Roxanne gasped at Dominick's effrontery. "We are not betrothed! You can't force me to marry you. No vicar will perform a ceremony when the female is gagged and that's the only way you'll be able to prevent me from protesting!"

"Ah, but by the time we reach the vicar, you won't be protesting." His gaze holding hers, he stepped forward and drew her into his arms. Softly, gently, his lips met hers in a warm, thorough exploration.

She gave a tiny whimper and clutched his upper arms. His embrace was as familiar as her dreams, where he had come to her in the depths of a thousand nights.

The kiss deepened and he drew her closer. He was so tall, so muscular. She felt desire rising and her breasts ached with longing. With a gasp she tore herself away, unconsciously wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as if that would free her of his spell.

He gave a slow, dangerous smile. "You'll not escape me so easily, Roxanne."

She turned away from him, shaking. It wasn't fair that she had to be reasonable for both of them! If it was left to Dominick, they would plunge into marriage, then make each other miserable. He would leave her, or take mistresses, and she would wish she were dead. If only she didn't love him ...

She stopped and pressed her hands to her temples. Oh, Lord, she did love him, didn't she? Against all sense, she felt exactly as she had ten years before. Even when she had hated him for his betrayal, she had never stopped loving him. She was an utter fool.

She must escape tonight when he was asleep, before she lost what remained of her wits. After swallowing hard, she turned to face him. "And you'll not change my mind easily, my lord."

"It will be interesting to discover which of us is more stubborn. We're well matched, Roxanne. That's one of the reasons I fell in love with you." His caressing expression turned pragmatic. "It's too late in the day to set off for London. I don't know about you, but I'm getting hungry. There should still be some food in the pantry. Shall we see what can be made from the supplies at hand?"

Having had ample time to inventory the pantry, she said, "There are eggs and potatoes and a knob of butter, so I suppose an omelet is possible. Perhaps there might be something useful growing in the old kitchen garden."

"Excellent idea." He ushered her outside. The flowering apple trees glowed in the late afternoon sun. "A lovely day, isn't it? England at its best."

She inhaled the blossom scented air, feeling the pulse of spring beat in her veins. She wanted to frolic like a lamb, careen as madly as a March hare. She hadn't felt so alive since ... since that magical season when she had fallen in love with Dominick.

Hastily she examined the long-neglected garden. "There are scallions over there, and a bit of parsley. They'll liven up the eggs."

"We'll have a feast." He knelt and used his pocketknife to cut the herbs. With a mischievous smile he added, "I'll peel and fry the potatoes. I'm not sure I should trust you with a knife."

"Wise man," she said tartly. "I might use it to cut out your heart."

Scallions and parsley in one hand, he straightened to his full height. "You don't need to do that," he said simply. "You already have my heart."

His gaze held hers, his gray eyes utterly without guile. She found that she was having trouble with her breathing. Perhaps ... perhaps it was really possible ....

She pivoted and headed back into the cottage. "I warn you, my cooking skills are indifferent."

"No matter," he said cheerfully as he followed her inside. "I have some French wine that could make stewed boots seem ambrosial."

Dropping all references to love, lust, and marriage, he removed his coat and waistcoat, then rolled up his sleeves and built up the fire. To her surprise, they worked together as smoothly as longtime dance partners, sharing utensils and taking turns at the table and the hearth. In spite of his comment about the knife, he passed it to her without hesitation when she was ready to chop the scallions and parsley.

For a gentleman, he was surprisingly competent in the kitchen. Deftly he peeled and cut potatoes, then fried the wedges into a crispy, golden pile. Feeling naughty, she stole one from the old chipped platter. It was hot and savory and delicious.

He grinned and ate a potato wedge himself, then popped one into her mouth as if she were a baby bird. Her tongue touched his fingertips, tasting salt and sensuality.

There was an odd moment of complete, mutual awareness, and she feared that he could see the accelerating beat of her heart.

Nervously she turned and poured her egg mixture into the skillet. While she cooked a fluffy, fragrant omelet, he set the table and ceremoniously poured fine French Bordeaux into a pair of thick mugs.

She was folding the omelet over when he slipped up behind her and removed the pins that kept her hair in place. The whole mass tumbled down over her shoulders again.

She was about to scold him when he pressed a light kiss through the silky strands under her left ear, his tongue teasing the lobe. Her toes curled and she almost dropped the skillet. With a feeble attempt at severity, she said, "If you don't behave, your supper will end up scattered across the floor."

His lips moved down her throat. "If that happens, I'll find something else to nibble on."

Blushing, she slipped away from his embrace, then divided the omelet into unequal pieces and slid the larger onto his plate. The sun was setting as they took seats on opposite sides of the scrubbed pine table.

On impulse she raised her mug of wine. "To the past."

"And the future," he added immediately.

"The past is more certain." Nonetheless, she drank the toast.

Silence reigned as they applied themselves enthusiastically to their plates. Kidnapping appeared to sharpen one's appetite.

When he had finished, Dominick pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair with a happy sigh. "I've never had a better meal."

She eyed him askance as she neatly laid her knife and fork across her plate. "You undermine your credibility when you make remarks like that. If you say such ridiculous things about food, how can I believe the other things you say?"

Immune to the set down, he said, "I've had more elaborate meals, but plain food is just as good when it is well prepared." His warm gaze met hers. "And tonight the company is matchless."

Her gaze fell. Changing the subject, she said, "You made a very convincing savage. Were you imitating real aboriginals, or did you make everything up?"

"I blended the language and customs from different Polynesian islands. The largest part of my performance came from the Sandwich Islands, since I spent the most time there. On the other hand, the fire dance was from Samoa." He grinned. "After seeing one performed, I decided to give it a try and accidentally set my hut on fire. Everyone in the village was rolling on the ground laughing at me."

She had to laugh also as she pictured the scene. "What are the Pacific islands like?"

"Beautiful beyond imagining. The Sandwich Islanders ride giant waves on flat, narrow rafts, skimming the sea like birds. I tried that too, and almost drowned before I learned the knack. It was like flying."

His gaze became distant. "The flowers and birds are so brilliantly colored that they seem the product of a painter's opium dreams. Even the sands of the beaches come in different colors, from blinding white to shimmering black. And the volcanoes! Seeing one by night is a sight never forgotten. It was like looking into a rift that had opened to Hell. Where the molten stone flowed into the sea, pillars of steam billowed into the sky. It was truly awesome."

She exhaled, imagining the marvels he described. Correctly interpreting her sigh, he asked, "Would you like to go there for our honeymoon?"

She almost said yes before she managed to stop herself. "There can't be a honeymoon if there is no marriage. "

"You're a hard woman, Roxanne," he said, not seeming particularly worried. "Now that I think on it, it would be better to take you to the Caribbean. The islands are equally lovely, and a good bit closer. Turquoise seas, caressing winds. It's as close to paradise as one can find on this earth."

No, true paradise would be to live with a man one loved and trusted. Love alone was not enough. Trying to sound light, she said, "You should be writing travel books."

He grinned. "I considered it, but such tales should have a tone of high seriousness, and I could never manage that. It was my fate to always find the absurd instead of the sublime." He embarked on a hilarious series of stories about other misadventures in the East and the Pacific. Roxanne laughed more than she had in the last ten years combined.

As she sipped her third glass of Bordeaux, she began telling stories of her own. About the vague scholar who had visited her father with a coach full of bones, looking for help in assembling them into whole skeletons. About the gosling that had decided a dog was its mother, and the neighborhood lad who had run away to the Gypsies only to be sent back with the firm comment that they didn't need any more children, thank you very much, they had quite enough of their own.

Simple stories, but Dominick was amused. Mug cupped in his hands, he lounged back in his chair, dark tousled locks falling over his brow. The giddy thought passed through her mind that perhaps love was simply a matter of finding someone who would always laugh at one's jokes.

She must stop thinking of love and start thinking of escape. Yet when she looked at him, her mind filled with images of how he had appeared as a nearly naked savage. His loose shirt, open at the throat, reminded her irresistibly of the broad, muscular shoulders beneath the fabric. The way his trousers pulled across his thighs made her remember how it had felt to be pressed against him. A male body was very different in shape and texture from that of a female ...

Mouth dry, she rose to her feet. He'd had enough wine so that he would sleep soundly, and she should be able to slip away. "Being kidnapped is fatiguing. I think I'll retire now."

"I'll help you make up the bed." He stood and led the way into the cottage's only bedroom. It was a cozy chamber, with a broad four-poster bed, a washstand, and a pile of expensive baggage along one wall.

Dominick opened the blanket chest at the foot of the bed to reveal worn but clean bedding. After the two of them had tucked sheets and blankets and stuffed pillows into cases, he said, "I'll join you in ten minutes or so."

Her heart jerked like a terrified rabbit. "I beg your pardon?" she said in freezing accents.

"Don't worry, I'll sleep on the floor, unless you invite me to share the bed," he said mildly. "But I really can't allow you to stay in the room alone. You might decide it's your duty to try to escape."

The beastly man could read her mind. She glared at him. "So even though you claim to love me, I am your prisoner. Have you no shame?"

"I'm ashamed of many things, but not this. You aren't a prisoner. Merely a bride suffering a few qualms."

To her regret, she found that she had a lamentable desire to giggle. Schooling her expression, she said, "Be sure to give me enough time to prepare. Though it shouldn't take long, since I'll have to sleep in my shift."

"If you like, I'll give you one of my nightgowns, though you'll look like a snake about to shed its skin." After digging out a nightgown, he bowed politely, then left.

She undressed and washed, then donned the garment. He was right about the size; it was enormous on her. But the fine lawn fabric was soft against her skin, making her think wicked thoughts.

Everything made her think wicked thoughts.

She dropped a pillow on the floor, then added a couple of blankets from the chest. The pine planks didn't look particularly comfortable, but that was his problem.

After braiding her hair into a long plait, she slid into the bed and pulled the covers over her head. In the darkness, the unreality of her situation washed over her and her happiness leached away. The handsome, dashing man she loved wanted to marry her. It was a romantic dream come true.

Who would have thought that fulfillment of a dream could make one feel so wretched?

* * *

Dominick allowed Roxanne time to settle herself, then quietly entered the bedroom. She was only a gentle mound beneath the bedcovers with not so much as a single auburn curl showing. He guessed that she was only pretending to sleep, but he didn't challenge that. After a lifetime of maidenly modesty, she was entitled to be nervous at having him so near.

Certainly her proximity unsettled him. How much would she protest if he joined her in the bed? His blood quickened. Though her mind might be doubtful, her body had welcomed his touch. It might take only a few kisses to persuade her to give him what he had dreamed of for a decade.

He was halfway to the bed before he managed to stop himself. It was bad enough that he was abducting her. He could not coerce her into an intimacy for which she was not yet ready.

Suppressing a sigh, he made up a pallet on the floor. He was unlikely to sleep much, so there was no chance she could sneak out without his knowledge.

In deference to his roommate's innocence, he donned one of his seldom-worn nightshirts. Then he blew out the candle, wrapped himself in the blankets, and tried to find a comfortable position. He would rather be in the bed ... but it was still heaven to doze off to the sound of Roxanne's gentle breathing.