Samantha sat rigidly in the hackney, willing it to go faster.

Of course today, instead of ducking and diving and generally attempting to cause an accident at every corner, the blasted driver was a courteous man who actually stopped or slowed down for other carts and carriages. And she needed to get to Alexander as soon as possible. His most recent note lay crumpled in her hand, the parchment almost unreadable, but that didn’t matter. The brief message was imprinted on her brain.

Come to Langley House, as soon as you get this. News.

Had they finally returned from France? Could William have safely brought Lord Robert home and even now be standing in Alexander’s library, ready to sweep her up in his arms and promise never to leave her again?

The thought made her stomach lurch in anticipation, and she held a scented handkerchief to her nose. If only she didn’t feel quite so ill. This morning when she’d swung her legs out of bed to get up, a rush of dizziness had nearly made her topple face first onto the floor. A cool cloth pressed to the back of her neck had helped her head, but not her temper. It would be just her luck to have picked up some horrid illness now, after being perfectly fine the nearly five weeks William had been away. Nothing said “I love you and missed you and can’t wait to hold you close again” like fainting or decorating someone’s shoes.

Finally the hackney came to a jerking halt, and she swallowed hard several times before climbing down and pressing a coin into the driver’s hand.

Hurrying up the steps, Samantha then practically elbowed a grim-faced Wallace out of the way as he opened the door, running as fast as her stomach would allow until she burst into the familiar first-floor library.

“Well?” she demanded, for once not even caring about windblown hair, an askew bonnet or cream pelisse flapping like duck wings. “What is the news, Alexander? Do you have a note for me, or are they finally home?”

“Samantha...” a hoarse, shaky voice began, and she turned in startled concern.

“Aunt Jane? You sound like you should be tucked up in bed! And Stephen and Caroline, what are you doing here?”

“They are here because I asked them to come,” said Alexander in the most remote tone she’d ever heard, and a shudder of unease rippled through her body. His opulent library felt oppressive at the best of times, but the beloved faces around her were unusually blank, the atmosphere in the room so heavy she wanted to cough and clear her throat.

“What is going on?” she asked, far more tentatively. “Has poor Lord Robert taken a turn for the worst? Have they been delayed again?”

“No. We were not delayed again,” said a dull, slurred voice. “Even the British Army…gets its act together...once in a while.”

Samantha’s gaze jerked toward the corner of the room, and her hands flew to her mouth. The broad-shouldered man settled awkwardly in a padded Bath chair with a blanket draped over his legs might have been Alexander’s twin, except his skin was bronzed, he was horribly gaunt, and had a deep, vicious scar stretching halfway across his face.

“Lord Robert?”

“For my sins,” he replied, and took a long swig straight from the near-empty brandy bottle cradled loosely in his hands.

“But if you are home, where is William?”

“Sam, perhaps you should sit down,” said Stephen woodenly.

Hysteria surged through her body. Swallowing hard again, she took several deep breaths and concentrated fiercely on remaining calm and composed.

“I don’t want to sit down,” she said, enunciating each word. “I want to know why everyone looks so very, very sick. I want to know why a badly injured man is nearly blind drunk in the corner of this library. But most of all I want to know where my William is. Someone better tell me. This minute.”

Lord Robert cleared his throat. “Lady Samantha, I’m sorry, so terribly sorry to tell you...” His voice cracked, and he coughed then winced. “Just as we were leaving the beach to row out to Southby’s ship...we came under fire from some stragglers on the beach. I’m not sure who they were. A French patrol perhaps...or deserters with a grudge. We left after dusk, you see.”

“A patrol? Deserters? But Calais is supposed to be safe. Friendly to Englishmen.”

“It should have been. Our intelligence stated…that kind of enemy activity...occurred no more than sporadically…in the area.”

“I don’t want to know about intelligence that was obviously anything but. I want to know about William! Was he injured? Did he swallow an ocean of seawater getting you out to the ship? Oh my poor darling, how awful, I must go to him at once,” she babbled wildly, the thought of him alone in his chamber, bruised, battered, and without someone to lovingly comfort him far too much to bear. Why hadn’t someone from Hastings House sent word? Surely it had been obvious how she felt about William.

But instead of a chorus of agreement and reassurance, the silence strained and stretched. Suddenly she knew with dreadful certainty Lord Robert’s story remained unfinished. Trembling, she reached out for the back of a chair to steady herself.

“There is something else, isn’t there.”

“Everything happened so fast,” the colonel whispered. “Standish had just put me in the vessel. He started to push us out into deeper water…when the first shot rang out. I yelled at him, again and again. Get into the fucking...excuse me...get into the boat, but he wouldn’t. Just kept pushing us out…’til the oarsmen could row by themselves. Then he said we must save ourselves...to go without him.”

A horrified cry tore from Samantha’s throat. “What?”

“I know. It was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard...I yelled at him again. But he turned around…and swam back toward the beach.”

“While the men were still shooting?”

Lord Robert nodded. “Yes. I don’t think they were trained marksmen. They were good, but not quite accurate. A little slow to reload. Standish made it to shore without being hit—”

“And then what happened? He managed to escape? Oh, so that is why he isn’t here! He saved your life right under the noses of the French, got away, but had to wait for the next ship. How very, very brave. Surely His Majesty will commend William for such courage.”

Again, her words were met with the dreadful, heavy silence, and her heart began to thump so fast it threatened to leap from her chest.

“He...he did get away?”

“No,” said Lord Robert, agony flashing across his face. “A man ran down onto the beach...with a pistol. He shot Standish. I saw him fall...just before we rounded the headland.”

Black spots danced in front of her eyes. Samantha swayed, the solid anchor of the chair in front of her the only thing keeping her upright. But her mind balked at allowing the two words to be put together. It was impossible. William couldn’t have been shot. That wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to come home, hale and hearty, and hold her in his arms.

“Is he...is he...dead?” she choked out, almost physically unable to form the words, even though she needed to know the answer more than she needed to breathe.

Lord Robert closed his eyes briefly. “We don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Oh! Oh yes! I remember. You were tucked in the rowboat he put you into, far, far away from danger. My William saved your life and you abandoned him to the French!”

“No! It wasn’t like that.”

“Liar!” she shrieked, agony stabbing her with the force of a thousand knives. “It happened exactly like that! Everyone thinks you are such a brave hero, but you’re a coward. You could have turned back, but you left him…”

Lord Robert’s face lost all color and became even more haggard, a moment of bittersweet triumph. Yet his remorse wasn’t enough, not against the icy chill creeping through her body, suffocating her heart and soul. The room went blurry and gray, but before she hit the floor a strong arm hooked around her waist.

“We’re all hurting badly right now,” Stephen muttered unevenly as he pulled her against his side. “I didn’t know matters had progressed so far between you and William...but don’t say anything you may later regret.”

“Regret?” she croaked, sagging against her cousin. “How can you say such a thing...weren’t you listening? He left my William!”

All at once a terrible sound filled the room, a chilling, keening wail, as if a body was being torn in two. Samantha put her hands over her ears to block it out, wishing someone would make it stop, but it carried on for an eternity. And her throat hurt.

People moved and voices flew back and forth across the room, some loud and angry, others anxious and one soothing. But she couldn’t make out what they were saying, it was like watching a play from behind a thick glass wall. Exhausted, she slipped free from Stephen’s hold and slumped to her knees on the thick rug. Soft feminine arms tried to gather her into a gentle embrace, but she shrugged them away, her skin too tight and sensitive for touch.

William had been shot.

Images of him ran in her head like a series of paintings. Riding in Hyde Park. Dancing at Almack’s. Laughing as they ate cream cakes in Lady Havenhurst’s awful drawing room. Him knocking out Sir Francis. But most painful of all, one of her curled up naked against him, her head on his chest while he twisted a blonde curl around his finger. Smiling as he kissed her. Scowling as he warned her against any other man in his absence.

William had been shot. And might be dead.

The suffocating darkness closed in again, and she knew no more.

* * *

He was burning.

Hell was an agony of pain and fire, and the devil himself was stabbing him viciously with a pitchfork. Groaning, William tried to roll away to protect himself, but not only did his limbs refuse to work, his skull was repeatedly bashed with a club in punishment.

“No more,” he rasped, almost ready to do or say anything for a quick, merciful death instead of this prolonged torture.

“Try not to move,” said a brisk voice with a strong burr of the Highlands. “I’m nearly done, laddie.”

Interesting. Lucifer was a Scot, and spoke in a low, even tone. While his nationality wasn’t overly surprising—it seemed every man from north of the border had a streak of diabolical a mile wide—the lack of thunder in his voice was. Then the pitchfork stabbed again, immediately followed by the fire, and he wondered why he was even thinking about the devil’s bark when his bite was a million times worse.

“...there. My apologies, I ken removing bullets is nasty, but you’ll want to keep your arm, I expect.”

Confusion at the kind words was enough to force William’s eyes open. Shockingly, he wasn’t trussed up over a rocky pit of flames, but lying on a narrow bed in a semi-darkened chamber with a cool sheet tucked around him. A short, balding man attired in brown buckskins and coarse linen shirt covered by a blood-splattered apron was peering at him from behind silver-rimmed eyeglasses. And there wasn’t a pitchfork in sight, just several sharp knives, some long tweezers with curved ends, a metal bowl with blood-soaked cloths, and a bottle of dark, strongly scented alcohol.

He coughed. “You are not who I was expecting.”

The man quirked an eyebrow. “Oh aye? Who were you expecting?”

“Someone bigger. Redder. Cloven hoofs and pitchfork.”

“Ha! Connie lass, did you hear that? Our patient thought I was the dark one himself. Ah, but you Sassenachs are a bloody odd lot.”

“Stop laughin’, Dougal,” said a plump, silver-haired woman with an unmistakably cockney accent from the corner of the room. “It’s hardly surprisin’, the way you’ve been pokin’ and proddin’. Forgive my husband, sir, I know you ain’t a pincushion, but someone who’s been in some right bad trouble. And don’t you fret about us. We’ve been helpin’ the army for years, workin’ on the, ah, what do they call ’em, love?”

“Delicate matters,” said Dougal. “Like lads who get shot on beaches in the middle of the night. Just as well they got word to us in a hurry, the constable of Calais gets a giant pole up his arse about Englishmen. I reckon his family have been around since the dawn o’ time, and still hold a grudge about Joan of Arc. Your name isn’t Henry, is it? We can’t guarantee the safety of Henrys around here.”

William’s lips twitched, despite his burning arm and aching head. “Not Henry. My name is…Will. And I don’t think a Scot can ever throw stones about holding grudges.”

“Ha!” chortled Connie, clapping her hands. “Right you are, Will. Must say, you sound posher than the boys we usually get. You hail from the West End?”

“Guilty. Although I think the Home Office is trying to crush it out of me.”

Dougal snorted. “The Home Office would crush the life out of anyone. Except me damned cousin. He loves it. Maybe you know him? Everybody there calls him White. He’s an odd rooster.”

A genuine laugh escaped. No wonder Dougal had seemed vaguely familiar. What White might look like if he improved his wardrobe and lost the last of his thinning ginger hair. “I have heard of White, yes. Odd rooster is about the best description possible. And don’t worry, I won’t ask his real name.”

“I’d only tell you if you were dying, laddie. But if you do see him, tell him Dougal and Connie send their regards. And that he still owes us five pounds, six shillings, and no, we won’t forget.”

“I promise,” he said solemnly, wincing as his shoulder began to throb.

“Oh, poor love,” said Connie. “That arm is goin’ to hurt for awhile. Dougal cut out two bullets up near your shoulder, and you got grazed further down by your elbow as well. Desk duties for you, I think. And plenty of rest. We gave you a little laudanum to help you sleep last night, and you can have some more this evenin’. You’ll need your strength for tomorrow mornin’, that’s when they are sendin’ a barge for you. Come along, Dougal, let’s leave the lad be.”

William held up his uninjured hand. “My sincere thanks to you both for your care and discretion.”

“No trouble,” said Connie, squeezing it softly and giving him a warm smile. “My husband is a tailor, and does a far better job of stitchin’ than the army sawbones.”

Dougal shuddered. “Damned butchers. And they never use nearly enough spirits. You’ll be glad to know, laddie, you’ve been cleaned out with a nice single malt straight from the Highlands. I’ve not lost a man to infection yet, although it does make the weak ones scream.”

Christ. No wonder his flesh felt like it had been set on fire. “That is very reassuring.”

“Aye, well, Connie will bring some breakfast at dawn. Good night to you.”

After the couple left the room, William attempted to settle himself on the bed. Hell, it was bad enough for him, and he had one wound site. How Robert had managed to speak, even smile, was a mystery. But at least now he would be home in London and receiving the best care and attention that Langley money could buy.

That was the one bright spot in this damned debacle.

Because the words that the bastard Frenchman had spoken just before he fired would be etched in his brain forever.

Mon dieu! She has succeeded even better than we thought. Did she whisper sweet words of love in your ear? Beg you not to go after she spread her thighs for you again and again? Ha! The women, they lure men to destruction with their bodies because it always works. And Lady Samantha spreads her thighs for everyone.

Every part of him rebelled against the thought that Samantha was a traitor, and had been a willing and central part to a plot to have him murdered. And yet here he lay with two bullet holes in his arm. Which in itself was a miracle.

He’d been lucky. Damned lucky, according to the two men from Robert’s unit who had returned to the beach when they’d heard the gunfire. Apparently the unexpected sight of two English soldiers with pistols had distracted his would-be French assassin, and the bullet meant for William’s heart had passed through just below his collarbone and lodged at the back of his shoulder instead. Another had gouged a deep path through the side of his arm. However, his rescuers had made no mistake with their shots. When the Frenchman lay dead on the beach with two bullets to the head, the soldiers had then half-walked, half-carried William to their horses and brought him here to Dougal and Connie’s. Which he would be forever grateful for.

But that still didn’t explain how the fake ambush had become a real one.

That had been planned. Carefully planned. They’d known when and where the rowboat to take them out to the ship would appear. More chillingly, they’d known exactly who he was. So it was no happy coincidence. Nor was it a ragtag group. They were smart and disciplined and patient. They would have to be, to track a unit like Robert’s. And they clearly had been fed some detailed information before their mission began.

Hell and damnation.

Samantha couldn’t be part of it.

Could she?

* * *

The news that the Marquess of Standish had been shot while in France swept across London faster than the Great Fire. While word had eventually arrived stating he lived, the curtness of the letter and the grim-faced men who delivered it spoke volumes on the hope they held for his survival. This attitude could be seen in all corners of the city.

They already considered him buried in a silk-lined casket.

To add to her misery, a steady stream of callers had taken it upon themselves to visit the Claremont townhouse, although Samantha rarely ventured downstairs to talk with them. She didn’t want to see the false sympathy of people like Lady Havenhurst or the Baker-Fields, or Miss Yale, or any other women ruing the loss of such an eligible bachelor. Or men to tell her the mood at Brooks’ was somber, that even those William had crossed swords with in the House or who had envied him his lofty position were speaking in grave admiration of his achievements and dedication to duty.

It hurt far too much.

For the visitors, the sun would rise and set as usual. They would return to their husbands and sweethearts and friends. Laugh and dance and make love. None of them existed in a dark void of despair, where every breath stabbed like a knife.

The only person who didn’t mind was her mother. She was absolutely basking in the attention, and would smile and share tales of all the guests who stopped by.

“I tell them, Samantha,” she said, perched on the edge of Samantha’s bed. “I tell them straight to their faces how you rarely leave your chamber because you are far too distraught, and still they come by in their hundreds.”

“And you let them in,” Samantha whispered, tucked under a thick blanket because it felt as though she would never be warm again.

Eva twirled a lock of sleek blonde hair around a finger and pouted. “These people have never crossed our doorstep before! I cannot throw them out, even if they do try my patience. Besides, they all want to know your love at first sight tale, so of course I have to tell them the true story, how you and Standish were dear childhood friends and it grew from there. Then I say I wouldn’t have been surprised if you and he...well I always stop there, because it is not fact you were about to become the next marchioness, now is it? And I am not a gossip.”

That hurt the most.

Knowing despite the fact she had fallen in love with him, given herself completely to him, would have done anything to spend the rest of her life with him, he hadn’t indicated any firm intention or inclination to make her his wife. And if he succumbed to his wounds in France, she would never have the opportunity to tell him, or learn if he held any kind of feelings for her other than desire.

It was a soul-destroying thought. Not to mention a stomach-churning one.

The following morning, Samantha knelt miserably next to her chamber pot, trying to breathe deeply as she sipped from a glass of water. The terrible retching had finally eased, but the thought of it coming back made her want to curl up in a ball and stay in her chamber forever. She didn’t even hear the door open until it closed with a firm click and slippered feet walked toward her.

When she looked up, Aunt Jane was staring at her with a peculiar expression on her face.

“Hello,” Samantha said, gingerly getting to her feet. “It’s good to see you. I’m sorry I haven’t replied to your notes, I’ve just felt dreadful lately. There must be some sort of illness going around.”

Aunt Jane took her hands and helped her to the bed. “Before we talk about anything else, I need to ask you a question, Samantha, and it is important you answer me honestly no matter how embarrassing. Before William went away, did he...were you...ah, intimate together?”

Answering was hardly necessary—the hot flush staining every inch of her face no doubt spoke louder than words—but she nodded and stared at the floor.

“When did you last have your courses?” Jane continued softly.

Samantha pondered. “Er...not for a while, actually. Why do you ask? Is there something wrong with me? Something bad?” she asked anxiously.

“Oh, darling,” said Aunt Jane, as she closed her eyes for a long moment then opened them again. Emotions crossed her face; somehow her aunt seemed angry, anxious, and happy, all at once. “I suspect you are suffering from something women have had to put up with since the beginning of time. Gregory only had me napping every afternoon at precisely two o’clock, but when I carried Stephen I was forever running for the chamber pot. Your uncle insisted they be set up in every room to avoid an unpleasant accident.”

“What?” Samantha cried. “No! That’s impossible. We…er…we used a, um, sponge. And before you hate him for ruining me, I wasn’t…I wasn’t a virgin. I believed a gentleman’s empty promises and ruined myself like a foolish twit two years ago in Yorkshire. It was cold comfort that I wasn’t the only twit in the area.”

Aunt Jane took several deep breaths. “That is a lot of confessing for one minute.”

“I’m sorry!”

“Hush. Let me think. Hmmm. Firstly, I am sorry your first time with a man wasn’t special and wonderful. But you didn’t know better, and there are gentlemen who do not deserve the title. Despicable cad, more like. Secondly, I could never hate William, he’s practically my son. But I’m very cross at what he did. A sponge, even used properly, is not the most reliable form of protection. Although to be fair, neither is pulling out. Do not ask me how I know that.”

“Er…all right,” said Samantha, her fingers nearly shredding her sheets. “But you really think…a baby? What am I going to do?”

“You are going to hold on for a little while longer, and when William returns we will march up the gangplank of the ship together and inform him of his impending marriage. Should he have any qualms, I shall beat him with my parasol until he has none.”

Samantha didn’t smile. “But what if...what if he doesn’t come home? You saw the note—they all think William is going to die. Then he’ll never know about his child. I’ll be unwed and expecting a b-bastard! No one will ever speak to me again!” she said, bursting into tears.

Pulling her into a tight hug, Aunt Jane rocked her as though she were a little girl. Eventually, when her tears ran dry and her throat felt raw from crying, she drew back to look her aunt in the eye.

“How...how long do I have? Before I start, um, getting bigger? Must I tell Mother and Papa straight away?”

“No!” Jane said quickly, her grip momentarily painful. “There is no need to say anything just yet. I presume you and William were intimate not long before he went away?”

“The night before.”

“Well then, you are about six weeks gone. Most women don’t begin to show until at least their fourth month. You are unlucky to be feeling ill so soon, but it can happen at any time, I’ve heard.”

“I’ll have to tell them eventually, though, won’t I. Do you think Papa will disown me? He has been so very nice recently, but I’m afraid this might make him hate me. I didn’t even think about it at the time, but it is a truly terrible thing I’ve done.”

“Stop right there,” Jane snapped. “There were two people not thinking at the time, and one of them knew a lot more about the risks and consequences than the other. But considering John and Eva are hardly models of propriety, I hope they wouldn’t do anything so drastic as disown you. However, should they need time to cool down, I’m sure Stephen would agree to you and me retiring to the country. Westleigh Park is fully staffed.”

Samantha leaned back on a pile of soft, thickly embroidered cushions and sighed. “I’m so sorry. It seems my family is forever destined to embarrass yours.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling, I just wish you’d told me things were rapidly progressing in that direction with William. I would have summoned him at once for a very stern lecture on the correct order of proceedings.”

“Do you think it might have made a difference?” she questioned, the tiniest of smiles tugging at her lips.

“Probably not. But at least I wouldn’t have been a complete failure as a chaperone.”

“You’re not a failure. I took it upon myself to go to Hastings House late one night. No one could have stopped me. Oh God, I miss William so much. Do you miss Uncle Andrew like that?”

Aunt Jane flinched, and Samantha immediately regretted her foolishly impulsive question. Of course it wasn’t the same, she hadn’t lost a husband of nearly three decades as well as a beloved son. But then her aunt tilted her head and smiled fondly.

“Every hour of every day,” she murmured. “But slowly, as time passes, the ache eases to a nearly bearable level. If you have friends and family who care, there is a reason to get up in the morning. And you remember the good times too. We Buchanans were terrible ton, scandal was our middle name, but Andrew loved me anyway.”

Sighing, Samantha closed her eyes. A man willing to do anything, face down anything, for love. “He was special. But anyway, surely soon there will be good news. Until then I guess we must wait. And hope.”

And pray.