They had taken her away from him. Brandon would have hit any man who tried, but they were women—the Gaggle and his sister-in-law—and he had no choice but to release her into their loving arms, to turn back and join the men fighting the inferno.

It hadn’t been just men. Those of the Gaggle who weren’t tending to Emma, had joined the bucket brigade, along with his supposed fiancée and her companion. Frances Bonham’s sleeves were rolled up, her hair mussed, she was looking efficient and determined, and for the first time he’d admired her. She and Miss Trimby would make an admirable couple, even if they had to hide themselves from the world.

But three days later, he still hadn’t set eyes on Emma. He paced his room for the seventh time, his booted feet loud on the floor. Melisande had put him in the old bachelors’ quarters, a wing of the building that some previous owner had added to keep young men from young women, and it was doing an admirable job of keeping him from Emma. He was in the furthest room from the main house, and for the first day he’d allowed others to constrain him, his hands clumsy from the bandages that covered them, his throat and chest aching from the smoke he’d swallowed. It suited his appearance admirably, the good side of his face now covered with bruises, burns . . . but then, Emma didn’t think it was his good side, did she?

He stopped pacing abruptly, and Noonan looked up from his seat across the room where he was carving a piece of wood, dropping shavings all over the valuable Persian carpet. “What’s on your mind, me boy? Mooning over your tart again?”

Brandon glowered at him. “If my hands weren’t useless I’d give you the thrashing you deserve.”

Noonan simply laughed. “You wouldn’t hurt an old man, now, would you?”

“I thought better of you.”

Noonan didn’t have the grace to look abashed. “You really have a desperate case of it, don’t you? You always jump to the bait like a starving trout. I don’t hold the girl’s past against her—women in her line of work are among the most honest I’ve ever known. I’m not as impressed with her since then, of course. I don’t hold with ‘good works’ and surgeons are nothing but butchers. I’d be watching myself around her. She could slice off something vital if she got mad enough.” He chuckled to himself.

Brandon shook his head, giving up. He knew what Noonan was doing—of course he did. It was exactly what he had done for the last three years—taunt him, goad him, insult him and everything he held dear in order to get him moving. It had always worked. But now he was strangely reluctant to break the stalemate. Emma would be safe as long as Melisande was looking after her, and Benedick had sworn to him that Emma’s injuries, were healing rapidly. She should be ready to travel by the end of the week.

But travel where—that was the question. She loved him. They both knew it, and yet he still wasn’t certain he’d won her. She’d run off that morning after they’d made love, clearly not intending to return, and even though she’d ended in his arms, the truth was he hadn’t been able to rescue her. She’d had to do that herself. She’d fallen into his arms like a woman coming home, but still he wasn’t convinced.

She must know his ridiculous engagement was ended—Frances had requested a visit with him, and with Miss Trimby an impassive observer she had quietly but firmly broken their short-lived engagement, saving him the necessity of doing it himself. But Emma had made no effort to see him, though Benedick said she was already up and about, and every time he inquired after her he was informed that she wasn’t up to receiving visitors. He wasn’t a visitor, God curse it, but he had no intention of making a scene, and that strange lassitude still had him in its grip. If he didn’t force the issue there was still hope.

“So are you just going to stand there moping?” Noonan demanded, sounding exasperated. “Are you too much of a coward to risk an answer, or even ask the bloody question?”

Brandon looked at him without expression. The old man knew exactly what he’d done in the Afghan War, what he’d seen—cowardice had nothing to do with it. “What do you think?” he said, his voice even.

Noonan snorted. “Then do something about it! She’s too good for the likes of you, but she seems to fancy you, so stop wasting time. I’m sick of this soft southern climate!”

Neither of them mentioned that an icy rain was falling, neither of them cared. “Screw my courage to the sticking post, is that it?” Brandon murmured, straightening his shoulders.

Noonan scoffed, no fan of Shakespeare. “That’s about the only thing ye’ll be screwin’ if you don’t get a move on.”

Brandon laughed, hiding his uneasiness. “You’re a pig, Noonan.”

“Bog Irish and proud of it,” Noonan replied, setting down his carving and rising. “Let’s go win the fair lady.”

Brandon raised an eyebrow. “You’re coming with me?”

“Someone’s got to speak for your good character, since you’ve made a piss-poor effort. Besides, everyone knows when a woman marries she marries the man’s man as well.”

“I think you might prove the sticking point,” Brandon said.

The old man let out a wheezing chuckle. “We’ll never know until you ask. You haven’t yet, have you?”

“Not in so many words.”

“Dunderhead,” Noonan said.

“She left three days ago.” Melisande was glaring at him, his goddaughter snuggled against her ample breasts. Benedick said nothing, standing behind her, but Brandon didn’t give a damn if he was feeling guilty.

“And you didn’t see fit to inform me?” he demanded in a dangerous voice, bringing a swift frown to his brother’s face.

“I’ll remind you that’s my wife you’re addressing in such an uncivil manner,” Benedick growled. “And I’ve always been able to pound you into the ground if need be.”

Brandon wasted only a glance on him. “That was a long time ago. You forget—I was a soldier, you weren’t.”

Benedick’s face darkened, but he said nothing—both of them knew he’d had no choice, and it was a low blow, one that shamed Brandon not one whit. He would fight dirty if he needed to. He turned back to Melisande. “Where did she go?” he barked.

Benedick stirred restlessly, but Melisande faced him with cool restraint. “There’s no need asking—I won’t tell you. I promised her I wouldn’t. If she wanted to see you she wouldn’t have run.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” he snapped. “When it comes to me she does nothing but run, starting back when I was in hospital.”

Her mouth thinned. “I gather you finally remembered, you spoiled dolt!”

“Jesus Christ, does everyone in this household know my business?” he cried in frustration.

“We know Emma’s business,” Melisande corrected. “She’s one of our own, and you’re nothing but an outsider.”

“My dear. . .” Benedick began, his forehead creased, but Melisande was on a roll.

“You treated her like garbage,” she snapped. “She loved you, and you didn’t even have the grace to remember her, you stupid fool. She loved you.”

He wasn’t about to argue with another woman about this—it was Emma he had to convince. “Where did she go?” he ground out one more time.

“If she wants to be found then it will be up to her,” Melisande said. “In the meantime why don’t you get your sorry self to London? Your parents are returning from the Americas and could use your assistance.”

Brandon didn’t need to glance at Benedick to guess his reaction to such malarkey. “The day my father, or my mother, needs my assistance will be a cold day in hell,” Brandon muttered. He whirled to face his brother. “Can’t you make your wife tell me where she went?”

There was faint amusement in Benedick’s eyes. “I couldn’t if I tried,” he said, “and I’m smart enough not to even attempt it. You’re on your own with this one. Maybe our father will have some advice for you—I’ve got none.”

Punching a wall hadn’t helped his burned hands, neither had riding to London wearing an old pair of gardener’s gloves, the only thing that could fit around his bandages. He’d felt nothing but savage, impotent fury the entire way, and even Noonan had been hard pressed to keep up with him. It wasn’t until he looked at his mother’s clear, calm face that the rage left him, and he simply threw himself in her lap, shaking.

Charlotte Spenser Rohan stroked her youngest son’s long hair and murmured soothing words, while the slightly disreputable Marquess looked on with sympathetic amusement, catching her eye over their son’s bowed head.

“Love, my dear Charlotte, is a mean bitch,” he murmured, looking down at his son.

“Yes, my dear,” she said. “Do you not think it worth all the trouble?”

His eyes smiled into hers, glowing with a never-extinguished flame. “Allow me to answer that question when our little one goes to bed.”

Brandon pulled himself away from his mother’s gentle hands, glaring at both of them. “I don’t wish to disturb your indecent advances to each other, but I’m the one with the problem here,” he growled.

“So you are,” Adrian, first Marquess of Taverstock, agreed. “Go away and fix it. Your mother and I wish to continue our . . . er . . . discussion without an obstreperous child interfering.”

“Damn it!” he cried, pulling away to glare at his unrepentant father. “Don’t you understand? I’ve lost her!” Hopelessness washed over him. “I love her, and I’ve lost her.”

“So Benedick informs me. You rather botched it this time, didn’t you?” Adrian said smoothly. “Well, we all do stupid things on occasion, don’t we love?” He addressed his wife.

Charlotte’s mouth curled up in a cool, secretive smile. “A little patience will go a long way, Brandon. Give her time. She sounds like a sensible woman. If you’re worthy of her she’ll come back.”

Brandon’s eyes narrowed. “Exactly what do you know about her?”

“Everything,” his father said cheerfully. “Your brother Charles will have a temper tantrum about it, which is recommendation enough to my mind. Much as I love him, I still can’t fathom how we ever managed to produce such a pompous, judgmental prig.” He glanced at Charlotte. “Are you certain you didn’t have a mésalliance with a Quaker when I wasn’t looking? Maybe one slipped into the Heavenly Host when we didn’t realize it.”

His mother laughed. Normally any mention of the Host would have aroused his attention, not because of his own involvement with them but for the long-shrouded details of his parents’ courtship. He could no more picture his mother as part of that degenerate band than he could the Archbishop of Canterbury. His reprobate father was, of course, another matter.

But he didn’t care. He had to find Emma before it was too late, before she was so lost he would never see her again.

“You have to help me find her.”

“You’ll find her,” his father said, as sympathetic as a hedgehog. “If you deserve her.”

“You’ll find her,” his mother said. “In time.”