The sooner they got off the road, the better. Dominick couldn't have been more conspicuous if he had been painted scarlet. He kept the horse at a canter, hoping that he would remember the twists and turns that led to the cottage. During the days he had stayed there, he had come and gone by night and been heavily cloaked to conceal his wild appearance.

Luckily the cottage wasn't far, and it was approached by a sunken lane so no one was likely to see them during the last stretch. He was grateful that Roxanne seemed unafraid. A lesser female would be having strong hysterics.

He knew he should identify himself, but once they started talking, the explanations would be lengthy and possibly acrimonious. He preferred to remain silent a little longer. During a hard decade of traveling in the world's wild places, he had yearned for this moment a thousand times, and now he wanted to savor the wonder of her presence.

The cottage was set in the center of an apple orchard. It was the height of spring blooming, and the bewitching scent of blossoms hung heavy in the air as he pulled the gelding to a halt and dismounted.

When he lifted his arms to help Roxanne down, she came readily enough, sliding from the horse's back to land a foot away from Dominick. She really was a little bit of a thing, the top of her gloriously red head scarcely reaching his chin.

For a long moment they stared at each other. With ten thousand things to say, all he could manage was to ask softly, "Do you recognize me, Roxanne?"

"Of course I do, you idiot!" she snapped. "Have you lost your mind, Dominick Chandler?"

He laughed buoyantly. "I should have known that I couldn't fool you! I'm glad. You might have been frightened otherwise, and I certainly didn't want that."

"I find your solicitude unconvincing." Her eyes narrowed. "Having ruined my life ten years ago, it appears that you have come back to ruin my reputation as well."

He sighed as he thought of all the complications ahead. "I didn't plan it this way, but I thought that masquerading as a savage might help me get close enough to you to talk. I couldn't bear it when I saw you leaving, so I acted on impulse."

"I can see that you haven't matured any since I last saw you," she said acerbically. Taking the gelding's reins, she led it to a stump, climbed up, and tried to mount, but the stump wasn't high enough. After failing twice--and showing a delicious amount of leg in the process--she said, "Help me up. If I return to town quickly, it might be possible to salvage my reputation."

"Is that all you're concerned about? Your reputation?" He caught the gelding's reins. "I didn't go to this effort merely for the pleasure of running off with you for half an hour. We must talk, Roxanne."

"That's Miss Mayfield to you!" Standing on the stump put her eyes on a level with his. ''There's only one thing I want to do with you, and it isn't talk."

Of course; he should have had the sense to kiss her right away. They could find each more quickly in an embrace than by speaking. He moved forward, eager to take her into his arms.

She hauled back her right arm and slapped him across the cheek with all her strength.

He rocked back on his heels. Eyes watering, he said, "You're angry over what happened."

It was her turn look incredulous. "Angry? That doesn't begin to describe how I feel!" For an instant her lip trembled. "The words don't exist, Lord Chandler."

"You know that my uncle died two years ago," he said with interest.

She looked away. "I noticed his obituary in the newspaper. Believe me, I was not following your inglorious career!"

But she had noticed, and remembered. "Come inside and I'll make a pot of tea," he suggested. "I imagine that we could both use some."

“I could use some tea. What you need is a shave, some decent clothing, and a sense of shame!"

She tried to rake him with a scathing glance, but her gaze faltered somewhere around his chest. He found her bashfulness enchanting. Taking the gelding's reins, he said, "I'll rub this fellow down if you'll start a fire and put the kettle on. I should be finished by the time it's boiling."

Not budging from her stump, she said, "Do thieves always take such good care of the horses they steal?"

He stroked the gelding's sweaty neck. "I didn't steal Thunder. He belongs to my friend George. He's a fine fellow. I wouldn't have cared to try jumping that cart with a strange mount."

She hopped from the ground into the lush, ankle high grass. "You thought of everything, I see. Does the cottage belong to George as well?"

"As a matter of fact, it does." He led the gelding into the shed that leaned against the cottage. As he tethered it, he continued, "This is a remote comer of his estate. I stayed here for several days while we worked out the details of my plan. My baggage is still here."

She sniffed. "I'm surprised that you were able to convince a grown man to participate in something so childish."

Dominick grinned. "It took some persuasion, but once George agreed to help, he had even more fun than I did. What a stuffy lot those scholars were! It was amusing to lead them on."

Roxanne's hands knotted into fists, and she fought the temptation to hit him again. This was all just a game to Dominick. He was no more serious now than he had been ten years ago. All of her pain, all of her agonized, sleepless nights, had been wasted. She was a thousand times a fool!

Spinning on her heel, she marched toward the sunken lane. In two quick steps he was beside her, halting her progress with a hand on her elbow. "Where are you going?"

"That's a foolish question," she snapped. "Back to Plymouth. If I can't ride, I'll walk. It can't be more than four or five miles."

"No," he said flatly. His grip tightened on her elbow. "You are staying here until I've had a chance to say my piece."

Faint sun-baked lines bracketed his eyes. He looked older, harder, and far more menacing than when she had known him before. For the first time she felt uneasy.

Well, she had changed, too. She was no longer the adoring, malleable female who had agreed with everything her sweetheart said. Jerking her arm free, she said, "You dare to hold me prisoner?"

He scooped her up again and carried her toward the cottage. "Having kidnapped you in front of an inn full of witnesses, I can hardly be in worse trouble than I am already."

This time there were no potential rescuers in the next room, and she fought for her freedom in dead earnest. He grunted when she drove her elbow into his belly, then jerked his head back when she clawed at his eyes. Her fingertips raked down his cheek, leaving red marks in the flesh above his beard. "Stop that, you little hellcat!"

She redoubled her efforts and for a moment she thought he was going to release her. Instead, he changed his grip, locking her arms by her sides. To her fury, he seemed more amused than upset. "It's good to know that my darling vixen hasn't been obliterated entirely," he said in a dulcet tone.

She caught her breath, unnerved to hear his old, loving nickname. Ceasing her struggle, she said in a voice that could have chipped ice, "I am not your vixen, darling or otherwise."

He turned sideways and ducked his head as he carried her into the cottage. It was a simple place, but clean. The whitewashed walls, rag rug, and well-worn wooden furniture had a certain homely charm.

He set her down again. "You can either walk into the bedroom, or I can carry you. What is your preference?"

She gasped, truly shocked. "So the purpose of your masquerade is rape?"

He looked startled. Then, as he realized how she had interpreted his words, he flushed scarlet. "Surely you can't think that I would ever force you!'"

Her eyes narrowed. "Raping my body would be a mere bagatelle compared to what you did to my heart.'"

The blood drained from his face, leaving him pale beneath his tanned skin. "I'm truly sorry for what happened, Roxanne, but I had no choice.”

She retorted, "One always has a choice! The ones you've made do you no credit."

"Perhaps you're right," he said quietly. "But I did the best I knew how."

The pain in his eyes caught her off guard. This was the private, vulnerable Dominick with whom she had fallen in love. She vowed silently that she would not let him cozen her again, but she felt wry sympathy for Eve, beguiled by the serpent in the Garden of Eden.

Trying to conceal her weakness, she said, "If you’re not interested in rape, why do you want me in the bedroom?"

"So I can lock you in while I rub down the horse," he said with exasperation. "I want to insure that you're here when I'm done, and the bedroom windows are too high and small for you to escape." He surveyed her. "Though now that I think about it, you might be small enough to get out that way. It will have to be the pantry. It's the only other door that can be locked from the outside."

Wordlessly she stalked to a door that opened from the kitchen end of the room. Seeing that it was the pantry, she stepped inside and slammed the door shut with a force that made the shelves inside vibrate. As he latched the door, she scanned her surroundings, glad that a high, narrow window let in light. The shelves were empty except for a few basic supplies and utensils.

A flash of reflected light caught her eye, and she saw that a small round mirror hung on one wall. She glanced in, and caught her breath.

Earlier in the day she had looked at her image and felt old and dull. The reflection that met her gaze now was entirely different, with snapping eyes and blazing hair rioting around her shoulders. She looked ... wanton.

The image was even more disturbing than the earlier one. She turned away and yanked her hair back into its usual knot. She had enough hairpins left to secure it, though only just. As the minutes stretched on, she wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the spring chill now that she was no longer in the sun.

Why on earth had Dominick abducted her? Certainly not for love, since he had never loved her. And in spite of the way he had hurt her before, it was hard to believe that he was simply being cruel, if for no other reason than that the effort involved was so great. The whole mad affair must be a product of his warped sense of humor.

Presumably he would release her soon, but nothing could prevent the story from spreading all over the British Isles. For the rest of her life she would be known as the spinster who was abducted by the savage. People would speculate in hushed, excited voices about what the Wild Man had done to her.

Would it be better or worse if it became known that "Chand-a-la" was an Englishman? Either way, her father would be furious at the notoriety, and he would blame her for it. She shuddered at the thought.

It was taking him a long time to groom that horse.

Her hands clenched as a horrible new thought struck her. Surely he hadn't become so angry that he would abandon her in this isolated cottage! He might be a wretch, but he wasn't a monster. Yet how much did she know about him? Nothing, really.

She found herself wondering how long it would take to starve. No, she would die of thirst first.

The pantry was just large enough for her to pace.