Naughty or Nice by Melanie George (1)

To my mom, Barbara…

Thanks for always being there to listen.

 

I want to thank David—my biggest supporter, my pep

club president, my cheerleader, my fan, and my friend—

for lending me his ears, common sense, and regular

humor in the face of my wavering faith. Keep the

matzoh ball soup coming, petunia!

One

From a connoisseur's standpoint, the backside so sweetly hoisted heavenward twenty feet in front of Lucien was the most provocative one he'd ever had the good fortune to admire: lushly rounded, firm, high, and leading to well-shaped legs and dainty feet. The entire effect was so enticing that even the god-awful breeches of indeterminate gray did little damage to the overall presentation.

The sight made up for all the misery he had suffered thus far, including the everlasting drizzling that had not let up for the three days since his coach had rumbled into the rutted, gorse-infested purgatory of the Cornish wilderness.

Now, if only he could see the rest of the package that went along with that sweet bottom, Lucien thought, leaning against the stable door.

But the little thief continued to rifle through the drunk's pockets. He was out cold, his snores resonating louder than a logging mill, which might account for why the girl had not heard Lucien arrive, horse in tow. His coach had struck one of those deuced gouges so prevalent in this wretched nexus of the universe, leaving it and Tahj, his Buddhist shadow and conscience, stranded until Lucien could send assistance.

Content to watch, he adjusted his position to a more comfortable one, too much the cad to alert the girl of his presence. Might as well enjoy himself now that an opportunity had arisen—and it had most definitely arisen.

A delirious haze descended as he stood there wondering if one could be smitten with a backside, and idly curious as to what the lass was intent on stealing, as she didn't seem to be taking anything.

The thought was relegated to obscurity as the girl's floppy hat tumbled from her head, unraveling a silky banner of blue-black hair that puddled on the floor in a glossy pool beside the drunk's head.

Lucien's hands fisted at his sides as his arousal swelled to a nearly unbearable throb, reminding him quite forcefully of how long it had been since he'd had carnal knowledge of a woman.

Five months, six days, and twelve hours, give or take a few minutes.

He had begun keeping track, wondering when this anomaly would pass. He should be glad business had called him away from London; otherwise his reputation as a first-rate libertine would be completely shot to hell. His oath as a Pleasure Seeker was at stake, and it seemed he had finally found a cure in the form of a lush pickpocket.

Divested of her uninspired disguise, the girl muttered a rather amusing curse, quickly rolled her silky mass of hair on top of her head with slim fingers, and jammed the hat back into place. Straightening, she stared down at the unconscious man, the slump of her shoulders conveying she had not found what she was looking for.

The least Lucien could do was lend some assistance—preferably of a more compelling variety.

"Need any help, sweetheart?" he inquired.

The little robber whirled around so fast she very nearly dislodged her hat again. She had no such luck with the grimy scarf meant to obscure her face. It slid down to her throat, leaving Lucien dumbstruck.

He had long ago reconciled himself to the fact that the Lord generally didn't align all a female's features equally, that the Almighty enjoyed the jest of giving a woman a lush body but a sparrow's face, or the face of a goddess but a body like a Buddha.

But this… Good sweet Christ, the little larcenist was a fetching piece, from her dark winged eyebrows to her wide-set, exotically tipped eyes, a piercing shade of green, her pert nose, high cheekbones, and a mouth so damn full and wide he was already contemplating its possibilities.

She treated him to the same perusal he gave her, starting at the tips of his mud-splattered boots, over his less than pristine clothing, his shirt bearing a stain from a futile attempt at repairing the damage to his coach, his hair and greatcoat both damp. Overall, not his best appearance.

Rallying herself, she took a step back and said, "Don't come any closer." She made the wasted effort of covering her face again, a vision he would not forget for the remainder of his days. Eventually his luck would run out and someone would succeed in putting a bullet through his heart—but hopefully not before he'd had a taste of the lush fruit in front of him.

"And what might happen if I dared come closer?" He took a step forward, amused at having this slip of a girl toss out warnings to him. He could tuck her under his arm with little effort—restrain her with one hand. Span her waist with those same hands and settle her on top of him, poised like a goddess on his erection, impaled fully, fragile and delicate, nipples taut, skin flushed with pleasure.

She dispelled the image, saying in a surprisingly calm voice, "Then I guess I'd have to shoot you." A gun appeared from behind her back.

His delicate wildflower had turned out to be a determined wildcat. "That is dire, isn't it?" His gaze flicked to the hand holding the gun; it trembled like a leaf. Clearly she was not cut out for a life of crime.

"I mean it."

"I'm sure you do. But might I suggest that in the future you pick a less frequented spot to rob your victims?"

"I wasn't robbing him. I was—" She stopped and frowned at Lucien.

"Was?" he prompted.

She lifted her chin. "That's none of your concern."

"But you've made it my concern, now that you're holding me at gunpoint. What do you plan to do with me, by the by? I don't intend on putting up even a modicum of resistance. Indeed, I promise to be the most willing of captives." Provocative new images replaced the old: his hands tied to a bedpost while she did her worst to him. Maybe this godforsaken wasteland wasn't hell, after all.

She leveled the pistol at his heart. "You'll move out of the way, please."

Lucien had looked down the barrel of a gun too many times to think death might decide to take him in a dimly lit stable, by the hand of a beautiful, dirt-smudged pickpocket.

"As you wish," he said, lowering his arm from the jamb and waving her by. He had to rein in his amusement as she hesitated, wariness in her eyes. Smart girl, not to trust him.

She edged along the perimeter of the stalls until she reached the doorway, barely five feet separating them. In one lunge, he could pin her to the wall, an idea that held great temptation as she stepped into a wash of moonlight that haloed her slim figure in its pearlescent beam.

Had it not been for the womanly beauty of the green eyes focused so intently on him and that impressive backside of hers, he might have thought her a child, she was so petite. Though, as his gaze skimmed over her, the front side was equally impressive. The baggy linen shirt did little to camouflage her curves.

Uncomfortably aroused, Lucien leaned back against the doorframe. She waved the gun at him. "Stay where you are."

He extracted a cheroot from his pocket. "I'd much rather stay where you are."

She scowled at him. "Turn around and count to one hundred."

Lucien decided not to remind her that he had already seen her face, so if she intended any sort of escape, she should put a bullet in him, or at the very least check him for weapons—a prospect he would no doubt enjoy. But all that seemed counterproductive.

He turned to face the inside of the barn and lit his cheroot, blowing out a stream of smoke before saying, "Next time you might want to cock the hammer. Your threat would have been much more impressive."

"Start counting," she snapped.

"One… two… three…" She had until five, then the chase was on.

On the count of four, something bashed him in the back of the head. As black spots wavered before his eyes and his knees buckled beneath him, Lucien's last coherent thought was that Tahj was going to have himself a bloody good laugh if he ever found out his best pupil had been felled by a girl.

Then he hit the dirt.

 

What rotten luck, Fancy thought as she stared down at the prone form of quite the most handsome man she had ever seen. Black hair, thick and straight, hung well below the collar of his greatcoat. His chiseled profile was limned by shadows and moonlight, the leaves overhead casting patterns on the ground beside him, framing the glorious Goliath.

She winced when she saw the blood on the back of his head. She hadn't planned on hitting him with the rock. Frankly, she hadn't thought she had enough strength to incapacitate him, just daze him a bit so she could make her escape. The wicked glint in his eyes had been the deciding factor. He hadn't looked the least concerned about her shooting him, as though he had known the gun wasn't loaded. But she couldn't take the chance that he would follow her, or report her to the authorities too soon. She only hoped he hadn't gotten a good enough look at her face to give an accurate description.

Kneeling beside him, Fancy pressed two fingers to his neck. Relief coursed through her as she felt his strong, steady heartbeat, his skin taut and warm. His jaw was roughened with whiskers.

He had the most sinfully long lashes, she noted, and they had framed the most memorable eyes, a pale aquamarine that was startling against his swarthy skin. It had taken her a good minute to catch her breath when she'd spotted him leaning in the doorway.

Where had he come from? And was he staying at the inn? She should hope the answer was no, but the thought was oddly depressing. So few exciting things happened in her part of the world.

Itching to touch him, knowing she'd never get another chance, she lightly feathered his hair through her fingers, smoothing the soft strands back as she whispered in his ear, "I'm sorry."

Reluctantly, she pushed to her feet and stared down at him, shamelessly admiring the way his trousers molded his backside. He was so well built, so broad and tall. Not even Heath, her neighbor and long-time friend, whose stature and breadth was impressive, could match this stranger.

But this was no time to be acting bird-witted. She had to find the drunk's cohort and pray he would give her as little trouble as his friend, who had conveniently passed out in the stables. She needed to obtain proof that Rosalyn's stepbrother, Calder, was behind Rosalyn's attempted kidnapping that morning.

Without proof, it would be Rosalyn's word against Calder's. And now that his father was dead and he had appointed himself the district's magistrate—ousting the fair and honorable man who had held the post for nearly twenty years—finding allies who would bear witness that Calder was low enough to force his stepsister into marriage would be next to impossible.

Just the thought of what could have happened to her best friend made Fancy shiver. Calder had been furious when he learned that his father had left a considerable fortune to Rosalyn—a good portion rightfully due her from her deceased father's trust—enough so that Rosalyn would be independent of Calder or any man, should she so choose.

Everyone knew that Calder's uncontrollable gambling and expensive tastes would lead him to bankruptcy within a few years, even though he had inherited several profitable estates, including Westcott Manor, where Rosalyn had lived until she had fled two days ago.

At present she was at Fancy's house, Moor's End, protected only by Jaines, her grandmother's beloved but ancient butler, and his wife, Olinda, the housekeeper. Both of them had worked at Moor's End since their youth, and though Fancy could barely pay them, they stayed on.

Had it not been for her grandmother, she and her brother, George, would have found themselves in an orphanage when their parents died. Her father's family would never have lifted a finger to help them. When Colonel Samuel Fitz Hugh, Earl of Porthaven, had met and married a common Cornish woman, his family had dissolved any relationship with him.

Fancy was all alone now. Her grandmother had died a year earlier; George, two months later. She had been devastated when she received the news of his death. Only a few weeks before, he had written to say he was coming home.

While she had desperately wanted him home, she knew he was returning because he still thought of her as the fourteen-year-old sister he'd had to leave behind while he fulfilled his duties to God and country, rather than the mature twenty-year-old woman she had become. But she would welcome his overprotecting ways if it would bring him back.

And with her best friend in danger, they sorely needed a man's help. She had underestimated Calder's determination, but she would not be so naive again.

The thought stirred Fancy to action. She took a final look at the stranger, a pang of regret stirring inside her at the thought of never seeing him again. With a heartfelt sigh, she blended into the night to seek out her quarry.

 

Lucien awoke with a dull pounding at the back of his skull. Memory returned quickly of a pistol-wielding spitfire whose intent he had obviously misjudged. He never would have believed she had it in her to harm a fly, let alone brain a man who outweighed her by at least five stone.

Wincing, Lucien rose from the ground. He figured he'd been unconscious for a few minutes, long enough for the thief to escape. Damn, he'd been outfoxed, and he didn't like the feeling one bit.

His horse had ambled into the stable and was munching on hay. Lucien listened, hearing nothing but the wind through the trees and the drunken revelry coming from the tavern a short distance away, where he intended to enjoy one more night of freedom before reluctantly taking charge of his ward, Lady Francine Fitz Hugh. George's sister.

Lucien dragged a hand through his hair, coming away with blood on his fingertips. That was his reward for his honorable behavior and foolhardy agreement to come to this benighted place. George would be here, if he'd protected the boy better. He had been the lad's commanding officer, after all. From the first day, George had been overzealous, eager for action, eager to please—and he should have stayed the hell back in Cornwall, with his family.

Instead he had landed in Lucien's regiment, all battle-hardened soldiers who understood that their leader was fallible and who weren't foolish enough to worship him. Most knew how he had earned the nickname Renegade.

Christ, he should have gotten out sooner. Before his demons had taken control of him. Before he had caused the death of a twenty-four-year-old boy.

Familiar anguish twisted in his gut as he grabbed the bay's reins and led him into a stall, removed his bridle and saddle and brushed him down, before stocking his hay and water.

As Lucien was leaving, the stable boy ambled in, a disheveled ragamuffin with sandy brown hair and a pale, freckled face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, which widened upon spotting Lucien.

"Cor, mister… y' scared me." He blinked as his gaze traveled up Lucien's tall form. "Y' is a big 'un, ain't ye?"

The boy's reaction was not uncommon. At six-four, Lucien generally received a second look. He had to duck to enter most taverns, a damnable nuisance when one was inebriated.

"Where've you been, boy?"

A flush spotted the lad's apple cheeks. "I fell asleep in the back loft, sir. It be the only dry spot on a night such as this."

"Do you have a name?"

"Aye, sir. Jimmy."

"How old are you, Jimmy?"

"Ten, sir."

Bloody hell. The boy should be at home in bed at this hour, asleep under the watchful eyes of his parents, not catering to a bunch of drunken swine on a damp night.

Lucien eyed the lad's bare feet and shabby clothing. They were glaring reminders of how miserable being poor could be, when children had to work to feed themselves and their families, and common necessities were luxuries. Lucien knew that life too well, seeing the youth he had once been in the boy staring at him. He didn't like the feeling.

"Please don't tell nobody," Jimmy beseeched. "I promise it won't ne'er 'appen again."

Lucien knew the boy would be out of a job if his employer got wind of his falling asleep. And the loss of even those meager wages could be devastating to his family.

Lucien had grown up in London's rookery amid filth and squalid misery, was taught about survival by beggars, prostitutes, scavengers, and swindlers. That life stayed in a man's blood and forever tainted him.

"I've got a job for you," Lucien said.

The boy eyed him warily and took a hesitant step back. "Wot kind o' job?"

A bitter taste rose in Lucien's throat as he realized what Jimmy thought he was proposing: some men found young boys to their liking.

He pointed to Sire's stall. "Give my horse some extra oats tonight. He's had a long day." Lucien pulled out a pound note and handed it to the boy, who gaped at it bug-eyed.

"Thank 'ee, sir! I'll take care of 'im right an' proper, I will."

Lucien took a step and then stopped, a pair of green eyes flashing in his mind. "Have you seen anyone strange around here this evening?" he asked.

Jimmy canted his head. "Strange, sir?"

Lucien didn't know why he was reluctant to ask the real question, which was if the lad had seen a woman masquerading in men's clothing.

"Never mind." She was best forgotten, anyway.

He headed toward the tavern, where the feeble glow of lamplight shone through the grimy windowpanes, the dregs of humanity within drowning themselves in ale and gin, their gaiety having nothing to do with the coming holiday. Lucien knew their type well; it was the life he was accustomed to. The life he had never managed to escape.

He stepped through the door. A cloud of smoke hovered against the rafters; the beams were darkened with age, the smell of cheap liquor familiar. He needed a drink. He needed a woman. And he prayed to God that tonight he wouldn't need anything more.

He sat down at a table in the far corner, his back to the wall as his gaze scanned the motley crowd. A plump barmaid sauntered toward him, ample breasts, ample hips, and lust in her eyes.

"Wot can I get 'ee, luv?"

"Bottle of whiskey."

"Plan on 'avin' y'rself a good time, do y'?"

"As good as possible."

"Alone?" Her query was as subtle as the rock the impertinent little thief had hit him with.

"Hopefully not." He couldn't bear another night of solitude.

She smiled seductively. "I get off at two."

Hopefully he'd get off soon thereafter. "Two it is."

Giving him a promising look over her shoulder, she walked away to get his order.

Lucien leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He was weary. A common malady these days. Why hadn't he just hired another governess for his ward instead of coming here himself? Probably, he thought wryly, because the last two women had swiftly quit, referring to Lady Francine Fitz Hugh as an incorrigible chit who would never aspire to being a true lady. Hopeless, in other words.

Just what he needed: some willful brat who would give him more headaches than he already had. How the hell old was she anyway? He couldn't remember if Fitz had told him. George had always called her his little Fancy—an angel, he claimed. Clearly the man had been too blind to see his sister for the pain in the rump she was. Lucien could only pray the girl hadn't driven off—or killed off—the two old retainers that yet remained at Moor's End.

The barmaid returned with his bottle and a passably clean glass. She leaned over to pour his drink, her mountainous breasts pressing suggestively against him, beginning the foreplay. Normally that would have been enough to stir him, and yet it didn't. He couldn't stop thinking about the lass from the stables. Clearly he had contracted a brain fever.

"Y' are a big hunk o' man. Probably built like a stallion." She shot a glance at his groin. "Ten minutes, and Sugar'll give y' the ride of y'r life." With that promise, she sashayed to the next table.

The first shot of rotgut hit Lucien like a rock rolling down his throat. But it would soon do the trick, benumbing his brain, and that was all that mattered.

He stared into his glass, his mind drifting back a few days to when he had stopped by Northcote, the estate that had once belonged to his friend Caine Ballinger, intending to offer the brooding old boy a bit of season's cheer with a finely aged bottle of brandy.

Caine was one of the first friends Lucien had made upon his return to England. They had been pitted against one another in a round of hazard at Dante's, a crude gaming hell in the bowels of Clerkenwell, the last place Lucien expected to find an earl's son.

Lucien had taken Caine for a considerable sum, but Caine had accepted his defeat with good humor, and they'd both gotten soused thereafter, two drunken fools singing in revelry as they unsteadily wove their way down darkened streets toward Madame Fourche's brothel, as though begging a footpad to relieve them of their money.

They made it unscathed and had one hell of a time that night. The next day Caine had invited Lucien to join a secret society, a group of men that made up a bachelors' club known as the Pleasure Seekers.

Lucien didn't know what would have become of his life had fate not thrown Caine in his path. He had formed the only real friendships he had ever known in those years after he had discovered his family was lost to him. They'd disappeared as though they had never existed, a fact Lucien owed to a dead man, who he hoped rotted in hell.

Caine was the only one who knew the whole story, and it had been damn hard for Lucien to accept the fact that his friend had shut him out. He had only seen Caine sporadically in the two years since Caine's father had died, and those occasions had been tense. The last time, Caine had refused to even see him.

Damn the man for being such a pigheaded ass. Lucien knew his friend was hurting from his father's suicide and from the circumstances he found himself in, an unhealthy relationship with the Marquis of Buxton's widow, Olivia Hamilton—as well as his obsession over the home he had lost, and the rage he concentrated on the Duke of Exmoor, whom he blamed for his father's death. Lucien wished he could get through to his friend, but the blighter had always been stubborn as a bloody mule.

He took another belt of his drink and caught the barmaid's summons, a promise of promiscuous sex in her eyes as she waved to him from the stairs leading to the chambers above.

Lucien contemplated making an excuse—peculiar for a man who had always thoroughly enjoyed women. Perhaps that was why he couldn't banish the image of the fiery little head-basher. She had stirred him, and he had needed to know if the feelings she aroused would carry him through, or if that veil of numbness would descend once again.

Yet the thought of being alone, knowing what awaited him in the hours after midnight when his soul was restless, propelled him to his feet and across the pockmarked floorboards. Grabbing the barmaid by the hand, he pulled her up the stairs.

"Y' like it rough, do y'?" She scraped her nails across his back and purred in her coarse voice, "Good. So do I."

Lucien blanked his mind. This was the best he could ever hope to get; he was destined to confine himself to serving girls and whores. The poor boy from the cesspits of Shadwell, on the East London riverside, could never break free.

He had fought it. God how he fought it. But the savage in him yet remained.

At the top of the stairs, the barmaid shoved him up against the wall, her hand cupping his groin as her mouth found his, her eyes nearly feral with lust.

Lucien took hold of her wrists and backed her up a step. "Patience, dear girl. My room is right down there."

He guided her toward the last door on the left, wondering if he could summon a properly enthusiastic response, since his body balked.

He was contemplating his options when a flash of movement caught the corner of his eye, drawing his gaze to a partially opened door. He spotted a familiar breeches-clad leg, heard a familiar warning, then a familiar thud. A grim smile curved his lips.

"Stay here," he ordered the barmaid as he moved to investigate, his restlessness forgotten as he imagined the reckoning one little thief was soon to have.

Two

A lack of planning had always been her downfall, Fancy thought as she backed away from the naked man stalking her, his eyes aflame with equal parts fury and desire. The latter concerned her far more than the former.

She could be rash, hotheaded, and—as she had heard far too many times from the governesses her odious guardian continued to foist on her—willful, insubordinate, and completely unsuited for any lifestyle that required associating with the world.

She might be inclined to agree with the part about her being rash. Creeping into a strange man's bedroom while he was engaged in a bath, with only a silk screen between her and discovery, certainly didn't fall under the category of careful planning. But it had seemed her best option, since his clothing was strewn about the floor, just begging to be rifled through. A better opportunity she would not get.

"Comin' in 'ere to rob me blind, were y'? Well, y'll get much more than the beatin' y' deserve." The gleam in his eyes promised he would enjoy both the beating and his lascivious plans.

While he recognized her as female, he didn't recognize who she was. But none of that mattered as he continued toward her until her back was pressed up against the fireplace, where a small blaze endeavored to keep out the chill.

Fancy raised her gun for the second time that night, knowing she wouldn't stand a chance if he called her bluff.

He smirked at her. "Y' ain't gonna shoot an unarmed man, are y'?"

"I will if you come any closer."

"Look at me, lass. I'm naked." His hand moved to his privates with a disgusting flourish, momentarily distracting Fancy, which gave him the opening he needed.

He dove at her, knocking the wind from her lungs as he thrust her hard against the mantel, the gun flying from her hand and landing halfway across the room.

She struggled against him, but he was too strong. A stinging blow to her cheek knocked her to the ground. He loomed over her, an unholy light in his eyes as he reached for her.

Her panicked gaze lit on the fire poker, and without a moment's thought, she grabbed it and brought it down with a sharp crack against the side of his head. He blinked once and then collapsed in a heap beside her, his left arm dropping across her chest like a wooden plank.

With a muted shriek, Fancy shoved his beefy arm aside and scrambled away, her entire body trembling, her grip on the poker so fierce her knuckles were blanched white.

Before today, she hadn't even been able to lay a trap for the mouse that had moved into her bedroom. Now she was dashing about the countryside clubbing men over the head!

"I'm glad to see it's not just me you feel inclined to injure," a voice drawled from the doorway, bringing Fancy's gaze swinging up to find a booted foot pushing the portal open. The great, muscled hulk with the piercing blue eyes stepped into the room, smiling as he closed the door behind him.

Heavens, in the light he was even more attractive. His presence filled the room, his shoulders nearly as wide as the door. As he surveyed her, his eyes seemed to burn as intensely as the wall sconce beside him.

"I must say that my pounding skull does not sway me toward benevolence at this moment."

Fancy lifted her chin, even as remorse surfaced for hitting him so hard. "You survived, didn't you? Clearly, your skull is too thick to break."

"Count yourself lucky, dear girl. Murder is a hanging offense. And it would be a terrible shame to stretch that pretty neck of yours."

Fancy lifted a hand to her throat. Dear Lord, what would happen to Jaines and Olinda and Rosalyn and Moor's End if she found herself swinging from the end of a noose? Her gaze raced to the thug on the floor.

"He's alive," the man said, uncannily reading her thoughts. "But he'll have a prodigious headache when he awakens. I know from experience." He rubbed the back of his head. "So tell me, sweetheart, how long have you hated men?"

Fancy was too frazzled to heed the danger he presented. "I don't hate men."

"So you like men?"

"Yes… I mean, no…" She shook her head, flustered by his persistence. "What is it that you want?"

"An apology might be a good place to start. Then we can move on from there."

"I'm sorry. Now go away."

He smiled at her as though she were a toy that amused him. "You really should pick your customers with more care. Perhaps you wouldn't find yourself in such precarious situations."

It took a moment for his meaning to sink in. "You don't actually think—"

His smile broadened. "I can only hope to be so lucky." He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the door. "So do you contain your criminal activities to thievery only?"

"I told you, I'm not a thief!"

"Not a very good one, at least."

"I'm not— Oh, why do I bother talking to you?"

"Perhaps because I exude an abundance of charm, and you find yourself oddly drawn to me."

"I'd find the progression of a snail on a slippery rock more engaging."

His bark of laughter was interrupted by a pounding rattle on the door, followed by the gruff voice of the proprietor. "Wot's goin' on in there?"

"Seems we're about to have an audience," the rogue said, amusement in his eyes. "My companion for the evening must have thought crimes of passion were transpiring in here."

Fancy narrowed her gaze at him. "You mean your doxy is waiting out there?" When he smiled, she said, "You're despicable."

"Despicable I may be, but right now I'm your savior."

The wooden door shook. "Open up, or I'm comin' in!"

"Make up your mind, love. A kiss will buy my chivalry."

"That's blackmail!"

His grin grew wicked. "I know."

Keys jangled just outside the door. At any moment, the proprietor—a large brute with beady eyes—would be inside the room and see her standing over a man with a fire poker. Good Lord, she was still holding the thing! She thrust it behind her back and heard her "savior" chuckle.

"Perhaps I should let him in," he said, turning toward the door.

"Fine. You win. I'll kiss you. But only once!" she hastened to add.

"Deal." He winked, and then leaned his shoulder against the door as the owner began to push it open, saying in a perfect Cockney accent, "Sod off, damn y'. I'm busy in 'ere."

The rattling stopped. "Naught's amiss?" the innkeeper queried.

The wicked man had the nerve to look back at her, his single raised eyebrow positively lecherous. Oh, what had she gotten herself into now?

He said to the proprietor, "Y' interrupted me, y' fat lout. Back away from this door, or I vow I'll kick y' until y'r dead."

An indignant snort sounded from the other side, followed by the heavy thud of footsteps moving away.

Her self-proclaimed savior then turned and said in a voice full of sinful intent, "Now, about that kiss…"

Fancy took a step back and found a solid wall thwarting her retreat, and the solid man in front of her intent on preventing her escape. The dancing flames in the grate gave his face a saturnine cast and outlined the determination in his eyes. She was well and truly caught.

She flattened her palms against the wall as he leisurely advanced, as though they had all the time in the world. "One kiss," she reminded him, her mouth drying with each step he took.

"One kiss," Lucien repeated calmly, not wanting to frighten her into bolting. He fought his own need, a rising heat infusing his blood, both comforting in its old familiarity and dreaded in its intensity, colored as it was by memories of the past.

He pushed it down and concentrated solely on those sweet eyes regarding him with a mixture of alarm and excitement, widening with each step that brought him closer to her, until she was staring up at him, chin high, a defiant sprite in a floppy hat. He took the ridiculous thing off and tossed it to the floor.

"What are you—"

He pressed a finger to her lips to silence her, then held her gaze as he traced the soft contours of her mouth. Such a mouth, plump and lush and pink as a rosebud. She was made to be kissed. Often and thoroughly.

He shifted forward until he could feel the tips of her breasts against his chest, his body attuned to each subtle inflection, each soft breath. God, she made him feel like a giant, she was so tiny. He would crush her if he were ever on top when they made love—and he hoped to be given that honor, even if it meant saving her from every scrape she found herself embroiled in from now until doomsday, extracting rewards for each act of gallantry.

Then a thought occurred to him, something that had never troubled him before. "Are you married?" He'd had his share of that particular breed, which only cemented his determination to remain a bachelor.

"No," she replied, and then frowned, as though recognizing too late that he had given her a perfect out.

Lucien felt oddly relieved by her answer. "Do you live around here?" It would make his stay much more fulfilling; he suspected she would be as much a hellion in bed as out.

She lifted her chin. "No."

He could tell she was lying, and by God, he wanted her even more. What was the world coming to when a man found a liar and a thief so damned intriguing? Perhaps he would find the answer in her kiss.

"Please," she said in a breathless voice. "Just get it over with."

Was she dreading his touch, or aching for it as much as he was? "Anticipation, my dove." He lightly pressed his thumb against the seam of her lips until she opened for him, the satiny surface glistening like a ripe berry.

He could feel her trembling and wondered if she was truly as innocent as she looked. A girl who frequented such establishments must have some experience. No one this bold and beautiful could be chaste. He would enjoy erasing the memory of whoever had come before him.

Leaning down, Lucien captured her breathy gasp with his mouth, a fist of desire hitting him square in the chest. He cupped her face in his hands and made love to her with his mouth, gently coaxing her to accept his tongue, sliding inside, tasting her sweetness, heat rifling through his blood as he felt her respond.

He slid his fingers into her hair, releasing the heavy topknot and letting the silk cascade into his hands. He twined a fistful of it around his hand and tugged, tipping her head farther back so he could explore the hot, moist depths of her mouth more deeply.

He shifted so that his shirt scraped the hard points of her nipples, the erect little buds telling him that he was affecting her, her soft whimpers driving him nearly beyond control.

His hands skimmed down her side to the soft flare of her hips, and then around to cup her bottom, fulfilling the fantasy that had begun in the stables. The firm globes fit perfectly in his palms, and he lifted her up against his erection, forgetting himself as he rocked gently against her.

She moved in concert at first, but then tore her mouth from his, the small hands that had settled at his shoulders pushing at him. "Stop this! Let me down."

Lucien's body balked, but his mind took over after a momentary lapse. Reluctantly, he gave in, but tortured himself by slowly lowering her feet to the floor, letting her slide along his body, the friction working on them both.

Despite the anger now glittering in her eyes, desire lingered, and she wasn't quite steady as she braced her palms against the wall. "I said one kiss, you blackhearted swine!"

Lucien couldn't trust himself to be that close to her and not touch her, so he backed away and dropped down into the room's one chair, feeling on the verge of a heart attack, he was so primed. God, he needed another drink.

"That was one kiss, dear girl."

"That was nothing of the sort!"

"If my lips didn't leave yours, then it was one kiss."

She looked like she wanted to bash him over the head again. "You got what you wanted; now I'll be leaving."

"If you feel you must. But tell me where you live, and I'll come to you. Or you can come to me. Whichever you prefer."

"I won't be coming anywhere near you," she said angrily, and he was almost convinced she meant it.

The man on the floor began to stir. Lucien glimpsed the concern in the girl's eyes as she glanced down at her second, correction, third victim of the night. She was a puzzle. First she brains the poor bastard, and then she feels remorse. He wondered if she had shown him any pity. If so, he was sorry he'd missed it.

He rose from the chair, intent on escorting her from the premises and finding out where she lived in the process, but she whipped around to face him, the fire poker thrust unerringly at his manhood. One-eyed Jack and the boys instantly recoiled.

"You do know how to bring a man to a grinding halt, sweetheart."

"I want you to stay back."

"Since you've targeted my most prized possessions, I have no choice but to comply. I might someday wish to procreate."

She snorted. "As if you haven't left your progeny all over the globe."

He could barely restrain his smile. "Such a slur on my character. I'll have you know that I don't have a single bastard. Children tend to hamper a man's free spirit—as do their mothers. But if you're worried about pregnancy—"

"Practice your skills on the tart you left behind," she said frostily. "Now I'll bid you good night."

The thought of losing her again did not sit well with Lucien. He moved toward her, but she brought the poker up between his thighs, the curled spike pressed squarely between his balls.

He raised his hands in surrender. "You win."

She backed toward the door, keeping her gaze focused on him as she bent to retrieve her gun. She made quite a sight standing there with a weapon in each hand.

"Do you always defend your virtue so vigorously?" he asked. She would certainly be a challenge, if so. But he was a man who enjoyed a challenge.

Instead of answering, she peeked out the door and scanned the corridor. Unfortunately for him, the hall was deserted. With a less-than-hospitable glance in his direction, she slipped out.

Lucien started after her, but something gripped his ankle. He looked down to see a beefy hand wrapped around his boot and two bloodshot eyes staring up at him.

"Wot 'appened?" the slimy woman-beater asked in a slurred tone.

"This happened." Lucien's right fist connected with the swine's jaw, knocking him out again. "Perhaps next time you'll think twice about manhandling my future mistress." Then he headed out the door and barreled down the stairs, a faint aroma of her vanilla scent wafting in the air as he burst into the tavern's courtyard.

He swore fiercely. She had eluded him. Again. If that bloody bastard hadn't held him up, he wouldn't have lost her. Lucien felt just volatile enough to go back up and punch him again for the hell of it.

Hearing the crunch of feet coming up behind him, Lucien jerked around, making the stable boy jump back a good foot, his face paling beneath his curly mop of hair.

"Sorry, mister."

"What is it?" Lucien snapped, then regretted his harsh tone. The boy had done nothing wrong. He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. "Is something the matter?"

He hesitated. "Well, when I saw y' run out, I thought maybe y' might be chasin' after that boy what dashed out here a minute ago."

"You saw him?" Lucien asked eagerly.

He nodded. "I remembered wot y' said earlier. Y' know, about seein' anything strange."

"Do you know who he is?"

"Couldn't see 'is face 'cause of the hat 'e was wearin', but I saw which way 'e went." He pointed toward the east. "He 'ad an old hack tied to a tree."

Lucien glanced off into the darkness, thinking the girl could be anywhere by now. But there was a good chance she lived in the area. That was something, at least.

He dug a hand into his pocket and offered the boy another pound note, recognizing the telltale shaking of his hand as he gave the money to the lad. The ache was beginning to boil up inside his gut; the demon would have him in his grip any time now.

"If you should spot him again, come get me." Lucien headed back toward the tavern, needing to get behind the closed doors of his room.

"I… I know where he went."

Lucien pivoted around to face the boy. "Where?"

"Moor's End."

Lucien frowned. That was the home of his ward. Could the girl be one of the Fitz Hugh servants? Could it be that easy?

If he found her, maybe he would also find peace for a few hours and stave off the hunger that rose inside of him in the darkest part of the night. Perhaps tonight he could outdistance the craving.

"Saddle my horse," he said, and stalked toward the stables.

Three

Fancy reined Clover to a walk once she was far enough away from the tavern to feel safe, though it was not Calder's thugs who concerned her, but the stranger whose kiss had nearly melted her.

The things he had done with his tongue, how soft yet demanding his mouth had been against hers, how hard and hot his body… She had never thought it could be like that, drugging, mind-consuming, making one forget rational thought. If she had, she would not have agreed to kiss him.

But it had gone much further than a kiss. He had pressed intimately against her, and the feelings he had stirred had sent her senses whirling until fear of her own wanton response made her fight against him.

Her thoughts calmed as the old mare came to a stop at the end of the long dirt drive that led up to Moor's End. The crumbling gray mansion with its symmetrical gables and steeply pitched roof was the only place she had ever truly called home. It stood like a proud Gothic monument, backdropped against cliff and sky, a profusion of rhododendrons growing wild around the perimeter, the familiar smell of tidal water scenting the air.

Memories crowded in of days spent bathing naked in deserted coves, treading across moorland bogs, of learning how to gut a fish, to scull, to row a boat. Climbing on the rotting hulls of shipwrecked vessels, trespassing upon abandoned estates, and slipping in through shuttered windows to inspect the ghostly interiors.

As a young child, before her parents had died while traveling to China on one of her father's military expeditions, Fancy and her brother had spent months with her grandmother and had grown to love this place.

Many days she and George had crouched among the sand dunes and tufted grass, looking seaward, picturing great lines of high-prowed vessels, their sails aloft as they entered the shallows on the flood tide. Captains who were unable to properly navigate their boats would crash helplessly upon the rocky shoals, bringing out smugglers to feast upon the booty that washed ashore.

But approaching by sea had always been the best way, sailing from southern Ireland to the Hayle estuary, as the first traders did, to get a glimpse of the Cornish claw thrusting defiantly into the ocean, the forbidding grandeur of Land's End awing even the most jaded sailor, with its hinterland of granite tors and the emergence of St. Ives Bay, its protective arms shaped like a horseshoe.

Fancy breathed deeply. Home. This place was in her blood, and she would do anything to keep it safe.

Giving Clover a gentle nudge, she headed toward the stables. One of the doors hung askew, its loose hinges sunk deep into the rotting wood. Tomorrow she would have to fix it; money was too tight to hire anyone to do the task.

Once she had Clover brushed down and fed, Fancy put a blanket over the mare's back and kissed her nose. "You did well tonight, girl," she murmured, then headed out into the chilly darkness.

Glancing up, she spotted the light flickering through the windowpanes of her bedroom. Rosalyn was waiting for her, anxiously, Fancy suspected. Her friend hadn't wanted her to go after the men, but considering what had happened that morning, Fancy knew Calder would not cease in his attempts to get his hands on Rosalyn unless they found something they could use against him.

She had barely walked through the front door before Jaines appeared out of the gloom of the long corridor, a single lick of white hair sticking up at the back of his head while strands as thin as cobwebs threaded the rest of his balding pate.

His concerned brown eyes peered at her through thick spectacles. "Thank goodness you're back."

"Has all been quiet tonight, Jaines?"

"Yes, miss. But we were worried about you."

"As you can see, I'm fine."

Olinda appeared next, a spry woman whose silvery hair framed a perfectly oval face and brought out the beauty of her dove gray eyes. She looked much younger than her husband, though barely five years separated them. She claimed it was the result of her strong Scottish stock.

"Praise Saint Ninian, there ye are! I was just aboot tae call out the cavalry. Where've ye been, hinny? Ye had us all worried."

"So I've heard."

Olinda tsked. "Ye always were a vexing child."

Fancy hugged Olinda's thin shoulders. "But you love me, don't you?"

Olinda's voice was gruff, but the pat on Fancy's arm was gentle. "Aye, lass. I love ye. Ye are like one of me own."

Fancy didn't know what she would have done without Olinda and Jaines this past year. There were days after her grandmother and brother died that she didn't think she would make it, but they had pulled her through. Now it was her turn to bear the responsibility that others had spared her from all these years.

Woof! The distinctive bark echoed in the domed foyer and shook the rafters.

Fancy looked up to the top of the steps, where a shaggy head of mottled brown and white came into view before Sadie barreled down the stairs, her massive paws skittering across the recently waxed floor, sending her careening into poor Jaines, who toppled to the ground, Sadie's prodigious weight pinning him there while she treated him to a slavering lick that knocked his spectacles askew.

"Off, you blasted beast!" he demanded in regal tones.

For all Sadie's enormous size—she was a good part wolfhound blended with some other equally massive breed—she was as sweet as a lamb. The poor thing just didn't realize how big she was. Thunder brought her quivering behind Fancy's legs. And she was utterly terrified of the cat, Sassy, a mischievous tabby who loved to creep up on people and pounce, taking special delight in stalking Sadie's tail. It never failed to send the poor hound scurrying into Fancy's lap, one-hundred-fifty pounds of cowering deadweight.

"Come, Sadie," Fancy coaxed. "Leave poor Jaines alone. You're smothering him."

Adoring brown eyes swung to Fancy, bringing Sadie to her feet, her big head nudging Fancy's hand, wanting a scratch behind the ears.

Fancy knelt down and stroked the dog's thick fur. "Did you keep our guest company tonight?" she asked, to which a female voice replied, "She was a delight."

An ethereal vision in a peau de soie dress of dark blue stood looking down at them, from the top of the stairs.

No matter how many times a person saw Lady Rosalyn Carmichael, they could not help but be moved by her beauty. She was a stunning, lithe creature, possessed of angelic features and pale blond hair that hung to her waist, the thick mass now a long, braided rope down her back, tendrils escaping to frame her oval face and cerulean blue eyes.

Where Fancy was dark, Rosalyn was light. Where Fancy was short, Rosalyn was tall, with the longest legs Fancy had ever seen. If ever there was an image of feminine loveliness, Rosalyn epitomized it.

"Thank goodness you're back," she said as she glided down the stairs, coming to a stop in front of Fancy and taking hold of her hands. "I was so worried."

Fancy smiled reassuringly at her friend. "No mere man is going to stop a Fitz Hugh." Even as she made her claim, an image of dark hair and jewel-toned eyes rose in front of her. He had not been a mere man. Fancy wasn't quite sure what he was.

"I didn't doubt it for a minute." Rosalyn's smile transformed her from angelic to breathtaking, with a hint of sin in that heavenly expression that brought men, young and old, to their knees.

All the girls had instantly hated Rosalyn when she had first arrived in town with her mother. But Fancy had felt an immediate kinship, knowing what it was like to be the new person in a place where generations of families had lived and died, their roots mired deep in the sandy loam.

When she had first spotted Rosalyn sitting by herself at Meadow's Cove, the young girl had looked so sad and lost. Fancy's heart had gone out to her, and she had vowed then and there that they would become the best of friends. And they had.

"What happened to your cheek?" Rosalyn asked, her gaze narrowing suspiciously on Fancy's face.

Fancy turned her head away, having forgotten the blow the horrid thug had managed to get in. "It's nothing; I hit a low branch on the ride home. I wasn't watching where I was going."

Her friend raised a brow, clearly not believing that story. But Fancy knew she would say no more. She wouldn't want to upset Jaines and Olinda.

"Let's get you out of those damp clothes and into a nice warm bath." Rosalyn tugged her along.

Fancy went willingly up the stairs, Sadie at her heels. With a vow that she was all right, she sent a reluctant Jaines and Olinda off to bed.

As soon as they were gone, Rosalyn laced into her. "Who hit you?" Before Fancy could reply, she added, "Oh, why did I let you go alone? I could never live with myself if anything had happened to you." As she spoke, she yanked Fancy's shirt over her head, as though she had suddenly become incapable of undressing herself. "I just knew those despicable men would hurt you. It was pure foolishness for you to track them down. Calder won't give up, you know. No matter what we do." She pushed Fancy back on the bed and wrenched off her scuffed boots. "I'll just have to go to America or some other equally heathenish place and hide out."

"You won't have to—"

"I don't know how I let you talk me into these things. This is my problem, not yours."

"It's our—"

"I'll just have to cut off my hair and wear a wig. Disguise myself as a governess or a charwoman."

"That's going a bit—"

"But we won't do this again." She shoved Fancy down into the copper tub that she had thoughtfully filled and kept warm for her. "If anything had happened to you…" Rosalyn's eyes were glossy with unshed tears.

Fancy took hold of her hands. "I'm tougher than I look."

"But your face…"

"It's already forgotten." But it would probably show a bruise by morning, which would undoubtedly make Rosalyn feel even worse.

Truth be told, the kiss that had come after the slap had affected her far more. Was the handsome blackmailer still at the tavern? Had he looked for her, even though she had told him not to? Oh, why did it matter?

"If it makes you feel better," Fancy said, "both of Calder's thugs will have splitting headaches in the morning."

Laughter lit her friend's eyes. "You really are the most remarkable woman. Men would love you—if only they could find you out here."

"The same for you. You should be married by now and raising a house full of children."

Rosalyn scrubbed at Fancy's gnarled locks. "We are a pair, aren't we?"

"A force to reckon with." With a wink, Fancy ducked her head beneath the water and rinsed the soap from her hair.

Rising from the tub, she wrapped a thick towel around her, smelling like a spring garden from Rosalyn's favorite soap.

Using another towel, Rosalyn dried her hair. "So were you able to find anything?"

"No," Fancy replied with a sigh, grabbing her old terry wrapper from her bed. "But I'll come up with something."

"You shouldn't be doing this. You already have enough to concern yourself with. Aren't the taxes coming due on the property soon?"

The reminder lay like a heavy sorrow on Fancy's heart as she moved to the window and looked out, staring off into the distance where weather-pitted granite tombs of ancient earth goddesses and priests jutted from the ground. The stones were tilted to form a roof, set high on the hills amid gorse and scrub, the treasures they once contained long gone, leaving only the aging memorials of a forgotten way of life—as her own life would soon be, if she couldn't turn things around.

The more she wanted things to stay the same, the more the sands of fate shifted beneath her. The weight of responsibility pressed on her shoulders. Unless circumstances changed, and soon, she would lose Moor's End.

She hadn't realized how far behind her grandmother had fallen in her taxes until the tax collector had shown up at her door shortly after her grandmother's death to relay the bad news. Fancy had been given three months to come up with what was owed, or the house would be taken from them and sold.

Moor's End had belonged to her grandmother's family for generations. Every decaying stone and creaking hinge had been special to her, as they were to Fancy. Moor's End had sheltered her through all her troubled years; nothing existed for her outside these walls. After all her grandmother had done for her, Fancy owed it to her to try and save the home she loved. She had only two months left to do so.

Pinning a smile on her face, she turned to Rosalyn. "You worry too much. I already have half the money." She barely had a third. The regulation men had been out in force the past few months, which made runs out of the cove nearly impossible.

"Smuggling is too dangerous. If you get caught—"

"I won't."

"The rocks are treacherous, especially at night."

"I know every crevice."

Rosalyn frowned. "Still…"

Fancy padded across the room to stand before her friend. "I promise I'll be careful. Now, we'd better get some sleep. Who knows what antics Calder will be up to tomorrow?" They would have to be even more vigilant from this point on. "Do you want Sadie to sleep with you?"

"No, I'll be fine." Rosalyn paused at the door. "Have I told you lately what a wonderful friend you are?"

"You've told me a thousand times. Don't worry, we'll beat Calder at his own game." Hoping she looked as confident as she sounded, Fancy picked up a small oil lamp. "I'll walk you to your room."

As they stepped into the darkened hallway, Fancy found herself thinking about her guardian. She could only be thankful that he had not deigned to show his face in Cornwall. The last thing she needed was some ex-military man monitoring every move she made.

She wondered what her brother had been thinking to saddle her with a keeper, as though she were incapable of taking care of herself. And worse, a keeper whose antics often appeared in the scandal sheets. George must have been delirious. But as long as her mysterious warden stayed away, all would be well. Or so she hoped.

"What was that?" Rosalyn suddenly whispered.

"What?"

"I heard something downstairs!"

Fancy turned her head toward the landing and listened. Nothing but Sadie's panting and the whisper of the wind through cracks in the stones reached her.

Then she heard it. The faint sounds of someone moving around in her grandfather's old smoking room. A chill raced up her arms and raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

"Perhaps it's Jaines," she replied in hushed tones, as she and Rosalyn padded toward the stairs. But Jaines had no reason to be in the smoking room. Her grandfather had been its last steady occupant. Old bottles of liquor still lined the cupboard, well aged and highly potent by now, she suspected. But nobody in the house drank.

Fancy gripped the banister, spying the light shining from beneath the door at the bottom of the steps. "Stay here," she told Rosalyn, who was pressed against her back.

"I'm not letting you go down there alone. It could be Calder."

Fancy didn't want to think that she could have underestimated Calder's determination again. "It's probably just an animal who got in through the chimney." Which didn't explain the light, but she kept that to herself. "I'll be back in a minute."

Rosalyn grabbed her arm. "Let's get Jaines."

Fancy didn't want to alarm her friend, but Rosalyn seemed to think that because Jaines was a man, he could handle any situation. What she failed to recall was that Jaines was seventy, if he was a day, and he suffered from rheumatism.

"Even if I wanted to rouse the poor man, you know that Jaines sleeps like the dead."

Rosalyn anxiously gnawed her lower lip. Then her eyes Ht up. "Wait here." Less than a minute later, she was back, pressing something cold into Fancy's hand. She looked down to see it was her grandfather's old gun, which, prior to this evening, she had never even held. "Let's go," Rosalyn then urged, her expression determined as she clutched a heavy brass candlestick in her hand.

Fancy knew when she was beaten. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled slowly. Then she and Rosalyn crept down the stairs, so close together they were almost one. Even Sadie was jammed quiveringly against her thigh.

As they reached the second-to-last step, the door to the smoking room suddenly swung open, casting a large shadow on the floor before an equally large figure emerged into the entrance hall. Their collective gasp brought his head jerking in their direction.

In the next moment, Sadie woofed, and in an unprecedented bout of bravery, she lunged at the intruder. The man went down in a heap of dog fur… and the gun suddenly exploded in Fancy's hand.

Four

Sadie barked madly, while Rosalyn's voice curdled into an alarmed shriek. Even Sassy, who had squeezed out of a dark cubbyhole, hissed, her mottled orange-brown fur sticking up in spikes.

Good Lord, Fancy thought, she had shot the intruder! At least she thought so. She couldn't see anything through the dense gray smoke obscuring her vision. The firearm was at least twenty years old, and she had thought it wasn't loaded!

Waving the smoke away from her face, Fancy gasped when she saw the prone figure on the floor. She dashed down the stairs, her hair a wet banner clinging to her wrapper and streaming in black rivulets over her shoulders. She dropped down beside the man and got her first good look at him. Her mouth dropped open in shock as pale aquamarine eyes settled on her.

"Not dead yet," he said with a groan, "but I suspect you'll succeed at doing me in… before the night is through." He closed his eyes and grimaced in pain, snapping Fancy out of her daze.

Her gaze lit on his ankle, and she saw the nasty gash where the bullet had deeply grazed him. "You'll need some stitches."

Rosalyn knelt on the other side of him, thinking more clearly than Fancy was at that moment as she tore off a strip of her shift and tied it around his ankle with the proficiency of a trained nurse.

"I'll send Jaines for the doctor," Rosalyn said, starting to rise, but the man's hand whipped out and wrapped around her wrist.

"No doctor. Just… sew me up." He turned to Fancy. "You." The word was an order.

Before Fancy could protest, Jaines and Olinda appeared. "Oh, Lord, what's happened?" Jaines moaned.

"We caught a prowler skulking about the house," Rosalyn answered.

"That's no prowler, miss. That's Mr. Kendall."

Fancy blinked and slowly shifted her gaze to the hulk lying next to her on the floor. "Lucien Kendall?" she asked, praying it wasn't so. Not her guardian. Not here. Not now. Not like this!

"In the flesh," her victim answered. "Or what remains of it, at least."

Fancy closed her eyes, wishing she could disappear. Of all the men in all the world, why did it have to be this man her brother had appointed as her guardian? She had kissed this man—and enjoyed it.

He moaned then, and she started. Concerned, she leaned over him. "What's the matter?"

He cracked open one eye. "Other than the fact that I've been shot, you mean?" He looped a long strand of her hair around his fingers and tugged her head down until he could whisper in her ear, "Another kiss would greatly ease the pain."

Fancy nearly lost a hank of her hair, she sat up so abruptly, unsettled by the tingling inside her at feeling his warm breath on her cheek. She scowled at him, and he smiled. Then his smile faded, and he began to shake.

Lord, what was the matter with her? He was hurt She turned to Jaines. "Do we still have the laudanum we used when Bevil broke his arm?"

"I believe so," he said, and hustled off to find the medicine.

"We should get him upstairs to one of the beds," Olinda suggested.

Fancy nodded, looking at his big, muscular frame. "You take his right arm," she said to Rosalyn. "I'll get his left."

They struggled to lift him to his feet. Fancy had a sneaking suspicion that he was purposely making it difficult, and that he was taking a great deal of delight in leaning most of his weight on her.

A large, dark hand draped over her shoulder and brushed across her breast. To her mortification, her nipple peaked. Her gaze snapped to his, ready to blister his ears, but his eyes were jammed shut, and his jaw was gritted.

The first bedroom they came to was hers. Fancy hesitated, feeling oddly unnerved at the thought of him lying in her bed. But the three guest rooms all were blanketed in a thick layer of dust, and none had sheets on the bed. She would just have to sleep in the study. In the morning, she'd have him transferred elsewhere.

They managed to get him to the bed. As soon as Rosalyn eased away, he fell back heavily against the pillows, dragging Fancy down with him—and over the top of his body, leaving nothing but solid, hard man beneath her.

"That's better." Though he looked ill, he smiled wickedly at her, and this time she knew his intention had been purposeful.

"You'll release me," she hissed only loud enough for him to hear, "or you'll find your trousers sewn to your wound." He chuckled softly at her threat, held on for another moment, and then opened his arms. She moved away quickly, her body warmed where they had been pressed together.

Jaines shuffled in then, a glass in one hand and the bottle of laudanum in the other. He went to pour the potent medicine into the glass, but her patient swiped the bottle from him and took a substantial swig.

Fancy grabbed hold of his wrist. "Don't take too much."

"Worried?" He cocked a mocking brow and then downed another dose, surely too much, even for a man his size.

She dropped his hand. "If you die, they'll blame me."

"And murder is a hanging offense," he said, taking delight in repeating the words he'd taunted her with earlier.

Fancy kept her tongue behind her teeth with effort and looked over her shoulder. "I'll need the medical supplies."

"I have them," Olinda said, holding up the faded black satchel that contained a needle, thread, salve, bandages, and an assortment of the healing herbs her grandmother had taught her to use.

Fancy noticed her patient unbuttoning his trousers. "What are you doing?" she said in an outraged voice, the voice of a woman who had never seen an unclothed man.

Deviltry danced in his eyes as he looked up at her, though she could see the drug beginning to fade them. "It would appear I'm undressing. You need to get at my wound, don't you?"

"I can cut off the bottom half of your trousers," she told him sternly, praying he didn't go for the next button.

"Are you sure?" he said in that provoking tone.

"Positive."

Olinda stepped up beside her. "I should be doing this, lass. Ye're unmarried." To which she added pointedly to their patient, "Never even touched a mon before, nor let them touch her—she's a good girl, our lass is."

Utter mortification flooded Fancy, made all the worse when the scoundrel quirked a dark brow at her, blatantly reminding her that she had not only touched a man, but that she had moaned while he kissed her. Cad!

She scowled at him, but the cur simply chuckled. Then his eyelids began to droop as the drug took effect, which suited her perfectly. The last thing she needed was him making this any more difficult than it was going to be.

"Don't take advantage of me while I'm unable to defend my honor, ladies." Then his head fell to the side.

Rosalyn came to stand at her shoulder. "He'll be asleep for quite a while, considering the amount of the laudanum he took."

Fancy stared down at the big body sprawled across her bed and got an image of him wrapped in only a Christmas bow—a well-placed Christmas bow, of course. Any other man would look ridiculous lying on a white ruffled coverlet, but he just appeared larger and more impressive.

She sighed and glanced briefly at Rosalyn, noting the questioning look directed at her. Avoiding it, she turned to Jaines and Olinda, who stood at the end of the bed, fingers lightly entwined, still in love after nearly fifty years of marriage.

"Why don't you both go to bed? Rosalyn and I can handle things from here."

Jaines could barely meet her gaze. "I'm sorry, miss. This is all my fault. I thought you and Lady Rosalyn had gone to bed. I heard a horse thundering up the drive and worried that it was Lord Westcott, come to take Lady Rosalyn away. I'm afraid I met Mr. Kendall at the front door with the old blunderbuss that has been hanging in your grandfather's office. Of course I felt horrible when I found out who he was. I didn't realize he was coming, you see."

"None of us did, Jaines." And Fancy suspected that had been the man's intention; to catch them off guard. He was just that devious.

"I told him everyone was abed and that we had no room prepared for him, but he said he'd bunk down in the study for the evening. He seemed pleased enough to find the liquor cabinet well stocked, and eager to be alone. He told me to go to bed. He didn't look very well, now that I think on it."

Probably due to the clobbering she had given him. Once more, niggling remorse rose in her.

"I don't hold you at fault for any of this, Jaines. Mr. Kendall should have known better than to appear in the middle of the night. Now, why don't you both get some sleep? It's been a long evening." And it appeared it wouldn't end any time soon.

"Are ye sure, hinny?" Olinda asked, then added, "He's a big mon," as if Fancy had possibly missed that fact. "Quite dangerous lookin'—and handsome, as well. The lassies will have a fine time with this one."

The lassies most definitely would. In such a remote outpost as Cornwall, he would be like an angel sent from heaven. And he clearly had no compunction about who he bestowed his favors upon, or under what circumstances.

"We'll be fine," Fancy assured her, trying to assure herself of the same thing.

Olinda finally shrugged. "Come, husband. We have unfinished business. If I recall, ye were in the middle of makin' me swoon with your sweet declarations of love."

"Olinda!" Jaines scolded in a mortified tone as they headed out the door, their soft old voices fading away.

"They really are adorable together," Rosalyn remarked.

"Yes," Fancy said. If only everyone could find the kind of love Jaines and Olinda shared.

Sighing, she looked down at her guardian. Lucien Kendall. Lucifer would be a far more apt name, as he was surely the devil in a stunningly packaged disguise.

Opening her satchel, she dug out a pair of pinking shears and proceeded to cut his trousers away below the knee. A fine dusting of dark hair sprinkled a muscular calf. Her fingers lightly traced his skin before she caught herself.

Carefully, she removed the linen binding Rosalyn had wrapped around the wound. The injury was not as bad as she feared, but it was mean looking, a long gash that left a crescent shape above his ankle. Another few inches, and she might have blown his foot off.

"Would you like to tell me the whole story now?" Rosalyn said as she handed Fancy a clean piece of cotton and a bottle of antiseptic to bathe the wound.

Not looking up, Fancy replied, "I ran across him at the tavern. He took me by surprise when I was searching through one of the men's pockets."

"Dear Lord, what did he do?"

"Nothing." She only wished he had; maybe then she would have had a better excuse for her actions. "It was more what I did."

"Oh, no. What did you do?" This time, were the unspoken words.

Fancy faced her friend. "How could I know he was my guardian? All of a sudden he was standing there, smiling at me. I didn't know what to do. I thought that if he sent for the authorities, you'd be returned to Calder and I'd… well, I don't know what would have happened. But I doubt it would be inspiring."

"What did you do?" Rosalyn persisted.

"I didn't mean to 'do' anything. Honestly. I just thought if he saw the gun…"

Rosalyn groaned. "You didn't."

"I was just trying to make him move out of the way! It wasn't loaded—or at least I didn't think it was."

"You didn't shoot him then, too, did you?"

Fancy's exasperation rose. "I didn't mean to shoot him this time! It was an accident."

"So he just allowed you to leave?"

"Well, yes…"

"Something tells me there's a 'but.'"

Fancy glanced away, rooting through the satchel for a needle and thread. "I was afraid he was going to follow me. So, I… I hit him over the head with a rock."

Rosalyn sank down onto the bed. "Oh, goodness," she said, sounding calamitous.

"Oh goodness, indeed." Fancy threaded the needle and began to stitch his wound, his skin resilient beneath her fingertips. "What am I going to do?"

"Perhaps he'll awake in a more forgiving frame of mind." But as they looked at each other, Fancy knew that was highly unlikely to happen. There was also the little fact that she had threatened his manhood with a fire poker.

And kissed him.

"Why couldn't he have simply sent another governess?" she bemoaned. "In the year since George died, he has not deigned to visit here, which suited me just fine. Blast him for choosing the absolute worst time to appear."

"Well, I cannot entirely blame him."

Fancy's hand paused mid-stitch. "And why not?"

"You chased off every governess he sent."

"They all treated me as though I were a child. 'Hold your pinkie up whilst sipping your tea, Lady Francine,'" she mimicked perfectly. "'Back straight, Lady Francine.' 'Pick up your feet when you walk, Lady Francine.' " She huffed. "It was ridiculous. Who is going to care if I drink my tea with my pinkie up or down?"

"You might care, should you someday wish to be introduced into polite society."

"All I wish is to be left in peace."

"That is something I can well understand." A moment of thoughtful silence passed before Rosalyn said, "What shall we do now?"

Fancy sighed. "I don't know."

While she wanted to dislike the man for throwing her life into turmoil, deep down she felt an odd excitement at having him there.

When she had left him at the tavern, a strange sadness had settled over her at the prospect of never seeing him again. Perhaps she had even harbored the ridiculous hope that he would follow her. When she had gotten her first glimpse of him lying in her foyer, she had been secretly thrilled.

Her emotions were in a jumble as she tied off the final stitch, and she knew a sudden urge to run far and fast. Something told her that her life would not be the same from this moment forward.

"Do you think he'll cause trouble?" Rosalyn asked.

Fancy looked down at her sleeping guardian and sighed. "I think he'll cause nothing but trouble."

 

After Rosalyn had retired to bed, Fancy sat in a chair in the corner, Sadie plunked at her feet, watching the rise and fall of her guardian's chest. In sleep, his face had been washed of its wickedness, and he looked like a fallen angel.

She had been too unnerved to undress him, other than removing his jacket. Dirt and small specks of blood stained what had once been a pristine white shirt with crisply starched points. His pants were ruined. He had not worn a cravat, which in most places would have been unseemly.

But he didn't seem the type of man who'd care about what was unseemly or not. He was most unusual in many ways. He had been in the military. A decorated colonel, George had often boasted in his letters. Her brother seemed to think the sun rose and set at this man's feet.

"He's the bravest person I've ever met," George had said frequently in his correspondence to her, clearly idolizing his commanding officer. "I think you'd like him."

Fancy doubted her brother had meant his words to be so prophetic. She did like his colonel, in the worst sort of way. But her impulsive behavior had set her on a course from which there was no return. She had kissed him, a man who, for all intents and purposes, was to be in charge of her life. Only catastrophe could come from that. But just looking at Lucien tied her stomach into knots and made her fingers itch to touch him.

Abruptly, Fancy pushed to her feet, not liking where her thoughts were going. If she looked at him any longer, she might very well give in to the urge to lay her hands on him, to make sure his heart still beat steady and strong beneath her fingertips.

She padded to the window, staring out into the endless night. The moon glimmered over the sleek edges of the ocean, glittering like diamond points, reflecting prisms off the dirt-streaked windows of the conservatory.

Moor's End had once been a magnificent manor home, giving employment to half the town's villagers. Now the large stable stood mostly empty; the gardens were overgrown, the plum trees unpruned and wild.

In three days, she was to meet Bodie at Mariner's Nook to bundle up the shipment that she hoped would bring her closer to paying off her grandmother's debt. Her guardian's unexpected scrutiny would make everything much more difficult.

A low moan brought Fancy back to the moment. She turned, expecting to see blue-green eyes leveled on her in accusation, but Lucien was still asleep, though stirring restlessly. As she drew nearer to him, he began to thrash in the throes of a nightmare, induced from too much laudanum, she suspected.

She sank down next to him on the bed as he rambled words in a language she didn't recognize, only a few understandable phrases in between.

"No," he muttered, his head rolling back and forth on the pillow. "Don't do it. Don't!" Suddenly, his hands wrapped fiercely around her arms.

Fancy jerked back, startled. But he didn't hurt her, just held on, and she knew that he didn't realize what he was doing. "Ssh," she murmured, seeking to soothe him. "It's all right. Everything is all right."

"Sanji," he said in a guttural voice, his face contorted in pain. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Fancy could hear the fierce regret in his voice and wondered who Sanji was. One of his soldiers, who he had not been able to save, like her brother?

"You're forgiven. Now rest." When he eased his grip, she pulled her arms free, but she did not move away. Instead she cupped his cheek, the muscle beneath resonating with tension. He seemed to calm as she stroked him, her fingers fanning through his silky hair as she whispered softly to him. Then she bathed his brow with a cold cloth; his skin was so hot, she feared an infection had set in.

When she was rinsing out the cloth she turned to find his gaze fixed on her, his eyes foggy with the drug.

"Sleep now," she told him in a quiet voice. "You'll feel better in the morning."

His hand curled around her upper arms, tugging her forward until they were face-to-face, her breasts flush against his chest. Then he cupped the back of her head, bringing her mouth down to his. She didn't resist; she couldn't. She wanted to know if what she had felt the first time had been real, even if he didn't realize what he was doing.

She closed her eyes and let go. His mouth molded hers, strong yet gentle, his tongue sliding inside to taste her, coax her.

The kiss was everything she had expected, and more. But it was over too soon, as his fingers slipped from her hair and his eyes drifted shut. In the next moment, he was asleep again.

Fancy doubted he would remember any of what had taken place come the morning. But she would not soon forget.

Five

Lucien awoke feeling as though an awl had been driven through his skull. Little hammers beat against his temples, and his mouth tasted as if a rat had crawled into it and died. Laudanum, his beleaguered brain tapped out. The poor man's drug of choice.

It took a moment for the fog to begin to clear. Why was there a translucent white canopy above his head and a frilly coverlet pulled up to his chin? If this was hell, it wasn't at all as he had imagined it.

He rubbed his eyes and opened them again. The canopy was still there. The coverlet, too. What the blazes was going on? He vaguely recalled a doxy named Sugar and a searing pain in his ankle.

Then a memory of fern green eyes penetrated his hazy brain, a wavering image of an incredibly fool-hardy slip of a girl. He had left the tavern to find her. And he had—much to his detriment.

A strange sound rumbled in Lucien's ear then, and a moist heat fanned the side of his face. Cautiously, he turned his head and found two piercing brown eyes the size of tea saucers staring into his, set in the face of a mammoth dog. Its teeth were massive, its jaw big enough to tear out his windpipe.

The dog cocked its head and stared at him unblinkingly. Then it unfurled its long pink tongue and gave him a slobbering lick.

"Have a care, you accursed hound." Lucien wiped his hand across his cheek. "Dogs are considered a delicacy in some countries."

The threat was lost on the buffleheaded animal, and Lucien practically rolled off the bed when it put its front paws on the mattress to sniff at his crotch.

"Unless you're a female in disguise," he said, pushing the dog's snout away, "that area is strictly off limits." He tried to remove the animal from the bed. "Good Lord, you weigh as much as a Clydesdale. What do you eat? Clipper ships? Down, you—"

The remainder of his demand was cut off as the dog let out a howl that sounded as if it had boiled up from the very bowels of Hades. In the next moment, the beast was sprawled on top of Lucien, trying to get beneath the covers and shaking so hard the entire bed rattled.

A second later, the ugliest cat Lucien had ever seen sprang up onto the bedside table, flexing its claws and testing the sharp tips out on the counterpane, sending the dog into yowls of anguish.

"Oh, goodness!" a new voice added to the melee. "Sadie, down! Sassy, stop that!"

That voice. Lucien peered over the top of the canine's big head and found the skull-basher from the tavern running to his aid. She shooed away the cat, who pranced off, tail waving like the flag of a conquering warship.

The dog glanced over the edge of the bed to make sure its nemesis was not waiting to pounce before removing its lumbering body, which left no barriers between Lucien and the woman warily staring down at him.

If he had thought her beautiful before, she was even more stunning in the light of day. Her black hair swirled in a soft cloud around her face. Her eyes were luminescent, settling into a darker green as he watched. She had been dressed in nightclothes when she shot him. Now she wore a simple cotton morning dress of pale rose that highlighted each curve and hollow.

"We meet again," he said.

"So we do."

"It's fortuitous, wouldn't you say, that one of us is in bed?" He rolled up on an elbow and patted the spot beside him. "Care to join me?"

She ignored him. "How is your ankle this morning?"

Lucien glanced down at the linen bandage wrapped neatly around his wound and then back up at his nurse. "Still attached, I see."

"Do you feel any pain?"

Blessedly, he didn't. Nevertheless, he couldn't make this easy on her. She had shot him, after all. "It hurts quite a bit," he lied.

A slight frown pleated her brows. "Would you like more laudanum?"

"No." He hadn't really needed the potent medicine the night before. At least, not for his wound. "Maybe you could rub my leg?" he suggested.

She glanced at him suspiciously, and then looked at his leg. Lucien could tell she didn't cherish the idea of touching him. Most men wouldn't consider that a good sign. He did.

He planned to play the invalid for however long and to whatever degree he could get away with it. It was the perfect punishment for her, and suitable retribution to appease him. He sensed she had an untapped wealth of passion, and he intended to unearth it.

Hesitantly, she sat down on the bed, so close to the edge he was surprised she didn't fall off. She wet her lips, which drew his attention to them and started a slow-building heat in his groin. He vividly remembered how sweet she had tasted, how good she had felt in his arms.

He closed his eyes as she laid her hands on him and began to gently massage his lower leg. Her fingers were warm and surprisingly expert.

Opening his eyes, he watched her, noting how she wouldn't meet his gaze. "So what's your name, love?"

She stopped her ministration and glanced at him. "Don't you know?"

"How would I know? It's not as if we've been formally introduced."

She stared at his leg and nibbled her lower lip. "Who do you think I am?"

Bloody hell. She was going to torture him. "While this game was amusing last night, I'm not quite up to it today." He groaned to bring his point home and shifted his leg, pleased when she hastily resumed kneading his muscles. "The lad at the stables said you worked here."

Her head jerked up. "He did?"

Lucien shrugged noncommittally. "He might not have said those words exactly, but that was the general impression. So I imagine you were at the tavern last night to make some extra blunt? Are your wages not sufficient enough here?"

Fancy was at a loss for words. Was it possible he didn't realize that she was his ward? Had her brother never described her to him?

It seemed too unbelievable to be true, but it did appear that he thought her a household servant—and worse, apparently. While she should be offended, she couldn't blame him. She certainly didn't act like the mistress of the manor, or dress the part. She couldn't fix a broken stable door or a rotten stair in a frilly gown. Had it not been for the unnerving way he had looked at her the night before, she would be wearing her breeches that very moment.

She started when he suddenly took a lock of her hair between her fingers. "Is money a problem, love? There are men who would pay quite handsomely to have you grace their bed. Myself included."

As he had last night, he used her hair to pull her forward until they were face to face. She wondered if he would kiss her again. And if she wanted him to.

"Perhaps if you locked the door," he murmured, "we could discuss arrangements. I vow to make it worth your while."

Fancy could only stare, mesmerized by the look in his eyes, and the way the color seemed to shift from green to blue. "Are you propositioning me, Mr. Kendall?"

His smile radiated sin. "It seems I am. I won't deny that I'm attracted to you."

Fancy could scarcely breathe. He was attracted to her. She had presumed he had simply been toying with her the night before.

She had never been the kind of female who inspired passion in men, but rather friendship, like the sort she shared with Heath, even though he had started speaking of marriage in the past year. But she knew he felt a misplaced responsibility to take care of her now that George was gone.

Heath and her brother had been close friends as children, inseparable at times. It seemed odd, now that she thought about it, that George had appointed a stranger as her guardian rather than his closest friend, who would have been the logical choice—and one Fancy could have accepted much more easily.

Though Heath enjoyed his lectures, as most men did, he would never have interfered with her plans. In fact, he had assisted her the last two times Bodie had ridden in on the midnight tide to collect the smuggled French brandy and silks, though the venture was foiled when the gaugers had suddenly appeared. If not for the dense fog that often rolled over the beach in the wee hours of the morning, they might not have escaped.

"What do you say, love?" her patient prompted. "I won't tell your mistress. We could both have a very good time. It would certainly make my stay here much more enjoyable."

Undoubtedly. "You didn't want to come?"

"No," he replied without hesitation. "The last thing I need is the responsibility for some high-strung brat who's terrorized every governess I have sent to see to her welfare."

His comment stung. "Maybe she didn't appreciate your interference. Or maybe she thought you should come yourself, instead of sending hirelings to do your dirty work."

"She told you this, did she?" He canted a brow, and Fancy realized she was giving too much away. But he went on as though her answer was of no import. "I went to a damn lot of trouble to find those governesses. It wasn't easy to convince someone to come out to this desolate rock."

Why, the condescending peacock!

"I was having myself a fine time in London until her ladyship's tantrums interfered," he added.

"Gambling, drinking, and whoring, I presume." She had read about his wild antics in the scandal sheets. He had recently won a large estate from some earl's son.

"More gambling and drinking than whoring," he said, caressing her cheek with his thumb, sending a shiver chasing over her skin. "Few have truly interested me. But you… you have fire. We would be suitably matched. You have a need, and I have the ability to fulfill it."

Fancy couldn't think with him touching her that way. He lured her far too easily.

She stood abruptly and moved to the end of the bed to unwrap his bandage. "So what do you plan to do with your ward now that you've arrived?"

"I intend to take her in hand and let her know precisely how things will be from this point on. Her days of running roughshod over everyone have come to an end. I won't tolerate disobedience."

His words confirmed what Fancy had dreaded. "And what if she doesn't care for your brand of discipline?"

"She'll learn to like it," he replied with grim determination.

"Perhaps she feels competent to take care of herself."

"If she had been capable of that feat, I wouldn't be here. She has succeeded in chasing off two able-bodied caretakers."

Fancy had to bite her tongue. Attila the Hun would have made a better governess than the women he had sent.

"I'd say she's in need of a hand to her backside," he said, as though seriously contemplating carrying through on the punishment.

Fancy's ire rose at that ridiculous statement. "And you think to administer it, I suppose?"

"If necessary."

"I hate to disappoint you, but she's far too old for such treatment." And she would claw his eyes out before he got within striking distance.

His gaze narrowed on her face. "What do you mean, 'too old'? Just how old is she?"

Fancy barely contained a smirk as she replied, "Twenty."

"Twenty!" She jumped back as he flung the coverlet to the floor and swung his legs over the bed, swearing as his wounded foot connected with solid ground. "Good God. This is bloody priceless." He rifled a hand through his hair. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"

Fancy hadn't expected her remark to elicit such a response. "Perhaps they would have, had you asked."

He scowled at her, and he was quite formidable when he looked like that. And now that he was sitting upright, quite large and dangerous, too. "What am I going to do with some twenty-year-old chit?"

"You act as if she's an evil hag."

"She could be, for all the luck I'll have marrying her off."

That statement constricted Fancy's chest. "Marry?"

"What else am I to do with her?" He rubbed the back of his neck, then stopped abruptly and frowned. "There was a blond girl last night. Tall and extraordinarily pretty. Is that her?"

"Her?"

He glared impatiently at her. "Your mistress. Lady Francine."

The moment of truth had arrived. "And if it is?" Fancy evaded. Tall and extraordinarily pretty. Fancy had never begrudged her friend's beauty, but at that moment she felt conspicuously plain in comparison.

"Then I'd have to wonder why no man has laid claim to her. She looks like an angel."

"An angel you wanted to throttle not five minutes ago," Fancy reminded him.

He shrugged. "I was angry."

Had Rosalyn been a hideous troll, she doubted his anger would have abated so readily.

"Help me up," he said then, holding out his arm. "I want to see what this hellhole looks like in the light of day."

Ire carried Fancy across the distance she had put between them, her mind conjuring images of using him as a voodoo doll and sticking large pins in his behind.

"Easy, love," he murmured, chuckling as she slapped her arm around his waist and helped him up, no small feat, as she nearly toppled beneath his weight. "Take me to the window." He hobbled along next to her, his arm slung across her shoulders. His nearness was unnerving, and he didn't allow her even an inch of breathing room.

He drew the sheer curtain back to look out. The morning sun had coated the sea in golden streaks, the waves whipped into frothy peaks from the gale that had sprung up the night before, sending little whirling clouds of sand into the air and back to the ground to choke the reedy grass and willows.

Fancy glanced at the man beside her. "How long do you intend to stay?"

He looked down at her, his gaze warm and faintly ironic. "My answer would have been vastly different had you asked me that question yesterday."

"Why?"

"Because yesterday I had no reason to linger."

Fancy trembled inside at his meaning; her thoughts conflicted. One part of her wanted to tell him that the woman he desired was the very same woman he couldn't wait to be rid of. She shouldn't want him to linger. Nothing good could come of it. She had things to do, and he would only be in the way. But, to her dismay, he had already become a fascination for her—the way he moved, with a subtle, predatory grace, how he smelled, like whiskey and smoke and leather, how he was built, as though specifically designed to accommodate a woman's form, hard to soft, dark to light.

She should tell him the truth and send him on his way as soon as possible. But confessing who she was would be more hindrance than help. In two days, she would be meeting Bodie again, and this shipment would bring her much closer to fulfilling the debt she owed on her home. She needed that shipment desperately. Having the last two rendezvous foiled, she could not have him get in the way of this one.

"Lingering will get you nowhere." If she could not come to a conclusion on anything else, she had to at least set him straight on whatever he thought might happen between them. "It's best that you do what you came to do and be on your way."

His half-grin told her he was undeterred. "So that's the way it's going to be, is it?"

"That's the way it's going to be," she replied unequivocally, meeting his gaze.

"I could change your mind," he challenged in a seductive voice, turning her to face him. His shirt had lost several buttons, and she found herself staring directly at his chest. He put a finger beneath her chin and tipped her head up. "In fact, I feel obliged to try."

The thought of what he might do was too unsettling to contemplate. "You would be wasting your time," she said coolly.

"Perhaps. But time is something I have in abundance at the moment. You are going to nurse me back to health, aren't you?"

"You look perfectly healthy to me."

"Hardly. I suspect my recovery will take quite a while. I hope you're up to the task."

Fancy diverted the topic before he completely unraveled her. "Who is Sanji?" she asked.

He went utterly still, the expression on his face tense and shuttered. "You slept in here with me last night?" His words were more accusation than question.

"I needed to make sure you didn't succumb to a fever or infection."

"What did I say?" he demanded.

Fancy shook her head. "Nothing, you just mumbled the name. But you were hilla-ridden at the time."

He stared at a point over her shoulder for a few moments, seeming far away. Then, slowly, his gaze drifted down to hers. "Hilla-ridden?"

"Ghosts," she explained. "They tormented your dreams."

"I don't believe in ghosts."

Fancy felt silly to have brought it up. He would certainly not understand. "People around here hold a lot of faith in their superstitions. They believe there is a way to rid yourself of almost anything that ails you."

"Even hillas?" he asked, treating her to a slow grin; whatever had disturbed him was now gone.

She nodded. "All you need to do is crawl on your hands and knees through the ringed stones at the Men-an-Tol, or bathe in the waters of Madron Wells."

"Interesting. What other odd customs should I be aware of?"

Fancy couldn't tell if he truly wanted to know, or if he was mocking her. Her grandmother had taught her these traditions and legends, and while some she silently rejected as ridiculous, most she took to heart because her grandmother believed them.

"If you are afflicted with madness," she said pointedly, "then you would be bowssened in a pool of water by the burliest men in the county until the insanity had left you."

Amusement lit his eyes. "Insanity, is it? Well, perhaps you're right. I'd have to be crazy to want to stay here. Will I be pushed off the cliff next?" He lightly caressed her arm and Fancy pulled away.

"Let's get you back to bed."

His ready compliance should have been warning enough. Not surprisingly, she found herself far too close to him when he settled back against the pillows.

"I think I'm going to like being laid up. Are you sure you don't want to join me?"

"There would not be enough room for me and your bloated head."

"Well," he said with a martyred sigh, "it seems you've put me in my place. It also seems I've put off the inevitable as long as I can. Bring your mistress to me, if you would."

A moment of panic flooded Fancy's senses. "My mistress?" She swallowed a dry knot in her throat. "I… believe she's taking the waters."

"The waters?"

"Yes, there's a hot spring on the west side of the property. She could be there for hours."

"Send someone to fetch her, then."

Persistent ox, Fancy thought, praying he didn't get restless and decide to leave the room. She had to rally the troops and get everyone's agreement to, well, lie, basically. Knowing her guardian's plans for her, she had no choice but to deceive him, at least until she could secure the money she needed to pay off her grandmother's debt

She turned to go, but he took hold of her arm. "You haven't told me your name. I recall asking, but receiving no answer."

Fancy cast about for a suitable name. "Mary," she said. "Mary… Purdy."

He shook his head. "No."

Her heart missed a beat. Did he know she was lying? "What do you mean, no?"

"Mary doesn't suit you."

"Well, that's my name."

"Then I guess I'll have to find you a better one." He thought for a second and then smiled. "I have it. I'll call you Angel. My angel of mercy, come to soothe me with one hand, and slap me with the other."

Oh, she would definitely like to slap him.

"Now that we have that settled, be a good girl and go find your mistress. But, Angel"—he said the name with goading relish, as she yanked her arm from his grasp—"don't go far. I'm an invalid, remember?"

Fancy wished she had something to hurl at his arrogant head, but that would only ruin a cherished knick-knack. She had already clouted him with a rock, threatened him with a fire poker, shot him in the leg, and where had that gotten her? In her current untenable position, that's where!

The best she could do was leave with her head high and her dignity intact—while shutting the door with a resounding slam as masculine laughter followed her down the hallway.

 

"What madness could have been in ye, hinny, tae be telling the mon such a fabrication?"

Fancy faced the three people who meant the most in the world to her and felt her resolve waver. What she was proposing seemed much more far-fetched now than when the idea had first occurred.

"I don't see that we have a choice," she replied. "I can't allow his sudden appearance to change all my plans. How will I get out to meet Bodie, if Mr. Kendall is watching me all the time? Besides, he's not feeling very charitable toward me at present." She wouldn't put it past the wretch to lock her in her room, just to spite her.

"He'll feel a great deal more uncharitable should he find out what you're doing," Rosalyn said, ever the voice of reason.

Fancy sighed and glanced at her friend, who was dressed in a lovely sprigged muslin gown that matched her eyes, the high waist accentuating her slender torso and ample bosom. Without even trying, she epitomized the qualities of a gently bred female, even though Rosalyn had been every bit the hoyden Fancy had been growing up. The difference lay in the fact that Fancy had never quite shed her impulsive ways.

"He already thinks you're me," Fancy reminded her. "So this seems the perfect solution to all our problems. I can continue to meet Bodie, and you can charm and distract our guest." She pushed down the image her words conjured. "You know everything there is to know about me. Jaines and Olinda can help keep up appearances. And truthfully, it would make me feel better knowing there was someone else besides the three of us keeping an eye on you."

"I don't know." Rosalyn looked pensive. "It seems too risky, and Mr. Kendall doesn't strike me as the sort of man who takes well to being deceived."

Fancy didn't doubt that. Her guardian was a formidable man. If he wasn't such a nuisance, she might admit that her brother had chosen an unmatched protector. He was ex-military, the elite light cavalry. And he hadn't gotten all those muscles from lifting books.

She remembered the letter he had sent her informing her of her brother's death, the remorse that had come through in every word. How eloquently he had spoken of George's bravery in the line of duty. They had been under heavy attack during the weeks after George's final letter to Fancy. George had saved another man's life; he was a hero, they said. But she would have preferred George back, whole and safe, rather than a hero. He had always been a hero to her.

"How many more excursions to the cove do you expect to have to take, miss?" Jaines asked.

"Three, four at the most. I haven't wanted to risk discovery by having Bodie come too frequently, but I guess we'll have to chance it." Fancy took a steadying breath and met Rosalyn's concerned gaze. "Your lord and master awaits, Lady Francine."

Six

Fancy paced back and forth in the corridor outside her bedroom, which was currently occupied by her best friend and her guardian. What were they doing in there? And why was it taking so long?

She gnawed on her nail, her gaze continually moving to the closed door. Would Lucien believe Rosalyn was his ward? What if he posed a question she could not answer?

Fancy nearly leapt out of her skin when the door suddenly opened and Rosalyn emerged, the smile she had pasted on her face upon entering the lion's den fading as soon as the door was closed behind her.

"What happened?" Fancy asked in a hasty whisper. "What did he say?"

Rosalyn took her by the arm and led her away. When they were out of earshot, she said, "I think everything went well. I'm fairly certain he believes I'm you. Since he doesn't know much about you, he couldn't probe. He did remark how dissimilar in looks George and I are, though."

"Well, George and I didn't look too similar, either. George's hair was dark red, and his eyes more hazel than green. He took after Mother's side of the family." Fancy stopped. Rosalyn's attention seemed to have drifted. "Has something happened?" she asked, suddenly worried.

"Hmm?" Rosalyn blinked and then stared at her, appearing puzzled. "Has what happened?"

"You looked deep in thought."

"I was just thinking how incredibly handsome Mr. Kendall is, though his hair is far too long and wild for convention. And I believe he once sported an earring. Quite a shock to a girl's senses, I daresay."

"Yes," Fancy mumbled. Rosalyn and Lucien would make a wonderful-looking couple. His height and swarthy features would compliment her sylphlike figure and blond goddess softness.

"He seems to have acquired a fascination for you," Rosalyn said, looking at Fancy closely.

Fancy hated that her heart did a little jig. "Oh?" she replied, managing to sound only mildly curious.

"He asked where you were, and how long you've been in my employ, and he deftly slipped in a question about whether you were involved with anyone. That sounds distinctly like interest to me. Are you sure nothing more happened between you two than an unfortunate confrontation at the tavern?"

It was not like Fancy to keep anything from her best friend, but she just wasn't ready to confess the kiss—two kisses, actually—that she had shared with her guardian.

"Nothing," she answered, expecting a clap of thunder to herald her fib.

Rosalyn looked as though she didn't quite believe her, but all she said was, "He's waiting for you." A bellow vibrated the walls then, and she added with a chuckle, "Impatiently, it seems. Should I chaperone?"

Fancy almost said yes. Her guardian had a thoroughly wicked streak, and she doubted he would behave, but going to his room with reinforcements would only amuse the wretch. Besides, she was supposed to be a servant, which made the rules vastly different. Now that she had made her proverbial bed, she would have to lie in it.

And as she marched toward her bedroom door, back rigidly erect and head high, she thought her guardian would find her comparison vastly amusing.

 

"Good Lord, woman, where've you been?" Lucien demanded as the defiant chit entered his room, her stern schoolmarm expression conveying she was ready to chastise him. Good. He looked forward to seeing what torture she intended to inflict next. He was agonizingly restless, and had barely made it back to the bed before the door opened. If she knew he could walk, let alone practice his morning drills, life would not be nearly as enjoyable as he intended it to become.

"Still grumpy, I see."

"I'm bored. And my leg hurts," he added as an afterthought. In London, he would be seated in front of a whist table at one of his favorite gaming hells by now. Instead, he was doomed to spend the morning staring up at a spider building a cobweb in the corner.

He watched his nurse move toward him in that surprisingly graceful way of hers, stopping a foot from the bed, where she looked dispassionately at him. Cruel woman.

"If you would refrain from your tantrums," she said, "perhaps you wouldn't feel so badly."

Normally he would have given up trying to seduce her by now. But there was something intriguing about this fiery bit of female that no man could overlook. She gave as good as she got, and he found himself inexplicably drawn to her. She had the beauty and manner of a born lady, but with the sin of the streets in her blood.

"I have an itch," he said. One that had started the night before and that he doubted she would scratch.

"Are your arms suddenly unable to move?"

"I can't reach it."

She narrowed her gaze at him and cautiously edged closer, as if expecting him to make a move. Lucien smiled to himself as he rolled to his side and offered her his back.

Those slim fingers with their short nails gently rasped across his flesh, touching him as though she enjoyed it. But if he glanced over his shoulder to look at her at that moment, he suspected her demeanor would be less than friendly.

"Lower," he murmured, sensing her hesitation as her hand moved down his spine, her fingers pressing into the arch, making him wish he'd had the forethought not to wear a shirt. He wanted nothing between her hands and his skin. It had been a long time since a woman had touched him so simply. "Lower." He heard the groan in his voice, and her fingers stilled. He cursed himself for ruining the moment.

Rolling over to face her, he saw the conflict in her eyes and felt not a damn bit of satisfaction. A knock sounded at the door, and she whirled around like a guilty party.

His ward popped her head in, still wearing the same charming smile she had bestowed upon him earlier, It was hard to imagine such an ethereal creature being the hoyden he had read about in the governesses' stinging reports.

"I don't mean to intrude, but there's someone here to see Mr. Kendall."

"Lucien," he reminded her.

She blushed prettily and nodded. She really was quite lovely, and he couldn't fathom why no man had made an offer for her hand. Perhaps it was simply that her choices were too few out here in sheep country. He would have to take her to London and employ the help of the only "lady" he had ever associated with, Clarisse Templeton, widow of the late Marquis of Dane.

Clarisse was a social butterfly; she could introduce his ward to polite society. Since Lady Francine was the daughter of an earl, she deserved to find a man who was her equal.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"He says his name is Tahj."

Lucien dropped his head back on his pillow. "Bloody hell," he muttered. He'd forgotten all about the man and his broken coach.

"Who's Tahj?" his reluctant nurse asked.

"I suspect you'll find out in a moment."

His prediction proved correct as a man suddenly appeared on the threshold, with a round face, slanted eyes, olive complexion, and every hair shaved from his head. He was garbed in a loose, flowing orange tunic with a black sash around his waist, orange trousers gathered at the bottom, and black slippers sporting a dragon's image embroidered in red silk thread.

Hands on hips, the man focused his gaze on Lucien, a sharp intelligence in those piercing, dark eyes. He was small, but something about him radiated power.

"One night from my side," the man said in a uniquely punctuated voice, "and already you are in trouble."

Lucien sighed. "Ladies, may I introduce you to my traveling companion, Rahmatahj Vajrayana, or Tahj, as I call him."

Tahj pressed his hands together and offered them both a bow. "May Buddha bless such heavenly flowers," he intoned, his English nearly perfect but for an accent that Fancy didn't recognize. "You shall both be fruitfully rewarded in the afterlife for putting up with the antics of the namak haraam."

"Namak haraam?" Fancy queried, puzzled.

" 'Unworthy one' is one of its many connotations," Lucien answered. "Lower than the slime scraped off one's shoe after walking through a dung field."

"This is true," Tahj asserted, nodding his head. "That one"—he pointed to Lucien—"is undisciplined, stubborn-minded, and walks in the path of the misguided. Alas, he is my burden."

"I didn't beg you to follow me around for the last ten years, you blistering pain in the rump. You could have stayed in India."

"Buddha has willed that you are to be my tribulation. I cannot ascend to the Final Nirvana until the day you have found the path of enlightenment." Tahj sighed wearily. "I fear I shall wither and die, unholied in my quest."

Fancy bit her lip to keep from laughing. Though she had only known her guardian a day, she completely understood the older man's frustration.

"Why do you lay in bed? What game do you play now?"

"I was shot."

Tahj snorted. "You are perfectly well. You only seek to fool these young women."

"I really did shoot him," Fancy piped in. "I thought he was a robber."

Smugly, Lucien quirked his brow at the odd little fellow and folded his arms over his chest. "See?"

What happened next transpired so quickly, Fancy barely had a moment to blink, as Tahj lunged toward Lucien's bed, leg outstretched, his heel thwapping down where Lucien had been only a moment before. He had rolled off the bed with lightning speed, raising his right arm to block the chopping blow that curved down toward his head, the palm of his other hand thrusting up into the old man's midsection, knocking him back

"Ha!" Lucien crowed. "You're getting slow in your dotage, old man."

"Never too old to teach a whelp such as yourself a lesson." Tahj gripped the bedpost and swung his legs in an arch, catching his opponent square in the chest, expelling a whoosh of air from Lucien as he hurtled back toward the bureau.

The movements that followed were a blur as arms, hands, and legs blocked one blow after the next in a flurry of feints and parries that were incredible to watch. One moment Lucien was driving Tahj back; the next moment Tahj was cornering Lucien. It was hard to believe such a slight man could hold his own against a brute Lucien's size.

The fight was over a moment later as Tahj swept out his leg, catching Lucien's injured ankle and sending him hard to the floor, Tahj's knee pressed into his chest.

"You have weakened, vajra. Your practice has suffered to let an old man beat you."

"You got a lucky break."

"There are no such things as lucky breaks. One makes one's own destiny." He clasped his hand in Lucien's and helped him up. "Now get dressed. There is much left to pummel into that hard head of yours."

Lucien sat down on the bed. "My nurse told me I need to rest." He glanced over at Fancy as though expecting her to save him. "Didn't you, Angel?"

Heat flushed Fancy's cheeks. "I told you not to call me that," she hissed furiously, which only garnered a chuckle from him as she swung on her heel and headed toward the door. "I hope he beats the blazes out of you."

Lucien was still laughing as the door slammed behind her. She was a damn temptation when she was angry; the way her eyes sparked fire and her creamy skin flamed with color. A definite danger to his peace of mind.

He dropped back against the pillows, his aching muscles protesting. Tahj's beating had been another one of the monk's lessons. He believed strength of body brought strength of mind, which he had tried to reinforce through meditation. But Lucien didn't want to delve too deeply into his own mind. He only found himself reliving his past, remembering the two lives he had lived. One of them forever lost. The other, too ingrained to forget.

"I do not like the look in your eyes," Tahj said, standing over Lucien, disapproval showing in full measure on his round face.

"As usual, you're seeing things that aren't there."

"I see very clearly. You have designs on the dark-haired girl."

"And if I do? What business is it of yours?"

"She is an innocent."

"Innocent!" he hooted. "She damn well shot me. And that was after she had knocked me unconscious and very nearly unmanned me when I tried to rescue her from some thug." And he still didn't know what she had been searching for.

"She is an innocent," Tahj repeated firmly, either not hearing Lucien or not caring. The latter, undoubtedly. "You have not been practicing your Shaolin. You are slow. Unprepared."

"Unprepared for what? The days of battle are behind me." But never forgotten. He could still see the faces of all the men who had fallen, all the senseless loss of life. For what? To bend a people to British rule? To force them to accept Christianity over their own religion?

But he had done his duty because there had been a killing need in him, a desire for retribution against the people who had imprisoned and beaten him and drugged him so that he could not escape, leaving him a slave to his own weakness even now, all these years later.

"The battles are not yet over for you, preta. You still harbor bitterness in your heart."

"You never give up, do you?"

"That I have been with you all these many years should answer your question. You must exorcise the ashura to find peace."

A familiar rage built inside Lucien. "Peace? Is that what's missing? I've lost fifteen years of my life. How do you propose I overcome that? My entire family is gone. Dorian, Jillian, Hugh, Gavin, Jensyn. My parents."

He stalked to the window, watching a raven buffeted by the wind. His family was long lost to him; only rubble marked what remained of the small, run-down cottage where he had spent most of his youth, crowded into one room with his siblings. He had been the oldest, the protector. But he hadn't realized how unprepared he was to protect them when the time came, and his foolish bravado had been the beginning of the end.

But he was no longer that foolish youth. He'd had many years to harden into an embittered man. He couldn't go back and undo what he had done, but he could dole out retribution now that he had the means.

"The hatred will overcome you if you let it," Tahj said as he came to stand beside Lucien, who had been subjected to this same speech since the day he had woken up on a pallet inside the temple walls, the place that would be his sanctuary for the next two years.

"Then I'll let it," Lucien returned.

"You have already sought your revenge against the son of the man you call Redding."

Lucien turned. "Revenge? I won a house, Tahj. Only one of many that Christian Slade owns. Will it bring the bastard's father back from the dead so I can finish what he began? Or bring my family back? Change all the years of hell I lived through?" He clenched his fists at his side. "Will it bring Sanji back?"

"Sanji's death was not your fault."

Lucien fought the urge to close his eyes against the memory. "Yes, it was. Just as the death of my ward's brother was my fault."

Lucien massaged his brow and faced the window again, glimpsing the slim form of his nurse, clad once more in breeches and moving fleet-footed along the top of a crumbling stone wall, hastening toward a clump of trees. The wind clawed at her hair, stealing it from its pins and sending it tumbling down her back.

What was it about her that drew him so strongly? He had encountered women far more beautiful. Some men might even think his ward the lovelier of the two.

Lucien wondered if his lack of attraction toward Lady Francine was due to the fact that she was a lady, since he stayed far away from them, Clarisse—Lady Dane—being the only exception.

But there was more to Miss Mary Purdy than her singular upbringing. An exuberance clung to her, a love of life, and he had wanted to get closer, to warm himself in her glow.

His sister Jillian would have been about Mary's age. He suspected the two girls would have been friends, as Jillian had a similar wild streak in her. Where was Jillian now? And the rest of his siblings? Alive or dead? Did they think he was dead? He had left one night to confront the Earl of Redding and never returned. Instead, he had been bound hand and foot and shipped off to a life of slavery in India.

Lucien sighed and shook his head. What had possessed him to come to Cornwall? He couldn't stay; the restlessness would eat at him soon enough. He had to keep moving, keep ahead of the memories that plagued him.

Since he left India, his days had become a blur of endless places and forgotten nights, women who touched him, but never touched a part of him. He carried an innate coldness in him, an inability to feel. At times it scared the hell out of him, the way it seemed as if someone else looked out through his eyes, that somewhere he had lost an essential piece of himself. His soul, perhaps. It had been left back in India, hanging from a bodhi tree in Punjab.

Lucien forced down the images and faced Tahj. No one would ever suspect that beneath the monk's humble exterior beat the heart of a dragon, that such a slightly built man possessed enough strength in the palm of his hand to kill another human being.

"I'll ring for someone to see you to your room," Lucien said.

"I have my pallet. I need nothing else."

"Fine. As long as you're not snoring at my feet."

"As you rarely find yourself in your own bed, one can only wonder how you would know my sleeping habits." Regarding Lucien with that penetrating stare, he added, "Your desires will only lead you further down the path of destruction."

"I have no interest in spending my life in meditation and shunning sin. I happen to like sin."

"As well I know. Each year you acquire more wealth and more possessions, and you need none of it."

"Wealth is power." The Earl of Redding had taught him that lesson.

"It is the evil of that power which you seek. It shall bring you nothing in the end."

Lucien glanced back out the window and watched the only woman who had ever bested him disappear into a copse of trees like a woodland sprite. He wondered what would impress Miss Mary Purdy. Something told him neither wealth nor power would do the trick.

"Tomorrow, we practice," Tahj said as he walked away.

"Tomorrow," Lucien idly repeated.

Today, however, he would indulge his desires.

Seven

Fancy followed her cat at a distance, stepping lightly over the loose stones along the landing wall that had been built centuries earlier, perhaps by some Celtic ancestor. The wall minimized the tall plumes of sea spray that crashed into the cliff and kept them from pouring over the edge toward the house.

She needed this escape, and was using Sassy as an excuse to accomplish it. For the past few days, her mischievous tabby had been disappearing. Today she would find out why.

Following the elusive feline gave Fancy something to occupy her mind and keep it off her reckless guardian. She hated to admit that she had been impressed by his fighting skills. She had never seen such a method before. He moved with the grace of a panther, each blow fluid and calculated, each strike effective. It was clear that the two men had played out that scene numerous times before.

Fancy wondered who Tahj was to Lucien. It seemed an odd pairing, considering there was no love lost between the people of Britain and India.

Had they met during the Rebellion? Could Tahj have fought against his own people? Fancy had never agreed with England's role in Indian government, dictating laws and pressuring religious sects to convert to Christianity, making English the language the Indians were to speak. Her country had in effect enslaved a people, and it had never felt right for George to fight for such a cause.

Fancy paused and gazed at the diamond-peaked waves of the ocean, inhaling a deep breath of the sea-scented air. The day was temperate, the sandy shores washed clean from last night's rain.

Birds that had taken shelter before the storm were now out in force. A group of gulls piloted a fishing boat to shore, diving in to snatch an occasional morsel, and oystercatchers swooped toward the mud banks in a flash of black and white, while small redshanks and sanderlings scurried to probe the slate.

Upriver, where a thick branch lay fallen from the gale, a heron stalked, picking its way along like a spindle-legged man before it stopped and stood broodingly, its wings humped, its head buried in its feathers.

An echoing meow stirred Fancy, and she resumed walking along the stone wall. Jumping off at the end, she followed the mewling sounds until she found what she had been looking for.

Sassy glanced up at Fancy with her mismatched eyes and purred a greeting. She lay on her side, four squirming kittens suckling hungrily.

"Oh, my." Fancy knelt down and took a black kitten, one eye ringed in white, into her palm. "You are precious," she said softly, stroking the kit between its ears, its fur soft and warm. It was so tiny, she doubted it was more than a week or two old.

The kitten needled her palm, impatient with Fancy for interrupting its meal. With a soft laugh, Fancy returned the kitten to Sassy's belly, where it nudged aside its brothers and sister.

"Who would have thought you had a motherly instinct in you?" Fancy murmured, tickling her cat under the chin. "So where did you get these kittens?" Sassy had not been pregnant, so the babies did not belong to her. But she had been lactating when Fancy found her, discarded and starving, two months earlier.

Pushing to her feet, Fancy glanced around for the mother cat, but deep down, she did not have a good feeling. Her suspicion was confirmed a moment later when she found the feline's lifeless body beside a rock, its neck broken. Who or what had killed it? This was the second dead animal she had found in a week.

A tear coursed down Fancy's cheek. She wiped it away. Crouching down next to the dead cat, she saw the little hollow beneath the rock where the tabby had probably given birth to her kittens and sheltered them. The poor babies had most likely tried to nurse from their mother's lifeless body. If Sassy hadn't come along, Fancy knew she would be burying more than just the mother cat today.

She dug into the soft ground. When the hole was deep enough, she gently laid the cat into it, saying a silent prayer before shifting the dirt over its body.

Standing, she stared down at the newly turned earth. Dappled light filtered through the canopy of leaves overhead onto the grave. She laid several weighty stones over the top to keep the scavengers at bay.

A plaintive mewling brought Fancy's gaze over her shoulder. Sassy was on her feet, trying to corral the restless kits now that they had eaten their fill. Fancy counted three. The black one was missing.

A quivering meow brought her head up, her gaze scanning the trees until she spotted the kitten perched in the crevice of a limb, frozen in fear. A large, menacing hawk, which must have swooped in and grabbed the kitten, now stalked it. Either the hawk or a tumble from that precarious position would kill the little creature.

"Stay there, love," Fancy gently crooned, keeping her eyes on the kitten as she cautiously proceeded to a spot beneath the tree, afraid a sudden movement might startle the frightened animal.

Fancy had climbed many trees during her childhood, hiding among the leafy branches in fun as her brother searched high and low for her. Though her body was no longer as wiry as it had once been, she managed to scale the trunk nimbly before grabbing hold of the nearest limb, prompting the hawk into flight and unnerving the kitten, who recoiled into the crook of the tree.

Fancy glanced down. The ground was farther away than she had expected. If she fell and hit the outcropping of rocks bordering the tree, she could easily break her leg.

She shut out the thought and anchored herself more firmly on her perch. She was not as light as she once was, and the branch beneath her was not as steady as she would have liked.

The black kitten watched her from its limb several feet away, a scattering of twigs jutting between them. The distance was farther than Fancy would have liked, but there was no way to get any closer.

Bracing one hand around the shaft, she leaned forward, stretching as far as she could, her fingers barely making contact. The kit batted a paw at her, its mewling growing more insistent.

"Come on, love," Fancy softly coaxed, extending a few more inches, her fingers brushing the kitten's fur. "I won't hurt you."

Tremulously, the kit scooted around to the very edge of the limb, its young legs still wobbly. Fancy watched in horror as the little feline teetered and then tumbled into the air.

"No!" Fancy lunged in a desperate attempt to catch the kitten, and the branch beneath her suddenly cracked.

 

Lucien glanced around the shadowed woods he'd seen the girl enter and swore. He had lost her again, damn it, even though he had dressed with lightning speed and practically vaulted down the stairs two at a time, the pain in his ankle blotted out.

He wasn't quite sure why he was so eager to see her. Perhaps he simply wanted to discover if what he had felt the night before had been more than a sexual craving that any woman could fill. He knew he should stay away from this particular woman, but he had never met a female with such fire. He needed that fire. He needed her to take the coldness from him.

He moved farther into the woods, but stopped when he heard a faint crooning. He listened, frowning. Was the girl with a lover? Would he catch them in a delicate situation?

Lucien stalked toward the sound, elbowing aside a wildly growing shrub until he came to an abrupt halt. The mangy-looking cat he'd seen that morning was nudging a litter of kittens with her nose, trying to get them to behave.

From somewhere above Lucien's head came Mary's voice. He narrowed his eyes and glanced up, catching a glimpse of a small, booted foot before his gaze moved farther up to a shapely leg.

He had just stepped beneath the tree to get a better look when he heard her cry of alarm and saw a tiny ball of black fur plummeting toward him. He thrust out his arms, catching the squirming creature in his cupped hands.

He could feel the kitten's heart racing. Chocolate eyes, too big for its small face, stared unblinkingly up at him. Lucien absently stroked the little beast between its tiny ears as he returned the kitten to the warm circle of its siblings. He had just straightened when he heard the tree branch snap, then a scream as Mary tumbled from the sky. She landed on top of him, sending them both hurtling to the ground, his side bashing against a protruding rock, knocking the breath from his lungs.

 

Fancy opened her eyes to find blackness all around her. It took her a moment to realize that her hair covered her face, veiling her in a dark cocoon.

It took considerably less time to realize that she was uninjured—and that what she was lying on was not the grass, but a very big, very solid man. The prickling sensation on the back of her neck told her exactly which man had broken her fall.

Swallowing, she parted the curtain of her hair and found herself face to face with her beleaguered custodian, his aquamarine eyes tinged with equal parts amusement and annoyance.

The feel of his body cradled snugly against hers prompted traitorous memories of the last time he had been this close.

And what he had done.

She opened her mouth, but he laid a finger against her lips, silencing her. "I appreciate you so much more when you don't talk, for I know I will only hear some chastisement about what I did to make you fall from the tree, or how it was my fault you had to take a rock to my skull, or most heinous of all, threaten my manly parts."

"That you deserved."

He gave her a crooked grin and brushed a length of hair from her face, smoothing it behind her ear, where his fingers lingered, lightly tracing the outer curve of her ear before skimming slowly down her jaw.

Fancy prayed he couldn't feel her trembling, even as her gaze dropped to his mouth, wondering if he would try to kiss her again.

"You are a troublesome baggage, Miss Purdy. Dare I hope to survive my stay here?"

"Perhaps if you stopped following me, you wouldn't have to be in fear for your life."

"But who would have saved you from the tree, dear girl?"

Drat the man. He did have a point.

"I thought you were having a rendezvous with a lover," he said.

"A lover?" Fancy scoffed. "You must be delirious."

"Why?" He fanned the ends of her hair through his fingertips. "You're a desirable woman." He regarded her intently. "Is it true that you haven't had a lover yet? Are you really as pure as you appear to be?"

His husky voice and the simmering heat in his eyes were mesmerizing. "That's none of your concern, Mr. Kendall."

"Lucien " he told her, softly teasing her neck with her hair. "We're too close for such formality."

The reminder that she lay on top of him, hip to hip, chest to chest, jolted Fancy. She tried to scramble away, but his arm snaked around her waist, not painfully, but not allowing her an escape.

"I think we have some unfinished business," he said.

Fancy struggled against his hold. "We have no unfinished business, you great lumbering ox."

"I beg to differ. And if you stopped squirming, you might realize that you want me to kiss you as much as I want to kiss you."

She did. Oh, how she did. "You've hit your head one too many times."

"If my brain is scrambled, I owe it all to you, my lovely tree pixie." He lifted his head to whisper in her ear, "Your nipples are hard, love. I can feel them against my chest. But," he murmured, his breath grazing her cheek, "I'd much rather feel them in my mouth."

Fancy bit her bottom lip to contain her gasp and closed her eyes, trying to block out the images his words had created.

"You are far more stoic in your resistance than I could ever hope to be," he said.

Fancy fought to remain utterly still as her gaze met and held his. "You'll release me, please."

"You're a hard-hearted woman, Miss Purdy. I've come to your rescue twice, now. In days of yore, a man received a token of gratitude for such things."

"You'll receive something far more memorable if you don't let go of me this instant."

He chuckled and kissed her nose. "I'll take you at your word, since I know how eager you are to hurry me along to my final reward." He opened his arms. "You're free. For the moment," he added pointedly.

Fancy hastened off him and pushed to her feet. The longer she had lain on top of him, the more his body began to feel like a hot brand. She could still feel his heat marking her skin.

With a lazy smile, he remained on the ground, regarding her as he laced his hands behind his head and crossed his ankles. "Do you often scale trees to save kittens?"

Fancy scowled at him as she dusted herself off. "Shouldn't you be nursing your wounded ankle, Mr. Faker?"

"The deception was necessary. I needed to evince some sympathy from you. Consider it a test to see if you possessed any. Besides, I have other things to nurse at this moment." The glint in his eyes was devilish and instinctively drew Fancy's gaze down to his lap, where indecently snug trousers gloved the manly parts he so prided. She struggled not to blush.

His luggage had obviously arrived with his manservant. His attire, a loose-fitting white shirt and dove-colored trousers, had been crisp until she toppled him. Now the shirt sported a tear along one side, which showed a tempting view of his torso, quite well formed and entirely distracting.

The picture he made became even more irresistible when the black kitten he had saved clawed its way over his shoulder to plop on his chest like an ink stain. Fancy knew then that she had to escape before she succumbed to the desire to do the same thing.

She swung on her heel, heading in whatever direction her feet took her.

"Where are you going?" Lucien called out. She didn't answer or stop. She barely maintained a dignified retreat when what she really wanted to do was run.

She knew the moment he was on his feet and trailing after her. She resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder, though she felt distinctly like a doe trapped in a hunter's sights. The urge to seek shelter was palpable.

As she exited the shadowed protection of the woods, the blasted man fell into step beside her. She suddenly remembered the kittens and stopped.

As though reading her thoughts, he said, "They're all fast asleep under the watchful eye of that scruffy tabby."

Fancy relaxed, but made a mental note to return and collect them. She wanted them inside where it was safe.

"So have you lived here all your life?" he asked after a few moments of silence.

She glanced up at him. The breeze was toying with his hair, running through it with invisible fingers. No matter how hard she tried, she could not dispel the image of the kit curled up so trustingly on his chest She had almost envied the feline.

"Yes," she replied, not quite untruthfully. She felt as if she had lived in Cornwall all her life. She could barely remember the life she had known before, just faint images of an endless series of nursemaids and countless country homes that were too lovely to despoil with the antics of two rambunctious children.

"Don't you get lonely, so far from civilization?" he queried, plucking a wildflower and tucking it behind her ear.

"Everything I know is here," she said, removing the wildflower and putting it behind his ear.

With a scoundrel's smile, he caught her around the waist, pinning her arms to her sides while he slipped the flower slowly down the front of her shirt, teasing it into her cleavage, making her squirm with need and anger, before releasing her and jumping out of the way of her slap, leaving her to either root around for the bloom while he watched—he could rot first!—or let it remain for the time being.

When she marched away from him he persisted, "So have you ever wanted to live somewhere else? Perhaps go to London and get the feel of the city?"

No, she never had. Heath had traveled to London a few times for materials and additional labor to tend his father's fields. Next to Calder Westcott, the Courtenays were the wealthiest landowners in the district.

"A friend of mine told me London was loud and crowded, that hawkers scream their wares from nearly every street corner, and that there are so many people, almost every space is occupied." Fancy darted a glance at Lucien before adding, "He even said that in some places, scantily dressed women offer themselves to men for money. Is that true?"

He shrugged. "London can be a cesspit. But other areas are entirely different. There is a definite class distinction."

"And what class do you fall into?"

He looked down at her. "I suspect you and I are of the same breed."

"And what breed is that?"

"Working class."

"You don't strike me as a man who works." Though he had been in the military, his clothing and attitude radiated gentry. But she also knew that part of his wealth came from gambling. It seemed her guardian was quite the cardsharp.

She knew nothing about his background, where he had grown up, if he had any family, or what he had done with his life since leaving the service.

"Is London where you've spent most of your life?" she inquired.

"A good part of it."

"And your family?"

He seemed to miss a beat before replying, "Yes."

"Is that where they are now?"

"No."

"Where are they?"

"You ask too many questions."

"How does one get answers if not by asking questions?" He remained closemouthed, but she was not ready to give up yet. "Have they left England?"

A muscle worked in his jaw as his gaze dropped to hers. "My family is gone, Miss Purdy. Now desist."

Gone? What did that mean? Disappeared? Or dead? And how many family members were they talking about? Parents only? Or parents and siblings?

She filed her questions away as they came to the edge of the village. A straggle of cob-walled cottages, washed yellow and ivory like the color of clotted cream, were strewn haphazardly along a winding dirt lane that was heavily rutted by cart wheels.

Tall hedges rose on either side, bordered by elms. Many of her youthful days had been spent with the other children of the village, hiding among those hedges and jumping out at each other. Here she had always been Fancy. Not Lady Francine.

"Look!" she said, pointing toward the mouth of the harbor. "The krill have come in!"

Long crimson slashes painted the water as thousands upon thousands of the small, red-coated crustaceans made their annual journey around the cape.

Without thought, she took hold of Lucien's hand and tugged him through the meadow to the cliff's edge. The first sighting of the krill was always exciting.

Fancy waved to a group of fishermen who had gathered around the dock below, checking their nets. She knew all of them well, having grown up with their children and eaten at their tables. She couldn't envision such comfortable familiarity in the teeming city of London.

Fancy felt a feather-light sensation on her hand and turned to see Lucien brushing his lips over her knuckles. "If only you would blossom for me with such passion," he murmured, "I'd count myself a lucky man."

She watched him in a daze before reality rushed in and she snatched her hand back. "I'm going to dig for oysters," she said a bit breathlessly.

Not waiting for his reply, she started down a steep path that led to a grouping of rocks near a secluded inlet where large beds of the delicacy could be found.

Fancy removed her shoes, rolled up her breeches, and waded into the shallow pool of water, sand shifting through her toes as minnows skimmed along her ankles.

Squatting down, she began to probe the seabed, fishing out her first oyster a moment later and placing it on top of a flat rock beside her.

A shadow fell over her, and her heart missed a beat. She had thought he wouldn't want to dirty his clothing, but he hunkered down next to her, far too close for comfort.

"I haven't done this in years," he said.

She cast a furtive sideways glance at him. At that moment, he didn't seem the imposing man who took delight in overwhelming her senses. In the sleek line of his profile, she glimpsed the boy he might have once been.

He looked over and caught her questioning expression. "My father was a fisherman," he explained, pulling up a handful of the rough, gray shells and tossing them onto the rock next to hers.

"Where is your father now?" She framed her question in a conversational tone, hoping he would let his guard down.

"You don't give up, do you?"

She returned his steady gaze. "Do you?"

He smiled slightly and shook his head. "Not when I want something."

Fancy had no illusions about what he meant. He wanted her. Each time she allowed that realization to sink in, her heart did crazy things. He was so beautiful, so incredibly captivating, with those penetrating color-shifting eyes and that wicked mouth. And his body—pure sin. Just remembering how hard it had felt beneath hers, how massive his arms, a strange weakness came over her.

"How long has Tahj been with you?" she asked, forcing her thoughts back to the present.

"Too long," he replied in a suffering tone, his fingers grazing her foot as he continued his search, leaning closer, his bare forearm brushing over her calf. He glanced up at her, and Fancy held her breath, thinking he meant to kiss her. Then he lifted his hand, showing her a crab. "He was going for your big toe." He winked at her and then tossed the crab onto the wet sand, where it scuttled away into the surf.

Fancy felt oddly disappointed as she probed among the seaweed. "So where did you and Tahj meet?"

"Punjab."

Fancy caught the tense note in his voice and wondered at it. She ached to ask him questions about George, but knew she would have to wait until after her last shipment from Bodie, when she could finally reveal herself and accept the consequences.

"Were you in India long?"

"I was stationed there three years."

"Was there a lot of fighting?"

"There were skirmishes. But the situation was volatile. The Indians were not going to accept English rule for long. They were fiercely opposed to any and all changes, especially those that dictated their religion."

George's letters had not relayed much about what he was going through in India. Fancy knew he had not wanted to worry her, but the lack of information had concerned her far more. To this day, she still didn't completely understand the circumstances surrounding his death.

"Did you ever have to kill anyone?"

"Yes," he said, staring at his hands through the murky water.

Fancy felt at a loss. What did she truly know of war? She considered herself more educated than most women, but she could not begin to comprehend men's reasons for taking up arms.

"Does it bother you?" he quietly asked.

Fancy blinked and turned to find Lucien regarding her steadily. "Does what bother me?"

"That I've killed men."

The way he looked at her told Fancy her answer was important to him. But could she condone death? "You must have had your reasons."

"What if I said I didn't? What if I said I just wanted the bastards to die?"

A chill breeze swept across her shoulder blades. "I…" She shook her head. "I don't know."

He nodded and shifted his gaze. Strained minutes of silence followed while Fancy thought about what he seemed to be telling her, that he had killed people without just cause. She couldn't reconcile that in her mind.

She slid her hands back into the cool water and searched for a neutral topic. "Why does Tahj dress in those orange robes?"

"He's a Buddhist monk. It's part of his culture."

"Aren't monks generally sequestered in monasteries?"

"Most of them are. But to my great misfortune, Tahj has appointed himself my keeper."

Though he tried to sound aggrieved, Fancy was coming to see that he just enjoyed grumbling.

"He must think you need a keeper." She glanced sideways at him. "Do you?"

She was half joking, but the look on his face as he raised his head to pin her with his gaze was far from amused. "No." He sounded deadly serious. "What I need, Miss Purdy, is to be left the hell alone. My life is what I make of it, and nobody's damn business but mine."

Fancy didn't know why the warning stung so much, but it did. "I'll leave you to it then." She made to rise, but his fingers coiled around her wrist, a challenging light in his eyes as he stared up at her.

"I didn't take you as a girl who ran away. Are you frightened?"

"Of you? Of course not," she scoffed. Not physically, for she knew he wouldn't hurt her. She had given him plenty of reasons to raise a hand to her, and he hadn't.

But he had ignited something in her, a feeling that spread each time he smiled, and it was even worse when he touched her.

"Then stay, and maybe you'll learn something," he said, his words a challenge, as though he understood what compelled her. Every moment he became more of a puzzle to her, and that only made her desire to know more about him that much stronger.

"And what might you know that I would care to learn?" Even as she asked, she sank back down to her knees beside him.

The deviltry had returned to his eyes as he replied, "How to kiss a man properly, to begin with."

Eight

He laughed when she gasped in outrage, drawing her into his arms. "Retract your claws, hellion. I was merely goading you." He leaned close, his lips a whisper away from hers as he added, "I love the way you kiss me. You hold nothing back, and those soft whimpers you make in the back of your throat drive me wild."

"I do not—"

His mouth closed over hers, silencing her protest, and Fancy melted in a second. Mercy, how wonderfully he kissed, gentle yet fierce, hot and wicked, making her forget her vow to keep her distance.

He drew back and tilted her face up to his. "Better?" he murmured, and all she could do was nod when she should have railed at him for taking liberties. Again. "Friends?"

"Why?" she asked, her voice little more than a croak.

"Why would I want to be your friend, you mean?"

She nodded.

"Because you make me smile. And you make life a damn sight more interesting by being a part of it. But mostly, you keep me on my toes. I don't know if you'll shoot me or kiss me so sweetly that my heart might stop. If you only knew how much I want to lay you down in the grass and taste every inch of you. The images I have of you at this moment are not gentlemanly."

Her own images were also less than pure. She envisioned taking him by the hand and leading him to the bank, waiting in trembling anticipation as he came over her like a glorious dark angel. She had needs and desires, and never had she felt them as strongly as she did at that moment.

She closed her eyes as his fingers skimmed her neck, tilting her head. "I'd start here," he rumbled in a husky tone, the barest sensation of his lips touching her throat. "I'd slowly work my way along your collarbone, then down between the valley of your breasts, tasting every silky piece of flesh… until I reached your sweet, hard nipples." He breathed into her ear. "I'd seduce them with my mouth and tongue until they were so sensitive I could blow across them and you'd shatter for me. But instead I'd trail kisses over your stomach and down between your thighs, where I'd linger, tasting you, until I had licked off every drop of sweetness."

His erotic words made Fancy shiver, heat blossoming between her thighs where she throbbed… and he hadn't laid a single finger on her.

He released her, and she stared up at into his smoldering eyes. She didn't know what to do. She couldn't touch him; it would be an invitation into her bed.

He took a deep breath and turned away, his hands clenching at his sides before he plunged them into the water to unearth more oysters.

Fancy watched him for a moment, trying to still the riotous feelings inside her. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his strong, corded forearms glistening with water. His hands were so very large, and she wanted them on her.

She shook her head and shut out the thought, allowing the breeze from the ocean to cool her flushed skin and the boom of the surf to soothe her until she was herself again.

"Where did you learn to fight?" she asked.

"Growing up on the streets, you had to know how to fight, or take a lot of beatings. But it was Tahj who taught me Shaolin."

"Did you get beaten up very often when you were young?" She had a hard time envisioning anyone getting the better of him.

"Once or twice."

"Do you remember why?"

"Just looking at someone the wrong way was enough of a reason to get the shi— To come to blows."

Fancy perched on the corner of a rock, letting the sun warm her chilled legs. "Sounds like you grew up in a very tough place."

He skipped a smooth stone across the surface of the water. "No worse than most."

What had happened to make him keep the past so close to him? "Were you poor?"

His arm paused in the act of pitching another stone, his profile stark. "Yes."

"How poor?"

"Is there a measure for poor?"

"I guess not." Until this past year, Fancy hadn't thought about money. Though her grandmother was not rich, she and George had never gone without. There were things they might have had if they had never lost their parents, but they didn't miss them, whatever they were. They had each other, and they had the land, with all its mysteries and beauty, and they were content.

"What about you?" he asked, scooping a minnow out of the water and releasing the small, squirming fish into her hands. She watched it swim in circles until the water drained away and it flopped on its side.

"What about me?" Opening her hand, she freed the minnow back into the water, where its tail furiously propelled it into the murky undergrowth.

"Where is your family?"

The question brought an instant rush of pain to Fancy's heart. The ache had only dulled with time; she doubted it would ever truly go away.

"Gone," she said, repeating the answer he had given to her, realizing how true it was. Her family was gone to her forever. Tears stung the back of her eyes, and she looked away.

Lucien's hand wrapped around her ankle, and he gently rubbed her foot. "Seems we're both alone."

Emotions welled in Fancy's throat. "Yes," she whispered, feeling an odd kinship burgeoning between them, one she had not expected to feel. In that moment she hated her lie, knowing that whatever tentative bond existed between them would crumble like the walls of Jericho with her revelation.

But she had to think of her future, as well as the danger hovering just out of sight. Being without her family made her want to hold on that much tighter to the people who remained. She shouldn't even be allowing herself this time with Lucien while Rosalyn's life was in danger. But he made her forget herself. Just a few more minutes, she vowed. Then she would go.

Idly, she plucked a blade of seaweed, the idea that had formulated earlier in the day returning to prod her. She darted a glance at Lucien, trying to gauge how receptive he might be to her request.

"Would you do something for me?" she asked.

"Somehow I suspect I would." He graced her with a lopsided grin. "What is it you'd like?"

Gathering her resolve, she replied, "I want to learn how to fight."

"Fight?" He frowned. "Why?"

She shrugged. "I'd just like to learn how to defend myself." Then men like Calder and his thugs wouldn't have the upper hand.

"Defend yourself from whom?"

"No one in particular," she said, averting her gaze from his probing one, almost wishing she could confide in him. She was fairly certain he would understand. Perhaps he would even help.

But then he'd know the truth, and she couldn't take the chance that he would interfere with her plans. When she met Bodie, she would make arrangements to increase the shipments. Once she had secured payment, she could breathe again. Perhaps then she could come up with a strategy to thwart Calder.

She didn't know what they were going to do. Leaving Moor's End seemed the only solution. But traveling by coach took the chance of being waylaid along the road, and Calder's hirelings would undoubtedly be waiting for them. Where would they go, anyway? With money in short supply, how would they live?

If only she had the money being held in trust for her—but her father's will stipulated that it could only be dispersed when she got married. Until then, her guardian had control of her finances.

Perhaps she could talk Lucien into giving it to her. But would he be so angry over her deception that he would deny her? Could she even convince him of Calder's plot? If not, would he coldheartedly return Rosalyn to her stepbrother?

Or worse, would he demand Fancy marry? Perhaps she was being foolish, but she had always envisioned that her marriage would be a grand affair of the heart, like Iseult waiting for her Tristan.

Fancy sighed.

"Stand up." Lucien's deep voice shook her from her musings as he rose to his feet and held out his hand to her.

Fancy blinked up at him. "Where are we going?"

"You wanted to learn how to fight." He took her hand and hauled her up in front of him. "I'll teach you, as long as you don't use any moves on me," he added, amusement in his eyes.

"I won't."

"Good." He turned her so that her back was flush against his chest, one large hand pressed against her belly, holding her firmly; the feel of him an aphrodisiac to her senses. "Shaolin is a secret martial art," he said, "passed down from master to student, but never to outsiders."

"Weren't you an outsider?"

"Yes, but Tahj considered me an exception."

"Why?"

He laid a finger against her lips, his warm breath blowing tendrils of her hair. "A closed mouth opens the mind to listening." He brushed a light kiss across her temple before going on.

"There are hundreds of moves, but they are represented by five styles." He molded his arms around hers and cradled her hands, making small motions with them, rhythmical and fluid. "Dragon, Tiger, Leopard, Snake, and Crane, which complement the five essences. Dragon cultivates the spirit. Tiger represents the training of the bones. Leopard develops strength. Crane works the sinew. And Snake promotes ch'i."

"What's ch'i?"

"Intrinsic energy, a state where life and death lose the quality of fear and you become a true master of your self.

"Buddhists adhere to the doctrine of samsara, that all beings pass through a continual cycle of birth, death, and rebirth until liberated. They reject the notion of an unchanging entity that transmigrates from one incarnation to the next."

"You mean they don't believe people have souls?"

"They prefer the notion that a person is a collection of elements. The physical body. The senses. Mental disposition. And consciousness that arises when the mind and body come in contact with the outside world."

"It's very complex, isn't it?"

"It takes years of studying to understand the intricacies. Some of the doctrines are thought-provoking, but I don't agree with the basic principle."

"Which is?"

"That suffering is necessary to reach enlightenment, and that we need to spend our lives atoning for past sins. I don't want to have to be that good."

"Why?"

"Because," he murmured, his jaw brushing against her neck, his fingers tracing hers, "being good would mean I couldn't touch you. For desire, in all its forms, will doom the sinner to an endless cycle of hell on earth."

Fancy could barely think with his caressing her that way. If desire would doom her, she would take the punishment. Any other way was a life deprived.

"Pleasure is to be shunned," he went on, his lips feathering along her jaw, "because it is only temporary. Desire," he whispered, turning her face up to his, his lips a breath away, "is bondage."

Fancy closed her eyes and tried to breathe as he turned her head back around.

He widened her stance, controlling her actions, making her body thrum. "Draw your energy inside. Calm your mind so that each movement becomes graceful and harmonious. Concentrate on your breathing. Inhale slowly. Now exhale. From here." He flattened his palm against her diaphragm.

Fancy felt weak, heady with every light stroke of his hands across her body.

"Focus on the attacking point." He straightened her arm, thrusting forward, palm up. "Use your enemy's strength to defeat him. If he's strong, attack laterally." He made a sweeping downward motion. "If he's weak, strike from the front." He brought her arm across her body. "If he grabs you from behind"—he wrapped his arm tighter around her waist, one large hand precariously close to her breasts—"bring your head back against his nose, or work your arms loose"—he gave her room to do so—"and elbow his solar plexus." He showed her how. "If that doesn't work"—he moved closer, a tantalizing heat and hardness cushioned against her buttocks—"then bring your heel up into his groin."

Fancy closed her eyes, her breath rasping through her lungs as she instinctively moved against him, his deep-throated groan raising the heat to a new level.

He sucked in a breath and turned her around to face him. "The simpler the method," he instructed, his eyes heavy-lidded as he stared down at her, "the better it is." Then he released her, leaving her feeling oddly bereft.

"Why did Tahj teach you Shaolin if it was only supposed to be passed down to other monks?"

"Because he considered me a pathetic specimen of manhood and took pity on me."

Fancy laughed at such a preposterous claim. "Be serious."

"I am serious. The little bastard knocked me flat on my arse during our first go-round. A humbling experience, I assure you."

If Fancy hadn't seen a display of Tahj's skill, she would never have believed Lucien's story. "What compelled Tahj to perform this good deed?"

"He believes a strong body can overcome the deficiencies of the mind."

Lucien definitely had a strong body. Her gaze traveled shamelessly over the solid width of his chest, the bulging of his arms, and lower.

"And what deficiencies of the mind do you possess?" she asked, her body tingling from his nearness.

He reached out and pushed back a lock of hair that had tumbled over her cheek. "Far too many for an innocent like you to comprehend."

"I'm not innocent."

"God, I hope not," he uttered in a ragged voice as he leaned down and brushed a feather-light kiss over her lips. The caress was over before she had a moment to savor it. Each time he touched her, it became more natural, more needed.

When she found her breath, she asked, "Why did Tahj teach you these secret techniques?"

He shrugged and bent down to run his fingers through the water, pressing them against the back of his neck. "I had time on my hands."

"Why?"

"Can't a man be idle?"

"I can't picture you being idle."

He glanced over his shoulder at her. "Should I take that as a compliment?"

"An observation."

"I suspect you have plenty of those."

She did, which was another reason she would never fit into the posh and polished realm of London society. She had a tendency to be unerringly straightforward and speak her mind. Heath had told her that coyness and demure flirtation were considered the height of desirability for women in London.

It all seemed silly and meaningless to Fancy. She'd much rather read an engaging novel and discuss its merits than attend functions where the most interesting topic of conversation was the latest fashion. She would suffocate in such a constricting atmosphere. How could people exist in a place where they couldn't see the ocean or smell the sea-scented air every day?

"Woolgathering?"

Fancy turned to find Lucien regarding her with a curious expression. "I'm sorry. My mind wandered."

"Am I boring you?"

He had given her an opening to depart, and yet all she said was, "No."

"Good, because I've collected you a week's supply of oysters."

Fancy's gaze followed his to the rock where she had placed her first oyster. A small mountain of them were now piled there. She smiled. "You have been industrious, sir."

"Indeed, but I have my reasons. I intend to ply you with each and every one of them."

"I couldn't eat even a third. I'll have to come back later with a bucket."

"I'll send Tahj for them. I don't want you going down that slope alone; you could fall and break your neck."

For a moment, Fancy could only stare at him, then she laughed. "That's absurd. I've explored these cliffs since I was a child."

"And someone should have taken you in hand. Perhaps you would not be so reckless."

"Are you proposing to be my father?" she asked incredulously, her humor having fled at his dictatorial attitude.

"You will not come back here without me, and that is the end of the discussion. Do you understand?"

How dare he be so highhanded! Who did he think he was, dictating to her? Her lord and master, it appeared. And in her role as servant, she had to comply.

Nodding brusquely, she pivoted away from him, intent on leaving him where he stood. She gasped as he came up behind her, as silent as a wraith.

She stiffened in his embrace. "Do you make a habit of dallying with the servants?"

"Only the ones who hit me," he said, his lips brushing her hair.

"That explains why you are utterly witless."

His laughter was unexpected. "You are a handful, my little Valkyrie."

Fancy hated the way he could so easily melt her. "Leave me alone."

"You're put out with me because I don't want you getting hurt?"

"Yes," she replied stiffly.

"You are an odd female, Miss Purdy."

His comment stung. She already knew she was an oddity. "If you don't like how I am—"

"Oh, but I do like how you are," he countered, the words a caress against her skin. "You make a man want to tame you and capture your fire for his own."

"I'm not some wild horse you can bring to the bit. I'm—

"Hell and damnation," he swore, the heat at her back suddenly gone.

Concerned, Fancy whirled around. "What's the matter?"

He dropped down onto a rock and wrapped a hand around his foot. "I think something bit me."

Fancy lowered herself to her knees in front of him. "Let me see." When he wouldn't remove his hand, she chided, "Don't be a baby." He raised an eyebrow, but she ignored him and gently pried his fingers away one by one. She smoothed her thumb over the sole of his foot and frowned. "I don't see anything." When she looked up, she found an amused glimmer in his eyes and knew she had been duped. "Why, you horrid man!

He laughed, and she splashed him with water, dousing the front of his shirt, which sobered her immediately as her gaze followed a bead of water down his chest until it disappeared behind the material.

He cupped her chin and raised her gaze to his. "I had to do something to bring you back into charity with me."

"You don't play fair."

"I know. But you are so damned tempting." His gaze lowered. "Your shirt is wet."

Fancy glanced down and heat sprung to her cheeks. Her splashing had not only wet his shirt but her own, showing the dark outline of her nipples and their pebbled peaks.

"Dare I hope I affect you as much as you affect me?" he asked.

Fancy knew she should move, do something, but her limbs wouldn't obey. All she could do was shake her head. "This isn't right."

"It sure as hell feels right," he murmured in a husky voice that made her shiver, his fingers wrapping around her arm and pulling her between his thighs.

He opened his palm and showed her a buttercup. He trailed it along her jaw before tucking it behind her ear. Then he took her hand and uncurled her fingers, revealing several oysters, clutched and forgotten.

He stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small folding knife. He pressed along the seam of the shell, popping open its hardened casing. Tipping his head back, he let the oyster slide into his mouth, taking an almost sinful delight in it.

His eyes were sultry as he looked down at her and scooped another oyster from her palm and cracked the shell. This time he held it out to her. "Open up."

She did as he asked, and he placed the wet shell against her lips and watched as she sucked the oyster down. The act felt intimate, and the way he regarded her made her chest tight.

"They say oysters are an aphrodisiac," he murmured, holding another up to her lips, which she obediently swallowed, her breath locking in her throat as he leaned down and whispered in her ear, "They remind a man of a woman's most intimate parts. Do you know what part I speak of, sweet?"

Fancy's mouth went dry, and she could only shake her head, riveted, as he tipped his head back once more and gently lapped another oyster into his mouth, the picture shockingly erotic, as was the slight smile that curled the corners of his lips when he looked at her.

He laid his palm against her cheek, his thumb smoothing over her bottom lip. "You do know that I want to make love to you, don't you?"

"Yes," she said, barely audible, the world seeming to conspire against her as a soft breeze washed over her skin, the trickle of water running down a crevice in the stones lulling her senses.

She was drawn to him and could not dredge up a single protest when his arm came around her waist and pulled her to him. They were both wet from the chest down, and the water lapping around them only heightened the moment.

He kissed her, his mouth insistent. She understood desire, and knew that was what she felt for him, as much as she knew she had to deny it. He was her guardian, the man her brother had entrusted with her care. Her virtue. If he knew who she was, he wouldn't want her. When she finally told him, he would hate her.

But all those things seemed leagues away as he cupped her breast, his tongue curling against hers as his thumb caressed her nipple.

She felt dizzy, her mind whirling in heady delight while her body turned languorous. She didn't want the sensations to stop. And when Lucien cupped her other breast, so that he held both in his palms, gently squeezing, she pressed into him, wanting more.

He trailed kisses down her neck, and she shivered. "Let me teach you pleasure, Angel. I promise I'll go slow. But I need to touch you."

He lifted her, and she instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist as he moved them deeper into the rocky gorge and into a secluded overhang, where he laid her down on the soft sand, a light trickle of water moving against her back

"Have you ever been pleasured, love?" he asked as he slowly undid the buttons on her shirt, nothing but a girlish camisole barring her naked breasts from his view. "Has any man ever tasted you?"

Fancy shook her head.

He smiled and braced his hands on either side of her head, his big body blocking out the sun, leaving the golden rays to backlight him as he stared down at her, his long, dark hair tumbling forward, the soft strands whispering across her chest as he pulled apart the laces of her camisole and kissed each piece of skin he exposed, until…

She moaned and arched up as he drew her nipple into his mouth and suckled deeply. She could feel every tug, every teasing lick of his tongue, down below.

"You're so untutored," he crooned against her skin, looking up at her as his tongue circled her nipple, her labored breathing lifting her breasts up and down as he toyed with her, licking her each time her breast rose, so that she never wanted to exhale. "This is all I'm going to do. For now. But each time you come to me, I'll teach you a bit more. Do you want that?" He asked the question as he tugged her nipple into his warm, wet mouth, and all Fancy could do was move restlessly against him. "Do you like what I'm doing?"

Fancy fought for air. "Yes," she breathed, the word a haunting whisper of sound.

He rolled her nipples between his thumb and forefinger, pulling them lightly before soothing them with his mouth. "You are full of passion you can barely contain." He groaned low in his throat as she pushed her hips up against his. "You know, don't you? Instinctively you understand. Soon, sweet. When you're ready for me. For now, all I want you to do is live and breathe the pleasure I can give you."

He traced her lips with his tongue. He tasted of the sea, and of hunger. Their mouths mated with carnal abandon, separating only to find a new angle, each labored breath beginning and ending with the other's mouth.

He cupped her breasts and pushed them high and tight so that his mouth and tongue left a wet path between her sensitive tips, all the sensation arrowing down to the core of her, heat flushing her body.

"My sea goddess." His breath bathed her in fiery pants, a tremor moving through him as she clutched his shoulders. "I love tasting you." He flicked his tongue over one taut peak while his fingers played with the other.

Fancy arched up against him as he kissed one nipple, then the other.

"Please," she moaned.

He pressed down against her, his hard length branding her, rocking against her as he opened her legs wider, his hands and mouth relentless on her.

Fancy threw her head back as a shattering climax speared through her body, pulses throbbing from deep inside, moist where Lucien's body was cradled tightly against her as the pleasure rolled over her, leaving her limp and sated.

And all too aware of the man who lay heavily on top of her, gently stroking the hair from her face.

Nine

 

What was it about passion that could completely obliterate a person's common sense?

Fancy stared up into the mid-afternoon sky, clouds like cotton tufts floating on the breeze as Lucien gently righted her clothes and then shifted her so that her head was nestled against his shoulder.

All the subtle touches and caresses had led to an irreversible mistake. It wasn't that she hadn't wanted him; she had. And had he not seduced her, she very well may have seduced him.

Once more, her rashness had mired her in trouble.

"What are you thinking?" Lucien asked, his fingers absently stroking her upper arm.

"That I need to get back to the house," she replied, which was the truth, but not what consumed her thoughts at that moment. "My absence will have been noted." And she could only imagine the earful she would have to listen to if anyone got wind that she had been alone with Lucien. Olinda would neuter Lucien, then hold him at sword-point until he said, "I do." The repercussions were too awful to contemplate.

He nudged her chin up. "I hope I didn't get you in trouble with your mistress. If she is upset with you, I'll take the blame."

Fancy hadn't expected him to care about the consequences that might befall a common servant.

"And what will you say to her?" she asked.

"That I wanted a tour of the property," he said, softly sliding his thumb across her bottom lip. "I won't let anything happen to you. I promise."

Fancy averted her gaze. He was making her like him more than she could allow; she needed to hold on to the image of him as a gamester and womanizer. Both were his stock-in-trade, and she could not forget that.

Pulling away, she rose to her feet. Without a word, she started back up the path, thinking about how every decision, even the simplest one, could easily lead to disaster.

"Hello!" a distant voice called out as Fancy mounted the rise, bringing her head out of the clouds and her gaze snapping up.

She caught sight of a figure approaching. A man. Her mind raced. Could it be Calder? Lord, how could she have forgotten about him for a moment? His treachery had been what had driven her to the tavern and into a fateful first meeting with Lucien.

But it was not Calder, she realized with relief as the man drew closer, but Heath. His tall, rangy body materialized from the reedy grass, moving in that familiar loping stride, his sandy brown hair glimmering in the late-day sun.

The Courtenays claimed to be descendants of Cornish kings, and everyone had always treated them with a certain level of respect. Every eligible young girl in the area hoped to snare Heath and become the woman fortunate enough to earn a place in such an illustrious family.

He waved, and Fancy instinctively waved back. Then she stopped abruptly, her heart missing a beat. Today she was not Lady Francine Fitz Hugh, but an impostor, and she had to warn Heath before he said something to Lucien that would ruin all her plans.

"I'll be right back," she told Lucien hastily, praying he wouldn't follow her as she moved to head off Heath.

As they met in the middle of the field, Heath suddenly grabbed her around the waist and swung her about before giving her a brotherly kiss on the mouth, his brown eyes alight with mischief as he returned her to her feet and backed up a step to look at her.

"Good Lord, Fancy, girl, you fill out those breeches quite stunningly. Turn around and let us have a look." Before she could protest, he caught her shoulders and swiveled her around, whistling low in appreciation. "You'll have all the young bucks falling at your feet if you keep dressing this way." With a laugh, he tapped her on her behind as though she were still a little girl.

Fancy slapped his hands away and faced him with a scowl. "Stop that."

"Stop what?" he returned, all innocence. "I was just having a little fun."

"This is no time for fun. I have something to discuss with you." Fancy darted a glance at Lucien, who now stood atop the rise, a glower on his face. At any moment he would walk over, which left her not a second to spare.

Unfortunately, Heath had followed her gaze and frowned. "Who's that?" he demanded.

Fancy sighed. "That's my guardian. Lucien Kendall."

Heath stared at her for a stunned second. "Colonel Lucien Kendall? George's commanding officer?"

Heath knew all about Lucien. Fancy had been so sure the man would never deign to step foot in Cornwall that she had confided everything. Until yesterday, she would never have thought she had anything to worry about.

"The same," she said.

"What is he doing here? I thought his concern only went so far as to hire another keeper for you?"

"I guess I chased off one too many." And her heedless behavior might very well be the gust that toppled her precarious house of cards. "I don't have time to explain everything now, except that he doesn't know who I am."

A frown pulled at Heath's brows. "Doesn't know?"

"Please, just listen. I couldn't tell him the truth. He said he intends to marry me off."

Heath regarded her reflectively. "That wouldn't be the worst thing," he said, his tone gentling as he lightly touched her cheek. "You can always marry me, you know. I'll take care of you."

"Yes, I know." And she also knew they would make each other miserable. Heath didn't love her, and she didn't love him. "But I have to do this on my own. I can't lose Moor's End."

"I don't know about this, puss. I think your guardian should be made aware of the trouble you're going through."

"No." Fancy shook her head vigorously. "Moor's End has been in my family for more than a century. I won't be the one who loses it. It belongs to future generations."

"What future generations?" Heath asked, not unkindly, and yet his words brought a pang of hurt to her heart.

There would be no future without children. Without a husband. It wasn't that she didn't want to marry; she did. But in her own time. To a man who loved her.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, drawing her into his arms. "I know all this hurts you terribly. If you would just let me take care of you."

For a moment, Fancy allowed him to comfort her. Then she drew back, casting a glance at Lucien to find his scowl bordering on fury. He started toward them, and Fancy panicked.

"Oh, Lord, he's coming. Please, Heath, don't tell him who I am."

"Fancy…"

"He thinks I'm Mary Purdy, a servant," she rushed on. "I promise I'll tell him the truth. But not now. Please, Heath. Help me."

"There's something I have to tell you."

"Fine. Just not now."

"When?"

"I'll meet you tonight at Mariner's Nook. You can tell me then. For now, I beg you not to reveal me."

Then her time ran out as Lucien stopped beside her, the possessive light in his eyes revealing far more than Fancy would have liked. There was nothing she could do but pray.

"Heath," she said, hoping she didn't sound as nervous as she felt, "this is Lucien Kendall, Lady Francine's guardian. He just arrived yesterday from London. Mr. Kendall, may I introduce you to Heath Courtenay, a close neighbor of Lady Francine's."

Lucien inclined his head. "Courtenay," he said stiffly.

Heath returned the gesture. "Kendall."

Fancy's palms grew clammy as she watched the two men size each other up. Heath was a few years younger than Lucien, but her guardian had several inches on Heath, as well as an additional stone's worth of solidly packed muscle.

Anxious, Fancy hooked her hand around Lucien's arm and tugged. "Mr. Kendall was just seeing me home."

Lucien glanced down at her beneath tightly drawn brows. He did not look pleased. "Indeed," he murmured gruffly.

The tension was palpable, and Fancy wanted only to retreat. "Good day, Mr. Courtenay," she said, not missing Heath's stony look, displeasure vibrating from him.

"Good day, Miss Purdy. Perhaps we will run into each other again soon." His glance communicated exactly what he meant.

"I'm sure we will."

He nodded to both of them and turned on his heel. Her gaze followed him until he was out of sight. As soon as he had disappeared down the path that led to his home, Fancy exhaled a sigh of relief.

She realized then that her fingers were clutching Lucien's sleeve. She immediately let go. But he clamped his hand over hers. "Not so fast."

"We really should be getting back to the house."

"Who is he?"

Lord, had she been that obvious? Could he tell she was hiding something? She managed to return his gaze calmly. "A neighbor, as I said."

"You know damn well what I'm asking. Who is he to you?"

"A friend."

"How close a friend?"

For a moment, Fancy could only stare, then anger swept over her at his implication. She wrenched her arm from his. "That's none of your concern."

She turned to walk away, but he blocked her path. "It's my concern as long as I'm here."

"Well, leave. No one asked you to come in the first place." She nudged him in the chest and brushed past him.

He caught up to her in two strides, gripping her arm and twirling her around. "I don't share what's mine, and until I leave, you're mine."

Fancy gasped angrily. "You arrogant, bullheaded giant. I don't belong to any man." But even as she said the words, the idea of belonging to Lucien, of stepping into his protective embrace and staying there, was tempting. Would he be so possessive once he knew the truth?

His arms came around her, his body a warm, solid wall, calming her, and she felt the strongest desire to lay her head against his shoulder. She understood what he was doing, that he was staking claim, but she couldn't coerce her limbs into doing a thing about it.

More strongly than ever, she realized that she had to tell him the truth, sooner rather than later. She had already found herself wanting to be around him, and wondering when he would kiss her again. It was all too dangerous.

She had only one option for getting the money she owed more quickly, something she had steadfastly avoided doing. But she had no choice now. She would give Bodie the antique mother-of-pearl brooch her grandmother had given her shortly before she died, and have him sell it for her. Just the thought brought tears to her eyes, and she averted her gaze.

Lucien caught her chin and forced her to look at him. "Don't cry." He smoothed the pad of his thumb across the path of a lone tear. "I didn't mean to yell," he said, mistaking the cause of her tears. "I just want you. I don't know how you've bewitched me so thoroughly, but you have." His head lowered, and Fancy could not find the strength to deny him.

Her eyes closed on a sigh as his mouth pressed against hers, gently shaping her lips, the kiss a communion of mutual desire. Her body tingled in remembrance of his touch.

He broke the kiss, and Fancy uttered a sound of protest. Then her gaze followed his, and she realized why he had stopped. They were not alone. She smiled. The black kit had wandered off from Sassy again and was now plunked at the edge of Lucien's boot, staring up at him.

"What is it with this bloody fur ball?" Lucien groused, scowling down at the kitten, who was completely unconcerned about his ferocious mien.

"I believe it thinks you're its mother."

Lucien's head jerked up, and he glowered at her. Fancy had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. "You find this amusing, do you?"

She nodded. "You did save it, after all. And they say if you save a life, your destinies are forever entwined."

"I saved you," he murmured, gently cupping her cheek. "Does that make us forever entwined?"

Fancy could barely look at him for the dart of longing that went through her. "We had better gather up the kittens. It's too dangerous for them out here." She leaned down and scooped up the sleeping baby beside his boot. "Hold out your hand."

"Hell, you aren't going to make me hold that thing, are you?"

"Yes." She promptly laid the kitten in his palm, the difference in size between man and feline endearing.

He looked incredibly uncomfortable, especially when the kitten began licking his thumb with a raspy pink tongue. He frowned, and Fancy enjoyed every minute of it as she rounded up the remaining three kittens, the squirming bundles of fur keeping him occupied as they made their way back to the house.

They had just stepped out of the woods when she heard Lucien say, "Come out from behind there."

Fancy turned to see a shrub rustling. A moment later, a curly head and a pair of frightened brown eyes appeared. "Jimmy?" she said.

He moved out from his hiding place. "Aye, mum."

"What are you doing?" Then a terrible thought struck her. "Has your mother taken a turn?"

He gave a quick shake of his head. "No, mum. She's doin' much better now with the poultice y' gave her. I just come to… well…" He swallowed and looked at Lucien, an intimidating monument, even with kittens crawling up his shirt. "I had to see if y' was all right."

"I don't understand."

"I do," Lucien remarked, bringing Fancy's gaze to him. "We've met before, Jimmy and I."

"Met?"

"Last night."

It only took Fancy a second to figure out where. The tavern.

"So you know her, do you, lad?" There was no rancor in Lucien's voice, only humor. "Were you worried she would come to harm?"

Jimmy stared down at his hands, nervously twisting his cap. "I didn't mean to be dishonest with y', sir. I told y' most of the truth."

"But you needed the money."

He nodded, appearing utterly dejected as he peered up at Fancy with eyes that had seen too much sorrow. "I'm sorry, miss. I din't mean to rat y' out."

Fancy's heart went out to him. His parents had brought Jimmy and his sister, Lisbeth, to Cornwall from London, hoping for a better life. But his father had died in a mining accident at Wheal Rose six months earlier, and their mother had contracted a lung infection last month. She was improving, but slowly, leaving a grave burden on her children. Fancy did as much as she could, bringing supper and reading the children a bedtime story, but often it felt like too little.

"Come here, Jimmy." He shuffled over to her, his head bowed as he stopped before her. Fancy stroked his hair. "Olinda is making sweet buns this morning. Why don't you go inside and see if they're done?"

"Y' forgive me, then?" he asked in a small voice.

"Of course," she assured him, kissing his forehead. "Now go and get yourself a bun while it's hot. And bring some home with you," she called after him as he dashed toward the kitchen door.

When he was gone, Fancy faced Lucien, who was trying to capture a white-pawed kitten as it worked its way up over his shoulder.

"What's that look for?" he grumbled, clearly disgruntled as his chest got little claw punctures for his efforts.

"Did you bribe that poor child for information?"

He frowned. "No. He offered it."

"Jimmy is the most honest-hearted boy I've ever known."

"So I'm dishonest, you mean?"

She gave him a look that conveyed her opinion and swung on her heel.

"Now wait just one damn minute." But she didn't, blast her, and he was stuck juggling kittens as he followed.

Sadie came trotting up to him the minute he stepped through the kitchen door, nearly toppling him. "Down, you confounded mutt." Like her mistress, the dog ignored him, sniffing the kittens, who batted at Sadie's nose. "Just wait until I put them down," Lucien muttered. "Then you'll be shivering in the hall closet."

He bent over, intending to fulfill his threat, when he heard, "For goodness sake, not there! They'll get trampled. Over here. I've made a bed."

Grumbling beneath his breath, Lucien glanced up to see the housekeeper stifling a chuckle, while Jimmy ate his treat, too absorbed to care about Lucien's plight. Lady Imperious stood impatiently across the room, pointing to a crate turned on its side, lined with a flurry blanket.

Lucien stalked over to the crate, dropped to his haunches, and one by one deposited his burden, more than ready to be done with this exercise in futility.

Standing, he glared down into the girl's haughty, upturned face, and knew the strongest desire to kiss her. God save him, she had put a spell on him. "Satisfied?"

"Yes."

"Fine."

"Good."

They exchanged scowls, and then Lucien strode out of the room. Fancy wanted to kick herself for allowing her gaze to follow his retreat, that magnificent form a thing of beauty even when he was angry.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Kendall," Rosalyn chirped in a sunny tone as she came down the hallway, which earned her a grunt in reply. Entering the kitchen with a puzzled expression, she asked, "What's the matter with him?"

Fancy watched Lucien until he disappeared into a hazy patch of late sunlight in the front hall. Then she snapped, "He's a man."

As she marched off in the other direction, Olinda and Rosalyn exchanged confused looks.

Ten

The house caged Lucien like a tomb. The four walls seemed to close in on him as he stood in the middle of the library, the smell of old leather and disuse surrounding him as he tried not to think about his escalating restlessness or an insufferable chit with a hair-trigger temper and a smile more radiant than the sun.

He curled a hand around the worn mantel above the fireplace, the clock tolling out the quarter hour before midnight. He stared down at the burning wood crackling on the dulled andirons in the grate, fighting the ache building deep within him, knowing tremors would soon rack his body if his need was not appeased. He reached out a hand toward the flames, but he didn't feel the heat, only a terrible, growing cold.

He struggled to concentrate on the rattle of the rain against the windowpanes, the howl of the wind that cursed a shutter to rap against the house.

Restlessly, he paced to the liquor cabinet and took down an aged bottle of brandy, his stride not yet marked by the feeble swaying of a drunk, though he was definitely well-liquored, having already finished what remained of a bottle of bourbon.

Why had he come to this godforsaken place? He should be back in London, doing what he did best, gambling and remaining free of entanglements—and accepting responsibility for Lady Francine Fitz Hugh was a huge entanglement. Most days his life hung together by only the barest thread.

But what awaited him in London? An empty town house? Memories that had begun to stalk his mind, leaving him with fewer places to hide?

He glanced over his shoulder at the slim black box on a table in front of the sofa, perched there like a bird of prey, just waiting for him to lift the lid. He had thought himself strong enough to conquer the yawning void inside him, and had initially left the box under lock and key at Charring House. But he had barely traveled an hour's distance before he had been forced to go back and retrieve it. His life was tethered to that box, body and soul.

Lucien finished off his glass of brandy and poured another, walking past the table once more and bracing his hand above the window to look out at the storm-tossed night, thunder rolling through black clouds, lightning illuminating the headlands, desolate and bleak, leaves shivering in the chilled gust.

With each passing moment, the guillotine dug deeper into his neck.

He needed Mary. Needed her almost as much as he needed the contents of that box. Something about her soothed him, made him temporarily forget the images of a young man who had taken three days to die from a bullet that had been meant for Lucien, and the cries of a woman whose only mistake lay in loving him, and his mother's frightened eyes as she submitted to her husband's brutality—and a shame no one could speak of.

God, how he hated the night.

 

Fancy stood at the window, watching the rain run over the panes in a thick sheet. Storms came frequently during the fall nights, sweeping in with a flourish and abating before dawn.

There was a time when she used to love the rain, when she would sit at this very window, her nose pressed to the glass, watching fat raindrops plunk down onto the road like silver shillings, turning it into a murky lake.

If only the raindrops really were shillings, her problems would be solved. But even that wouldn't change the fact that storms now left her with night terrors.

Her parents had died in a storm at sea. Her grandmother had passed away on a rain-lashed night. The news of her brother's death had arrived during an unexpected gale.

She would never forget the somber-faced young military officer who had told her of George's valiant struggle to survive, of his heroic deeds for his country. Of his love and devotion to her. For the first several moments, all Fancy had been able to think, selfishly, was that she was alone. Then she had grieved, and for months afterward, she had barely functioned.

Sadie bumped against her thigh, and Fancy glanced down, seeing those big brown eyes fixed on her and understanding the sorrow.

She patted the dog's head. "I know," she consoled. "But we must be brave. It'll be over soon."

Turning from the window, Fancy stared at her bed. Lucien had vacated her room that morning, having been relegated to a chamber down the hall by Olinda. And yet an imprint of him remained, images of his body sprawled across her coverlet, his full lips shaped into a taunting grin as his gaze caressed her.

Fancy closed her eyes and laid a hand upon her breast, lightly sweeping a finger over her nipple, feeling it respond. Lucien had awakened something inside her, and it could not simply be put back or locked away again.

She dropped her hand and blocked out the thought, thinking instead of Heath. What did he want to tell her that was so important they must meet in seclusion at midnight? Would he be waiting for her at the cove in this weather?

Fancy's rational mind told her that nothing bad would befall her; she knew the terrain well. It was the storm that left her immobile.

She decided she would check on the kittens, make sure Sassy hadn't gotten tired of her new duties and left the babies to fend for themselves. One kitten in particular was smaller than the rest, a little calico who had refused to nurse. It wouldn't survive if it didn't eat soon.

Leaving her room, Fancy moved down the darkened hallway, the howl of the wind and creak of the house surrounding her. How many nights had she heard those same sounds and been lulled by them? And how often had she crawled into her grandmother's bed and listened to her tales of Cornwall's legend-filled past and of growing up the only girl in a family of five older brothers, lifelong tinners and miners, all of whom had eventually died of poisoned lungs? Times had been hard, but their love had been strong. There were moments, late at night, when Fancy thought she could hear their laughter and the sound of running feet. The sounds of a house that had a soul.

She entered the kitchen from the servant's corridor, Sadie's nails clicking against the hardwood floor. Setting her candleholder down on top of a flour bin, Fancy knelt in front of the crate.

She smiled at the sight that greeted her. The kittens were curled against Sassy's belly, fast asleep, rumbling purrs of contentment filling the quiet room. She had named three of them Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod. The black, which she thought of as Lucien's, she called Inkwell.

Fancy frowned as her gaze ran over the kittens once more. She counted only three. Inkwell was missing. She knew the little feline had wanderlust, but at midnight? There were many nooks and crannies in the house for it to get into, and places where it could fall and hurt itself.

Lifting the candle, Fancy set out to find the kitten, though locating a black cat in the dark would prove difficult. She could only hope little Inkwell had curled up somewhere for the night.

In the middle of the hall that ran along the stairwell, a sound stopped Fancy in her tracks. A single mournful note drifted through the air, followed a moment later by a slightly off-key chord.

Someone was playing the pianoforte in the library.

As she moved nearer, Fancy spotted a thin beam of light sliding out from underneath the closed door. Her mind dismissed an intruder. Calder's thugs would not stop to stroke the keys, or produce a sound of longing that struck at Fancy's very heart.

The knob made only a slight click as she turned it, inching the door open to peer inside. In the shadowed interior, all that was clear was the sharp angles of Lucien's profile and his dark hair brushing his shoulders, faintly tinted by firelight.

There was a bruised look about him, a vulnerability etched in that stark pose. She felt as if she was finally seeing all of him. Beneath the mien of the charming rogue, a pain seemed to reside deep within him, in a place that had not or could not heal.

Cradled against his chest he held Inkwell, gently stroking the sleeping cat, an anguish on his face that nearly broke her heart. He had protested so loudly at being keeper of the kittens that afternoon, but now his actions belied his disgruntled behavior.

Spotting her new friend, Sadie's tail began to wag in earnest, thwapping against the wall before Fancy could back out of the room.

Lucien's head jerked up, his gaze impaling her where she stood. His eyes were glazed, and she could tell he had been drinking. He seemed on the edge of volatility; not the man who had hunted for oysters with her that afternoon.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I didn't mean to disturb you." She saw the empty bottle of bourbon and the half-empty bottle of brandy.

Then she noted other things, like his shirt, which was undone and pulled free of his waistband, leaving his chest bared to her gaze, the top button on his low-slung trousers negligently undone.

His torso was smooth, hard, with not a single hair to mar its perfection—just solid, rigid muscle framed by taut, sun-glazed skin.

"You've been disturbing me since I met you," he said in a low voice, a slight roughness to his words. "Why should now be any different?" He deposited the kitten on a worn wing chair and beckoned Fancy. "Come in, Miss Purdy."

"I was just looking for the kitten."

"Well, now you've found it." His gaze never left Fancy as he lifted his drink to his lips.

Something about the look in his eyes made her shiver. "I should take it back to Sassy."

"Ah, but you can't."

Fancy halted in her tracks. "Why?"

"Because I'm holding it hostage. The price of its release is your company. Have a drink with me."

"I think you've had enough to drink."

"Do you? I'll take it under advisement. Now, what would you like?" He moved to the cabinet and took down another glass. "Sherry? Port, perhaps?"

Fancy hesitated, her inner voice sending out a warning, which for once she almost heeded. "Sherry," she said, vowing only to stay a few minutes.

Drink poured, he turned and leaned back against the edge of the cabinet. "Don't hover there in the doorway, my girl. Come get your drink."

There was something taunting in the way he studied her as she walked toward him, a certain feral gleam she couldn't comprehend as he held the glass out to her with a hand that trembled.

"Thank you," she murmured, trying not to stare at his chest, even as her fingers itched to mold her palms against its sculpted beauty.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked.

Her fingers tightened on the glass. "The storm… it kept me awake. And you?"

"A variety of things." None of which he intended to share, it seemed. "I guess we are both among the ranks of the sleepless tonight."

Fancy could only wonder what his reasons were. Then she noted an odd black box on the table behind him. "What's that?"

"You are inquisitive, aren't you?" He shifted his body slightly so that he blocked all but a corner of the box. "Drink up." He tipped the glass to her lips.

With only a slight pause, she took a sip. The liquor was aged and smooth, and it warmed her as it went down, taking away some of the chill. Her gaze slipped to the box again.

Fancy started as Lucien's hand wrapped around her wrist and pulled her forward until she stood between his thighs. "What is it about you, Miss Purdy, that can make a man so crazy?" His voice was whisper soft and incredibly seductive.

"You seem to be the only man I have that effect on."

"Somehow I find that hard to believe."

"Undoubtedly. Otherwise, it would put a taint on your own outrageous behavior."

The smile he suddenly leveled on her was devastating. "If memory serves, I was the white knight, charging in to save you."

"You kissed me."

"I beg to differ. We made a business arrangement: I kissed you with your consent."

"You blackmailed me into it!"

"Blackmail is such a harsh word. I prefer to think of it as collateral for future assistance."

"Meaning you'll expect a kiss each time I need your help?"

"A kiss—or whatever else you'd like to throw into the bargain." He stroked a finger down her arm, raising goose bumps as he went. "You'll find I'm a very conciliatory fellow."

Heat began to swim in Fancy, and had he kissed her at that moment, she would have melted into him. Raising her chin, she said, "You'll get nothing else from me."

"No?" The glint in his eyes told her he felt obliged to try as he leaned down and pressed his lips to the crook of her neck.

Fancy instinctively tilted her head and closed her eyes, reveling in the warm pressure of his mouth as he trailed his lips down the column of her throat, dipped into the hollow at the base, and worked back up the center, feathering kisses over her chin until his mouth was but a breath from hers, his eyes liquid blue as he looked into hers.

"Your nipples are hard," he murmured in a husky tone.

Fancy gasped at his brazen remark and jerked back, but his hands manacled her wrists and tugged her forward.

"You may want to deny me, but your body can't."

"Stop this."

"Are they aching, love? Do they want my mouth again?

Yes, Fancy wanted to cry, her treacherous body betraying her.

He ground his hips against her, letting her feel his arousal. "If you only knew how long it's been since I've felt this way."

Fancy tossed her head back and glared up at him, even as she pressed tighter to his hard length. "A week?"

"Try six months. Longer than that, if I want to be honest with myself. And now you come along." He softly stroked the inside of her wrist with his thumb. "What am I going to do?"

"Take a deep breath, perhaps?"

"I need you."

"You don't even know me."

"But I do. As loathe as I am to admit it, some of Tahj's teachings did sink in, and something in me knows you, understands you."

Fancy felt the same way. It was as if she had waited all her life for this man, and even though her mind fought it, her heart knew.

He kissed her then, in that soft yet unrelenting way that she was coming to crave. She tried, but the words that might put an end to the blissful torment would not come.

He was so intoxicating to her senses, so very hard to resist. He was a well-known womanizer, his exploits thoroughly documented. He was frequently seen in the company of other rogues and scoundrels. Yet she believed him when he said she had bewitched him, for he had certainly put her under a similar spell.

Summoning up her will, Fancy stepped out of his embrace. His scent, that unique blend of sandalwood and musk, clung to her as she walked over to the wing chair and stroked Inkwell's soft fur.

She knew Lucien followed her. She sensed him behind her, could almost feel his breath on the back of her neck, and knew what she had tempted when she stepped into his lair.

A spear of lightning blazed through the night with a flash of stark white, and the boom of thunder shook the entire house. She hugged herself tightly.

"Are you afraid of the storm?"

She whirled around, having momentarily forgotten Lucien was there. He stood a scant foot away, one hand sunk into the pocket of his trousers, the tail of his shirt draped behind it, showing his lean waist.

"Do you always walk around half dressed in a woman's presence?" she asked, sounding frightfully self-righteous.

"Are your senses offended, Miss Purdy?"

They were outraged, but only because he made her want to touch him. "It's not proper."

"Just as it wasn't proper for me to worship your body on the beach?"

Fancy blanched, shocked at his bold remark. "A gentleman would not bring that up." She sounded like a pious maiden rather than a servant, but it was too late to retract her words.

"I've never laid claim to being a gentleman." He took a step toward her, and Fancy darted behind the chair, which only seemed to amuse him. "Am I to pursue you about this room? I will, you know."

"And would you force yourself on me?"

A glint of anger briefly sparked in his eyes. "Did I force myself on you this afternoon?"

It certainly would have given her ammunition if he had, but he hadn't. "No," she said. "But it isn't right."

"Why? Is there someone else?" He slowly worked his way toward her. "That fool from this afternoon, perhaps?"

"Heath is not a fool!" she fumed. "He's a good friend."

"And he wants you. You're blind if you can't see it."

"We're friends, no more. But even if we weren't, it's none of your concern."

"I'm making it my concern."

He was the most infuriating, highhanded churl she had ever met. And yet he had opened up a door she boldly intended to walk through.

"Then I expect equal courtesy from you."

He palmed his glass. "What exactly are you thinking to get, sweetheart?"

She raised her chin. "I want you to tell me about your family."

He went still, his gaze narrowing on her face. Then he shook his head. "What's between us has nothing to do with my family."

"If you are going to intrude on my life, then you must be willing to give something up in return."

"Is that what I'm doing? Intruding on your life?"

"You are being deliberately difficult."

"It's what I do best."

"I won't make this easy on you."

"Somehow I doubted you would." He regarded her for a long moment, and then said, "So what will you give me for sharing these confidences?"

"Give you?"

"What piece of yourself?" At her shocked expression, he smiled. "I intend to exploit this opportunity, love, make no mistake about it."

"That's sinful and deplorable!"

He laughed. "Between fire pokers and that chastising tongue of yours, I can understand why you are still a maiden. I suspect most men are too afraid to get close."

"But not you."

"No. Not me. You're like this fire." He reached a hand out toward the flames, inching nearer until she thought his flesh would surely be singed. "You allow people to look, but not touch. You crackle and hiss and warn away the unwary, but introduce something volatile into the mix"—he tossed the remainder of his drink on the fire, igniting a searing burst of heat, driving the flames higher—"and you burn out of control. I, my dear girl, am that volatile element." He moved to stand in front of the chair she had taken refuge behind. "And you will burn for me. So the question remains, what will you give me?"

The prospect was both heady and frightening. "What do you want?"

"Equal compensation for each revelation."

"That is too vague." Hearing the sound of capitulation in her voice, she added, "And unscrupulous."

"It is, isn't it?" His smile was wicked. "Now that we've come to an agreement, where should we begin?"

"I haven't agreed to anything."

"But you will. You have an innate curiosity that needs to be appeased; you can't help yourself."

Was she that transparent? "Perhaps I do, but you will name your price first."

"Fine. What is it that you want to know?"

Fancy pondered his question for a moment, then said, "I want you to tell me something about your life and family."

An odd tension settled over him as he glanced down at Inkwell, who stretched in her sleep and flopped to her other side. Fancy was alarmed at how ashen his face had suddenly become.

"Are you unwell?" she asked, worried that his wound was worse than he had let on.

"What?" His gaze cut to hers, a look of confusion in his eyes before they cleared, making her wonder if the shadows were playing tricks on her. "I'm fine," he said, a gruff edge to his voice. "And I have come to a determination on a price."

"And that is?"

"To hold you."

Fancy blinked, surprised by his request. "That's all you want? Just to hold me?" She had feared he would want far more—and that she might consent to the terms.

"Yes. That's all I want. Are we in agreement?"

Fancy hesitated, then slowly nodded.

His gaze slid away from her, and he moved back to the liquor cabinet, grabbing his empty glass and tipping the brandy bottle to it.

"Don't drink any more," she heard herself say, not quite sure why she made the request, only that she wanted him sober. She could tell something was bothering him, and he was using the liquor as a balm.

He stared down at the bottle, then returned the glass stopper to the top and pushed the decanter away. Silence invaded the room, and Fancy wondered if he was regretting the bargain he had made.

Then he began to speak.

"I have a vivid memory of Church Lane in St. Giles. My father took me to a brothel there when I was thirteen years old. He thought it was time I became a man, so he made me watch while he screwed a prostitute named Blythe."

Everything inside Fancy grew still and cold. "But you were just a boy."

He remained staring at the wall. "In the rookery, thirteen is old enough to father a bastard, let alone fornicate with a doxy. It wasn't surprising to see a young girl, scarcely more than a child herself, carting a wailing baby on her hip. The East End is a world unto itself, and what would be considered unconscionable to most of society did not reach those within its confines."

Fancy could not have imagined such deplorable actions by a parent. While hers may not have been the most attentive, they had never subjected her to depraved acts.

"Was your mother no longer alive?" she asked, knowing by the tensing on his shoulders what the answer would be.

"She was very much alive. I never told her."

"I'm sorry."

He turned to face her. "I didn't tell you the story so you'd feel sorry for me. But if you do, all the better. Perhaps you'll take pity on me."

"I don't think pity is what you want."

"You know me so well, do you?"

She met his scrutiny unflinchingly. "Why did you tell me the story?"

He shrugged. "It was the first thing that came to mind."

"It's a very curious thing to be thinking about all these years later."

"I have a long memory."

Fancy wondered if those memories were what kept him up at night. "So what did you do?"

"Do? About what?"

"About the prostitute? Did you share her with your father?"

His eyes turned flat and his expression stony. "That's all the questions."

"But your story is not complete," she protested. "I cannot honor our agreement without hearing the beginning and end of the tale."

He took a step toward her, his countenance like a thundercloud. "You think to play me, do you?"

"I wish to know what happened. It couldn't be any more shocking than it already was. The worst is over, I would say."

Fancy waited, wondering what he would do next. She pushed him, but perhaps someone needed to do so. She sensed he wanted to talk, but couldn't find the words.

"No," he said.

"No what?"

"No, I didn't touch her."

"I didn't think so."

His gaze captured hers, and he asked belligerently, "Do you think I was afraid?"

"I think you were terrified, and you had every right to be. You were just a boy."

"You know a lot for being an innocent."

"One need not be worldly wise to have an understanding of human nature. What your father did was reprehensible. Were he standing before me now, I would flog him."

Lucien rubbed his chin and regarded her, a reluctant half-grin working its way over his lips. "Have you always had this violent streak?"

Fancy straightened her spine. "If violence entails protecting myself and my family, then yes. I won't allow anything I love to be harmed."

"Such devotion is admirable."

Fancy heard the bitterness in his voice, and something else—longing, perhaps. Had no one ever been devoted to him? Had he never felt that way for someone? Again, she wondered who Sanji was, and why just hearing the name caused him such anguish.

"Please go on with your story."

"I've put a period on that story, if you haven't noticed, and now I expect my payment." He moved around the sofa and sat down. "Come here, Miss Purdy."

Fancy's heart skipped a beat. It was shameful how much she wanted to feel his arms around her. "You've only told me about one family member, and I know nothing about your life."

"I've given you both, and you well know it. Now stop hiding behind that chair."

Technically, he had answered her question, but she wanted more. "I will do as you ask, if—"

"There are no ifs, love. Now come here."

Fancy sighed and accepted her fate. It really wasn't such a bad one. Yet the niggling of her conscience trailed her as she came to a stop in front of Lucien. She had to tell him the truth. What had transpired between them the previous afternoon was proof of that.

Yet she wanted to steal this time with him. She could only pray he would understand her plight when she confessed, and maybe if they shared some kind of connection, he would allow her to do what she must to save her grandmother's home.

Taking a deep breath, she sat beside him, then let out a startled gasp as he lifted her across his lap. "What are you—"

"Holding you. You didn't say how or where. You're not the only one who can play this game."

Fancy stared into his fiery eyes and felt a hitch in her breath as he reached up and started unpinning her hair. "Ssh," he murmured when she began to protest. "I just want to see you with it down. You've got it coiled so tightly, I'm surprised you have any left." With deft fingers, he undid the topknot and let her tresses spill over her shoulders. He picked up a length and fanned it through his fingers. "The contrast is striking."

"What contrast?"

"Between the chaste girl you appear when it's up, and the seductress you look like when it's down. I nearly fell over when I first saw you at the stables."

"You must be mad. I was dressed like the worst guttersnipe."

"Boy's togs could never have camouflaged your beauty."

"Do you practice complimenting women?"

"Rarely, though most women expect it."

"And you, being a man, are immune to compliments, I presume?"

"Why?" he asked with a devilish twinkle in his eye. "Have you some compliment you wish to bestow upon me? Do you find my eyes beguiling, perhaps? My body too irresistible not to touch?"

Yes. "Do you take nothing seriously?"

"I try not to. Life is bloody hard enough without complicating matters."

"And do you find the guardianship of your ward one of those complications?" As soon as the words had left her mouth, Fancy cursed her tongue.

"It does present problems," he said, his demeanor sobering.

"Why did you accept the responsibility, then?"

"Because I owed it to the lady's brother."

The way he stared straight ahead, as though forgetting she was there, told her he was remembering those last days with George. He tried so hard to make people think he didn't care, but somewhere beneath his smooth exterior beat a heart.

"Did he suffer terribly?" she heard herself ask in a quiet voice. She knew George had lived for nearly three days after taking a bullet to his belly, and there had been times when they had thought he would pull through. But in the end, he had succumbed.

Lucien's hand lay unmoving on her thigh, and he stared at it. "He told me he didn't feel a thing, but he had always been stronger than the rest of us. I just never knew it until then. He was a damn fine officer."

Tears pricked the back of Fancy's eyes, and she struggled to keep them at bay. "I'm sure he would be happy to know you thought highly of him."

"Fitz was the one who kept us all going. He never had anything but a kind word to say. He was always coming up with some bad joke or outrageous tale to make us laugh."

A bittersweet poignancy flowed through Fancy's veins. "That was George," she murmured.

"Did you know him well?" Lucien asked.

"As well as anyone."

He glanced up at her and then looked away, his gaze focused on her shoulder. "Was his sister… did she take his death hard?"

"She was devastated," Fancy replied honestly, all the months of coming to grips with George's death surfacing, threatening to free all the pain she had thought exorcised in her grieving.

"I think that's part of the reason I stayed away," he said, absently smoothing the material of her dress between his fingers. "I couldn't bear to face her."

His soft confession wrenched at her heart. All this time she had thought he didn't care, that he was too busy gambling and having a good time to give her a second thought.

She could see now that he, too, had been devastated by George's death. She sensed that guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders. Did he grieve for all the men he had lost? Feel that somehow he could have prevented their deaths? Perhaps that was where the sadness in him emanated from.

"I'm sure she would have understood, had she known," Fancy told him gently, the wood from the fire crackling softly in the grate behind them.

He shook his head. "I couldn't. I've never been good with words." He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "I wrote her."

"I know."

When he looked at her, she could see the pain in his eyes. "She showed you the letter?"

"Yes." Fancy wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and comfort him. She would tell him the truth. He was not the uncaring man she had once labeled him; he had simply not known what to do. "Lucien, I have to—"

"Say it again."

"What?"

"My name. Say it again."

Not quite understanding the feelings whirling inside her, Fancy boldly laid a hand on his cheek and whispered, "Lucien."

His fingers framed her jaw, holding her immobile as he planted his mouth on hers, his lips moving insistently in a breath-stealing kiss, the air around them suddenly charged.

He smelled like warm brandy and carnal heat. Fancy pressed closer to him, clutching the front of his shirt, hard planes and flexing muscle moving as he cupped the back of her head, holding her as though he never meant to let her go.

His hands skimmed down her neck, his fingers sweeping across her skin in a gentle caress. Fancy held her breath as he continued to move down until the lacey edge of her blouse hindered his sensual exploration. She knew she should stop him, knew she should take hold of the hand that slowly worked the buttons free, but she couldn't.

Instead she closed her eyes and moaned as his callused palms slid across her heated flesh and cradled her breasts, his thumbs flicking with deliberate seduction across her sensitive nipples until she could barely think. And when he leaned forward and closed his lips around one delicate peak, her world focused on the sweet pressure against her breast, the delicious sucking on her nipple, the fingers expertly massaging her.

She gripped his hair and held him to her as his tongue trailed a wet path between the aching tips, flicking, circling, lapping until the room was filled with the sound of her ragged breath.

Against the backdrop of the rain, Fancy felt like she was drowning, immersed in her own need, the sound of Lucien's voice pulling her from the pleasure-filled haze.

"Look at me."

Fancy struggled to open her eyes, watching as Lucien reached into a small silver bucket on the side table and scooped out a cube of ice. He licked it and, holding her gaze captive, ran the cube across her nipple, making it pucker tightly and sending a shiver down her spine.

Then he put his mouth over the turgid peak, and the sensation was heightened, hot to cold, the process repeated, back and forth until Fancy thought she would faint from the sweet torment.

Then she felt his hand beneath her skirt and tensed.

"I won't hurt you," he murmured, his palm sliding up her thigh, his fingers squeezing gently as he nudged her legs apart. "I just want to touch you." His fingers lightly feathered over her mound. "If you want me to stop, I will. I won't do anything you don't want me to." He stilled and looked into her eyes. "Should I stop?"

Fancy knew she should say yes, but the hunger inside her, coupled with her desire for Lucien, made her shake her head. She wanted this new experience, and yet she instinctively tried to close her thighs as his fingers found the opening in her pantalets and boldly stroked the hot nub nestled there.

His expert caress quickly soothed her, and she opened her legs wider for him, moaning and writhing as he sucked and laved her nipple while the finger between her nether lips worked her toward ecstasy until her body went rigid, deep pulses crashing through her, leaving her in a sated heap against his chest, where he held her tight, pressing his lips to her hair.

Fancy stayed in his arms for long minutes, not wanting to open her eyes as reality seeped back into her brain to chide her. The first time Lucien had touched her, she might have been able to justify her actions as a mistake that would never happen again. But twice?

When she was brave enough to look up at him, she nearly dissolved beneath the languorous eyes staring down at her. She opened her mouth, but he spoke first.

"I don't know why I can't keep my hands off you. I think I'm strong enough to resist, but then I see you, and my resolve becomes nonexistent."

In the face of his honesty, Fancy knew she could no longer keep the truth from him. "Lucien, there is something I have to—"

A sudden splintering crash rent the air, jerking them both upright.

Lucien gripped her arms, his expression intent as he ordered, "Stay here." Then he was up and moving toward the door, listening for a moment, his body alert, the military man in him showing in full measure.

Fancy could scarcely breathe as he turned the knob, not making a sound. The corridor beyond was pitch-black, every object appearing sinister.

In the next moment, Lucien disappeared into the darkness.

A second later, Fancy followed after him, swallowed into the frightening morass of the unknown.