis-hed.
It must be Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne's per-ni-ci-o-us in-f-lu-en-ce, he
de-ci-ded. He wo-uld ha-ve spor-ted on this very bed with El-len's fri-end,
and the at-mos-p-he-re must re-ek of il-li-cit sex.
And yet he knew very well the ra-ging de-si-re he felt had ab-so-lu-tely
not-hing to do with Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne's shoddy exam-p-le, and
ever-y-t-hing to do with his sud-den, ir-ra-ti-onal we-ak-ness for the wo-man
lying next to him. For so-me re-ason she'd co-me to mat-ter to him mo-re than
an-yo-ne in the world. And whi-le part of that ca-ring in-vol-ved a she-er
ani-mal lust that po-si-ti-vely sho-ok his bo-nes, anot-her part in-vol-ved
his most pro-tec-ti-ve in-s-tincts. He co-uld strip off her clot-hes and be
in-si-de her be-fo-re she even re-ali-zed that sta-id old Tony was
com-p-ro-mi-sing her. Whi-le that wo-uld sol-ve a gre-at many prob-lems, it
wo-uld cre-ate its own set of dif-fi-cul-ti-es.
One mo-re kiss, just to see whet-her he co-uld do it. One to-uch, one
stro-ke, to see if he'd sur-vi-ve. He put his mo-uth on her, pres-sing hers
open, as his hand cup-ped her bre-ast.
This ti-me he was the one who mo-aned. Her bre-ast fit per-fectly in his
hand, soft and ro-und, the nip-ple har-de-ning aga-inst his gently qu-es-ting

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fin-gers. Her mo-uth ope-ned be-ne-ath his, swe-etly ac-qu-i-es-cent, and he
used his ton-gue, stro-king and tas-ting her to the ful-lest, kis-sing her as
he'd ne-ver kis-sed a wo-man of qu-ality, kis-sing her as he'd ne-ver kis-sed
an-yo-ne be-fo-re.
When he bro-ke the kiss this ti-me he was pan-ting, his body sha-king with
the des-pe-ra-te ne-ed to con-t-rol him-self. Her eyes flew open, sta-ring up
at him with da-zed sur-p-ri-se. And then she smi-led, a slow, sexy, slightly
drun-ken smi-le, and her hand re-ac-hed out to to-uch his mo-uth, still damp
from hers.
And then it drop-ped back to the pal-let, her eyes clo-sed, and she be-gan
to sno-re.
He la-ug-hed then, at his un-ro-man-tic be-lo-ved, at his dis-ho-no-rab-le
self, at the mess they'd got-ten in-to. If they fo-und Ghis-la-ine to-mor-row,
as he cer-ta-inly ex-pec-ted them to, then they'd ha-ve no cho-ice but to
he-ad back to Ain-s-ley Hall the next day. And he'd be-en shoc-kingly slow at
get-ting El-len to see him in a ro-man-tic light.
He sank down on the mat-tress be-si-de her, sta-ring at the ce-iling, trying
to will his un-ruly body to be-ha-ve it-self. He'd han-d-led this all wrong,
but then, it hadn't be-en en-ti-rely his fa-ult. If it had be-en up to him, he
wo-uld ha-ve left El-len be-hind at Ain-s-ley Hall, ap-pli-ed to Car-mic-ha-el
in the ac-cep-ted man-ner, and set abo-ut wo-o-ing El-len in a res-t-ra-ined,
po-li-te co-ur-t-s-hip. He co-uld ha-ve ta-ught her abo-ut pas-si-on la-ter.
The prob-lem was, she was te-ac-hing him abo-ut pas-si-on. Te-ac-hing him
things he'd ne-ver known, all by her ir-re-sis-tib-le pre-sen-ce. One thing
was for cer-ta-in: if he didn't get her wed wit-hin the shor-test ti-me
pos-sib-le, his re-cently shaky sen-se of ho-nor was go-ing to col-lap-se
en-ti-rely.
He tur-ned his he-ad to watch her. Her long blond ha-ir had drif-ted over
his arm, and he wan-ted to bury his fa-ce in it. Sle-eping next to her
wit-ho-ut ma-king lo-ve to her was go-ing to be its own form of hell. Not
sle-eping next to her wo-uld be even wor-se.
She ca-me easily, gra-ce-ful-ly at his gen-t-le tug, set-tling in his arms
with a we-ary sigh. She felt warm, so-lid, and ut-terly de-lec-tab-le. He
stro-ked her arm with the lig-h-test of to-uc-hes, con-t-rol-ling his
des-pe-ra-te ne-ed to pull her hard aga-inst him.
It was go-ing to be a very long night.
The Con-ti-nent

Chapter 17

She'd li-ed to him. Ghis-la-ine hadn't re-ali-zed it un-til la-ter, much
la-ter, when she'd had ti-me to think abo-ut it. She'd li-ed to her-self as
well, and be-li-eved it. The-re was no way she co-uld ha-ve kil-led her-self,
much as she might ha-ve wan-ted to. His hands on her body strip-ped her mind
of sa-nity, strip-ped her so-ul of ho-pe, and yet she co-uldn't do it. Even
the fan-tasy of it was de-ni-ed her. She co-uldn't con-tem-p-la-te thro-wing
her-self from the fast-mo-ving car-ri-age; she co-uldn't dre-am abo-ut
jum-ping from the ship as it cros-sed the North Sea. Even if it to-ok her to
the most dre-aded pla-ce of all, back to Fran-ce, she simply co-uldn't do it.
She'd con-f-ron-ted the spec-ter of ta-king her own li-fe that night so long
ago, with Mal-vi-ver's blo-od on her hands. She'd tur-ned back from it. Now
that cal-ming, se-re-ne re-le-ase was fo-re-ver de-ni-ed her. Thin-king abo-ut
su-ici-de had al-ways be-en her ul-ti-ma-te re-ven-ge. She'd lost that, and
ne-ver no-ti-ced the loss un-til things grew un-te-nab-le on-ce mo-re.
Absurd, that she sho-uld con-si-der her cur-rent si-tu-ati-on to be as bad
as the dark abyss her so-ul had slip-ped in-to so-me ten ye-ars ago. She'd
go-ne to me-et Mal-vi-ver. Go-ne to me-et the ar-c-hi-tect of her
des-t-ruc-ti-on, go-ne to me-et him with the os-ten-sib-le pur-po-se of
gi-ving her body to him in re-turn for mo-ney to fe-ed her brot-her, for

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sa-fety from the ever-po-wer-ful ne-ig-h-bor-ho-od com-mit-tee. She'd do-ne it
be-fo-re and sur-vi-ved. The trick was sim-p-le, tur-ned her mind and her
emo-ti-ons in-ward, to the dark pla-ce whe-re her he-art on-ce be-at, and
ever-y-t-hing el-se ce-ased to exist.
But she'd ove-res-ti-ma-ted her po-wers. Un-de-res-ti-ma-ted the emo-ti-ons
she tho-ught she'd kil-led. Ra-ge. Hat-red. Re-ven-ge. This was no gen-t-le,
clumsy but-c-her, lo-oking for twenty mi-nu-tes' re-le-ase. It wasn't even a
drun-ken, dis-so-lu-te Bri-tish nob-le-man with a tas-te for pa-in and
vir-gins.
This man was so-ber, po-wer-ful, and be-yond cru-el. He was wa-iting for her
at the but-c-her's shop, but al-re-ady the-re was lit-tle sign of M. Por-cin's
pre-sen-ce. The ran-cid me-ats had be-en cle-ared, and the fur-nis-hings we-re
not tho-se of the wor-king class. Mal-vi-ver was al-re-ady well-pa-id by
tho-se in po-wer.
He'd sat in the dimly lit ro-om, awa-iting her, a bot-tle of Por-cin's wi-ne
be-si-de him. "Clo-se the do-or be-hind you," he'd or-de-red in the co-ar-se,
gut-tu-ral vo-ice she re-mem-be-red from her nig-h-t-ma-res.
She did so, step-ping in-to the dar-k-ness, the light from the fi-re ba-rely
re-ac-hing her. She won-de-red whet-her he re-mem-be-red her. Or whet-her
sel-ling yo-ung girls in-to pros-ti-tu-ti-on was a fre-qu-ent oc-cur-ren-ce in
his ri-se to po-wer.
His next words dis-pel-led the no-ti-on. "You pre-fer be-ing on the stre-ets
to Ma-da-me Cla-ude's es-tab-lis-h-ment? I tho-ught you had bet-ter sen-se.
Co-me clo-ser."
She still sa-id not-hing, obe-ying bis or-ders, her fe-et le-aden. "Into the
light," he sa-id. "Thars right. You're still pretty eno-ugh. If you didn't
ha-ve so-me-one li-ke Old Bo-nes to watch out for you you'd ha-ve be-en de-ad
by now. I've tho-ught abo-ut you of-ten sin-ce last sum-mer. I reg-ret-ted
let-ting a fat En-g-lish aris-to ha-ve you first, but mo-ney was a
con-si-de-ra-ti-on. It al-ways is. Be-si-des, I knew my ti-me wo-uld co-me."
Her hand clo-sed in a fist aro-und the kni-fe in her poc-ket, the kni-fe she
al-ways car-ri-ed with her. The fe-el of the co-ol wo-oden han-d-le so-ot-hed
her for a mo-ment. The mo-re he tal-ked, the tig-h-ter her hand clen-c-hed.
It had be-en hard eno-ugh with Por-cin. It wo-uld be im-pos-sib-le with this
mon-s-ter, if he con-ti-nu-ed to ba-it her. "I ne-ed to get back," she sa-id,
ke-eping her vo-ice co-ol and bo-red. "Co-uld we get this over with?"
"Such eager-ness!" Mal-vi-ver moc-ked. "And that lo-vely lit-tle aris-to
vo-ice. I've ne-ver he-ard it, of co-ur-se, but pe-op-le ha-ve told me abo-ut
it. The Duc-hess of the Stre-ets, they call you. I want you to talk to me
whi-le I do you. I want to lis-ten to that ele-gant vo-ice when I co-me."
Ghis-la-ine shi-ve-red. She to-ok an in-s-tin-c-ti-ve step bac-k-ward in
re-co-il, but he ma-de no mo-ve to co-me af-ter her. "Be-si-des," he sa-id,
"you ha-ve not-hing to go back to."
She stop-ped her ret-re-at, wa-iting.
"I am de-so-la-te to in-form you, my de-ar, that yo-ur brot-her has go-ne.
Ap-pa-rently the po-or lit-tle sim-p-le-ton re-ali-zed you we-re who-ring
yo-ur-self for him. I ex-pect the sha-me was too much for him. No one knows
for cer-ta-in, but I ima-gi-ne he threw him-self in the Se-ine."
"You're lying," she sa-id, her vo-ice sha-king with sud-den un-cer-ta-inty.
"I left him less than an ho-ur ago."
"My men work fast. Yo-ur brot-her is go-ne, Duc-hess, ne-ver to re-turn. And
you will stay with me, and do exactly as I tell you, or you will fol-low him.
Let me see, how shall we be-gin?" He sat back in the cha-ir, an evil smi-le on
his swarthy fa-ce.
"Why don't you get down on yo-ur kne-es in front of me? We can go from
the-re."
She didn't mo-ve. "On yo-ur kne-es, bitch!" Mal-vi-ver ro-ared sud-denly.
She ne-ver re-mem-be-red how it hap-pe-ned. The kni-fe was in her hand,
the-re was blo-od ever-y-w-he-re, and he was scre-aming, a shrill,
high-pit-c-hed so-und, li-ke a but-c-he-red pig. And then all was si-lent, and

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she was run-ning thro-ugh the stre-ets, run-ning, run-ning.
He hadn't li-ed to her. He brot-her was go-ne. Old Bo-nes lay in the
dirt-crus-ted snow, and she was be-yond ca-ring whet-her he was still ali-ve.
Her one re-ason for li-ving had be-en ta-ken from her, and not-hing el-se
mat-te-red.
Still, it to-ok co-un-t-less ho-urs for the last few tra-ces of ho-pe to
die. Ho-urs du-ring which she stum-b-led thro-ugh the win-ter-chill stre-ets
of Pa-ris, cal-ling for Char-les-Lo-u-is, no lon-ger ca-ring if her gently
bred vo-ice sig-na-led a ha-ted aris-to. No lon-ger ca-ring that pe-asant
chil-d-ren we-ren't na-med Char-les-Lo-u-is.
No one to-uc-hed her, no one an-s-we-red her des-pe-ra-te cri-es. Pe-op-le
shut-tled out of her way as she ca-re-ened down the al-ley-ways, so-me ma-king
the sign of the de-vil, so-me just bur-ro-wing de-eper in the-ir rags. The
po-or of Pa-ris had no emo-ti-ons to spa-re for anot-her lost so-ul.
She en-ded on the brid-ge, lo-oking down in-to the swir-ling muddy depths of
the Se-ine. "Char-les-Lo-u-is," she'd whis-pe-red for the last ti-me, her
vo-ice crac-ked and bro-ken.
She ne-ver knew what had stop-ped her from jum-ping. It hadn't be-en
ho-pe-her last tra-ce of it had be-en wi-ped out with her brot-her's
di-sap-pe-aran-ce. It wasn't a vo-ice from the fog, the mer-ci-ful act she'd
per-for-med la-ter when she fo-und El-len Fit-z-wa-ter re-ady to do the very
sa-me thing. It wasn't any be-la-ted re-li-gi-o-us con-vic-ti-on or fe-ar of
hell.
The clo-sest she co-uld co-me to un-der-s-tan-ding what had stop-ped her
that en-d-less night was the sud-den, bur-ning con-vic-ti-on that they
sho-uldn't win. That the for-ces of evil that se-emed to con-s-pi-re to
des-t-roy her sho-uldn't tri-umph. They'd kil-led her pa-rents and sto-len her
brot-her. Tho-se for-ces had ta-ken every oun-ce of com-fort and se-cu-rity,
star-ting with Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne and her chil-dish in-fa-tu-ati-on
and tram-p-ling that in the mud, thro-ugh hun-ger and bit-ter cold and
lo-ne-li-ness and des-pa-ir, en-ding with the worst ig-no-miny of all. She had
sold her body for mo-ney, and the-re wo-uld be no ret-ri-eving the
in-no-cen-ce that was lost.
She co-uld die now, one mo-re lost so-ul tram-p-led by a vi-ci-o-us fa-te.
Or she co-uld ri-se, pho-enix-li-ke, from the as-hes of a lost li-fe. She
co-uld fight, and con-ti-nue to fight, and ne-ver gi-ve in.
The small, se-edy inn had be-en ne-arby, its fit-ful light pi-er-cing the
foggy dar-k-ness. She'd stum-b-led in, ob-li-vi-o-us of her blo-ody clot-hes,
and for the first ti-me luck was with her. The Red Hen was run by a hus-band
and wi-fe, but the hus-band was mer-ci-ful-ly free from lus-t-ful ur-ges, and
Mar-t-he was as kind as she was sto-ut. Ghis-la-ine was gi-ven a warm pal-let
and a bowl of so-up, and in the mor-ning she'd star-ted work in the
kit-c-hens.
She saw Old Bo-nes twi-ce, on-ce when she went to ret-ri-eve her few shabby
pos-ses-si-ons. He didn't ask what hap-pe-ned with Mal-vi-ver, and she didn't
tell him. One mo-re de-ath in Pa-ris wo-uld be no-ti-ced by no one. She'd left
him wit-ho-ut a word, the-ir sha-red gri-ef over Char-les-Lo-u-is ne-eding no
com-ment.
The ye-ars that had fol-lo-wed we-re re-la-ti-vely pe-ace-ful. Even-tu-al-ly
the mad-ness that in-fec-ted Pa-ris fa-ded, along with the Re-ign of Ter-ror.
Along with Na-po-le-on's as-cent, the-re'd be-en a cer-ta-in ca-uti-o-us
op-ti-mism. And the Red Hen had pros-pe-red.
Mar-t-he had gra-du-al-ly pas-sed on all the kit-c-hen du-ti-es to her
wil-ling dis-cip-le. The men who fre-qu-en-ted the inn knew to ste-er cle-ar
of the co-ok- she was far too re-ady with a kni-fe if an-yo-ne was
im-por-tu-na-te eno-ugh even to spe-ak to her. Un-til she'd co-me ac-ross a
pa-le En-g-lish ro-se, bent on self-des-t-ruc-ti-on on the very sa-me brid-ge
whe-re Ghis-la-ine had al-most jum-ped, her li-fe had be-en a qu-i-et co-co-on
of exis-ten-ce.
She'd known, when she'd se-en the yo-ung wo-man po-ised on the ed-ge of the

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brid-ge. She'd known what was go-ing thro-ugh her mind. And she'd known that
if she stop-ped her, she wo-uld be ta-king on a li-fe, ma-king one slow,
pa-in-ful mo-ve back in-to the land of the li-ving. For a mo-ment she'd
he-si-ta-ted. She didn't want the res-pon-si-bi-lity for anot-her per-son's
so-ul.
But in the end she'd had no cho-ice. The hu-ma-nity she tho-ught she'd
bu-ri-ed sur-fa-ced, an un-p-le-asant re-min-der that li-fe co-uld still hurt,
and she'd cal-led out. And in pul-ling Lady El-len Fit-z-wa-ter back from the
brink of de-ath, she'd pul-led her-self back in-to li-fe as well.
She saw Old Bo-nes one last ti-me just be-fo-re they left for En-g-land. The
in-ter-ve-ning ye-ars hadn't to-uc-hed him-he was still an-ci-ent,
ma-lo-do-ro-us, and ab-rupt. The na-me of Char-les-Lo-u-is wasn't spo-ken, nor
that of Mal-vi-ver. But when she left him, pres-sing half of her me-ager
sa-vings in-to his gnar-led old hand, she did so-met-hing she had ne-ver do-ne
be-fo-re. She kis-sed him go-od-bye.
And now the-re was no ret-re-at. No go-ing back to that lo-nely brid-ge
ne-ar the Red Hen, no re-turn to com-for-ting dre-ams of a pil-lowy dar-k-ness
whe-re all tro-ub-les ce-ased. Her pa-rents we-re the-re, along with
Char-les-Lo-u-is. She was do-omed to ke-ep fig-h-ting. And ke-ep fig-h-ting
she wo-uld.
The trip to the co-as-tal Scot-tish town of Dun-s-ter was ma-de in spe-ed
and si-len-ce. Ghis-la-ine wat-c-hed, mo-re des-pe-ra-te than ever to
es-ca-pe, but bet-we-en Nic-ho-las's se-eming in-do-len-ce and Ta-ver-ner's
dark sus-pi-ci-ons, the-re had be-en no chan-ce. So-me-one was al-ways at her
el-bow when they stop-ped, and even her use of the ne-ces-sary was sha-do-wed
by one of her cap-tors.
She co-uldn't even be cer-ta-in that the bo-at they'd bo-ar-ded un-der
co-ver of dar-k-ness was the ship bo-und for Hol-land, not Fran-ce. It was
be-yond her con-t-rol. She'd sta-red lon-gingly at the dark wa-ters of the
har-bor, but her gu-ards had sta-yed dis-t-res-singly clo-se. She didn't know
whet-her Nic-ho-las had be-li-eved her thre-at of su-ici-de. Whi-le his fa-ce
bet-ra-yed not-hing but bo-re-dom, his ta-ut body sta-yed al-ways wit-hin
re-ach.
They'd set sa-il on the mor-ning ti-de. She'd wat-c-hed from the ra-iling as
the mist-sh-ro-uded land di-sap-pe-ared from vi-ew, and if she we-re still
ca-pab-le of te-ars, she wo-uld ha-ve wept then.
She tur-ned, dry-eyed, to the man stan-ding be-si-de her. He was wat-c-hing
her out of his dark, ho-oded eyes, ig-no-ring the di-sap-pe-aring
co-as-t-li-ne, and the wind ruf-fled his long black ha-ir, blo-wing it
aga-inst his ha-ughty, han-d-so-me fa-ce.
"You've won," she sa-id ab-ruptly.
"Ha-ve I?"
"You're sa-fe. You es-ca-ped En-g-land be-fo-re they co-uld ha-ul you back
for mur-de-ring that wo-man's hus-band. Even El-len and her fri-end didn't
catch up with us. You've tri-um-p-hed."
"You think so?" Nic-ho-las mur-mu-red, his eyes tra-ve-ling over her
rum-p-led clot-hes. "I wo-uldn't go so far as to say that. Not yet." And
the-re was just the fa-in-test ex-p-res-si-on in his eyes, not-hing as
ob-vi-o-us as a le-er, that war-ned her. "Are you still plan-ning to jump
over-bo-ard, ma mie?"
She sho-uld ha-ve known he'd ta-unt her. See thro-ugh her thre-ats and call
her bluff. The har-bor had al-re-ady va-nis-hed in-to the mist, and the
wa-ters we-re black and de-ep aro-und the swiftly mo-ving ship. "What are my
cho-ices?"
He smi-led, a fa-int cur-ling of his thin lips. "The-re's a ca-bin be-low.
Qu-ite a spa-ci-o-us one, with a lar-ge, com-for-tab-le berth. The trip might
ta-ke all of three days-we co-uld get to know each ot-her on-ce mo-re with no
in-ter-rup-ti-ons."
She kept her fa-ce ex-p-res-si-on-less, tur-ning to lo-ok at the sea. She
didn't want to die, damn it. And she didn't want him to put tho-se hard,

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whi-te hands on her aga-in.
"Which is it to be, Mam-zel-le?" he mur-mu-red. "De-ath or dis-ho-nor?"
She co-uld no lon-ger think stra-ight. The ri-se and fall of the ship was
ha-ving its cus-to-mary un-set-tling ef-fect on her sto-mach, and if she we-re
to suf-fer se-asic-k-ness as she had less than a ye-ar ago when she
ac-com-pa-ni-ed El-len to En-g-land, she might truly pre-fer de-ath.
The ra-iling in front of her was bro-ad. She put her hands on it, and
Nic-ho-las ma-de no mo-ve to stop her. "I wo-uld pre-fer the em-b-ra-ce of the
sea," she sa-id.
"Wo-uld you?" He so-un-ded un-con-cer-ned. "Then fe-el free to ac-cept it.
Wo-uld you li-ke a hand up?"
The ra-iling was high, and she was la-men-tably short. She cast a bri-ef,
ir-ri-ta-ted gla-re at Nic-ho-las's bland ex-p-res-si-on. "I can do it
myself," she sa-id. "I'm just wa-iting for the ship to ste-ady a bit."
"I do-ubt that it will. The North Sea is fa-mo-us for its ro-ug-h-ness. I
ex-pect we'll be pit-c-hing and rol-ling all the way to Hol-land."
She blan-c-hed, clut-c-hing the ra-iling. "We're go-ing to Hol-land, then?"
"Didn't I say so?"
"You'll for-gi-ve me if I don't put much trust in yo-ur word."
"For-gi-ven," he sa-id with an ele-gant bow. She wan-ted to slap the smirk
off his fa-ce. "Are you re-ady to adj-o-urn to the ca-bin yet?"
"To suf-fer yo-ur in-dig-ni-ti-es? Ne-ver."
"No, lo-ve. To cast up yo-ur ac-co-unts. You've tur-ned the most be-co-ming
sha-de of gre-en I've ever se-en, and I tho-ught you might pre-fer so-me
pri-vacy. Ho-we-ver, if you wish to spew all over the deck, fe-el free to."
She gla-red at him. Had it be-en in her po-wer, she wo-uld ha-ve ma-de him
the re-ci-pi-ent of the na-usea that was now bu-il-ding to un-ma-na-ge-ab-le
le-vels. But at that po-int, even re-ven-ge pa-led be-si-de the ne-ed for a
bed and a ba-sin. "The ca-bin," she sa-id in a stran-g-led vo-ice. She to-ok a
few tot-te-ring steps away from the ra-iling.
He sco-oped her up in his arms, ad-ding to her diz-zi-ness and al-most
wi-ping out her last tra-ce of con-t-rol. "Pa-uv-re pe-ti-te," he mur-mu-red
with a truly he-ar-t-less smi-le. "Once mo-re you are sa-ved from the wic-ked
wolf."
"I'm not cer-ta-in," she sa-id we-akly. "I might even pre-fer you to
se-asic-k-ness." The light of dawn di-sap-pe-ared as he an-g-led her down a
nar-row sta-ir.
He la-ug-hed with the he-ar-t-les-sness of tho-se not af-f-lic-ted with
se-asic-k-ness. "My de-ar, such com-p-li-ments thre-aten to un-man me.
Con-ti-nue in this ve-in and I'll be all puf-fed up with con-ce-it."
She was con-cen-t-ra-ting too hard on ke-eping her bre-ak-fast down to pay
the slig-h-test bit of at-ten-ti-on to the ca-bin. All she knew was that the
bed was soft be-ne-ath her, the light mer-ci-ful-ly dim, the pitch and sway of
the ship even mo-re pro-no-un-ced, and Blac-k-t-hor-ne was lo-oking down at
her with a truly di-abo-li-cal smi-le.
"If you don't want yo-ur ele-gant clot-hes des-t-ro-yed," Ghis-la-ine sa-id
in fa-int ac-cents, "you will be wi-se eno-ugh to le-ave me. I am most
de-fi-ni-tely go-ing to be un-well."
"So-und ad-vi-ce, my lo-ve. But first, a to-ken of my es-te-em."
She was half-af-ra-id he was go-ing to ma-ke the very gra-ve mis-ta-ke of
trying to kiss her. Blac-k-t-hor-ne was too cle-ver for that. In-s-te-ad he
simply thrust a ba-sin in-to her we-ak hands and de-par-ted. Just in ti-me.
"Whe-re's Mam-zel-le?" Tavvy ap-pe-ared at the do-or of the smal-ler ca-bin,
the one Nic-ho-las re-sig-nedly as-su-med he'd end up sha-ring with his
va-let.
"In her ca-bin. I do-ubt we'll he-ar mo-re than a mo-an or two be-fo-re we
re-ach the con-ti-nent," he sa-id neg-li-gently, po-uring him-self a glass of
the brandy he'd bro-ught abo-ard with him. Be-ing of a de-moc-ra-tic na-tu-re,
he held the bot-tle out to Ta-ver-ner, who sho-ok his he-ad.
"What I want to know is this," Tavvy sa-id, sit-ting down he-avily

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op-po-si-te him. "What in God's na-me we-re you thin-king of, to carry her
with us?"
An un-p-le-asant smi-le cur-ved Nic-ho-las's mo-uth. "I wo-uld think the
an-s-wer to that must be ob-vi-o-us."
"No, sir, it's not," Tavvy sa-id flatly. "You had mo-re than eno-ugh ti-me
to ta-ke yo-ur fill of her whi-le I was off sco-uting the si-tu-ati-on. It's
not as if she's any gre-at be-a-uty, nor is she par-ti-cu-larly ver-sed in the
art of lo-ve, if you ta-ke my me-aning. That much is ob-vi-o-us."
"De-li-ca-tely put," Nic-ho-las ag-re-ed.
"So then, why? Why ha-ve we drag-ged her with us, all over En-g-land and
Scot-land? Why did we ta-ke this le-aky old bo-at to Hol-land in-s-te-ad of
the ne-wer one to Fran-ce? Why didn't you le-ave her be-hind in Dun-s-ter?
Yo-ur co-usin and her man wo-uld ha-ve ca-ught up with her and ta-ken her back
to En-g-land, and ever-y-t-hing wo-uld be right and tight. It don't ma-ke
sen-se, that it don't."
Nic-ho-las sig-hed. "I'm not su-re, Tavvy, that I owe you an
ex-p-la-na-ti-on."
"She's not a tart, that's cle-ar. Su-re and she tri-ed to kill you, but
kno-wing you, you're not li-kely to hold that aga-inst her. Any num-ber of
wo-men, and men as well, wo-uld li-ke to kill you, and most of them with go-od
ca-use. So why don't you let the po-or lit-tle mi-te go?"
Nic-ho-las smi-led at the man op-po-si-te him, and a les-ser mor-tal than
Tavvy wo-uld ha-ve qu-a-iled. Tavvy simply sta-red back. "Po-or lit-tle
mi-te?" he ec-ho-ed. "I hadn't re-ali-zed she'd ma-de qu-ite such an
im-p-res-si-on on you, Tavvy. You re-ali-ze we're tal-king abo-ut the wo-man
who knoc-ked you over the he-ad with a buc-ket and dum-ped you be-hind the
shrub-bery?"
"She's a ga-me lit-tle thing, the-re's no den-ying that. I just don't li-ke
to see the cards stac-ked aga-inst her."
Nic-ho-las set his glass down very ca-re-ful-ly. "How long ha-ve you known
me, Tavvy?"
"Mo-re'n ten ye-ars, sir."
"Cut the 'sir' blat-her, Tavvy. You're as-king qu-es-ti-ons no ser-vant
wo-uld ask-we might as well fa-ce each ot-her as equ-als. Why do you think I
sho-uld let her go? Why this sud-den rush of pity for yo-ur fel-low man? Or
wo-man, in this ca-se?"
"I do fe-el sorry for her," Tavvy sa-id sto-utly. "No mat-ter what you do
she ke-eps on fig-h-ting. Part of me wo-uld ha-te to see her be-aten."
"You're a ro-man-tic, Tavvy. I ne-ver knew that abo-ut you," he mur-mu-red.
"As a mat-ter of fact, I fe-el the sa-me. Il-lo-gi-cal, isn't it?"
Tavvy nod-ded. "And it's not just her I'm wor-ri-ed abo-ut. It's you."
Nic-ho-las's eyes flew open; he was no lon-ger in-do-lent. "You in-te-rest
me enor-mo-usly, Tavvy. You know me bet-ter than an-yo-ne ever has,
in-c-lu-ding my own pa-rents. Why are you wor-ri-ed abo-ut me?"
"She'll des-t-roy you."
"Don't be ri-di-cu-lo-us! A tiny lit-tle snip of a thing li-ke her? It
wo-uld ta-ke a gre-at de-al mo-re than one re-cal-cit-rant Fren-c-h-wo-man to
des-t-roy me. I've put all my ef-forts in-to the task for so-me fif-te-en
ye-ars, and I ha-ven't got-ten ne-arly far eno-ugh." His smi-le was cold. "So
why sho-uld I worry that Ghis-la-ine de Lorgny will suc-ce-ed whe-re I and
ot-hers ha-ve fa-iled?"
"She we-akens you," Tavvy sa-id. "I've se-en you lo-oking at her
so-me-ti-mes, when the ro-om is dark and she's busy with so-met-hing. You
lo-ok li-ke a mo-on-ling, and that's the truth with no bark on it." Nic-ho-las
simply la-ug-hed. "So you think I'm a lo-ve-sick fo-ol, Tavvy? For-get the mad
Blac-k-t-hor-nes. It's yo-ur sa-nity I'm wor-ri-ed abo-ut now."
"I wo-uldn't go that far. But you've be-en… not yo-ur-self. You ha-ven't
even bed-ded the wench yet, ha-ve you?"
"Damn yo-ur im-pu-den-ce, Tavvy," he sa-id mildly. 'That's no-ne of yo-ur
bu-si-ness. What if she simply do-esn't at-tract me?"

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"The-re was a ti-me when not-hing fe-ma-le fa-iled to at-tract you," Tavvy
shot back. "You want her, you've had her at yo-ur com-mand for clo-se to a
we-ek now, and you ha-ven't be-en be-ne-ath her skirt yet. You drag her to the
con-ti-nent with us, you le-ave her alo-ne in her ca-bin, and you won-der why
I'm wor-ri-ed."
"She's se-asick, Tavvy. Al-low me a lit-tle fas-ti-di-o-us-ness. If it will
ma-ke you fe-el any bet-ter, I'll ra-pe her as so-on as we re-ach dry land.
You can watch, if you li-ke."
"I've wat-c-hed be-fo-re. So-me-how I don't think you're go-ing to want an
audi-en-ce for this one."
It was ta-king mo-re and mo-re for Nic-ho-las to con-t-rol his tem-per. "Do
you fancy her yo-ur-self, is that it, Tavvy? She's not-hing but a co-ok,
af-ter all. Not that high abo-ve the to-uch of a va-let. May-be you've a
sud-den ur-ge to set-tle down, ra-ise a pas-sel of brats, per-haps be-co-me a
but-ler."
Tavvy sho-ok his he-ad, re-fu-sing to be ba-ited. "She's not for the li-kes
of me. I can tell qu-ality, whet-her it's French or En-g-lish, and she's no
or-di-nary ser-vant. I can tell so-met-hing el-se, too."
"I sus-pect you're go-ing to in-form me of yo-ur ob-ser-va-ti-ons whet-her I
ca-re to he-ar them or not," Nic-ho-las sa-id with a de-li-be-ra-te sigh.
"That I am. She's for you. She knows it, and she's fig-h-ting it li-ke
crazy. You know it, and if you had any sen-se at all you'd throw her
over-bo-ard. She'll bring you down, Blac-k-t-ho-me. She'll des-t-roy you and
me if you don't get rid of her."
"God, don't be so me-lod-ra-ma-tic! How is one small French girl go-ing to
ma-na-ge that?" he de-man-ded.
"You'll fall in lo-ve with her." Tavvy's vo-ice was flat,
ex-p-res-si-on-less. "She'll know it, she'll use it, and she'll le-ave you.
They all le-ave in the end, you know that. And the next ti-me the-re's a
du-el, you'll be a lit-tle ca-re-less. Or may-be a hor-se ra-ce. You'll go too
far over the ed-ge, and that'll be the end of you."
"Tavvy," Nic-ho-las sa-id with gre-at pa-ti-en-ce, "I'm al-re-ady dam-ned
ca-re-less when it co-mes to du-els and hor-se ra-cing. I've be-en co-ur-ting
de-ath for mo-re than a de-ca-de. If con-sor-ting with Ghis-la-ine de Lorgny
brings it fas-ter, then I'm all for it. Ha-ve a drink, man. You ne-ed it."
"No, thank you," Tavvy sa-id with gre-at dig-nity, ri-sing to his full,
so-mew-hat me-ager he-ight. "But you think abo-ut what I've be-en sa-ying. If
you're too squ-e-amish to bed her, may-be the sa-fest thing to do wo-uld be to
le-ave her, on-ce we get to Hol-land."
"My de-ar Tavvy," Nic-ho-las mur-mu-red. "When ha-ve I ever be-en
con-cer-ned with sa-fety?"
Tavvy de-par-ted, mut-te-ring un-der his bre-ath. Nic-ho-las wat-c-hed him
go, a frown cre-asing his brow. Damn the man, but the-re was an
un-com-for-tab-le ele-ment of truth in his di-re war-nings. He'd al-lo-wed
Ghis-la-ine to get un-der his skin, to get clo-ser to him than any fe-ma-le
had in his en-ti-re self-ab-sor-bed exis-ten-ce. Ex-cept for a cer-ta-in
in-no-cent French girl he'd known half a li-fe-ti-me ago.
He co-uld ha-ve ta-ken her any num-ber of ti-mes. When he first had her,
ti-ed up on his bed back at Ain-s-ley Hall. At any one of the inns they'd
stop-ped at. In the nar-row bed at the ru-ins of the hun-ting lod-ge.
And each ti-me so-met-hing had stop-ped him. He had a dif-fe-rent na-me for
it. On-ce it was la-zi-ness, on-ce com-pas-si-on, on-ce the ur-ge to pro-long
her tor-ment. Lack of de-si-re had ne-ver be-en an is-sue. He'd tri-ed to
re-li-eve that de-si-re on the cham-ber-ma-id, but the-ir ener-ge-tic ef-forts
had only left him hungry for mo-re.
Tavvy had be-en right to warn him, damn his eyes! He'd grown far too
sen-ti-men-tal whe-re his cap-ti-ve was con-cer-ned. It was past ti-me to
ma-ke the-ir re-la-ti-on-s-hip cle-ar. She be-lon-ged on her back, and that
was whe-re he plan-ned to ke-ep her, on-ce they re-ac-hed the con-ti-nent. By
the ti-me he ti-red of her, he wo-uld ha-ve ven-ted the over-w-hel-ming lust

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that had be-en con-su-ming him.
Except if it we-re as ob-vi-o-us and stra-ig-h-t-for-ward as sim-p-le lust
he wo-uld ha-ve do-ne so-met-hing abo-ut it by now. Not lis-te-ned to his
con-s-ci-en-ce. Not he-si-ta-ted, even for a mo-ment. And cer-ta-inly not
go-ne to anot-her wo-man in her pla-ce.
He wasn't the slig-h-test bit dis-tur-bed by the tho-ught of his own
des-t-ruc-ti-on, at her or an-yo-ne el-se's hands. The tho-ught of his own
we-ak-ness was, ho-we-ver, un-be-arab-le.
He ne-eded to do wha-te-ver was ne-ces-sary to wi-pe that we-ak-ness out of
his system. The-re was no ro-om in his li-fe for mercy or ten-der-ness.
Scot-land had be-en a mis-ta-ke from the very be-gin-ning. He knew the-re
was no ha-ven for the li-kes of him, and the swe-et pro-mi-se of spring in the
co-untry had aro-used an il-lu-sory ho-pe. The-re was no gra-ce, no be-a-uty,
and tho-se who pro-mi-sed it to his we-ary so-ul we-re li-ars.
Scot-land was a lie, a land of rocky so-il, harsh cli-ma-tes, and eter-nal
lo-ne-li-ness. Ghis-la-ine was a lie, with her wo-un-ded eyes and mur-de-ro-us
so-ul.
He co-uldn't we-aken. All he had was his chilly, bit-ter co-re, which kept
him from ca-ring abo-ut an-yo-ne or an-y-t-hing ex-cept his own sel-fish
de-si-res. If he we-re to we-aken, to let even an oun-ce of com-pas-si-on, of
fe-eling, bre-ak thro-ugh the ar-mor he'd bu-ilt aro-und his he-art, then
ever-y-t-hing co-uld en-ter. All the gu-ilt and reg-ret that he'd de-ni-ed for
so many ye-ars. And he wo-uld be des-t-ro-yed.
He co-uldn't, wo-uldn't let it hap-pen. He'd le-ar-ned early on that he was
the only one he co-uld co-unt on. Ghis-la-ine must ha-ve le-ar-ned that sa-me
harsh les-son. She'd ex-pect no mercy from him.
He co-uld fe-el the dar-k-ness clo-se aro-und him on-ce mo-re. The mad
Blac-k-t-hor-nes. He was mo-re than li-ving up to the-ir re-pu-ta-ti-on.
He ro-se, set-ting his brandy down on the tab-le, and he-aded for her
ca-bin. She'd cer-ta-inly be-en the most ama-zing sha-de of gre-en and whi-te,
but it was al-ways pos-sib-le she'd re-co-ve-red qu-ickly. His bo-oted fe-et
we-re su-re on the rol-ling deck, unen-cum-be-red by the brandy he'd drunk or
the mo-ve-ment of the ship, and he didn't bot-her to knock be-fo-re ope-ning
the do-or.
She'd de-fi-ni-tely be-en ill. He re-mo-ved the ba-sin, le-aving it in the
hall, then re-tur-ned to stand over her, sta-ring. Her pa-le fa-ce was be-aded
with a cold swe-at, her eyes we-re clo-sed, and the-re we-re pur-p-le sha-dows
be-low them.
She'd slip-ped in-to French just be-fo-re he'd left her in the ca-bin. He'd
avo-ided that lan-gu-age du-ring the ti-me they spent to-get-her, avo-ided it
de-li-be-ra-tely. It re-min-ded him too much of the past. The En-g-lish
ac-cent she'd per-fec-ted was exactly right, with just a tra-ce of the lo-wer
clas-ses to fo-ol the less ob-ser-vant.
But her French was the be-a-uti-ful, im-pec-cab-le lan-gu-age of the
aris-toc-racy. It re-min-ded him of days go-ne by, of a yo-uth lost fo-re-ver,
of a way of li-fe des-t-ro-yed by a class's gre-ed and a pe-asantry's ra-ge.
He smo-ot-hed her tan-g-led ches-t-nut ha-ir away from her fa-ce, but she
didn't stir, ex-ha-us-ted by the il-lness and her own emo-ti-ons. Le-aning
down, he mur-mu-red in her ear, gen-t-le words, lo-ve words, in li-qu-id,
ten-der French. So-mew-he-re in her dre-ams she he-ard, for a fa-int,
in-no-cent smi-le cur-ved her mo-uth, and he sho-ok with the lon-ging to ta-ke
her, the-re and then.
He bac-ked away from her, swiftly, be-fo-re the tem-p-ta-ti-on grew to be
too much, and it wasn't un-til la-te that night, well in-to a bot-tle of
brandy, Tavvy this ti-me drin-king with him, that he re-ali-zed what he'd
sa-id to her, the French en-de-ar-ments in-s-tin-c-ti-ve and auto-ma-tic.
He'd told her she was be-a-uti-ful, his pre-ci-o-us child, his an-gel in a
dark night. He'd told her she was his so-ul, his li-fe and bre-ath, and the
he-at of his de-si-re.
And, God help him, he'd told her the worst thing of all. He'd told her that

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he lo-ved her. And even now, he wasn't qu-ite su-re if he'd li-ed.

Chapter 18

The bo-at was no lon-ger mo-ving. Ghis-la-ine lay fa-ce-down in the bunk,
scar-cely da-ring to bre-at-he, as she wa-ited for her sto-mach to set-tle.
She didn't da-re try to sit up. When she had, a few ho-urs ear-li-er, the
ro-om had swum in cir-c-les aro-und her, and she'd en-ded in a he-ap on the
flo-or. That was bad eno-ugh. She wo-uld ha-ve ma-na-ged to crawl back in-to
the bunk so-oner or la-ter, but he'd co-me in, pic-ked her up in his arms, and
pla-ced her back on the bed, mur-mu-ring things to her in the lan-gu-age of
her yo-uth. She'd al-most for-got-ten the so-und of it-Pa-ri-si-an gut-ter
French was very dif-fe-rent from the sof-ter, mo-re ele-gant so-unds of the
va-nis-hed aris-toc-racy. She let her-self drift as Blac-k-t-hor-ne tal-ked to
her, as he tuc-ked the light blan-ket over her we-ak, shi-ve-ring body. She
let her-self pre-tend she was fif-te-en aga-in, and an-y-t-hing was
pos-sib-le.
She didn't want to open her eyes. If she did, she'd see the pitch and fall
of the ca-bin, and the-re was ab-so-lu-tely not-hing left in her sto-mach to
lo-se. She had no idea how long she'd be-en in this tor-tu-re cham-ber, but
su-rely they co-uldn't ha-ve re-ac-hed the con-ti-nent al-re-ady.
It was then that she re-ali-zed she wasn't alo-ne in the ca-bin. Her dul-led
sen-ses told her that, and as they shar-pe-ned, she re-ali-zed it wasn't her
ne-me-sis. She ope-ned one eye, ca-re-ful-ly, and saw the swarthy pro-fi-le of
Nic-ho-las's va-let-cum-hen-c-h-man sit-ting in the cor-ner.
"You're awa-ke, then," he sa-id. "Ti-me's a-was-ting. If you're co-ming with
us, you'd best get up."
Ghis-la-ine didn't mo-ve. "Is the-re a cho-ice?"
"No. His lor-d-s-hip's not abo-ut to let you go."
The-re was so-met-hing in Ta-ver-ner's vo-ice that bro-ke thro-ugh her
dul-led mi-sery. She strug-gled in-to a sit-ting po-si-ti-on, and whi-le the
ca-bin spun for a mo-ment, it qu-ickly rig-h-ted it-self. "And you think he
sho-uld," she sa-id softly.
Ta-ver-ner nod-ded. "Aye, I do. You're not-hing but tro-ub-le to him, but
he's too blind pig-he-aded stub-born to re-ali-ze it. He do-esn't even know
what he wants with you, but he's not re-aso-nab-le eno-ugh to let you go."
"You co-uld help me."
Ta-ver-ner lo-oked at her sto-nily. "Why wo-uld I do that?"
"Be-ca-use you're right. I'm not-hing but tro-ub-le. He's got the
aut-ho-ri-ti-es af-ter him for mur-de-ring that man…"
"What do you know abo-ut it?" Tavvy scof-fed. "I was the-re, Mam-zel-le. It
was a fa-ir fight, not that the la-te Jason Har-g-ro-ve wan-ted it to be.
Tri-ed to kill Blac-k-t-hor-ne, that he did, af-ter my mas-ter de-lo-ped. Even
so, Blac-k-t-hor-ne did his best just to wo-und him. But the stu-pid bug-ger
wo-uldn't let things be."
"Very nob-le of Blac-k-t-hor-ne," Ghis-la-ine sa-id fa-intly.
"Be-si-des which, we've re-ac-hed the con-ti-nent. No one's go-ing to co-me
af-ter him he-re."
"Al-re-ady! How long ha-ve we be-en at sea?"
"You me-an how long ha-ve you be-en pu-king
yo-ur guts out? Three days. Kind of ro-ugh jus-ti-ce, if you know what I
me-an. Las-ted just abo-ut as long as Blac-k-t-hor-ne's la-te
in-dis-po-si-ti-on from gas-t-ri-tis."
"What abo-ut his co-usin? I tho-ught she was co-ming af-ter us." Ghis-la-ine
strug-gled for one tiny straw of ho-pe.
"You think he's af-ra-id of so-me-one li-ke Lady El-len?" Ta-ver-ner
scof-fed. "Not blo-ody li-kely. And it do-esn't mat-ter how many gents she has
with her. They won't catch up with Blac-k-t-hor-ne, not if he don't want them
to."

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"Then why do you think he sho-uld let me go?" Her bra-in was too we-ak to
ma-ke sen-se of all this.
"If I knew that, may-be I'd see my way cle-ar to hel-ping you," Tavvy sa-id
in an ag-gri-eved vo-ice. "I just think you're tro-ub-le, and he'd be bet-ter
off wit-ho-ut you. It do-esn't ma-ke any sen-se. I know he hasn't bed-ded you,
so it can't ha-ve an-y-t-hing to do with that. You're not his type an-y-way-he
li-kes 'em bu-xom and blond and silly. And things that don't ma-ke sen-se
worry me."
She had to be in-sa-ne. Or suf-fe-ring the af-te-ref-fects of
se-asic-k-ness, to fe-el stric-ken at the tho-ught of Blac-k-t-hor-ne
pre-fer-ring lar-ge blond nin-ni-es. She sho-uld be than-king God that he
hadn't be-en at-trac-ted eno-ugh to ta-ke her.
"You'd tra-vel a lot lig-h-ter wit-ho-ut me," she ma-na-ged to say in a
re-aso-nab-le vo-ice. "He's pro-bably just be-ing stub-born. If I simply
di-sap-pe-ared on the docks, he might end up be-ing gra-te-ful that the
de-ci-si-on was ta-ken out of his hands."
"But if s not go-ing to be ta-ken out of my hands, my pet,"
Blac-k-t-hor-ne's co-ol, ele-gant vo-ice res-pon-ded from the do-or-way. She
hadn't even re-ali-zed it was aj-ar, and Blac-k-t-hor-ne had a qu-i-et step.
"It's swe-et of you to be con-cer-ned, but I find I
A Ro-se at Mid-night 279
don't mind the ex-t-ra bot-her of ta-king you with me. For the pre-sent, at
le-ast."
She glan-ced at him wa-rily. The man who had co-me to her du-ring the
en-d-less oce-an vo-ya-ge, the one who'd put co-ol cloths on her brow and
mur-mu-red French en-de-ar-ments, the man who'd go-ne so far as to hold the
ba-sin for her with a sin-gu-lar lack of dis-gust, had di-sap-pe-ared. In his
pla-ce was the dark man who co-uld frig-h-ten her if she let him. The co-ol,
im-p-la-cab-le ne-me-sis who wo-uld not lis-ten to re-ason or ple-ading.
Wha-te-ver mer-ci-ful, gen-t-le tra-its he might pos-sess had va-nis-hed.
And right now she was too we-ak to fight. Ta-ver-ner was still slo-uc-hed in
the cor-ner, lo-oking sin-gu-larly un-wor-ri-ed that his mas-ter might ha-ve
over-he-ard his dis-lo-yalty, but then, Blac-k-t-hor-ne and his va-let had an
unu-su-al re-la-ti-on-s-hip. She wo-uldn't gi-ve up ho-pe. If Tavvy
di-sap-pro-ved of her pre-sen-ce, he might see fit to over-lo-ok so-me as-pect
of her cap-ti-vity. All she wo-uld ne-ed was anot-her mo-ment of
inat-ten-ti-on, and she'd be go-ne. And this ti-me he wo-uldn't be ab-le to
track her down.
"Co-me along, Ghis-la-ine," Blac-k-t-hor-ne sa-id, mo-ving in-to the ca-bin,
dwar-fing it with his si-ze and ele-gan-ce, and she felt even shab-bi-er and
smal-ler. But not hel-p-less. Cer-ta-inly ne-ver hel-p-less. He held out a
hand; well-sha-ped, strong. She wasn't abo-ut to ta-ke it. He wa-ited
pa-ti-ently, li-ke a spi-der. "Co-me along," he sa-id aga-in. "Dry land
awa-its you."
She wo-uld ha-ve fol-lo-wed the de-vil him-self off the bo-at. She tri-ed to
climb off the bed, ig-no-ring his hand, but Blac-k-t-hor-ne wasn't a man to be
ig-no-red. He simply ca-ught her arm in his, pul-ling her from the bed, and,
in truth, she ne-eded his strength as she tri-ed to ste-ady her trem-b-ling
legs. Only for the mo-ment, she re-min-ded her-self. Only un-til they got off
this mon-s-t-ro-us bo-at. She ne-eded to wash her fa-ce and hands, to comb her
ha-ir, to try to find so-met-hing de-cent to we-ar among El-len's over-si-zed
gowns. She even ne-eded to put so-met-hing in her sto-mach, tho-ugh the very
tho-ught ma-de her shud-der. Then she co-uld see abo-ut ma-king her es-ca-pe.
And this ti-me it wo-uld be for go-od.
The low ro-ads of Hol-land we-re in bet-ter sha-pe than tho-se in En-g-land.
The hi-red car-ri-age was a step abo-ve Blac-k-t-hor-ne's ram-s-hac-k-le
af-fa-ir, de-cently sprung with mo-destly com-for-tab-le cus-hi-ons. The-re
was mo-re ro-om, too, so that Blac-k-t-hor-ne's lar-ge, mas-cu-li-ne body
sho-uldn't ha-ve be-en so over-w-hel-ming in the less than cram-ped spa-ce. It
still was.

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He wat-c-hed her. His eyes ne-ver left her fa-ce as they cros-sed the
mi-les. His at-ti-tu-de was lazy, his long legs ex-ten-ded, his arms cros-sed,
the la-ce cuffs drip-ping over his hands. His eyes we-re half-clo-sed, and the
fa-int smi-le on his nar-row mo-uth was dis-tur-bing. It was all Ghis-la-ine
co-uld do not to re-ve-al how dis-tur-bed she was.
So-met-hing had chan-ged. So-met-hing had shif-ted bet-we-en them, and that
chan-ge didn't bo-de well for her. It se-emed as if Blac-k-t-hor-ne had co-me
to a de-ci-si-on, and wha-te-ver that de-ci-si-on was, it wo-uldn't be to her
be-ne-fit.
She wat-c-hed him, mo-re co-vertly than he wat-c-hed her, and con-si-de-red
the pos-si-bi-li-ti-es. She wat-c-hed, and wa-ited, dre-ading the mo-ment when
the co-ach wo-uld stop for the day. Even the tor-tu-re of the en-d-less
tra-vel was pre-fe-rab-le to the un-cer-ta-inty of what the night wo-uld
bring.
The ho-ur was much ad-van-ced when they fi-nal-ly hal-ted. The inn was a cut
abo-ve the se-edy hos-tel-ri-es they'd fre-qu-en-ted in En-g-land, and if
Ghis-la-ine had be-en less an-xi-o-us she wo-uld ha-ve won-de-red whet-her
lod-ging was che-aper on the con-ti-nent, or whet-her Blac-k-t-hor-ne was no
lon-ger wor-ri-ed abo-ut the spec-ter of pur-su-it. It was pro-bably a
com-bi-na-ti-on of the two, but as she sat alo-ne in the pri-va-te cham-ber,
war-mer and mo-re spa-ci-o-us than its dark, dank En-g-lish co-un-ter-parts,
she had ot-her things to worry abo-ut.
She pa-ced the ro-om, her arms hug-ged tightly aro-und her, kic-king her
over-long skirts out of her way. The-re was no re-ason that to-night was
go-ing to be dif-fe-rent from the ot-her nights they'd spent sin-ce
Blac-k-t-hor-ne had car-ri-ed her off. As Ta-ver-ner had po-in-ted out, she
was hardly his type of fe-ma-le. The-re'd be-en a num-ber of that sort,
bu-xom, blond, and giggly, ser-ving in the tap-ro-om-she'd spi-ed two be-fo-re
Ta-ver-ner had whis-ked her up-s-ta-irs. It sto-od to re-ason that
Blac-k-t-hor-ne wo-uld find suc-cor in the-ir soft arms.
It sto-od to re-ason, but she didn't be-li-eve it. He was co-ming for her
to-night, she knew it. And he knew she knew. The tray of din-ner, mis-sing
such a ru-di-men-tary uten-sil as a kni-fe, bes-po-ke it.
She'd ba-rely to-uc-hed a thing. She'd left the glass of wi-ne alo-ne,
ne-eding all her wits. She'd kept him away this long. Su-rely she co-uld
dis-su-ade or dis-t-ract him one mo-re ti-me.
The ho-urs pas-sed. The fi-re bur-ned low in the he-arth, and in the
dis-tan-ce she co-uld he-ar the so-und of la-ug-h-ter from the tap-ro-om, the
gig-gles flo-ating up-ward thro-ugh the thick tim-bers of the old inn. Her
pa-nic had all be-en for not-hing.
She kic-ked off El-len's over-si-zed slip-pers and clim-bed up on-to the
high bed. It was soft, fresh-smel-ling, with fi-ne li-nen she-ets that wo-uld
ha-ve do-ne jus-ti-ce to Ain-s-ley Hall. The bed was big, and it wo-uld be
hers alo-ne. She lay back, fully clot-hed,
sta-ring at the sha-dows on the wall. It wasn't di-sap-po-in-t-ment she was
fe-eling.
Yes, it was, she ad-mit-ted, de-ter-mi-ned to be ho-nest with her-self. Not
di-sap-po-in-t-ment that he wasn't go-ing to ma-ke her the re-ci-pi-ent of his
dis-gus-ting at-ten-ti-ons. But di-sap-po-in-t-ment that the bat-tle, so long
in lin-ge-ring, was still wa-iting to be jo-ined. So-oner or la-ter the
sim-me-ring ten-si-on bet-we-en them was go-ing to ex-p-lo-de. She'd be-en
pre-pa-red for it, pre-pa-red to fight. To be left alo-ne was
an-tic-li-mac-tic. Of co-ur-se it was a di-sap-po-in-t-ment.
She he-ard a shri-ek of la-ug-h-ter from be-low-s-ta-irs, and her small
hands clen-c-hed in-to fists. Thank he-aven for wil-ling bar-ma-ids, she told
her-self de-vo-utly, her na-ils dig-ging in-to her palms. Thank he-aven for
one mo-re night of rep-ri-eve. Thank he-aven for…
The so-und of the do-or to her cham-ber stop-ped all no-ti-ons of en-for-ced
than-k-ful-ness. Blac-k-t-hor-ne strol-led in, ca-su-al, ele-gant in the
can-d-le-light, and the sha-dows that pla-yed aro-und his fa-ce ma-de him

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lo-ok pre-da-tory. It was no il-lu-si-on.
Ghis-la-ine sat up qu-ickly, cur-sing her ti-ming. If she'd simply held out
anot-her ten mi-nu-tes she wo-uld ha-ve be-en re-ady to fa-ce him. Not lying
in bed, vul-ne-rab-le.
He smi-led at her. It wasn't re-as-su-ring. That smi-le was simply a small,
moc-king cur-ve to his thin lips, and it didn't re-ach his eyes. "You don't
mind if I lock the do-or, do you?" he mur-mu-red, do-ing so wit-ho-ut wa-iting
for her as-sent. "I don't want us to be dis-tur-bed to-night. Not that
an-yo-ne wo-uld be fo-ol eno-ugh to do so. I ha-ve a cer-ta-in re-pu-ta-ti-on,
even in the back of be-yond. Most pe-op-le wo-uld think twi-ce abo-ut
cros-sing me."
She ed-ged back aga-inst the he-ad of the bed. The-re was no light in his
fa-ce, no ten-der-ness or mercy. He was go-ing to ha-ve her, and not-hing she
co-uld say or do wo-uld stop him.
She had to gi-ve it one last try. "You don't re-al-ly want me," she sa-id,
wat-c-hing as he strip-ped off his ele-gant jac-ket. "You know you don't. If
you want sex, why don't you ava-il yo-ur-self of the wo-men dow-n-s-ta-irs?
I'm su-re they're much mo-re wil-ling and ex-pe-ri-en-ced."
"I'm not in-te-res-ted in wil-ling," Nic-ho-las sa-id, re-mo-ving his
nec-k-c-loth with long, pa-ti-ent fin-gers. "I want you." He sat down in the
cha-ir by the fi-re and pro-ce-eded to pull off his bo-ots, no easy trick,
con-si-de-ring the-ir cus-tom fit. She wat-c-hed in fas-ci-na-ti-on, kno-wing
the-re was no pla-ce she co-uld run to.
He un-fas-te-ned his shirt as he ap-pro-ac-hed her, and he was very big in
the dar-k-ness. This was no rad-dled old earl, no clumsy, plump but-c-her.
This was her worst enemy, a man of dan-ge-ro-us be-a-uty and let-hal charm. A
man who wan-ted to hurt her, to pu-nish her. A man who wo-uld do so by gi-ving
her ple-asu-re, if he co-uld.
Her only de-fen-se was to ma-ke cer-ta-in the-re was no ple-asu-re. She eyed
him sto-nily. "Don't do this."
His smi-le was gently moc-king. "You knew it wo-uld co-me to this, so-oner
or la-ter." He re-ac-hed out and to-uc-hed a strand of her long ches-t-nut
ha-ir. "Didn't you?"
She re-fu-sed to an-s-wer, and he tug-ged, a sharp lit-tle jerk. "Didn't
you?" he sa-id aga-in, his vo-ice de-cep-ti-vely soft.
"I can't stop you."
He sho-ok his he-ad in ag-re-ement. "You can thre-aten to kill me, you can
thre-aten to kill yo-ur-self, you can kick and scre-am and fight me if you've
a mind to. But you can't stop me."
"All right then."
He sta-red at her, mo-men-ta-rily star-t-led, and
drop-ped the lock of ha-ir. "All right then?" he ec-ho-ed.
"I can't stop you. I've no fancy for be-ing for-ced. Go ahe-ad." She pus-hed
her-self back down on the bed, arms stiff at her si-des, sta-ring at the
ce-iling, and wa-ited.
She'd ho-ped to call his bluff. It was use-less. She felt his fin-gers at
the but-tons that tra-ve-led down the front of El-len's over-si-zed day dress,
felt the co-ol-ness of the night air as he un-did the fas-te-nings one by
one.
"You don't ne-ed to do this," she sa-id thro-ugh clen-c-hed te-eth. "All
that's ne-ces-sary is to lift my skirts."
The soft so-und of la-ug-h-ter didn't warm her. "Had so-me ex-pe-ri-en-ce,
ha-ve you? I don't want just what's bet-we-en yo-ur legs, ma mie. I want yo-ur
en-ti-re body." He pul-led her to a sit-ting po-si-ti-on, pus-hing the dress
off her sho-ul-ders.
"My body is at yo-ur dis-po-sal, mon-si-e-ur," she sa-id po-li-tely, not
aiding him as he un-d-res-sed her. The che-mi-se was ma-de of fi-ne lawn. It
re-ac-hed her kne-es, and she fo-und her-self ho-ping he'd ha-ve the de-cency
to le-ave her that much. He didn't. He rol-led down the whi-te silk stoc-kings
and tos-sed them away, then strip-ped the che-mi-se from her body, un-til she

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lay the-re na-ked, for-cing her-self not to mo-ve as he wat-c-hed her out of
tho-se dan-ge-ro-us, ho-oded eyes.
"You're very small, my pet," he mur-mu-red, not to-uc-hing her, his eyes
drif-ting down over her small, ro-un-ded bre-asts, her flat sto-mach. "One
might al-most think you we-re still fif-te-en. I can re-mem-ber it as if it
we-re yes-ter-day…"
He co-uldn't ha-ve pic-ked words mo-re su-ited to en-ra-ge her. "Bas-tard!"
she his-sed, lun-ging for so-me co-ve-ring. "I'll ne-ver be fif-te-en aga-in.
I ha-te you, I ha-te you…"
He ha-uled her back, co-ve-ring her body with his, pres-sing her down in-to
the soft mat-tress, and whe-re his shirt was open she co-uld fe-el his hot
flesh aga-inst her skin, and she shi-ve-red in the sha-dows. "You'll ne-ver be
fif-te-en aga-in," he ag-re-ed, sta-ring at her, his eyes glit-te-ring.
The we-ight of him, res-ting aga-inst her, was do-ing stran-ge and
ter-rif-ying things to her in-si-des. She co-uld fe-el his aro-usal pres-sed
aga-inst her, and the re-ality of it was sud-denly mo-re than she co-uld
stand.
"For the lo-ve of God, Nic-ho-las," she whis-pe-red. "Don't do this to me.
For pity's sa-ke, le-ave me alo-ne."
For a mo-ment he didn't mo-ve, and she al-lo-wed her-self a bri-ef fla-re of
ho-pe that one last ti-me she'd fo-und the words to def-lect him. That ho-pe
va-nis-hed as he slowly sho-ok his he-ad. "Wha-te-ver ga-ve you the no-ti-on
that I had any pity in me? Any lo-ve of God, any de-cency? I'm a wic-ked man,
Ghis-la-ine. And I'm abo-ut to pro-ve to you how truly wic-ked I am."
He drop-ped his he-ad down, blot-ting out the fit-ful light, and put his
mo-uth aga-inst hers. She buc-ked aga-inst him in one last at-tempt to throw
him off, but he ig-no-red her, his mo-uth open aga-inst hers, kis-sing her
de-eply, his ton-gue in-va-ding her mo-uth, his hands hol-ding her he-ad still
even as her fists fla-iled aga-inst him.
It was a lo-sing bat-tle, and she knew it. Not be-ca-use he was too strong,
not be-ca-use he co-uld over-po-wer her. If she kept fig-h-ting him it might
still be eno-ugh to stop him. Des-pi-te his as-ser-ti-on that he was truly
wic-ked, she didn't re-al-ly be-li-eve he wo-uld ra-pe her.
It was a lo-sing bat-tle simply be-ca-use she knew she co-uldn't fight him.
His mo-uth was too swe-et on hers, cal-ling forth a res-pon-se that had
sta-yed bu-ri-ed de-ep in-si-de. The mo-re she strug-gled, the fre-er her
emo-ti-ons we-re. The mo-re she fo-ught aga-inst his kiss, the mo-re she
wan-ted it.
So-me-how her arms had be-co-me en-t-wi-ned aro-und his neck. So-me-how
she'd slan-ted her mo-uth be-ne-ath his, ac-cep-ting his kiss, her body
sof-te-ning aga-inst his hard one, re-ady to ac-cept that too. His hands slid
down and cup-ped her small bre-asts, and she he-ard her in-s-tin-c-ti-ve mo-an
of ple-asu-re from a dis-tan-ce. He-ard it with mo-un-ting hor-ror.
•She for-ced her-self to drop her arms to the bed be-si-de her body. For-ced
her-self to slow her bre-at-hing, to lie still be-ne-ath him. He lif-ted his
he-ad to sta-re down at her, his eyes glit-te-ring with an-ger and
frus-t-ra-ti-on, and she met his ga-ze with stony im-pas-si-vity.
"Is this yo-ur fi-nal de-fen-se?" he as-ked, his vo-ice ro-ug-he-ned in the
dar-k-ness. "You're go-ing to lie the-re and ig-no-re me whi-le I ha-ve my
wic-ked way with you? It won't work."
She con-t-rol-led her start of shock that he'd se-en thro-ugh her so easily.
"Do wha-te-ver you li-ke," she sa-id, her own vo-ice a husky bet-ra-yal. "I
can't stop you."
"You can't fo-ol me eit-her," he sa-id. "The-re are so-me ways you can't
con-t-rol yo-ur body." And he put his mo-uth on her bre-ast.
She jer-ked, her fin-gers clen-c-hing the she-ets be-ne-ath her, trying to
for-ce her-self to ke-ep still as ine-vi-tab-le stre-aks of de-si-re ra-ced
thro-ugh her. Des-pe-ra-tely she tri-ed to bring the dark, sa-fe pla-ce back,
but it was elu-si-ve. The-re was no pla-ce to es-ca-pe to; the-re was just the
dar-k-ness and Nic-ho-las's strong body pres-sing aga-inst hers, his mo-uth on

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her bre-asts, his long fin-gers run-ning down over her sto-mach, bet-we-en her
legs, so that she jer-ked aga-in, for-cing her-self not to fight him.
He lif-ted his he-ad, and her bre-ast was cold and damp in the night air. He
slid his long fin-gers in-to her, and she dug her he-els in-to the mat-tress
as well, bi-ting down hard on her lip. "Anot-her way yo-ur body can't lie," he
whis-pe-red, le-aning for-ward and to-uc-hing her tight lips with his ton-gue.
She co-uldn't, wo-uldn't ask him to stop. He was do-ing things to her no man
had ever do-ne, to-uc-hing her in ways that as-to-nis-hed and frig-h-te-ned
her, his fin-gers sli-ding de-ep in her damp, fi-ery he-at, his thumb rub-bing
aga-inst her, sen-ding ir-re-sis-tib-le ten-d-rils of lon-ging thre-ading
thro-ugh her.
And then he was lo-oming over her, bet-we-en her legs, and he'd
un-fas-te-ned his bre-ec-hes. She wo-uldn't watch him in the dar-k-ness as he
to-ok his re-ven-ge, to-ok her. She clo-sed her eyes, and tri-ed to call for
that co-co-on of sa-fety that had al-ways be-en the-re. She re-ac-hed for it,
and it va-nis-hed, li-ke mist, as he pres-sed aga-inst her, pus-hing bet-we-en
her legs, fil-ling her with a su-re de-ep thrust that sho-ved her back
aga-inst the bed.
For a mo-ment he lay still, co-ve-ring her with his lar-ger body, his open
shirt aro-und them both, and she shi-ve-red. This wasn't what she'd
re-mem-be-red. This in-va-si-on was mo-re de-vas-ta-ting, mo-re
over-w-hel-ming. This ti-me the-re was no es-ca-pe, as he be-gan to mo-ve,
pul-ling away from her and then thrus-ting in, de-ep, so that her hips
ar-c-hed up aga-inst him with age-old in-s-tinct.
She told her-self to pre-tend he was Por-cin, hun-c-hed and swe-ating over
her. She told her-self he was the old earl, stin-king of gar-lic. She
co-uldn't con-vin-ce her-self. Not when his hands stro-ked her bre-asts, his
mo-uth dan-ced aga-inst hers. Not when she co-uld fe-el the bet-ra-yal of her
own lon-ging bu-il-ding de-ep in-si-de her, whe-re the-ir bo-di-es jo-ined.
She told her-self to fight it, but when she
squ-ir-med aga-inst him it simply bro-ught him in de-eper, har-der; and her
tre-aso-no-us body re-ac-ted in min-d-less joy. Her self-con-t-rol was
shat-te-ring, and she wan-ted him, ne-eded him, ne-eded his body, ne-eded his
mo-uth aga-inst hers, ne-eded his hands on her bre-asts, ne-eded so-met-hing,
and she co-uldn't be-gin to know what it was.
She wo-uldn't gi-ve in to it. Her one re-ven-ge was her re-mo-te-ness, and
he was strip-ping it away from her. She sho-ok her he-ad, in ne-ga-ti-on of
his po-wer over her, but he was, as he sa-id, mer-ci-less. "Don't fight it, my
an-gel," he whis-pe-red, his vo-ice a moc-kery. "I'm not go-ing to fi-nish
with you un-til you co-me."
She whim-pe-red then, and ha-ted her-self for do-ing so. He co-ve-red her
mo-uth with his, and li-ke a fo-ol she kis-sed him back, as his ha-ir fell
aro-und them both, cur-ta-ining them in dar-k-ness. He re-ac-hed down and
ca-ught her hips, pul-ling her up aga-inst him, and then his body went ri-gid
in her arms, and she felt the flo-oding of a gre-at warmth, one that for the
first ti-me was an-s-we-red with her own warmth. And she wan-ted to cry, for
the fi-nal in-no-cen-ce that was truly lost.
She lay still be-ne-ath him, ha-ting him, ha-ting her-self. Her fa-ce was
wet with swe-at and so-met-hing she told her-self co-uld ne-ver be te-ars, as
she tri-ed to calm her po-un-ding he-art, tri-ed to slow her ra-cing bre-ath.
He lay atop her, still par-ti-al-ly clot-hed, and she co-uld fe-el the
shud-der that ran thro-ugh his body. And then he pul-led him-self away from
her, clim-bing from the bed, not bot-he-ring to fas-ten his clot-hing as he
sta-red down at her.
She co-uldn't lo-ok at him. Co-uldn't fa-ce him, or her own fo-olish
bet-ra-yal. She cur-led up in a ball, sho-ving her fist in her mo-uth to stop
her mo-an of an-gu-ish, and shut her eyes.
The soft li-nen she-et set-tled over her, tos-sed by im-pa-ti-ent hands. A
mo-ment la-ter she he-ard the lock in the do-or, he-ard it slam be-hind him.
And lis-te-ned as the key tur-ned on-ce mo-re, se-aling her in the-re.

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At le-ast he hadn't sta-yed with her. At le-ast he'd left her, to mo-urn her
de-fe-at at his hands. He'd won. He'd had his re-ven-ge, and it was mo-re
po-wer-ful than she co-uld ha-ve ima-gi-ned. He'd strip-ped away the
il-lu-si-on that her flesh was in-vul-ne-rab-le. Even wor-se, he'd strip-ped
away the il-lu-si-on that her he-art was sto-ne.
God, she ha-ted him! Ha-ted his ar-ro-gan-ce, his col-d-ness, his
de-vas-ta-ting ef-fi-ci-ency with her body. But most of all she ha-ted the
ex-p-res-si-on she'd se-en on his fa-ce, a bri-ef, fle-eting emo-ti-on that
va-nis-hed as so-on as it ap-pe-ared, va-nis-hed be-fo-re she'd clo-sed her
eyes and tur-ned away from him.
It had be-en re-mor-se. Ble-ak, black re-mor-se. And in that bri-ef mo-ment
of fe-eling he'd des-t-ro-yed wha-te-ver ven-ge-an-ce she might ha-ve
plan-ned. She ha-ted him, with all her he-art and so-ul. But be-ca-use of him,
she fo-und she still had a he-art and so-ul. And they be-lon-ged to him.
He wo-uldn't co-me back that night, she knew it. He might even he-ad on to
Ve-ni-ce, le-aving her be-hind. It wo-uld be the best thing for both of them.
She co-uld only lie in bed, her body still damp and tin-g-ling, and ho-pe that
for on-ce God wo-uld show her so-me mercy. That she might be aban-do-ned by
the man she was fo-ol eno-ugh still to lo-ve, and ne-ver see him aga-in.
The tap-ro-om was de-ser-ted when Nic-ho-las wal-ked in, si-lent in his
stoc-kin-ged fe-et. He'd pul-led his clot-hes to-get-her, but just ba-rely,
re-fas-te-ning his bre-ec-hes and pul-ling his shirt abo-ut him. Tavvy must
ha-ve ava-iled him-self of one or both of the ma-ids, the-ir host was abed,
and he was alo-ne in the dar-k-ness.
He drop-ped down be-fo-re the ban-ked fi-re. The Dutch we-re ever a cle-an
ra-ce, he tho-ught with a we-ary gri-ma-ce. Ever-y-t-hing spot-less, ti-di-ed
away for the night, in-c-lu-ding his bot-tle of brandy. It didn't mat-ter. All
the brandy in the world wo-uldn't wash away the me-mory of Ghis-la-ine cur-led
up in that bed, trem-b-ling with mi-sery. All the brandy in the world
wo-uldn't wash away his self-lo-at-hing.
She'd won, of co-ur-se. He hadn't be-en ab-le to ma-ke her co-me-his own
ra-ging ne-eds had ta-ken him over the ed-ge, for the first ti-me in his
me-mory. And the dam-nab-le thing abo-ut it was that she didn't re-ali-ze
she'd won. The ple-asu-re he'd gi-ven her had be-en far mo-re than she'd ever
wan-ted to ac-cept from him, even if she hadn't re-ac-hed her pe-ak. He'd
still ma-na-ged to show her how hel-p-less she truly was when she was up
aga-inst him. He ought to be pro-ud of him-self, he tho-ught with a so-ur
smi-le.
If he had a spark of de-cency left he'd le-ave her be-hind to-mor-row.
Set-tle as much of his dwin-d-ling poc-ket mo-ney as he co-uld with the
lan-d-lord, and ne-ver ha-ve to fa-ce her aga-in.
But he knew per-fectly well that any spark of de-cency was long go-ne. He
was go-ing to ke-ep her with him; he was go-ing to ke-ep her in his bed. He
was go-ing to ma-ke lo-ve to her every ti-me he co-uld, un-til he was ab-le to
ri-de her out of his system. And ri-de him out of hers.
Be-ca-use ot-her-wi-se they might just end up des-t-ro-ying each ot-her. And
whi-le he had no fe-ars for his own wor-t-h-less hi-de, he'd just be-en
rep-ri-eved from be-li-eving her mur-de-red du-ring the Ter-ror. He wasn't
abo-ut to let her be des-t-ro-yed now. Par-ti-cu-larly by his own hands.

Chapter 19

“But, Tony," El-len sa-id in a pla-in-ti-ve vo-ice, strug-gling to ke-ep up
with him as he mo-ved with ine-xo-rab-le spe-ed thro-ugh the ele-gant halls of
Vi-en-na's best ho-tel. "Why did you tell them we we-re mar-ri-ed?"
Tony hal-ted his he-ad-long pa-ce, and El-len bar-re-led past him, co-ming
to an ab-rupt halt. "Be-ca-use, de-ar one," he sa-id with gre-at pa-ti-en-ce,
"Vi-en-na is not de-vo-id of En-g-lish so-ci-ety at the mo-ment. We ne-ed to
do our best to pre-ser-ve yo-ur re-pu-ta-ti-on."

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"I wo-uld think it was long go-ne, Tony," she sa-id with gre-at fran-k-ness.
"We've be-en alo-ne, un-c-ha-pe-ro-ned, for mo-re than two we-eks now. We've
tra-ve-led ac-ross Scot-land, sa-iled to the con-ti-nent, and ma-de it all the
way to Aus-t-ria wit-ho-ut eit-her my ma-id or yo-ur va-let. I think," she
sa-id che-er-ful-ly, "I'm ru-ined."
"Ob-li-ge me by not an-no-un-cing it to the world," he sa-id un-der his
bre-ath, ta-king her arm in his and hur-rying her past the cu-ri-o-us gu-ests.
"We might still ma-na-ge the ru-se if we're very cir-cum-s-pect."
"I can be dis-c-re-et," El-len sa-id in a hurt to-ne of vo-ice.
"De-arest, you are the most tran-s-pa-rent fe-ma-le I ha-ve ever known.
Sub-t-lety and de-ce-it are be-yond yo-ur ca-pa-bi-li-ti-es. You'll simply
ha-ve to trust me to ke-ep gos-sips away from you. I'm go-ing to want you to
stay in the ho-tel, in yo-ur ro-om, whi-le I go out and see what I can
dis-co-ver. I can't ima-gi-ne why Nic-ho-las wo-uld ha-ve bro-ught Ghis-la-ine
to Vi-en-na, but sin-ce tho-se pe-op-le we qu-es-ti-oned in the inn
over-he-ard them dis-cus-sing it, and sin-ce it was our only le-ad, we had no
cho-ice but to ta-ke it. If you'd only ag-re-ed to re-turn ho-me…"
"But I co-uldn't, Tony!" El-len wa-iled as Tony un-loc-ked the gilt and
whi-te do-or to the ho-tel su-ite. "After we'd co-me so far, I simply
co-uldn't just gi-ve up on them. I wo-uld ha-ve co-me on alo-ne…"
"I know you wo-uld ha-ve," he sa-id in a long-suf-fe-ring vo-ice, clo-sing
the do-or be-hind them. "Which is why I'm he-re with you. It's bad eno-ugh
I've aided in the des-t-ruc-ti-on of yo-ur re-pu-ta-ti-on. I'm not go-ing to
aban-don you be-si-des."
"De-ar Tony," she sa-id. "You ta-ke the-se things too se-ri-o-usly." She
glan-ced aro-und her at the ele-gantly ap-po-in-ted dra-wing ro-om. "This is
lo-vely," she sa-id, mo-ving over to in-ha-le the frag-ran-ce of the ro-ses in
the crystal va-se. "Do you re-ali-ze I've ne-ver be-en in a ho-tel be-fo-re?"
"What abo-ut Pa-ris?" he in-qu-ired, strip-ping off his glo-ves and hat.
"You vi-si-ted for a whi-le, af-ter…"
"Af-ter I was jil-ted?" she sup-pli-ed with sur-p-ri-sing equ-ani-mity. For
so-me re-ason the old pa-in had va-nis-hed, mel-ted away. One mo-re sha-me-ful
re-min-der that it had simply be-en her pri-de, not her he-art, that was
wo-un-ded. "I did. But I sta-yed with one of Liz-zie's co-usins. Tell me, is
it very no-isy in a ho-tel?"
"Not any wor-se than a co-untry inn, El-len. Just a lit-tle gran-der."
"You know, Tony, I li-ke it," she sa-id na-ively. "Do you sup-po-se we might
stay a few days on-ce we ret-ri-eve Ghis-la-ine? She'll pro-vi-de an
ad-mi-rab-le cha-pe-ron, and we won't ne-ed to worry abo-ut gos-sips."
"Let's worry abo-ut that af-ter I lo-ca-te the mis-sing co-up-le," Tony
sa-id rep-res-si-vely, mo-ving past her and glan-cing in-to the bed-ro-om
be-yond. Wha-te-ver he saw dis-p-le-ased him, for he tur-ned back to her with
a fe-ar-so-me scowl on his fa-ce. "I'm go-ing out to see what I can
dis-co-ver. I don't want you to le-ave this ro-om."
"You so-und li-ke my fat-her," she grum-b-led, ma-king a fa-ce.
"And it's a tra-gedy you ne-ver le-ar-ned to obey him," he shot back.
"Now that's whe-re you're de-ad wrong. I've be-en a me-ek, obe-di-ent
fe-ma-le most of my li-fe. A du-ti-ful da-ug-h-ter, a hel-p-ful sis-ter, a
de-pen-dab-le fri-end. And I'm go-ing to end my days a me-ek, kindly aunt to
all my ho-pe-ful ni-eces and nep-hews. Su-rely one bri-ef fling of mad-ness
will be over-lo-oked in such an ot-her-wi-se res-pec-tab-le li-fe," she
sa-id.
His scowl lif-ted for a mo-ment as he sta-red at her for a long mo-ment. "Is
that how you see yo-ur li-fe?" he as-ked softly.
She didn't want to lo-ok at him. The-se last few days her lon-ging for him
had grown to un-ma-na-ge-ab-le pro-por-ti-ons, lon-ging for his com-fort, his
hu-mor, his ten-der-ness. Lon-ging for so-met-hing mo-re, so-met-hing she
didn't da-re put a na-me to, so-met-hing that was set off by too long a
pe-ru-sal of his tall, mus-cu-lar form, his han-d-so-me fa-ce, his sle-epy
eyes and lazy smi-le. She tur-ned and wal-ked to the lar-ge win-dow, sta-ring

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out at the ele-gant park sur-ro-un-ding the ho-tel. "That's the lot of most
wo-men," she sa-id. "We do as we're told, we abi-de by ot-her pe-op-le's
de-ci-si-ons, we're tos-sed back and forth with no cho-ice of our own. We
lis-ten to our pa-rents, our brot-hers, our hus-bands, and then our
chil-d-ren. We do what's ex-pec-ted of us."
"You don't ha-ve a hus-band."
She tur-ned and glan-ced at him then, but his ex-p-res-si-on was bland,
un-re-adab-le. "No, I don't."
"It was a lucky es-ca-pe. Pur-ser wo-uldn't ha-ve do-ne for you, you know.
He was a prosy lit-tle bo-re, a bully, with lit-tle wit or gra-ce. He wo-uld
ha-ve im-mu-red you in so-me par-so-na-ge with a half a do-zen brats and spent
yo-ur in-he-ri-tan-ce. You co-uld ha-ve do-ne far bet-ter."
"I had no bet-ter of-fers," she sa-id, unab-le to ke-ep a mo-ur-n-ful no-te
out of her vo-ice. "Be-si-des, I li-ke chil-d-ren."
"So do I."
She sta-red at him, un-com-p-re-hen-ding. Be-fo-re she co-uld ask him what
he me-ant, he sket-c-hed a bow. "I'm not cer-ta-in when I'll re-turn. You will
stay in-do-ors, won't you?"
She cast a lon-ging lo-ok at the bright sun-s-hi-ne be-yond the win-dow. "If
you in-sist," she sa-id re-luc-tantly.
"I in-sist."
She re-ma-ined at the win-dow, half her mind re-gis-te-ring the so-und of
the clo-sing do-or. The-re we-re pe-op-le out-si-de, well-dres-sed,
hap-py-lo-oking pe-op-le, in-c-lu-ding chil-d-ren. All in all, this
ad-ven-tu-re hadn't be-en ne-arly as dan-ge-ro-us as she had ex-pec-ted it to
be.
To be su-re, Tony's com-pany was far from pe-ace-ful. Be-ing co-oped up in
his pre-sen-ce for day af-ter day had pro-ved dan-ge-ro-usly ex-hi-la-ra-ting.
But the ple-asu-re of Tony's pre-sen-ce car-ri-ed its own form of
frus-t-ra-ti-on. Trap-ped with her in the car-ri-age, then on ship-bo-ard,
he'd be-en pun-c-ti-li-o-usly cor-rect, and all her ef-forts at te-asing him
had got-ten her now-he-re.
She co-uld tra-ce it back to that night in Scot-land,t-he night they'd
sha-red a bed. She wasn't su-re what el-se they'd sha-red, and she'd be-en too
shy to in-qu-ire. When she wo-ke the next mor-ning, her he-ad was po-un-ding,
her mo-uth was ten-der, and her he-art was ac-hing. She was alo-ne in the
dec-re-pit lit-tle ho-vel, with Tony's co-at thrown over her for warmth. And
she al-most tho-ught she co-uld re-mem-ber the fe-el of his hands on her;
gen-t-le, deft, aro-using.
She'd fo-und him out-si-de, in con-ver-sa-ti-on with Dan-vers, who'd
ar-ri-ved with a fresh te-am of hor-ses and a cold bre-ak-fast. Tony hadn't
met her eyes at first, and when he did, he'd be-en co-ol and pro-per,
fri-endly but dis-tant. The per-fect fa-mily fri-end. Not du-ring the
en-d-less tra-vel ac-ross the sea to Ger-many, or the long mi-les down to
Vi-en-na, had he ever al-lu-ded to that night. And so-met-hing had kept her
own un-ruly ton-gue si-lent, for fe-ar she wo-uldn't li-ke what she'd
dis-co-ver. She wasn't af-ra-id to find that he'd des-po-iled her whi-le she'd
be-en in her cups. She was mo-re af-ra-id he hadn't be-en in-te-res-ted.
She'd te-ased him abo-ut be-ing sta-id and res-pec-tab-le, mo-re to re-mind
her-self that his in-te-rest in her was brot-herly than from an ac-tu-al
be-li-ef in his stuf-fi-ness, but ever sin-ce Scot-land he'd li-ved up to her
te-asing. He'd be-en qu-i-et, so-ber, al-most rep-res-si-ve, wat-c-hing her
with an odd ex-p-res-si-on in his calm gray eyes. He didn't te-ase her, didn't
flirt with her, ba-rely to-uc-hed her in the po-li-te man-ner most
gen-t-le-man used to as-sist a lady. In all, he tre-ated her as if she we-re
po-ison, and she co-uldn't bla-me him.
After all, she'd trap-ped him in-to this di-lem-ma. He must know per-fectly
well that so-ci-ety wo-uld hold him res-pon-sib-le for her ru-ined
re-pu-ta-ti-on. He must al-so know that so-ci-ety and her brot-her, his best
fri-end, wo-uld dic-ta-te only one re-medy.

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She wo-uldn't do it to him. She wo-uldn't marry him, no mat-ter how many
pe-op-le in-sis-ted that she sho-uld. She'd rat-her li-ve in re-ti-re-ment, in
ig-no-miny, than to do that to the man she lo-ved.
He ne-eded a pretty lit-tle child, one just out of the scho-ol-ro-om, to
ado-re him wit-ho-ut qu-es-ti-on, to pre-sent him with a lar-ge fa-mily. He
didn't ne-ed her.
She wasn't con-vin-ced it wo-uld co-me to that. They had met no one du-ring
the-ir tra-vels, and sin-ce she al-re-ady li-ved a gre-at de-al re-ti-red, it
was un-li-kely that so-ci-ety wo-uld no-te her di-sap-pe-aran-ce. Sir An-tony
was a dif-fe-rent mat-ter, but men's ac-ti-ons we-ren't qu-es-ti-oned as
clo-sely.
And Liz-zie wo-uld co-ver for her, even if Car-mic-ha-el was in a ra-ge over
the af-fa-ir. Liz-zie was pla-cid, af-fec-ti-ona-te, and knew how to ma-na-ge
even the most do-mi-ne-ering of ma-les, which her brot-her, Car-mic-ha-el,
cer-ta-inly was not. Car-mic-ha-el might fret and fu-me, but Liz-zie wo-uld
see that ever-y-t-hing was co-ve-red up ne-atly.
All she had to do, El-len tho-ught mo-ur-n-ful-ly, was stay put. Stay
co-oped up in this ad-mit-tedly spa-ci-o-us ho-tel su-ite on a bright sunny
day, when she lon-ged to fe-el the warmth of the sun, the fresh spring bre-eze
blo-wing thro-ugh her ha-ir. Su-rely Tony wo-uld ne-ver know if she ma-de just
a bri-ef fo-ray out in-to the af-ter-no-on warmth.
She glan-ced aro-und the su-ite, lo-oking at the ro-om be-yond, and
re-mem-be-red Tony's scowl. What had dis-p-le-ased him so gre-atly? She
pus-hed open the do-or and sto-od sta-ring, per-p-le-xed. The-re was not-hing
but a bed-ro-om, an ele-gant, tas-te-ful bed-ro-om, with an ex-t-re-mely
lar-ge bed, pi-led high with silk pil-lows. It lo-oked mo-re than
com-for-tab-le. So why had Tony scow-led?
Her clot-hes had al-re-ady be-en un-pac-ked by the ef-fi-ci-ent staff of the
ho-tel. She mo-ved to the cup-bo-ard, se-eking a light shawl, and then jum-ped
back in shock. Her small va-li-se had be-en un-pac-ked, her clot-hing sto-red
ne-atly on the shel-ves. Si-de by si-de with Tony's fresh li-nen.
She slam-med the do-or shut. It had to ha-ve be-en a mis-ta-ke. And yet she
knew, de-ep in-si-de, that it wasn't. Tony had re-gis-te-red them as Mr. and
Mrs. Smythe-Jones of Lon-don. He'd frow-ned at the bed. He was go-ing to
sha-re this su-ite with her. Lord knew, the po-or man pro-bably tho-ught he
wo-uld be for-ced to sha-re the bed with her as well.
She'd set his mind at ease. Kno-wing Tony, she was su-re his de-ci-si-on to
sha-re her su-ite wo-uld be un-s-ha-kab-le and qu-ite so-und. A lar-ge
cos-mo-po-li-tan city such as Vi-en-na was not the pla-ce for a wo-man to be
wit-ho-ut pro-tec-ti-on, even in as ele-gant a pla-ce as this ho-tel. He
wo-uld only be thin-king of her.
She'd in-sist he ta-ke the bed, and she'd ma-ke do on the so-fa in the
sa-lon. She was a lar-ge fe-ma-le, but he was a much lar-ger ma-le, and he'd
ne-ed that over-si-zed bed. He'd ar-gue, of co-ur-se, but this ti-me she
wo-uldn't gi-ve in.
De-ar Tony, she tho-ught, fe-eling a sud-den stin-ging in her eyes. So
de-ter-mi-ned to do the best thing, for-ced to bes-tir him-self when he wo-uld
be much hap-pi-er in Lon-don, li-ving his ple-asant li-fe of clubs and hor-ses
and balls. In trying to res-cue Gilly, she'd bro-ught Tony to the ed-ge of
di-sas-ter as well. It was go-ing to be a clo-se thing, ex-t-ri-ca-ting all of
them from the mo-rass Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne had tos-sed them in-to.
She al-most ho-ped Tony wo-uld kill him in a du-el. No, she didn't. For one
thing, Nic-ho-las might very well kill Tony-he had al-re-ady be-en pro-ven to
be both de-adly and un-s-c-ru-pu-lo-us. For anot-her, Tony was not the
kil-ling sort. If he did put a pe-ri-od to Nic-ho-las's wret-c-hed,
tro-ub-le-ma-king exis-ten-ce, it wo-uld ca-use an una-vo-idab-le scan-dal.
If luck was fi-nal-ly with them, Tony wo-uld ma-na-ge to spi-rit Gilly back
to her. She and Gilly co-uld sha-re the bed-ro-om, Tony co-uld ta-ke an
adj-o-ining ro-om, prop-ri-ety wo-uld be sa-tis-fi-ed; and whi-le
Car-mic-ha-el might fret and fu-me, the-re wo-uld be no ne-ed for nob-le

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sac-ri-fi-ces on Tony's part. And as the long, empty ye-ars stret-c-hed out in
front of her, she'd re-mem-ber her ad-ven-tu-re, and the way Tony so-me-ti-mes
se-emed to lo-ok at her, as if she we-ren't just an aunt or a sis-ter or a
da-ug-h-ter, but a wo-man.
The one thing she wasn't go-ing to do was spend the en-ti-re day im-mu-red
in the ho-tel su-ite. They'd be-en co-oped up in a car-ri-age sin-ce early
mor-ning, and for days be-fo-re that. She in-ten-ded a short, de-co-ro-us
stroll in the sun-s-hi-ne. If an-yo-ne ac-cos-ted her, she wo-uld simply gi-ve
them the cut di-rect, fre-eze them from spe-aking to her. And Tony ne-ed
ne-ver know.
It was co-oler out-si-de than she'd ima-gi-ned, and for a mo-ment she
wis-hed she'd bro-ught her shawl. She'd be-en unab-le to open that dam-ning
cup-bo-ard aga-in, too un-set-tled by the sight of the-ir snowy li-nen si-de
by si-de, and she wrap-ped her arms aro-und her as the wind whip-ped her
skirts back aga-inst her legs. For a mo-ment she was tem-p-ted to turn aro-und
and ret-re-at, but the tho-ught of tho-se long ye-ars stret-c-hing out in
front of her stop-ped her. She'd co-me hal-f-way ac-ross Euro-pe to res-cue
her best fri-end. Su-rely she wasn't go-ing to be in-ti-mi-da-ted by a lit-tle
fresh air and com-pany.
She set off re-so-lu-tely, de-ter-mi-ned to ma-ke go-od use of her ti-me,
when a vo-ice bro-ke thro-ugh her ab-s-t-rac-ti-on. A fa-mi-li-ar, Bri-tish
vo-ice. One that fil-led her with dre-ad.
"I say, it's Lady El-len, isn't it?" The arch to-nes flo-ated over to her.
She'd ma-de the mis-ta-ke of hal-ting at the first so-und of a gen-te-el
"yoo-hoo," and she co-uldn't very well pre-tend not to he-ar. "Lady El-len
Fit-z-wa-ter?"
Ellen tur-ned, and her he-art sank to her slip-pe-red fe-et. Of all the
pe-op-le to ha-ve run in-to, en-d-less mi-les from ho-me, Augus-ta
Ar-but-h-not was the ab-so-lu-te worst.
She plas-te-red a cor-rect smi-le on her fa-ce as she ad-van-ced to the
wo-man se-ated on a mar-b-le bench, wrap-ped in la-yers and la-yers of
clot-hing. "Lady Ar-but-h-not," she mur-mu-red, ta-king the claw-li-ke hand in
her own sha-me-ful-ly un-g-lo-ved one. "What a ple-asu-re to see you. I had no
idea you we-re in Vi-en-na."
"My hus-band was pos-ted he-re last ye-ar," she sa-id with an airy lit-tle
wa-ve of her plump hand. "It's a lucky thing for me our ho-use is be-ing
pa-in-ted. I can't stand the fu-mes, so Bur-ris and I are spen-ding the we-ek
at the ho-tel. If we hadn't be-en, I might not ha-ve run in-to you. My
da-ug-h-ter will be so ple-ased to see you."
Lady Ar-but-h-not was one of the most ma-li-ci-o-us gos-sips ever to
fre-qu-ent Lon-don. The da-ug-h-ter of a du-ke, she to-ok gre-at ple-asu-re in
ma-king cer-ta-in that tho-se who we-re ho-no-red by her com-pany li-ved up to
her very strict stan-dards. Tho-se who fa-iled to do so we-re gi-ven the cut
di-rect. El-len had al-ways bas-ked in her ap-pro-val un-til she'd ma-de the
un-p-re-ce-den-ted mo-ve of re-ti-ring on her own to the co-untry, but Lady
Ar-but-h-not ap-pe-ared to over-lo-ok such shoc-king be-ha-vi-or in her
ple-asu-re at dis-co-ve-ring a fel-low co-un-t-r-y-wo-man, one who might be
pos-ses-sed of the la-test gos-sip from En-g-land.
"How is Cor-de-lia?" El-len as-ked des-pe-ra-tely, shi-ve-ring in the bright
sun-light, ho-ping and pra-ying the-re might be a chan-ce she co-uld squ-e-ak
thro-ugh this en-co-un-ter.
It was a va-in ho-pe. Lady Ar-but-h-nof s eyes had nar-ro-wed as she to-ok
in El-len's un-g-lo-ved hand. "Whe-re is yo-ur ma-id, my de-ar?" she
in-qu-ired in a ste-ely vo-ice. "And who has ac-com-pa-ni-ed you this far away
from yo-ur ho-me? Am I to ha-ve the ple-asu-re of se-e-ing yo-ur
sis-ter-in-law Fit-z-wa-ter this af-ter-no-on?"
"Liz-zie's in En-g-land. She's abo-ut to ha-ve anot-her-"
Lady Ar-but-h-not's fa-ce grew po-si-ti-vely icy as El-len al-most
com-mit-ted the un-for-gi-vab-le bre-ach of men-ti-oning preg-nancy in
po-li-te so-ci-ety. "Then who has ac-com-pa-ni-ed you?" she as-ked flatly.

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Ellen's mind was an ab-so-lu-te blank as she se-ar-c-hed for re-al or
fic-ti-onal re-la-ti-ves who co-uld be cast on the al-tar of Lady
Ar-but-h-not's cu-ri-osity. "I… er… that is…" she stam-me-red, fe-eling her
fa-ce flush.
"I see," Lady Ar-but-h-not sa-id, ri-sing to her full he-ight, many in-c-hes
lo-wer than El-len's mi-se-rab-le form, sta-ring past her, her nar-row eyes
dark with out-ra-ge. "I am hor-ri-fi-ed." She tur-ned and stal-ked away, just
as her da-ug-h-ter Cor-de-lia ca-me to-ward them, a wel-co-ming smi-le
wre-at-hing her pretty fa-ce.
Her mot-her ca-ught her as she was abo-ut to re-ach El-len, yan-king her
back with a few his-sed words. The smi-le va-nis-hed from Cor-de-lia's fa-ce,
and a mo-ment la-ter she was whis-ked away from her old fri-end's
con-ta-mi-na-ting pre-sen-ce.
"Didn't I warn you to stay in yo-ur ro-om?" Tony's vo-ice ca-me from be-hind
her, so-un-ding in-fi-ni-tely we-ary.
Ellen blin-ked the te-ars away from her eyes be-fo-re tur-ning to fa-ce him.
"You did. And now I've ru-ined ever-y-t-hing. You ha-ve every right to be
fu-ri-o-us, Tony," she sa-id un-hap-pily. "But I co-uldn't…"
"I'm not fu-ri-o-us, swe-et-he-art," he sa-id gently, re-ac-hing up and
brus-hing a stray te-ar from her che-ek. "But don't you think we ought to go
back to the ro-om whi-le I in-form you of the la-test twist? I'm af-ra-id my
news isn't pro-mi-sing."
She sig-hed, ma-na-ging a bra-ve smi-le, kno-wing her fo-olish ac-ti-on had
sunk them both. "All in all if s a mi-se-rab-le day," she sa-id, ta-king his
arm as he led her back in-to the ho-tel.
Tony glan-ced at the set-ting sun. "The day's not over yet," he mur-mu-red
with a wry smi-le. "We might still be ab-le to sal-va-ge so-met-hing."
He wa-ited un-til they we-re back in the ro-om, wa-ited un-til she
com-po-sed her-self suf-fi-ci-ently, so that her blue eyes we-re only fa-intly
shiny from te-ars. He wan-ted to stran-g-le that odi-o-us bitch Ar-but-h-not.
He wan-ted to pull El-len in-to his arms, carry her in-to that dam-nab-le
bed-ro-om, and ma-ke lo-ve to her un-til her te-ars we-re for-got-ten. He
vib-ra-ted with frus-t-ra-ti-on and im-pa-ti-en-ce, and it to-ok all his
self-con-t-rol to ke-ep from to-uc-hing her, to mo-ve to the cha-ir and sit,
se-emingly at ease, as she pa-ced agi-ta-tedly aro-und the ro-om.
"They're in Ve-ni-ce," he sa-id wit-ho-ut pre-am-b-le. "Not Vi-en-na."
"Oh, no, Tony!" she cri-ed. "They can't be!"
"They can. I stop-ped in at an old fri-end's ho-use, one who can be
co-un-ted on for the la-test gos-sip. Ap-pa-rently they've just ar-ri-ved in
Italy. He's be-en se-en squ-iring her aro-und on his arm, and Car-s-ta-irs
in-forms me he's he-ard they're very cozy. I don't think our res-cue is
ne-eded or wan-ted."
She didn't mo-ve. Her fa-ce grew very still, and te-ars be-gan to fall;
si-lent, he-ar-t-b-re-aking te-ars. He'd al-ways tho-ught he ha-ted wo-men who
cri-ed. Car-lot-ta, his er-s-t-w-hi-le mis-t-ress, had used her te-ars
judi-ci-o-usly, to en-ti-ce a new trin-ket from him. His sis-ters had used
te-ars to get him in-to tro-ub-le, his mot-her to ma-ke him fe-el gu-ilty. He
sta-red at El-len's te-ars, en-t-ran-ced.
"Oh, Tony," she sa-id with a wa-il, "I don't be-li-eve it. I don't know what
he's do-ne to her, to ma-ke her sub-mit to him."
"I can ima-gi-ne," Tony sa-id dryly.
"But I've ru-ined you. Lady Ar-but-h-not's the worst gos-sip in the world,
and she's ac-cep-ted ever-y-w-he-re. Ever-yo-ne will he-ar abo-ut this, and we
ha-ven't even be-en ab-le to res-cue Gilly…"
He in-ter-rup-ted this tor-rent of mi-sery, ri-sing from his se-at and
cros-sing to her. He still didn't to-uch her, af-ra-id if he of-fe-red her
com-fort it wo-uld all too so-on turn in-to so-met-hing a bit mo-re mu-tu-al,
and he wasn't su-re she was re-ady for that. Even tho-ugh he'd be-en
ac-hingly, des-pe-ra-tely re-ady for what se-emed li-ke cen-tu-ri-es.
"We le-ave for Ve-ni-ce in the mor-ning," he sa-id calmly.

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She stop-ped her la-men-ta-ti-on. "We do?"
"You're not go-ing to rest easy un-til you see her yo-ur-self, are you? And
I don't know that Vi-en-na is the best pla-ce to stay, con-si-de-ring yo-ur
re-cent en-co-un-ter. We'll di-sap-pe-ar, deny we've ever be-en he-re, and
per-haps they'll think Lady Ar-but-h-not is a li-ar."
"Tony." She sho-ok her he-ad. "That will ne-ver work. I'm well and truly in
the so-up. If I'd just sta-yed out of sight, as you told me to, this wo-uldn't
ha-ve hap-pe-ned. No one wo-uld ha-ve even no-ti-ced I wasn't at Ain-s-ley
Hall for the last few we-eks, and no one pays at-ten-ti-on to what a
bac-he-lor may do. I don't mind so much for myself, but I ha-te to em-b-ro-il
you in so-met-hing tawdry."
"The-re's not-hing tawdry abo-ut it." The ti-me had co-me, and he knew it.
For the first ti-me in his li-fe it wasn't in-do-len-ce that kept him from
exer-ting him-self; it was pla-in, old-fas-hi-oned pa-nic, such as he hadn't
felt in ye-ars. What if she sa-id no? "The thing is, El-len," he sa-id, his
vo-ice so-un-ding cu-ri-o-usly ro-ugh, and he put his hands on her arms and
tur-ned her un-re-sis-ting body to fa-ce him, "that I…"
His dec-la-ra-ti-on was hal-ted by the so-und of an im-pe-ri-o-us knock on
the do-or. He re-le-ased her, step-ping back.
"You what, Tony?" she as-ked, not mo-ving, sud-denly in-tent.
"I'd best an-s-wer the do-or," he sa-id, mo-ving away from her.
"Fi-nish what you we-re go-ing to say." She ca-me af-ter him, cros-sing the
ro-om with swift gra-ce.
"I'd rat-her do so when we're un-li-kely to be in-ter-rup-ted," he sa-id
wryly, ope-ning the gilt and whi-te do-or.
He al-most slam-med it shut aga-in. Lady Ar-but-h-not was stan-ding the-re,
sta-ring at the two of them, her be-ady lit-tle eyes glit-te-ring with
ex-ci-te-ment.
"My de-ar!" she cro-oned, pus-hing the do-or open, slam-ming it aga-inst
Tony's no-se as she em-b-ra-ced the shoc-ked El-len aga-inst her mas-si-ve
bo-som. "Why didn't you ex-p-la-in? I just re-ce-ived last we-ek's Ti-mes, and
I fe-el li-ke a per-fect har-ri-dan, jum-ping to such a no-xi-o-us
con-c-lu-si-on. But my de-ar, a sim-p-le word wo-uld ha-ve set my mind at
ease."
Ellen sto-od hel-p-les-sly in her em-b-ra-ce, at a loss for words, bac-king
away when the old harpy re-le-ased her. Mi-lady ad-van-ced on Tony, a copy of
the pa-per in her hand, which she used to bat him with arch coy-ness. "And
you, de-ar boy. Very na-ughty of you. I un-der-s-tand, of co-ur-se. I was
yo-ung on-ce myself, I know how ro-man-ce can be. For-tu-na-te for you I'm
dis-c-re-et, for of co-ur-se I hadn't men-ti-oned my shoc-king sus-pi-ci-ons,
and ne-ver wo-uld ha-ve," she sa-id pi-o-usly. "But I'm so ple-ased to find
out the truth. I co-uldn't be hap-pi-er!" she sa-id with a men-da-ci-o-us
sigh.
Tony, ha-ving be-en the re-ci-pi-ent of her mat-c-h-ma-king at-ten-ti-ons
for her ol-der da-ug-h-ter, ma-na-ged a tight smi-le. "You're very kind."
"Cor-de-lia will lo-ve to see you," she sa-iled on, tur-ning back to the
be-mu-sed El-len. "Per-haps for lunch to-mor-row?"
"We're he-ading on to Ve-ni-ce to-mor-row," Tony sa-id smo-othly. "I'm su-re
they can spend so-me ti-me to-get-her when we get back to Lon-don."
Lady Ar-but-h-not's smi-le har-de-ned for a mo-ment. "That wo-uld be so
de-lig-h-t-ful." On-ce mo-re she swo-oped down on El-len, drag-ging her in-to
her em-b-ra-ce. "All my fe-li-ci-ta-ti-ons, de-ar girl. I know you'll be very
happy." And then she was go-ne, le-aving the we-ek-old edi-ti-on of the
Lon-don Ti-mes in Tony's hand.
He shut the do-or be-hind her very qu-i-etly, tur-ning the key so that
the-re wo-uld be no fur-t-her in-ter-rup-ti-ons. His nec-k-c-loth felt too
tight, the ro-om was stif-ling hot, and El-len was sta-ring at him in
com-p-le-te as-to-nis-h-ment, her mo-uth slightly open. He wan-ted to kiss
that mo-uth, fe-el it open fur-t-her be-ne-ath his.
"I… I don't un-der-s-tand," she sa-id fa-intly.

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"I ima-gi-ne I do." He han-ded her the pa-per, then strol-led over to the
win-dow, wa-iting for her re-ac-ti-on.
The-re was a long si-len-ce. "It says he-re we're mar-ri-ed," she sa-id in a
dull vo-ice. "Car-mic-ha-el sent in the no-ti-ce."
"Yes," he ag-re-ed in a non-com-mit-tal vo-ice.
"Oh, God, Tony," she sa-id mi-se-rably, "I'm so sorry! How co-uld
Car-mic-ha-el do such a thing! To ra-il-ro-ad you in-to this… I'll deny
ever-y-t-hing, of co-ur-se. Say it was a ho-ax, ma-ke Car-mic-ha-el ret-ract
it…"
"I as-ked Car-mic-ha-el to do it."
"We can-what?" She stop-ped in the mid-dle of her ti-ra-de. "You what?"
"I as-ked him to do it."
"No, Tony!"
He lo-oked at her. She lo-oked qu-ite mi-se-rab-le, his El-len did, her eyes
red with te-ars, her mo-uth trem-b-ling slightly. "Yes, El-len. From the
mo-ment we left Ain-s-ley Hall it was the ob-vi-o-us so-lu-ti-on. The-re was
no way you co-uld spend even one night with an un-mar-ri-ed man wit-ho-ut
yo-ur re-pu-ta-ti-on be-ing ru-ined."
"You told me no one wo-uld ha-ve to know! You sa-id-"
"I sa-id no one wo-uld know that I didn't want to know. The fact that you
in-for-med yo-ur brot-her was suf-fi-ci-ent. He knows me well eno-ugh to know
I wo-uld do the right thing. The-re might be a bit of gos-sip when we ar-ri-ve
back in Lon-don, but not-hing that two res-pec-tab-le so-uls li-ke us can't
sa-il thro-ugh."
"I won't do it."
He sta-red at her for a mo-ment. "Won't do what, my de-ar?"
"I won't marry you." She lo-oked stub-born, and very, very angry. This was
go-ing to be even mo-re dif-fi-cult than he had ima-gi-ned.
"Cer-ta-inly you will," he sa-id calmly, con-t-rol-ling his own tem-per.
"You ha-ve no cho-ice."
"That7s exactly why I won't marry you. I won't ha-ve you for-ced by
so-ci-ety in-to a mi-se-rab-le mar-ri-age of con-ve-ni-en-ce when yo-ur he-art
li-es el-sew-he-re."
A wry smi-led cur-ved his mo-uth. "And just whe-re are you ima-gi-ning my
he-art li-es?"
She lo-oked con-fu-sed for a mo-ment. "Well, I
gu-ess it's not with Car-lot-ta," she sa-id, con-si-de-ring it. "I sup-po-se
you simply ha-ven't gi-ven it yet. But so-oner or la-ter you'll find
so-me-one…"
"I al-re-ady ha-ve," he sa-id, very gently.
She simply sta-red at him. "You can't wish to marry me," she sa-id. "I've
ru-ined myself, des-t-ro-yed my re-pu-ta-ti-on past re-pa-iring…"
"Sin-ce I hel-ped des-t-roy it, I sho-uld rig-h-t-ful-ly re-ap so-me of the
be-ne-fits." He was mo-ving to-ward her, ca-re-ful-ly, so as not to star-t-le
her in-to flight. This was pro-ving a bit mo-re tricky than he'd ima-gi-ned.
"I won't marry you," she sa-id mi-se-rably, sta-ring at the flo-or,
una-wa-re of his ap-pro-ach. "I won't…"
He re-ac-hed her, pul-ling her in-to his arms. "You cer-ta-inly will. I've
be-en do-ing my le-vel best to co-urt you for the last ye-ar and a half, and
you've be-en ig-no-ring all my over-tu-res. You didn't ma-ne-uver me in-to
this-qu-ite the op-po-si-te. I knew the mo-ment we set off in se-arch of
Ghis-la-ine that the out-co-me wo-uld be mar-ri-age, and I ex-pec-ted it
wo-uld sa-ve me a gre-at de-al of bot-her. I was wrong," he ad-ded with a wry
smi-le. "I'm af-ra-id you're go-ing to be a gre-at de-al of bot-her
in-de-ed."
She lo-oked up at him, her eyes awash in mi-sery. "No, Tony. I won't trap
you in-to mar-ri-age, and I won't marry you be-ca-use me-an old har-pi-es
li-ke Lady Ar-but-h-not jump to in-de-cent con-c-lu-si-ons. You ha-ven't
of-fe-red me the slig-h-test in-sult, I've be-en as sa-fe and pro-tec-ted as
if I we-re with my un-c-le, and you're just trying to flat-ter me be-ca-use

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you've got an over-w-hel-ming sen-se of duty, but it won't work! We've do-ne
not-hing wrong, and the-re's no re-ason for us to marry."
He sta-red at her in mu-te frus-t-ra-ti-on. "The-re are any num-ber of
re-asons for us to marry," he be-gan, but she over-ro-de him.
"I won't be mar-ri-ed be-ca-use so-ci-ety jumps to fal-se con-c-lu-si-ons,"
she sa-id firmly, ob-vi-o-usly qu-ite ple-ased with her re-aso-ning,
"Very well," he sa-id af-ter a long con-si-de-ring mo-ment. And he sco-oped
her up in his arms, he-ading thro-ugh the do-ub-le do-ors to the bed-ro-om'

Chapter 20

She was no fe-at-her-we-ight, but shock kept El-len from strug-gling too
much. "What are you do-ing?" she de-man-ded as he set her down on the high,
wi-de bed that had be-en tor-men-ting him sin-ce he first set eyes on it.
"If you won't marry me be-ca-use you ha-ven't be-en truly ru-ined, then I
ha-ve no cho-ice but to ru-in you." He shrug-ged out of his co-at and sent it
sa-iling ac-ross the ro-om. "And I'm dam-ned sick and ti-red of be-ing
com-pa-red to so-me mythi-cal un-c-le of yo-urs, when my fe-elings ha-ve
ne-ver be-en the fa-in-test bit avun-cu-lar. I'm a man, El-len. A man who
wants you, and in-tends to ha-ve you."
"Tony!" she sa-id in as-to-nis-h-ment, sta-ring up at him. Her gol-den-blond
ha-ir had co-me lo-ose from its pins, and it was han-ging down her back in the
most de-lec-tab-le man-ner. He wan-ted to bury his fa-ce in that ha-ir, and
the tho-ught that he was now abo-ut to do so ma-de his fin-gers clumsy as they
yan-ked and to-re at his nec-k-c-loth.
She didn't scram-b-le away from him as he sat down on the bed and be-gan to
re-mo-ve his bo-ots. "You're be-ing ri-di-cu-lo-us, Tony," she sa-id, get-ting
to her kne-es be-si-de him. One bo-ot hit the flo-or. "You know you don't want
to marry me. You think of me as a sis-ter." The ot-her bo-ot lan-ded with a
thump, and he tur-ned to her.
"You re-al-ly ha-ve no idea, do you?" he sa-id.
"No idea of what?"
"What ef-fect you ha-ve on me. Co-me he-re, El-len."
This ti-me she did at-tempt to mo-ve out of his re-ach, craw-ling back, but
he ca-ught her qu-ite easily, gras-ping her wrist and ha-uling her ac-ross the
bed.
She fell aga-inst him, and they lan-ded back on the mat-tress, her
de-lec-tab-le bre-asts pres-sing aga-inst his chest. "Tony, you don't…" she
sa-id bre-at-h-les-sly.
"El-len, I do," he sa-id rut-h-les-sly. And then his mo-uth si-len-ced hers,
as he kis-sed her as he'd lon-ged to do, full and hard and de-ep, half-ho-ping
to shock her in-to be-li-eving him.
He shoc-ked her, all right. She lay be-ne-ath him, very still, as he used
his ton-gue, his te-eth, his lips, te-asing and to-ying with her, un-til her
arms slid aro-und his neck and she was kis-sing him back, with all the
in-no-cent en-t-hu-si-asm he'd known she was ca-pab-le of.
It to-ok him a dam-nably long ti-me to dis-pen-se with her clot-hes, and
then his own. Her pa-nic kept erup-ting at un-for-tu-na-te in-ter-vals, when
he slid her stoc-kings off her long legs, when he put his mo-uth on her plump,
ro-un-ded bre-ast, when his hand mo-ved bet-we-en her thighs to toy with her
tight curls. But each ti-me he ma-na-ged to so-ot-he her, to se-du-ce her past
the next hur-d-le, un-til she was lying in his arms, her bre-ath co-ming
ra-pidly, her nip-ples pe-aks of de-si-re in the hot ro-om, her eyes clo-sed
as he knelt bet-we-en her be-a-uti-ful whi-te thighs, pres-sing aga-inst her,
his dam-p-ness and hers ma-king her re-ady, mo-re than re-ady.
"I don't want to hurt you, lo-ve," he mur-mu-red in her ear, trying to slow
his ine-xo-rab-le in-va-si-on. He was co-ve-red with swe-at; his mus-c-les
we-re sha-king with the in-c-re-dib-le con-t-rol he was exer-ting.
Her eyes flew open as she re-ali-zed what he was do-ing. "Tony!" she

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whis-pe-red. And then her vo-ice ro-se to a tiny shri-ek as he bro-ke past her
ma-iden-he-ad and sank all the way in-to her vel-vet tig-h-t-ness. "Tony!"
"Hold still," he gas-ped in her ear, pres-sing her aga-inst the bed. "Don't
mo-ve."
She did as he or-de-red, stop-ping her un-hap-py squ-ir-ming and lying very
still be-ne-ath him. Even wit-ho-ut mo-ving, the fe-el of her, the smell of
her, we-re al-most eno-ugh to send him over the ed-ge. He grip-ped the she-ets
in his hands, de-ter-mi-ned not to ru-in this for her. Slowly he felt a fa-int
tra-ce of con-t-rol re-turn.
"I'm not su-re I li-ke this," El-len an-no-un-ced in a qu-i-et, prac-ti-cal
vo-ice. "If this is the way you're go-ing to talk me in-to mar-rying you, I
don't think it's go-ing to work."
He lif-ted his he-ad to lo-ok down at her. She ap-pe-ared ag-gri-eved, and
ut-terly de-lec-tab-le, the ha-ze of de-si-re fa-ding from her eyes. He was
abo-ut to put it back. "Ellen," he sa-id ple-asantly, "shut up."
He ar-c-hed in-to her, and she let out a fa-int cry. He ho-ped it wasn't all
pa-in, but he co-uldn't ret-re-at at this mo-ment. Not for his sa-ke, and not
for hers. He mo-ved aga-in, a rhythmic thrus-ting, and his hands clut-c-hed
the bed mo-re tightly as he strug-gled to con-t-rol him-self.
The bed, the lar-ge, ex-pen-si-ve bed, in the best ho-tel in Vi-en-na,
squ-e-aked be-ne-ath them. Her arms ca-me up aro-und his neck, her hips
ar-c-hed up to me-et his, and he co-uld fe-el the be-gin-nings of a res-pon-se
from her, the fa-int tre-mors, and he knew he co-uldn't let her lo-se it. He
re-ac-hed down bet-we-en
the-ir bo-di-es and to-uc-hed her, deftly, and re-ce-ived the re-ac-ti-on
he'd lon-ged for.
She con-vul-sed aro-und him, her na-ils dig-ging in-to his back, her body
ar-c-hing off the bed, and he had to still the cry that ca-me from her mo-uth
with his. A mo-ment la-ter he jo-ined her, no lon-ger ab-le to hold back,
po-uring him-self in-to her, body and so-ul.
He col-lap-sed aga-inst her, kno-wing he was too big a man to ma-ke her
sup-port his full we-ight, too ex-ha-us-ted to be gen-t-le-manly. When he
re-co-ve-red eno-ugh to try to pull away, she simply clung mo-re tightly, her
te-ar-damp fa-ce hid-den aga-inst his sho-ul-der. "Don't le-ave," she
whis-pe-red in a very shy vo-ice. He ne-ver wo-uld ha-ve tho-ught his El-len
wo-uld be shy.
He tri-ed to ta-ke so-me of the we-ight off her, but she was big wo-man,
ma-de for a man li-ke him. He lif-ted his he-ad to lo-ok at her, and she
tri-ed to turn her he-ad, ob-vi-o-usly em-bar-ras-sed.
"We can't ha-ve this," he mur-mu-red softly, and be-gan kis-sing her
eye-lid, her che-ek-bo-ne, her no-se, the te-ar stre-aks that mar-ked her
pa-le skin. He kis-sed the si-de of her mo-uth, gently, te-asingly, un-til she
had no cho-ice but to turn her he-ad and kiss him back, fully, her arms tight
aro-und him. This ti-me when he lif-ted his he-ad to lo-ok down at her, she
didn't lo-ok away.
'That's bet-ter," he mur-mu-red, thre-ading his fin-gers thro-ugh her ha-ir.
"Ha-ve I con-vin-ced you?"
"Con-vin-ced me of what?" Her vo-ice so-un-ded we-ak, shy, and tre-mu-lo-us,
and he won-de-red how long he'd ha-ve to wa-it be-fo-re he co-uld ha-ve her
aga-in.
"That you ha-ve to marry me."
She was a fig-h-ter, he had to gi-ve her that. A frown cre-ased her brow
be-ne-ath the tan-g-led blond ha-ir. "Just be-ca-use…"
"Among ot-her re-asons. I've just gi-ven you my best de-mon-s-t-ra-ti-on of
one ma-j-or re-ason why I want to marry you, and if it wasn't suf-fi-ci-ent,
I'd be mo-re than happy to show you aga-in."
"Aga-in?" she as-ked we-akly. "I'm not su-re if I co-uld stand it."
"We'll gi-ve you ti-me to re-co-ver," he sa-id, drop-ping a light kiss on
her swe-at-damp sho-ul-der. "Don't be silly, El-len. If you don't marry me,
Car-mic-ha-el will ha-ve to call me out, and I don't fancy fig-h-ting a du-el

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with my best fri-end."
"Is that why you want to marry me?" she as-ked na-ively. "Along with"-she
ma-de a we-ak, shy ges-tu-re to-ward the bed they still sha-red-"t-hat?"
"That, my pet, is cal-led ma-king lo-ve. The-re are a gre-at many ot-her
terms for it, so-me not so ni-ce, so-me qu-ite sti-mu-la-ting, but when you
and I do it, it's in-dis-pu-tably ma-king lo-ve. And that's why we're get-ting
mar-ri-ed. Not be-ca-use Car-mic-ha-el will cut my li-ver out. Not be-ca-use
the Lady Ar-but-h-nots of this world will blac-ken our re-pu-ta-ti-ons. And
not be-ca-use what we do in bed is in-c-re-dibly de-lig-h-t-ful. We're not
get-ting mar-ri-ed be-ca-use I just def-lo-we-red you, or be-ca-use you
gra-ci-o-usly bes-to-wed yo-ur fa-vors on me."
He'd ma-na-ged to co-ax a smi-le from her. "Then why are we get-ting
mar-ri-ed?"
He wan-ted to sho-ut his tri-umph to the sky at her first ad-mis-si-on that
that was what they'd be do-ing. "Be-ca-use I'm in lo-ve with you, my swe-et.
Ha-ve be-en sin-ce be-fo-re you we-re idi-otic eno-ugh to get yo-ur-self
en-ga-ged to that prosy lit-tle bo-re. It just ta-kes me a lit-tle whi-le to
get to the po-int."
"I sho-uld kill you," she sa-id flatly, not at all ove-rj-oyed by his
dec-la-ra-ti-on. "Do you know how much tro-ub-le you wo-uld ha-ve sa-ved if
you'd sa-id so-met-hing so-oner?"
"True," he ad-mit-ted. "But on-ce I bes-tir myself, you'll ha-ve to ad-mit
I'm ex-ce-edingly ef-fi-ci-ent."
She smi-led then, a slow, swe-et smi-le that was the most ero-tic thing he'd
ever se-en in his li-fe. He gro-aned, clim-bing off her, and it was with
gre-at re-luc-tan-ce that she re-le-ased him.
"I've ma-de ten-ta-ti-ve ar-ran-ge-ments for an En-g-lish cle-ric to marry
us," he sa-id, gat-he-ring his clot-hes. "I'm sorry we co-uldn't wa-it for St.
Pa-ul's, with yo-ur brot-her in at-ten-dan-ce, but I'm af-ra-id on-ce we to-ok
off on our own, that was out of the qu-es-ti-on."
She sat up, wrap-ping the co-ver aro-und her body, wat-c-hing him with
una-bas-hed cu-ri-osity, and he knew a sud-den, un-p-re-ce-den-ted mo-ment of
do-ubt. He tur-ned back to her. "You will marry me, won't you? You ha-ven't
re-al-ly re-co-ve-red from yo-ur in-fa-tu-ati-on eight ye-ars ago, ha-ve
you?"
"Of co-ur-se I ha-ve," she sa-id, and he knew a sud-den sin-king fe-eling.
"My scho-ol-girl crush ma-tu-red in-to a full-blown, un-re-qu-ited
pas-si-on."
He grin-ned at her, then cros-sed back and le-aned over the bed to kiss her;
a bri-ef, pos-ses-si-ve kiss. "Not un-re-qu-ited," he sa-id. "Do you want me
to see if I can get Miss Bin-ner-s-ton back?"
"But she's with her sis-ter."
"Not exactly. I… er… had my man de-ta-in her. I'd ho-ped to con-t-ri-ve a
spra-ined an-k-le for her, but I de-ci-ded she might end up bre-aking her
neck, so I had Hig-gins lock her in the ro-om when we to-ok off."
"You had my com-pa-ni-on kid-nap-ped?" she sa-id.
"I'm af-ra-id so," he ad-mit-ted, won-de-ring whet-her he was cal-ling down
her wrath upon his he-ad.
"I think you re-al-ly do lo-ve me," she sa-id in a won-de-ring to-ne,
re-ac-hing out to to-uch his fa-ce. It was her first ca-ress, and he al-most
flat-te-ned her back aga-inst the bed the-re and then.
The cle-ric, he re-min-ded him-self. "We'll re-com-pen-se her," he sa-id
gruffly, con-t-rol-ling him-self.
"You re-al-ly are a wic-ked man," she sa-id in a ple-ased to-ne of vo-ice.
"Ob-vi-o-usly you'll ha-ve to re-form me," he sa-id, eyes me-ekly
dow-n-cast.
'’I’ll ta-ke it as my li-fe's work," she mur-mu-red, sli-ding down in the
bed. "Find the cle-ric."
Ve-ni-ce. A city bu-ilt on po-les in the midst of a la-go-on, and the only
way to re-ach it was by bo-at. Ghis-la-ine wo-uld ha-ve al-most pre-fer-red

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the re-mem-be-red hor-rors of Pa-ris to anot-her bo-ut of se-asic-k-ness. This
jo-ur-ney was mer-ci-ful-ly short, the wa-ters bles-sedly still, and when they
di-sem-bar-ked at a wi-de squ-are she ma-na-ged to ke-ep her ri-oto-us
sto-mach un-der con-t-rol.
She glan-ced up at the tall man be-si-de her. The trip ac-ross the
con-ti-nent, down to Italy, had be-en com-pa-ra-ti-vely swift as they
tra-ve-led thro-ugh Ha-no-ver, Ba-va-ria, and the Aus-t-ri-an Em-pi-re,
as-si-du-o-usly avo-iding Fran-ce. They'd ne-ver tra-ve-led at a de-co-ro-us
spe-ed, but in the last we-ek or so he'd or-de-red a pa-ce that was
dow-n-right mur-de-ro-us. It was a won-der the co-ach hadn't over-tur-ned a
do-zen ti-mes.
He'd co-me to her ro-om the next night, in the dar-k-ness. She lay in the
bed, still, si-lent, awa-iting him, dre-ading him, lon-ging for him.
She knew what she wo-uld do. She wo-uld mas-ter her body. If she co-uldn't
es-ca-pe in-to the dar-k-ness of her he-art, she co-uld at le-ast hi-de her
res-pon-ses from him. She co-uld lie still be-ne-ath him, for-ce her
bre-at-hing to stay even, ke-ep her he-art from ra-cing, clench her hands to
ke-ep from pul-ling him mo-re clo-sely aga-inst her. She co-uld turn her he-ad
away from his mo-uth, and he wo-uldn't for-ce her. She co-uld fo-ol him in-to
thin-king she was un-to-uc-hed by what he did to her body. She co-uld al-most
fo-ol her-self.
He'd sta-red at her in the dimly lit ro-om, his fa-ce dark and ha-un-ted. "A
char-ming vir-gin sac-ri-fi-ce," he sa-id, his vo-ice co-ol and moc-king. "You
don't lo-ok as if you we-re lon-ging for my re-turn to yo-ur bed. Trust me, I
can bring you much gre-ater ple-asu-re than I of-fe-red you last night."
She kept her fa-ce still. The tho-ught of ple-asu-re at his hands was
per-haps the most ter-rif-ying thre-at of all.
"You ha-ve not-hing to say, my lo-ve?" he ta-un-ted, mo-ving to the si-de of
the bed and to-uc-hing her chin, til-ting her fa-ce up to his. He le-aned down
and brus-hed his lips aga-inst hers, softly, ten-derly, and Ghis-la-ine co-uld
fe-el her he-art twist in-si-de her. Twist and shat-ter. He drew back, and his
eyes we-re dark and tor-men-ted. 'It's up to you, Ghis-la-ine. All you ha-ve
to do is tell me to go."
Her mo-uth was damp from his. Her skin felt hot, un-be-arably sen-si-ti-ve;
her he-art was po-un-ding; and she wan-ted to re-ach up, thre-ad her fin-gers
thro-ugh his long dark ha-ir, and pull him down to her.
"Go," she sa-id, her vo-ice cle-ar and calm.
And he tur-ned and left, wit-ho-ut anot-her word.
She sat mo-ti-on-less in the bed, shock and des-pa-ir fig-h-ting with her
re-li-ef. He was a man wit-ho-ut ho-nor. Why did he sud-denly abi-de by his
word?
He didn't co-me to her ro-om aga-in. Didn't to-uch her. But the-re was no
tru-ce this ti-me. It was an ar-med bat-tle, re-ady to ex-p-lo-de in-to
pas-si-on at any mo-ment.
And Ghis-la-ine didn't know if she dre-aded that mo-ment or lon-ged for it.
Nic-ho-las stro-de ahe-ad of her on the cob-bles-to-ne wal-k-way of
Ve-ni-ce, glan-cing abo-ut him with we-ary dis-da-in. She re-ma-ined by the
bag-ga-ge, de-ter-mi-ned not to ra-ce af-ter him, and he tur-ned back to
glan-ce at her with a co-ol di-sin-te-rest that was al-most con-vin-cing. "You
de-si-re to stay out-si-de all day, Mam-zel-le?" he in-qu-ired in that icy,
moc-king vo-ice. "I wo-uld think you we-re we-ary of tra-ve-ling."
The very tho-ught of sta-ying put, even for a day, was too se-duc-ti-ve for
Ghis-la-ine to fight. "Aren't you go-ing to call a hack?" she as-ked
fa-intly.
His smi-le was moc-king. "The-re are no hor-ses in Ve-ni-ce, ma mie. No
whe-eled ve-hic-les. If you wish to be tran-s-por-ted to the Pa-laz-zo Ver-di,
then it will ha-ve to be by bo-at."
"No bo-at," she gas-ped as her sto-mach ri-oted on-ce mo-re. "You me-an that
is the only form of tran-s-por-ta-ti-on in this city?"
"By wa-ter, my lo-ve. Or by fo-ot."

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"I will ne-ed new sho-es."
"You will le-arn to ri-de the ca-nals wit-ho-ut cas-ting up yo-ur
ac-co-unts."
"The-re are so-me things, my lord, that are be-yond even yo-ur con-t-rol,"
she sa-id smartly. "What is the Pa-laz-zo Ver-di?"
"The pa-la-ce of a fri-end of mi-ne who-se poc-kets are suf-fi-ci-ently
empty to let that he'll trust my du-bi-o-us cre-dit."
"A pa-la-ce?" She gas-ped.
"Ve-ne-ti-an pa-la-ces are a gre-at de-al mo-re se-edy than the En-g-lish or
French sort," he sa-id neg-li-gently. "Anyway, I'm an En-g-lish gen-t-le-man.
I ne-eds must ke-ep up ap-pe-aran-ces."
Tavvy ca-me up be-hind them, snor-ting. "You're go-ing to ne-ed to co-me up
with a bit mo-re blunt," he sa-id. "This rac-ke-ting ac-ross Euro-pe hasn't
be-en any too kind to our poc-kets. Bet-ter we'd he-aded stra-ight to
Pa-ris."
As usu-al Nic-ho-las didn't se-em of-fen-ded by his va-let s pla-in
spe-aking. "The lady pre-fer-red not to."
Tavvy cast an odd glan-ce in her di-rec-ti-on. Sin-ce the-ir first night on
the con-ti-nent, when Nic-ho-las had co-me to her ro-om, Tavvy's at-ti-tu-de
had chan-ged. He didn't lo-ok at her, spe-ak to her un-less ab-so-lu-tely
ne-ces-sary, or al-low him-self to be an-y-w-he-re ne-ar her. She wasn't su-re
why. Eit-her he was je-alo-us-an odd tho-ught to be su-re, but she knew
ser-vants co-uld be pos-ses-si-ve-or he felt gu-ilty.
The gu-ilt was Nic-ho-las's, even if that word was not part of his
vo-ca-bu-lary. She glan-ced up at him in the brig-h-t-ness of the Ita-li-an
sun-s-hi-ne, at his be-a-uti-ful, de-ca-dent fa-ce; his thin, moc-king mo-uth;
his un-de-ni-ably po-wer-ful body. And she won-de-red how much mo-re she
co-uld be-ar.
He was right, the Pa-laz-zo Ver-di was most de-fi-ni-tely se-edy. And damp,
and de-ca-ying, and in far wor-se sha-pe than the ser-vants' qu-ar-ters at
Ain-s-ley Hall, or even the bo-ur-ge-o-isie com-fort of the Red Hen. The-re
we-re a han-d-ful of ser-vants, spe-aking only Ita-li-an, ill-dres-sed and
slo-venly, and the filth of the pla-ce was un-be-arab-le. Ghis-la-ine hadn't
be-en sur-ro-un-ded by such squ-alor sin-ce she'd li-ved on the stre-ets in
Pa-ris.
She fol-lo-wed Nic-ho-las in-to the sa-lon, whe-re he sto-od sta-ring abo-ut
him at the dust and clut-ter with a bland ex-p-res-si-on. "Appa-rently de
Bruny do-esn't ke-ep a tidy ho-use-hold," he sa-id un-ne-ces-sa-rily. He
tur-ned to Ghis-la-ine. "I'm go-ing out."
She was shoc-ked eno-ugh that he wo-uld vo-lun-te-er that in-for-ma-ti-on to
co-un-ter with a sur-p-ri-sing qu-es-ti-on of her own. "Will you be back
to-night?"
"Da-re I ho-nor myself with the ho-pe that you might ha-ve chan-ged yo-ur
mind abo-ut sha-ring my bed?" he as-ked with an iro-nic smi-le.
"No," she sa-id calmly.
His smi-le was chil-lingly cor-rect. "I ima-gi-ne I'll be ot-her-wi-se
oc-cu-pi-ed to-night. I've a ne-ed to rep-le-nish our dwin-d-ling supply of
mo-ney, as Tavvy has po-in-ted out, and the su-rest way to do that is to
vi-sit the ga-ming ho-uses."
"What if you lo-se?"
"My de-ar, I ne-ver lo-se."
"Do you che-at?" She as-ked it de-li-be-ra-tely ho-ping to go-ad him in-to a
fury.
His eyes nar-ro-wed, but he didn't gi-ve her the sa-tis-fac-ti-on of
sho-wing any emo-ti-on. “No," he sa-id calmly. "I'm just very, very go-od." He
glan-ced aro-und the ro-om in pa-tent dis-gust. "Do what you ne-ed to ma-ke
yo-ur-self com-for-tab-le. Tavvy will see to yo-ur ne-eds, sin-ce the-se
ser-vants se-em unab-le to un-der-s-tand ru-di-men-tary En-g-lish
di-rec-ti-ons." He cros-sed the ro-om to her, ta-king her wil-lful chin in one
strong hand. "And don't even think of le-aving, ma mie. I'm not qu-ite re-ady

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to let you go."
It ca-me as an un-p-le-asant sur-p-ri-se to her that she ac-tu-al-ly hadn't
be-en busy plan-ning her es-ca-pe. She told her-self it only ma-de sen-se to
lull his sus-pi-ci-ons. He-re in Ve-ni-ce, with a myri-ad of
en-ter-ta-in-ments at hand, he wo-uld pro-bably ke-ep away from her. She
wo-uld ha-ve ti-me to plan her es-ca-pe so ca-re-ful-ly he wo-uld ne-ver be
ab-le to cap-tu-re her. As-su-ming he still wan-ted to.
"I'll be he-re when you re-turn," she sa-id calmly, wis-hing he'd re-le-ase
her. Wis-hing he'd put his hard, moc-king mo-uth aga-inst hers.
He hadn't to-uc-hed her, kis-sed her sin-ce she'd sent him away. To be
su-re, she'd told him to go. But Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne was not a man who
let so-me-one el-se dic-ta-te his be-ha-vi-or. If he'd wan-ted to kiss her, he
wo-uld ha-ve.
For a mo-ment it se-emed as if his long fin-gers ca-res-sed her chin. For a
mo-ment it se-emed as if reg-ret and an un-fat-ho-mab-le lon-ging gle-amed in
his dark eyes. And then he re-le-ased her, and was go-ne.
She sto-od alo-ne in the ro-om, trying to pull to-get-her her sha-ken sen-se
of con-t-rol. The pla-ce smel-led of mil-dew and old fish, and she wo-uld not
li-ve li-ke that aga-in. Stif-fe-ning her sho-ul-ders, she wal-ked back out
in-to the hal-lway in ti-me to see Tavvy sho-uting at the ser-vants.
"Cle-an," he sa-id in a lo-ud, slow vo-ice. "You must cle-an."
"They're ne-it-her slow-wit-ted nor de-af," Ghis-la-ine sa-id with
com-men-dab-le calm, sur-ve-ying the three wo-men and two men who ma-de up de
61x01/8 staff. They we-re ill-dres-sed; slo-venly; re-sen-t-ful of the
fo-re-ign in-t-ru-si-on, no do-ubt; and frankly con-tem-p-tu-o-us of Tavvy's
at-tempts to com-mu-ni-ca-te. "They simply don't spe-ak En-g-lish."
"Dam-ned fo-re-ig-ners," Tavvy fu-med.
"I rat-her think we're the fo-re-ig-ners he-re," Ghis-la-ine sa-id. She
tur-ned to the ol-dest wo-man, ob-vi-o-usly so-me sort of ho-use-ke-eper,
jud-ging from her be-aring and ap-pa-rel. "You the-re," she sa-id in the calm,
cle-ar Ita-li-an her go-ver-ness had ta-ught her. "This ho-use is a
dis-g-ra-ce to all of you, and to the Ve-ne-ti-an pe-op-le. Do you want his
lor-d-s-hip to re-turn to En-g-land sa-ying that the city is po-pu-la-ted by
pigs who wal-low in the-ir own filth?"
One of the men star-ted for-ward, dark eyes glin-ting in fury, but the
wo-man held him back with not-hing but a ges-tu-re. "Why sho-uld we cle-an for
the li-kes of you?" she as-ked, her Ita-li-an dif-fe-rent from Ghis-la-ine's,
with a mo-re li-qu-id, sli-ding to-ne. Pret-ti-er, Ghis-la-ine tho-ught.
"For yo-ur own sen-se of pri-de, if not-hing el-se," she sa-id firmly. "Even
if yo-ur mas-ter do-es not ca-re, we do. If you can-not ma-ke this ho-use
res-pec-tab-le, then we will find ser-vants who can."
"You can-not put us out on the stre-ets," the yo-ung man sa-id hotly.
"I can put you out in the ca-nal if I've a mind to," Ghis-la-ine sa-id
grimly, ha-ving ac-cus-to-med her-self to de-aling with hos-ti-le
un-der-lings. "It is yo-ur cho-ice to ma-ke. I wo-uld li-ke you to start with
the sa-lon, scrub-bing it down, car-ting away the rub-bish. Next the
kit-c-hen, and we'll ne-ed"-her pa-use was al-most im-per-cep-tib-le-"t-h-ree
bed-ro-oms. One for Mr. Ta-ver-ner, one for Mr. Blac-k-t-hor-ne, and one for
me. All this must be ac-com-p-lis-hed by this eve-ning. Is that
un-der-s-to-od?"
"Three bed-ro-oms, sig-no-ra?" The ho-use-ke-eper's black eyes sta-red in-to
hers with con-tempt. "Wo-uld the two be adj-o-ining?"
If she'd ho-ped to ma-ke Ghis-la-ine blush, she had no idea with whom she
was de-aling. "I ima-gi-ne Mr. Blac-k-t-hor-ne can find me if he so
de-si-res," she sa-id flatly. "Per-haps we'll start in the kit-c-hens af-ter
all. I find I'm fa-mis-hed, but I cer-ta-inly wo-uldn't trust a me-al
pre-pa-red in a ho-use that lo-oks li-ke this. Le-ad me to them." She be-gan
rol-ling up the lo-ose sle-eves of her bor-ro-wed gown.
She'd ma-na-ged to shock the ho-use-ke-eper out of her co-un-te-nan-ce.
"We'll start…?" she ec-ho-ed. "Per-haps I didn't un-der-s-tand…"

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"You un-der-s-to-od. We will work to-get-her. I am no stran-ger to la-bor,
and I des-pi-se filth. To the kit-c-hens, sig-no-ra."
"I am cal-led Lu-isa, sig-no-ra," the wo-man sa-id, still ob-vi-o-usly
rat-tled. "This way, if you ple-ase."
Ghis-la-ine star-ted af-ter Lu-isa, the ot-her ser-vants fal-ling in
be-hind, mo-ving past the as-to-nis-hed fi-gu-re of Ta-ver-ner. "Clo-se yo-ur
mo-uth, Tavvy," she sug-ges-ted swe-etly. "The-re's no tel-ling what
di-se-ases you might pick up in this no-xi-o-us air. Go find a mar-ket and
bring us back so-me fo-od."
A Ro-se at Mid-night 321
"But I ha-ven't got any Ita-li-an, Mam-zel-le," he sa-id, still ob-vi-o-usly
ama-zed that she did.
"You ha-ve mo-ney, do you not? That sho-uld suf-fi-ce." And she con-ti-nu-ed
on, down in-to the bo-wels of the damp old ho-use that la-ug-hingly styled
it-self a pa-la-ce.
At one o'clock the next mor-ning she smi-led for the first ti-me sin-ce
they'd lan-ded on the con-ti-nent, sin-ce Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne had put
his hands on her in ear-nest. Whi-le the ho-use wasn't cle-an from top to
bot-tom, at le-ast the ma-in sa-lon and the bed-ro-oms we-re res-pec-tab-le.
The kit-c-hen had pro-ven to be in de-cent sha-pe, a fact which ca-me as no
sur-p-ri-se to Ghis-la-ine. She had gu-es-sed that the de-ca-ying filth had
be-en mo-re of a pro-test aga-inst a fo-re-ign mas-ter than any re-al
af-fec-ti-on for squ-alor on the part of the ser-vants.
She'd wor-ked hard, no-net-he-less, si-de by si-de with the ser-vants,
scrub-bing, cle-aning, sco-uring, and when Tavvy re-tur-ned with two bas-kets
full of bre-ad, fru-it, ri-ce, and fish, she'd set him to work as well,
ig-no-ring his lo-ud com-p-la-ints.
She was ex-ha-us-ted. Her body ac-hed from the hard work; her so-ul
re-j-o-iced in it. They'd eaten a sim-p-le me-al, all of them aro-und a
sin-g-le scrub-bed tab-le, a me-al that Lu-isa and Ghis-la-ine had co-oked
to-get-her.
By the ti-me the pre-vi-o-usly hos-ti-le yo-ung man-ser-vant, Gu-ido, had
car-ri-ed buc-kets of ste-aming wa-ter up for her bath, and one of the ma-ids
had shyly of-fe-red cle-an bed-c-lot-hes, Ghis-la-ine had com-man-ded the-ir
de-vo-ti-on. If it ca-me to a bat-tle bet-we-en her and the fo-re-ig-ner who
was pa-ying the-ir sa-la-ri-es, she had a go-od idea which si-de they wo-uld
cho-ose. The ori-gi-nal sta-te of the ho-use was mo-re than in-di-ca-ti-ve of
the-ir con-tempt for tho-se who held the pur-se strings.
The bath had be-en de-ep and blis-sful-ly hot.
She'd scrub-bed her-self, many ti-mes over; she'd even scrub-bed her ha-ir.
The whi-te night ra-il was ma-de of he-avy cot-ton, soft af-ter many
was-hings, and it co-ve-red her from her fin-ger-tips to her to-es. As she
clim-bed in-to the nar-row bed in the small ro-om they'd cle-aned at the front
of the ho-use, she fo-und her-self smi-ling in pe-ace-ful ple-asu-re.
The mas-ter bed-ro-om had be-en pre-pa-red for Nic-ho-las. His clot-hes
we-re la-un-de-red and put away, the damp han-gings on the hu-ge bed sha-ken
and aired in the eve-ning air, the flo-ors swept and scrub-bed. Even
spot-les-sly cle-an, the pa-la-ce re-eked of de-cay and dis-so-lu-ti-on. A
fit-ting eno-ugh ha-bi-tat for a de-ca-dent Bri-tish ra-ke.
Exha-us-ted as she was, it was still a long ti-me be-fo-re she slept. Her
body was we-ary, sa-ted by the hard work and the ste-aming bath, yet she was
res-t-less, lon-ging for so-met-hing to ease her. It wasn't un-til she was
al-most as-le-ep that she re-ali-zed with hor-ror what she was mis-sing.
Nic-ho-las.
The light in her ro-om was murky, gre-enish when she awo-ke. She had no
clock, co-uld only gu-ess that it was so-me-ti-me past dawn. And that she was
no lon-ger alo-ne in the tiny ro-om she'd cho-sen for her own.
She ope-ned her eyes. Nic-ho-las was lo-un-ging in the one cha-ir the ro-om
pos-ses-sed, his legs stret-c-hed out in front of him, se-emingly at ease. He
was clot-hed en-ti-rely in black, and his fe-atu-res we-re in sha-dow, his

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ha-ir fal-ling long and dis-he-ve-led abo-ut his fa-ce.
She ex-pec-ted no words of pra-ise for her tran-s-for-ma-ti-on of the
ho-use, and than-k-ful-ly re-ce-ived no-ne. He simply wat-c-hed her for a
mo-ment, and the ten-si-on in the ro-om grew.
"No," he sa-id fi-nal-ly, his vo-ice soft and dan-ge-ro-us, and she didn't
bot-her to mi-sun-der-s-tand him.
He ro-se, cros-sing the ro-om, and re-ac-hed out a hand to to-uch the prim
whi-te night ra-il. "Whe-re did you get this?"
"One of the ser-vants lent it to me."
"You ha-ve no ne-ed to we-ar ser-vants' cas-tof-fs an-y-mo-re. A mo-dis-te
is co-ming by la-ter this mor-ning with se-ve-ral things that sho-uld be
easily al-te-red for you."
"I won't ac-cept clot-hes from you…"
He le-aned for-ward, a dan-ge-ro-us pre-sen-ce, and her words tra-iled off
be-fo-re his ban-ked, in-com-p-re-hen-sib-le ra-ge. "You will ac-cept what I
cho-ose to gi-ve you. Clot-hing, fo-od, jewels if I so de-si-re. Just as you
ac-cep-ted my body."
"You ga-ve me no cho-ice."
"Exactly. Re-mem-ber that, if you will." He stra-ig-h-te-ned, mo-ving away,
and she might ha-ve ima-gi-ned that mo-ment of raw emo-ti-on. "We will be
go-ing out to-night. We've an in-vi-ta-ti-on to the Mar-qu-ise de Brum-ley's
ro-ut, and we will at-tend."
"You'll ta-ke yo-ur pri-so-ner?" she shot back, not re-ady to con-ce-de
de-fe-at.
His smi-le was co-ol in the mor-ning light. "I'll ta-ke my wil-ling
mis-t-ress. Su-itably be-dec-ked in fi-ne clot-hes and jewels. I had a very
suc-ces-sful night at the tab-les."
She wat-c-hed him le-ave. She didn't want his fi-ne clot-hes. She didn't
want his jewels. She didn't want to be his who-re.
But the-re was so-met-hing she did want, so-met-hing he co-uldn't gi-ve
away, be-ca-use he no lon-ger pos-ses-sed it. His abi-lity to lo-ve.
And she was se-ven ti-mes a fo-ol to long for it.

Chapter 21

Ghis-la-ine hadn't worn a dress of such qu-ality in mo-re than ten ye-ars.
She had sto-od very still as Sig-no-ra Bag-no-li had me-asu-red her, pin-ned
and tuc-ked and mur-mu-red be-ne-ath her bre-ath. She had ma-de no de-mur when
Nic-ho-las sat spraw-led in a cha-ir and wat-c-hed the pro-ce-edings. She
ne-it-her knew nor ca-red what the dres-sma-ker tho-ught of a gen-t-le-man
sur-ve-ying the pro-ce-du-re. Most li-kely she was used to such things. She
wo-uld ha-ve no-ti-ced no wed-ding ring on Ghis-la-ine's whi-te fin-gers, and
wo-uld ha-ve drawn her own con-c-lu-si-ons. And she wo-uld ha-ve be-en right.
She glan-ced at her-self in the mir-ror, hol-ding very still. The ser-vants
had cle-ared the dres-sing ro-om that adj-o-ined the mas-ter bed-ro-om, and
Ghis-la-ine had dres-sed in the-re, not wil-ling to bat-tle Nic-ho-las. The
dress was ma-de of a de-ep ro-se silk, cut low ac-ross her bo-som,
ac-cen-tu-ating what cur-ves she pos-ses-sed. The-re was not-hing of a
co-ur-te-san to the dress-it was su-ited to a das-hing yo-ung mat-ron. Her
ches-t-nut ha-ir she ar-ran-ged her-self, fin-ding her hands sur-p-ri-singly,
in-s-tin-c-ti-vely skil-lful. She wo-re the fi-nest silk stoc-kings on her
legs and the most ele-gant la-ce un-der-gar-ments, and the slip-pers on her
fe-et we-re sewn with jewels. She sta-red at her ref-lec-ti-on, at the
qu-i-et, be-a-uti-ful yo-ung wo-man who sta-red back, and she wan-ted to
we-ep.
It was a lie, all a lie. Whe-re was the girl who'd sold her body to fe-ed
her brot-her? Whe-re was the girl who'd kil-led the man who had bro-ught her
to such dis-g-ra-ce, who'd do-ne her best to kill the ot-her man she held
res-pon-sib-le? Whe-re was the wo-man who wor-ked si-de by si-de with the

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bo-ur-ge-o-isie of Pa-ris, the co-ok in the gre-at En-g-lish ho-use? Whe-re
was El-len's fri-end? Whe-re was the wo-man who'd la-in si-lent and still
be-ne-ath Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne?
The-re we-re all the-re; they we-re all va-nis-hed. The wo-man who sta-red
back had a gen-t-le mo-uth, soft eyes, and a ye-ar-ning he-art, and she didn't
know how much lon-ger she co-uld dis-gu-ise that fact. Only the know-led-ge
that he wo-uldn't ca-re eno-ugh to lo-ok too clo-sely pro-tec-ted her.
She des-cen-ded the sta-irs slowly, gra-ce-ful-ly, kno-wing he was
wat-c-hing her out of un-re-adab-le eyes. His thin mo-uth cur-ved in
so-met-hing clo-se to a smirk, and he bent low over her hand, a moc-king
co-ur-tesy. "You qu-ite as-to-nish me, Mam-zel-le," he mur-mu-red. "You only
want so-me jewels to ma-ke the to-ilet-te per-fect."
She snat-c-hed her hand back. "I won't we-ar yo-ur jewels."
"You will do an-y-t-hing I tell you to do," he sa-id ple-asantly, cat-c-hing
her wrist in his and pul-ling her back. She had no cho-ice but to go, to stand
per-fectly still as he fas-te-ned a col-lar of bril-li-ant di-amonds aro-und
her slen-der neck. Her fat-her had told her on-ce that she sho-uld al-ways
we-ar di-amonds. Ap-pa-rently Nic-ho-las sha-red the sa-me tas-te. She wan-ted
to scre-am.
"Now the ef-fect is per-fect, ma mie," he mur-mu-red. "I'm af-ra-id we shall
ha-ve to tra-vel by wa-ter to Lady Brum-ley's pa-laz-zo. Ob-li-ge me by not
be-ing sick all over yo-ur lo-vely dress."
He was trying to go-ad her in-to an-ger. But in-de-ed, her an-ger had
va-nis-hed, le-aving only des-pa-ir in its pla-ce. When she ma-de no reply, he
simply to-ok her arm, le-ading her out in-to the co-ol night air with a
de-cep-ti-ve so-li-ci-tu-de.
The no-ise, the he-at of the party over-w-hel-med her. The short gon-do-la
trip had do-ne lit-tle to res-to-re her equ-ilib-ri-um, and the she-er shock
of ha-ving so many brightly clot-hed cre-atu-res chat-te-ring aro-und her, a
gre-at many of them spe-aking in French, was al-most mo-re than she co-uld
be-ar. Her fin-gers dug in-to the dark-clot-hed arm of her es-cort, wit-ho-ut
her re-ali-zing it, and if he glan-ced her way with pa-tent cu-ri-osity, she
was too dis-t-ra-ught to no-ti-ce. She mo-ved thro-ugh the crowds in a da-ze,
po-li-tely res-pon-ding to Nic-ho-las's mur-mu-red in-t-ro-duc-ti-ons with a
re-gal nod that so-me-how ca-me as se-cond na-tu-re, and it wasn't un-til
se-ve-ral ho-urs had pas-sed that she lo-ose-ned her grip on his arm, to-ok a
de-ep bre-ath, and de-ci-ded she might very well sur-vi-ve. And then she
tur-ned, at Blac-k-t-hor-ne's prom-p-ting, and lo-oked stra-ight in-to the
eyes of a man she'd ho-ped ne-ver to see aga-in.
She didn't know his na-me, ot-her than that he was an En-g-lish earl. He'd
aged in the ye-ars sin-ce she'd se-en him, and she'd only se-en him by
can-d-le-light, thro-ugh the ha-ze of her own ra-ge and ter-ror. When she'd
vi-ewed him last he'd be-en lying on the flo-or of Ma-da-me Cla-ude's,
knoc-ked un-con-s-ci-o-us, the con-tents of a cham-ber pot ador-ning his lap.
She had ho-ped she'd kil-led him.
He lo-oked the sa-me. The sa-me wet, thick lips; pen-du-lo-us che-eks;
red-ve-ined, bul-bo-us no-se. Even his eyes we-re the sa-me; milky, pa-le, set
in po-uc-hed skin. And they we-re as avid, as kno-wing as ever.
"This yo-ur lit-tle lad-y-bird, Blac-k-t-hor-ne?" the man mur-mu-red,
co-ming clo-se eno-ugh so that Ghis-la-ine co-uld smell his per-fu-med,
over-he-ated flesh.
If she hadn't be-en so dis-t-ra-ught she wo-uld ha-ve re-ali-zed Nic-ho-las
had no use for the man. "Ma-de-mo-isel-le de Lorgny," he sa-id in a bo-red,
cor-rect vo-ice, "may I pre-sent the Earl of Wrex-ham?"
"We've met," Wrex-ham sa-id che-er-ful-ly, lic-king his thick pink lips.
She strug-gled for calm. "Mon-si-e-ur must be mis-ta-ken," she sa-id, her
vo-ice raw and pa-ined, gi-ving her away, to Nic-ho-las if to no one el-se.
"Non-sen-se, I ne-ver for-get a fa-ce. Or a body, for that mat-ter," he
sa-id jovi-al-ly. "I'm not one to hold a grud-ge, ho-we-ver. I've tho-ught
abo-ut you every now and then du-ring the last few ye-ars. Won-de-red what

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hap-pe-ned to you. Ma-da-me Cla-ude was fit to be ti-ed, of co-ur-se. Ma-de it
up to me, don't you know. But the-re was no one to com-pa-re with you. It's
not of-ten one gets a vir-gin."
Nic-ho-las was sa-ying so-met-hing to him, in his soft, cut-ting vo-ice, but
Ghis-la-ine was too dis-t-ra-ught to ta-ke it in. She tur-ned away blindly,
but Nic-ho-las ca-ught her arm, hol-ding it tightly, mo-ving her slowly
ac-ross the ro-om.
"You aren't go-ing to turn and run, ma mie?" he mur-mu-red un-der his
bre-ath. "I wo-uldn't think you'd wish to gi-ve the gos-sips that much
am-mu-ni-ti-on." The-re was not-hing she co-uld say to him, no res-pon-se she
co-uld ma-ke. She mo-ved with him, ba-rely con-s-ci-o-us of her
sur-ro-un-dings, as he es-cor-ted her from the crow-ded ro-om, pa-using with
him as he to-ok his le-ave of his hos-tess, wa-iting with numb pa-ti-en-ce as
he did all that was pro-per.
The gon-do-la mo-ved in si-len-ce thro-ugh the dark wa-ters of the ca-nal.
He sat ac-ross from her, sa-ying not-hing, and for the first ti-me the
sic-k-ness of her so-ul over-ca-me her se-asic-k-ness. Her mind had stop-ped,
unab-le to ra-ce ahe-ad to the next few mi-nu-tes, even the next few days. She
tri-ed to con-si-der whet-her this re-ve-la-ti-on abo-ut her might for-ce him
to re-le-ase her, but she fo-und no ple-asu-re in the no-ti-on, no des-pa-ir.
Ever-y-t-hing was a blank.
The ser-vants had re-ti-red for the night. The-re was no sign of Ta-ver-ner
when they en-te-red the hal-lway, no sign of an-yo-ne. "Go up-s-ta-irs," he
sa-id, the first words he'd spo-ken to her sin-ce they left the party. "I'll
fol-low in a mo-ment."
She wan-ted to turn and throw her-self at his fe-et, beg-ging him to
for-gi-ve her for what was not her fa-ult, for what had be-en his fa-ult. She
re-ali-zed with shock that that was how far her fo-olish lo-ve had ta-ken her.
She mo-ved away from him wit-ho-ut a word, her back stiff and stra-ight, and
be-gan as-cen-ding the sta-irs.
Nic-ho-las wat-c-hed her go. Wat-c-hed her nar-row back, so stra-ight, so
de-lec-tab-le in the soft swirl of the ro-se silk gown. He wal-ked in-to the
dar-ke-ned sa-lon, mo-ving to the far end of the ro-om to sta-re out at the
mo-on-sil-ve-red ca-nal. He had to be very ca-re-ful. Fury be-at so strongly
in his ve-ins that he felt as if he might shat-ter. He wan-ted to kill. He
ne-eded a mo-ment to cle-ar the red-hot blin-d-ness from his eyes be-fo-re he
to-uc-hed her.
She was sit-ting in a cha-ir in the can-d-le-lit bed-ro-om when he
en-te-red, her slip-pe-red fe-et ne-atly to-get-her, her hands fol-ded in her
lap. She didn't lo-ok up, simply kept her ga-ze at her lap, un-til he pres-sed
the glass of brandy in her icy-cold hand.
He'd al-re-ady re-mo-ved his bo-ots and co-at. He mo-ved to the win-dow,
kno-wing that his ne-ar-ness only in-c-re-ased her agi-ta-ti-on, and le-aned
aga-inst the wall, wat-c-hing her. "Ma-da-me Cla-ude's?" he sa-id softly.
She shud-de-red. He co-uld see the tre-mor swe-ep over her body, and he
wan-ted to cross the ro-om, ta-ke her in his arms and hold her, hold her
un-til the trem-b-ling ce-ased. He didn't mo-ve, af-ra-id to to-uch her,
af-ra-id that if she sa-id no, this ti-me he wo-uldn't lis-ten.
"I saw you the-re," she sa-id, her vo-ice dis-tant, al-most ot-her-wordly.
"The night that man… ra-ped me. They we-re ta-king me up-s-ta-irs. I was
drug-ged, but I he-ard yo-ur vo-ice. You we-re the-re."
"I might ha-ve be-en." His vo-ice was co-ol and calm. "I didn't see you."
"Yes, you did. You as-ked Ma-da-me Cla-ude whet-her I'd be ava-ilab-le
la-ter."
He didn't flinch. "How did you get the-re?"
"A man to-ok me. He fo-und me on the stre-ets, pic-king a drun-kard's
poc-kets, and he to-ok me the-re and sold me to that evil wo-man." A cold
smi-le twis-ted her fa-ce. "They drug-ged me first, and then they auc-ti-oned
me off to the hig-hest bid-der. I be-li-eve you in-t-ro-du-ced him as the Earl
of Wrex-ham."

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"He has an un-sa-vory re-pu-ta-ti-on."
"He li-kes vir-gins. And he li-kes to hurt."
"How long we-re you the-re?"
She gla-red at him. "Long eno-ugh."
"How long?"
"You want to know how de-ba-uc-hed I was? Whet-her I enj-oyed it? Whet-her I
le-ar-ned any tricks that I might dis-p-lay for you?" Her vo-ice was ri-sing
in hyste-ria.
"No," he sa-id in a de-li-be-ra-tely bo-red vo-ice. "I wan-ted to know how
much I was go-ing to ma-ke him suf-fer be-fo-re I kil-led him."
Her la-ugh was bit-ter. "Re-ven-ge will get you now-he-re. Don't you think I
ha-ven't le-ar-ned that by now? Why sho-uld you want to kill him? Su-rely you
wo-uldn't want to kill all the men I sold my body to."
He to-ok a me-di-ta-ti-ve sip of his brandy. "I might," he sa-id in a
ref-lec-ti-ve vo-ice. "If I ha-ve the ti-me. How many we-re the-re?"
She ro-se then, mo-ving ac-ross the ro-om to-ward him. "I sold myself on the
stre-ets of Pa-ris," she sa-id softly, her vo-ice a chal-len-ge. "An old
Heb-rew pim-ped for me."
He lo-oked her up and down and just ma-na-ged a con-vin-cing yawn. "Very
tra-gic, I'm su-re." And then his vo-ice har-de-ned. "You sur-vi-ved,
Ghis-la-ine. You did what you had to do. It's a was-te of ti-me to wa-il and
mo-an and pity yo-ur-self. I don't gi-ve a damn how many men you ser-vi-ced in
the back al-leys of Pa-ris. If it wo-uld ma-ke you fe-el any bet-ter I wo-uld
kill them all, but I do-ubt I co-uld track them down. I don't re-al-ly ca-re.
All that mat-ters is that you ca-re. You des-pi-se yo-ur-self for sur-vi-ving,
and I still don't un-der-s-tand why."
"Be-ca-use Char-les-Lo-u-is didn't!" she cri-ed.
He didn't mo-ve. "Yo-ur brot-her," he sa-id flatly. "You did it for him,
didn't you?"
"It do-esn't mat-ter why I did it."
"Cer-ta-inly it do-es. If you did it for so-me-one you lo-ved, you've an
even gre-ater fo-ol than I tho-ught, to con-ti-nue to be-ra-te yo-ur-self for
it."
"I am a fo-ol," she sa-id in qu-i-et mi-sery, tur-ning away from him. "To
think that the-re co-uld be any pe-ace for me, to trust in anot-her hu-man
be-ing, to fall…" The words tra-iled away in a cho-ked gasp.
All in-do-len-ce left him as he se-ized her arm and whir-led her aro-und to
fa-ce him. "You didn't fi-nish yo-ur sen-ten-ce, ma-de-mo-isel-le," he sa-id
co-ol-ly. "To fall…?"
She tri-ed to jerk away from him, but he was too strong for her, pul-ling
her aga-inst his body, sub-du-ing her fla-iling arms with no dif-fi-culty
what-so-ever, tight aga-inst him. He held her wrists with one hand, using the
ot-her to tilt her fu-ri-o-us, de-fi-ant
A Ro-se at Mid-night 331
fa-ce up to his. "Fi-nish yo-ur sen-ten-ce," he sa-id aga-in, his vo-ice
harsh.
"You're the one I want to kill," she cri-ed in min-d-less fury. "You're the
one who bro-ught me to this…"
"Oh, gi-ve it a rest, Ghis-la-ine," he snap-ped. "Yo-ur fat-her's gre-ed
bro-ught di-sas-ter to yo-ur fa-mily. I was a stu-pid, sel-fish boy, I ad-mit.
But I didn't sell you in-to pros-ti-tu-ti-on, and I didn't ra-pe and
def-lo-wer you." He thrust her away from him ro-ughly, ha-ving fi-nal-ly be-en
pus-hed too far. "If you're so in-tent on kil-ling me, stop tal-king abo-ut it
and just do it."
She was be-yond ra-ti-onal tho-ught, her bre-ath co-ming in ra-pid gusts,
her eyes dark and des-pe-ra-te. "If I co-uld…"
He to-ok the kni-fe he'd tuc-ked in the back of his bre-ec-hes and pres-sed
it in-to her hand. It was a lar-ge kni-fe, very sharp, its ste-el bla-de
glin-ting in the can-d-le-light. "You want to kill me?" he sa-id, rip-ping
open his snowy-whi-te shirt and ex-po-sing his chest for her thrust. "Then do

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it."
She sta-red at the kni-fe in her hand, then back at him in hor-ror. "Do it!"
he thun-de-red, grab-bing her wrist and for-cing her to plun-ge the kni-fe at
him.
She scre-amed, fig-h-ting aga-inst him, and the kni-fe glan-ced off his
flesh at the last mi-nu-te, sli-cing ac-ross his sho-ul-der. He ba-rely felt
the pa-in, only the wet-ness of blo-od as it wel-led up aga-inst the shal-low
cut. He re-le-ased Ghis-la-ine's wrist, sta-ring at her as she bac-ked away
from him, the blo-od-s-ta-ined kni-fe still clut-c-hed in her hand.
"Can't do it, can you?" he ta-un-ted, ad-van-cing on her. "You ha-ve two
cho-ices, Ghis-la-ine. You must eit-her kill me or lo-ve me. Ma-ke yo-ur
de-ci-si-on."
He wat-c-hed her grip tig-h-ten on the kni-fe, and he won-de-red whet-her
this ti-me she wo-uld do it.
He re-ac-hed her, stan-ding in front of her, his torn, blo-od-s-ta-ined
shirt ba-rely co-ve-ring his chest, and wa-ited.
"Oh, my God," she sa-id in a bro-ken vo-ice. And she drop-ped the kni-fe
with a no-isy clat-ter, and flung her-self in-to his arms.
He ca-ught her, and tri-umph sur-ged thro-ugh his ve-ins. The silk gown
rip-ped be-ne-ath his des-pe-ra-te fin-gers. The ro-om was dark as he pus-hed
her down on the bed, fol-lo-wing her down, yan-king at his own clot-hes. It
had be-en so long sin-ce he'd al-lo-wed him-self to to-uch her, he felt
de-men-ted. When he co-ve-red her mo-uth with his, she kis-sed him back, and
he co-uld tas-te the te-ars on her che-eks. He wan-ted to bury him-self in her
body, fe-el her hot swe-et flesh aro-und him. He wan-ted it fast and hard; he
wan-ted it slow and lan-gu-oro-us. Her bre-asts we-re small, ro-und,
de-li-ci-o-us be-ne-ath his mo-uth. Her small hands thre-aded thro-ugh his
ha-ir, pul-ling him aga-inst her. He kis-sed her bre-asts, her belly; he
kis-sed her bet-we-en her legs, with all the ex-per-ti-se he'd ga-ined
thro-ugh the ye-ars, thro-ugh the co-un-t-less, fa-ce-less wo-men, all tho-se
en-co-un-ters simply le-ading to this mo-ment, this wo-man, this ple-asu-re
that he wan-ted to gi-ve her. His blo-od was stre-aked on her pa-le body, and
the-re was a sa-va-ge sa-tis-fac-ti-on in that. She'd mar-ked him; he'd
mar-ked her. To-get-her they we-re bon-ded, jo-ined fo-re-ver.
Her fin-gers tig-h-te-ned in his ha-ir, and he co-uld he-ar her gas-ping
cri-es as she so-ught her re-le-ase. And sud-denly he didn't want her to co-me
that way. He was sel-fish eno-ugh to ne-ed to be in-si-de her, and he mo-ved
up, kne-eling bet-we-en her legs, ta-king her hands in his and pres-sing them
down aga-inst the mat-tress as he fil-led her; slowly, ine-xo-rably, de-eply.
He'd plan-ned to gi-ve her a mo-ment to ac-com-mo-da-te her-self to his
si-ze, he'd plan-ned to go slowly, but the mo-ment he sank all the way in she
con-vul-sed aro-und him, her body tig-h-te-ning, mil-king him, and he had no
cho-ice but to fol-low her, his con-t-rol va-nis-hing, as he drank in her
cho-ked cry of com-p-le-ti-on.
He re-le-ased her hands, wrap-ping his arms aro-und her he-ad, crad-ling
her, his lips drin-king in her te-ars as she sob-bed be-ne-ath him. She to-re
at the he-art he didn't know he still pos-ses-sed, but not for an-y-t-hing
wo-uld he reg-ret the last ho-ur, the last day, the last we-eks. If it was
we-ak-ness, dam-nab-le, des-t-ruc-ti-ve we-ak-ness, then he no lon-ger
ca-red.
The mo-ment she re-ga-ined a tiny bit of con-t-rol she tri-ed to turn away
from him, even as she lay be-ne-ath him, the-ir bo-di-es still jo-ined. "Let
me be, Nic-ho-las," she beg-ged bro-kenly. "Don't tor-ment me, don't
hu-mi-li-ate me fur-t-her. Let me go away, I beg of you."
"I tho-ught I ex-p-la-ined this to you," he sa-id with gre-at pa-ti-en-ce,
kis-sing her eye-lids. "You are not go-ing away from me, ever aga-in." He
smo-ot-hed the te-ar-damp ha-ir away from her fa-ce with sur-pas-sing
gen-t-le-ness.
"Don't do this to me," she cri-ed. "Now of all ti-mes, don't be kind. You
know what I am, what I had to be-co-me."

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"I know what you are," he ag-re-ed, his vo-ice low. "A very dan-ge-ro-us
wo-man. Fi-er-ce, and bra-ve, and ter-rif-ying. If I co-uld let you le-ave I
wo-uld, my lo-ve. But I can't."
"Nic-ho-las…"
"Hush," he sa-id, re-le-asing her body, mo-ving to one si-de and gat-he-ring
her in his arms. "Hush, now. All this we-eping and la-men-ta-ti-on is a was-te
of ti-me. You can't chan-ge the past, and all yo-ur thirst for re-ven-ge won't
help mat-ters."
"Don't be kind," she whis-pe-red. "For God's sa-ke, Nic-ho-las, don't be
kind!"
"I'm ne-ver kind," he sa-id. "You sho-uld know that by now. I'm sel-fish and
dis-ho-no-rab-le, dis-so-lu-te and wic-ked." He smo-ot-hed her tan-g-led ha-ir
away from her te-ar-damp fa-ce. "You sho-uld know that bet-ter than
an-yo-ne."
"Nic-ho-las…"
"And to pro-ve it to you, I'm abo-ut to ma-ke lo-ve to you aga-in.
Ig-no-ring yo-ur rig-h-te-o-us dis-may, ig-no-ring any wis-hes you might ha-ve
in the mat-ter, I'm go-ing to start all over aga-in and dis-co-ver wha-te-ver
it was you le-ar-ned from all tho-se hun-d-reds and tho-usands of men you lay
with on the stre-ets of Pa-ris." His vo-ice was gently moc-king.
"Don't joke abo-ut it," she sa-id, trying to hi-de her fa-ce. Sin-ce she
cho-se his sho-ul-der to hi-de aga-inst, he fo-und such a mo-ve en-ti-rely
ac-cep-tab-le. "The-re we-re three," she sa-id in a very small vo-ice.
"Three hun-d-red?" His deft fin-gers be-gan wor-king the ta-ut mus-c-les of
her smo-oth, nar-row back, kne-ading, stro-king, fe-eling the skin grow warm
and ali-ve as one ten-si-on left and anot-her be-gan.
"Three men. Or rat-her, two and a half."
He pa-used for a mo-ment, ca-re-ful to ke-ep his vo-ice free of la-ug-h-ter.
"How did you ma-na-ge to ser-vi-ce two and a half men? I can't qu-ite
com-p-re-hend the lo-gis-tics. Not that you ne-ed ex-p-la-in. I've told you,
it do-esn't mat-ter how many men. I'm just cu-ri-o-us." His hands mo-ved down
to her small, ro-un-ded but-tocks, pul-ling her clo-ser to him.
"The-re was the earl," she mut-te-red. "And M. Por-cin, the but-c-her. But
when Mal-vi-ver wan-ted me to…" Her vo-ice bro-ke, and the te-ars stop-ped as
she lo-oked up at him. "I kil-led him."
"You al-ways we-re a blo-od-t-hirsty wench," he sa-id ami-ably, pul-ling her
legs up aro-und his aro-used body with deft gra-ce. "Why did you kill this…
Mal-vi-ver, did you call him?"
"He was the man who to-ok me to Ma-da-me Cla-ude's," she sa-id flatly.
"Well, it cer-ta-inly se-ems as if he de-ser-ved it mo-re than me," he
sa-id, pul-ling her clo-ser still, un-til he res-ted aga-inst her, newly
aro-used and ne-eding her. "Did you use po-ison?"
"I don't un-der-s-tand you," she cri-ed, cat-c-hing his sho-ul-ders. "How
can you so-und so amu-sed by it all?"
"Ha-ven't you le-ar-ned by now, my an-gel, that you must eit-her la-ugh or
we-ep?" He brus-hed her still-damp fa-ce. "I think you ha-ve wept eno-ugh for
one night." And he sank in-to her, tur-ning on his back as he went, pul-ling
her as-t-ri-de him.
She was as-to-nis-hed, he-si-tant at first, and tri-ed to scram-b-le away.
It was ob-vi-o-us to him that her scar-let past had in-c-lu-ded very lit-tle,
and he bri-efly con-si-de-red all the things he wo-uld te-ach her.
"Nic-ho-las!" she sa-id in shock.
He scho-oled his po-wer-ful res-pon-se eno-ugh to smi-le at her. "I
be-li-eve if s all a lie. You did spend the last de-ca-de in a con-vent. Be
bra-ve, ma mie. You might find you li-ke it." His long fin-gers tig-h-te-ned
on her thighs, as she still tri-ed to pull away. "Ple-ase," he sa-id.
He'd ne-ver sa-id ple-ase to a wo-man in his li-fe. So-me-how she knew that.
She clo-sed her eyes bri-efly, and her fin-gers tig-h-te-ned on his
sho-ul-ders, but she ma-de no mo-re mo-ve to es-ca-pe.
She was an apt pu-pil. She ca-ught the rhythm in no ti-me, and the shyness

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va-nis-hed, le-aving her glis-te-ning with swe-at, trem-b-ling, ta-ut with
pas-si-on, le-ar-ning to ta-ke her ple-asu-re, and his. And when she ca-me
this ti-me her cry ec-ho-ed out over the still wa-ters of the ca-nal,
min-g-ling with his.
She col-lap-sed on top of him in an un-tidy lit-tle he-ap of sa-tis-fi-ed
fe-ma-le flesh. He tuc-ked her aga-inst him, smi-ling as he felt the
bo-ne-less ex-ha-us-ti-on of sle-ep. The scra-pe on his chest stung, but he
ma-de no mo-ve to do an-y-t-hing abo-ut it. It was a small eno-ugh pri-ce to
pay for Ghis-la-ine. If ne-ed be, he wo-uld ha-ve let her hack off his arm in
re-turn for the ho-urs they'd just sha-red.
She was so small, so fi-er-ce, so strong, so vul-ne-rab-le. He had ne-ver
known a wo-man li-ke her. He ne-eded her, he who'd ne-ver ne-eded a li-ving
so-ul. The-re was no way he was go-ing to let an-yo-ne wo-und her aga-in. He
was bo-und to bring her eno-ugh pa-in as it was. It was in his blo-od. The
le-ast he co-uld do was ke-ep her sa-fe from ot-hers who might cho-ose to hurt
her.
He wa-ited un-til he was cer-ta-in her sle-ep was so de-ep that not-hing
might awa-ken her. He wan-ted to sle-ep too, wrap-ped in her arms, drin-king
in her scent, the scent of the-ir lo-ve-ma-king fil-ling the ro-om.
But he had a mo-re im-por-tant task to per-form. One that dam-ned well
wasn't go-ing to wa-it.
Ve-ni-ce was li-ke every cos-mo-po-li-tan city. Ga-ming ho-uses sta-yed open
till day-light, par-ti-es las-ted till bre-ak-fast. It to-ok him three stops,
but he fi-nal-ly fo-und the Earl of Wrex-ham at one of the bet-ter ga-ming
ho-uses, de-ep in a ga-me of fa-ro.
He must ha-ve felt Blac-k-t-hor-ne's sha-dow lo-om over him. He glan-ced up,
and Nic-ho-las no-ted he wasn't cup-s-hot. Not that it wo-uld ha-ve
mat-te-red. Drunk or so-ber, Wrex-ham was go-ing to die. A du-el with
Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne wo-uld be one-si-ded, no mat-ter what con-di-ti-on
his lor-d-s-hip was in. It wo-uld simply ma-ke so-ci-ety hap-pi-er if he was
so-ber.
"That you, Blac-k-t-hor-ne?" he as-ked, lo-oking up, his eyes bright with
ma-li-ce. "Ho-ping to see you aga-in. I've an in-te-rest in yo-ur lit-tle
lad-y-bird. Un-fi-nis-hed bu-si-ness, don't you know? What say we play for her
fa-vors? A hand of pi-qu-et? We co-uld play for a night, for a we-ek? Win-ner
ta-ke all."
"I'm go-ing to kill you, Wrex-ham," Nic-ho-las sa-id in his smo-oth,
ple-asant vo-ice.
"Don't be ri-di-cu-lo-us, old chap. Pe-op-le don't kill each ot-her over
sluts. Had a fe-eling you we-ren't best ple-ased when I re-cog-ni-zed the gel,
but I've al-ways had a go-od me-mory. Co-me on, old man, let's sha-re a
drink…" He held a crystal wi-neg-lass to-ward him, but the-re was a fa-int
sha-de of an-xi-ety in his fa-ded eyes.
Nic-ho-las to-ok the glass in one strong whi-te hand. "You're ab-so-lu-tely
right. Gen-t-le-men don't fight over do-xi-es. But sin-ce the lady in
qu-es-ti-on hap-pens to be my in-ten-ded bri-de, I think we might ag-ree that
the is-sue dif-fers."
Wrex-ham lo-oked frankly ap-pal-led. "By all me-ans, old boy. Must ha-ve
be-en mis-ta-ken. My apo-lo-gi-es…"
"Not go-od eno-ugh," Nic-ho-las sa-id, and flung the con-tents of his glass
in Wrex-ham's flo-rid fa-ce.
The ro-om went still. Wrex-ham pul-led a he-avily la-ced han-d-ker-c-hi-ef
from his sle-eve and mop-ped his drip-ping fa-ce. The co-lor had fa-ded, with
go-od re-ason. He co-uldn't apo-lo-gi-ze aga-in, not af-ter so gre-at an
in-sult, one wit-nes-sed by a gos-sipy gro-up of his pe-ers. He lo-oked up
in-to Nic-ho-las's fa-ce, and knew he was go-ing to die.
"I awa-it yo-ur ple-asu-re," he sa-id, his vo-ice qu-ave-ring only
slightly.
Nic-ho-las had plan-ned to fi-nish the bu-si-ness qu-ickly, sa-va-gely,
re-tur-ning to Ghis-la-ine's arms be-fo-re she even knew he was go-ne. He'd

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do-ne his best to ex-ha-ust her, her own tor-men-ted emo-ti-ons had
con-t-ri-bu-ted the-ir sha-re, and he had lit-tle do-ubt she'd sle-ep la-te
in-to the day. He'd lost co-unt of the du-els he'd fo-ught, so-me of them for
trif-ling re-asons. He dis-li-ked a man's co-at, he dis-li-ked anot-her man's
vo-ice. He'd kil-led, of co-ur-se, the la-te Jason Har-g-ro-ve be-ing one of
tho-se. No-ne of the men he'd fo-ught, no-ne of the men he'd kil-led, had
de-ser-ved to die as much as my lord of Wrex-ham.
And the-re-in lay the prob-lem. Hat-red blin-ded him. Ra-ge we-ake-ned him.
Sa-va-gery over-w-hel-med him. Ve-ni-ce was mo-re re-la-xed abo-ut such
af-fa-irs. If two En-g-lish gen-t-le-men wis-hed to set-tle the-ir af-fa-ir of
ho-nor then and the-re, the tab-les we-re pus-hed out of the way, se-conds
we-re cho-sen, and the bu-si-ness com-men-ced.
The-re was no sa-tis-fac-ti-on in the one-si-ded na-tu-re of the bat-tle.
Even half-mad with ra-ge, Nic-ho-las suf-fe-red not even the slig-h-test
scratch. He fo-ught li-ke a man pos-ses-sed, and his skill with the sword,
al-ways es-ti-mab-le, to-ok on a new po-wer.
But Wrex-ham didn't die well. It to-ok too dam-ned long, the-re was blo-od
ever-y-w-he-re, and the dam-ned co-ward wept at the end, his te-ars
hor-rif-ying ever-yo-ne.
"Dam-ned bad ton," Hop-ton, an ac-qu-a-in-tan-ce of Blac-k-t-hor-ne's who'd
of-fe-red to ser-ve as his se-cond, had mur-mu-red when it was fi-nal-ly over.
"He was bad 'un, we all knew it. Ne-ver tho-ught you'd be the nob-le aven-ger
tho-ugh, Blac-k-t-hor-ne."
"Amu-sing, isn't it?" he sa-id in a hol-low vo-ice, sta-ring at the blo-od
on his hands.
His fri-end glan-ced back at Wrex-ham's body and shud-de-red. "Not
ter-ribly," he sa-id. "De-ath, even a de-ser-ved one, ne-ver amu-ses."
Nic-ho-las fol-lo-wed his ga-ze. "No," he sa-id. "It ne-ver do-es." And he
mo-ved out in-to the Ve-ne-ti-an dawn, with blo-od-s-ta-ined hands, and
blo-od-s-ta-ined so-ul, to find ab-so-lu-ti-on.

Chapter 22

The ro-om was murky when Ghis-la-ine awo-ke, a gre-enish-blue pat-tern of
light dan-cing on the ce-iling. She lay still in the bed, ab-sor-bing the
warmth and sof-t-ness of the mat-tress, ab-sor-bing the uni-ma-gi-nab-le
fe-eling of well-be-ing that was-hed over her. She was alo-ne in the bed; a
sor-row, but one that co-uldn't over-ta-ke her she-er ani-mal ple-asu-re.
She rol-led over on her back, win-cing at the unex-pec-ted dis-com-fort
bet-we-en her legs, and sta-red at the pat-tern on the ce-iling. The
ref-lec-ti-on of the ca-nals out-si-de, mi-xed with the light of dawn, ma-de
the ro-om a sha-dowy, ma-gic pla-ce.
Except that it was the glow of twi-light, not dawn, she re-ali-zed when she
pul-led the he-avy li-nen she-et aro-und her body and wal-ked to the win-dow.
She'd slept the day away.
It wasn't un-til she was sin-king in-to a hot, scen-ted bath that she
lo-oked down at her body. The dri-ed stre-ak of blo-od. The marks of his
pos-ses-si-on. She lo-oked at her body, and she grew hot all over aga-in. And
she won-de-red whe-re he was.
The ser-vants had be-en busy. Mo-re ro-oms had
be-en ma-de ha-bi-tab-le, in-c-lu-ding a for-mal di-ning ro-om, now
scrub-bed and gle-aming. She dres-sed simply, in an ivory day dress that clung
to her body and mo-ved with gra-ce. It was odd, she tho-ught, cur-ling up on a
set-tee in the ma-in sa-lon. She ought to be we-aring crim-son. Af-ter the
most ero-tic night of her li-fe, she sud-denly felt al-most vir-gi-nal aga-in,
as she hadn't felt in mo-re than ten ye-ars.
Whe-re was he? She wo-uldn't, co-uldn't be-li-eve he'd aban-do-ned her,
fi-nal-ly re-le-ased her, af-ter all her ple-ading. It wo-uld be ven-ge-an-ce
in-de-ed, to fi-nal-ly bre-ak thro-ugh her de-fen-ses, only to cast her

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asi-de.
He'd told her he'd ne-ver let her go, and she fo-und she be-li-eved him.
Even tho-ugh he in-sis-ted he was wit-ho-ut ho-nor, she be-li-eved him. She
wo-uld be with him fo-re-ver. Or she wo-uld die.
Ta-ver-ner was wor-ri-ed. He in-sis-ted he had no know-led-ge of
Nic-ho-las's whe-re-abo-uts, but the-re was no dis-gu-ising the an-xi-ety in
his swarthy, pin-c-hed fa-ce. That an-xi-ety tra-ve-led stra-ight to
Ghis-la-ine's he-art.
The ser-vants re-ti-red for the night. Ta-ver-ner went out in se-arch of
him, tho-ugh he in-sis-ted he was simply go-ing for a stroll. Ghis-la-ine
wan-de-red thro-ugh the pa-laz-zo li-ke a lost so-ul, wa-iting.
It was past mid-night when she went up-s-ta-irs. The ho-use was still and
si-lent as she pas-sed the do-or to her tiny ro-om and he-aded stra-ight for
the mas-ter bed-ro-om. The ta-per she car-ri-ed cast lit-tle
il-lu-mi-na-ti-on, and she set it down on a tab-le in-si-de the do-or,
re-ac-hing blindly for the can-de-lab-rum she knew pro-vi-ded most of the
light.
"Le-ave it." Nic-ho-las's vo-ice ca-me out of the dar-k-ness.
She wan-ted to we-ep in re-li-ef. She trem-b-led for a mo-ment, clo-sing the
do-or be-hind her and le-aning aga-inst it. The one ta-per ba-rely
pe-net-ra-ted the sha-dows, and she co-uld just see him, stan-ding by the
win-dow, sta-ring out in-to the starry night.
"Ha-ve you be-en he-re long?" she as-ked.
He tur-ned and res-ted his back aga-inst the wall, and she co-uld see the
co-ol, moc-king smi-le on his mo-uth, so-met-hing she'd ho-ped ne-ver to see
aga-in. "Not long. He's de-ad."
For a mo-ment she had no idea what he was tal-king abo-ut. He was dres-sed
in dusty black, his dark ha-ir was tan-g-led, and his fa-ce was pa-le with
ex-ha-us-ti-on and so-met-hing far wor-se. "Who is?"
"Wrex-ham," he sa-id. "I've aven-ged yo-ur ho-nor, my de-ar. Now who will
aven-ge the harm I've do-ne you?"
"You kil-led him?"
"Co-uld you do-ubt it?" He ma-de an ab-rupt, airy ges-tu-re. "I'm a man who
knows how to kill. I se-em to be out-do-ing myself tho-ugh-two men in less
than a se-ason. Don't lo-ok so dis-t-ra-ught. It was in a du-el. Plenty of
wit-nes-ses to at-test to the fa-ir-ness of the si-tu-ati-on. We won't be
ho-un-ded out of Ve-ni-ce."
She co-uld he-ar the des-pa-ir in his vo-ice, a des-pa-ir she co-uldn't
qu-ite un-der-s-tand. She mo-ved ac-ross the ro-om on si-lent gra-ce-ful
fe-et. And then she knew. Her wic-ked, he-ar-t-less, half-mad Nic-ho-las was
hu-man af-ter all.
She ca-me to him, re-ac-hed up, and to-ok his fa-ce in her hands.
"Nic-ho-las," she whis-pe-red, "I am so sorry."
He tri-ed to jerk away from her gen-t-le to-uch. "Sorry? Why sho-uld you be
sorry? One mo-re de-ath, mo-re or less, do-esn't ma-ke a whit of
dif-fe-ren-ce, and if an-yo-ne de-ser-ved to die, Wrex-ham was the man. His
re-pu-ta-ti-on was le-gi-on-you we-re ne-it-her the first nor the last of his
vic-tims, and hardly the most da-ma-ged. He de-ser-ved it. He de-ser-ved to
die badly, to lie in his own blo-od and squ-e-al for mercy, even as his li-fe
was dra-ining away…"
"Oh, God," she whis-pe-red, sli-ding her arms aro-und his neck.
"Nic-ho-las…"
He pus-hed her away from him. "I find I'm not in the mo-od," he sa-id with a
brit-tle la-ugh. "I'm not very go-od com-pany right now. I kept away for as
long as I co-uld, but the amu-se-ments of Ve-ni-ce are not to my tas-te. I'll
re-li-eve you of my pre-sen-ce…"
She ca-ught his wrist, hal-ting him. "Nic-ho-las," she sa-id. "I lo-ve
you."
"Don't," he snap-ped at her, but he didn't bre-ak free. "Don't you
un-der-s-tand? Ha-ven't I pro-ved it, ti-me and ti-me aga-in? I'm a mon-s-ter,

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not worthy of lo-ve, not worthy of an-y-t-hing at all…"
"I lo-ve you," she sa-id aga-in, cat-c-hing his ot-her hand, pul-ling his
arms aro-und her, pul-ling his tall, ten-si-on-rac-ked body tight aga-inst
hers. "I lo-ve you."
He ma-de a stran-ge, cho-king no-ise, and drop-ped his he-ad on hers. She
felt the tre-mors shi-ver thro-ugh him, and she held him, gently, as she
wo-uld hold a wo-un-ded child, as she wo-uld ha-ve held her long-lost
brot-her. And then the hol-ding chan-ged, and she mo-ved her he-ad up, and
to-uc-hed his mo-uth with hers.
He let her kiss him. He star-ted to kiss her back, but she res-t-ra-ined
him, un-fas-te-ning the bo-ne but-tons on his dark shirt and pus-hing it from
his sho-ul-ders. She fo-und the te-ar she'd in-f-lic-ted in his flesh, and she
ran her lips down the length of the long scratch. She kis-sed his sho-ul-der,
his flat ma-le nip-ples; she ran her mo-uth down the cor-ded strength of his
belly, and then she pres-sed her mo-uth aga-inst the fi-er-ce swell of flesh
be-ne-ath his bre-ec-hes.
He ca-ught her sho-ul-ders, pul-ling her up clo-se aga-inst him, and this
ti-me he kis-sed her, hard and de-ep, a kiss she an-s-we-red. Her dress
rip-ped as he to-re it off her; his bre-ec-hes rip-ped as she to-re them open.
She to-uc-hed him, felt the sil-ken strength of him, and he gro-aned, de-ep in
his thro-at, pus-hing aga-inst her hands. His skin was smo-oth, hot, and she
wan-ted him, ne-eded him in ways only in-s-tinct told her. Be-fo-re he co-uld
re-ali-ze her in-tent she sank to her kne-es on the pi-le of scat-te-red
clot-hes and to-ok him in her mo-uth. His hands dug in-to her sho-ul-ders, and
he gro-aned aga-in.
"No, Ghis-la-ine. God, yes… yes…" he sa-id, unab-le to con-t-rol him-self,
thrus-ting in-to her swe-etly qu-es-ting mo-uth. And then he ca-ught her,
pul-ling her up, up, in-to his arms, mo-ving back aga-inst the wall,
po-si-ti-oning her the-re be-fo-re he fil-led her, sho-ving him-self in
de-eply. She held on, her eyes tightly clo-sed, ab-sor-bing his fe-ve-red
thrusts, unab-le to do mo-re than shi-ver in ple-asu-re. He tur-ned and
le-aned back, sup-por-ting him-self aga-inst the pa-ne-led wall as he held
her, her legs wrap-ped aro-und his back, and lif-ted her, up and down, fas-ter
now, fas-ter and fas-ter, de-eper and stron-ger, and his lips we-re pul-led
back aga-inst his strong whi-te te-eth, and swe-at co-ve-red the-ir bo-di-es,
and sud-denly she ex-p-lo-ded, her body shat-te-ring in-to a mil-li-on
pi-eces. She he-ard his cry, and she kis-sed him, drin-king it in, as her body
drank his es-sen-ce.
He ma-na-ged to carry her over to the bed, col-lap-sing with her on it,
ca-re-ful to sup-port her we-ight as they fell. She wo-uldn't, co-uldn't let
go of him. She felt lost, frig-h-te-ned, mo-re mo-ved than she had be-en in
her en-ti-re li-fe. It was as if he dra-ined ever-y-t-hing from her, will and
po-wer and an-ger and strength. She exis-ted only for him. She crad-led him in
her arms, smo-ot-hing his long tan-g-led ha-ir, and she cri-ed for him. And
she co-uld fe-el his own te-ars aga-inst her skin.

***

It was a dre-am, an idyll, so-on shat-te-red. They spent days in bed,
le-ar-ning each ot-her's bo-di-es, ma-king lo-ve, ha-ving sex; with he-at and
pas-si-on, with swe-et-ness and ten-der-ness. They used the bed, the flo-or,
the tab-le, the hip bath. They did it stan-ding up, sit-ting down,
fron-t-ward, bac-k-ward, si-de-ways. He co-uldn't get eno-ugh of her,
drow-ning him-self in her body. And she co-uldn't get eno-ugh of him.
Ghis-la-ine knew it wo-uld co-me to an end. Knew it with the be-at of her
he-art, the throb of her blo-od, the salt of her te-ars that had fi-nal-ly
re-tur-ned to her.
So-oner or la-ter her past wo-uld catch up with her-th-ro-ugh her drug-ged
fog at Ma-da-me Cla-ude's she had se-en a ro-om-ful of men bid-ding for the
pri-ze of def-lo-we-ring her. Wrex-ham had won, but the-re wo-uld be ot-hers

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who re-mem-be-red.
And Nic-ho-las wo-uld ha-ve to kill them.
She co-uldn't li-ve with that. The des-t-ruc-ti-on of a gro-up of
dis-so-lu-te nob-le-men bot-he-red her not one whit. But the des-t-ruc-ti-on
of one par-ti-cu-lar dis-so-lu-te gen-t-le-man wo-uld kill her.
She'd tho-ught he was so strong, so cold, so im-per-vi-o-us to emo-ti-ons
ot-her than his own ra-ges. She'd im-bu-ed him with su-per-hu-man
qu-ali-ti-es, the bet-ter to ke-ep her dis-tan-ce.
Inste-ad she fo-und her-self ca-ught in ways far mo-re per-ma-nent than her
re-cent cap-ti-vity. The be-a-uti-ful yo-ung man she'd on-ce lo-ved was still
the-re, but so was the tor-men-ter. The ra-ke, the bet-ra-yer, the lost so-ul,
the sulky lit-tle boy who ne-eded her lo-ve so badly he didn't even
re-cog-ni-ze his ne-ed.
She wan-ted to gi-ve him that lo-ve, to crad-le his he-ad aga-inst her
bre-asts and com-fort the dark tor-ments of his so-ul. She wan-ted to be his
lo-ver, his mot-her, his par-t-ner, and his child.
But her pre-sen-ce in his li-fe wo-uld be his fi-nal des-t-ruc-ti-on, the
one he'd co-ur-ted and avo-ided for so long. He'd chan-ged sin-ce Wrex-ham's
de-ath. Ope-ned to her, in ways she wo-uldn't ha-ve be-li-eved pos-sib-le.
The mo-ments we-re small, unim-por-tant, and the-re-fo-re even mo-re
pre-ci-o-us. The mor-ning they lay in bed, the sun-light sen-ding dap-pled
sha-dows over the-ir bo-di-es as he tri-ed to te-ach her pi-qu-et, only to
ha-ve her be-at him so-undly on-ce she'd mas-te-red the in-t-ri-ca-ci-es of
the ga-me. The af-ter-no-on he co-axed her in-to a gon-do-la, te-asing her
un-mer-ci-ful-ly as her com-p-le-xi-on tur-ned from whi-te to gre-en and back
aga-in be-fo-re he fi-nal-ly ma-de the gon-do-li-er pull over to the si-de of
the ca-nal. He'd car-ri-ed her ho-me then, thro-ugh the stre-ets, and if his
gal-lant ges-tu-re ma-de her even mo-re se-asick, she hadn't told him.
The-re was the eve-ning they ate cold chic-ken be-ne-ath the stars, and
dan-ced in dar-k-ness, Nic-ho-las hum-ming be-ne-ath his bre-ath an old
En-g-lish co-untry tu-ne, as she re-le-ar-ned the waltz.
And the-re was the night she held him in her arms as he lay, sle-ep-less,
tor-men-ted, as the ghosts and gu-ilts of a li-fe-ti-me vi-si-ted him on-ce
mo-re.
She he-ard abo-ut it all wit-ho-ut flin-c-hing. His boy-ho-od pranks that
grew ste-adily mo-re se-ri-o-us, his fat-her's re-j-ec-ti-on and de-ath, the
yo-ung man he'd kil-led in a drun-ken du-el.
She he-ard abo-ut the wo-men he'd ru-ined, the for-tu-nes he'd won and lost,
the he-ed-less, so-ul-less pur-su-it of ple-asu-re and for-get-ful-ness. And
one of the things he'd most wan-ted to for-get was a fif-te-en-ye-ar-old
French girl with her he-art in her eyes.
She he-ard it all. And she lo-ved him. Kno-wing it was not eno-ugh.
She'd be-en bro-ught up in the church she'd aban-do-ned to be-li-eve that
con-fes-si-on was go-od for the so-ul. It truly se-emed so for Nic-ho-las.
On-ce he'd told her every dark, hi-de-o-us thing he'd do-ne, a we-ight se-emed
to lift from him. He co-uld lo-ok at her and smi-le, wit-ho-ut a tra-ce of
moc-kery. He co-uld even la-ugh. Which ma-de her de-ci-si-on all the mo-re
de-vas-ta-ting.
She wo-uld ha-ve to le-ave him. She had no cho-ice, no-ne what-so-ever. When
she left, he wo-uld ra-ge on-ce mo-re. But the-re was a chan-ce, just a
chan-ce, that he might find so-me-one el-se, so-me-one mo-re worthy to lo-ve.
And his own dar-k-ness wo-uld pass fo-re-ver.
With her he sto-od no chan-ce at all.
She'd be-en aro-und the last of the mad Blac-k-t-hor-nes for too long-it was
ma-king her crazy as well. He'd ne-ver told her he lo-ved her, ne-ver
sug-ges-ted that the-re was an-y-t-hing be-yond the pas-si-on of the mo-ment
for the two of them. But she knew, bet-ter than he did. She knew, with a
wis-dom that ca-me from her he-art, that it was lo-ve bet-we-en them. A lo-ve
that wo-uld ha-unt them both for the rest of the-ir days.
She had no idea whe-re she co-uld go. She didn't even know when she'd be

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strong eno-ugh to ma-ke the bre-ak, to turn her back on her only ho-pe of joy.
Af-ter the numb, dark ye-ars that had fol-lo-wed her pa-rents' de-ath, she'd
co-me to li-fe aga-in, and the pa-in and des-pa-ir that had ta-ken hold of her
had be-gun to he-al.
But that pa-in and des-pa-ir we-re wa-iting, lur-king, re-ady to re-turn and
des-t-roy her. She'd le-ar-ned the hard way that the-re we-re no happy
en-dings in this li-fe. The hap-pi-er she was, the mo-re de-vas-ta-ting the
fall. And she was de-ter-mi-ned to es-ca-pe be-fo-re she bro-ught Nic-ho-las
down with her as well.
She had to le-ave, even tho-ugh it wo-uld bre-ak her he-art, a he-art she'd
tho-ught bro-ken long ago. It was the one gift she co-uld gi-ve him.
The pa-laz-zo had a small, en-c-lo-sed gar-den to the right of the ca-nal.
It was over-g-rown, tan-g-led, and ut-terly char-ming. Lu-isa had ba-nis-hed
Ghis-la-ine from the kit-c-hen, thre-ate-ned by her fancy French ide-as, but
the gar-den was no one's do-ma-in, the gar-de-ner ha-ving long sin-ce fo-und
ot-her em-p-loy-ment. Ghis-la-ine spent the sunny ho-urs the-re, wor-king in
the dirt, trying to ig-no-re the fu-tu-re. She was ne-ver cer-ta-in whe-re
Nic-ho-las might spend the day. He slept la-ter than she did, a li-fe-ti-me of
in-do-len-ce at war with her hard-ear-ned sen-se of duty. He usu-al-ly
ma-na-ged to en-ti-ce her back un-der the co-vers when she at-tem-p-ted to
ro-ust him, to the-ir mu-tu-al ple-asu-re, but she co-uldn't rid her-self of
the be-li-ef that they we-re li-ving on bor-ro-wed ti-me. Di-sas-ter was at
hand.
And so-oner than even she ex-pec-ted. Nic-ho-las ca-me to stand over her as
she grub-bed in the dirt, and she sat on her he-els, una-bas-hed. "We're
he-ading back to En-g-land to-mor-row," he sa-id, his vo-ice oddly
dif-fi-dent. "Don't worry, I pro-mi-se we won't go ne-ar French so-il, and
we'll tra-vel ac-ross land as much as pos-sib-le. It ne-ver ce-ases to ama-ze
me that so-me-one with yo-ur fi-er-ce-ness wo-uld be pos-ses-sed of such a
we-ak sto-mach."
She co-uldn't bring her-self to smi-le. "I don't want to go back to
En-g-land. And how can you re-turn? Aren't you still in tro-ub-le…?"
"That can be sor-ted out if I ma-ke the ef-fort. I still ha-ve a few
fri-ends with in-f-lu-en-ce. Tavvy will help you pack…"
"Le-ave me be-hind."
All ex-p-res-si-on left his fa-ce. For the first ti-me in days he lo-oked
cold and dis-tant. "Don't be ab-surd."
"Be sen-sib-le, Nic-ho-las. You don't ne-ed me…"
He mo-ved so swiftly her words fal-te-red as he pul-led her to her fe-et,
cup-ping her fa-ce with his hands. He was so tall, so strong, and yet oddly
vul-ne-rab-le. "I ne-ed you," he sa-id in a tight, angry vo-ice. "I tho-ught I
ma-de it cle-ar to you, my lo-ve. I'm not abo-ut to let you go. Ever." He
kis-sed her, hard, and she flung her arms aro-und his wa-ist, unab-le to deny
him. Kno-wing that she was simply fal-ling mo-re de-eply in lo-ve with him
with each pas-sing mo-ment. And kno-wing it wo-uld be har-der than ever to
gi-ve him up.
The dam-nab-le thing was, she co-uldn't even tell him go-od-bye. He'd stop
her, she knew he wo-uld. So she simply lo-oked up at him, ho-ping he wo-uldn't
no-ti-ce the for-ced brig-h-t-ness of her smi-le, the lin-ge-ring hold of her
hands as she kis-sed him go-od-bye.
She sto-od wit-ho-ut mo-ving, wat-c-hing him le-ave. He'd be ma-king
ar-ran-ge-ments for the-ir jo-ur-ney, and her ti-me was co-ming to an end. She
ought to ma-ke her own plans, but for the mo-ment she co-uldn't. She sta-yed
in the gar-den, her mind fe-ve-rish, wat-c-hing her te-ars splash hotly on her
hands, and she des-pi-sed them. For ten ye-ars she hadn't cri-ed. Now she
co-uldn't se-em to stop.
She he-ard the com-mo-ti-on from a dis-tan-ce, but she sta-yed whe-re she
was, on her kne-es in the gar-den, wi-ping away the dam-p-ness from her eyes.
And then she he-ard a vo-ice she had ne-ver tho-ught to he-ar aga-in.
"Gilly!"

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She tur-ned, to sta-re in shock at El-len Fit-z-wa-ter's tall form in the
gar-den do-or-way, sha-do-wed by an even lar-ger form be-hind her.
She co-uldn't help it, her in-s-tincts to-ok over. She ro-se, ran ac-ross
the stretch of gar-den, and flung her-self in El-len's wel-co-ming arms,
sob-bing lo-udly.
"My po-or an-gel," El-len sa-id, hol-ding her tightly.
"It must ha-ve be-en aw-ful for you. We're he-re now; Tony won't let him
hurt you ever aga-in, he's pro-mi-sed me."
Ghis-la-ine co-uldn't say a word. The sobs we-re cho-king her thro-at as
El-len drew her in-to the co-ol in-te-ri-or of the sa-lon. "It's not…" She
hic-cup-ped. "I can't…"
"Hush, now. Tony, see if you can find so-me-one to bring us so-me tea. Gilly
ne-eds a go-od strong cup be-fo-re she can calm down."
Ghis-la-ine he-ard a muf-fled as-sent as El-len drew her down on the
set-tee, and she ma-na-ged a wa-tery chuc-k-le. "You En-g-lish," she sa-id.
"You think tea is the an-s-wer for ever-y-t-hing."
"And so it is. That's why we're such a sta-id, res-pec-tab-le ra-ce," she
sa-id com-for-tably, pus-hing Ghis-la-ine's ha-ir away from her fa-ce.
"Sta-id and res-pec-tab-le li-ke Nic-ho-las Black-thor-ne?" Her vo-ice
crac-ked.
"What has he do-ne to you, Gilly? Has it be-en very aw-ful? Has he hurt you
ter-ribly? It must ha-ve be-en dre-ad-ful, to be car-ri-ed off li-ke that. Do
you ha-te him very much?"
Ghis-la-ine's la-ugh bor-de-red on hyste-ria. "You ha-ve to get me away from
him, El-len."
"Don't worry, my pet, we will. Tony and I will pro-tect you. If you don't
want Nic-ho-las ne-ar you I pro-mi-se you he won't to-uch you ever aga-in.
Tony will see to it."
"Tony will see to it," Ghis-la-ine ec-ho-ed, for a mo-ment dis-t-rac-ted
from her own mi-sery. She lo-oked down at the hands clas-ping hers, at the
di-amond and sap-phi-re wed-ding ring, and she ma-na-ged a smi-le. "I see."
Ellen flus-hed to the ro-ots of her ha-ir. "I've al-ways lo-ved him, you
know. And oh, Gilly, I'm so happy! You can't ima-gi-ne what it's li-ke."
"Yes," she sa-id softly. "I can ima-gi-ne."
"Oh, no, Gilly," El-len bre-at-hed. "I tho-ught you ha-ted Nic-ho-las. You
aren't… you co-uldn't be…"
"I'm in lo-ve with him."
"Oh, Lord. Why him, of all pe-op-le? The most sel-fish, wret-c-hed,
dis-re-pu-tab-le, ca-re-for-not-hing in the world. I co-uld kill him, I co-uld
ab-so-lu-tely kill him."
"He do-es tend to bring out that de-si-re in pe-op-le," Ghis-la-ine sa-id
with a hol-low la-ugh. "I ha-ve to get away from he-re. Now, be-fo-re he
re-turns. I ha-ve no idea whe-re he's go-ne, but he co-uld co-me back at any
ti-me."
"We'll get you away, ne-ver fe-ar. Tho-ugh if you lo-ve him, per-haps he
co-uld be ma-de to marry you…"
"No!" Ghis-la-ine shri-eked. "That wo-uld only ma-ke things wor-se."
Sir An-tony Wil-ton-Gre-ening had re-tur-ned, com-pas-si-on on his
han-d-so-me fa-ce. "We'll do what we can to as-sist you."
Gu-ilt swam-ped her. "I'm not cer-ta-in you'll want to."
"Of co-ur-se we will," El-len pro-tes-ted. "We've cha-sed over half a
con-ti-nent to do just that."
"You may reg-ret that you did. I am not at all res-pec-tab-le."
"Don't be ab-surd. You've al-ways be-en sec-re-ti-ve abo-ut yo-ur past, but
I'm no fo-ol. I as-su-med yo-ur fa-mily was lost in the Ter-ror. You must
co-me from de-cent stock-blo-od al-ways tells."
"My fat-her was the Com-te de Lorgny. Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne's
god-fat-her."
Ellen to-ok in a shoc-ked bre-ath. "Well, I hadn't gu-es-sed that high," she
ad-mit-ted.

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"When my pa-rents we-re kil-led, my brot-her and I li-ved on the stre-ets of
Pa-ris." She pa-used, and the words bur-ned in her he-art. "I ear-ned our
bre-ad the only way I co-uld."
Ellen, for all that she had a wed-ding ring on her fin-ger, simply lo-oked
blank. It was Sir An-tony who com-p-re-hen-ded in-s-tantly, and he mo-ved
bet-we-en the two of them. Do-ub-t-less to pro-tect El-len from her
con-ta-mi-na-ting pre-sen-ce, Ghis-la-ine tho-ught.
Inste-ad he knelt down and to-ok Ghis-la-ine's hands in his hu-ge one.
'Tho-se we-re bad ti-mes, ma-de-mo-isel-le. No one will bla-me you for what
you had to do to sur-vi-ve."
She ma-na-ged a pa-le smi-le. "It's funny. That's what Nic-ho-las sa-id."
"What did Nic-ho-las say?" A co-ol, ma-li-ci-o-us drawl in-ter-rup-ted
them.
Sir An-tony re-le-ased her hand slowly, and tur-ned to fa-ce Nic-ho-las
Blac-k-t-hor-ne. He sto-od in the do-or-way, his eyes nar-ro-wed, his fa-ce
still and pa-le. "Go-od af-ter-no-on, Blac-k-t-hor-ne," he gre-eted him
po-li-tely eno-ugh.
"And my lit-tle co-usin be-si-des," Nic-ho-las sa-id, strol-ling in-to the
ro-om, his body tight with sup-pres-sed ra-ge. "To what do we owe the
ple-asu-re of yo-ur com-pany?"
"We're ta-king Gilly away from you!" El-len shot up.
"No, you're not," Nic-ho-las sa-id with de-cep-ti-ve gen-t-le-ness. "She's
sta-ying with me."
"Don't be ri-di-cu-lo-us, Blac-k-t-hor-ne," Sir An-tony sa-id. "Ha-ven't you
do-ne eno-ugh harm as it is? She do-esn't de-ser-ve to be used this way…"
"Fancy her yo-ur-self, do you?" he in-qu-ired ple-asantly. "If you put yo-ur
hands on her aga-in, I will cut yo-ur he-art out."
Ghis-la-ine had se-en that lo-ok in his fa-ce be-fo-re. When he'd co-me back
from kil-ling the Earl of Wrex-ham. And she knew, with cer-ta-inty, that he
might kill aga-in. That one thing had ter-ri-fi-ed her, for his sa-ke alo-ne.
If he for-ced a du-el on Sir An-tony, he wo-uld eit-her le-ave her best
fri-end a newly ma-de wi-dow or die him-self.
"Stop it," she cri-ed. "Sir An-tony is mar-ri-ed to yo-ur co-usin. He has no
in-te-rest in me…"
"A man wo-uld ha-ve to be de-ad not to ha-ve in-te-rest in you, my pet,"
Nic-ho-las sa-id. "Per-haps that's what Sir An-tony sho-uld be."
"You co-uld al-ways try," Sir An-tony sa-id po-li-tely. "I wo-uld think
you'd be rat-her ti-red of kil-ling pe-op-le, but per-haps it's a ha-bit that
grows on one."
"You might find you can de-ve-lop a tas-te for it," Nic-ho-las sa-id in a
dan-ge-ro-us vo-ice. "I'd be mo-re than happy to in-dul-ge you if you'd ca-re
to try."
Ellen ro-se to her full he-ight, to-we-ring over Ghis-la-ine, and to-ok her
icy hand. "Co-me with me, Gilly," she sa-id im-pe-ri-o-usly, tug-ging her
away. "Let them set-tle it."
"No!" Ghis-la-ine shri-eked, tug-ging at her arm. "They'll kill each
ot-her."
"You can't stop me," Nic-ho-las snar-led. "Go to yo-ur ro-om and wa-it for
me."
"That so-unds li-ke an ex-cel-lent idea," El-len sa-id, pul-ling her. "Co-me
along."
"You don't un-der-s-tand," Ghis-la-ine bab-bled as she fo-und her-self
be-ing ha-uled up the long win-ding sta-irs. "He'll kill him. He'll kill yo-ur
hus-band, and it will des-t-roy him…"
"You don't know Tony very well. He's mo-re than ca-pab-le of de-aling with
Nic-ho-las. Gran-ted, my co-usin is very dan-ge-ro-us in-de-ed, but I ha-ve
de-ve-lo-ped in-fi-ni-te fa-ith in Tony's in-ge-nu-ity. We'll go up to yo-ur
ro-om and get you pac-ked, and by the ti-me they fi-nish the-ir lit-tle
ar-gu-ment we'll be hal-f-way to our ho-tel."
"El-len…!"

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They re-ac-hed the top lan-ding. "Co-me along,
A Ro-se at Mid-night 353
Gilly. Un-less you find you'd rat-her stay. I think he ca-res abo-ut you.
Not that I wo-uld ha-ve tho-ught it was pos-sib-le for so-me-one li-ke
Nic-ho-las, but the-re might just be ho-pe for the fu-tu-re, if you lo-ve him.
I've ne-ver se-en him so pos-ses-si-ve abo-ut a fe-ma-le be-fo-re."
"Don't you un-der-s-tand? I can't stay!"
Ellen sho-ok her he-ad. "The French are crazy," she sa-id flatly. "But then,
I al-ways sus-pec-ted as much. Which re-minds me. A let-ter ca-me for you.
I've car-ri-ed it hal-f-way ac-ross the con-ti-nent with me.
From the flo-or be-low they co-uld he-ar the sud-den, dan-ge-ro-us snick of
ste-el on ste-el. "They're fig-h-ting," Ghis-la-ine sa-id, numb ter-ror
was-hing over her.
"Tony can de-fend him-self wit-ho-ut kil-ling Nic-ho-las," El-len sa-id
calmly. "Ha-ve fa-ith."
"I ha-ve no fa-ith."
"It's past ti-me to de-ve-lop so-me. Show me to yo-ur ro-om, and I'll pack
for you whi-le you re-ad yo-ur let-ter."
Ghis-la-ine wan-ted to run back dow-n-s-ta-irs, to put her-self bet-we-en
the two men. But El-len was tal-ler, stron-ger, and mo-re de-ter-mi-ned. She
ges-tu-red to-ward the do-or to the bed-ro-om and drew her in, pus-hing her
in-to a cha-ir and han-ding her a wrin-k-led, worn pi-ece of pa-per.
Ghis-la-ine sta-red down at the un-k-nown hand in blank
in-com-p-re-hen-si-on, part of her mind still stra-ining for the so-und of
de-ath and di-sas-ter from be-low-s-ta-irs. El-len had ha-uled out a va-li-se
and was busy fil-ling it with clot-hing.
"How did an-yo-ne know whe-re I was?" she as-ked, sud-den dre-ad swam-ping
her. The let-ter was ad-dres-sed to Ci-ti-ze-ness Ghis-la-ine de Lorgny, an
omi-no-us eno-ugh phra-se. Who had known whe-re she'd di-sap-pe-ared to-she'd
even li-ed to fat Mar-t-he at the Red Hen.
She to-re the wrin-k-led mis-si-ve open, her hands sha-king. Old Bo-nes
co-uld ne-it-her re-ad nor wri-te, but he knew whe-re to find a cle-ric
wil-ling to earn a few sou. Of co-ur-se he wo-uld know whe-re she'd go-ne; Old
Bo-nes knew ever-y-t-hing. In-c-lu-ding so-met-hing she ne-ver tho-ught to
he-ar.
She lif-ted her he-ad, te-ars stre-aming down her fa-ce. "My brot-her is
ali-ve," she sa-id in a bro-ken vo-ice. "He's be-en fo-und."
Ellen stop-ped in the midst of her pac-king. "You ha-ve a brot-her?"
"He's in a small French vil-la-ge up in the mo-un-ta-ins. I ha-ve to go to
him, El-len. I must." She le-aped from her cha-ir, das-hing the te-ars from
her fa-ce.
Ellen didn't even he-si-ta-te. "To be su-re," she sa-id briskly. She
glan-ced down at the va-li-se she'd pac-ked so ca-re-ful-ly. "I won-der if
we'll ha-ve ro-om to ta-ke this."
Ghis-la-ine sta-red at her in shock. "What do you me-an?"
"I'm co-ming with you, of co-ur-se. I've be-co-me very adept at tra-ve-ling
sin-ce Tony and I ha-ve be-en fol-lo-wing you, and I'm cer-ta-inly not abo-ut
to let you go alo-ne. I know how ter-ri-fi-ed you are of ever re-tur-ning to
Fran-ce. At le-ast with me by yo-ur si-de you'll ha-ve so-me-one to turn to."
Ghis-la-ine ma-na-ged a wa-tery smi-le. El-len's in-no-cen-ce wo-uld ne-ver
be a match for the dark for-ces that thre-ate-ned her in Fran-ce-com-pa-red to
Ghis-la-ine she was a ba-be in arms. But Ghis-la-ine lo-ved her for her
de-ter-mi-na-ti-on. "No," she sa-id firmly. "Yo-ur new hus-band wo-uld ne-ver
stand for it."
"You wo-uldn't con-si-der let-ting him co-me with us?" El-len as-ked
wis-t-ful-ly.
"Ab-so-lu-tely not. I ha-ve to go alo-ne." In-de-ed, Old Bo-nes's let-ter
had ma-de it mo-re than cle-ar that she ne-eded to ar-ri-ve at the tiny
mo-un-ta-in vil-la-ge of Lan-tes wit-ho-ut an es-cort. Ot-her-wi-se her
chan-ces of se-e-ing her brot-her wo-uld be myste-ri-o-usly nil.

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Ellen shrug-ged, smi-ling brightly. "They do say ab-sen-ce ma-kes the he-art
grow fon-der," she sa-id. "Tony will for-gi-ve me."
"You're not co-ming with me."
"If you don't let me ac-com-pany you, I'll run dow-n-s-ta-irs right now and
tell Nic-ho-las what you're plan-ning. Do you think you'll get an-y-w-he-re
on-ce he knows?"
Ghis-la-ine sta-red at her in mu-te frus-t-ra-ti-on. "You've got-ten very
strong-wil-led, El-len," she mut-te-red.
Ellen smi-led brightly. "True lo-ve do-es won-ders for a so-ul."
"Then how can you le-ave him…?"
"He knows I owe you a debt I can ne-ver re-pay. He'll un-der-s-tand," she
sa-id stub-bornly.
Ghis-la-ine rac-ked her bra-in for one mo-re ar-gu-ment, one mo-re ex-cu-se.
In the end, she ga-ve up. Whet-her she li-ked it or not, the truth was she
wan-ted El-len's com-pany. Not just for the tra-uma of re-en-te-ring the
co-untry she swo-re she'd ne-ver set fo-ot in aga-in.
But for the tra-uma of le-aving Nic-ho-las be-hind.
She he-si-ta-ted no lon-ger. "Dump out half that va-li-se," she or-de-red.
"If you're co-ming with me, you'll ha-ve to be pre-pa-red to tra-vel fast and
light."
Ellen be-amed at her. "I knew you'd see it my way."
Nic-ho-las col-lap-sed in a cor-ner, win-ded, his sword arm ble-eding
slightly, as he gla-red at Sir An-tony Wil-ton-Gre-ening. Tony wasn't in any
bet-ter sha-pe. He'd col-lap-sed in his own cor-ner, and if the sli-ce on his
right hand went a lit-tle de-eper, it wo-uld re-pa-ir it-self in no ti-me.
"You're bet-ter than I wo-uld ha-ve ex-pec-ted," Nic-ho-las ma-na-ged to
cho-ke out in a grud-ging fas-hi-on.
"Well, as to that, you didn't re-al-ly want to kill me, did you,
Blac-k-t-hor-ne?" He whe-ezed che-er-ful-ly. 'The girl's in lo-ve with you,
I'm de-vo-ted to yo-ur co-usin, and all this vi-olen-ce is com-p-le-tely
mis-di-rec-ted. Why don't you marry the girl and sa-ve ever-yo-ne a gre-at
de-al of tro-ub-le?"
"I do-ubt that she'd ha-ve me," Nic-ho-las mut-te-red, le-aning his dark
he-ad aga-inst the wall and ta-king a de-ep bre-ath, strug-gling to con-t-rol
his gasps. "She thinks I des-t-ro-yed her li-fe, and she's not half-wrong. If
she we-re fo-ol eno-ugh to marry me, I'd pro-bably end up ru-ining wha-te-ver
chan-ce of hap-pi-ness she has left. The cur-se of the mad Blac-k-t-hor-nes,
you know."
"I'm sick to de-ath of the mad Blac-k-t-hor-nes," Tony sa-id flatly.
"The-re's no den-ying you ha-ve a rum bunch of an-ces-tors, no den-ying you've
do-ne ever-y-t-hing you can to li-ve up to yo-ur re-pu-ta-ti-on. But that
do-esn't me-an you can't chan-ge. If you want to."
"Why sho-uld I want to?"
"I wo-uld think it's ob-vi-o-us. Why don't you tell her?"
"Tell her what?"
"That you lo-ve her, man. It's ob-vi-o-us to me, who's only se-en the two of
you to-get-her for a few bri-ef, dis-t-ra-ught mo-ments. You'd think she'd
know it too, but I'm wil-ling to bet you've ne-ver told her."
"It's no-ne of yo-ur dam-ned bu-si-ness."
"It is when you de-ci-de to run me thro-ugh in a fit of pi-que," Tony
draw-led. "If you re-al-ly want to marry the girl, tell her you lo-ve her.
Trust me, it's a gre-at de-al less pa-in-ful than you might ima-gi-ne."
Nic-ho-las's long-lost sen-se of the ri-di-cu-lo-us sur-fa-ced at that
po-int. "Is this in the na-tu-re of fat-herly ad-vi-ce? We sho-uld ha-ve had
this con-ver-sa-ti-on be-fo-re I tri-ed to kill you."
"Pay it no mind, de-ar fel-low. I wo-uld ha-ve ex-pec-ted no less from you,"
Tony sa-id with an airy wa-ve of his hand. "But if you're wil-ling to lis-ten
to a bit of ad-vi-ce, if I we-re you I'd get on with the bu-si-ness. Go
up-s-ta-irs and tell her the truth."
Nic-ho-las's eyes nar-ro-wed in re-ne-wed sus-pi-ci-on. "You're cer-ta-in

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you ha-ve no per-so-nal in-te-rest in all this?"
"I ha-ve a very gre-at per-so-nal in-te-rest. If Ghis-la-ine do-esn't
cho-ose to stay with you, I'll be ho-nor-bo-und to ta-ke her with us. In which
ca-se she'll be-co-me a third party to a very cozy ho-ney-mo-on, and you'll
pro-bably try to run me thro-ugh aga-in. And I'm not su-re I can fend you off
as well the next ti-me."
Nic-ho-las pus-hed him-self to his fe-et, le-aning aga-inst the wall as he
for-ced his bre-at-hing back un-der con-t-rol. "She's not go-ing
an-y-w-he-re," he sa-id flatly.
Tony sig-hed. "You might say ple-ase," he sug-ges-ted mildly eno-ugh.
Nic-ho-las star-ted to-ward the do-or, only to be ca-ught up short by
Ta-ver-ner's bro-oding ap-pe-aran-ce. "You're not go-ing to li-ke this,
Blac-k-t-hor-ne," he sa-id. "The both of them ha-ve go-ne."

France

Chapter 23

It to-ok the two wo-men a lit-tle mo-re than a we-ek to re-ach the-ir
des-ti-na-ti-on. The small mo-un-ta-in town of Lan-tes was a two-day ri-de
past the bor-der of Fran-ce, and Ghis-la-ine told her-self that for her
brot-her's sa-ke she co-uld en-du-re any amo-unt of ti-me on French so-il. The
trip ac-ross Italy had be-en ma-de in re-la-ti-ve com-fort-they ro-de on
hor-se-back and tra-ve-led swiftly.
Fran-ce was a dif-fe-rent mat-ter. The mo-ment they re-ac-hed the bor-der,
Ghis-la-ine to-ok char-ge. They dres-sed in ro-ugh clot-hes, tra-ding in
the-ir hor-ses for a de-cep-ti-vely ru-de-lo-oking farm cart. They slept in
barns, in dit-c-hes; they ate bre-ad and che-ese and drank sharp red wind; and
if any man was fo-ol eno-ugh to ap-pro-ach them, Ghis-la-ine sent him
scur-rying away with a few well-cho-sen words. The fla-me of
de-ter-mi-na-ti-on bur-ned strongly wit-hin her, eno-ugh to sca-re away any
man fo-olish eno-ugh to think two pe-asant wo-men alo-ne on the ro-ad wo-uld
be easy prey. She had lost Char-les-Lo-u-is on-ce. She had gi-ven up
Nic-ho-las, the one man she wo-uld ever lo-ve, for mo-ti-ves that we-re both
nob-le and stu-pid. To find her brot-her aga-in wo-uld gi-ve her at le-ast
so-me ho-pe in a cru-el world. She wo-uldn't let an-y-t-hing get in the way of
her sal-va-ging at le-ast so-me-one on whom she co-uld ex-pend all the lo-ve
that Nic-ho-las had fre-ed from her dark, im-p-ri-so-ned he-art.
"Wha-te-ver you do, don't say a word," Ghis-la-ine mut-te-red be-ne-ath her
bre-ath when they stop-ped out-si-de the cru-de inn that se-emed to be the
only hos-telry the po-or mo-un-ta-in town of Lan-tes co-uld bo-ast. "You're my
idi-ot co-usin from Di-ep-pe. You can't un-der-s-tand or spe-ak a word."
"But why?" El-len de-man-ded in a pla-in-ti-ve to-ne. "I spe-ak French
per-fectly well."
"You spe-ak the French of the aris-tos. The-re's a world of dif-fe-ren-ce
bet-we-en the pe-op-le's French and yo-urs. Be-si-des, no mat-ter how go-od
you think yo-ur ac-cent is, it still has that at-ro-ci-o-us En-g-lish to-ne to
it." She tur-ned to lo-ok at her fri-end and ma-na-ged a wry smi-le. "You
we-re the one who in-sis-ted on co-ming with me."
"I've dis-co-ve-red a ta-lent for that," El-len sa-id mo-destly. "I
co-uldn't let you go alo-ne. You ne-ed me. You may think you are
self-suf-fi-ci-ent, but I know ot-her-wi-se. You ne-ed pe-op-le."
"Yes," Ghis-la-ine ag-re-ed, sta-ring up at the inn that wo-uld hold the
an-s-wers. "I ne-ed pe-op-le." She tho-ught of Nic-ho-las. A sulky boy, a
fu-ri-o-us man, a ten-der lo-ver, a so-ul as lost as her own. She lon-ged for
him with every bre-ath, with every be-at of her he-art. She ex-pec-ted that
she al-ways wo-uld.
"Are we go-ing in that ta-vern?" El-len whis-pe-red, ob-vi-o-usly trying to

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ke-ep the tra-ce of ner-vo-us-ness from her vo-ice.
Ghis-la-ine cast her an amu-sed glan-ce. "We've be-en in wor-se. Don't
worry, you lo-ok per-fect. The too-small clot-hes add to the air of
wit-les-sness. If only you co-uld ma-na-ge to smell as bad as you lo-ok. We
co-uld ta-ke so-me ma-nu-re…"
"I'm glad you think this is funny," El-len sa-id. 'Til just ma-ke su-re no
one co-mes clo-se eno-ugh to smell me."
"Of co-ur-se if s funny," Ghis-la-ine sa-id. "So-me-one on-ce told me you
must eit-her la-ugh or we-ep. And I've wept eno-ugh."
So-met-hing in her to-ne of vo-ice must ha-ve bet-ra-yed her. "What abo-ut
Nic-ho-las?"
"What abo-ut him?" she sa-id, pul-ling her bris-k-ness abo-ut her li-ke a
warm clo-ak. "By now he's re-ali-zed he's well rid of me. He no lon-ger ne-eds
to fe-el res-pon-sib-le for me-he can go on with his li-fe."
"You think Nic-ho-las is tro-ub-led by a sen-se of res-pon-si-bi-lity?"
El-len as-ked in frank ama-ze-ment. "Gilly, you just spent a long pe-ri-od of
ti-me alo-ne with the man. Su-rely you know him bet-ter than that by now. The
man ca-res abo-ut you."
"I know him bet-ter than he knows him-self. And it's up to me to sa-ve him
from him-self."
"You're go-od at that," El-len sa-id. "You sa-ved me, you tri-ed to sa-ve
yo-ur brot-her. Per-haps you might put tho-se ener-gi-es to bet-ter use."
Ghis-la-ine ma-na-ged a wry smi-le. "To sa-ve myself, you me-an? I hardly
think I'm worth it." She threw her sho-ul-ders back. It was a chilly spring
af-ter-no-on in the mo-un-ta-ins, and the-ir ro-ugh pe-asant clot-hes we-re no
pro-of aga-inst the cold. A warm fi-re, a soft pal-let, so-met-hing warm to
eat wo-uld be he-aven. But not yet. Not un-til she fo-und Old Bo-nes. "Co-me
along, Ag-nes," she sa-id.
Ellen wrin-k-led her no-se. "I wish you'd cho-sen a bet-ter na-me for me.
Even pro-no-un-ced the French way it so-unds frumpy."
"You're a de-al sa-fer be-ing frumpy, Ag-nes. Now be qu-i-et. So-me-one
might he-ar."
The-re was one go-od thing to be sa-id for the ro-ugh inn when the two
wo-men step-ped in-si-de. The-ir lack of body odor wo-uld scar-cely be
no-ti-ced in such a ma-lo-do-ro-us com-mon ro-om. "Re-mem-ber to sham-b-le,"
Ghis-la-ine whis-pe-red to El-len, who promptly duc-ked her he-ad and
stum-b-led on the co-ar-se wo-od plan-king. "And lo-ok stu-pid."
Ghis-la-ine co-uld fe-el her palms swe-ating. The past we-ek had be-en a
hor-ror for her, thrust back in a nig-h-t-ma-re she'd tho-ught to es-ca-pe.
The na-me-less inn was not much wor-se than the Red Hen, a pla-ce she'd
cal-led ho-me for so many ye-ars. The-re was no re-ason for the cla-wing
sen-se of pa-nic, of lo-oming di-sas-ter.
She im-me-di-ately pic-ked out the lan-d-lord, a shif-ty-eyed sort with a
le-er, and ste-ered El-len to-ward him. "We ha-ve no work," he grum-b-led at
them, be-fo-re she had a chan-ce to spe-ak. "Best to check up at the
mo-nas-tery-they oc-ca-si-onal-ly ta-ke on day wor-kers. Un-less you've a mind
to earn a few sou on yo-ur back. In which ca-se the mo-nas-tery won't do you
much go-od," he sa-id with a cac-k-le.
"We don't ne-ed a job," she sa-id, slip-ping in-to the gut-ter French of
Pa-ris. It was subtly dif-fe-rent from the mo-un-ta-in French of the
vil-la-gers, but still clo-se eno-ugh in class dis-tin-c-ti-on to be
ac-cep-tab-le. "I'm lo-oking for a man."
"The-re are any num-ber of them, che-rie," he sa-id, wa-ving a burly arm at
the sul-len as-sem-b-la-ge. 'Ta-ke yo-ur pick."
"A rag-pic-ker. Co-me from Pa-ris."
"Pa-ris. That's whe-re yo-ur ac-cent is from. You must me-an Old Bo-nes. We
don't let him in he-re- he's a filthy Jew. What wo-uld you be wan-ting with
him?"
She'd wor-ked this out ca-re-ful-ly ahe-ad of ti-me, the long trip from
Ve-ni-ce gi-ving her mo-re than eno-ugh ti-me to plan. "He owes me

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so-met-hing."
"You think to get mo-ney from a Jew? You must be as wit-less as yo-ur
com-pa-ni-on," the in-nke-eper sa-id with a harsh la-ugh. "Be-si-des, he has
no mo-ney. He sle-eps in the al-ley-ways and ba-rely has eno-ugh to eat."
"He has so-met-hing that be-longs to me," Ghis-la-ine sa-id firmly. "It's
not of va-lue to an-yo-ne el-se. My po-or sis-ter and I ha-ve tra-ve-led a
long ways to ret-ri-eve it. Do you know whe-re he is?"
"So-me-ti-mes he begs for fo-od at the mo-nas-tery. Ever sin-ce he sho-wed
up he-re abo-ut a month ago he's be-en ha-un-ting the-ir do-or-s-tep. You'll
pro-bably find him up the-re. Go to the top of the stre-et, fol-low the path,
and you'll find it. Not that they'll an-s-wer the do-or to wo-men. The go-od
brot-hers le-ad a con-tem-p-la-ti-ve li-fe-they'll think the de-vil sent two
pretty ones li-ke you." His dark eyes we-re spe-cu-la-ti-ve as they ran over
El-len's tall, sto-oped fi-gu-re. "You might li-ke to le-ave yo-ur sis-ter
be-hind. She's not bad-lo-oking, and she co-uld earn a go-od me-al and a
pla-ce for the night."
"No," Ghis-la-ine sa-id, ho-ping El-len wo-uldn't un-der-s-tand the man's
mo-un-ta-in di-alect. "She's a po-or cre-atu-re, she do-esn't un-der-s-tand
things."
"All the bet-ter."
"No," Ghis-la-ine sa-id aga-in, clut-c-hing El-len's limp arm. "She stays
with me."
"Su-it yo-ur-self." The in-nke-eper shrug-ged. "If you chan-ge yo-ur mind I
may still be ab-le to do so-met-hing for you."
Ellen was trem-b-ling, her he-ad bo-wed, as Ghis-la-ine drew her out of the
dark, smoky inn. She to-ok in gre-at cle-an-sing gulps of air, and her vo-ice
trem-b-led.
"That was hor-rib-le," she whis-pe-red.
"I was ho-ping you wo-uldn't un-der-s-tand," Ghis-la-ine sa-id, pul-ling her
along the de-ser-ted stre-ets.
"And tho-se men, wat-c-hing us. Par-ti-cu-larly the one in the cor-ner. Did
you see him? I've ne-ver se-en such dark, evil eyes."
"I wasn't pa-ying any at-ten-ti-on," Ghis-la-ine sa-id. "They we-re all of a
type. Har-m-less, if you stand up to them."
"The one in the cor-ner didn't lo-ok har-m-less. Or li-ke the ot-hers. He
was bet-ter dres-sed, for one thing. And he was sta-ring at us with such
in-ten-sity. It ma-de me qu-ite ill."
Ghis-la-ine pa-used in her he-ad-long pa-ce, con-t-rol-ling her own
im-pa-ti-en-ce. "I can't stop now, El-len," she sa-id qu-i-etly. "I'm too
clo-se to my brot-her. I ha-ve to find Old Bo-nes-only he knows whe-re
Char-les-Lo-u-is is. If you want, we'll find a pla-ce for you to stay whi-le I
se-arch him out…"
"I'm go-ing with you," El-len sa-id, pul-ling her-self to-get-her. "You
don't sup-po-se yo-ur brot-her was in the inn…"
"Char-les-Lo-u-is had gol-den-blond ha-ir. All the men in the ro-om we-re
dark," Ghis-la-ine sa-id flatly. "It was the first thing I no-ti-ced."
"Why didn't you ask the in-nke-eper abo-ut yo-ur brot-her?"
Ghis-la-ine sho-ok her he-ad. "Old ha-bits die hard-I le-ar-ned long ago not
to trust, not to ta-ke things at fa-ce va-lue. I don't know if
Char-les-Lo-u-is is in dan-ger, but I don't want to do an-y-t-hing to
je-opar-di-ze his sa-fety. Co-me along, El-len, if you're co-ming. I can wa-it
no mo-re."
The path to the mo-nas-tery was nar-row and ste-ep. When they re-ac-hed the
ga-tes they we-re loc-ked, aga-inst in-t-ru-ders, aga-inst the world, and the
bell Ghis-la-ine rang ec-ho-ed with a ghostly, mo-ur-n-ful so-und.
"No one will an-s-wer," a crac-ked vo-ice mut-te-red from the ne-arby
bus-hes. A mo-ment la-ter the fa-mi-li-ar, dis-re-pu-tab-le fi-gu-re of Old
Bo-nes sham-b-led in-to the gat-he-ring sha-dows. "Well met, Ghis-la-ine. It
to-ok you long eno-ugh to get he-re."
For a mo-ment she didn't mo-ve. And then she

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A Ro-se at Mid-night 367
cros-sed the nar-row cle-aring and put her arms aro-und his rag-ged
fi-gu-re, hol-ding him tightly. "It to-ok a long ti-me for yo-ur let-ter to
re-ach me, old fri-end."
"Who's the girl?" He'd no-ti-ced El-len right away, of co-ur-se. Old Bo-nes
ne-ver mis-sed a thing.
"A fri-end of mi-ne. She's the one who bro-ught the let-ter to me. Whe-re is
he, Old Bo-nes? Is he still in Lan-tes? Is he well? Do-es he want to see me?"
"He's he-re," the old man sa-id, sit-ting down he-avily on a rock, his
rag-ged clo-ak flut-te-ring aro-und his sca-rec-row-thin body. "He's well
eno-ugh, I sup-po-se. He's wa-iting for you right now."
"But whe-re is he?"
"Whe-re do you think, Ghis-la-ine?" He jer-ked his he-ad to-ward the dark,
for-t-res-sed mo-nas-tery. "He's in the-re. Has be-en for the past ten
ye-ars."
The in-nke-eper kept his fa-ce im-pas-si-ve as the dark stran-ger aro-se
from the cor-ner of the com-mon ro-om and ad-van-ced on him. "I did as you
as-ked, mon-se-ig-ne-ur," he sa-id, con-t-rol-ling his ur-ge to pull his
fo-re-lock. Lord, the-se new aris-tos of the go-ver-n-ment we-re even wor-se
than the old ones. The old ones we-re ge-ne-ro-us with the tips and the
smi-les. This man, this of-fi-ci-al of the Pa-ris go-ver-n-ment, ga-ve him the
chills. Ne-ver an ex-t-ra sou, ne-ver a word, and his soft vo-ice al-ways
car-ri-ed a thre-at. "I told them to go up to the mo-nas-tery. They'll find
the Jew the-re, su-re eno-ugh."
"You didn't say I'd be-en wa-iting for the girl, did you?" That soft, harsh
vo-ice ma-de his blo-od run cold.
"Of co-ur-se not," he sa-id with rig-h-te-o-us in-dig-na-ti-on. "I've do-ne
just as yo-ur wor-s-hip told me. If s be-en a long wa-it…"
"Too long," the man sa-id. "Over at last. Ha-ve my car-ri-age re-adi-ed to
le-ave."
"If s get-ting dark, mon-si-e-ur."
"I've al-re-ady spent too many we-eks in this stin-king ho-le," the man
rep-li-ed gently.
"You'll be ta-king the wo-men with you?"
"J-ust the smal-ler one. You may ke-ep the idi-ot as pay-ment for yo-ur
tro-ub-les. Tho-ugh you may find she's not qu-ite as sim-p-le as she might
ap-pe-ar."
This ti-me he did pull his fo-re-lock. "We've be-en ho-no-red by yo-ur
pre-sen-ce, mon-si-e-ur. Might I be per-mit-ted to know yo-ur na-me?"
"I don't know what it sig-ni-fi-es," the man sa-id. "But I am cal-led
Mal-vi-ver."
The in-nke-eper bo-wed low eno-ugh to scra-pe the fil-th-en-c-rus-ted
flo-or. "We've be-en ho-no-red, mon-se-ig-ne-ur," he sa-id aga-in.
"Ever-y-t-hing will be as you re-qu-es-ted."
Mal-vi-ver's smi-le was small and ter-rif-ying in his dark, scar-red fa-ce.
"I ne-ver do-ub-ted it."
The-re was no ga-te to the ser-vi-ce en-t-ran-ce at St. An-selm's. Old
Bo-nes led the way thro-ugh the twi-light with the su-re-fo-oted-ness of a
mo-un-ta-in go-at, le-aving Ghis-la-ine and El-len to stum-b-le af-ter him. He
hal-ted wit-hin a ca-re-ful dis-tan-ce of the po-ol of light that flo-oded the
early eve-ning, put-ting out a res-t-ra-ining arm, one that El-len deftly
ma-na-ged to avo-id. "We'll wa-it for you be-low," he sa-id. "The-re's
so-met-hing that's not right abo-ut all this. I don't know why I fi-nal-ly got
word abo-ut yo-ur brot-her, when I'd be-en as-king for ye-ars. So-me-one must
ha-ve wan-ted me, and the-re-fo-re you, to know. But I can-not gu-ess for what
re-ason. Be very ca-re-ful, lit-tle one. Watch yo-ur back. You ha-ve yo-ur
kni-fe?"
"Char-les-Lo-u-is won't want to hurt me." "Not him," Old Bo-nes ag-re-ed
with a rusty la-ugh. "But the-re are ot-hers, who wa-it and watch. When you
co-me back I will tell you what I ha-ve le-ar-ned. You've chan-ged, lit-tle

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one. You no lon-ger co-urt de-ath. It se-ems to my old eyes that you've fo-und
a re-ason to li-ve. Be very ca-re-ful. It is still fo-olish to trust an-yo-ne
in Fran-ce. We'll go down and ke-ep watch."
She drew his fra-il old body in-to her arms, hug-ging him tightly. "How can
I ever thank you for this?" she whis-pe-red.
The old rep-ro-ba-te shrug-ged, hi-ding his em-bar-ras-sment. "I wor-ri-ed
abo-ut you. It se-emed so-met-hing I co-uld do. Don't ex-pect too much of him,
ma bel-le. You'll find he's much chan-ged."
"Af-ter ten ye-ars in that pla-ce, I wo-uld think so. Will he le-ave with
me?"
"You'll ha-ve to ask him. Co-me with me, ma-da-me," he sa-id to the wary
El-len. "We'll ma-ke su-re no one dis-turbs this happy re-uni-on."
Ghis-la-ine wat-c-hed as they di-sap-pe-ared thro-ugh the thick
un-der-g-rowth, the fas-ti-di-o-us El-len ca-re-ful to ke-ep her pe-asant
skirts away from Old Bo-nes's rag-ged ap-pa-rel. Ob-vi-o-usly her old men-tor
was mo-re than awa-re of El-len's dis-com-fort, for his whe-ezy vo-ice
ec-ho-ed back…
"Ha-ve you ever tho-ught of wor-king the stre-ets, ma-da-me? I co-uld fetch
qu-ite a ni-ce pri-ce for a girl of yo-ur si-ze."
Ghis-la-ine smi-led in the dar-k-ness, fig-h-ting the ten-si-on that se-ized
her he-art. She glan-ced to-ward the kit-c-hen, af-ra-id, mor-tal-ly af-ra-id.
What if Char-les-Lo-u-is was chan-ged be-yond re-cog-ni-ti-on? Co-uld he
spe-ak? Had he re-co-ve-red from the hor-ror of that ti-me on the stre-ets of
Pa-ris, or did he still pos-sess the mind of a child? Did he know what she'd
do-ne? Wo-uld he ha-te her for it? What if it wasn't re-al-ly he?
The do-or ope-ned be-ne-ath her sha-king fin-gers. The-re was only one lo-ne
monk in the kit-c-hen. He was le-aning over a lar-ge pot on the sto-ve,
stir-ring it, his fa-ce se-re-ne and to-tal-ly ab-sor-bed. It was a
han-d-so-me, pat-ri-ci-an fa-ce, oddly fa-mi-li-ar. The body be-ne-ath the
ro-ugh hemp ro-be was of me-di-um he-ight and for-med with a cer-ta-in
ele-gan-ce; the ton-su-red ha-ir was bright gold. And then he tur-ned,
sen-sing her pre-sen-ce, and she was lo-oking stra-ight in-to
Char-les-Lo-u-is's be-a-uti-ful brown eyes, full of li-vely in-tel-li-gen-ce.
"Ghis-la-ine," he sa-id, his vo-ice de-eper, his smi-le gen-t-ler.
She ran to him, flin-ging her-self aga-inst him with no-isy sobs,
clut-c-hing at him, de-ter-mi-ned to pro-ve to her-self he was re-al, he was
ali-ve. "It's you," she sob-bed. "It re-al-ly is you."
"Of co-ur-se it is," he sa-id, hol-ding her tightly. "I've be-en he-re, and
sa-fe, for ye-ars."
She pus-hed him away, sud-denly fu-ri-o-us. "Why didn't you tell me? Why
didn't you send word? I was half-crazy with gri-ef and des-pa-ir! How co-uld
you let me be-li-eve you we-re de-ad? You we-re all I had."
"No, Ghis-la-ine," he sa-id gently. "You had yo-ur-self. The stron-gest
per-son I ha-ve ever known. I know what you did for me. So-oner or la-ter you
wo-uld ha-ve des-t-ro-yed yo-ur-self for me. The-re was only one way for the
two of us to sur-vi-ve, and that was wit-ho-ut ha-ving to worry abo-ut each
ot-her." He to-uc-hed her fa-ce, his hand gen-t-le. "I es-ca-ped from
Mal-vi-ver and his men and wan-de-red the city stre-ets un-til the go-od
brot-hers fo-und me and to-ok me away. It was a long ti-me be-fo-re I even
re-mem-be-red who and what I was. By the ti-me I did, and I was ab-le to
spe-ak aga-in, I'd be-en he-re for mo-re than a ye-ar. The-re was no way I
co-uld find you, and I de-ci-ded it was bet-ter this way. You ne-eded to get
on with yo-ur li-fe, wit-ho-ut a lit-tle brot-her hol-ding you back."
A Ro-se at Mid-night 371
"Damn you, Char-les-Lo-u-is," she sa-id. "That sho-uld ha-ve be-en for me to
de-ci-de."
"Al-ways the bossy ol-der sis-ter," he sa-id with a wry smi-le. "You
wo-uldn't ha-ve ma-de the right de-ci-si-on. I ma-de it for you. I've fo-und a
pe-ace I ne-ver wo-uld ha-ve tho-ught pos-sib-le. And you…?"
She sho-ok her he-ad, ma-na-ging a smi-le des-pi-te the brig-h-t-ness of

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te-ars fil-ling her eyes. "I've do-ne very well," she sa-id, ig-no-ring the
te-ar in her he-art whe-re Nic-ho-las Blac-k-t-hor-ne li-ved. "Why did you
fi-nal-ly de-ci-de to tell me whe-re you we-re?"
"I didn't. As far as I was con-cer-ned, it was bet-ter that you be-li-eved
me de-ad. The Char-les-Lo-u-is you knew is go-ne fo-re-ver. I'm Fre-re
Mar-tin. Co-ok ex-t-ra-or-di-na-ire," he sa-id with a wry grin, ges-tu-ring
to-ward the kit-c-hen. "I gat-her we sha-re a ta-lent in that area. Wo-uldn't
Ma-man ha-ve be-en hor-ri-fi-ed?"
Ghis-la-ine fo-und she co-uld smi-le too, thin-king of her pro-per Ma-man's
in-sis-ten-ce on class struc-tu-re. "Then why am I he-re?"
He sho-ok his he-ad, and if the calm that set-tled in his brown eyes didn't
le-ave him, it fa-ded so-mew-hat. "That's what dis-turbs me, and Old Bo-nes as
well. When he sho-wed up he-re I was as-to-nis-hed to see him. He'd be-en
unab-le to tra-ce how he got word-a fri-end told a fri-end who told an
ac-qu-a-in-tan-ce. He's a sus-pi-ci-o-us old he-re-tic, you know that as well
as I do. He thinks the-re's so-met-hing afo-ot."
The sen-se of dre-ad had be-en ri-ding Ghis-la-ine's back sin-ce she'd left
Ve-ni-ce, but she'd as-c-ri-bed it to her des-pa-ir over Nic-ho-las. Now she
fo-und her-self won-de-ring if she had mo-re con-c-re-te re-asons to worry.
"What do you think?" she as-ked.
"I think you sho-uld le-ave. Ta-ke yo-ur fri-end and le-ave Lan-tes, le-ave
Fran-ce, as swiftly and as qu-i-etly as pos-sib-le. I ha-ve a bad fe-eling
abo-ut this, ma so-e-ur. And my bad fe-elings are usu-al-ly right."
"But what abo-ut you?"
"What abo-ut me? I'm happy he-re, hap-pi-er than I ever dre-amed of be-ing.
No one can re-ach me he-re-no-wa-days even the church has so-me pro-tec-ti-on
from the sta-te. Don't worry abo-ut me. You ne-ed to see to yo-ur own sa-fety.
You're not in-vul-ne-rab-le, you know. You ne-ed to ta-ke ca-re of
yo-ur-self."
For a mo-ment she didn't mo-ve. "I will ne-ver see you aga-in, will I?" she
as-ked qu-i-etly.
He sho-ok his he-ad. "It's bet-ter this way. The past is be-hind us. I ha-ve
my li-fe, a strong go-od one. You ne-ed to find yo-urs."
She'd fo-und it. And gi-ven it up, for a whim of no-bi-lity. She wan-ted to
cry and scre-am, beg and ple-ad. She'd lost him on-ce, she didn't want to
lo-se him aga-in. She'd lost Nic-ho-las, she co-uldn't lo-se ever-y-t-hing.
She didn't da-re to-uch him, to hug him go-od-b-ye. "I'll miss you, lit-tle
brot-her," she sa-id.
"I'm big-ger than you now," he po-in-ted out. "Go with God."
She wan-ted to scre-am at him that she didn't be-li-eve in his God. But
so-met-hing had gi-ven him a pe-ace she co-uldn't even be-gin to ima-gi-ne,
and for that she than-ked Him. In-s-te-ad she le-aned over and dip-ped her
fin-ger in the stew that was bub-bling away qu-ite che-er-ful-ly, brin-ging it
to her mo-uth.
"Ne-eds mo-re salt, Fre-re Mar-tin," she sa-id evenly. "God be with you."
She ran from the kit-c-hen, in-to the gat-he-ring dusk, be-fo-re her te-ars
wo-uld bet-ray her. She ran in-to the wo-ods, away from her last glim-p-se of
her baby brot-her, lost and fo-und and lost aga-in, and the te-ars blin-ded
her, de-afe-ned her, so that she stor-med down the pat-h-way, he-ed-less of
the no-ise
she ma-de, he-ed-less of the dan-ger.

***

"Is she happy, ma-da-me?" Old Bo-nes's vo-ice ca-me to her softly ac-ross
the co-ol air.
Ellen had ta-ken a se-at on a rock ne-ar the ga-tes to the mo-nas-tery, as
far re-mo-ved from the old man as she co-uld po-li-tely_ma-na-ge. He ma-de her
une-asy, with his old, far-se-e-ing eyes, his tat-te-red clot-hes, his ra-ce
that she'd be-en ta-ught to vi-ew with dis-t-rust. To-get-her in the sha-dows,

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in the midst of a fo-re-ign co-untry with dan-ger all aro-und, she wis-hed she
co-uld over-co-me her chil-dish pre-j-udi-ces and mo-ve a lit-tle clo-ser. She
ne-eded so-me com-fort. So-me co-ura-ge.
But old ha-bits di-ed hard. And be-si-des, the-re was no re-ason to
sup-po-se the-re was dan-ger all aro-und. Only an odd sort of pric-k-ling
sen-sa-ti-on at the back of her neck.
"Happy?" she ec-ho-ed, con-si-de-ring. "She co-uld be."
Old Bo-nes sig-hed. "Still fig-h-ting, is she? Al-ways a fi-er-ce lit-tle
cre-atu-re, she was. She has fri-ends to watch out for her. You, who must be
crazy to ha-ve fol-lo-wed her in-to Fran-ce, a well-bred En-g-lish lady li-ke
yo-ur-self."
"I tho-ught you sa-id I co-uld earn a de-cent li-ving on the stre-ets?" she
co-un-te-red with be-la-ted amu-se-ment.
The old man smi-led. "So you co-uld. You'd fetch an even pret-ti-er pri-ce
in a dra-wing ro-om. Are you a go-od fri-end to her?"
"I am. My hus-band too. And my co-usin Nic-ho-las…" Her vo-ice tra-iled
off.
"The co-usin. That must be the man she lo-ves."
"What ma-kes you think she's in lo-ve?"
Old Bo-nes sho-ok his he-ad. "I know her very well in-de-ed. I can only
ho-pe she is not too stub-born to ta-ke that lo-ve. She-" His vo-ice ca-me to
an ab-rupt halt. "So-me-one's co-ming."
Ellen slid down from the rock. "But who…?"
"Do as I tell you." The age-qu-ave-red vo-ice was ne-ver-t-he-less firm. "I
want you to hi-de. No mat-ter what hap-pens, stay hid-den. You may ne-ed to
run for help. If this is the kind of tro-ub-le I ex-pect it is, you will do no
one any ser-vi-ce by get-ting yo-ur-self kil-led as well."
"As well? Who's go-ing to get kil-led?" El-len de-man-ded in a ner-vo-us
whis-per, mat-c-hing his to-ne of vo-ice.
"If we're lucky, no one. But I sen-se that luck has just run out. Hi-de, you
stu-pid En-g-lish girl. Wa-it and lis-ten. If you ho-pe to be of any use at
all, for pity's sa-ke, hi-de."
She do-ve in-to the un-der-g-rowth, scram-b-ling for co-ver. Thorns to-re at
her fa-ce and hands, rip-ped at her clot-hing. She sank down on her belly in
the dirt, bre-at-hing in the dam-p-ness of the wet spring earth, hol-ding
her-self as still as the sto-ne she'd be-en sit-ting on. Hol-ding her-self as
still as Old Bo-nes, as he sto-od alo-ne in the cle-aring, wa-iting.
She saw the man, and it was no sur-p-ri-se that it was the dark man from the
inn/t-he man who'd frig-h-te-ned her. She co-uld ba-rely he-ar the qu-i-et
con-ver-sa-ti-on, and she stra-ined, trying to tran-s-la-te the gut-ter French
that was so very dif-fe-rent from the po-li-te phra-ses her go-ver-ness Miss
Plim-p-son had ta-ught her.
At the me-mory of the so-cor-rect Miss Plim-p-son, a hyste-ri-cal la-ugh
bub-bled forth in her thro-at, and she had to bi-te her hand to stif-le it.
"Wa-it, and lis-ten," the old man had told her. It was all she co-uld do.
"Whe-re are they, old man?"
"Go-ne," sa-id Old Bo-nes, not wa-ve-ring. "I sho-uld ha-ve known it was
you, Mal-vi-ver. When I he-ard abo-ut the dark stran-ger from Pa-ris, I
sho-uld ha-ve known. You to-ok ca-re to ke-ep out of my sight."
A Ro-se at Mid-night 375
"An easy eno-ugh task. You aren't al-lo-wed in de-cent com-pany."
"And you con-si-der yo-ur-self de-cent com-pany? Why can't you let my
Ghis-la-ine be?"
"She has a debt she owes me, one I in-tend to see that she pays. In full,
with her body and her blo-od. You pla-yed along very well, old man. I'm
sur-p-ri-sed you didn't gu-ess so-oner who was be-hind it."
"I'm get-ting old," the man sa-id sadly. "Too old to li-ve."
"I ag-ree," sa-id the dark man, mo-ving for-ward. A mo-ment la-ter Old
Bo-nes crum-p-led to the gro-und in a he-ap of ra-ge.
Ellen bit down on her wrist to stif-le her scre-am. She tas-ted her own

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blo-od, and dirt, and she lay the-re and sho-ok, hor-ror was-hing over her,
cer-ta-in it co-uld get no wor-se.
She was wrong. The dark man mo-ved to the rock she'd re-cently va-ca-ted and
sat down, spre-ading his fi-ne brown ca-pe aro-und him, and wa-ited. It didn't
ta-ke long. Wit-hin mi-nu-tes Ghis-la-ine ca-me cras-hing thro-ugh the
bus-hes, with a com-p-le-te dis-re-gard for the trap awa-iting her.
She stop-ped de-ad still at the ed-ge of the cle-aring and to-ok in the
sce-ne be-fo-re her. Old Bo-nes's body lay hud-dled and se-emingly li-fe-less
on the gro-und in a po-ol of dar-k-ness. The man who sat be-hind it was
hid-den in sha-dows.
She to-ok a ten-ta-ti-ve, dis-be-li-eving step for-ward. "Mal-vi-ver?" she
sa-id in a ho-ar-se vo-ice.
"The very sa-me. You tho-ught you'd kil-led me, didn't you? You
un-de-res-ti-ma-te the lo-wer clas-ses, ci-ti-ze-ness. We are very hard to
kill."
Igno-ring him, she sank down next to Old Bo-nes, her hands to-uc-hing him
with gre-at gen-t-le-ness. "Appa-rently not."
"He'd ser-ved his pur-po-se. Whe-re is yo-ur lit-tle En-g-lish fri-end? We
wo-uldn't want her left be-hind. She might ra-ise all sorts of un-p-le-asant
qu-es-ti-ons. I've ri-sen high in the go-ver-n-ment du-ring the past ye-ars in
my own qu-i-et way. My po-wer is al-most un-li-mi-ted, if I'm ca-re-ful. This
lit-tle so-j-o-urn of mi-ne is in the na-tu-re of a per-so-nal mat-ter. I
wo-uldn't want word to get back to my su-pe-ri-ors. A thirst for ven-ge-an-ce
de-no-tes a we-ak-ness, and Mal-vi-ver is known to be a man wit-ho-ut
we-ak-ness."
"She's go-ne," Ghis-la-ine sa-id flatly.
"Don't be ab-surd. Whe-re co-uld a well-bred En-g-lis-h-wo-man ha-ve got-ten
to in this mo-un-ta-in ham-let?"
"So-mep-la-ce whe-re you can't find her. You've be-en be-hind this all,
ha-ven't you?"
"Of co-ur-se. It's ta-ken me a long ti-me to find you. I'd just abo-ut
gi-ven up-the old Jew was a stub-born so-ul, and not even the most re-fi-ned
of qu-es-ti-oning de-vi-ces co-uld get the in-for-ma-ti-on out of him. I knew
he must know whe-re you we-re. The fat wo-man at the inn had no idea. I'm
su-re she wo-uld ha-ve told me be-fo-re she di-ed."
"You kil-led Mar-t-he?"
"A tra-itor to her class." Mal-vi-ver dis-mis-sed her. "I'd just abo-ut
gi-ven up ho-pe when I re-mem-be-red yo-ur lit-tle brot-her. He was easi-er to
find. And then set-ting this lit-tle trap was sur-p-ri-singly sim-p-le. It
to-ok you lon-ger than I ex-pec-ted to show up, but I ha-ve le-ar-ned to be
pa-ti-ent."
"Are you go-ing to kill me?" To El-len's lis-te-ning ears Ghis-la-ine
so-un-ded no mo-re than dis-tantly in-te-res-ted in her fa-te.
"Cer-ta-inly not. I am ta-king you back to Pa-ris."
"You will ha-ve to kill me," she sa-id flatly.
"Oh, it may co-me to that. Or I co-uld see to it that you stand tri-al for
va-ri-o-us cri-mes aga-inst the re-pub-lic. You and that sa-intly brot-her of
yo-urs. Ma-da-me La Gu-il-lo-ti-ne has be-en far too lazy of la-te. I co-uld
al-ways see her put to go-od use aga-in."
"You will le-ave him alo-ne!" Ghis-la-ine sa-id, her vo-ice cold and
fi-er-ce.
"Still trying to pro-tect him? It's a sim-p-le eno-ugh mat-ter. My
car-ri-age awa-its at the bot-tom of the hill. Ra-ise no fuss, and I will see
to it that yo-ur brot-her will li-ve out his days in blis-sful pe-ace. I ha-ve
no in-te-rest in him-I've left him alo-ne for the past de-ca-de." "And me?"
"As for you," Mal-vi-ver sa-id in his harsh vo-ice. "I in-tend to ma-ke
cer-ta-in you reg-ret ever ha-ving cros-sed me."
She had no cho-ice. It was all El-len co-uld do to ke-ep from le-aping up
from her spot in the un-der-g-rowth. But Old Bo-nes had war-ned her. The-re
was not-hing she co-uld do, for now at le-ast. If she re-ve-aled her-self,

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she'd simply wi-pe out the-ir only ad-van-ta-ge.
She co-uld just ma-na-ge to see Ghis-la-ine's small, de-ter-mi-ned fi-gu-re.
She bo-wed, gra-ce-ful and aris-toc-ra-tic in her ag-re-ement. "May I ta-ke my
va-li-se with me?" she in-qu-ired in a dif-fi-dent to-ne of vo-ice.
"If it holds mo-re clot-hes li-ke the rags you are we-aring, then you'll
ha-ve no ne-ed of it," he rep-li-ed, so-un-ding smug. "The mis-t-ress of
Mal-vi-ver will ha-ve to dress the part. At le-ast in pub-lic. I ha-ve a
cer-ta-in qu-i-et re-pu-ta-ti-on."
"It holds very lit-tle of va-lue," Ghis-la-ine sa-id with de-cep-ti-ve
swe-et-ness. "Me-rely a few pi-eces of clot-hing and so-me of my co-oking
herbs."
"I sho-uld ha-ve co-me for you when I he-ard you we-re at the Red Hen," he
mu-sed. "I was too busy for you then, ma-king my way. Yo-ur co-oking ta-lents
will be a si-de be-ne-fit. I ha-ven't had a de-cent me-al sin-ce I ca-me to
this god-for-sa-ken pla-ce."
Ghis-la-ine's smi-le was co-ol and ghastly in the mo-on-light. "I can
pre-pa-re you the very thing," she mur-mu-red.
And El-len felt the chill all the way to her bo-nes.

Chapter 24

Ellen lay in the bus-hes, unab-le to mo-ve, her body fro-zen with hor-ror
and des-pa-ir. She lost track of ti-me-the night grew dark, the mo-on scud-ded
by over-he-ad, and the wind pic-ked up, tos-sing last ye-ar's le-aves aro-und
her body. Still she re-ma-ined, mo-ti-on-less, ri-gid in shock. Un-til she
he-ard a stran-ge, cho-king no-ise.
"You… still the-re… girl…?"
She flew from her hi-ding spot, ra-cing to the hud-dled body, kne-eling
be-si-de him and ta-king his ske-le-tal arm in hers. "You're ali-ve," she
sob-bed. "I tho-ught he'd kil-led you…"
"J-ust ba-rely," he sa-id. His vo-ice was only a thre-ad of so-und, and his
eyes we-re milky and gla-zed over. "You ha-ve to get help."
"I'll get ban-da-ges…"
"Not for me, you stu-pid twit. I'm do-ne for, and past ti-me." He co-ug-hed,
and dark blo-od ca-me from his mo-uth. "You ne-ed to get help for Ghis-la-ine.
I tho-ught I had ti-me to warn her he still li-ved. I sho-uld ha-ve known
Mal-vi-ver wo-uld be be-hind this. He ne-ver for-gets. He ca-me af-ter me to
find whe-re she was, ye-ars ago, and I told him she was de-ad. I tho-ught I'd
con-vin-ced him. Ne-ver un-de-res-ti-ma-te yo-ur enemy-that's a go-od les-son
to le-arn."
"Yes, sir," El-len sob-bed, stro-king his arm.
"Co-me now. You don't call a dying rag-pic-ker sir, es-pe-ci-al-ly if he's a
Heb-rew." Old Bo-nes whe-ezed. "Go for help. Not at the inn-they're a bunch of
thi-eves and sco-un-d-rels. The-re's not-hing you can do for me-the wo-und's
mor-tal, and it won't ta-ke long. I don't even fe-el it now. If s just so
dam-ned cold. Go on with you."
"No," El-len sa-id, strip-ping off the rag-ged shawl she'd ti-ed aro-und her
sho-ul-ders and dra-ping it over his pi-ti-ful fra-me.
"Don't be a fo-ol," he gas-ped. 'The-re's not-hing you can do for me. I'll
be de-ad in no ti-me. Yo-ur duty is to Ghis-la-ine."
Ellen didn't he-si-ta-te. She to-ok his claw-li-ke hand in hers, and
in-de-ed, it was icy cold. She held it firmly in her lap, sit-ting back on her
he-els. "No one de-ser-ves to die alo-ne," she sa-id. "Ghis-la-ine wo-uld want
me to stay."
"You're as stub-born as she is. God pro-tect me from stu-pid Chris-ti-an
wo-men and the-ir sen-se of duty." He cho-ked aga-in, and his limp body
shud-de-red in the dar-k-ness. "Stay then, damn you," he whis-pe-red
fi-nal-ly. "In all, I'd be glad of it."
They fo-und her the-re, kne-eling by the old man, his li-fe-less hand

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clas-ped in hers, as she wept for him. She he-ard the-ir ap-pro-ach, but it
was too la-te to run and hi-de. And in-de-ed, she hadn't the strength.
"El-len!" It was Tony, strong, won-der-ful Tony, le-aping off his hor-se,
swe-eping her in-to his arms, tight aga-inst him. "I co-uld stran-g-le you!"
he sa-id, co-ve-ring her te-ar-st-re-aked fa-ce with kis-ses, hol-ding her so
tightly she tho-ught he might bre-ak her ribs. "If you ever pull such a trick
aga-in I'll be-at you, I swe-ar that I will. We've had the de-vil's own ti-me
fin-ding you. Damn it, El-len…" He si-len-ced his own ti-ra-de by kis-sing
her, hard on her mo-uth.
"This is all very to-uc-hing," a fa-mi-li-ar, cyni-cal vo-ice sa-id, but
the-re was no mis-sing the ed-ge be-ne-ath the icy to-ne. "But who-se body
we-re you mo-ur-ning over so af-fec-tingly? And whe-re is Ghis-la-ine?"
"Oh, my God, Tony, he's ta-ken her," she cri-ed, bre-aking free from the
com-fort of his em-b-ra-ce.
"Who's ta-ken her?" Nic-ho-las de-man-ded harshly.
"So-me man… he kil-led Old Bo-nes…" she bab-bled, glan-cing back at the old
man lying in the dirt.
"Ma-ke sen-se, wo-man!" Nic-ho-las sa-id fu-ri-o-usly. "What man? When did
he ta-ke her?"
"His na-me was Mal-vi-ver. I don't know how long ago they left, may-be a
co-up-le of ho-urs ago, I'm not su-re. He had a co-ach, he sa-id. I hid in the
wo-ods, and I co-uldn't he-ar ever-y-t-hing…"
"Mal-vi-ver," Nic-ho-las sa-id, his soft vo-ice truly ter-rif-ying. "She
tho-ught he was de-ad."
"Ob-vi-o-usly he was not," Tony sa-id, still clas-ping El-len tightly
aga-inst him.
"No," Nic-ho-las sa-id, and his smi-le was whi-te and sa-va-ge in the
mo-on-light. "That ple-asu-re has be-en re-ser-ved for me. And who says the-re
isn't a just God? Whe-re we-re they he-aded? For Pa-ris?"
"I don't know. I as-su-me so. We ha-ve to do so-met-hing abo-ut Old Bo-nes,"
El-len sa-id with a shud-der. "We can't just le-ave him he-re."
Nic-ho-las tur-ned his hor-se wit-ho-ut a word, thun-de-ring back down the
nar-row fo-ot-path with a com-p-le-te dis-re-gard for sa-fety.
"Blac-k-t-hor-ne, wa-it!" Tony cal-led af-ter him, but Nic-ho-las had
al-re-ady di-sap-pe-ared, ri-ding li-ke the very de-vil.
Tony tur-ned back to his wi-fe. "We'll ha-ve to le-ave his body to the go-od
brot-hers," he sa-id. "They'll find him in the mor-ning and do what’s pro-per.
Co-me along, dar-ling. We ha-ve to ma-ke su-re that fo-ol do-esn't let his
fury over-ri-de his ta-lent with a sword. If he di-es res-cu-ing Ghis-la-ine,
I do-ubt she'll ca-re whet-her she li-ves or not."
The-re was no way they co-uld catch the car-ri-age, Nic-ho-las tho-ught in
fury. The-ir hor-ses we-re win-ded from the bre-ak-neck pa-ce they'd be-en
ke-eping, and Tony's lar-ge ro-an had the ad-ded di-sad-van-ta-ge of El-len's
we-ight. Nic-ho-las ma-de no gen-t-le-manly of-fer to ta-ke her, or to slow
the pa-ce. In fact, he ba-rely no-ti-ced the-ir pre-sen-ce be-hind him as he
pus-hed on-ward, de-ter-mi-ned to catch up with Mal-vi-ver's co-ach.
The Fren-c-h-man sho-wed no in-c-li-na-ti-on to stop for the night, an act
which wo-uld ha-ve se-aled his fa-te. They con-ti-nu-ed on af-ter him thro-ugh
the dar-k-ness, the hor-ses win-ded and blown, kept go-ing un-til Nic-ho-las's
dri-ven mo-unt col-lap-sed un-der-ne-ath him, sen-ding his ri-der tum-b-ling
in-to the ro-ad-way.
"Ha-ve so-me sen-se, man," Tony sa-id. "You won't help an-yo-ne if you
bre-ak yo-ur neck."
"Gi-ve me yo-ur hor-se," Nic-ho-las sa-id, his vo-ice dan-ge-ro-us.
"And le-ave us stran-ded? Don't be ri-di-cu-lo-us."
"Gi-ve me yo-ur hor-se, damn it, or I'll run you thro-ugh," he cri-ed.
"Lis-ten to me, Blac-k-t-hor-ne, my hor-se isn't in any mo-re fit sta-te
than yo-urs. We ne-ed to get to the ne-arest town whe-re we can se-cu-re fresh
mo-unts. My hor-se won't be ab-le to go much fur-t-her, no mat-ter how
de-ter-mi-ned you are. As long as they're in the car-ri-age she's sa-fe from

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him…"
Nic-ho-las's la-ugh was mir-t-h-less. "You sho-uld know bet-ter than that."
"Then you'll simply ha-ve to kill him. You're go-od at that, aren't you,"
Tony sa-id co-ol-ly. "Stop ha-ving a tan-t-rum and be re-aso-nab-le. We'll
walk our mo-unts to the next town. The lon-ger we stand abo-ut ar-gu-ing, the
lon-ger it will be till we catch up with them."
"Damn you," Nic-ho-las sa-id, yan-king his hor-se's re-ins and ha-uling it
down the ro-ad to-ward the dimly lit vil-la-ge. His ra-ge was blin-ding,
mi-xed with pa-nic. The tho-ught of Ghis-la-ine, his fi-er-ce, mag-ni-fi-cent
Ghis-la-ine, at the mercy of the mon-s-ter who'd sold her in-to
pros-ti-tu-ti-on, ma-de him sha-ke with im-po-tent fury. He wan-ted, ne-eded
to kill him. But first he ne-eded to ma-ke su-re she was sa-fe. And then he'd
be-at her wit-hin an inch of her li-fe for run-ning away from him.
Just one tiny pi-ece of luck, it was all he ne-eded. Not a la-me hor-se, not
two pe-op-le hol-ding him back. Not a vil-la-in dri-ving bre-ak-neck with no
stops, not a ra-ge so all-en-com-pas-sing that he ma-de a fa-tal mis-ta-ke.
For the first ti-me his li-fe had star-ted to me-an so-met-hing. He wan-ted to
li-ve; he wan-ted to li-ve with Ghis-la-ine. He wan-ted to marry her, ma-ke
her preg-nant, watch her grow old and wrin-k-led. He wan-ted the du-bi-o-us
pe-ace that li-fe with her wo-uld bring. If he co-uldn't ha-ve that, he
wan-ted not-hing at all.
The next vil-la-ge was lar-ger, bo-as-ting two inns. When they ar-ri-ved at
the ne-arer of them, so-me-ti-me af-ter mid-night, Nic-ho-las didn't even
no-ti-ce the dis-c-re-et black car-ri-age par-ked in the yard un-til El-len's
soft vo-ice ar-res-ted him, just as he was abo-ut to de-mand a fresh hor-se.
"I think thaf s the car-ri-age."
Nic-ho-las pa-used, the fi-ery ra-ge in his ve-ins tur-ning to ice. "Why?"
"I saw one very li-ke it in Lan-tes. I might be mis-ta-ken…"
"I do-ubt it," he sa-id. "This will be the one. I'll ne-ed yo-ur help,
Tony."
"You ha-ve it."
"If s sim-p-le eno-ugh. Ma-ke su-re Mal-vi-ver's men don't in-ter-fe-re. I
ha-ve no idea whet-her he co-mes with an ar-med gu-ard or so-met-hing as
sim-p-le as a co-ac-h-man. I don't want them an-y-w-he-re ne-ar me."
"You're go-ing to res-cue Gilly?" El-len bre-at-hed, sli-ding down from
Tony's mo-unt in-to his wa-iting arms.
"I'm go-ing to res-cue her, co-usin. And then I'm go-ing to ske-wer
Mal-vi-ver."
"Go-od. I ho-pe you ma-ke him suf-fer," El-len sa-id flatly.
A last, des-pe-ra-te tra-ce of hu-mor flas-hed over his fa-ce. "It must be
pro-xi-mity to Ghis-la-ine," he re-mar-ked. "She se-ems to ma-ke ever-yo-ne
blo-od-t-hirsty. Don't worry, co-usin. He shall suf-fer ex-ce-edingly."
It was sim-p-le eno-ugh to find them. The inn bo-as-ted only one pri-va-te
par-lor, and that was al-re-ady bes-po-ke by a high go-ver-n-ment of-fi-ci-al
and his clo-aked com-pa-ni-on, the in-nke-eper in-for-med them, wrin-ging his
hands. If mon-si-e-ur wo-uld ca-re to en-ter the tap-ro-om…
Mon-si-e-ur had no in-ten-ti-on of do-ing any such thing. He simply sho-ved
the in-nke-eper in-to Tony's wa-iting arms and to-ok the steps two at a ti-me,
sword drawn.
The two oc-cu-pants of the ro-om lo-oked up when he flung the do-or open,
and for a mo-ment ra-ge blin-ded him. She lo-oked cozy eno-ugh, a half-drunk
glass of cla-ret in her hand, sit-ting ac-ross from the man who'd ta-ken her,
and for a mo-ment he won-de-red if he'd be-en mis-ta-ken in her. And then she
tur-ned to him, and the-re was such des-pa-ir and joy in her eyes that he felt
his he-art twist in-si-de.
Mal-vi-ver ro-se, sho-ving the tab-le away from him, and Nic-ho-las to-ok
the ti-me to scho-ol his ru-na-way emo-ti-ons. If he let him-self ha-te too
much, it wo-uld we-aken his de-fen-se. The man stan-ding too ne-ar Ghis-la-ine
was a dan-ge-ro-us one-only a fo-ol wo-uld miss that. He was al-most as tall
as Nic-ho-las, and mo-re bro-adly bu-ilt, with lar-ge, ham-li-ke hands that

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might be clumsy with a ra-pi-er. Then aga-in, they might not.
"I wo-uldn't drink that wi-ne if I we-re you," Nic-ho-las draw-led,
lo-un-ging aga-inst the do-or-way. "She's adept at po-ison, and she's
al-re-ady had a fa-ir amo-unt of prac-ti-ce on me. I as-su-re you, it's not a
ple-asant way to die. You'd pre-fer my sword."
Mal-vi-ver lo-oked down at his glass of wi-ne, then at Ghis-la-ine's still
ex-p-res-si-on. He threw the glass away, smas-hing it aga-inst the
fi-rep-la-ce. "I'm not go-ing to fight you," he sne-ered. "I'm not one of
yo-ur fancy gen-t-le-men, with ti-me to play with swords. If you want her,
you'll ha-ve to fight li-ke a man."
The blo-od sang thro-ugh Nic-ho-las's ve-ins, and he smi-led. "How wo-uld
you de-fi-ne fig-h-ting li-ke a man, mon-si-e-ur?"
"With kni-ves," Mal-vi-ver sa-id flatly.
"No!" Ghis-la-ine gas-ped.
"Yo-ur lady do-esn't se-em to ha-ve much fa-ith in you," Mal-vi-ver
sne-ered. "I can be ge-ne-ro-us. Go away, le-ave us, and I won't ha-ve you
ar-res-ted."
Nic-ho-las she-at-hed his sword. "You can pro-vi-de the kni-ves, I
pre-su-me?"
"Nic-ho-las, don't," Ghis-la-ine whis-pe-red. "He'll kill you."
"Not li-kely." He ca-ught the wic-ked-lo-oking kni-fe Mal-vi-ver tos-sed at
him. "Tony?"
"I'm he-re," Tony rep-li-ed from the do-or-way.
"Ma-ke su-re no one in-ter-fe-res."
"Af-ra-id you might lo-se, mon-si-e-ur?" Mal-vi-ver moc-ked him.
"Af-ra-id you might che-at, Mal-vi-ver." He strip-ped off his jac-ket,
wat-c-hing his op-po-nent with gre-at ca-re. The bas-tard had cho-sen wi-sely.
No or-di-nary En-g-lish gen-t-le-man was adept at fig-h-ting with kni-ves. But
then, Nic-ho-las was no or-di-nary En-g-lish gen-t-le-man.
It was an ugly fight, with no-ne of the gra-ce of a swor-d-fight, no-ne of
the skill of pis-tols. Not even the du-bi-o-us ele-gan-ce of fis-ti-cuf-fs. It
was a blo-ody, dirty, swe-aty af-fa-ir, shoc-king in its sa-va-gery, and when
Nic-ho-las fi-nal-ly had Mal-vi-ver pin-ned, his kni-fe at Mal-vi-ver's
thro-at, blo-od was drip-ping from a gash on Nic-ho-las's che-ek, his bre-ath
was go-ne, and his arm was numb.
"Gi-ve me one go-od re-ason to spa-re yo-ur li-fe, you bas-tard," he sa-id
in a ho-ar-se vo-ice. 'Just one."
Mal-vi-ver's eyes we-re nar-row slits of ra-ge. "Be-ca-use if you don't,
you'll be ho-un-ded, you'll be hun-ted down li-ke dogs, and you'll end on the
gu-il-lo-ti-ne, whe-re all yo-ur kind sho-uld be. If you let me li-ve I can
gu-aran-tee you sa-fe pas-sa-ge. You know as well as I do the pe-ace is
col-lap-sing. It was not-hing but a far-ce from the be-gin-ning, as an-yo-ne
but the stu-pid En-g-lish wo-uld ha-ve re-ali-zed. You'll ne-ver ma-ke it out
of Fran-ce wit-ho-ut my help."
Nic-ho-las sat back, ha-uling Mal-vi-ver up-right. "It might be worth it,"
he spat. Then he re-le-ased him, drop-ping him back on the hard flo-or. "Watch
him, Tony," he or-de-red, and, ri-sing, he tur-ned to Ghis-la-ine. "You don't
want me to kill him, do you?" he sa-id softly. "I gi-ve him his li-fe, as a
wed-ding pre-sent to you. But you'll ha-ve to pro-mi-se to marry me."
She smi-led then, a pa-le, lost smi-le. And her eyes flut-te-red clo-sed,
and she slum-ped to the flo-or in a gen-t-le, gra-ce-ful sli-de.
"Wo-uldn't ha-ve tho-ught a pro-po-sal wo-uld ma-ke her fa-int," Tony
draw-led, but Nic-ho-las was al-re-ady by her si-de, pul-ling her limp body
in-to his arms.
"She didn't fa-int, damn it”, he sa-id grimly. "She's ta-ken the po-ison
her-self."
Her eyes ope-ned for a mo-ment, and she ma-na-ged a we-ak smi-le. "Sorry,"
she whis-pe-red. "I didn't think you'd get he-re in ti-me."
He pul-led her body aga-inst him, how-ling in ra-ge. "Get a doc-tor, damn
it!" he thun-de-red. "She's dying!"

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Ellen ap-pe-ared in the do-or-way, her fa-ce whi-te with shock. "What's
hap-pe-ned? Gilly…?" The words we-re cut off as Mal-vi-ver le-aped for her, a
burly arm aro-und her whi-te thro-at. Nic-ho-las co-uldn't, wo-uldn't mo-ve
from his spot on the flo-or whe-re he crad-led Ghis-la-ine's limp body.
"And now, mes-si-e-urs, I think I will cho-ose this mo-ment to de-part,"
Mal-vi-ver sa-id in a ras-ping vo-ice. "This one can ser-ve as a hos-ta-ge. I
will re-le-ase her in Pa-ris, and per-haps she'll find her own way back to
En-g-land. As-su-ming we aren't at war by then."
"Let her go, you bas-tard," Tony sa-id, his vo-ice sha-king with
sup-pres-sed ra-ge.
Ellen's eyes we-re wi-de with shock as she sto-od pres-sed aga-inst the
Fren-c-h-man. "Tony?" she whis-pe-red be-se-ec-hingly.
It was over so qu-ickly. With an in-hu-man ro-ar the in-do-lent,
Ho-no-rab-le Sir An-tony Wil-ton-Gre-ening le-aped for Mal-vi-ver, rip-ping
him away from El-len. She fell aga-inst the do-or, wat-c-hing with a
blo-od-t-hirsty fas-ci-na-ti-on as Tony grap-pled with Mal-vi-ver, rol-ling on
the flo-or, one evil-lo-oking kni-fe bet-we-en the two of them.
And then Tony ro-se, his hu-ge he-ight to-we-ring over Mal-vi-ver's limp
body. He lo-oked down at the man, and spat, then held out his arms to El-len.
She ran to him, clin-ging tightly for a mo-ment, then tur-ned to lo-ok at
Nic-ho-las.
He was still kne-eling on the flo-or, un-ca-ring of
Mal-vi-ver's fa-te, and his hands we-re tight on Ghis-la-ine's sho-ul-ders.
"Don't you da-re die, Ghis-la-ine!" he sho-uted. "You can't die. You can't
le-ave me. I lo-ve you, damn it. If you die, I'll kill you. For God's sa-ke,
don't die!"
Ghis-la-ine was so cold, so we-ary. It se-emed as if on-ce mo-re she'd find
that dark, sa-fe pla-ce, de-ep in-si-de, whe-re no one co-uld re-ach her. That
empty pla-ce that had on-ce held her ho-pes, her dre-ams, her in-no-cen-ce.
Her he-art.
But it was no lon-ger empty. It was full to over-f-lo-wing, bur-s-ting with
lo-ve and ho-pe and a tho-usand pos-si-bi-li-ti-es. The-re was no pla-ce to
es-ca-pe from the in-sis-tent vo-ice that was thre-ate-ning, ca-j-oling,
drag-ging her back. I lo-ve you, the vo-ice sa-id, a vo-ice that had ne-ver
sa-id tho-se words be-fo-re. Co-me back to me.
And she had no cho-ice.
She ope-ned her eyes, very ca-re-ful-ly. Her eye-lids ac-hed. Every part of
her body ac-hed. She re-mem-be-red be-ing sick, hor-ribly sick, for en-d-less
ho-urs, wor-se even than se-asic-k-ness. She re-mem-be-red the hands, hol-ding
her, wal-king her up and down, ne-ver let-ting her rest. She re-mem-be-red the
vo-ice.
The-re was a dim gray light co-ming in the win-dow, but whet-her it was dawn
or dusk she had no idea. She lay on a bed, and the co-ver was he-avy on her
body, pa-in-ful-ly so. She tur-ned her he-ad, to see Nic-ho-las, a stub-ble of
be-ard on his be-a-uti-ful, dis-so-lu-te fa-ce, his ha-ir long and tan-g-led.
So-me-how it se-emed mo-re stre-aked with gray than when she'd first
en-co-un-te-red him. Had she do-ne that to him?
He lo-oked ex-ha-us-ted. She wan-ted to to-uch him. Using all her strength
she lif-ted her hand to brush it lightly aga-inst his ro-ugh che-ek. His eyes
flew open, and he was sta-ring at her in won-der.
"So you de-ci-ded to li-ve af-ter all," he sa-id, his vo-ice not much mo-re
than a cro-ak, ru-ining the cyni-cal ef-fect of his words.
Her mo-uth felt dry, hor-rib-le; her he-ad po-un-ded; and her skin hurt. She
fo-und she co-uld smi-le. "I be-li-eve you told me you'd kill me if I didn't,"
she whis-pe-red.
He cur-sed then, pul-ling her in-to his arms, hol-ding her tightly, so
tightly that she co-uld fe-el the trem-b-ling in his body, a trem-b-ling that
mat-c-hed her own. "And so I wo-uld. You'll marry me as well."
She lay very still in his arms. "I don't bla-me you an-y-mo-re, Nic-ho-las,"
she sa-id. "I no lon-ger ha-ve any ne-ed for re-ven-ge."

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"But I do. I'm go-ing to marry you, wo-man, and ke-ep you with me for the
rest of yo-ur li-fe. I'll ma-ke yo-ur li-fe a li-ving hell, cha-ined to the
last of the mad Blac-k-t-hor-nes. If that’s not re-ven-ge I don't know what
is."
She fo-und she co-uld smi-le aga-inst the wrin-k-led whi-te-ness of his
shirt. "Didn't you tell me so-met-hing el-se last night?"
"I told you a gre-at many things last night, most of which you wo-uldn't
ha-ve he-ard. If you're by any chan-ce re-fer-ring to what I sa-id to you
be-fo-re you pas-sed out from the po-ison, that was two days ago."
She pus-hed away from him. "Two days? I've be-en sick that long?"
"You've be-en ho-ve-ring bet-we-en li-fe and de-ath, damn it. It's abo-ut
ti-me you ma-de up yo-ur mind."
"What abo-ut Mal-vi-ver? Are we sa-fe he-re?".she as-ked an-xi-o-usly.
"Yo-ur fri-end Mal-vi-ver is no lon-ger among the li-ving."
"Oh, no," she sa-id, se-ar-c-hing his fa-ce for the ble-ak-ness she
ex-pec-ted to see. In-s-te-ad he lo-oked both ex-ha-us-ted and cu-ri-o-usly
joyo-us. "Did you kill him?"
"You se-em tro-ub-led by his de-mi-se, con-si-de-ring you we-re do-ing yo-ur
best to po-ison him," he po-in-ted out.
"But I didn't want you to kill him," she sa-id. "You ha-ve too much blo-od
on yo-ur hands."
"As a mat-ter of fact, Tony did the ho-nors. Yo-ur fri-end Mal-vi-ver ma-de
the very di-re mis-ta-ke of thin-king he co-uld use El-len as a hos-ta-ge. It
was very tidy. I'm qu-ite res-pec-t-ful of Sir An-tony's ta-lent. I didn't
know he had it in him."
"But how will we get out of Fran-ce?"
"As fast as we can. Do you think you're up to ri-ding in a car-ri-age?"
"Oh, God," she mo-aned. "It se-ems I've spent half my li-fe in a
car-ri-age."
"Don't worry, my lo-ve. On-ce we re-turn to En-g-land we can stay put.
Tony's pro-mi-sed to spe-ak for me, and he's such a res-pec-tab-le
gen-t-le-man I ha-ve no do-ubt my na-me will be cle-ared. At le-ast in the
mat-ter of the la-te Mr. Har-g-ro-ve. If you wish, we can li-ve a
com-for-tab-le eno-ugh li-fe." He se-emed al-most dif-fi-dent, and she knew
the sud-den, shoc-king truth. The de-ar man was ac-tu-al-ly af-ra-id that she
wo-uldn't want him.
She re-ac-hed up and stro-ked his stub-bled skin. "What el-se did you say
when I col-lap-sed?" she whis-pe-red. "Be-si-des thre-ate-ning to be-at me?"
Her fi-er-ce de-mon lo-ver ac-tu-al-ly lo-oked abas-hed. "It do-esn't be-ar
re-pe-ating."
"It do-es if you ex-pect me to marry you. I lo-ve you too much to let you
throw yo-ur li-fe away on me."
"My li-fe isn't worth an-y-t-hing."
"It is to me."
He sta-red at her in mu-te frus-t-ra-ti-on. "All right, I lo-ve you, damn
it," he snap-ped. "Do-es that sa-tisfy you?"
She con-si-de-red it. "It's a start. But you'll de-fi-ni-tely ne-ed mo-re
prac-ti-ce. You ha-ven't le-ar-ned the pro-per in-to-na-ti-on. You ne-ed-" He
si-len-ced her, ef-fi-ci-ently and swiftly, his mo-uth co-ve-ring hers.
When he lif-ted his he-ad they we-re both bre-at-h-less. "I lo-ve you," he
sa-id aga-in, this ti-me a lit-tle mo-re softly.
She smi-led up at him. "Much bet-ter," she whis-pe-red. "I ac-cept."

Epilogue

The smell of fresh wo-od mi-xed with the rich scent of her-bal tea.
Ghis-la-ine sat at the well-sc-rub-bed tab-le and in-ha-led the aro-ma,
lo-oking abo-ut her with sim-p-le ple-asu-re. Char-bon lay at her fe-et,
sle-eping so-undly.

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It was autumn in Scot-land, and the ru-ined hun-ting lod-ge of the mad
Blac-k-t-hor-nes was slowly be-ing put in go-od he-art on-ce mo-re. She'd
in-sis-ted on the kit-c-hen first. Nic-ho-las had held out for the bed-ro-om,
but she'd be-en firm. They co-uld sle-ep and ma-ke lo-ve an-y-w-he-re, and had
pro-ven that to the-ir own mu-tu-al sa-tis-fac-ti-on. Co-oking was mo-re of a
chal-len-ge.
The new ro-of was com-p-le-te, the west wing al-most clo-sed in, and if the
la-bo-rers tho-ught it odd that Blac-k-t-hor-ne wor-ked si-de by si-de with
them in the brisk autumn air, they as-c-ri-bed it to the od-di-ti-es of the
gentry. They we-re even mo-re ta-ken aback when Tony and El-len vi-si-ted for
a we-ek in August, and the ho-no-rab-le Sir An-tony Wil-ton-Gre-ening had
car-ted lum-ber and bricks, but Ghis-la-ine de-ci-ded it was all for the best.
She'd suf-fe-red thro-ugh so-me of the worst the re-vo-lu-ti-on in Fran-ce had
to of-fer. She co-uld ma-na-ge to gle-an the best too, and she was
de-ter-mi-ned to be very de-moc-ra-tic. Nic-ho-las was too self-ab-sor-bed to
ca-re one way or the ot-her.
She spo-oned ho-ney in-to her tea and tho-ught abo-ut the up-co-ming
win-ter. The ho-use wo-uld be snug by then. She wo-uld co-ok, and Nic-ho-las
wo-uld con-ti-nue with his plans to ma-ke the pla-ce self-suf-fi-ci-ent.
She-ep, he'd de-ci-ded, and lon-g-ha-ired cat-tle, and his en-t-hu-si-asm was
bo-yish and he-ar-t-b-re-akingly won-der-ful.
"What are you do-ing, ma mie?"
She lo-oked up. He sto-od in the do-or-way, his ro-ugh shirt open to the
wa-ist, his sho-ul-ders bro-ader from the hard la-bor, his skin tan-ned by the
we-at-her. She lo-ved him so much, from the top of his gray-st-re-aked black
ha-ir to his work-ro-ug-he-ned hands that we-re so deftly ero-tic.
"Ha-ving tea."
He strol-led in-to the ro-om, snif-fing. "Lo-oks let-hal to me," he
mur-mu-red, pic-king up her cup. "You ha-ven't de-ci-ded to po-ison an-yo-ne,
ha-ve you?"
"Not at the mo-ment," she rep-li-ed in a tran-qu-il vo-ice. "Just stay on my
go-od si-de."
"I wo-uldn't think of do-ing ot-her-wi-se. I just won-de-red what you we-re
do-ing, drin-king tea in-s-te-ad of yo-ur be-lo-ved cof-fee? You can't be
tur-ning En-g-lish on me?"
"Not li-kely."
"And I don't be-li-eve I've se-en you sit-ting still in the mid-dle of the
day be-fo-re," he ad-ded, a frown cre-asing his fa-ce. "Are you fe-eling all
right? I've al-ways sa-id you ha-ve the we-akest sto-mach ima-gi-nab-le."
"I'm fe-eling fi-ne. I ha-ve so-met-hing to tell you."
The wa-ri-ness dar-ke-ned his mid-nig-ht-blue eyes, and she knew she
sho-uldn't te-ase him. She co-uldn't re-sist.
"Tell me what?"
"You're no lon-ger go-ing to ha-ve the ro-man-tic cac-het of con-si-de-ring
yo-ur-self the last of the mad Blac-k-t-hor-nes."
He simply sta-red at her for a mo-ment, be-fo-re her me-aning sank in.
"You're go-ing to ha-ve a baby?"
"By la-te spring. Not long af-ter El-len gi-ves birth, I ex-pect." She
tri-ed to con-t-rol her sud-den knot of an-xi-ety. He was sta-ring at her, his
fa-ce ab-so-lu-tely ex-p-res-si-on-less with shock.
And then he re-ac-hed down and ha-uled her in-to his arms, hol-ding her so
tightly she tho-ught her bo-nes might bre-ak. He was sha-king, she was
sha-king, and all she co-uld do was cling to him, as clo-se as he was hol-ding
her.
He lif-ted his he-ad, re-ac-hing down and cat-c-hing her chin, til-ting it
up to his fa-ce, and the-re was a wic-ked gle-am in his sus-pi-ci-o-usly
bright eyes. "Do-es this me-an you're go-ing to ha-ve mor-ning sic-k-ness for
ni-ne months?"
"Most li-kely," she sa-id, smi-ling up at him.
"Blo-ody hell," he sa-id che-er-ful-ly.

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And then he kis-sed her, hard. And they both be-gan to la-ugh.

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