Richard was thankful the men had come with him—they were locals, well known and well liked. As soon as their company had turned onto the lane to Lydford that Ostley and Hopkins were sure the coach must have taken, the men and lads had asked anyone they’d seen—farmers in their fields, two laborers working on a bridge, three women walking out visiting—and quickly confirmed that a small black coach had indeed passed that way within the past half hour.

They weren’t that far behind.

Richard didn’t let himself think of what Jacqueline might be going through; that would have been too distracting. Instead, he reminded himself that she was no meek, milk-and-water miss; she would stand up to Wallace well enough—long enough—for Richard and her men to reach her.

Without prompting, two of the farmers and one of the women they’d spoken with had named the coach they’d seen as belonging to Sir Peregrine Wallace, so as they neared Lydford, they were certain as to where they needed to go.

Crawley waved, attracting Richard’s attention and signaling him to call a halt.

With a potent mix of fury and impatience pounding through his veins, Richard wanted to rage on, but knew well enough to listen to the locals. He slowed Malcolm and drew him to a halt. The others followed his lead and milled about.

“The lane to Wallace’s place is just a bit along on the right.” Hopkins brought his horse alongside Malcolm.

“Aye,” Crawley said, “but I’m thinking we’d do best to get to the house under cover of the wood rather than clatter up his drive and alert not just him but those three blackguards of his as well.”

Richard nodded curtly. “Surprise would serve us best.”

Crawley outlined what he had in mind, and Hopkins, Ostley, and Richard agreed. With Crawley—a huntsman in his spare time—in the lead, they walked their horses off the lane and through the wood to a natural clearing not far on. They left the horses there with two of the boys and set off on foot. After a hundred yards, Crawley signaled for quiet, and they crept on.

The upper story and roof of a red-brick house loomed ahead.

They left the wood and continued on through an overgrown shrubbery. Eventually, Crawley paused and crouched beside an archway cut into a high hedge. Looking over Crawley’s shoulder, Richard saw the side wall of the house mere yards away, across a poorly scythed stretch of lawn.

There were few windows that faced that way, and all had their curtains closed.

Richard smiled intently, clapped Crawley on the shoulder, and moved past him. Fleet-footed and silent, Richard crossed the lawn and flattened himself against the side wall beside the window of the room at the front corner of the house.

In a house of this size and style, that room should be the drawing room—the room the master of the house would use to entertain guests. No matter his ultimate intent, Richard would wager Wallace would first speak with Jacqueline in that room.

He knew he’d guessed correctly when Jacqueline’s voice, her tone harsh and condemnatory, reached him clearly through the glass.

His heart leapt, then her words registered, and relief sluiced through him.

They’d got there in time.

“You’re not listening, Sir Peregrine.” Jacqueline’s speech was rigidly controlled. “No matter what idiocy you’ve convinced yourself will come to pass—no matter any brilliant plan to compromise me—I will not consent to marry you!”

“Of course you will.” Wallace sounded completely assured. “After spending a night in my house alone with me, no young lady of your station would be allowed to refuse my hand offered in marriage.” The clink of crystal reached through the window. “It won’t be up to you. Tregarth’s your guardian—he’ll see sense. So will your vaporous chaperon. They’ll force you to it—you’ll see. Cheers!”

A pause ensued, then Jacqueline—by the sound of her voice, she stood closer to the window, but facing the room and, presumably, Wallace—spoke. “I say again, Sir Peregrine—you are not listening.” Her voice had lowered; power of a sort thrummed beneath her words. “I am the guardian of Nimway Hall—the deed to the Hall and all its lands is wholly in my keeping. I do not hold those rights by whim of my great-uncle or anyone else. I hold them by virtue of who I am.”

“Virtue!” Sir Peregrine chuckled. “Yes, indeed—that’s just what I’ve been saying. It’s your virtue that will be the deciding point.”

“You’re a numbskull if you believe such semantics will gain you anything! My virtue is neither here nor there. In order for any man to become my husband—and through me, exert any control at all over the Hall, its lands, and its people—I have to agree. Before God, witnesses, and an altar, I have to agree. And I can assure you that, regardless of anything you think to do to me, I will never marry you!” Her voice had escalated to a reined shout. “And for your information, regardless means in no circumstances whatsoever!”

A slight pause ensued, then Wallace responded, his tone not quite so cocksure, “You’ve lived too isolated—you don’t understand how ploys such as this work. Simply by me letting it be known that you’ve spent the night here, under my roof, with me in residence at the same time, you will be ruined.” Wallace’s voice strengthened. “That’s the way society works, and, my dear Jacqueline, there’s nothing you can do to change that. I don’t even have to lay a hand on you, and truth be told, I’ve never been attracted to women with tempers—too much effort to tame. But that’s of no moment—just by being here, you will be ruined, and my desired outcome, namely marriage to you, is therefore assured.”

Somewhere deeper in the room, a chair squeaked. Richard sensed that Wallace was sitting while Jacqueline was on her feet, possibly pacing, closer to the window.

Apparently convinced by his own arguments, more eagerly, Wallace went on, “I have it all planned. It’s entirely straightforward. Now that I have you here, the best thing you can do is to accept the inevitable with good grace—no need for any tantrums and tears. I assure you such behavior will have no impact on what will, ultimately, occur. Once you accept that I hold the upper hand, you can save your reputation from even the faintest slur by agreeing to marry me immediately.”

Richard frowned, wondering how…

After a pause—no doubt a gloating one—Wallace went on, “I have a special license and a priest in my pocket.” In more persuasive vein, he continued, “Just say the word, and we can be married within the hour—no fuss, no whispers, no slurs on your good name.”

“You are still not listening.” Jacqueline’s tone had hardened, her voice conveying adamantine resolution. “I don’t care what plans you’ve made. The notion of marrying a man like you curdles my stomach. No matter your actions, one fact remains: You cannot marry me without my agreement. And regardless of what you stoop to do, I will never, ever, agree to marry you.”

Silence greeted that declaration.

Alarm flaring, Richard turned to the men plastered as he was against the wall and, by signaling with his hands and mouthing orders, explained what he wanted done.

Suddenly, in the drawing room, Wallace spat, “It’s that damned man, Montague—isn’t it?” His voice had taken on an ugly edge. Richard felt certain Wallace had come to his feet. His voice drew nearer, as if he was approaching the window—stalking closer to Jacqueline. “I saw the way you looked at him. So the wretch got in first, did he? Did he turn your head and make you fall in love with him?” Abruptly, Wallace sounded a lot closer. His tone was sneering as he said, “He did, didn’t he?”

“Let me go, you fiend!”

“No—why should I? You’re in my house, in my power. Entirely in my control.” A scuffle sounded. “Oh-ho! Don’t like that, heh? But yes, you’re now mine to do with as I please.” Wallace’s tone had turned vicious.

Timing was everything. Richard held the men poised and waited—there were bound to be other men inside, not just Wallace. Richard wanted the master well and truly distracted before he launched their attack.

“You say you don’t care what I stoop to, so let’s put that to the test, shall we?” Wallace was all but slavering. “Let’s see how proud you are afterward.”

His face hard, Richard gave the signal, sending most of the men scurrying past him and around to the front of the house, while the stronger, heavier men circled to the rear door.

Wallace ground out, “Montague left you and rode away, you silly bitch! He got what he wanted, so there’s no need to feel shy about sharing yourself around—”

A resounding slap echoed through the room.

Now standing pressed against the wall beside the window, Richard breathed, “Come on—come on.”

* * *

Inside Sir Peregrine’s drawing room, beyond furious, Jacqueline wrenched and tugged, fighting to free her wrist from Sir Peregrine’s tight grip.

He was staring at her, momentarily shocked by her slap, the imprint of her fingers and palm showing white against his pink cheek, but his hold on her wrist hadn’t slackened in the least.

She couldn’t break free.

Abruptly, she stopped struggling and went on the attack instead. Stepping toward him, glaring directly into his face, she stated through furiously clenched teeth, “It’s none of your business who I love—you’re not fit to even say the word!”

Instinctively, she knew she needed Wallace furious—furious and not thinking clearly, then he would make mistakes. In the circumstances, she was perfectly prepared to clout him senseless with the bronze semi-nude figurine she could see on a side table, but she had to get a hand on the statue first.

She glowered into his face and belligerently rolled on, “And yes, Montague might not have valued what I had to give, and yes, he’s gone, but, you blithering idiot, that doesn’t mean I’ll stop loving him—that’s not how love works! And even if I did eventually look elsewhere, I would never lower my standards to the point of accepting a proposal from the likes of you! You are unquestionably the very worst of a batch of unsuitable suitors—I wouldn’t accept you were death in the balance!”

Under her unrelenting onslaught, Wallace had paled, but now his light-brown eyes glittered, cruelty and malice swirling in their depths. “That can be arranged, my dear. But first, if you like it rough…”

Wallace yanked her wrist up, jerking her against him.

She couldn’t help her gasp, and her eyes flew wide. She struggled to step back, but his other arm banded her waist, and then he tipped back his head and laughed.

“Oh yes—glorious.” He looked down, into her face; his eyes, gleaming maniacally, trapped hers. “Rough as you like, my dear—I’m only too happy to oblige!” Abruptly, he swung around and bent her back over the edge of another side table. His face had contorted into a mask of lasciviousness. His gaze lowered to her breasts, heaving beneath her tight bodice. “Oh yes, indeed—I guarantee you won’t find me lacking in that regard. And once I’m finished with you—with breaking you in and instructing you—you’ll be only too happy to spread your legs for my friends as well. Dashwood will enjoy using you—he’s especially partial to the hoity ones brought to kneel before him.”

Under her now openly horrified gaze, Wallace licked his thick lips, then he glanced up and met her eyes…

She fell into his gaze, and suddenly, she couldn’t breathe as revulsion rose up and choked her.

She’d misjudged. Panic lent her desperate strength; she forced her lungs to fill and, eyes closing, screamed!

Wallace laughed. “Yes, yes! It only adds to the pleasure!”

Hammering fell on the front door, heavy and insistent.

She and Wallace both jerked and looked toward the drawing room door—Wallace with surprise, she with leaping hope.

Wallace glanced back at her and saw her expression, and his slavering smile returned. “Whoever they are, it’ll do you no good. My staff know to deny all comers at moments like this. They know I like my privacy.”

The blackguard bent her farther back. Her gaze locked with his, with her free hand, she groped behind her, hoping to find something on the table she might use as a weapon, but nothing met her questing fingertips; it seemed this table was bare—

To her right, the side window shattered behind the curtain, then came the sound of the sash being shoved upward, and the curtain was ripped aside.

Even as she and Wallace blinked, Richard Montague sat on the sill, then swung his long legs into the room. His face a grim mask promising all manner of retribution, he planted his feet on the boards and stood, his sword, blade naked, in his hand.

Jacqueline’s heart soared. She’d never in her life seen such a welcome sight.

Such a promising sight in so many ways.

Noise erupted on the other side of the drawing room door.

After one swift, comprehensive glance that seemed to have taken in every inch of her, Richard’s gaze had fixed on Wallace. Slowly, Richard smiled. Chillingly. He stepped forward, swishing his sword side to side through the air. “It appears, Wallace, that you require a lesson in manners. Unhand the lady, sirrah.”

Wallace had frozen, but although his grip on her had slackened, his body still trapped hers against the table—she couldn’t move until he did.

Then the drawing room door crashed open, startling Wallace so much he swiveled to stare—locking her against him as he did.

She gritted her teeth and peeked around Wallace. Crawley and Ostley filled the doorway, and she glimpsed other Hall men behind them.

Crawley took in the scene in a searching glance, then he tipped a salute to Richard. “All present and accounted for out here, sir.”

“Thank you.” Richard’s gaze had returned to Wallace. “Close the door.”

Crawley and Ostley backed out, and the door shut with a definite click.

Jacqueline felt Wallace’s chest expand as he hauled in a huge breath, then he flung her away—toward the wall—and lunged for the sword he’d left propped against the side of the fireplace.

Her back hit the wall—the front wall of the house—and Jacqueline steadied. She watched as Wallace, the sword’s hilt in his hand, turned with a snarl to face Richard. With a dramatic flourish, Wallace unsheathed the sword. He flung the sheath to the side and sliced the blade through the air. “I warn you, Montague, I’m considered something of a master with this blade.” Wallace swished the steel side to side, then cocked a brow at Richard. “You sure you don’t want to put that down? We could share her, if you like.”

Richard stilled. Fleetingly, something primal passed through his eyes, then his lips curved mockingly. “That’s not why I’m here. I have a lesson to administer, if you recall. But as for your claim to mastery…” Crooking the fingers of his left hand, he beckoned Wallace on. “Let’s put that to the test, shall we?”

Gracefully, Richard straightened and presented the formal salute.

Facing him, several paces away, Wallace barely performed the salute before launching himself at Richard in a furious attack.

Jacqueline’s heart leapt to her throat, and her breath caught, but apparently, Richard had foreseen the attack; before Wallace struck, Richard was already moving and fluidly countered. Then, with seemingly effortless grace, one hand raised behind him in the classic swordsman’s stance, his feet shifting as if in a dance, Richard struck back.

They were much of a height, with Wallace possibly an inch taller; while Richard appeared more athletic, more muscular and powerful, Wallace probably had the longer reach.

For the next minute, the flash of steel back and forth was too fast for Jacqueline to follow.

Was Wallace truly a master with the blade? Was he toying with Richard—or was it the other way about?

The next minute of slashing and ringing steel left her in no doubt. If Wallace was a master, then Richard Montague was a past master; Richard was making Wallace look awkward and frequently off balance.

Then, without any warning Jacqueline detected, Richard launched a flurry of slashing strokes—and when, on a gasp, Wallace stumbled back, he was blinking, and a slash down one cheek was trickling blood.

Richard’s lesson didn’t end there. If anything, the engagement became more rigidly defined, more completely under his control.

Soon, Wallace was panting. He fell back, giving ground. He was now sporting several slashes—on his face, on his hands, and even on his arms, blood seeping through slashes in his sleeves—and was starting to look panicked. He hadn’t once got past Richard’s guard.

“Who the devil are you?” Wallace edged back another step. “You’re not just some landless gentleman wandering past.”

Jacqueline looked at Richard. She’d grown increasingly sure of the same thing; there was an absolute confidence at the core of Richard Montague that his skill with the sword was only underscoring.

The ends of Richard’s lips lifted, his half smile mockingly intent. “Whoever said I was a landless gentleman?” He raised his sword in a taunting gesture. “But never mind who I am—we’re here to determine who you are, Wallace. Or should I say”—Richard’s voice lowered—“what you are, given you count Dashwood among your cronies.”

Mention of the infamous Sir Francis Dashwood seemed to fire something in Wallace. Teeth gritted, he launched another, this time clearly desperate, attack.

Jacqueline’s hands flew to her face. She pressed her fingers to her lips to hold back her helpless squeak as she looked on in near panic.

The blades were a flurry of shining steel. Both men were moving and circling so swiftly, striking with such vigor, it was difficult to follow—

Straightening, almost contemptuously, Richard batted aside Wallace’s blade, then, in a fluid movement that had him rising on his toes, sliced viciously, diagonally, across Wallace’s chest.

Winded, Wallace snarled soundlessly. He stumbled back and bumped into the other side table, half folding over it. His face contorted beyond recognition, he seized the statue Jacqueline had seen and swung back—

“Look out!” she screamed.

She needn’t have worried. Richard had guessed. He was already moving when Wallace struck, attempting to brain him.

Having viciously struck nothing but air, Wallace teetered, then started to flail, trying to catch his balance. The tip of his sword caught Richard’s left sleeve and ripped.

Already past Wallace, Richard stepped inside the man’s guard and, with the hilt of his sword, administered a distinctly ungentle tap to Wallace’s head. Even from the other side of the room, Jacqueline heard the thunk, then Wallace’s eyes rolled up, his limbs went limp, and he collapsed in a heap on the floor.

For an instant, Jacqueline stared at Wallace, then she raised her gaze to Richard.

Her savior.

Panting slightly, he stood looking down at Wallace, his fallen foe. Then, slowly, Richard raised his head and looked at her.

Jacqueline all but flew across the room—flew into the arms that opened and gathered her in. For a split second, she gloried in his warmth and strength, then she pulled back, and her gaze locked on his left forearm. “Oh God—he cut you! There’s blood oozing through your sleeve!”

“Hmm?” Richard released her and glanced at the slash. He flexed his arm, then shook his head. “It’s barely a flesh wound. It’ll stop in a moment.” He returned his gaze to her face—to her beloved countenance—and caught her eyes. “Are you all right?”

The only question that mattered.

“Me?” She frowned, her attention diverting once more to his injured forearm. “Yes, of course.” Then the true meaning of his question registered, and she looked up and met his eyes. “Nothing happened. You arrived in time.”

Then something like wonder stole across her face. Her lips softened; her fascinating blue-green eyes shone. “You came back.”

He grunted and looked down at Wallace. “Obviously, I should never have left.” He nudged Wallace with the toe of one boot, but the man didn’t stir. “I saw his man watching us—me—at the fair yesterday. Wallace must have set a watch, waiting for me to leave the Hall and ride on before he made his move.” He frowned. “To have acted so quickly after I left suggests he was in a hurry.”

From the corner of his eye, Richard saw the door carefully opening. He ignored it. He stepped to the side, placed his sword on the table, then he reached for Jacqueline’s hands; taking one in each of his, he drew her fully to face him. Away from the crumpled heap that was Wallace.

Standing before her, Richard looked into her face, into her lovely eyes—eyes that were wide and clear and that had always seen him for the man he truly was. He raised first one hand, then the other, to his lips. “I was a fool to leave you—even for a moment. I won’t make that mistake again. Because, in the end, I couldn’t leave—I didn’t truly want to. My heart was, and always will be, with you.”

She’d stopped breathing. So had he. Or so it felt.

Time stood still.

Then, lost in her eyes, he drew in a shuddering breath and took the final plunge. “Wallace was correct in stating that I’m no landless gentleman wandering past. My full name is Richard Edward Montague Devries. I’m the second son of the Marquess of Harwich. I’m rich beyond reckoning and stand to inherit more—I have an estate in Lincolnshire and am like to have another in Oxfordshire soon. By all society’s standards, I’m overly eligible, but until these last days, in all my years of being on the town, in society, I’ve found no lady to love. No lady I could love who would return the favor and love me back. I’ve been a lost soul for years, drifting aimlessly, but when I walked up the Nimway Hall drive and passed into your great hall, I found my anchor. My port in life’s storm.” He held her gaze and simply said, “I found you. And I hope and pray that you will accept my love and will love me back. Yet regardless of whether you do or not, I am yours, now and for eternity.”

Her eyes—those glorious eyes—had filled with tears. Happy tears; he was experienced enough to know that.

Emboldened by the sight, with her hands still clasped in his, he went down on one knee and voiced the question he’d thought he would never want to ask. “Jacqueline Tregarth, will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

Her eyes remained locked with his while, slowly, her lips curved, then she smiled—transcendent joy lighting her face. “Yes, of course—I would be honored to marry you.” Her voice was husky with emotion, yet her words rang strong and true. She pressed his fingers. “Not because you are Lord Richard Devries, well connected, I’m sure, and wealthy beyond compare, but because you are the man I and my people have come to admire and trust, to love and to cherish, and because, today, you turned back and came home and came for me.”

“When you need me, I will always be there—I will always stand as your protector.”

“And that,” Jacqueline said, “is as it should be.”

Misty-eyed, she smiled into his eyes, certain to her soul that this—their union—was meant, fated.

Then she pulled on his hands, tugging him up, and he rose. She released his hands, flung her arms about his neck, and lifted her face for his kiss.

Richard didn’t think but simply responded to her cue, bent his head, and set his lips to hers.

In a kiss that should have been a mere formality, an acknowledgment of their betrothed state, but which, instead, from the first brush of their lips, blossomed into a physical echo of their vow—burgeoning with promise, passion, and meaning.

With contentment and a profound sense of rightness; all rose in a great, irresistible wave and washed through them. Swamping all relief, replacing all anxiety with the shining prospect of their future.

This is as it should be.

The realization thrummed through him, a certainty that struck through his heart and anchored him as nothing else ever had, and as her fingers rose and caressed his cheek and her lips moved beneath his in wordless invitation, he angled his head, parted her lips, and unerringly steered the kiss into deeper waters.

Waters he knew well, but to which she was unaccustomed. Nevertheless, her hand metaphorically in his, she took to the play as one born to the role—the role of being his bride. His wife. His lady.

Eventually, reluctantly, he drew back, if for no other reason than to allow them both to catch their breaths and steady their giddy heads.

When their lips parted and he raised his head, she looked up at him, her customary serenity infused with a golden joy he hoped to see for the rest of his life. Would work for the rest of his life to see.

He looked into her eyes and saw therein the same expectation he felt rising within, a heady sense of anticipation founded on the sure knowledge that they had seized and secured an indescribably precious prize.

A creak and a tentative knock on the doorframe had them both looking that way.

To see the doorway crowded with her men all sporting beaming faces. Clearly, they did not need to explain their new relationship.

Nevertheless, buoyed by a feeling of irresistible pride, Richard turned to face the men, raised Jacqueline’s hand, and formally declared, “Your mistress has done me the honor of agreeing to be my wife.” He glanced at Jacqueline and caught her eyes. “And I solemnly swear to stand beside the guardian of Nimway Hall for the rest of our lives.”

The men cheered, clapped, and slapped backs. There could be no doubt the news was welcome.

Then Crawley led the others in. They bowed to Jacqueline and Richard, then peered inquisitively at the still-slumped and insensible form of Sir Peregrine Wallace.

“Now, that is a sight to behold,” Crawley said. “Mr. Hugh always said he was a bad’un.”

“So what do we do with him?” Hopkins, along with Ostley, stood staring down at Wallace.

Richard realized that wasn’t a straightforward question. Wallace was a neighboring landowner, and, moreover, any charges brought against him would involve the local magistrate, and the news would spread throughout the local area. “I think,” he said, his gaze resting on Wallace, “that we should consider carefully the best way to deal with our villain—the way that will suit us best.”

“Sir—m’lord.” Billy Brakes hovered by the doorway; the boy’s use of Richard’s title confirmed that the men had, indeed, heard all of Richard’s earlier declaration. “Mrs. Pickles—she’s the housekeeper here—wants to know if you and Miss Jacqueline would like a pot of tea.”

Richard blinked, then looked at Cruickshank.

“The Pickles,” Cruickshank explained, “worked as butler and housekeeper for Sir Peregrine’s parents. They stayed on, but they’ve been very unhappy with their young master. They don’t approve of his outlandish interests or his association with thugs like Morgan.”

Richard glanced at Crawley and Hopkins and arched a brow. “Where is Morgan?”

Hopkins grinned, immensely satisfied. “He and his two friends—meaning Higson, Wallace’s valet, and Jenner, the groom—are tied up nice and tight in the stable.”

Jacqueline looked at Billy Brakes. “Our thanks to Mrs. Pickles, Billy, and yes, we would like some tea.” She looked at Richard. “Obviously, deciding how to deal appropriately with Wallace and his men is going to take some time.”

Richard inclined his head. He guided Jacqueline to a small sofa, then waved the men to find what seats they might. “As to that, I rather think…”

* * *

After considerable discussion, led by Richard and Jacqueline but freely contributed to by the assembled Hall men, with their best way forward defined, all agreed that Richard—Lord Richard—was the most appropriate person to interrogate Wallace.

“I”—Jacqueline glanced at her men, gathered around, then returned her gaze to Richard—“trust you and your instincts to secure the best outcome for Nimway Hall.”

The men all rumbled in assent.

Richard inclined his head, accepting the commission; inside, he felt honored by their confidence.

With all decided, they set their stage and elected to rouse Sir Peregrine, still unconscious, via the application of a jug of cold water.

Jacqueline claimed the right to administer the treatment and did so with relish.

Wallace spluttered and coughed, then struggled up on one elbow; they’d left him lying where he’d fallen, slumped in front of a sideboard.

Shaking water from his face, he opened one bleary eye and looked around. Then he shifted, wincing, and dragged himself up to prop his shoulders against the sideboard.

Finally, he squinted at his accusers. They’d moved two armchairs to face him; Richard and Jacqueline sat regally enthroned while the men of the Hall stood in a semicircle around them. All stared in condemnation at Wallace.

Eventually, Wallace brought his gaze to Richard. Weakly, Wallace waved. “Can’t I at least sit?” His tone was one step away from a whine.

“No.” Richard’s tone, in contrast, was adamantine. “We wouldn’t want you to get ideas above your station. You surrendered all claim to civilized treatment when you kidnapped Miss Tregarth. Be thankful we haven’t tied you up or visited any physical punishment on you. Yet.”

Wallace blinked. His expression suggested the reality of his predicament was starting to sink in. His pallor worsened, turning sickly. He focused on Richard. “We’re gentlemen, Montague—surely we can come to some…ah, agreement—some arrangement—over this”—he waved weakly—“contretemps.”

Jacqueline uttered a derisive sound that made her opinion of Wallace’s suggestion clear.

His lips quirking, Richard glanced at her, then looked back at Wallace. He regarded Wallace steadily for long enough to make the worm squirm, then, in contemplative tone, said, “I doubt Miss Tregarth or her people consider your transgressions a mere contretemps.” He paused and, voice strengthening, observed, “I know I don’t. And, incidentally, the name is Devries. Lord Richard Devries.”

Wallace blinked, then his brain caught up with the information, and his eyes widened. He looked at Richard with increasing horror as full realization of the power of the man into whose hands he’d fallen—the man of whom he’d made an enemy—registered. Throughout the length and breadth of England, the name of Devries was synonymous with political and social power.

Richard allowed a cold smile to curve his lips. “Indeed. Now that we understand each other…as to any arrangement, that will depend on how helpful you prove to be. How eager to make appropriate amends.”

Now as pale as an over-bleached sheet, Wallace shifted and, in a strangled voice, offered, “Whatever you wish. Anything I can do…”

Unimpressed, Richard sat back and steepled his fingers before his face. “You can start by explaining your connection to Dashwood.”

Isolated though Nimway Hall was, Jacqueline and all the Hall men had nevertheless heard of Sir Francis Dashwood, his followers, and their licentious proclivities.

Wallace hurried to comply. Strand by strand, thread by thread, Richard drew out the details of Wallace’s association with the notorious libertine. When Wallace recounted his plan to volunteer Nimway Hall as the perfect site for Dashwood’s “entertainments”—his Order’s orgies—explaining that the Hall’s putative connection with Nimue and Merlin, and the orb itself, made the site, in the eyes of such as Wallace and Dashwood, beyond perfect for such use, Wallace effectively rendered Jacqueline and her men speechless.

Although it was the first Richard had heard of Wallace’s true motive, his real reason for wanting to gain control of Nimway Hall, Richard wasn’t quite so surprised; as soon as Wallace had mentioned Dashwood, Richard had started to wonder if Wallace’s connection with Dashwood—and the Hall’s history—was behind Wallace’s drive to seize the Hall. And the orb.

That the Hall’s site, the orb, and the associated legends had been responsible for Jacqueline, the household, and the Hall itself being targeted by such as Dashwood for defilement was understandably deeply shocking. It was also a call to arms, a threat to which all there—other than Wallace—responded.

Before any of the Hall men could act on that feeling, Richard reasserted control and embarked on an inquisition designed to extract all the incidental information Wallace possessed of Dashwood’s activities and of the structure and the members of his Order of the Knights of St. Francis.

While Dashwood skirted the bounds of law-abiding society, his activities were closely watched by those in power. While the others in Wallace’s drawing room might not understand the significance of much of what Wallace revealed, Richard did and knew his father and his uncle, the bishop, would be glad of the intelligence.

“Very well.” Finally satisfied he’d wrung all he could from Wallace on that topic, Richard moved on to his next stipulation. “The deed to the property north of the Hall estate—Windmill Farm. How did you acquire that?”

Wallace shifted, his gaze falling. “In a card game.”

“A game that was rigged to ensure you won?” Richard asked.

Judging by the shifting of Wallace’s eyes, he debated lying, but then raised one shoulder. “I needed it to be able to offer assistance to the Hall once the stream ran dry…”

“Indeed.” Richard paused, then inquired, “Who did you win the deed from, and what happened to them?”

Wallace mumbled, “It was Percy Lydford. As for what happened to him, I haven’t the faintest idea.”

When he volunteered nothing more, Crawley growled, “Percy Lydford was a nice young man—local family, as the name suggests. He’d only just come into his inheritance. He wasn’t no farmer himself, no more’n his father before him. Merchants of sorts, they were—the farm’s always been run by the Wilsons.”

“It still is,” Wallace somewhat defiantly put in.

“So you preyed on this local young man and cheated him of his inheritance.” Richard paused, then observed, “You certainly haven’t been endearing yourself to those ’round about, have you?”

When, unsurprisingly, Wallace made no reply, Richard continued, “So where is Percy Lydford now?”

Again, Wallace shrugged.

“Last I heard,” Ned Ostley said, “he’d moved to Bath to see what work he could find with the merchants there.”

“I see.” His gaze resting on Wallace, Richard tapped his chin with his steepled fingers. “I believe, Wallace, that it will be necessary for you to track down Percy Lydford, confess your cheating ways, and offer him cash to the tune of the worth of Windmill Farm.”

Wallace frowned.

Imperturbably, Richard went on, “The sum will be determined by Miss Tregarth in consultation with others. In order for you to satisfy me that you have discharged this part of your penance, you will obtain a written statement from Percy Lydford that he has received the stated amount from your hand. I will give you a month to complete that task.”

Wallace glanced up.

Before he could make any comment, Richard smoothly rolled on, “And in recompense for the trouble you have caused Miss Tregarth and the household and tenants of Nimway Hall, you will make over the deed to Windmill Farm to Miss Tregarth and the Hall estate. As you so rightly concluded, access to the spring located on that farm will insure the Hall estate against any future water shortages.”

Wallace wanted to argue, to protest and refuse, but the reality of Richard’s power held him back. After several moments of inner wrestling, Wallace peevishly shrugged. “Easy come, easy go.”

“And that, Wallace, is a maxim you would do well to take to heart.” Richard kept his tone even, but took a leaf from his father’s book and allowed menace to ride just beneath his outwardly urbane surface. “Any further action of any nature whatsoever by you or any associated with you against Miss Tregarth or the Nimway Hall estate will result in a great deal of noise being made about your…tendencies…in the hearing of those guaranteed to make it their business to hunt you down and mete out appropriate punishment. Your morals, of course, will be shown to be questionable, as will your reliability—your ability to keep your counsel and even your word… There won’t, I promise you, be any place—any corner, nook, or cranny—left for you in society. Not even in Dashwood’s circle.”

Wallace read the truth of that threat in Richard’s eyes. Slowly, Wallace’s face set. Then he sat up, clearly intending to get to his feet.

Instantly, the Hall men tensed, bristling.

Wallace froze, then slowly subsided. In a voice devoid of emotion, he said, “The deed’s in my lockbox.”

“Which is where?” Richard asked.

“In the study,” Wallace sullenly replied.

“Excellent. You and I will repair there, and while you’re executing the transfer, which, of course, must be done formally, I’ll take sworn statements from your staff and all others in the house to the effect that Miss Tregarth took no harm whatsoever while she traveled in your coach and during the few short minutes she was alone with you here, in the drawing room.” Richard smiled. “I’m sure Mrs. Pickles had her ear to the panel and can testify to that.”

Richard watched as the very last glimmer of cunning that had lived in Wallace’s eyes faded and died, and all fight—all hope—fled.

Satisfied that he’d spiked the last of Wallace’s potential weapons, Richard rose. He looked down at Wallace, once again slumped against the sideboard. And finally allowed his contempt to show. “Get on your feet, you cur, and let’s make a start on putting everything you disrupted back to rights.”

Wallace glanced up, briefly, then he looked down and, somewhat unsteadily, hauled himself to his feet.

Richard waved Wallace to precede him out of the door, through which Hopkins and several of the other men had already gone, no doubt to ensure Wallace had no chance to escape.

After one swift glance at Jacqueline, who responded with a look of outright disgust, Wallace turned to the door and, his feet dragging, went out.

Richard paused to catch Jacqueline’s eye. “Do you want to join us?”

She thought, then shook her head. “No. The less I see of him, the better.”

Richard nodded. “Leave him to me. Why don’t you have another cup of tea? This shouldn’t take long.”

Jacqueline found herself smiling. “Send in Mrs. Pickles—I’m sure she could do with someone to confide in.”

“Good thinking.” Richard tipped her a salute and went out.

Jacqueline watched him go, then relaxed into the chair.

She looked inward, assessing, then she smiled and settled to wait for her protector to put all right, and her husband-to-be to return to her.

* * *

An hour later, Jacqueline walked by Richard’s side through the shrubbery and the adjoining woods to the clearing where they’d left their horses. Behind them, the Hall’s men trudged and talked. All, it seemed, were well satisfied with the outcome Richard had wrought.

There would be no scandal, and there would be no further threat—not to her, the Hall, or the orb.

And they’d come away with the deed to Windmill Farm, which appeased the natural demand for recompense, for the villain to pay.

Of particular note, at least to her, was that, amid the crafting and signing over of the deed to the farm, Richard had thought to send one of the lads running to the boys left to mind the horses, dispatching one boy to ride hard for the Hall, bearing news of her rescue, that she was well and unharmed, and that their party would return to the Hall shortly.

She smiled to herself. As she’d already noted, Lord Richard Devries was a thoughtful man.

He was also observant and insightful; he hadn’t bothered wasting breath suggesting she ride back to the Hall in Wallace’s coach. Just the thought sent a shiver down her spine; she’d hated those moments of being sightless and helpless, rocking away to she’d known not where.

They reached the clearing, and Richard led her to his huge dappled gray, Malcolm the Great. The horse lifted his head and looked around inquiringly. Richard stroked the horse’s neck. “You could ride before or behind me.”

She smiled. “Before.”

He lifted her to the saddle and held her steady while she crooked her knee around the low pommel and arranged her skirts. He released her, glanced around to ensure the other men were mounting up without issue, then set his boot in the stirrup, swung up, and settled across the horse’s broad back behind her.

As his arms came around her, caging and protecting her, and he gathered the reins, she felt her smile spontaneously deepen. She felt utterly safe and totally captured at the same time.

Richard walked Malcolm the Great out of the wood. When they reached the lane, and Richard turned north, toward the Hall, and at his urging, the big gelding lengthened his stride, Jacqueline relaxed against the warm chest at her back and, finally, allowed herself to sigh.

With relief, with pleasure, and a sense of going forward. Of finally moving on into the next stage of her life—of having it open up before her.

The steady, heavy clop of the gelding’s hooves and the rumbling thunder of her men riding behind underscored the feeling.

When they reached the outskirts of Balesboro Wood, she directed Richard down a narrow bridle path. “It’s significantly faster this way.”

He softly humphed, his breath wafting her hair. “We’ll see.”

Sometime later, after he’d instinctively—without any sign whatever from her—taken the correct turning for the Hall, he murmured, “I’ve noticed that whenever I’m riding with you, I don’t get lost—I don’t feel lost. Not as I did when I first wandered into this wood. And earlier today, when I rode back to the Hall… I didn’t think of it then—I was just focused on getting back—but I didn’t once take a wrong turn or even pause to think which way to go.”

She smiled and made no comment.

They came to another fork in the path. “Don’t tell me,” he murmured. And, as before, even though it wasn’t at all obvious which path was the correct one, he unerringly went the right way.

After a moment, she laid a hand on his sleeve and softly said, “If you don’t fight it, you will always find your way back to the Hall.”

Richard felt her touch, felt the reality of her observation settle like a benediction on him, and finally, let go.

Of all resistance to the legends of Nimway Hall.

He relaxed and rode on, allowing Malcolm the Great—or whatever was steering him—to find his way, tacking from one bridle path to the next as they passed beneath the towering trees of Balesboro Wood.

And as he’d expected, without let or hindrance, he led their small procession to the door of Nimway Hall.