Come the Night (The Dangerous Delameres - Book 1)
Author: Skye, Christina
Date: 2013-06-14T21:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Romance
Publisher: Steel Magnolia Press

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without the written permission of publisher or author, except where permitted by law.

Cover Art by Amanda Kelsey of Razzle Dazzle Design.

Copyright © 1994 and 2013 by Roberta Helmer

First Dell Edition: 1994

First Steel Magnolia Press Publication: 2013

To Elaine Davie, a wonderful agent and a fine friend, with deep thanks.

WITH WARMEST THANKS:

to Karen Plunkett-Powell, for a host of fine suggestions (all of which entitle her to her well-earned sobriquet);

to Helen Woolverton, as ever, for ferrets and rare fragrances and all manner of fascinating facts in between;

to Bonnie Kern and Diane Morrison, for unswerving patience and true professionalism;

to Diane Kirk and Deborah Britt of Rose Petals and Pearls Romance Sorority, for the most precious gift in all the world — laughter;

and to Ellen Fuscellaro, for enthusiasm, for honesty, and for loving Silver and Luc almost as much as I do.

PROLOGUE

Norfolk, England

August 1809

William St. Clair studied the bottle on his writing desk. As he held the pale gold liquid up to a flickering candle, his gray-green eyes expertly scanned for purity and strength.

Yes, the lavender harvest was truly superb this year. The income from his perfume oils would be double what he’d expected. Now he could seed two more hills and try out a magnificent new variety of white lavender with silver foliage.

If he lived that long.

Sighing, St. Clair ran a hand across his aching neck.

Fine beads of water coasted down the glass walls of the conservatory, distorting his view of the garden.

But he could smell the wind rolling in from the coast, heavy with the scent of lavender and roses.

Barely a month had passed since the first warning letter had come. Since then he felt as if he’d aged a decade. And matters would only grow worse as his faceless enemy crept closer.

His gaze fell to the framed miniature at the corner of his desk. Worry darkened his handsome, craggy features as he stared at his daughter’s vibrant face, so wide-eyed and intent.

Her lips were full and determined, her riotous auburn curls showing the same vitality that marked her stubborn little chin. Though barely sixteen, she already had the look of her mother about her; innocence mixed with courage.

William touched the oil painting gently, thinking about the wife he’d lost too young and the daughter who already seemed far too old.

Somewhere behind him a twig snapped. The tall Norfolk planter spun toward the window, his heart pounding.

He damned well wouldn’t go out without a good fight, that was for certain. Whoever was hiding in the shadows would learn that soon enough. Thank God he’d sent Susannah and young Brandon south to his elder brother in Kent. Old Archibald was half deaf and batty as a loon, but he was a dead shot and despised strangers. He would keep the two children safe, William thought. His elder daughter, Jessica, was dead these twelve months and maybe it was just as well. Her husband, Sir Charles Millbank, was showing every sign of turning into a callous ne’er-do-well. St. Clair had had his doubts about the man from the start, but Jessica’s mind had been made up. She had wanted Millbank and no other.

He should have been firmer, the gray-haired man thought grimly. It was too late for Jessica, but not for Susannah and Brandon, he vowed, replacing the miniature on his desk.

Then he pulled a pistol from his pocket, silently daring his enemy to reveal himself.

But no further sound came from the darkness. Nothing moved except a mouse scurrying across the warm red tiles, nose atwitch and tail held high.

Slowly William slid the pistol back into his pocket. For the children’s sake, he had to stay calm.

He dropped back into the worn wicker chair and straightened a pile of seed reports, then shoved them into a drawer. Enough with distilling temperatures and seed reviews. Now he had to concentrate on Susannah and Brandon. He had to leave them something to counteract the lies they were bound to hear. Unless they planned carefully, they would lose everything. His enemies would see to that.

But just maybe, if they were very clever, his children might be able to discover who—

His jaw tightened. No, he had to stay practical and cold blooded. There was no time to waste in vain hopes.

From a hidden drawer at the back of the desk the handsome, gray-haired botanist took out an ebony box inlaid with coral and mother-of-pearl. For long moments he stared down at the polished wood, a gift from his beloved wife, who had died four years before. Then St. Clair took up his pen and began to write.

The lantern flickered behind him. Shadows danced over the page as his sharpened nib hissed across the fine paper.

15 August, 1809

My dearest Susannah,

It may be many weeks before you find this notebook, perhaps even years. But there are things you must know, secrets I must relay without my enemies discovering them. That is why I have taken such trouble to conceal this record. Do not be angry about this.

It was utterly essential.

By the time you read this, my Susannah, you will have heard many ugly stories about me. People will no doubt say that I took my life in desperation. This will be a lie, of course, but sometimes lies hurt the most. Try to preserve young Brandon from the worst of it, won’t you?

Set down in this book is the truth, my daughter. Guard it well, for there are men who will kill to possess it. Study what I have told you, and think well about how to use it. If you are clever, these things will protect you and Bram.

Meanwhile, take heart. I have lived a full life, a life of adventure and risk. I am proud that I have made enemies in my travels. I would change nothing of that. My work has been my joy, while you and Bram have been my life.

Believe me when I say it is always better to follow your heart, my dear daughter. Take risks. Dare all. If you remember nothing else, remember this.

But I digress and I must not. I haven’t much time left.

Only recently did I realize the danger that threatens. It is because of you and your brother that I have taken the course I have.

Know that I do not write these words lightly or without deep love for you both. But when you read this, it will be too late for me to explain to you in person. Because when you find this notebook, my dearest Susannah, I will almost certainly be dead …

~  1  ~

The Heath

Norfolk, England

May 1814

It was a perfect night for revenge.

He sat his horse easily, reins clasped loose in gloved fingers as he watched the distant ribbon of silver where the road curved toward the Norfolk coast.

Midnight. Light amid shadows.

And fear. He could feel that too.

The black-clad rider knew every rock and shrub of this moonlit heath, every twist of the road that offered concealment. He had walked it, studied it, dreamed over it. And now he was ready to ply his dark trade across it.

Grim faced, he slid a half-mask of black silk down over his chiseled features, just above the single scar that gleamed cold at his full lower lip.

He had no more time for dreams and regrets. Not tonight. The moon was full. The wind was high.

Tonight the darkness called. The church bells had chimed twelve times and the heath lay trapped in shadow.

It was time for Norfolk’s most sinister highwayman to ride again.

~ ~ ~

The small inn room was crowded, thick with drifting smoke and the tang of cheap spirits.

“What price do I hear for the wench?”

Half-drunken mumbling met this challenge.

“Come, my friends. Are you men or beardless boys to refuse such a chance to sample female beauty? Look you there. The wench is flawless, her skin as smooth as satin.”

The five men clustered around the rickety table sat forward. Their bloodshot eyes narrowed as they tried to make out the woman revealed by the hole in the far wall. The concealing curtain was sheer, but they could see little more than a luscious silhouette.

“Who’s to say she’s all you claim, Millbank? You fleeced us grand last time, so you did. I paid you three hundred pounds for an untouched virgin. Instead I got a poxed doxy fresh up from Falmouth!”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen.” The man at the head of the table waved an airy hand. His florid features eased into a practiced smile. “A slight miscalculation. My supplier did not understand the exactness of our club’s requirements. As we agreed, we are to have only a female of flawless form. Only a virgin untouched and unblemished. That is our motto, after all.” With a flourish Sir Charles Millbank slid the shielding silk from the viewing hole. “And that is exactly what you find before you.”

The woman went on combing her long dark hair, her shoulders covered by only the sheerest of peignoirs.

“She will be submissive?” A balding squire with whisky stains on his waistcoat studied Sir Charles Millbank uneasily. “Won’t do to have her screaming down the house when she finds out what’s to happen to her.”

“She will be well prepared, never fear.”

“Not too well prepared, I hope,” said a drunken exquisite with hard features and cold eyes. “A wench without fight is never good sport.”

The squire snorted. “As if you’d have any chance of winning the bid, Renwick. You’ve been losing heavily at the tables this past month and more, from all I hear.”

“I’ve enough to top any stingy bid of yours!”

Millbank intervened as the pair seemed ready to trade blows. “Gentlemen, a little decorum, please! The rules of our confederation demand strict order at our meetings. Now tell me, what price do I hear for the delectable piece of womanhood in the neighboring room? Three hundred pounds? Four hundred?”

“What about Silver St. Clair?” The squire sat forward, lust gleaming in his muddy eyes. “It’s her as I want.”

The others began to mutter. The word Silver ran from one man to the next.

“Aye, what about Silver?” The squire slammed his tankard down. “To taste her I’d pay twice four hundred pounds and more!”

Millbank scowled at this mention of his beautiful sister-in-law. Again and again he had tried to break her spirit, but each time she defied him. Damn her for her insolence. And for her beauty, which was a continual torment to him.

But there was too much money to be made for him to risk an outburst. Besides, his stubborn sister-in-law would soon learn who her master was. And when she became desperate enough, she would have to agree to his demands, he thought smugly.

“When the time is opportune, Silver St. Clair will be offered for bidding, just as promised.” He snapped the peephole shut and turned to glare at the assembled men. “Until that time the bidding proceeds. Of course, if you do not care to bid now, you will not be informed when my sweet little sister-in-law goes up for auction. And I assure you that is something you will miss dearly, gentlemen.”

A harsh silence gripped the room. Each man’s breath caught as he envisioned the silken beauty of Silver St. Clair’s skin, the husky timbre of her voice, and the rich glory of her brandy-colored hair lightened by a single streak of silver at one temple.

“By God, I’ll stand for two hundred.” The squire leapt to his feet and tossed down a handful of bills.

“Three hundred.” Lord Renwick followed, not about to be outdone.

As the bidding leapt to a furious pitch, Sir Charles Millbank sat back in his chair, smiling thinly.

Tonight the lure of his beautiful, insolent sister-in-law would bring him a great deal of money. Soon he would see her hopes broken and her beloved lavender farm wrested from her. Then she would bring him even more than money…

~ ~ ~

Across the heath, where the yews coiled thick and the rooks cried shrilly in the rising wind, a rider plunged through the night. Patches of fog rose and hovered in strange, swirling spirals. Pale and cold, they lapped at horse and rider, but the lonely traveler spurred desperately forward.

Silver St. Clair was abroad late this night, far too late for safety or peace of mind. She knew she had to make up for lost time by taking the shortcut through Worrington’s Wood.

Or the Devil’s Wood, as it was known in this part of Norfolk.

Her fingers were not quite steady as she touched the ivory cameo pinned to the lace at her throat.

Never mind that the forest was said to be haunted.

Never mind that a carriage was said to have disappeared in its shadowed depths just a week before.

Her heart pounded, but the treasure she carried demanded bold measures.

And what if you meet the Lord of Blackwood? This is his domain, after all.

The mocking question echoed through her head. In answer Silver slid her etched gold pistol into her cuff. “Blackwood? I’ll simply dispatch the notorious highwayman with a bullet, as someone should have done long ago!”

But the wind caught her words and tossed them back in her face, shrill and cold.

Silver shivered, hugging her cape closer about her shoulders. It was chill for May, chill for a Norfolk summer. She was already wondering if she should bank her newly sprouted lavender beds with sheets of fine muslin. She had spent too many days of backbreaking work to lose her precious lavender crop to the vagaries of a cold Channel wind now…

She was just calculating how best to drape the fabric when hooves hammered out of the darkness behind her. She had no time to prepare, no moment to turn aside.

And there was no hope of escape.

For only one man dared to ride this unhallowed stretch of heath by night, only one man whose eyes gleamed like the brimstone of hell itself.

The Black Lord. A lace-clad highwayman who spoke with the elegance of a gentleman — and killed with the cold accuracy of a hardened assassin.

And it was the Black Lord who bore down upon Silver now.

Wildly, she spurred her mare, aiming for the dense forest to her left. At the same time she wrenched her pistol from the pocket inside her cuff.

Behind her, hooves rang out like metal upon metal. Black horse, black rider, thundered closer in the black night.

Biting back a cry, Silver hunched forward, urging her mare on.

But no horse was a match for the black steed that raced in pursuit, a horse said to be sired of the legions of hell itself.

Ten yards to the tree line. If only she could—

Her hope was crushed in the next instant. The great horse pulled alongside, eyes straining, sparks cast like hellfire from his great hooves.

And then Silver was flying upward, caught in iron fingers while her terrified mount fled into the forest. A second later she collided with a velvet-clad chest. Clawing wildly, she fought the hands that slung her up before the saddle. “Let me go, you swine!”

“Ho, Diablo.” A man’s voice cut through her protests. Harsh and low, it carried just a hint of foreignness. “We’ve company now, so mind your manners.”

Somehow Silver found her legs trapped beneath a male thigh and her wrists secured in one large and powerful male palm. Her nanny’s oft-repeated warnings filled her head.

Don’t look at his eyes! One look into those demon eyes of glowing amber and ye’ll be lost, my girl. Aye, for he’s as fair as he is foul, that devil’s spawn!

But that was superstitious claptrap. It was a figure of flesh and blood that held her now.

And flesh and blood could be tamed — or at least made to bleed.

She leveled her pistol dead center on her captor's masked face. “Put me down, fiend, or you’ll taste my powder between your t-teeth!”

The highwayman’s lips eased back in a slow smile. “So I’ve caught myself a spitfire, have I?” The low voice caressed Silver like the smoking peat fires that burned here on cold autumn nights.

Rough-soft, it was.

Dark, like finest whisky.

She couldn’t help shivering.

“Who dares to breach my domain by midnight?”

Silver scowled. “I’ll not talk. Not to you!”

“No? Not even to say what name graces such beauty?”

“No name that you may claim the right to, felon! “

The rider threw back his head and laughed. “So the Black Lord’s reputation outpaces him, does it!” His dark laughter seemed to work through the very fabric of Silver’s cloak and caress her trembling skin.

“Enough! Your reputation is known all too well, fiend. Now unhand me or I’ll send a ball through your grinning face!”

The highwayman reined his mount to a trot. Smiling still, he eased back in his saddle until Silver was pulled atop him in a wanton sprawl. “Unhand me! I vow I shall s-shoot you otherwise!”

“And where do you plan to aim first, my beauty? Atop my nose? Between my brows? Or is it to be through the eye itself? I’m told that way is most effective, although you might find it a trifle hard on all that elegant lace. Bloodstains prove so very tedious to remove, after all.”

The villain was laughing at her!

They had all laughed at her when she’d insisted on taking charge of her father’s lavender farm at his death two years before. At first her greedy brother-in-law, Sir Charles Millbank, had tried to wrest the land from her control, but the terms of William St. Clair’s will had been clear: Silver would hold Lavender Close until her brother, Brandon, reached his majority.

And Silver had proved them all wrong, producing a fine harvest every year since her father’s death.

She had shown them. And she would show this man too!

Her blood burned as his gaze moved over her heaving chest. Tightening her fingers, she leveled the pistol at his neck. “Here will do nicely, I expect.”

“Go ahead and pull the trigger, my sweet. Since I’ve already tasted all the delights of a life misspent, I might as well see what novelties death has to offer.”

The coldness and sheer indifference in his voice made Silver shiver. “But surely — that is, you cannot wish to die.”

Blackwood shrugged. “There is so little spice left, my dear. Life becomes quite trying when one has tasted every vice and sampled every sin. You can have no idea.”

“In that you are right,” Silver said stiffly.

But as her breast was shoved against his arm while she spoke, her disapproving speech lost some of its sting. Flushing, she tried to squirm away, only to feel her hip lodge against the saddle of his thighs.

None of which escaped the notorious highwayman’s notice.

He shifted beneath her, bringing her lower still, until she came into full and heated contact with his exceedingly aroused male anatomy.

Silver gasped. Her cheeks red, she struggled to sit up but it was like fighting a Channel wind. She thought of shouting for help, but who was there to hear?

“Let me go, you — you brute!”

“I think not, beauty.” Amber eyes blazed through the slitted silk. “Not until I have your name. And perhaps even more than that…”

“You shall have nothing from me this night!” Silver shoved her pistol downward, somewhere in the vicinity of his shoulder. “I know how to fire this weapon. And use it I shall!”

“By all means,” came the bored answer. “Fire away.”

Silver’s eyes snapped, a fury of green and gold. “You damnable creature! I will fire, I warn you!”

“Of course you will,” the highwayman observed calmly. “As soon as your fingers stop shaking. Do get it right the first time, won’t you? It would be very bad form to leave me lying bloody and only half dead out here.”

“I could hardly miss at this distance!”

“You think not? I fear that your aim seems rather in question. Never done this sort of thing before, have you?” His tone was utterly sympathetic.

Silver looked down, furious to see that her hand was shaking. He was right, of course. “Oh, bloody hell!”

But the rakish highwayman who had faced death with utter equanimity suddenly froze. His fingers tightened on Silver’s waist. “Be still.”

“Why should I even consider—”

“Silence, I said!” This time the urgency in his voice silenced her.

The man known as the Black Lord eased back into the shadows. Turning his mount, he studied the strip of road glimmering in the moonlight to the north.

And then Silver heard it, the quick clip-clop of horse hooves coming fast.

In the blink of an eye her pistol was wrested from her fingers. Sputtering furiously, she tried to regain it, only to feel a hard hand clamped across her mouth.

“Quiet now, love. It appears my domain is to be breached a second time this night. And I’d advise you not to move. You are very delectable, and you might not care for the consequences.”

Silver gasped as she felt his thigh drive against her hip.

“Exactly,” her captor said grimly.

Don’t listen to him, Silver told herself wildly. Above all don’t look into his eyes.

But it was too late. She turned and was lost.

Those strange, sharp eyes…

Silver felt a hammering in her chest as she was drawn down into their shadowed depths. The color of finest amber they were, flecked with hot veins of gold.

Brightness within shadow. Not at all what she had expected.

Heat swept her cheeks. The night became a thing of mystery. Of storm and fury.

The highwayman’s full lips curved in a knowing smile. “A grave mistake, little one. You have looked into my eyes and that makes you mine. For ‘tis all true, my beauty, every grim tale and ruthless deed that legend assigns me. The Lord of Blackwood has done them all, I assure you, so do not think to trifle with me.” As if to strengthen this warning, his fingers slid to her waist.

A moment later three riders broke from the wooded vale. Their faces were muffled in dark wool and each one wielded a pistol.

“Damn it, where’d the wench go? I could have sworn—”

“Her horse! It’s over there!”

“I don’t want the horse, I want the bloody female! She’s got to be here somewhere. He swore she’d be coming this way tonight!”

Fear blocked Silver’s throat. She watched in horror as the riders pulled her mare to a halt and jumped down to paw through her saddlebags. What were they doing? She had nothing of value with her. Nothing except—

Her face paled as one of the men slit her leather bag with a knife. She tried to move, but the highwayman’s fingers tightened warningly on her waist.

“Aye, she’s a bold piece, that St. Clair bitch. But even she’d not venture onto the devil’s heath this late. She must be down the hill. Maybe her horse threw her.”

His companion laughed roughly. “And her with her skirts tossed up over her rump? That’d be a rare sight, lads. Let’s go and enjoy it!”

As the trio galloped off, Silver’s horror grew. They knew her name. They had followed her here! But why?

“Friends of yours?”

She shook her head, trying to avoid the highwayman’s keen eyes. “I h-have no idea who they are.”

“Unfortunate. It appears that they knew exactly what they were looking for. Do you carry some treasure that has escaped my notice?”

With a quick thrust he lifted his leg over the saddle and slid to the ground, with Silver still locked against his chest.

They landed upon the heath with a thump. She was up and struggling even before she could catch her breath. Thrusting her russet curls from her face, she scrambled toward the road.

And then she felt a prick, the very lightest of pricks, just at her shoulder.

She turned slowly — and stared down the gleaming length of a polished silver blade.

The rapier rose and gently lifted a strand of hair from her shoulder. Silver shivered, feeling the man’s perfect control as he brushed the lace at her neck and skimmed the cameo pinned there.

“A nice enough bobble, but hardly worth the interest of those ruffians. You see, I know all the men who work these roads. That particular trio will perform any task for a fee, but they are singularly expensive. Which means that someone of substantial means thought the job worth doing and doing well.”

With that his rapier slid lower, into the lace clustered at Silver’s bodice.

The next second his steel sliced off two buttons, leaving her riding jacket and underbodice to fall open over creamy skin.

“Stop! You cannot—”

He ignored her, moving with lightning skill and a grace that left Silver breathless, feeling only the barest kiss of air upon her skin.

This time her chemise was slit. And then the velvet ribbon beneath.

With one quick twist he found the small linen bag she wore and captured it on his blade.

“Noooo! Give it back. You can’t take that!”

The highwayman’s eyes narrowed. “Do continue, my dear. You interest me vastly. What do you have in this bag that is so terribly valuable?”

“N-nothing.” Silver’s lips clenched. “Nothing at all, blast you.”

Blackwood frowned, fingering the unimpressive square of linen. His nose curled as he brought the bag close and sniffed. “Lavender? An elegant scent, but hardly worth—”

“Give it back to me!” Silver launched out, her fingers flying wildly for his masked face. “It’s mine!”

In her fury Silver knocked the bag from his fingers. She watched in shock, her face bleeding white as the precious seeds, the outcome of years of planting and careful selection, spilled over the dark ground. “Oh, no! They cannot be lost. They must not!”

The Virginia planter she’d seen tonight in King’s Lynn had been so impressed with the seeds that he’d arranged to come to Lavender Close with an offer. That money could have bought her several months of freedom from the creditors who had been swarming like bees ever since her father’s death. Silver had managed to pay off one and then another, but each month it was growing harder.

Now it was too late. The seeds were lost. She was ruined.

A single tear spilled from her green-gold eyes.

“They were of such value then?” Her captor frowned. “A memento from a lover, perhaps? Some family token?”

Silver rounded on him angrily. “Of course they were valuable! But what would a villain like yourself know about hard work? About days spent in the blazing sun or a chill Norfolk drizzle?”

There was a glint in the highwayman’s eyes. “You might be surprised, my dear.”

“Well, now it’s gone, do you hear? All of it gone. Without those seeds I can never hope to—” Silver caught herself with a sob and swung her head away from those piercing eyes.

“Come, it can hardly be so bad as that.”

Oh, but it was. It was all that bad and more, Silver thought wildly. Now she would have to put off her creditors yet again. She would have to make her workers wait for their wages and deny her brother the tools he needed for his experiments.

Of course she could always ask Sir Charles Millbank for help. He had made that clear on his several visits to Lavender Close. He had also made his price clear — the possession of her body.

No, she would never ask for that cur’s help. Nor for a highwayman’s!

Silver wrenched away, shoving a line of tears from her cheek. Abruptly hard fingers slid over her chin and forced her face upward. She closed her eyes, trying to block out his strange, keen stare.

And then she gasped as Blackwood seized her hands and studied the sturdy, work-roughened palms. “Yet again, you astound me, little beauty,” her captor whispered. “So you truly have done all those things you spoke of.” His lips brushed her palm. Heat seemed to flow wherever he touched.

“You work for the St. Clairs, do you? They must drive you hard that you wear such calluses. Did you borrow your mistress’s riding costume tonight? Is that why you were hurrying home, to return it before she discovers your theft — and her seeds along with it?”

“It was no theft!”

“Of course not.” The man’s full lips curved slightly. “Merely a loan.” His mouth touched the sensitive skin at the base of one finger.

Silver shuddered. What was wrong with her? Why were her knees shaking so strangely?

Her captor drew her closer. His hand slid deep into her wild auburn hair.

She had to get away! She had to get home before—

“Give me your name,” the highwayman demanded hoarsely. “I must know to whom I’ve lost my heart.” He spoke softly, but there was an edge of dark hunger in his voice that made Silver’s heart spin oddly in her chest.

“Silver.”

“Pardon?”

Her eyes widened at his accented question. “You are French?”

The scar gleamed at his full lips. “I am — many things, little one. But why this word, silver?”

“It is my name.” She told him no more. It would be far safer if he believed her only a lowly servant.

“Silver.” He repeated the name slowly, measuringly. “I should have expected nothing less. An exceptional name for an exceptional creature. Something tells me you’ve eyes to match your name.”

For a moment Susannah St. Clair forgot about her vicious brother-in-law, forgot about the poverty that had dogged her since her father’s death. She even forgot about the precious lavender seeds that lay scattered upon the dark earth.

Such was the power of the man’s charm. Now she understood exactly how the masked Lord of Blackwood had acquired his legendary reputation for seduction. Though she knew she should be fighting to escape, Silver couldn’t seem to pull away from the warm brush of his lips against her hand.

Not that she could have escaped him anyway. At that moment her legs felt like a mound of orange trifle. And a melting one at that.

“What if I could restore those lavender seeds you place such high value upon?”

Hope surged through her. “Could you? Oh, would you?”

“I might be persuaded. For a small token, that is.”

“What manner of token?” Her voice, usually low, now fell even lower. She knew the risk in opening any sort of negotiation with a hardened criminal such as this. But she was desperate.

The catch in her voice made her captor’s eyes glitter dangerously. It made his body go tense and his fingers tighten, sheathed deep in her warm, brandy-red hair. It made him yearn to tug that silly little riding hat from her head and push her down beneath him on the dark heathland while he bared her silken body to his hot gaze.

But he did not. For all her fire she was clearly an innocent. Norfolk’s most notorious highwayman told himself that he had not yet stooped so low as that.

“Token? Not your brooch, certainly. You can ill afford to lose that, since it, too, must belong to your mistress.” His lips curled. “Not that it’s worth much, for it is an inferior copy.”

“How do you know that?”

“Ah, my silly innocent, in my business it is necessary for me to know such things.”

He was right, of course. All the good jewelry had been sold long ago. Even so, Silver didn’t care to have this mocking stranger remind her of the fact. And it meant she had nothing left to barter with, for now even her seeds were gone.

Not that he would care for seeds.

“What do you want of me?”

The breathless sound of her voice made him scowl. “Not your jewelry. Not your virtue, either, little fool. Acquit me of the offense of ravishing virgins.”

Her eyes widened. “But everyone says—”

“My crimes are legion, sweet, but they do not yet run to that. Nor have I the slightest need. Far too many giddy females throw themselves at my feet already. They are most eager to offer their bodies, when all I wish is to divest them of their jewels.”

“Oh.” Silver’s head cocked. “But how did you know this?”

“That you are a virgin?” Blackwood’s rapier probed a curl that had strayed across her cheek. “Because of the pulse that beats there at your neck. Because of the flush that stains your satin cheeks, little one. They make incontrovertible evidence to experienced eyes like mine.”

There was bitterness and something else in his voice. Something that sounded almost like regret.

Silver frowned. “It must be a great trial to you, this wild sort of life dashing about the heath courting death. Dogged everywhere by languishing females just waiting to be seduced. It cannot be very … well, comfortable.”

“Comfortable?” The highwayman broke into a startled laugh. “You are right about that. Alas, there is such riffraff upon the high road these days, and all of them claim their felonies in my name.” Abruptly Blackwood sheathed his rapier, then stared down into Silver’s shadowed face. “But what would a slip of a thing like you know about seduction and languishing females?”

Silver shrugged. “Oh, not so very much. Being a servant of the St. Clairs, I live very quietly in this district.” There was sadness in her voice for a moment. Once it had been different, of course. Once there had been gowns and balls and laughter. Once she had had a mother to guide her and a father to protect her.

But no more…

Abruptly Silver drew herself up to her full five and one half feet. “At least we lived quietly until you came to harass us. And I am not totally without contact with the world, I assure you.”

The amber eyes gleamed lazily. “I’m glad to hear it, Sunbeam. This would be a strange sort of place if a woman of your fire and beauty was ignored.”

Silver blinked at the softness in his voice. She felt dizzy suddenly. Her blood seemed to race, first hot, then cold. It was not precisely comfortable, this feeling — but it was not entirely unpleasant either.

Certainly it was unusual. Silver had never before felt this way in the presence of any man. Sheer shock held her still. “Why do you call me Sunbeam?”

Blackwood studied her. “Because there is a glow about you, an honesty that I have not often seen.”

His jaw hardened. Somehow Silver realized his intent even before his head began to fall. Even then she did not move or cry out as she should have.

“You — cannot,” she whispered. “I should not even think of—”

His eyes glittered. “All too true, little one. You should not. But ‘tis too late for running. Far too late. And though my dark domain has many roads leading into it, not one of them ever leads out again.”

His lip curled. The movement made the scar just below his mask gleam in the moonlight. Somehow Silver could not tear her eyes away from that pale, gleaming curve.

“Besides, my beauty, you have looked into my eyes. Now you are mine forever…”

And then his mouth swept down, hot and hard atop hers. She closed her eyes with a shiver, knowing what he said was true.

She was lost, well and truly lost, just as her old nanny had warned.

And as his lips opened over hers, Silver decided she didn’t even care…

As a touch it was faint, a mere hint of pressure.

And yet at the same time it was damnably deceiving. After all, what danger could there be in just one kiss?

She found out when his lips hardened, sliding hot and sure over hers.

Grave danger, Silver thought dimly. Oh, he was good, this midnight lord.

But she was too innocent to understand just how superbly skilled his touch was — even when instinct made her sigh and press closer. Even when her mouth opened to him.

Abruptly, the highwayman pulled away, his lips a slash of dark against the darker night. “Rather enough, I think, mignonne.”

Why did he sound as if he’d been running? Silver wondered. “You must be very good at this sort of thing.” To her embarrassment Silver realized she sounded just as hoarse as he did.

One dark brow arched against the darkness. “What do you mean by ‘this sort of thing’?”

“Seducing innocent females, of course. Everyone in Kingsdon Cross speaks of your exploits.”

“Do they indeed?” The full lips curled. “I had no idea I was such a source of entertainment.”

Silver stared up at him, worrying her lip between her teeth.

“Disapproval, my sweet? I’m far beyond the effect of that, I assure you.”

“I don’t believe it. No matter what callousness you pretend.”

For a moment there was pain in the amber eyes that studied her — pain and something far darker. Before Silver could say what, it had vanished.

Coolly, the highwayman flicked the lace back from one sleeve and stepped away from her, bending to his rapier. “You should. You would trust me at your peril. Oh, no, do not think of me or dream of changing me. Too many other women have already tried and failed. So be warned. I guard my identity from all and none will ever see beyond this mask. To let me into your heart would be more dangerous than you could possibly imagine.”

A cold wind teased Silver’s neck. “I? Try to change you?” She gave an unsteady laugh. “I cannot even manage to control my own mind. Why would I try to control yours?”

“Stronger wills have tried,” he said softly. “And all have failed.”

“Not I. I shall never even see you again, my lord.”

Blackwood nodded gravely. “That would be most wise. But why do you term me so?”

“My lord?” Silver’s head crooked to one side as she studied him. “There is something about you — some power or ease of command that demands no lesser form of address.”

The highwayman offered her an exquisite bow. “Too great an encomium for the likes of me, Sunbeam. Blackwood’s only kingdom is the night, and his only power is his blade of steel. But I thank you for the compliment. It is fine, most fine.”

“You are welcome,” Silver said softly. She clutched the severed edges of her riding habit, feeling very formal in this barren waste of heathland ten miles from the nearest human dwelling.

“You had better go now. Those ruffians will have discovered that you’ve not fallen as they hoped.” Blackwood gave a short whistle, and his fleet-footed gelding trotted toward him, Silver’s mount following docilely behind.

“Ho, Diablo. You’ve made a conquest tonight, have you?” The great black horse snorted and pawed the ground.

Silver moved to her mount, suddenly urgent to be gone, to be safe in her bed before this dream could wear off.

“Let me help you, mignonne.” Cool fingers circled her waist and tossed her up into the saddle. Silver knew she should fear him. That she should hate him and shudder against his touch.

But she did not.

His fingers were strong. She would feel their imprint long after this night, she thought. “Then this is good-bye.”

He stood, a dark shadow, one hand upon her horse’s neck. “Perhaps, Sunbeam. Or perhaps we should say only godspeed.”

Silver blinked. There it was again, that hint of foreignness in his voice. Where had he learned such vowels? How many dark roads had he traveled to wear such hardness at brow and jaw?

“Godspeed, then. And — thank you,” she added, all in a rush.

His brow crooked. “Thank you? For a kiss?”

Silver’s cheeks flushed. “I meant for the rest. For saving me from those men.”

“Be more careful in the future. Such men are not to be toyed with.”

Her throat tightened at the rough concern in Blackwood’s voice. She tried not to think about how long it had been since someone beyond her family had cared about her safety. It felt pleasing.

Dangerously so.

She shook herself, marshaling her wayward thoughts. “I must go,” she blurted, turning her mount quickly.

Aye, she did have to go. Before she could ask a dozen breathless questions.

Because Silver knew clearly that she must never see him again. It would be dangerous beyond reason. She had come too deeply under Blackwood’s spell already.

No, she could ill afford another taste of his dark brand of magic.

The highwayman swung onto his horse with fluid grace. “I’ll check the road first. Wait until you hear my call.” He gave the low keening kee-lee of a kestrel. “That will mean all is well.”

“Why?” The question had come before she knew it. Instantly her fingers tightened on the reins, making the little mare stamp nervously. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter why you chose to help me.”

His eyes burned into her face. “Why? Because it pleases me, mignonne. Here in the middle of this desolate stretch of heath it pleases me greatly to be chivalrous and unselfish to a damsel in distress.” He gave a hard laugh. “Not that it will last. Do not count on my generosity on the morrow, for I am ruthless and without conscience. Any Norfolk traveler will tell you so,” he added grimly.

“I don’t believe it.” Silver’s voice was fierce. “I don’t know why, but the stories are not true. You’re not like that.”

“You ignore my warnings at your peril, innocent.”

Silver tossed her head. “Pooh!”

The highwayman turned, his face in shadow as he reined in his restless mount. “Ah, Sunbeam, you are very young. And how old you succeed in making me feel.” His voice hardened. “Wait here and make no sound. I shall not be long.”

He cast his long cloak up over one shoulder, the great horse stamping in anticipation. A moment later man and mount disappeared.

Silver felt as if she had catapulted headfirst into a dream as horse and rider faded soundlessly back into the night.

But the darkness was not nearly as black as the questions that haunted her a few moments later when cry of the kestrel signaled her safety. She plunged out of her hiding place, racing after him.

But by the time Silver reached the high road, her highwayman had vanished.

~ ~ ~

Over the hillside and half a valley away three sets of eyes measured the darkness. Angry and sullen, they waited for the drum of hooves and the sight of a woman’s white, frightened face.

They found neither.

Their anger grew as the wind clawed up gorse and sand around them and the cheap gin they had drunk sent a bitter ache through their heads.

So the little bitch had somehow eluded them. Damn, but there’d be hell to pay for their failure on the morrow!

“Never mind,” the man astride the swaybacked bay blustered. “She’ll take to the road again soon enough, and when she does she’ll not escape us. Then, by God, we’ll have everything from her that we ought!”

~ ~ ~

As the riders turned their mounts to the east, Silver St. Clair was snug in her bed. A pot of lavender scented the air and moonlight spilled over the polished floor beneath her window.

She had plants to prune and cuttings to set into the ground the next day. She had fragrance oils to check and orders to fill. Worst of all, she would somehow have to find more seeds to replace those she’d lost upon the heath.

But Silver was thinking of none of those things.

Instead she was thinking of a man with glinting amber eyes.

A man with lips that rivaled satin and hands that made her feel hot and dizzy and sweetly reckless…

Her dreams, just as she had feared, were reckless, fiery things. And a black-clad stranger with young-old eyes laughed at her in every one.

~  2  ~

“Miss Silver, I sorely hate to disturb you, but—”

“Not now, Tinker.”

Silver St. Clair stood small and slim in threadbare boy’s breeches and a voluminous white cambric shirt. The wind whipped her russet hair out in waves beneath a battered straw bonnet. It was twelve hours since she had returned from the heath. After a night of troubled dreams a morning of hard work had helped to make her feel calmer.

But it had not erased the memory of a pair of gleaming amber eyes.

“You know I must get these new bushes set in before they dry away to nothing. It ought to have been done yesterday.” Frowning, Silver disappeared behind a clump of lavender leaves.

Her leathery-faced servant frowned. “But, Miss Silver—”

“I am truly sorry, Tinker.” Her voice grew more harassed in spite of her efforts to conceal it. Tinker was nearly family, after all, and had been with the St. Clairs for years. “If it’s the Earl of Claydon again, tell him I’m not interested in selling Lavender Close Farm. Not for any price. And if it’s that greedy Samuel Collins asking for his money, tell him he’ll have it before the month’s end, just as we promised, and not a second before.”

A clump of lavender flew over her head, joining a pile at her back. “Two hundred pounds for French cuttings and half of them dead. A disgrace, that’s what it is!” Silver burrowed deeper into the foliage. “Whoever it is will just have to wait, Tinker.” There was a muffled sigh from beneath the purple blooms. “After this I’ll have to try to find a way to replace those lost seeds.”

~ ~ ~

Frowning, the old servant started up the slope to the wisteria-covered half-timbered cottage that served as Lavender Close Farm’s workshops and the St. Clair family home. Sir Charles Millbank had come looking for Miss Silver again. Tinker decided it was just as well that the villain refused to come out to the fields himself, for he’d been bothering Miss Silver far too often.

And if there was the devil to pay tomorrow, what did that matter? When Miss Silver was in this frame of mind, Tinker knew no amount of talking with her would do any good.

~ ~ ~

Two hours later Silver had finished her first quota of a dozen bushes. Her back was aching and her cheeks were flushed. When she stumbled out from beneath the plants, her hair was dusted with fine purple buds.

Two more weeks and they would be in full flower.

Six more weeks and it would be time to harvest and distill their fragrant oils. Only then would William St. Clair’s daughter know if her ambitious plans for Lavender Close Farm had succeeded or failed.

She slid to her knees and studied the well-turned soil, absently brushing a russet strand from her forehead. Tomorrow her nose would be sunburned and her hands covered with welts.

But her lavender would be set deep and Lavender Close would be one step closer to her father’s dreams for one hundred acres in full flower. Since her father’s death two years before, saving Lavender Close Farm was nearly all that seemed to matter to Silver.

Sighing, she tugged her hair into a knot and disappeared into the next row. When dirt trickled down the hill behind her, Silver didn’t even look up. “I’m sorry, Tinker, but I have two more rows to finish. If you still want to talk to me then, I’ll be glad to—”

“Syl?” The voice came low and hesitant just at her shoulder. “I don’t mean to be a bother.” A short cough. “But truly, I think this may be of help.”

“Bram?” Silver emerged abruptly, her shirt askew and her cheeks streaked with dirt. When she saw her twelve-year-old brother, her face lit with a smile. “Surely it’s not time for lunch already?”

“Time and an hour past, Syl.” Brandon Nathaniel St. Clair stood anxiously between two rows of lavender. His trousers were dusty and his jacket was torn at one sleeve, but his face wore a look of sublime happiness. “You were so busy that I didn’t want Tinker to disturb you. But, Syl, look at this.” He tugged a handful of crumpled plants from his front pocket. “I’ve been studying these all morning, and I think I finally know what’s wrong with them.”

Silver studied her brother fondly. “And what might that be, young genius?”

Her brother’s dusty cheeks flushed beet-red. “I wish you will not call me that, Syl. I am far from being a genius. It’s just that I seem to have a knack with plants.”

“A knack, is it?” Silver scoffed gently. “Is that what you call it when a person can make brown stems come alive overnight or hasten budding by nearly a fortnight? I don’t call that a knack, I call that a miracle.”

“It’s nothing of the sort,” her brother corrected gravely. His eyes narrowed as he fingered the bridge of his wire spectacles. “There are clear rules to it, after all. It’s connected with growth cycles and soil density. At least I think it is. I’m just beginning to work out some of the reasons.” He gestured with the clump of lavender sprigs. “Like these. They’re from that new bunch of French cuttings you got last week.”

“Don’t remind me. Dead, the half of them.”

Bram pushed his gold-rimmed spectacles higher on his nose. “No, that’s just it, Syl,” he said eagerly. “I believe it’s actually the soil at fault. Come and see.”

Silver studied her brother’s face, noting his pallor. He was still too thin but fortunately he showed no signs of fatigue or illness. Considering that six months ago he had nearly died from a contagion of the lungs that left him fighting for every breath, his improvement was astonishing.

Yet Silver knew he was far from totally recovered. In fact, the doctor in Kingsdon Cross told her he might have breathing difficulty for the rest of his life.

Dampness and cold troubled him — in short the normal English climate was the worst thing possible.

But since Bram hated having his weakness pointed out, Silver resolutely ignored his slight wheeze as they walked to his “test field.”

Instead she slanted a guarded look at his pale, intent face and keen gray eyes. He had inherited all his father’s skill at botany and a great deal more discipline than their father had ever had. At only twelve years old he’d managed to solve any number of problems facing the farm, which he dearly loved. Perhaps that was why Silver was so determined to keep Lavender Close as a thriving concern.

It would be the boy’s only inheritance. Their father’s early death had left him nothing else.

“Over here, Syl.” Bram pointed to a narrow row of newly turned earth. “Look how much better these plants are doing.”

He was right. The lavender cuttings grown in fertile loam were full of buds, their leaves rich and glossy. Beside them, growing in denser soil, stood a row of drooping stalks with few buds.

“Dearest Bram, you are a wonder!” Silver gave her brother a tight hug. “We’ll have to put Tinker right on it. We might even be able to save the rest of those cuttings if we work fast!”

She caught her brother up and danced along the row, dust flying in every direction.

“Did I do well, Syl? Truly?”

“Any better and I shall have to retire and let you take over the management of this great wreck of a farm!”

The boy’s eyes widened, then crinkled as he realized his beloved sister was merely teasing him. “And what would you do in your retirement, Syl? Stroll about reciting poetry? Sketching?”

“And why not, stripling? I have been longing to be at my sketchbook for any number of weeks now. But with all my gentlemen callers dangling about…”

“What gentlemen callers?”

Her brow rose to a dramatic point. “Surely you have seen them hanging about.”

Bram couldn’t suppress a giggle. “Strange, but I’ve missed them. A great many, you say?”

“Oh, dozens of ‘em. Hundreds even,” Silver said with an airy wave.

“Perhaps the sight of you in those, er, unmentionables sent them all running away.”

Silver looked down at her dusty breeches. “Whatever is wrong with these, you wretch? My friends assure me they are quite the rage in London.”

“What friends?” Suddenly Bram turned serious, toying with his glasses as he always did when he was thinking hard. “And what beaus? Not here in Kingsdon Cross. If you were in London you would have a hundred suitors — and more invitations than you could even answer.”

“Bless you for your loyalty, Bram, but I doubt that. It’s youth and pliability and giddiness that men want.” For a wild moment Silver thought of the highwayman. Were those the things he cared about?

“You’re young,” her brother said stoutly, leaping to her defense. “And you’re beautiful — in your own special way, of course.”

Silver ruffled her brother’s dark hair. “My loyal, brave Bram. Your praise is sweet, even if it does leave your vision in doubt.”

“Not at all. Mother always said that you would grow up to be the real beauty of the family, not Jessica.” He pushed at his spectacles, sighing. “If only Father hadn’t died so suddenly. He did leave matters all in a muddle, didn’t he? And then hiding the formula for Millefleurs like that…” His voice trailed away as he kicked at the ground.

Millefleurs.

The very name sent rich memories flooding over Silver. It reminded her of warm nights laughing with her mother and father, keyed up with excitement while they tested the first oils of the season. She thought of her father’s face, tense with concentration as he blended and shook and measured.

Then the anxious silence, followed by her mother’s sigh of delight. “Wonderful, William. As always you have outdone yourself.”

Silver shivered, carried back to days of joy and laughter.

Gone now, just as the precious perfume was.

Half the titled women of Europe had possessed at least one crystal vial of Millefleurs. Its subtle scent promised youth, vitality, and beauty to all who wore it. The fragrance had made their father a wealthy man and Millefleurs a byword among the elite of England and France.

But William St. Clair had carried his secrets to the grave, it seemed. Despite their efforts Silver and Bram could never recover the proper formula. Their experiments had all failed dismally. Along with the dominant mix of lavender and roses, the blend must have included several obscure ingredients like narcissus or cinnamon or ginger — or perhaps even rare gum resins from Arabia. St. Clair had searched obsessively for rare ingredients to intensify his perfumes, and somewhere he must have found things that Silver and Bram did not know of.

Any one of those rare elements could have given Millefleurs its stamina and extraordinary complexity. Without the exact formula their results were no more than faintly pleasing.

Silver sighed. “We’ll find the formula, Bram. We have to.” She fought down a wave of pessimism and caught her brother in a quick hug. “Now enough of this gloomy talk, imp.”

Her brother looked unconvinced. “Don’t you get lonely here sometimes, Syl? Don’t you want a home and a family of your own someday?”

Silver’s head cocked. “You and Tinker are my family, Bram. What more could I want?”

Bram’s dusty fingers slid trustingly into his sister’s. “It’s just that … well, I wish you had more pretty things. And more places to wear them,” her brother said earnestly. “Tinker and I both do.”

“Well, I don’t. I wouldn’t know how to wear a fancy gown and stays even if I had them.” Silver gave his hair a ruffle. “I’m much happier in my shirt and breeches.”

“You are? Honestly?”

“Of course, I am. Why don’t you go tell Tinker about this discovery of yours? I need to finish a few things here.”

Silver watched Bram trot off to the wisteria-covered cottage at the end of the lane, smiling happily over his discovery. For the moment his worries were forgotten. Silver knew that Tinker, bless him, would find a way to make the boy rest before tackling any new projects.

She sighed, feeling the wind ruffle her hair. For a moment she was swept up in memories. Hauntingly sweet, they reminded her how things used to be when this was a happy place, lit with laughter.

Before her parents’ deaths.

Before Jessica had died. Before Sir Charles Millbank had started poking about Lavender Close and bothering her.

She thought about a pearl choker her father had given her mother and a hand-painted fan of carved ivory he said had come all the way from China.

They were gone now.

All the thinking in the world wouldn’t bring them back.

Silver shoved the painful memories deep, where they belonged. She had no time for pearl chokers or ivory fans. There were rows of lavender to weed and a dozen more roses to prune before nightfall.

~  3  ~

Mist filled the valley when they burst from the thick elms bordering the lower fields. There were four of them, all dressed in the dusty moleskin of day laborers.

Silver squinted from her spot beside a half-pruned rosebush, trying to see them clearly.

The man in front was over six feet tall, his head muffled in brown wool. She spun about, but the other three were already waiting for her, dark blurs against a haze of purple buds.

“What do you want?” She turned around to face the closest man, fighting to keep her voice steady.

“Want?” Hard laughter came muffled from behind the makeshift mask. “Why, not much. Jest yerself, missy.”

Silver thought of running, but they were too close and too many. She could scream — but Tinker would never hear her. Blast, why hadn’t she seen them sooner? Was this Sir Charles’s doing?

Right now, that didn’t matter. She would have to hold them off somehow. “Go on about your business and leave me to my work!”

“Saucy little piece, ain’t she?” Brown Hood ambled closer. “Pretty, though.” He kept coming, close enough now for Silver to see his frayed cuffs and the stains on his knees. “But I reckon I’ll do the talking. That means you’ll do the listening.” His dirty fingers caught up a handful of her hair.

Then tightened slowly.

Silver swallowed. She slid her hand behind her until she felt the comforting edge of her little gardening trowel, thrust into her back pocket. At close range it would give this swine a considerable jolt. “Oh, I’m listening,” she said coolly. “I just hope it will be something worth listening to.”

The dirt-streaked fingers tightened. “And ye’d better keep listening too. I’m only going to say this once.” The man tugged her closer, muddy brown eyes flat and expressionless. “Ye’re going to leave Lavender Close, Miss St. Clair. All of you. That means yerself, the boy, and anyone else ye got working here. Crate, barrel, and carriage. Anyone staying might just get hurt.” The beady eyes hardened. “Hurt real bad.”

Silver shoved down her fear. “Why? Why would you do this? What do you hope to gain by—”

“No bleeding questions!” The dirty fingers clenched. “If ye don’t listen, then accidents’ll start to happen. All kinds of accidents. Like this.”

Stunned, Silver watched him nod to one of his burly companions, who hefted a barrel from the ground and dumped its contents over a lavender bush. The man fumbled on the ground and a moment later the fragile leaves exploded into flame.

Silver struggled furiously. “Stop! You can’t just—”

The hard fingers tightened, jerking her still. “Shut up and listen. In three days the big accidents start, understand? An’ after four days more, things start to disappear. Tools. Crates.” The muddy eyes crinkled at some private joke. “Aye, it’s one week ye got.”

Silver lurched wildly, kicking the man’s shins, oblivious to his hands clawing at her temples. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Oh, no?” His cold eyes taunted Silver. “Do ye want to find out?”

“But why? Who are you—?”

“Shut up or I’ll make ye shut up!”

Silver felt her knees start to shake. Only by raw force of will did she keep from slumping to the ground. “If it’s seeds you’re after, I’ll give them to you. I’ll take you there right now. If it’s lavender or some of the other fragrance oils, then—”

Brown Hood only laughed. “Seeds, Mr. Harper. The saucy little piece thinks we want her seeds!” The man’s big body shook with sudden, explosive laughter. “Gawd Ole Mighty, that’s a good ‘un. Here’s what we think o’ yer bloody flowers, missy!”

At his nod the next shrub was set to the torch.

Silver watched in horror as another cloud of purple blooms burned red-orange, then wasted away to ash. Who were they? Why were they doing these dreadful things?

Propelled by a wave of fury, she launched out at her attacker, clawing at his neck and shoulders. For a second his mask slipped and her nails met skin.

Cursing savagely, the man in the hood tossed her into a row of alba roses. Thorns bit at Silver’s arms and legs, but she pushed to her feet and ran at the accomplice who was even now starting to kindle another bush.

Her captor caught her arm and shoved her back like a wisp of dandelion fluff. “Best step aside, missy. Wouldn’t want to get that nice face o’ yers burned, now, would ye?”

Tears blurred Silver’s eyes. The sharp scent of lavender mingled with smoke and ash. Her chest hurt and her legs felt as if they were stuffed with cotton.

Her captor only laughed. “Seven days, Miss St. Clair. Just ye remember that. Otherwise next time all the flowers’ll go! Like this one.” He set another plant to the torch, then waved to his fellows and strutted back toward the woods.

Silver barely heard. Her head pounding, she pushed to her feet and ran for the stream, praying she could save her beloved lavender.

~ ~ ~

His right boot had a hole in it.

Silver remembered that much. As she tossed down the last bucket of water, feeling smoke burn her eyes, she couldn’t seem to forget that dirty, jagged opening.

If he had a hole, he couldn’t be a very thorough man. Maybe he was just blustering. Maybe he would be careless about this, the way he was about mending his boots. Maybe he’d forget everything.

She caught back a sob. It was a vain hope. They had come here for a purpose and they weren’t going to settle for less.

But why?

Her head pounded. The purple fields began to pitch and sway around her.

Abruptly lavender and roses bled away into streams of muddy black.

~ ~ ~

“Syl, wake up!”

Hands. Shaking her. Hard.

Cold ground and a stone digging into her rib.

“Syl, what’s wrong?”

Silver’s eyes opened slowly. She tasted blood on her lip and her head felt as if a barrel of bricks had rolled over it.

Seven days, Miss St. Clair. Just ye remember that.

Her whole body felt cold. “Bram, is that you? Are you all right?” Silver reached out desperately, searching the boy’s face for injuries.

There were none, but he was clearly afraid. “Of course I’m all right. But someone’s burned half this lavender and kicked two rosebushes flat!” As Silver came awkwardly to a sitting position, Bram knelt beside her, his eyes wide. “Dash it, Syl, what have you done to your head?” The tremor in his voice told her that she looked terrible.

Which was just about right, since she felt terrible.

Her body ached. She hugged her chest, fighting her fear.

Next time all the flowers go.

Bram touched her aching cheek. “Who did this, Syl?” His voice shook, the sound of a boy trying to grow up overnight and become a man.

When she didn’t answer, his hands tightened. “I was sketching some specimens up by Waldon Hall when I saw the smoke. That’s what made me come looking for you.”

“You shouldn’t go up there, Bram. You know that’s not our land anymore. I’ve told you that things are different now. We can’t wander anywhere we like.” Silver’s voice was mechanical. “Even if the owner never seems to be in residence, that doesn’t mean—”

Bram stared at her as if she had just sprouted green spots and begun speaking Russian. “What happened here, Syl? Don’t chatter on about Waldon Hall or its secretive owner!”

Silver hesitated. She would have to be careful how much she told him. “It — it was nothing.” She pushed slowly to her feet. “A mistake, that’s all.”

“A mistake?” The boy’s fingers hardened to dusty fists. “Don’t lie to me, Syl!”

Silver managed the hint of a smile. “It’s true, Bram. I just wanted some of those new cuttings burned. The sick ones, you remember? I asked some men from the village to come up and help me.” Her eyes hardened for a moment. “It seems they burned the wrong plants.”

“And they just happened to knock you down and bloody your forehead while they were at it? Of course, how completely logical.” Bram’s hands tightened, the knuckles gone white. “So logical, I can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it.”

“Bram, please. You don’t—”

He shot upright, five feet of white-hot, offended boyhood perched just on the edge of tumultuous adolescence. “You’re right, I don’t understand! I don’t know what in heaven really happened here. And I certainly don’t know why you’re standing there lying to me!”

Silver looked at him, his thin arms akimbo and brown hair awry. He was pale. He was thin, yes. But there was fire in his eyes and a St. Clair’s courage in the angry set to his jaw.

She realized then that she’d have to tell him. He had a right to know, after all. Lavender Close Farm belonged more to her brother than it did to her. She was merely safeguarding it until he reached his majority.

She sighed, her hands dropping to her sides. “There were four of them. I — I don’t know if they were the same men who followed me last night on the heath when I returned from Kingsdon Cross.”

Bram frowned. “I knew something had happened, but you didn’t tell me then either.”

“I didn’t want to upset you. I never thought they’d come here. And these men today — they told me we’d have to leave. All of us, or accidents would start happening.” With her dusty boot Silver kicked at a mass of charred branches, all that remained of a once-thriving lavender bush. “Accidents like this.”

Bram’s eyes glittered as he looked at the ruined bush. Then he said a rough word. A hard word that Silver hadn’t even thought he knew. After that he grinned, apologetic and boyish and pleased at the same time. “Never mind. We’ll show them! Tinker and I will set Cromwell on them.” He reached down and petted the big, drooling Pyrenees sheepdog lolling at his side. “Then we’ll set traps that will make those swine sorry they ever came up here.” His eyes took on a gleam of vast anticipation.

And with that he was suddenly a boy again. Only a boy. With a hundred wild schemes and a thousand bright hopes.

Silver sighed and tugged a sprig of crushed lavender from her hair. She bit back a gasp as pain burned down her arm and leg. If only it were so easy, she thought wearily.

Beside Bram the great yellow sheepdog barked expectantly. His bushy tail banged hard against the earth. Thud-thud. Thud-thud.

It sounded like her heart, Silver thought.

A moment later Tinker’s lanky form appeared at the crown of the hill, flanked incongruously by lavender and fire-red roses. Cromwell began to bark madly.

“What in the devil’s amiss here, you two? I saw the smoke from the valley and I—” The old servant went very still as he took in Silver’s torn shirt, the dirt on her sleeve.

The blood drying above her right temple.

“By God above, I’ll kill him. I’ll hunt the man down and gullet him end to end, just you see if I don’t! I’ll tie his hands back, hoist him up on a rope and—”

“You’re wrong, Tinker.” Silver spoke quickly. There were some things her brother was still too young to understand and Sir Charles Millbank’s lust for his sister-in-law was one of them. “It was four men. Four strangers.” She glanced significantly at Tinker and waited for this to sink in. “They warned us off Lavender Close.”

Tinker opened his mouth, then closed it again. He scowled at the charred chaos around them and the smoke drifting over the hill. “Big, brave men to take on a dozen surly lavender plants and an unarmed woman.” He kicked at a clump of still-smoking lavender. “What I want to know is why.”

Silver circled Bram’s shoulders. “This could be our best harvest yet, Tinker. Maybe they want control of the lavender and the money it will bring.”

“Mebbe.” The older man frowned. “And mebbe not.”

Silver studied the leathery-faced old man who had been servant, partner, and confidant since her father’s death. She tried to guess what speculations were taking shape in his keen brain.

But Tinker wasn’t speaking and her head was hazy with pain. She found it difficult even to stand up. When she swayed, Tinker caught her.

Silver drew a long breath. “No matter what they try, we’re not going to leave,” she said firmly. “This is all we have left of our parents, and no one is going to take it away from us. Not ever.”

Bram nodded, trying to look grown up. Trying to keep his eyes away from the blood on his sister’s cheek. But he looked uncertain and more than a little afraid.

Silver patted his arm. “That’s a promise, my love. Now let’s go home and decide how in heaven we’re going to manage it.”

Beside Bram the big yellow Pyrenees sheepdog cocked his head and barked joyously. They started off, arm in arm, while the sun burned blood-red and sank over the brow of the hill.

Night — relentless and impenetrable — crept over the rolling fields.

~  4  ~

The moon drifted behind fingers of cloud. High upon the heath a solitary rider eased his mount through a tangle of gorse overlooking the Norwich Road. Cocking his head, he listened for the sound of carriage wheels.

None came.

Sliding to the ground, the black-clad figure pressed his ear to the sandy earth. A smile snaked over his lips when he heard a distant rumble.

“Our little pigeon moves on fleet wings this night, Diablo. Less than four miles away, I believe. We must hurry.” The highwayman looped Diablo’s reins about a heavy yew shrub, then scanned the lower bushes.

The fallen log was just where he’d left it.

He dragged the ragged length of timber out into the road, positioning it where it was most visible. He was careful that the log would lie exactly in his path as he raced down the hill. With a grim smile on his lips the scourge of Norfolk remounted. He inspected his pistols and tightened the straps to the satchel carried behind his cantle. After that he checked the rifle slung in its leather case. As he was finishing, his grizzled accomplice ghosted up the far side of the slope, a black scarf muffling his features.

“So pleased that you could attend me, my friend.”

“Humph. If I didn’t like you half so much, I’d surely put a shot through your grinning face, boy. You need to be taught a lesson or two.”

The highwayman laughed softly.

His amber eyes glinted as he eased his mask in place and sat back to wait.

~ ~ ~

Barely eight minutes later a carriage rounded the bend in the sandy road, hurtling north toward King’s Lynn. An armed guard rode at the back, and a rifle hung in a sling beside the coachman.

So they were taking no chances, were they?

Blackwood eased a gloved hand over Diablo’s neck. As he calculated the best course of approach, two heads emerged from his cape pockets. “Not yet, my beauties,” he whispered, tucking the two ferrets back into their safe haven.

When the coachman saw the log stretched across the road and reached for the brake, the highwayman was ready. As the carriage brake screamed against the wheel rims and the guard jumped down, Blackwood nodded sharply to his accomplice and eased Diablo over the crest of the hill.

His rifle glinted in the moonlight. “A disagreeable night for travel, sirs. Perhaps I might be of assistance.”

“Great God above, it’s Blackwood!” The coachman froze in his seat. The guard, however, spun about and leveled his rifle.

With one cool shot the highwayman sent the rifle flying. “That, my friend, was most ill advised. I suggest that you listen well or my next piece of lead will find its way between your eyes. You will both drop your rifles. Then, coachman, you will lower the carriage steps. After that you will both place yourselves flat on the ground. If you make the slightest deviation from my order, you will find yourselves regretting it.”

His accomplice, a long-suffering man named Jonas, appeared at the far side of the carriage. His pistol was trained on the guard, who dropped his weapon and lay flat. The coachman followed, stiff with fear. Jonas caught up the reins and jumped to the horses’ heads, holding them steady. All the while his rifle rested over his arm, in case of any trickery.

“Very nicely done, my friends. Now I believe I shall make the acquaintance of your passengers.” The highwayman opened his pocket. The two ferrets skittered down the saddle and jumped to the ground. Smiling, he watched their sleek bodies race over the ground and disappear into the shadows beneath the carriage.

Only then did Blackwood ease Diablo toward the darkened coach. His pistol leveled on the glass pane. Inside, the curtain swung back and forth.

“Open the door!”

No answer. The curtain went still.

“You choose to be difficult?” Blackwood backed Diablo up and trained his pistol on the coachman. “How many travelers do you carry, man?”

“T-three.”

“Men or women?”

“One m-man. Others be female, sir.”

Abruptly, shrill screams erupted from the carriage. The door was thrown open, and a very plump and much rouged female emerged, one hand clutched to her heaving breast. “A beast! A rat with snapping teeth, I tell you! Don’t shoot me, sir. I’ll give you whatever you wish, only save me from that monstrous beast!”

Smiling faintly, Blackwood signaled the woman to the ground beside the coachman.

In the opened doorway another woman appeared, her head ringed with feathers and her stiff shoulders covered in a fine shawl of Norwich silk. “I am unarmed, sir. Pray do not shoot me.”

“I do not shoot innocent females.”

The woman gave him a suspicious scowl as she clasped her reticule before her. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“You don’t. Now on the ground with you, right beside your friend there.”

The woman in the feathers sniffed. “Her? She is no friend of mine, I assure you. Besides, I do not care to have my gown muddied. I would prefer to stand.”

“Alas, your preferences are of no interest to me.”

“How dare you! Of all the horrid, insolent—”

Without warning a black shadow emerged on her shoulder. A moment later sharp little teeth snapped the fine cords of her reticule, which fell straight to the ground. There the ferret dropped and snatched it up.

“Well done, my pet. Over here with you.”

Squeaking loudly, the well-trained animal streaked over the ground, shot up Diablo’s back, and disappeared into his master’s pocket.

“You damned foul thief! I’ll have the law on you, that’s what!” The woman’s voice echoed, shrill with fury. “And when they hang you, I’ll be there laughing, do you hear?”

Blackwood clicked his tongue. “What language for a gently bred female.” His voice hardened. “Down to the ground with you. Unless you’d care for a bullet in those proud white shoulders of yours.”

The woman gasped. After a quick, uncertain look into the carriage’s interior, she turned. Suddenly her whole bearing changed. Her hand slid to her neck, easing back the silk folds of her shawl to display a brazen expanse of décolletage. “On second thought, perhaps we might reach some sort of arrangement, sir. I am not averse to discussing how our interests might be joined to better advantage.” One white hand settled upon her full breast, clearly outlined against the sheer muslin of her gown.

“Indeed? And what exactly do you offer in return, madam?”

The woman’s eyes glittered. Beneath lowered lids she surveyed the highwayman slowly, from masked head to black-clad toe. “Perhaps I should leave that up to you, my lord.”

Blackwood felt a tug of distaste. “A thousand apologies, but I fear I must refuse your so estimable offer.” He gestured with his pistol. “Now down on the ground with you before I lose all my patience.”

The woman’s face set into hard lines of fury. Grasping her skirts, she flounced down the carriage steps and lowered herself to the ground beside the others, muttering all the while.

“Very nicely done. My compliments to your instructor of deportment.”

The woman’s angry answer informed the highwayman exactly what he could do with his compliments.

Blackwood laughed softly and then his mouth hardened. “Now for our last traveler.” His pistol nosed toward the shadowed door. “Outside with you! I grow unamused with this little drama.”

A man’s face appeared in the doorway. His frock coat screamed Weston and the gleam on his new boots hinted at champagne used in their blacking. His face was long and haughty, its thinness emphasized by his chiseled nose.

He sniffed, waving a square of Belgian lace languidly as if to ward off noxious odors. But there was nothing languid about the dark eyes that scrutinized Blackwood and the four people lying on the ground. “So I finally meet our great highwayman.”

Blackwood made an ironic bow over Diablo’s head. “And whom do I have the honor of addressing, sir?”

“I do not think my name need interest you,” came the frigid reply.

Metal glinted in the moonlight. “There we differ. I repeat, whom do I address?”

“Renwick, damn you. Lord Renwick.”

Blackwood’s mouth lifted in the ghost of a smile. “I perceive I am meant to be impressed.” He eased back in the saddle, all insolent ease. “Very well. You will now join your companions on the ground, Lord Renwick.”

The man scowled. His right hand moved toward his pocket.

An inch of smoking lead drilled through the carriage wall beside Renwick’s head. “An unfortunate decision, my lord. Should you make another of the same, my next ball will find its mark more painfully and you will never move again. You should also note that the longer you make me wait, the worse my mood becomes.”

“Very well.” With icy disdain the aristocratic traveler made his way to the ground as directed. Under the watchful eye of his compatriot, Blackwood swung down and made his way into the carriage. He ran his fingers over the cut velvet seat cushions, but found no hiding places. And then from the shadows came a shrill, excited squeak.

“What is it, my little one?”

A small, furry face nudged his hand, then darted back to the floor. Slowly Blackwood followed the wooden seat frame with his fingers and was rewarded with the outline of an inset panel. “Well done! Can you open it?”

For answer the ferret scratched at a piece of metal jutting out from the floor. With a faint scraping sound the panel receded, revealing a cubbyhole set well back beneath the seat. Inside it Blackwood found two loaded pistols, a leather satchel, and a purse that clinked with the sound of gold sovereigns.

The satchel was what interested Blackwood most. Renwick had Admiralty connections and access to military information. Should Blackwood ever need to bargain for his life, that information might prove very useful.

But there was no time to examine the satchel’s contents now. With a grim smile the highwayman pocketed the lot, then smoothed his ferret’s sleek pelt. “In with you, too, rascal. Wouldn’t want you to terrorize our guests.” The highwayman eased the black ferret down into the opposite pocket from the animal’s mate.

Only then did Blackwood make his way back outside.

Renwick eyed him coldly. “You’ve nothing to show for your pains, rogue. I am not so foolish as to carry my wealth on my person.”

“Quite right.” Blackwood shrugged. “I can see exactly how clever you are, my lord. Yes, you have flouted me neatly. I can see I will have to be more inventive in the future.”

He sketched a deep bow and was just turning to remount when a warning shout came from his compatriot.

He swung about as a shot whined over his shoulder. Instantly another hissed from the second barrel of the miniature pistol Renwick had been concealing up his sleeve.

Fire burned along Blackwood’s ribs. Cursing, he loosed a ball of his own and sent Renwick’s weapon spinning off into the darkness. “Most ill-judged, my lord.”

“The only ill-judged thing was my aim, you scum! Had I another pistol, you’d feel more of the same!”

Blackwood’s lips curled. Without a word he held up the purse he’d taken from the coach. Metal clanged brightly against metal.

“Damn you, how did you find it?”

“I cannot take the credit.” Two pointed faces appeared at the mouth of Blackwood’s pockets, whiskers quivering, bright eyes agleam. “Take a bow, my beauties.”

“By the devil, what are those?”

“Meet Lord Renwick, little ones. And you, my lord, meet Stand and Deliver, two of the finest felons in all Norfolk.” The scar at Blackwood’s mouth gleamed coldly for a moment. “Next to myself, of course. And now I believe we shall require the use of your carriage.” Blackwood looked across at his companion. “Tie your horse behind and take the reins.”

“B-but you can’t!” the woman in the red feathers sputtered. “We — we’ll be stranded out here for hours. Maybe all night!”

“I should think it highly likely, madam,” came the cool reply. “Few people venture onto Blackwood’s heath after light fades. Few honest people at least.”

But blood was oozing down his ribs and pain tore at his side. A wave of tiredness washed over him. He had to make haste. “A pleasure to have met you. I trust you will have a diverting night.”

Renwick’s hands closed to fists. He cursed savagely as the highwayman remounted. “I’ll find you, swine! I’ll not stop until I do. This time you’ve gone too far, for you’ve tampered with official Crown business. But you’ll live only long enough to regret it, by God!”

“I trust you are wrong, my lord,” Blackwood said silkily. “Meanwhile accept my hopes that the chill of the ground does not worsen your gout.”

“Worsen my—” Renwick inhaled audibly. “What do you know of my gout, swine?”

“Everything there is to know, I should imagine. And many other things you might prefer to keep secret. But the moon is rising. It is time for me to bid you adieu.” A lady’s reticule went flying through the air and landed at Diablo’s feet. “I do not stoop to pilfering trinkets from females. Especially when the jewels are worthless paste, madam.”

Renwick shot his companion a furious look. The woman reddened. “What does he know? They are all there, my lord, exactly as you gave them to me. Check them yourself.”

“Oh, but I intend to, my love. You may be very certain of that,” Renwick said coldly.

Blackwood’s assistant, meanwhile, had climbed onto the seat to set the team into motion.

“Ladies. My lord.” The scourge of the high road bowed with exaggerated courtesy. “Enjoy the beauties of the Norfolk night. I have heard it said that the sky here seems to go on forever. I trust you will not find it quite so far as that to the next hamlet.”

Blackwood was smiling as he nudged Diablo into a gallop.

~  5  ~

Silver sighed and brushed back a wayward strand of russet hair. Before her ranged two dozen bottles of lavender oil. They gleamed in the lantern light, pale gold and of excellent quality. They would fetch a fine price from the dozens of superior London establishments whom Lavender Close Farm kept supplied with product for restorative salts, tonics, dusting powders, and perfume.

Outside the polished glass walls of the conservatory the purple tide of twilight washed up the valley.

Silver stared out into the darkness, watching lights play along the high road. A carriage, perhaps, or a rider with a need to light his way.

With a sigh she turned back to the cluttered desk before her.

She and Tinker had already begun taking precautions against the return of the four men who had swaggered over her fields that afternoon. Next time they would not find Lavender Close undefended!

But now Silver was bothered even more by the sense of something unfinished here at Lavender Close. Something overlooked. Something that was terribly important.

She studied the beautiful workroom where her father had carried out all his tests and distilled their first vats of fragrance oil. Here, too, William and Sarah St. Clair had blended their first samples of the haunting perfume that came to be known as Millefleurs.

Why would such a meticulous man leave behind no records of any sort for his children?

Silver ran her hand over her father’s burled oak desk, just as she had done a hundred times before. She had searched it drawer by drawer but had found nothing beyond a sprinkling of dust. Where were the careful notes? Where were the lists of essential oils and rare resins he had experimented with in creating Millefleurs?

The magistrate had had a simple answer. He’d shaken his head, saying that St. Clair had been a secretive man who trusted no one with his discoveries. But Silver couldn’t believe it. There had to be some other explanation.

For a moment anger coursed through her. Even with the year’s fine yield it would be nip and tuck. The cost of fuel had grown and experienced workers were hard to find. And now with these threats…

Silver stared at the creamy petals of a camellia, fighting back fury. No matter what, she would not allow Sir Charles Millbank to interfere. That snake would never have Lavender Close! She’d die before she’d let that happen.

A muttered oath hissed off Silver’s lips as she gave the fine old writing desk a very unladylike kick.

And then her eyes widened. Was it her imagination or had the desk tilted? Frowning, she bent closer.

Sure enough, the left rear leg was aslant.

Pushing aside a spray of jasmine, Silver ran her hand along the back of the desk, but found nothing beyond polished wood. It was only then that the realization hit her. It wasn’t the desk that was awry at all. It was the floor.

Her angry kick must have dislodged one of the flagstones.

Breathlessly, Silver shoved the desk toward the wall and tugged at the piece of slate beneath it.

A moment later she was staring down into a six-inch hole.

Goose bumps rose along her neck. Was she finally about to have answers to the thousand questions that had haunted her since her father’s death?

An oilskin bag was the first thing she found. Next came an ebony box inlaid with ivory. It had been shoved to the back of the hole and was covered with a layer of dust. With trembling fingers Silver opened the oilskin bag.

Seed reports and planting records, all in her father’s careful script, tumbled down onto the floor, more precious to her than any jewels might have been. There had to be ten years’ worth here! But no formula for Millefleurs, she thought, frowning.

And then Silver’s gaze fell upon the box. Dust streaked the fine wood and grime darkened the brass hinges.

Carefully she slid back the latch. Inside, nestled on a cut velvet cushion, lay a small book. The leather cover was cracked with age and the pages had turned the color of weak tea. Her father’s diary!

How often Silver remembered watching him frown over some page, quill clamped between his teeth.

Her pulse began to race. Opening the heavy, tooled cover, she turned to the first page and began to read.

Midnight.

Outside the moon is waning.

I write from my desk where I can hear the wind sigh, playing through the lavender. I have opened the workroom doors so I can smell the lush, velvet fragrance of the night. Before she died, my beloved Sarah liked to sit here. She could name every flower in bloom, my Sarah.

Now I try too. There is the sharp sweet tang of lavender along with the clear beauty of violets. There are jasmine and honeysuckle and even the dusky scent of oak moss from the stream.

But I am no good at this game. Ah, my Sarah could say which variety of seed and even what week the buds were in. She could tell stoechas from augustifolia or dentata, and whether the lavender had come from Hitcham or Provence or even from the faraway hills of Greece.

Dear Lord, how much I miss her, with the smell of summer all around me. Sweet flowering orange, jasmine, and rosemary all remind me of what I’ve lost.

They killed her, you see. I realize it all so clearly now that it is too late. They killed my beloved Sarah because I would not do the things they wanted. I was a fool, head over heels in love, and convinced I was invincible. Oh, I told myself I could protect her.

But I could not.

And now they are coming again. Last week I found another letter…

The script ended in a stark slash of black ink. There was no date.

Silver stared down, frozen, the letters blurring before her eyes. So her father had been in danger. He had been so secretive in those last months, always on edge, yet trying to conceal the worry from her and Bram.

Then he had taken his final trip abroad for lavender. When he’d come back, he’d seemed so much more calm, the way he used to be when her mother was alive.

Except that he wasn’t. Not really. His body had been found in the icehouse barely two weeks after his return. His stiff fingers had held a terse note of apology for his children. In the magistrate’s view it was a clear case of suicide.

Silver hadn’t believed that for a second. How she missed him, with his nonsense and eccentricities. He had known every vine and branch growing on these hills, and he had loved every one of them.

Now she knew the grim truth: both of her parents had been killed, murdered by criminals who needed William St. Clair’s help in some sort of illicit scheme. The thought was nearly too much for Silver to bear. She brushed away a tear. Now she would have a chance to prove her suspicions. Maybe she and Bram could find the formula for Millefleurs, locate her parents’ murderers, and—

A creak came from the far wall of the workroom. Quickly she shoved the box down into its hiding place, replaced the piece of slate and slid the desk back over it.

Then Silver screamed.

Something hurtled toward her, shattering the wall of glass. She saw a brick with a piece of paper wrapped around it.

The message was short and ugly.

The boy is next.

~ ~ ~

Blackwood inched his horse along the dark ridge overlooking the heath. At the top he halted and opened the leather satchel slung across his saddle.

By the light of the moon the highwayman skimmed the naval dispatch he had taken from Lord Renwick’s carriage.

Frowning, he scanned the terse lines of numbers indicating latitudes and longitudes of the various trading vessels and passenger ships active in the Channel and farther south off France and Spain. There was nothing earthshaking in the information. Outwardly at least, it was a routine list of shipping facts.

But something about those numbers nagged at the highwayman. Something that was not quite as it should be. He knew that water well, of course. Five years ago he had tasted its brine and shivered in its frigid swells. Most of the numbers marked locations off the coast of Spain and Portugal and a few farther south near the mouth of the Mediterranean.

Yes, there was something there all right, something that pricked at dark memories, but try as he might, Blackwood couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

Grimly, he shoved the papers back into the satchel, then ran a gloved hand along Diablo’s gleaming neck.

The pain in his chest had stilled to a throb. He had stanched the blood with a handkerchief and sent Jonas on to deposit Renwick’s carriage in the main street of Kingsdon Cross. Someone would be sent to search for the travelers once the carriage was found, and until then, the lord and his ladies could amuse themselves as they saw fit.

Diablo’s head rose. The black horse gave a restless whinny.

Cursing softly, the highwayman tugged off his mask, letting the cool wind rake his cheeks. Off to the east the sky was tinged with gray and above him the stars were starting to fade. In an hour it would be dawn.

Dawn. One more day of bitterness and regret. One more day without hope. One more day that brought him no closer to his goal of revenge. The tall figure cursed, then spurred his horse forward.

He knew he should go home.

He knew he should give up his dangerous masquerade and ride hell for leather toward Waldon Hall and the safety its palatial rooms offered.

But he didn’t. Instead the highwayman turned south. He studied the dark hills, thinking about innocence and youth and a woman with green-gold eyes and lips like crimson silk.

A woman who was bound to bring him nothing but trouble. Yes, he had to forget her.

With a raw curse Blackwood turned Diablo away toward Kingsdon Cross. There were other kinds of women, after all, women who understood colder, darker pleasures. That was all a highwayman deserved.

He would drive her from his mind the hard way. The cold way.

The only way he knew how.

~ ~ ~

The Green Man was just the way it always was — smoky, smelly, and cheap.

In the past Blackwood had always like it that way. No one asked questions, faces were kept hidden, and the clink of gold guineas was the only sound that mattered. On his infrequent visits he had passed himself off as a half-pay soldier down on his luck, and no one had ever questioned his story.

But tonight he felt a sense of restlessness as he slid behind a grimy table in one dimly lit corner.

“What’ll it be, guv?” The proprietor had the raw-boned look of a seasoned pugilist and had in fact been famous in that capacity for a few seasons in London.

“A bottle and a glass,” the highwayman said shortly, easing his hat lower over his face.

While he waited, Blackwood sat back in his chair and surveyed the room. It held the usual blend of merchants, travelers, and women who provided their services to the inn’s none-too-fastidious clientele.

As a place for a drink and a smattering of local gossip, it had never bothered Blackwood before.

But for some reason it did tonight, even though he’d come to get that very sort of gossip. He wanted to find out who might have bought the services of the sullen trio who’d been racing over the heath the night before.

Even more, he wanted to find out why they were pursuing the woman.

He hunched his shoulders as the proprietor brought back his bottle. He filled his glass to the brim, raised it in silent salute to a pair of unforgettable green-gold eyes, and drank. The brandy left a pleasant burn all the way down. It made Blackwood almost believe he could forget her.

He settled back and emptied another.

A woman with too much perfume and too little bodice minced across the floor and balanced one elbow on the table, giving him an unrestricted view of the bosom that threatened to spill from her gown at any moment. “Don’t remember seeing you around, dearie, but then I’m new here. Like some company, would you?”

The air was smoky, and Blackwood was starting to feel a pleasant heat from the brandy he’d consumed. He tugged his hat lower, curious about the information he could glean from his eager companion.

The smile he gave her didn’t quite extend to his eyes, but he doubted she would mind. “Yes,” he said tightly. “Why not?”

~  6  ~

Silver stared down at the angry words scrawled on the crumpled paper. The letters swam in and out of focus.

The boy is next.

They were going to hurt Bram! It had been bad enough when only the farm was threatened, or even just herself. But now they’d threatened an innocent twelve-year-old boy.

Silver bit her lip. He’d come so close to dying six months ago, and he still wasn’t strong. If they took him, it would kill him.

She couldn’t let anything endanger Bram.

But how could she leave now, when she was finally on the verge of solving the mystery of her father’s death?

Angrily she kicked at the brick. It skittered over the shards of glass like ice on a frozen pond. Then the answer came to her.

It was reckless.

It was desperate.

It was madness itself.

But she had no choice. It was the only way to keep Bram and her farm safe.

After one last glance at the floor to be sure that slate and cubbyhole were concealed, she caught up her shawl and raced off to the house.

~ ~ ~

“You’re going to do what?”

Tinker shoved his callused fingers onto his hips and glared at the slip of a girl he’d come to consider more daughter than employer. “You’re crazy, girl, that’s what. I won’t even hear of it!”

Silver didn’t look up from the old trunk she was busy searching. “On the contrary, it’s a perfect idea, Tinker. I’ve thought it all through and it will answer quite nicely.”

“Aye, it will serve nicely to get you tossed into Bedlam, that’s what!”

“Not at all.” Silver’s head reappeared. She was carrying an old black dress and a thick veil. “He’s the perfect man for the job. Do you deny that?”

“Not a bit,” Tinker said grimly. “He’s too perfect and that’s the whole bloody problem.”

“You’re just jealous because you didn’t think of it first.”

Tinker snorted, telling her exactly what he thought of this accusation. “How do you even aim to find him? It’s not likely that the man would put out a shop sign, after all.”

“I’ve thought of that too,” Silver said calmly. “I’ve made a list.”

“A list? What kind of bloody list?”

“Of all the unsavory spots in Kingsdon Cross. I mean to visit them one by one until I find him. First I shall try the heath.”

“Over my dead body you will!”

Silver paid no attention. Moving behind a screen, she tugged off her cambric shirt and hitched the dark gown over her head. It was a little tight, but it would do. She had to force down a wave of sorrow as she remembered the last time she’d worn the dress.

It was at her father’s funeral.

Well, she wouldn’t cry, not now. And she wasn’t about to back down either. Lavender Close was all they had left and nobody was going to cheat her out of it! She ran her hand over the bruise throbbing at her eye. At least the veil would conceal that.

When she emerged a moment later, the black veil was draped over her face. “How do I look?”

Tinker scowled. “Like a governess down on her bleeding luck.”

“As bad as that? Wonderful. It will do the trick completely.”

“Aye, when pigs can bleeding fly!”

“You really must try to avoid that kind of language, Tinker. It’s a sure sign that you’re angry.”

“Well, and so I am angry, blast it! You’re talking nonsense, girl, and I won’t let you get away with it. We’ll find another way. Just you leave it to me. They gave us three days, after all.”

Silver frowned, thinking about the brick that had come hurtling through the conservatory window. She hadn’t told Tinker about that, afraid that he’d insist on taking matters into his own hands. He was tough and smart, but Silver doubted he’d be up to fisticuffs with men twice his size and half his age.

No, this was the only way. Her mind was made up. She would merely have to be a little clever about it.

“You’re not going, girl, and that’s that.”

With a sigh Silver sank into a threadbare chair that used to sit in their drawing room.

When they’d had a drawing room. When they’d had a grand house with money and security. “Oh, very well, you infuriating man. But we’ll have to think of something soon. We haven’t much time.”

“We will,” Tinker said soothingly. He scratched at his jaw. “I’ve been thinking of a few plans. We can discuss them in the morning.”

“But you’re sure you won’t consider—”

“Nay, and neither will you, miss! I’ll hear none of that kind of talk. You and Bram are my charge now that your parents are gone and your uncle is dead, and care for you I will.” Tinker gave her a fierce glare. “Whether the two of you like it or not!”

Silver patted the old man’s sinewy arm and laughed. “Such a fierce tiger you are, Tinker.” Her eyes darkened to the haunting green of a mountain lake. “How very lucky Bram and I are to have you.”

“Go on with you.” The old man sighed. “We’ll find our way out of this bit of bother. But don’t you go setting off anywhere without me at night, do y’ hear?”

Silver made him a crisp bow. “Understood, most exalted one.” Which, of course, did not mean that she agreed.

“Be off with you, minx.”

Abruptly Silver sat forward. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“It sounded like Cromwell barking. And a voice, down by the storeroom, I think.”

Without another word Tinker spun around and hammered down the stairs, already dreaming how he’d wrap his hands around their attacker’s throat.

It had been almost too easy, Silver thought. She felt a pang of guilt, but tonight she had a job to do.

The wind blows in from the sea this night, carrying the tang of woodsmoke and the hint of a coming storm. But I must not ramble on. There is much yet to say and in my heart I know I have little time left. They will find me soon. Too soon.

My dearest Susannah, think well on all I have written here. There are secrets in these pages, secrets that I dare not relate even now, lest this book fall into my enemy’s hands.

Read these pages carefully and think back on all the things I’ve taught you. Sift through my words, just as you learned at my knee to sift through Lavender Close’s rich dark soil. The answers are here, I promise you.

Guard them well. These are secrets that men will kill for. If you find this book, then men have already killed for them.

~  7  ~

He wasn’t on the heath and he wasn’t on the high road. She retraced her travels of the night before, but two hours later had encountered no one except an anxious cleric returning home to King’s Lynn.

That left the town of Kingsdon Cross.

Silver’s first destination was a flat expanse of land along the river. Pulling up her little gig, she carefully checked her veil, straightened her skirts, and made certain her pistol was secured in her boot.

Satisfied, she jumped down and tossed her reins over a nearby fence.

She’d always wondered what a cockfight was like. Something told her she was going to enjoy the experience.

Halfway through the crowd Silver decided she was wrong about that.

She made her way slowly, pushing past men with hard eyes and women who certainly weren’t ladies.

From the smoky pit before her came cheers and oaths. The wind carried the smell of dust and blood, and Silver felt her stomach heave.

“Kin I help you, miss?” A tall man with an empty sleeve was standing beside a tree, frowning at her.

“I trust you can.” Roars came up from the dark pit and Silver paled.

“What, never been to a cockfight before?”

“I can honestly say that I’ve haven’t had that pleasure.” Silver cast a quick look through the crowd before her. Down in the pit a ferocious creature zeroed in on his competitor. Feathers flew and harsh screeching filled the air.

Silver swallowed the bile in her throat. “I am Mrs. Brown, you see, the widow of Archibald Brown of Brown, Brown, and Green, late of London. My dear departed husband had a bequest for a man I’m told frequents this — er, establishment.”

“Indeed.” The muddy brown eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“I’m afraid my husband died before he was able to find the recipient of this bequest.”

“And just what was this person’s name, miss?”

“Blackwood.”

The man’s face went hard. “Don’t reck’n as how I know that name. In fact, I’m bloody sure of it.”

“Well,” Silver said artlessly, “I quite understand how you might feel the need to be careful, the man being a highwayman. But my husband, Mr. Brown, died soon after being delegated to carry out the bequest, and a sizable figure it is, sir. A very sizable figure. I am certain Mr. Blackwood would want to know about it, and I hoped you might pass on a message. If you see him, of course.”

The sharp brown eyes said neither yes nor no.

Silver wasn’t about to give up so easily, however. “I believe he will be thankful to you. In fact, he will probably wish to give you a reward for your services.”

A gleam lit the muddy eyes. “Mayhap he will at that. If I knew him, of course. Which I’m not saying as how I do or I don’t.”

Silver caught her reticule close. The noise in the pit had become deafening. She tried not to think of the carnage taking place at that moment. “Please do give him the message if he comes by tonight, won’t you? I’ll be putting up at the Cross and Arms until tomorrow.”

Shrill cheers erupted, indicating that one of the feathered creatures had been victorious.

“Old Sawtooth’s gone and won again,” the man said shortly. “I’ll have to go.”

That was fine with Silver. Swallowing, she fought her way back out into the night.

Whether she succeeded or not, she knew one thing for certain. She definitely did not want to see a cockfight ever again.

~ ~ ~

By the time her head had cleared, Silver began to wonder if Tinker hadn’t been right. Perhaps the highwayman would not be so easily found.

She shoved that uncharacteristic bit of pessimism out of her mind. This was the best idea they had and she was going to see it through to the end!

She drove the gig through the town until she came to an elegant town house on the square opposite the church. The other houses were dark at this late hour, but her destination was lit by a pair of ornate gold lanterns.

There were few people on the street. In the dancing light Silver made out a brawny individual with a cabbage nose and decided not to try an entrance from the front. At that moment a dray hauling barrels lumbered around toward the back.

Silver smiled. One problem solved.

She would soon be inside. And she had always wanted to see the inside of a real, true-enough gaming hell.

She followed the dray around to the back and slid down from the gig. As she’d expected, it took her but a few minutes to talk her way inside. She had come, she explained to a harassed-looking manservant, in answer to a notice for employment as a cook. In truth, Silver was hard pressed to boil water without burning the saucepan, but the lie got her through the back door quite neatly. A slatternly-looking female showed her to an office just off the kitchens.

Silver was studying the opulent silk-covered walls and heavy velvet furniture when the door opened.

The proprietor was a man she knew by reputation but not sight. He was good with cards, good with money, but had a bad head for whisky, so Tinker had once told her.

He inspected her closely, trying to see through her heavy veil. “I am told you have come inquiring about employment as a cook. I am sorry, but we have no openings here.” His black eyes narrowed. “There must be some mistake.”

“But indeed, I fear my message was confused. I have come on a matter concerning my dear departed husband, Archibald Brown, of Brown, Brown, and Green.”

“Never heard of the man,” came the curt reply. “And what’s it got to do with me if I have?”

Silver eyed him with disfavor, thankful that her veil would conceal her expression. “My husband was delegated to transfer a bequest for a client. Unfortunately, dear Archibald died before he could complete his task and I have come to fulfill that errand. It is the least I could do for poor Archibald,” she added sadly.

Her host began to grow interested again. “A bequest, eh? A sizable one, is it?”

“Quite sizable.”

“And who is it to go to? Not me, by any chance?”

“I’m afraid not. Not unless your name is Blackwood.”

“Blackwood?” The man frowned. “What makes you think I would receive such a notorious criminal here? This is a respectable establishment, so it is!”

Silver feigned innocence. “Highwayman? Never tell me so. Oh, no, I am sure you are quite mistaken, sir. My husband spoke of this man Blackwood in the most glowing terms.”

“Then it’s he as was mistaken,” the proprietor said bluntly. “And I have no dealings with any criminals in my establishment. I think you’d better be on your way, madam.”

At that moment a knock came at the door. A woman in a muslin gown dampened to near transparency appeared in the doorway. “You’re wanted upstairs, Mr. Fielding.”

“Aye, I’m coming. See the widow woman out.”

So much, Silver thought glumly, for her second effort. But Kingsdon Cross had one more place of vice left.

~ ~ ~

Her last stop was going to be ticklish, Silver admitted.

Her destination, an exceedingly handsome house, was well located near the outskirts of Kingsdon Cross. Lanterns blazed at every window and the front steps were nearly hidden by carriages. Yes, this was quite the most favored spot in town this night.

And Silver had always wanted to see the inside of a house of ill-fame.

Her black veil occasioned a bit of comment as she climbed the front steps, but most of the house’s patrons were too inebriated to pay more than a passing glance at a black-clad widow of indeterminate age and uncertain wealth.

Silver slipped in behind two laughing gentlemen and entered one of the most elegant rooms in Kingsdon Cross. Her eyes widened as she took in the hundreds of candles and food enough for an army.

Ill fame certainly seemed to be a thriving concern.

Moving on, Silver found herself in a very handsome salon covered with a great many mirrors and dozens of velvet settees. For a moment she stared about her in confusion. Certainly, she had made a mistake. This was no bawdy house. The women she saw were all of the most elegant, and the men were as finely dressed as any she’d seen on her few trips to London with her father.

Gradually Silver noticed other details, however. The women’s dresses were cut a great deal too low, and the men seated beside them took a great deal too many liberties in the placement of their hands.

Silver hastily averted her gaze and looked about for someone in charge. A striking blonde woman entered the salon at that moment, calling orders to a man with a black eye-patch. It was now or never, Silver told herself.

She made her way across the crowded floor toward the proprietress. “Excuse me, madam. Could I have a word with you?”

The statuesque blonde cast Silver a measuring glance. “Looking for work, are you? Fallen on bad times, I can see. Well, you’ll have to be interviewed just like all the others. Go up to Marie — last room on the second floor. She’ll have a look. And take off that ugly veil. It won’t do at all. Before we can decide, we’ll have to have a look at your face — and other things as well.”

Silver swallowed. “I fear you confuse the matter. I am here about my husband, Mr. Brown. Of Brown, Brown, and Green.”

The woman stiffened. “We have all sorts of men here. I can hardly be expected to keep track of their names.” Frowning, she gestured to the man in the black eye-patch. “If your husband has gone astray, it’s no business of mine. Now I think you’d better leave.”

Silver interrupted her quickly. “No, truly you don’t understand. My husband, dear Archibald, died before he could conclude the transfer of a bequest to one of his clients. He bound me to finish the job, you understand.”

The blonde woman settled her hands on her hips. “Bequest, you say? Doubt if it’s for me. My luck’s been all out these six months and more. But tell me, who is the lucky person?”

“A man named Blackwood.”

The cool blue eyes narrowed. “Blackwood? What makes you think I’d have anything to do with the fellow?”

“Well I don’t know, not precisely. But I was told — that is, the people here in town said that-—”

“Oh, yes, people in Kingsdon Cross say all kinds of things about my establishment, but I’m here to tell you most are lies! They lie to my back, but they’re fast enough to take my money. In answer to your question, I haven’t seen Blackwood. Not for weeks, more’s the pity, since the man pays well. So you see, I can’t help you.”

“If he should come in, you would pass him the message, wouldn’t you? It’s a sizable sum, and I’m sure he’d be most … grateful.”

The woman stared at Silver. “I suppose it might be managed. Where can he find you — if he should happen to come in?”

“I’ll be at the Cross and Arms, but only for tonight. I have but a short time until the bequest becomes invalid, you see.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “I see. If he comes by, I’ll tell him.” With that she turned away, motioning to the man in the eye-patch.

The interview was clearly over.

With a sigh Silver turned to leave. She had thought it would be much simpler than this. After all, a man as notorious as Blackwood ought to be out robbing carriages or living up to his sordid reputation in one of Kingsdon Cross’s three centers of vice.

At that moment Silver felt a man in a crimson vest studying her across the room. She found she didn’t care for the glittering look in his eyes, nor for the hard set of his mouth.

She turned and moved briskly toward the door. It wouldn’t do to tempt fate, after all.

~ ~ ~

Damn it, what poor prey was Sherringvale chasing after tonight? Blackwood thought, watching a man in a crimson vest charge through the drawing room of Kingsdon Cross’s elegant brothel.

The woman looked none too pleased with his advance. As well she might, Blackwood thought, since the man had a reputation as black as pitch.

The highwayman moved back into the shadows and looked about the room. He came here rarely, drawn more by the lure of information about wealthy visitors than by female companionship. When he did put in an appearance, he kept to the back entrance and made certain he was not spied upon.

Out of the corner of his eye Blackwood watched Sherringvale close in on a new victim, this one a neat female swathed in a black veil and black skirts. A widow still in mourning? Blast, was there no end to Sherringvale’s unnatural vices?

Then Blackwood’s eyes narrowed.

A widow? The one he’d heard was tracking him all over town?

There was something about the way the woman’s hands clutched at her reticule. Something about the way she turned and faced her pursuer without flinching.

No, it was entirely impossible! But even as he told himself that, Blackwood saw Sherringvale grip his captive’s shoulder and pull her off toward the rear stairs.

The stairs that led up to the private chambers.

The woman was struggling now.

She lashed out with her boot. Blackwood knew the feel of that thrashing little foot intimately.

It was her, the woman he’d rescued last night on the heath.

The woman he couldn’t seem to force from his thoughts.

What in heaven’s name was she doing here?

Scowling, he slipped on his mask and strode toward the rear stairway. He seemed to catch her haunting scent in the air, a blend of roses and lavender.

A left hook and a neat right jab would do the job nicely, Blackwood decided as he took the stairs two at a time. He found that he was enjoying the idea of a good fight. The thought of protecting a lady’s honor appealed to him right now.

But at the top of the stairs Blackwood came to an abrupt halt. He stared speechless at the floor, where Sherringvale was stretched flat, writhing in pain.

The woman in black was smoothing her skirts.

“What did you do, fire a pistol at him?” It was a jest, of course. He hadn’t meant it seriously.

But the woman looked up with a start. “At last! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Blackwood shook his head. “You shouldn’t be here. Not a place for someone like you.” He looked down at Sherringvale. “What happened to him, did he trip and fall?”

Silver shrugged. “He was … not nice, so I kicked him. In a certain, er, delicate region.”

Blackwood knew all about that delicate region. It was tormenting him more than a little at that moment. “You … kicked him?” He still couldn’t believe it.

The woman in black fidgeted with her reticule, looking guilty. “My uncle told me I might need to know about such things. I didn’t realize it would hurt the poor man quite so much, however. As for pistols, I wouldn’t dream of that. My pistol is in my boot, of course.”

“It is?” Blackwood devoutly wished he hadn’t drunk quite so much. The woman wasn’t making any sense.

“Of course. I didn’t want to maim the poor man permanently. Besides, to attack an unarmed man would be unsporting.”

Poor man? Sherringvale, who had accosted more defenseless women than Blackwood could count? “You didn’t?”

“Of course not. The man can’t help it if he’s a victim of his uncontrollable manly passions.”

“I see.” But Blackwood didn’t. Not a bit. It had to be because his brain was fogged with brandy. He shook his head and tried again. “Uncontrollable manly what?” Hell, he couldn’t even say it.

“Passions. Men are meant to be protected from themselves, you see. It is the job of women to see that men don’t hurt themselves or come to harm — as a result of their unruly appetites.”

She looked very pleased with herself. So pleased that Blackwood couldn’t bring himself to quarrel with this ridiculous view of hers. “I take it we’re not talking about food here.”

“Food would count, I suppose. But other things too,” she added vaguely.

“And just who taught you this fascinating concept of men?” Blackwood thought he’d like to strangle the fellow.

“Oh, no one taught me. I worked it out all by myself.”

That figured. “I see.” He was repeating himself, but he couldn’t seem to stop. Damn, but all of her “logic” was making his head spin. Had there ever been a more misinformed and stubborn female on the face of God’s green earth?

Sherringvale, meanwhile, was beginning to show signs of recovery. Blackwood looked down at him and cursed.

“Oh, dear, did I do it wrong?”

“All too right, I expect. And I doubt that the ‘poor man’ is going to be too pleased,” the highwayman said dryly.

Silver gnawed her lip. “I suppose not.”

“So, my dear, let’s hear why you wanted to see me. I’ve heard all over town that a widow was asking for me, but I never thought it could be you. And I don’t believe all that talk about a bequest for a second.”

Abruptly the woman before him went very still. She sniffed the air. Blackwood could almost feel her glare through the black veil.

“You’ve been drinking, sir.”

“Not enough to be impaired, I assure you. Only enough to be dangerous.”

Behind them laughing voices drifted up the stairwell. Scowling, Blackwood caught her shoulder and hauled her down the corridor just before a scantily clad female emerged, clutching the arm of a balding baronet at least three times her age.

“Of course you’ve been drinking,” Silver hissed. “I can smell it. And you’re slurring your words.”

“I always slur my words,” came the grim reply. “It’s the mask, you understand.”

“Take your hands off me, if you please.”

“A threat, my dear? And if I don’t, what then? Do you mean to disable me the same way you did ‘poor’ Sherringvale?”

“I doubt if I could succeed,” Silver said frankly.

“You’re right about that, at least.” Blackwood loosened his grip but he was careful not to release her completely. “What was so bloody important that it had you chasing me all over Kingsdon Cross?” he said irritably.

“I need a private place so we can discuss it calmly.”

“Perhaps I don’t want to talk. Perhaps I didn’t come here for talk.” At that moment Blackwood recalled precisely why he had come. Damn, he’d been trying to forget her fire, her haunting scent. Her rare, stubborn innocence.

More footsteps scuffled up the rear stairway. Sir Charles Millbank appeared, a woman on his arm.

Muttering savagely, the highwayman gripped his captive and pulled her down the hall.

“Where are you taking—”

“Be quiet.”

“Let me go!” Silver hissed. “Otherwise I’ll—”

“You’ll what? Throw yourself on that cur Millbank’s mercy? You’ll regret it if you do for he’s a very unpleasant fellow. Or do you mean to kick him into abject submission too?”

That was a cheap shot and he knew it. But damn, the woman was the outside of enough. She didn’t have enough sense to know when to be afraid.

Silver merely muttered and lashed angrily at his leg.

At the end of the hall Blackwood finally found an open door. He shoved his sputtering “widow” inside, then kicked the door closed.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m trying to find a safe place to talk. You did come to talk, didn’t you, my dear?” Blackwood was truly angry now. She’d taken a perfectly fine evening and ruined it. He’d been well on his way to forgetting her, but now that was impossible. How could any man forget such changeable eyes, one minute green and one minute gold? The little fool shouldn’t be in a place like this!

Blackwood decided to show her just how dangerous such a place could be.

His hand rose lazily to his cravat. “On second thought maybe talking isn’t what you want at all.” He eyed her lazily. “In that case, we could always—”

Silver cleared her throat. “Talking will be most acceptable, thank you.”

Blackwood studied her face. “I can think of better ways to spend an evening.”

“No doubt you can. Unfortunately, I haven’t a coach about me for you to rob.”

That stopped him in his tracks. “You were glad enough to see me last night.”

“Ah, but you weren’t drunk last night.”

“How would you know?”

“Are you trying to be nasty, Mr. Blackwood?”

“That’s Lord Blackwood to you. Don’t ever get a felon’s name mixed up. You might make him angry, after all. And the answer is yes, I am definitely trying to be nasty.”

Silver snorted. “You’re succeeding.”

“Then why don’t you leave?” Actually, he was praying she would. Maybe that would get her out of his mind. Meanwhile, however, he was finding it hard to keep his eyes off the tight cloth straining over her full breasts. The brandy must be making him delirious, for he imagined he could see the tight nubs of her nipples.

And her smell. It reminded him of the soft summers of his youth, of lazy afternoons and velvet twilights. Of the roses his mother used to clip and set about the drawing room at Swallow Hill.

Damn it, enough was enough! How did the woman manage to get under his skin this way?

“Yes, why don’t you just leave?” he repeated, his voice harsh with rising desire.

“I can’t. Not yet.” Her chin rose in defiance. “Not until I finish my business here.”

“Business? What business?”

Silver hadn’t heard. She was busy studying a statue of a man and woman standing chest to chest. Her eyes widened as she saw that they were completely unclad.

With a muttered oath Blackwood jerked the statue from her fingers and slapped it back down on the mantel. “Tell me what you’re doing here. Otherwise I’m going to make you exceedingly sorry that you ever set foot in this place!”

“Do you think you could?” Silver asked interestedly.

“You’re bloody right I could!”

In their abstraction neither noticed a man push open the door. “I say, is this room taken?” Sir Charles Millbank swayed in the doorway, a bottle in one hand and a woman on the other.

Blackwood blew out the branch of candles and pulled Silver against his chest. The darkness ought to conceal his mask and provide some protection against Millbank’s curiosity.

She was trembling. He could feel it clearly. At last the stubborn female had finally seen her danger.

But the thought gave Blackwood no pleasure. Instead it made him angry. “Of course it’s taken. Close the door, damn it. There are plenty of other rooms down the hall.”

Millbank laughed drunkenly. “Don’t care for an audience? Mistake, that.” He gave a drunken belch. “Viewers can be damned arousing, don’t you know?”

Blackwood felt Silver shudder against him. He cursed fluently.

“I’ll light the candles. Then what do you say you, your little friend and I—”

He got no farther. Blackwood pulled a pistol from his pocket and leveled it. “Get out before I shoot.”

The baronet blinked and began to back from the darkened room. “Just a suggestion. No need to turn bloody huffy. I didn’t mean any—” Abruptly he stopped. His eyes narrowed. “Damn me if that scent don’t seem familiar. It can’t be, of course, but—” He stared fixedly at Silver’s back.

Blackwood shoved Silver behind him. “Go away, Millbank. You’ve had too bloody much to drink. You couldn’t even see the nose on your own face.”

“Maybe I have, but she still seems familiar. I could almost swear—”

“My companion is of no interest to you.” Blackwood cocked the hammer of his pistol. “Do you understand me now?”

“Damned unfriendly, aren’t you?” The baronet frowned; the woman on his arm made a moue of disappointment. A moment later they withdrew.

Blackwood shoved the door shut and drove the bolt home. After relighting the candles, he turned toward Silver, his face harsh. “Now then, I’ll have answers. Exactly what are you doing here?”

“There is no need to shout at me,” Silver said crossly.

“Who’s shouting? I simply want answers. And if I don’t have them in ten seconds, I’m dragging you out of here!”

Silver squared her shoulders. “I — I need a man, you see.”

Blackwood shook his head. He had to be imagining things. She couldn’t have said what he thought she’d said.

But he was wrong.

“A man,” she repeated carefully. “I want to buy a man’s services. Just for several nights, of course.”

Buy a man’s services? Was the woman utterly mad or was he?

“Yes, I want a big man. A hard, notorious criminal.” She looked at Blackwood. He swore he could feel her eyes narrow speculatively.

He felt his lower anatomy tighten. “And just what do you need this man for?” Maybe she would confess it was all a joke. Or maybe she’d vanish in a puff of smoke and he would realize this was all some sort of dream.

But she didn’t confess and she certainly didn’t vanish. She only studied him, her shoulders high and proud. “I need a man to ruin me, of course. And I came after you, Lord Blackwood, because you seemed the very best candidate for the job.”

~  8  ~

Blackwood cursed.

Very fluently.

And then he cursed some more.

His head was throbbing and he felt distinctly unsteady on his feet. The pleasant haze he’d been cultivating all evening vanished.

“Ruin you? You are mad, woman!” He turned away. Shaking his head, he concentrated on relighting a candle. “And if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going. There must be a coach to rob somewhere in this town,” he finished grimly.

“No, you can’t go,” Silver said desperately, blocking his way.

“I can’t? Somehow our lines seemed to have gotten mixed, my dear. I’m supposed to say that while you scream and struggle.”

“Well, I’m not screaming and struggling. As you can very well see,” she added crossly.

“So I can. But I’m still going. A very good night to you.”

She put out her hand then. He felt a tremor go through her fingers. That single small movement made him curse. And that damned black veil she was wearing…

He couldn’t stand the sight of it another second. He peeled it back, hungry for a look at her face. Just so he could be certain she was listening, Blackwood assured himself. “Understand me, woman. That is quite possibly the most outrageous, the most ridiculous—”

He stopped. Fury pounded through him as he saw the angry black bruise at her temple. “Who did it? I told you places like this were dangerous. By God, if it was that brute Sherringvale, I’ll—”

Silver shook her head. “No, not Sherringvale. It was someone else.”

Blackwood’s mouth hardened. “Tell me his name and I’ll kill the fellow.”

“That’s just it, I don’t know his name. And I don’t know why he did it.” Silver turned away and sank down on one of the thick feather beds. She tested it carefully, then lay back.

Blackwood could see her fertile little brain at work. Wondering. Imagining. He strode across the room, caught her wrist, and pulled her back to her feet. “No, you don’t. Not there. You can rest over here in this chair.” He pushed her into the seat, scowling. Scowling because it was his self-control in shreds.

Silver looked up at him curiously. “Aren’t you going to remove your mask now? No one can see you in here.”

“You can.”

“Oh, of course. I forgot about your disfigurement.”

Blackwood choked. “My what?”

“You needn’t conceal it from me. I’ve heard all about how it happened. I can understand how a thing like that would make you uneasy.”

Definitely too much brandy, Blackwood thought savagely. “And exactly where is this disfigurement of mine to be found?”

Silver gave him a sympathetic look. “You still don’t care to think about it, do you? Even after all these years. Well, it’s common knowledge. Your musket exploded in your face on the night you stopped your first carriage, burning you terribly.” She gnawed at her lip. “It must have been ghastly. I can see why you would be afraid to unveil yourself to other people after that. But I’m not missish, I assure you. You need have no fear of my fainting.” She stiffened her shoulders.

Blackwood saw that she was preparing herself for the worst.

Disfigurement? What was the daft female talking about now? “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me how it happened, are you?”

“Your pistol ball jammed,” Silver explained patiently. “But talking might be the very thing. It would ease the painful memories.”

Her solicitousness was making Blackwood more and more irritated. He had a perfectly good face beneath his mask, but he was not about to correct her mistake. It might be just the thing to make her keep her distance.

But Silver St. Clair had different ideas. She reached up to tug his mask free. “I’m sure it can’t be so bad. Maybe if I—”

Blackwood slapped her fingers away. Her closeness was making his head hammer. She was standing next to him in a bawdy house, for God’s sake. He could hear drunken laughter down the hall. Next door a bed was creaking loudly. The thought of what was happening on it made his pulse kick up uncomfortably. “No, thank you,” he growled.

Silver looked disappointed. Then her head cocked. “Whatever is that odd noise?”

“What noise?” Blackwood’s voice was strangled. Next door wood creaked violently against wood and the wall began to shake.

“That noise. I’ve never experienced an earthquake here in Norfolk before.”

“Must be mice,” Blackwood muttered.

“Mice? But surely—”

“But nothing.” Sweat was beading his brow. “You are leaving. Right now.”

Silver sighed. She brushed back her hair, which had tumbled down about her shoulders.

It was thick and lustrous. Blackwood wondered how it would feel to catch a handful to his lips. He knew exactly what it would smell like. It would be all lavender and spring violets. Her mouth would feel like satin and taste like—

Now he knew he was losing his mind!

Silver looked up, studying the mirror that hung on the ceiling over the bed. “What a curious place for a mirror.” She pulled off her gloves and cloak, staring interestedly about her. “So this is what a house of ill fame looks like…”

Blackwood stared, hard pressed to believe she had actually come here. And in search of him. “Why are you in a place like this, woman?”

“For the same reason you are, I should imagine.”

Blackwood choked for a moment.

Silver’s brow rose. “Are you feeling well?”

“No, I’m not.” He hadn’t been since the moment he’d met her! “What in the devil is that supposed to mean?”

“That I’m here to transact business, just the way you are.”

“In a place like this? You risk life, limb, and honor!”

“I’ve managed perfectly well so far.”

That was the irritating part, Blackwood admitted. She had managed just fine. She’d even dispatched Sherringvale. The man ought to be horsewhipped. Thinking about how he’d grabbed Silver and dragged her upstairs made Blackwood decide he might just tend to that task himself.

But first he had to remove her safely and quickly.

Silver, meanwhile, had turned away. She picked up a crystal decanter from the mantel, tipped its amber spirits into a glass, and drank deeply. The drink made her head swim for a moment, but the heat was actually rather pleasant. After a second sip she felt a warm glow curl through her. She took a third, then turned back to Blackwood. “The whole thing is very simple. I need to be ruined.”

“That’s utterly ridiculous.” The highwayman began to pace, thinking furiously about how he would spirit her away without being discovered.

Silver, meanwhile, frowned down at her empty glass, then turned away to refill it. She wasn’t certain what the liquid was, but it was tasting better all the time. “It’s perfectly logical. I’ve received a threat from people who insist that I leave my lavender farm. But I can’t leave, not now.”

“I’d say you came to the wrong side of the law for a problem like that. Try the magistrate. That’s his sort of work.”

“I can’t. Lord Carlisle has gone to London for three weeks.”

“Then wait until he returns.”

“There’s no time!” Silver dug into her reticule and pulled out the note that had come wrapped around the brick.

Her fingers trembled as she held it out. “Here.”

Blackwood skimmed the sheet, then sat down abruptly.

Silver sank down beside him, which just about shot his only chance of finding a clear head amid the brandy haze. Damn it, how could a man think with a woman like her only a few inches away, her face flushed, her hair a wild russet cloud around her shoulders?

It wasn’t right. She looked like an angel. Hell, she even smelled, like an angel. But Blackwood knew she was a hellion through and through.

“You see?” Silver said urgently.

He saw enough to know it meant trouble. “Who’s the boy?”

“My younger brother, Bram. They’re going to harm him if I don’t leave.”

Blackwood’s eyes narrowed. “So you are Silver St. Clair, not the overworked serving drudge I mistook you for.”

“I am.” A dimple played at Silver’s cheek. “But I am also overworked and many days I feel like a serving drudge.”

“Very sorry to hear it, but I can’t help you.”

Silver stamped the floor. “I won’t go. Not until I have your promise.”

Blackwood fingered the edge of his mask. “I won’t help you. It doesn’t even bear thinking about. And you’ll thank me for it in the morning, when you regain your sense. You’ll thank me devoutly.”

“Of course you can help me, you insufferable man! I’ve thought this all out most carefully. Those villains are not going to give up. For some reason they seem dead set on having my lavender farm. So the only thing to do is to outsmart them at their own game.”

Blackwood didn’t want to hear this.

Silver went on relentlessly. “They wish to frighten me off? Very well, then I find someone who has gotten to the job first. Someone even more villainous than they, someone vile and treacherous and cold blooded—”

The picture became clear. “Thank you for the compliment,” he said tightly.

“That was no compliment, sir. Because you’re the perfect one to frighten them off, don’t you see? They won’t dare set a foot on my fields if the notorious Lord Blackwood has already staked his claim. Then, once the whole business dies down, I’ll set the story about that you forced me into an illicit connection. That way after I’ve dispensed with your services, no one can hold it against me. I’ll just say it was out of my power to stop you.” Her eyes gleamed with triumph at the perfection of this plan.

What was their exact color? Blackwood wondered distractedly. And what was that scent she wore?

“Well,” Silver said impatiently, “what do you think?”

“Think? It’s perfectly logical, all right. Except for one small problem. If you’re seen with me at all, you’ll be ruined beyond any hope of redemption. No matter how many clever stories you make up, you’ll never be able to go back. They’ll always hold it against you.”

“Truly?” Her eyes widened. “I had no idea you were so bad as that.”

“Now you do know,” the highwayman said grimly. “So let’s hear no more about this foolishness.”

“But that’s perfect! Your reputation is so black that it will answer beautifully to frighten those villains off.”

He was definitely three sheets to the wind, Blackwood decided. This wild scheme of hers was actually starting to sound halfway sane. And that thought frightened him more than anything else that had happened all night.

Scowling, he pushed to his feet. Anything to get away from those glowing cheeks and changeable eyes. Away from that sweet clear lavender scent and the full lips that left him yearning to pull her close and—

“Enough!”

“You agree, then?”

“Of course I don’t! The idea is mad. And I must be mad for listening!”

Silver stared at him for a moment, then her hands clapped together. “I have it now. You’re worried about me. You think I won’t be able to take care of myself. But, you’re wrong. I have a great deal of experience with men, I assure you.”

Her words were slurred, he noticed. What had she been drinking in that bloody glass? “I see. And that’s how you know about these — er, manly passions you spoke of earlier.”

“Certainly.”

“These urges you spoke of. All men have them?”

“I believe so.”

“Myself included?”

She had the grace to flush. “I don’t see why not.”

“In that case,” Blackwood said, smiling darkly as she walked right into his trap, “how do you know I won’t follow those dark inclinations and ruin you in truth?”

For the merest instant something sad and haunted slipped through her eyes. “I don’t know, not for certain. But last night on the heath, you could have hurt me or robbed me and yet you didn’t.”

Blackwood’s throat tightened. She had no idea what she was dealing with. He was cold and ruthless and the sooner she knew it the better. “And you think that makes me reliable or kind?” Blackwood’s face was hard and shadowed in the light of the dancing candles. “You’ve known a lot of men, have you?”

“Oh, hundreds of them,” Silver said airily.

“And I suppose you allowed them free rein.” His face was going harder by the second. “To kiss you — and take other kinds of liberties…”

“Only the ones I liked,” she said scrupulously.

“What about me?”

“Oh, I don’t like you,” Silver said frankly. “I simply need you.”

“There’s plain speaking.” The highwayman strode closer, his lips hard. “But you’ve asked me to ruin you. To do that a man needs—”

Those damnably luminous eyes widened. “A man needs what?”

It was too much.

The next moment she was crushed against him, and his hands were buried in her burnished hair. Blackwood thought she would stiffen or scream or pull away. Hell, he was praying that she would.

But she didn’t. She just stared up at him, her eyes questioning, her lips parted. Soft with wonder.

It was a devastating combination for a man who hadn’t known softness or wonder in a very long time.

“Don’t look at me that way,” he growled.

“But I owe you my life. I believe I would accord you anything you asked of me,” the woman in his arms said softly.

There was a frankness about her that robbed him of breath. Sweet Lord, she really meant it. The door was locked. They were in a place where no one would question her screams. In short, he could do anything he cared to with her.

And there she stood, offering him just that. Blackwood could think of roughly a hundred places where he’d like to start.

For one, he’d strip off that ugly black gown so he could see the skin he knew would be as soft as her scent. Then he’d taste the dimple at her cheek. After that, he’d slide lower, running his tongue over the full breasts that thrust against the black fabric and made him so hot that he—

He pulled back, his jaw tense. “It’s impossible. Forget it.”

“I’m sorry I kicked you. Damnable temper, y’ see. Got it from my father,” Silver whispered.

“I daresay I’ll survive.”

She swayed slightly and gave a faint hiccup. “I’m sorry about your accident with the musket too. Must have been terrible. I can understand how it would make you lose your trust in people.”

She meant it, the innocent fool.

Blackwood stared down at her, a pulse hammering at his jaw. She was standing in the most notorious house of vice in Kingsdon Cross, captive in the arms of the county’s most nefarious criminal, and she was worrying about him! Hadn’t the woman any idea what risks she was running?

She blinked. “Feel … strange.”

Before Blackwood could start hammering the sense she needed into that lovely, stubborn head of hers, Silver gave a little sigh and collapsed. Straight into his arms. The brandy she’d drunk had finally taken effect.

Cursing, Blackwood caught her up and carried her toward the door. At least now he knew what had been in that glass of hers.

He surveyed the hall, which was blessedly empty for once. There was nothing for it but to take her back to her farm. He certainly couldn’t leave her here. She’d be perfect prey for some drunken sot on the prowl for a night’s pleasure.

Like you? a cynical voice whispered.

“Hell no, not like me!” Blackwood muttered guiltily.

This was the end, the absolute end of his involvement with the woman. He’d dump her at the foot of her lane and wash his hands of her. And after that he was going to put Silver St. Clair out of his mind forever.

~  9  ~

Silver awoke with a lurch.

Cold air washed over her face, making her head spin. She sat up groggily, wondering why her throat felt like it was full of Cromwell’s hair.

Cracking one eye open, she saw the outline of a carriage. Dark earth raced past beneath the wheels.

With a groan she shut her eyes. If feeling like this was part of a life of ill fame, she wanted none of it!

Blackwood must have carried her out to her gig. Silver knew she ought to thank him, but she refused to. She didn’t want to be beholden to him or to anyone else!

“Stop this minute! Where are you taking me?”

“Home,” Blackwood growled. “Where you belong. Maybe someone will have sense enough to make you stay there.”

“I can’t go home. Not yet.” Silver winced as the sound of her voice made her head throb. “Ohhh…”

“Sit back,” Blackwood said gruffly. “You drank nearly half a bottle of brandy. Your head is going to hurt like the very devil in the morning.”

“It already does,” Silver said irritably.

“Serves you right.” Blackwood turned around from the front seat. His eyes were measuring as he brushed a strand of hair from her face.

A queer heat invaded Silver’s chest. When he looked at her that way, when he touched her so carefully…

She frowned, belatedly realizing what he’d said. “Brandy? That was brandy I drank?” Her eyes narrowed. “Just how long was I out? And what did you do while I slept?”

“You can’t remember?” Blackwood gave a silken laugh. “I thought you were looking for a man to ruin you, Sunbeam. Wasn’t that the job you offered me?”

Silver felt her face go crimson. “Of course it was. But it was only to be an act!”

“An act? Not many men would hear an offer like that and take it for anything but the truth. Yes, I’d say with an offer like that, it would be real or nothing.”

Hardness filled his voice. And with it came the same hunger Silver had heard the night before upon the heath. It had left her breathless and uncertain then.

It did the same thing to her now.

Blast the man! She wasn’t about to fall for his tricks or his damnable charm. Not that he had so very much charm, so far as she could see. Oh, last night she’d thought him bold and cool and — well, wonderful.

But no more.

Tonight she’d seen his arrogance and his highhandedness. She wasn’t about to turn craven and take orders just because he was a man and thought he knew best.

It was business and nothing more between them. But before she could speak, the highwayman turned away and laughed harshly. “There’s a lesson for you, my love. Be more careful what you wish for or you just might get it.”

The insolent man! Silver fingered the pistol in her boot. She thought longingly about sending a bullet through his back.

But she couldn’t, of course. Uncle Archibald had taught her to observe proper sporting behavior. It simply wasn’t done to shoot an unarmed man — certainly not in the back.

Not even if he was a highwayman.

Silver contented herself with maintaining an imperious silence. Blackwood didn’t seem irritated by her behavior. In fact, he didn’t seem to notice her at all.

Which only made Silver angrier.

She tugged at her skirts, which were tightly tangled beneath her, and wondered again just what he had done during the time she was unconscious. Frowning, she checked the ribbons and laces on her gown.

All intact, thank heavens. Of course he had been joking with all that talk about ruining her.

Hadn’t he?

They finally reached the little lane over the hill near Lavender Close. Silver wasn’t about to let him drive right up to the house. “Well, it’s been a wonderful evening,” she said curtly. “A pure delight. So you can stop right here.”

She jumped down from the back of the gig and turned to stalk up the hill, shoving down her rumpled skirts.

Blackwood’s low laugh brought her around.

“Just what’s so funny, felon?”

He shook his head, unable to speak. When he did, his voice was all rum and sugar. “Haven’t you overlooked something, Sunbeam?”

She might hate him, but Silver had to admit that the man had a voice to make stones sing. The sound of it sent goose bumps racing all over her skin. “If you’re waiting for a good-night kiss, you’re going to be out here till hell freezes over!”

His low chuckle halted her tirade.

Frowning, Silver looked down.

And gasped.

Her heavy black skirts were all askew, hitched up around her waist, revealing the threadbare riding breeches she’d worn beneath her dress. Only now one leg was split, displaying ivory skin all the way from her waist down past the curve of one naked hip.

Her face flamed. Her hands shook as she clutched at the ripped cloth.

“Let me help you,” he said gruffly, jumping down.

“No!” He was making it too easy for her to let down her guard and forget that it was only business between them. “I don’t need your help. I can’t afford to need anyone! And I’m certainly not about to start with an arrogant, detestable highwayman who is three sheets to the wind!”

Her voice broke.

Blackwood frowned, his face intent. He made no attempt to stop her as she stalked off into the night.

~ ~ ~

She should have done a thousand things.

The great copper distilling vat needed to be cleaned and the oils needed to be set out for tomorrow’s tests. Her week’s accounts had yet to be tallied and there were fragrance orders to be recorded.

But she did none of those things.

She sank down into her father’s soft old chair and lowered her face to her hands.

She hated Blackwood. She wished he were dead. She—

Didn’t. Not at all.

She hated herself, because he made her feel so reckless, so curious, so hungry for all the things she could never have. Her responsibility was to Bram and Lavender Close; she could never forget that.

Of course, the attraction was only because she met so few people in this secluded area of Norfolk. It was only because he’d shown her an unexpected kindness at a moment of terror.

And, oh, how hard she tried to believe that.

But as she sat on in the darkness, shredding a lavender leaf into tiny, fragrant pieces, Silver began to understand just how great a lie it was.

~ ~ ~

“What I’m wanting to know is where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing there?”

His eyes blazing, Tinker stood in the center of the conservatory, scowling. His hands were still dusty from the dried flowers he’d been sorting in the storeroom down the hill.

Silver blinked in the light of his lantern, wondering how long she’d been sitting in the darkness.

Wondering.

Denying.

Hoping. Yes, dear God, hoping with all her heart…

She ran tired fingers over her aching head. Outside the glass the moon was nearly gone. “I told you, Tinker. I went to find Blackwood. It was our only hope, and I don’t care if you don’t like it. We have to do something, don’t we? Even if that arrogant, impossible man thinks he can—”

A ragged sob tore from Silver’s throat.

Gnarled, work-roughened hands caught her shoulders. “Don’t, Silver, girl. It’s me you’re raging at. Your old Tinker, remember?”

A moment later she was in his arms, her body shuddering, and the old man was wise enough to let her have her cry without interruption.

Only when the low, racked sobs fell away to hiccups did Tinker shove a crumpled handkerchief before her face. “Now then, let’s have the whole of it.”

“There was another note. I — I cleaned up most of the glass and pushed a pot in front of the hole, but you can still see where the brick came through.”

Tinker cursed. “Why didn’t you tell me, girl?”

“Because I didn’t want to worry you. I thought I could handle it myself. I thought that he would see how perfect my idea was.”

“He? You mean Blackwood?”

Silver gave a stiff nod.

“By all the saints above, don’t tell me you went looking for that highwayman!”

“Of course I did.”

“At a cockfight?”

She nodded defiantly.

“At that gaming house?”

Another nod.

“Sweet heaven, not at—”

“Exactly. And I found him there too. Only, he wouldn’t help me. He — he only laughed at my idea!”

“A damned good thing.”

Silver tugged angrily at the soggy handkerchief in her fingers. “That cur Millbank was there too. He nearly saw me, but Blackwood pulled me against his chest just in time.”

Tinker scowled. “He did what?”

“Oh, not in the way you think,” Silver said impatiently. “In fact, the bloody man couldn’t wait to get me out of there. He wasn’t a bit interested. Not even when Millbank said he wanted me — he wanted us to—” She stopped, flushing.

Tinker went stiff with rage. “I’ll kill that braying ass! I’ve had enough of his lecherous ways!”

An unsteady chuckle came from the head turned against his chest. “Such language, my dear old friend. Whatever would Mama say?”

“Nothing, more’s the pity, because your sainted mother’s not on this earth to say anything. And that’s not half of what I’d like to say to you right now, girl. What was you thinking of, going down there alone? I’ve told you again and again, you’re not to go nowhere without me. Especially not at night.”

“I know, I know,” Silver murmured. She gave him a wavering smile. “Only, it’s far too late for scruples now. I’m quite beyond redemption.”

“Nay, and so you’re not, miss! I’ll hear none of that kind of talk.”

Silver gave a watery sniff. “Very well, Tinker.”

“Humph. It had better be. Because if you sneak off that way again, girl, I’ll see you can’t sit down for a week!”

Silver dropped a light kiss on his weathered cheek. “I truly am sorry. I know that Bram and I have been nothing but a bother to you since father died.”

“Bother? You’ve been that aplenty, Miss Silver.” The old man’s eyes glinted with sudden moisture and he cleared his throat abruptly. “But I’d change nothing, do you hear? Oh, aye, we’ve had our share of scrapes and then some, but we’ll get through, just wait and see.”

“We always do, don’t we?” Silver gave him a bright smile, which wavered only slightly.

“Of course we will. Now off to bed with you, minx. We have a heap of plans to make on the morrow. I’m going to fetch some men from town to help us. Meanwhile, I don’t plan to sit around and wait for those brutes to return.”

But after Silver left, the white-haired man sank down onto the workroom’s only chair. His shoulders drooped.

And there was no trace of humor on his weathered face then.

~ ~ ~

The moon was setting when Blackwood pushed through a secret opening in the yew hedge and nudged Diablo over the lawn toward Waldon Hall. Behind him the elegant manor house rose from a bank of elm trees, its broad windows lit only by the moon.

Roses and jasmine spilled their perfume through the night air.

And every hint of sweetness reminded the highwayman of a woman with green-gold eyes and a life he would never know again.

Frowning, the eldest son of the eighth duke of Devonham pushed open a door that led to a quiet garden. His chest burned. His shoulder was aching.

But he was safe.

No one in Kingsdon Cross knew that he was the owner of Waldon Hall, of course. Lucien Reede Tiberius Fitzgerald Delamere, the eldest son of the Duke of Devonham, had been very careful that they shouldn’t.

Even Waldon Hall’s prior owner believed that the buyer was a wealthy East India Company merchant just returned from India, a man of unstable health who wished to be left alone in his reclusive old age.

Yes, the secluded estate was the perfect hiding place. As he’d hoped, Luc had been undisturbed here. When he made his midnight forays, he moved in safety and secrecy through the estate’s dozen hidden entrances and tunnels. They had been one of the reasons Luc had finally settled upon the place. Its proximity to heath and high road had been the other.

This was his home now, Luc told himself grimly. Not Swallow Hill, the magnificent Norfolk estate that had been his family’s principal seat for eight generations. Not the elegant town house in Berkeley Square. Not the hunting box in Scotland.

Waldon Hall would do well enough for Norfolk’s most notorious highwayman. Only Luc’s trusted companion Jonas knew the secret of the highwayman’s aristocratic past.

And Luc meant to see it stayed that way.

He pulled off his mask. A smile slid across his chiseled face as he thought about Silver St. Clair. The woman was trouble and no mistake.

But then Luc had always been a man who enjoyed trouble.

Swinging his cape over one shoulder, he tried to pinpoint exactly what it was about the woman that had put him so damnably on edge.

It wasn’t her guile, for she displayed none. It certainly wasn’t her female wiles. She had none of those and thank God for it. In truth, the hellion was as fresh and untutored as a schoolgirl. She’d even had the temerity to let him believe she was a simple servant girl.

Simple? No, there was nothing simple about Silver St. Clair, the highwayman thought ruefully.

She was all storm and fire. All unbridled heat when a man least expected it. And the combination was infinitely dangerous.

His blood surged thickly as he thought of how she had melted into his kiss upon the heath. How she had faced down that brute Sherringvale. Courage, he thought — and with it a blend of innocence and passion that was utterly addicting.

Muttering, the son of one of the richest men in England pushed open a door that led into the cellars of Waldon Hall. Tossing down cape and hat, he strode up the stairs to the house’s central wing.

He simply would not see her again. It would be difficult, but he would manage it. What he needed was a woman who was clever and jaded, someone who would help him forget Silver St. Clair. A woman of experience who knew enough not to become emotionally involved.

Luc stared at the row of hard-faced men and worldly-looking women lining the stairs. They were of indifferent quality as portraits go, nothing to compare with the generations of Delameres who glared proudly from the canvases in Swallow Hill’s vast gallery.

Somehow the thought of touching a worldly, bored female like one of those left Luc singularly unmoved.

Damned if he understood why. He’d known any number of women over the years.

Beautiful ones.

Witty ones.

Demure ones.

Vastly passionate ones.

But not a single one of them had ever affected him the way Silver St. Clair had in the short span of twenty-four hours.

~  10  ~

The boy is next.

Bone tired, Silver paced back and forth from one conservatory wall to the other, watching sunset fade to twilight and twilight seep into full-fledged night.

All the while she tried not to think about what would come out of that night.

Somehow the day had passed. She had made it pass. The long hours of work and stubborn effort had helped to distract her from the last warning.

But never for long.

Who hated her so much to do this to her? Who wanted Lavender Close Farm so badly? And why? Was it someone in Kingsdon Cross, searching for the lost Millefleurs formula? Some perfumer from London, greedy for the wealth and success William St. Clair had once had?

Or was it someone more sinister, someone hinted at in her father’s diary? She didn’t know. Until she was certain, Silver decided to consider everyone her enemy.

She had just bent over her vials and distilling records when heavy boots thumped across the floor and Sir Charles Millbank pounded into the conservatory.

His face was flushed and he smelled of spirits. “I knew I’d find you here. Disgusting, if you ask me. Women are not fit to handle business matters or run their own establishments. It’s unnatural and unseemly, and I won’t permit it any longer, do you hear?”

“So you’ve said before, but I have absolutely no interest in your opinions!”

“But you should. You’ve creditors at your door and no way to transport your next lavender shipment to London, for none of the local men will work for you. Aye, I’ve seen to that,” Millbank snarled. “Unless you want to lose your farm to a stranger, I suggest you make an effort to be more amiable to me. Especially now that these unfortunate threats have begun against you.”

“What do you know about that?”

“Only what I’ve heard in town,” Millbank said coolly, “but it’s common knowledge that that fellow Tinker’s been trying to hire more workers. You won’t find any, of course. They’re all too afraid to come out here now.”

“I’m certain that delights you.”

“Let’s just say that I’m hoping you’ll finally admit how foolish it was for you to undertake running Lavender Close yourself. Of course, I shall be more than happy to take over your responsibilities.” His pale eyes glittered. “Provided we reach an understanding as to how you will … repay me for those services.”

Silver knew exactly what sort of repayment Millbank had in mind. She glared at the leering intruder. “When snakes can sing! Until then you can fly to hell and toast your eyebrows!”

“Still stubborn, are you? I’m done with your teasing ways. You’re going to learn some respect!” Sir Charles jerked at his cravat. “Unless you submit to me in all that I command, you’re going to lose Lavender Close Farm and I’ll see that your bookish brother is sent away as well!”

Silver’s breath caught as she stared at Millbank’s angry red face.

She should have known the swine would come. Like a hungry wolf her brother-in-law could pick up the scent of any wounded creature’s pain. He’d been casting hungry looks in her direction for the last six months and more.

Silver had never been close to Jessica, her elder sister. She had died six years before, after being married barely six months. Silver had never told her sister that Millbank’s first proposal had been made to her, but sometimes Silver wondered if her sister hadn’t known a great deal more than she’d let on.

Silver had hoped that the passage of time would dull Millbank’s amatory interest.

But it hadn’t. Since her father’s death the man had come more and more often to visit Lavender Close under the guise of “checking on Silver’s welfare.”

His bulky shape cast a shadow over the conservatory floor. Silver could smell the stink of whisky clinging to his clothes.

“I suggest that you leave now.” Her voice was steady, she noted with relief. “Before you make an even greater fool of yourself than you already have.”

“So you think me a fool, do you?” Millbank’s eyes burned, lit by drink and lust.

“Spare me a Cheltenham drama.” Silver turned her back decisively and began cleaning a copper distilling vat.

All the while she kept her eye on the length of copper pipe standing against the wall. Just in case.

“‘Tis you who’ll seem the fool, woman! Submit to me or see this place taken from you. I’ll put it up for auction to the highest bidder!”

Silver’s face held nothing but contempt as she glared back. “Submit? To you? I’d as soon set fire to my lavender and eat soot!”

Her brother-in-law loomed closer, his hot gaze burning over her. “I doubt that. You love these cursed fields far too well to part with them.” His fleshy lips curled. “And a damned unnatural thing it is for a woman too.”

Silver’s fingers inched toward the copper pipe. “I hardly think my business arrangements need concern you, Sir Charles. You had a chance to invest and you chose not to. You would never be involved in a business ‘run by a mere woman,’ I believe you said. In that case Lavender Close Farm can be of no interest to you.”

“Oh, but it is. For you are of interest to me. And I’ll have you, do you hear me? No one is going to interfere!”

“Go home,” Silver said brusquely. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.” Suddenly she was tired, infinitely tired. Her shoulders ached and her fingers burned.

The last thing she needed was Sir Charles Millbank enacting a scene here in the middle of her workroom. She had more important things to think of — such as where the next threat against the farm might come from.

“We’ll see who’s laughing, miss!” Beefy fingers speared into Silver’s hair, forcing her closer.

Damn the man! Silver took an angry breath and jerked away. She was going to have to hurt him. She didn’t like the thought, but he gave her no choice.

Her fingers found the gleaming length of copper. “For the last time, are you going to leave?”

Millbank laughed coldly. “You don’t get your way, Silver, my dear. Not this time,” he sneered. “Yes, I’ll see young Brandon is sent packing to a nice, harsh school. A place where the masters know how to mete out discipline to unruly little boys who prefer daydreaming to doing their lessons.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Silver hissed. “He’s barely recovered from his last bout of lung contagion. A school like that would kill him!”

Her brother-in-law only laughed. “That’s hardly my problem. You should have been more agreeable to me when you had the chance.” His hot breath burned over her neck as he jerked her closer. “By God, I’ve wanted you for months and now I’m going to have you!”

Silver’s fingers clenched on the pipe. She reviewed her uncle’s instructions about the places that a gentleman found most vulnerable to attack.

She was just preparing to deliver a crippling blow to Millbank’s nether regions when a hard voice thundered through the conservatory.

“I much regret to contradict you, Millbank, but all you’re going to do now is take your hands off the woman.” Low and lethal, the words snapped from the shadows. Blackwood stood unmoving, tall and tense, a line of stark, unrelieved black from boots to mask to rakish hat.

But darkest of all was the fury in his eyes.

Silver’s breath caught at the sight of him. His rage was nearly palpable. Didn’t he know she could take care of herself?

Sir Charles took an unconscious step backward. “By — by whose order, sir?”

A pistol glinted suddenly, silver against gloves of blackest leather. “By the order of the Lord of Blackwood,” came the silken reply.

Millbank seemed to shrivel. “B-Blackwood? By God, you’ve got a nerve. But the magistrate will soon show you some manners!”

The shadowed figure by the door gave a low laugh and sauntered closer. “Carlisle? Our hardworking magistrate is only just returned from London. It appears that he cut short his trip and is right now sound asleep in his parlor, cup-shot from too much fine French brandy at the last inn he visited. So you see, Lord Carlisle will be no help to you or anyone else this night, Millbank.” The highwayman’s pistol leveled. “Now I believe I told you to release the lady.”

“Lady?” Millbank sneered. “Her? Hardly a lady.”

Black moved upon black. Hard fingers circled Millbank’s neck and cold metal locked against his throat. “Take back those words.”

“I — I—”

One hammer cocked home, then the other.

“All right, damn it. I do. I do!”

“Now apologize. To the lady.”

Sir Charles turned a muddy shade of crimson. “To her? Be damned if I will!”

The loaded chambers slid up his throat and wedged beneath his flabby chin. “Very well, damn it! The wench ain’t worth my life. I make you my regrets,” he said curtly.

The highwayman’s eyes were flecked with fire. “Louder. I do not believe the lady heard you.”

“I make you my regrets. My lady.” Millbank repeated the words icily.

“Very good. That will do for now, I think. You may remove your person from my presence. I find you intolerably offensive.”

Millbank’s fists clenched and unclenched atop his protuberant waist.

“You had something else to say?” The highwayman’s voice held a silky warning.

Millbank swallowed and shook his head.

“Very good. In that case the door is over there. See yourself out.”

With a muttered oath the baronet stumbled off. Sullen curses filled the air, then trailed away as he floundered off into the darkness.

Silver didn’t move. Words failed her as she stared at the masked figure draped against the doorway. “It was — good of you to help me. Not that I needed it, of course.” With a shaky laugh she held up the length of copper pipe.

The highwayman slid his pistol back into the pocket of his cape. “Very inventive of you. Still, I am glad I was about.” The amber eyes narrowed. “Has he done this before?”

Silver shoved back a wayward strand of hair. Now that Sir Charles was routed, she felt an odd weakness in her knees. “Never before. Not like this, at least. But why are you here?”

Behind the mask the amber eyes studied her. “It seems that I could not stay away. I count myself honored to have been at hand. To serve you will always be an honor, mignonne.”

The heat in his eyes made Silver tremble. She didn’t want his help. It was dangerous to accept help from anyone. And this man left her feeling far too restless and giddy for comfort.

She frowned at him. “Did you reconsider my business offer?”

“No.”

“Then we have nothing more to say to each other.”

“He’ll come back eventually, you know. A man like that always does. How will you protect yourself next time?”

Silver shrugged, finding it hard to think with his eyes upon her, with his tall, lean body draped against the door only inches away. She turned away, her cheeks hectic with color.

“What is it, mignonne?”

“I … nothing.”

“Did he harm you? Was I too late? By God, I’ll strangle the man if he—”

“No,” Silver said quickly. “He did nothing more than thunder out a few orders and twitch about like a dog with fleas.” She rubbed her forehead, trying to forget the ugly leer on Millbank’s face.

“He’s dangerous. Remember that.”

For a moment his anger was palpable. It left Silver shaken. There was a darkness to him, a hardness that set him apart from other men.

From civilized men, at least.

Which was exactly why she’d wanted his help. But he wouldn’t give it, so that was that. “I’ll manage,” she said coolly.

“I tried to stay away,” he said, as much to himself as to her. “I ought to have, but I heard that Millbank has been bragging about how he’s going to take charge of things here. I wanted to warn you.”

“Consider me warned. Was there anything else?” she asked bluntly.

This was clearly not the reaction Blackwood had expected. After all, he’d just saved her honor — perhaps even her life.

“Of course there is. You obviously need help in dealing with that blackguard. I shall have to take you someplace safe and give you a few lessons in the use of a pistol,” he said grimly.

Silver frowned. He would give her lessons? In truth, she was a crack shot. Her eccentric Uncle Archibald had seen to that, training her on targets of bottles and crockery in the middle of Hounslow Heath.

But Silver decided not to tell her highwayman that. He seemed to be enjoying the role of her protector. The man had probably had far too little opportunity to be chivalrous in his life. Silver decided it was the least she could do to give him a chance to learn better habits than being a cold-blooded felon.

In fact, with a little cleverness, she might even be able to divert him from the dangerous life he was leading. “You would?”

“There’s nothing to fear, I assure you,” Blackwood said soothingly. “It’s noisy, but I’ll keep you safe.”

“S-safe?” Silver bit her lip, struggling to hold back a wild giggle. First the threats, then Millbank, and now this. She could hit a target dead center at fifty paces and the outer edge at one hundred and fifty. Her uncle had once pronounced her the finest shot in three counties. “You will?”

“Of course. It’s the least I can do,” the highwayman said gruffly. “Especially since it seems that you’re so damned set on staying out here in the back of beyond without a man about to protect you.”

“Why should I need a man to protect me?”

The highwayman frowned. “I admire your spirit, but it will take more than a few warnings to keep Millbank away from you. And what about the others who threatened you and your brother?”

“It’s not your affair. You made your position very clear when you turned down my business offer.”

“Offer! It was the most hairbrained scheme I’ve ever heard.”

“There is no need to be insulting.”

“I’m not trying to insult you.” The highwayman glared. “The man is involved in serious intrigues.”

“Ah. By that you mean his visits to that house of assignation.” Silver shrugged. “I have a good idea what goes on in such places.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” The amber eyes darkened. “And what is that?”

Silver toyed with a trailing frond of camellias. “It’s a place where you men go to deal with those uncontrollable manly passions, of course,” she explained equably.

“Uncontroll—” Luc Delamere, hardened roué and traveler of dark highways from London to Somerset, made a strangled sound. They were back to those again, were they?

“Yes, I’ve figured out all about that too. The only thing is, I’ve never heard uncontrollable female passions spoken of.” Her head cocked as she studied her tongue-tied rescuer. “What about us?”

“I refuse to discuss this.” The highwayman cursed softly, goaded beyond limit.

“Pooh! That’s just what Tinker says when something begins to be interesting.”

“Whoever this Tinker is, she has my utmost sympathy.”

“He, not she.”

The highwayman’s mouth thinned. “Just who is this fellow Tinker?”

“He worked with my father. After he died, Tinker stayed on to help my brother and me.”

“I suppose you are … in love with him?” The question was carefully neutral.

“In love? With Tinker? I suppose I am, in my way. We’ve been through so much together.” Silver cocked her head, considering. “Yes, I rather believe that I am.”

Norfolk’s most notorious criminal stiffened. Silver saw fury burn in his hard eyes. “My congratulations,” he said harshly. “To you both. But I’d better be off. I have coaches to rob, innocent females to ravish.” His lip curled. “An infinitely tarnished reputation to maintain, in fact.” He offered her a swift bow, then turned to go.

Silver’s voice came behind him in a low, throaty rush. “Wait! Don’t go.”

He went very still, his broad shoulders a black slash against the flickering lights of the conservatory. “Why not?”

“Because it — it’s not like that between Tinker and me. He’s a friend, an old and dear friend, not what you think.” Then, as Blackwood still did not move, “And he is all of fifty years old.”

Slowly the highwayman turned. Some of the harshness left his shoulders. “Fifty or not, the man should protect you better,” he said gruffly.

“I can manage perfectly well by myself!”

“A woman like you deserves to be protected and cherished. Damn it, you ought to be married, with a pack of children playing at your skirts and a rich, titled husband to shelter you from villains like Millbank!”

“You presume a great deal, sir!”

“And you choose to ignore a great deal,” he added grimly. “Have you received any more threats?”

Silver shook her head. “Tinker is out in the fields right now and he is well armed, I assure you. You need not be concerned, for we will manage perfectly.”

Blackwood studied her for long, silent moments. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Sunbeam?”

“Of course I’m not lying! Besides, most people would say that you are the very sort of man I would need protecting from!”

“Perhaps I am,” he said softly. Darkly. “After all, I saved your life, mignonne, and your honor along with it. Does not that accord me certain privileges?”

Silver felt an unsettling heat in her blood. “What sort of privileges?”

Blackwood’s eyes swept her face, then slid lower, drifting lazily over her chest. “The possibilities leave me speechless.” In a whisper of lavender scented air he was beside her, his gloved hand tracing the warm curve of her neck.

Silver’s pulse began to race. He was doing it again, leaving her all in a tangle inside, making her heart skip like a pebble off stormy water. It was shameless, positively shameless. “I think you’d better go.” She was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Silver tried to tell herself it was because she was coming down with a spring chill.

But she didn’t believe it, not really. It was his presence that was leaving her breathless and flushed.

“I’m feeling rather ill, you see. I wouldn’t want you to contract my contagion,” she lied briskly.

Amber-gold eyes glittered beneath the black silk. “I begin to think being close to you would be worth any sort of risk, Sunbeam.”

Silver felt her heart race. She gave an experimental cough. “Definitely sick. You’d better go.” She raised her hand dramatically.

The movement brought her fingers across his chest. Even at that slight touch the highwayman stiffened. And then Silver saw the dark stain on his shirt. Her breath caught. “You’ve been hurt!”

“A mere scratch, I assure you.”

“A scratch? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Swiftly, she caught his waist and began dragging him toward a chair.

Her visitor gave a lazy smile. “I rather doubt that any man can tell you anything.”

“So now you’re calling me a harpy? Well, and so I might be. It comes of holding the reins for too many years, I expect.” She pushed him down into the chair, then pulled off his hat and bent to the strings of his mask.

His hard hand locked around her fingers. “No.” The word was harsh. “It would place you in danger. It is safer for you not to know my features.”

Silver sighed. “Very well. But you must sit still while I fetch you a glass of water. Or perhaps some brandy. On the other hand, Tinker has some Scotch whisky hidden down in the storeroom, although I pretend I don’t know it’s there. Should I—”

“It’s nothing.”

But at that moment Luc Delamere was in fact feeling distinctly lightheaded. Not because of his wound, although that was throbbing damnably.

No, it was because of this unexpected concern from a woman who looked so fragile that a shaft of summer sun might knock her over. After being mauled about by that swine Millbank, she was worrying about him!

The sheer, amazing novelty of it left the notorious Norfolk highwayman in shock.

“You’re not going anywhere until I’m certain of that.”

He shook his head. “I shouldn’t be here. Nothing good can come of it. Not for either of us.” He pushed to his feet, wincing as he brushed against a branch of flowering jasmine. “I don’t know what I was thinking of when I—”

Grimly, Silver maneuvered him back down into the chair. “You aren’t going anywhere until I’ve looked at that wound! And there’s no reason to be worried, because I’ve tended any number of cuts and scrapes on our farm animals. Cromwell — that’s our dog — has fleas to be treated. I’ve even handled snakebites on occasion. Lavender oil does wonders for that.”

Blackwood gave her an ironic smile. “You reassure me to no end. Draft animals, you say? Very flattering, Sunbeam.”

Silver flushed. “That is not to say … but you’re mocking me again!”

“How can I not? It brings such a lovely flush to your cheeks.” His gloved hand traced her cheek. And then his voice turned very serious. “I could make you happy, you know. In one night I could show you things you’ve never seen, Sunbeam, things you’ve never even imagined. I could bring you down the very moon and stars while you lay in my arms.”

“You are mad.” But Silver’s voice was a mere whisper. And suddenly it was she who was mad, she who was conjuring up dark images, heated visions of silken skin and hungry, tangled limbs.

“I expect,” she said softly, “that you are speaking of those uncontrollable passions. Only female this time.”

In his eyes she saw a deep hunger. She wondered if it was also in her own.

It terrified her, such hunger. Such need.

Such blinding beauty.

In that moment she knew he had to leave, wound or not. She had to make him. Otherwise…

Outside shouts drifted up the misty valley.

Silver peered out the window. “It’s Carlisle and his men!”

The highwayman did not move. “Apparently our hardworking magistrate has grown sober. How very unfortunate.”

“You must go! He has at least a dozen men with him!”

“Wonderful. I find I’m in the mood for a fight.”

Blackwood crossed his arms over his chest. “Besides, what about my wound?”

“That was before. You must go now before it’s too late!” Silver frowned as she saw the reckless set to his mouth. “For me, if not yourself. Because I — I couldn’t bear to see them hunt you down like…”

“Like a common criminal?” His tone was grim. “Ah, Sunbeam, that’s exactly what I am.”

“I don’t believe it,” Silver countered sharply. “Not for a moment. And even if you are, God forgive me, I still can’t find it in me to—” Her voice broke. “Oh, go — just go. Now, before they see you!”

Blackwood frowned and pushed slowly to his feet. “You would care if they caught me?”

“Of course I would.”

Slowly he swung one leg across the sill of the half-open window. “It is a night for surprises, it seems.”

Silver barely heard, too intent on the approaching officers. “Go, please! They’re nearly here!”

The voices outside drew closer. Sir Charles Millbank’s bellows filled the night.

Luc tensed, his hand locked on the sill. “Would you truly care, Sunbeam? If they found me?”

“Have you no fear? Go. Go now!”

“Not without your answer.”

“Of course I’d — care.”

The silver scar above his lips gleamed. “Then prove it.”

“Are you mad? They’ll be here any second!”

The highwayman’s eyes gleamed behind his mask. “It adds a delicious element of excitement, does it not?”

“You are mad!”

“Very well, then I shall just have to wait.” He brought one foot back over the sill and crossed his arms atop his chest. “No matter. I shall like nothing better than teaching that filthy dog’s hindquarters some much-needed manners.”

Silver didn’t wait to hear more.

She launched herself against him so hard that he very nearly toppled backward through the window. Her hands circled his neck.

Recovering himself, Blackwood sat looking at her, his face shadowed and unreadable.

Their eyes met. Slowly, his strong fingers rose to cradle her waist. His other hand slid deep into her unbound hair.

Silver felt a wild thunder inside her chest.

“Show me, Sunbeam.”

His voice was dark, harsh. Silver felt his need, as wild and ragged as the hunger racing through her own blood.

Dimly she heard the baying of hounds. “Go,” she whispered fiercely, hearing her blood roar, feeling her breath go ragged. He was hard, so strong, where her chin rested against his chest and her hip met his thigh.

“You said you’d miss me, Sunbeam. Prove it. Now.” In that moment he was every inch the highwayman who had stolen a hundred women’s hearts. Every inch the practiced, silken lover of Norfolk legend.

“S-scoundrel!” she hissed, caught between fury and a wild yielding.

“Virago.” But the word was a soft caress. A satin promise.

It did curious things to Silver’s chest. She scowled, realizing the infuriating man would not be budged. Desperate, she leaned forward and pushed to her toes. Eyes closed, she touched her lips to his.

Heat engulfed her. She tasted sherry and mint. Dawn wind and the midnight mist that veiled the heath.

Suddenly she yearned for more.

Her fingers rose, testing the warmth of his hair, the breadth of his powerful shoulders. The world outside the warm, perfumed conservatory ceased to exist.

“Damn it, Sunbeam.” The man beside her groaned. “You are the thief tonight. You’ve robbed me of reason and set my blood astir.” His callused hands caught her cheeks as he stared down at her, amber eyes burning. “God, but you’re sweet.”

An angry voice came from the lawn below the conservatory. “In there, damn it. And have your pistols ready!”

No more time, Silver thought bleakly. “Go! J-just go!”

“Will you be safe?”

“Safe enough. Far safer than you.”

He laughed at that, the sound as rich and reckless and dark as the man. In one fluid movement he bent toward the flickering lantern and snuffed the light.

The room was plunged into darkness.

His fingers twisted, deep within her silky hair. He pulled her against him. “So sorry to disagree, mignonne, but this — this is what a man means by a kiss.”

He caught her hungrily then, heat to her heat, need to her need. Pressing her back against the cool glass pane, he covered her, challenged her, savored her. His tongue to hers, he opened her to his heat and made her heart sing.

Silver moaned, hearing a wild drumming in her blood. Her fingers were clammy and her knees were almost certainly going to give way any second.

It was perfect heaven and utter hell to touch him so.

When his hand curved over her hips and urged her closer, it was grand and fine and fraught with madness, nothing at all like the revulsion she had felt with Millbank.

Around her glass and darkness and perfumed air faded. All she felt was the liquid slide of his mouth against hers and the hardness of his body where he captured her against the conservatory wall.

A vast heat invaded her. She knew a wild urge to give him all that he demanded, again and again, even while she claimed a dark, hot payment from him in return.

For a moment, one ragged moment, his hand found the curve of her breast. She arched against him, moaning softly.

Dimly, she sensed an end — and an infinite beginning. Of things that would take an eternity to understand. Of feelings that could bring joy or torment.

And yet the knowledge left her eager to begin.

But there was no time.

“Try around back!” Lord Carlisle’s voice rang out.

Grim faced, the highwayman pulled away and set her from him. “You test every shred of my control, temptress. A few seconds more and I’d have you half naked and I’d be taking what I want from you. You’d be wild and reckless when I did it too. I’d catch your moans with my lips as I captured you beneath me here on the floor. Do you understand me, Silver? Do you understand your danger now?” he demanded harshly.

She stood breathless in the darkness, heart unsteady, pulse wild, seeing the anger that burned from his eyes.

Reality inched back as the heat of his body began to fade.

She swallowed, her eyes huge. “It is wrong, then? To feel like this? To want you to touch me this way?”

The highwayman cursed darkly. “If you were different, no. If I were different, no. But you are fine. Oh, God, so fine. Too fine for me, for the felon that I am. I’d only break your heart, Sunbeam. I’d only take your innocence and your trust and leave them in tiny, shattered pieces. Whether I wished it or not, it would still happen.”

She could tell that he meant what he said. That he believed every dark word. Once again Silver found herself wondering what had made him so hard and hopeless inside. “I’m not afraid. Not of you.”

“You should be!” He frowned down at his gloved fingers buried in the glinting strands of her russet hair and then pulled away from her. “I won’t be back. I tried to stay away before and failed, but this time I’ll succeed. There is no future for us. Only pain could come of this.”

She heard him as if from a vast distance. It was on the tip of her tongue to argue, but she didn’t. Not now, with the magistrate and his men so close.

And also because somewhere inside her she knew he was right.

“But if you ever find yourself in real need. Sunbeam, leave a message for me in the great elm by the crossroads. There are other ways, but that is the safest. A single sprig of lavender will summon me. Otherwise…” His voice hardened.

Silver tried to tell herself it was better this way. That their lives were far too different for them to be happy together.

But the words were hollow.

“Godspeed, highwayman,” she whispered, sliding her hand across the hard jaw just visible beneath his mask. She felt his muscles tense at her touch.

Across the shadowed room angry fists pounded at the conservatory door. Heavy boots hammered over the lawn. Silver could already imagine her trampled flowers.

“Godspeed, Sunbeam.” There was harshness and pain in his voice.

She watched him go, hot-cold. Angry-sad. Her eyes burning.

His cape and boots swirled up in a blur of fluid black as he vanished into the night.

~  11  ~

“Search the cottage. Spread out and cover the fields!”

Silver stood frozen as the conservatory door crashed open. Arms akimbo, Lord Wesley Carlisle, magistrate of Kingsdon Cross and the northern reaches of Norfolk, stood scowling in the doorway.

Eight armed henchmen stood at his back, lanterns in hand.

Silver summoned up all her St. Clair pride. “What is the meaning of this intrusion, Lord Carlisle?”

“Don’t toy with me, young woman. I’m seeking that cursed highwayman. I’ll catch the felon and see him hanged, so I will. He’s eluded me long enough! Unless you want to hang with him, I’d advise you to answer my questions.”

Sir Charles Millbank appeared a moment later, red faced and panting. “Don’t listen to her, Carlisle. She knows where he is. He was here, all right. Here with her, by God!”

The magistrate frowned. “Where did the villain go, Miss St. Clair?”

“You mean the man they call Blackwood?”

“Of course I do!”

No time for pain. No time for wishing things might have been different. She had to give him time to make his way to safely.

Silver brought her hand to her neck and shuddered dramatically. “I don’t care to think of it. It — it was terrible. The man is a beast. No, a demon! His eyes glowed like coals and he seemed to float over the ground rather than walk. Beware, Lord Carlisle. By heavens, beware, for he is accursed!”

Behind the magistrate several men muttered uncomfortably and shifted from leg to leg, uncertain whether to laugh or cross themselves after this frightening narration.

“Balderdash! While she’s there raving, that brute’s getting away.” Millbank stalked to the open window and looked out. “He must have gone out here. She’s just trying to protect him, the liar!”

“Protect a highwayman?” Silver shot the red-faced baronet an innocent look. “Have you been drinking again, Sir Charles?”

“Of course I haven’t been drinking!” her brother-in-law snapped. “And well you know it, woman!”

Silver’s eyes glittered as she caught him in her trap. “But how would I know that? Did I see you earlier this night?”

Millbank cursed, then waved airily. “Not at all. It’s simply that I never drink. Never to excess, at least. And when word came to me that the highwayman had been seen in the area, I did my civic duty and summoned the magistrate.”

The magistrate had no time for crosscurrents that he did not understand. “Enough of this bickering! Damn it, where did Blackwood go?”

Silver gave a hugely dramatic shudder. “He tracked me down by the storage shed and fixed me with that searing gaze. It was as if I looked into the face of a demon, or the face of hell itself. When I swooned, he galloped off to the north.” South, it had been, in truth.

The magistrate’s eyes narrowed. “If you swooned, how did you know which way he went?”

“Oh, I recovered soon enough. When I did, I saw his horse heading toward Kingsdon Cross.”

“Obviously delirious,” the magistrate snapped. “Exactly what I’d expect of a female. Spread out, men. We’ll have to search the fields ourselves.”

“Not me, by God,” Millbank said furiously, pushing across the sill. He dropped to the hard earth with a hail of curses. “You can stand there rolling your eyes, Carlisle, but I’m going this way. The man’s obviously gone in the opposite direction from where she said. And I’m going after him!”

“Blackwood is mine, Millbank. Just you remember that!” the magistrate thundered. Lord Carlisle knew well the acclaim he would receive for capturing the notorious Norfolk highwayman and he was not about to be cheated of his triumph.

Sir Charles shrugged and disappeared, muttering angrily. In a moment the others followed, men and hounds storming over the hill into the darkness in search of their prey.

Long after they had left, Silver stood at the window, staring out at the velvet night. Even when the last voice had died and the last lanterns disappeared, she continued to stand, rigid and tense.

As the moon ghosted behind a ragged line of clouds she sighed and wiped something hot and salty from her cheek. Only then did she realize that the highwayman had pressed something into her other hand before he’d left.

It was a small muslin bag. The sort of bag she used to hold her precious lavender seeds. The seeds that she had spilled two nights before on the heath. Irrecoverable. Or so she had believed.

Her breath caught. She felt tenderness overwhelm her. “Be careful, you fool,” she whispered to the night, knowing that he couldn’t hear. But her heart whispered back. It warned her that being careful was the one thing Blackwood would never do.

As I look back now, I can see how I was deceived. It all began so innocently, you see. They were friendly enough, honest enough. Even your dear mother liked them and she was usually a fine judge of character.

But not this time.

They were careful to wait for the right moment, of course. And then — just a little favor. Just once. Only a few items tucked in among the seedling crates. I was only too happy to agree.

I never thought of looking to see what those items contained. English honor, after all. A gentleman’s word as his bond.

What a complete and utter fool I was.

By the time I realized what was being hidden among those crates, it was far too late…

As the moon rose higher, a man clambered up the hillside and made his way toward the screening woods to the north. Millbank, the magistrate, and his band had left long ago.

Hidden behind a bank of roses, Luc Delamere made no move to stop the intruder. He had contented himself that Silver’s servant was awake and armed, moving vigilantly from one end of the farm to the other. In addition, Luc had seen a large yellow sheepdog prowling about the fields.

Yes, she would be safe. For tonight, at least. Perhaps her enemies had decided to go after easier prey.

If not, he would soon know, for he had ways of finding information as well as the magistrate did. Never mind that they came from different sides of the law.

He watched the lone figure scramble up the hill and disappear into the woods. Luc decided it would be best not to intervene, but simply to follow the man in silence, since he was clearly no more than a hireling sent out to spy.

And so the spy became the spied upon. Luc’s interest, after all, was not in the puppets but the master who was pulling their strings.

~ ~ ~

Though the Green Man was crowded, the private back room was empty. It was there that Sir Charles Millbank hastened, stripping off gloves and coat as he went.

He summoned the innkeeper with an imperious nod. “Is everything prepared?”

“Just as yer lordship wished.”

“Excellent. The others should be arriving any minute. Send someone to see to the woman. She might prove to be … difficult.”

The landlord’s face tightened in a crude approximation of a smile. “Not to worry, m’ lord. Seen to ‘er m’self, I ‘ave.”

Sir Charles scowled. “Nothing too rough, I hope. I want no marks on her, do you understand?”

“Oh, aye. Nothing what’ll be visible. Leastways not by candlelight, I’m thinking.” He gave a cold laugh.

Millbank smiled. “You are efficient as always, Timmons. Very well, send the others in. And tell them the bidding will begin immediately upon their arrival.”

~ ~ ~

Two hours later Sir Charles sat pondering a half-full tankard, his pockets clinking with gold.

The night’s bidding had gone even better than he had expected. The wench had been frightened, all right, but Timmons had done his work well. By tomorrow she would be off to an acquaintance of his in London. There she would be set to work plying the trade she had begun tonight.

A pity the bitch couldn’t be made a virgin twice, Millbank thought, licking his lips at the thought of the gold such a trick would bring.

He was still smiling coldly when a voice came from out of the shadows behind him.

“You are Sir Charles Millbank, I think?” The speaker was a big man, his face the color of fine sandalwood. From his left ear dangled a gold earring. His body was covered in a cloak of black raw silk edged with crimson cord.

Millbank pushed clumsily to his feet. “I might be. Who wants to know?”

The newcomer studied him coldly. “Let us waste no time in preliminaries, Englishman. Sit down so that we may talk.”

“Dammit, who are you? How do you know my name?”

The stranger’s eyes hardened, entirely devoid of color or warmth. “I know because it is my business to know. I know all sorts of things about all sorts of people. You doubt me?”

“I doubt you,” Millbank blustered. “Besides, what gives you the right to—”

The foreigner sighed and studied his steepled fingers. “How tedious. Very well, I shall demonstrate. Right now, Sir Charles, I know that you have accumulated a great many debts to the wrong kinds of people. You are an extravagant man with bills due to be collected by a score of merchants and moneylenders. In addition you have a taste for beautiful women — and a mistress who drains your pockets more with every passing day.” The cold lips curved in a mockery of a smile. “Shall I continue?”

Sir Charles could only stare, his face the color of raw beef liver. “Enough, by God! I don’t know who you bloody are or how you found out about—”

“My name need not concern you, Englishman. As for how I know such things, it is very simple. The answer lies here in my hand.” He pulled a sack from beneath his cloak and tossed it down on the pitted table. “Money will do a great many things. Especially this much money.”

Sir Charles watched in amazement as gold coins spilled over the dark wood. “But — but there must be a thousand guineas here!”

“Close enough.”

“Why do you show them to me?”

“Because I require a service performed. Whoever performs it to my satisfaction will receive those coins.”

Greed warred with suspicion in Millbank’s muddy eyes. “If you seek an introduction at court, it’s beyond my touch. I don’t move in that kind of circle, more’s the pity.”

His towering visitor threw back his head and laughed, his single earring glinting in the candlelight. “My dear Englishman, you really are too amusing. No, I do not desire an introduction at your court. I have no wish to meet your overweight and rather squalid Prince Regent.”

“Now just one bloody minute!”

The stranger continued inexorably. “Nor, Sir Charles, do I desire to — how do you term it? — rub elbows with your overbred English lords and underwashed English ladies.”

Millbank stiffened. “You can’t just come in here and—”

“Oh, can’t I? I believe I can do nearly anything, even in this strange country of yours. My money permits it. But what I desire is such a simple thing. Perhaps I should find someone else to discuss it with.” He made to leave.

“Damn it, there’s no need to go looking elsewhere! I’m your man.” Millbank’s eyes gleamed with avarice as he bent forward. “Just name the job. For that kind of money it shall be done.”

“So confident, my friend? Perhaps you will not be so confident when I tell you what I want.”

The Englishman laughed and pushed his brandy aside. “For a thousand pieces of gold I’d do anything.”

Dark eyes measured the baronet’s face. The lines at those eyes suggested that they had faced storm and sand and the furies of nature as well as man.

Sir Charles tried not to squirm before that gaze, even as he felt sweat bead his brow.

“Very well,” the stranger said at last. “For your assistance you will receive that bag of gold — and another just like it when the job is done.”

Sir Charles blinked. “And the job?” he asked faintly, unable to believe his amazing good fortune.

“Bring me the highwayman called Blackwood. He is known to frequent Lavender Close Farm.”

“Good God, how do you know that?”

“Again, my sources need not concern you. Only that I want the man brought to me. Alive. Most certainly alive.”

“B-Blackwood. Alive,” Sir Charles repeated dumbly. “But why?”

“The whys of the matter, too, need not concern you. You would do very well to remember that, Englishman.” The coldness of the warning made Millbank pale.

He felt a stab of fear, but he ignored it. He had debts to pay, after all. Crushing debts, in truth. His wife’s dowry had been ample, but not nearly adequate for his style of life. After Jessica’s death that pinch-purse St. Clair had wanted nothing to do with his son-in-law.

Millbank frowned. He had an image to maintain, after all. That meant carriages and servants and prime horseflesh. It meant London tailors and Norwich merchants to settle with.

And lately it meant moneylenders, which drove him even deeper into debt.

No, he’d ask no more questions about this amazing windfall. He’d earn his money and be gone. It would be difficult, of course. Lord Carlisle would not care for him snatching away a prime criminal. He wanted the highwayman’s neck to twist himself.

Still, there were ways and there were ways. Especially when a thousand pounds doubled were at stake.

He nodded jerkily. “When do you want the criminal delivered to you?”

“Within seven days. Not a day longer. To stay in your cold, cheerless country longer than that would displease me.” His black eyes hardened. “Do you understand?”

Again Millbank felt a stab of fear. “Quite. One week, no more. And where shall I bring the fellow?”

“King’s Lynn. My vessel lies moored in the Channel. One of my men will wait for you near the docks.”

Sir Charles barely looked up, too intent on gathering the golden sovereigns and shoving them into his pocket.

Without warning a hard hand stopped his movement. “Do not think to betray me, Englishman. If you take that money, you must hand me over the man — or die in his stead.”

Millbank swallowed jerkily, then nodded.

“Very good. Now be about your business.”

“And the girl?” The baronet licked his fat lips as he shoved the last of the coins to safe haven. “You mentioned Lavender Close Farm and — well, it might be necessary to use her as bait.”

The stranger’s eyes slid half closed. “You are interested in her?”

“Not a bit of it! That is, I—”

“I see. You may have her, in that case. It is the man I want. He is most interesting. Yes, the highwayman makes cowards of you all.”

Sir Charles sputtered a protest, but his visitor cut him off with one beringed hand. “Enough. You cease to amuse me. You have taken my gold. Now bring me Blackwood in one week — or die.”

“I’ll bring him,” Millbank said grimly. As he came to his feet he cast a wistful look at the dark-haired beauty who had come to stand behind the stranger. She was arrayed in gold-shot silk. A glittering veil concealed her face.

Sir Charles’s eyes narrowed. “In the meantime perhaps you might consider—”

“Leave me!” came the thundered order.

“Of course, er, your — er, sir. Consider me gone.”

After Millbank had left, the stranger went to stand by the window, oblivious to the two women who came to fan him gently. His eyes darkened as he stared out at the night, toying with a carved ivory letter opener. “Wine,” he ordered harshly. “Then oysters. And then send in the new girl.”

As the veiled women hastened to obey his order, the stranger looked down at his hand. A ring gleamed at his finger. A gryphon, half eagle and half lion, crouched across the silver band and twin emeralds glinted for its eyes.

He frowned, thinking of the man whom the English knew only as Blackwood. How stupid these beefy-faced farmers were. It had taken him only a few months to discover the highwayman’s identity. But he could not be obvious in his involvement. Sir Charles Millbank would make a perfect cover. And if things became messy, then the fat baronet would be blamed.

As he turned the sharp letter opener, he thought about how he would punish the man who’d escaped him. He thought of the pain he would mete out until his victim begged for death.

The letter opener snapped in two. Blood welled up over his fingers.

His expression did not change by so much as a muscle as he surveyed the wound. In truth, it was a little thing.

“I am close to you now, old friend. Oh, yes, very close. Revenge will be most sweet.” His lips curved coldly. “And the next blood I see will be yours, Lucien Delamere.”

~  12  ~

The morning sun streamed down on Silver as she sat in the middle of the conservatory staring grimly at the chaos of bottles, barrels, and cotton wadding scattered around her.

The brutes had been true to their word. At dawn she had discovered the damage to her workroom. Glass distilling bottles were broken, porcelain potpourri jars were smashed, and a number of irreplaceable cut crystal scent flasks with golden stoppers had been stolen from the storerooms.

As the day progressed, things had only gotten worse. A row of lavender bushes had been uprooted near the south side of the farm and a dozen sacks of dried flowers were missing. The shed for storing tools was now missing a door and both windows.

Tinker had let Cromwell out from his usual fenced field the night before, knowing that the dog didn’t like strangers. But there had been too many forays at once. Bram, Tinker, and Cromwell had been busy handling one of them when Millbank and Carlisle had come in search of Blackwood. After that, Tinker had insisted that Silver and Bram stay upstairs in the house with a heavy table dragged in front of the door. When Bram, looking pale and worried, had finally fallen asleep, Silver had read on through her father’s journal.

She had tasted his fear and his anger, but nowhere did he tell her who his enemies were — or what items they had hidden among his seedling crates.

Sighing, Silver stared down at one hundred gleaming bottles of highest grade lavender oil ready to send off to the London parfumeur, Kenton and Sons.

It wasn’t Millefleurs. It wasn’t the perfume that her father had made famous from one end of Europe to the other. It wasn’t the lush fragrance that royal courtesans and titled ladies had delighted in wearing.

No, Millefleurs was lost, its formula gone forever. Her father had carried its secret to the grave.

And with it gone Lavender Close had lost its best chance at survival.

~ ~ ~

They argued all the way through a lunch of hot bread and pork pie. Tinker wanted to hide in the woods and pick off the scoundrels one by one as they sneaked past the gate. While he did it, he wanted Bram and Silver hidden safely somewhere out of the way.

“It won’t work. They’ll just send others, you know that.” Bram shoved his spectacles up on his nose. “We have to scare them — really scare them so they give up the idea altogether.”

Tinker listened thoughtfully, brow furrowed, pushing a piece of bread around on his plate. “Perhaps you’re right. Meanwhile young Kenton is coming for his lavender order this afternoon. We need that money bad. Bloody shame if these bas — er, villains scare him off.”

“Then we’ll just have to see that nothing happens until after he leaves.” Silver went to get the kettle hissing on the stove at the far end of the airy kitchen. By custom they always ate here together. Today, however, none of them had much appetite.

Silver could see from the hardness in Tinker’s gray eyes that he was considering their limited possibilities. She poured hot water into an earthenware teapot in the shape of a smiling cat and carried it back to the old polished table. “How would you do it, Bram? Scare them off, I mean.”

Her brother’s eyes lit with excitement. “Well, we could trick them, I think. Pretend there were more of us than there really are. Make them see it won’t be as easy as they think.”

She filled a cup for Tinker. “I’m all for trying.”

Tinker put down his bread and shook his head. “It’s as fair a harebrained scheme as any I’ve heard. I only wish I had a better idea.” He looked at Silver, his jaw hard. That cold look told her that he did have other ideas, but he would wait to see if Bram’s way worked first. “Since I don’t…”He looked at the clock on the wall. “We haven’t much time until Kenton arrives. Whatever we do had better be good.”

“Capital!” Bram eagerly pushed away his plate and tugged a sheet of paper from his pocket. He’d barely touched his food, Silver noticed anxiously. And his face was far too pale. But at least he wasn’t wheezing.

Not yet, at least.

Pushing up his spectacles, the boy peered down at the well-marked sheet. “We can start with a small ditch here and some lines strung through the fields. Then a few traps rigged outside the drying rooms. I’ve already made a map. I think I have rather a talent for sketching, in fact.”

Interested in spite of himself, Tinker leaned forward. “Oh, you have, have you, stripling? So where are we to start?”

~ ~ ~

Two hours later Silver was fingering one of the green glass bottles containing private blends made up for certain of the Kentons’ select clients who had ordered from her father. The oils were in perfect condition, preserved in the icehouse since their distilling the prior August.

Not Millefleurs, but still useful. Young James Kenton was to bring her a bank draft immediately upon his arrival, and the money would come just in time. Silver was already one week behind in wages to the few workers she could still afford, mostly women who helped her at the peak times when flowers were being harvested for a first distilling.

Outside the first of the wagons, well packed and cushioned by layers of cotton wadding, creaked off on the two-day trip to London.

A moment later James Kenton bounded in, all creased broadcloth and smiles. “All done, I believe, Miss St. Clair. May I compliment you again on your fine products. Lavender Close Farm will soon be a force to be reckoned with. Now that Mitcham produces so little lavender, Kenton and Sons needs new suppliers, and I am confident that you will be our very best.” He held up a small vial of Silver and Bram’s latest perfume blend and studied it intently, noting its translucence and mellow golden color. Then he uncorked it and sniffed lightly. “Yes, a fine fragrance, full but delicate. A pity it’s not Millefleurs, of course. Still, it’s quite superior to any I have tested these five years and more. Whether here or in France, I might add. In short, you are a success, Miss St. Clair. And I shall see that every ton beauty and society matron in London knows that.”

If we’re still here, Silver thought bitterly. If we still have any lavender fields left…

“You are very kind, Mr. Kenton.” Silver tried to ignore the warmth in the gentleman’s eye. “I am delighted that our lavender meets your high standards.” When the perfumer continued to stare at her, she crooked her head and smiled. “Was there something else?”

It seemed to fire him to sudden motion. “Miss St. Clair — Silver—” He strode across the room and caught her hand. “Forgive me, but I must speak. When I’ve come to Norfolk in the last two years and seen you here amid the lavender, it’s been heaven and hell for me. I know that I asked you a question last year at this time — I also remember your answer. I have not plagued you, I hope, but I must assure you that my feelings remain unchanged. You would do me a great honor in agreeing to become my wife.”

Silver felt a tightness in her throat. James Kenton was energetic and responsible. In two years he would be a full partner in his father’s thriving enterprise; in five years he would be the acting director, no doubt.

But as much as she liked the young man, and as many interests as they shared, Silver knew her answer must remain the same.

She could not marry where her heart was not given. She remembered her own parents’ happiness too clearly to accept anything less in a marriage.

She glanced anxiously toward the door, afraid that Tinker or Bram might appear. “Mr. Kenton, I really—”

“Cannot you call me James? Not even once?”

“Very well, James. You pay me a great compliment, I assure you, but alas, I can give you no different answer. I wish it were so, believe me, but…” She sighed, twisting a sprig of lavender in her fingers, letting the clean, fresh fragrance fill her lungs.

“Is there someone else?”

“No.”

“Then forgive me, Miss St. Clair, but I must speak. I cannot help noticing that you are not comfortably positioned here. Your expenses grow with each year. You need more capital to invest in improving your seeds, expanding your area of cultivation, and trying new varieties. I could help you do all that. Kenton and Sons is perfectly prepared to—”

Silver stood quickly. “Pray, do not continue. Your offer is all it ought to be, James. And your interest in our few acres is most gratifying.”

“Few acres! These are the finest lavender fields in England!”

“Very well. But it can have no bearing on my decision. I will not marry where my heart is not bound. And, forgive my directness, though I like you a very great deal, I do not love you.”

The sandy-haired visitor studied her wistfully. “That might change. I hope, I pray, that you might grow to love me. Let me try, Miss St. Clair. I can make you happy, I know I can.”

Silver thought again of Sir Charles Millbank’s venality and his threats to send Bram off to school. Maybe she was being selfish. Maybe she should marry James Kenton. He was a decent man. Lord knows, he and Bram would have enough to talk about for two lifetimes.

But she knew it would never work. She could not think of marrying where her heart was not given.

Because her heart was already given?

She sighed. “You are a fine man and you will make some woman an admirable husband. Unfortunately, that woman cannot be me.”

“But why? You talk of love, but is it so very important? We are comfortable together, we like the same things, speak the same language. Isn’t that enough to base a lifetime on?”

Silver’s fingers knotted. “No. At least — not for me. Besides, I would be an altogether unsatisfactory wife. I would always be disagreeing, always wanting to do things my own way.” She gave him a slightly wistful smile. “You’d wish me at the very devil after a single week.”

“Never,” Kenton said fiercely. “But is it because of the boy? He could come with us, you know. He could have the run of the London warehouse. I daresay we could find him a tutor, too, if you do not care to have him sent to school.”

“You are very kind. But no, it cannot be.”

Kenton studied her closely. “You are certain? Your answer will not change?”

Silver nodded, unable to speak.

“Then I shall not plague you further. You have made your feelings clear, and I thank you for that.” He turned and slowly drew on his gloves. “I must think of my father, you see. He grows anxious for grandchildren and an heir to carry on his enterprises.” He looked away. “I — I think it better that I not return for the summer inspection. I will send my foreman instead. He is a thorough fellow.” Kenton studied the lavender fields and sighed. “I expect I shall marry within the next year. Father’s been after me these last six months and more and — well, I don’t imagine we’ll meet again, Miss St. Clair. But I shall carry the memory of you in my heart.” His lips tightened. “It has been a pleasure to do business with you.”

With a formal bow he turned and made his way to the waiting carriage that would convey him back to London.

There will be men you can trust and men you cannot, my daughter. You must learn to see the difference as the web of danger grows tighter around you. Trust not their words or even their fine gifts. Let your heart lead you, for only with your heart can you find the measure of another being.

Perhaps I spent too much time among my herbs and plants. I did not know how to mistrust, you see. I did not suspect the treachery that men are capable of.

I learned my mistake far too late.

Silver was still standing at the window thinking about the entry in her father’s diary when Tinker came in, brushing dirt from his hands.

He fixed her with a knowing look and shook his head in disgust. “He asked you, didn’t he?”

She nodded.

“And you, stubborn female, stood there and turned him down.”

Another nod.

“Blast it, Miss Silver, what in the name of—”

“Don’t, Tinker. It would not have been right. All the affection was on one side. In the end we would have been fretting and angry and hating each other.” There was an edge of desperation in her voice. “I couldn’t marry him, don’t you see?”

“Nay, that I do not see. Not in spite of all yer fine and clever roundaboutation.”

Silver’s fingers tightened on one of the clean but threadbare curtains. “Don’t, Tinker. Not now.”

“Then when? Oh, you’ve money in your pocket now, but how long will it last? There’s new equipment to be bought for the summer distilling, and that last bunch of seedlings yet to be paid for. This year we’ll have to take special precautions, lest that area of leaf-rot spread here as it did through Mitcham two seasons past. And now on top of all that, this band of blackguards comes trying to scare you away. How do you propose to deal with that?”

She clenched her hands together. “We’ll manage. We have done well up until now,” she said fiercely.

“But there’s young master Bram to think of. And up until now you didn’t have that offspring of a stubborn donkey sniffing around, forever making life miserable for you.”

Silver gave Tinker a lopsided smile. “You’re mixing your metaphors again, my old friend. Now I know that you’re upset.”

“Bloody right, I’m upset! And I’ll mix medafers whenever I like — whatever they are. So don’t try an’ distract me, hear? Sir Charles Millbank was here last night, wasn’t he? Right before the magistrate and his men came. Don’t try to lie to me.”

Silver sighed. “I won’t. I hoped he would tire of these games and find more amiable prey.”

“Oh, it’s prey the man’s found. He’s had women from here to Southold. Why, right now he’s got—” Tinker stopped, mumbling irritably as he pulled out a kerchief to mop his dusty face.

“Right now he’s got what?”

“Never you bleedin’ mind. ‘Tain’t fit to speak of, not to a lady like yourself.”

So Millbank had set up a mistress, Silver thought. That being so, she was surprised he had any interest left in her.

“What do you mean to do now?”

Silver shrugged. “I suppose I’ll go down and see to those new lavender beds by the north end. They’ll need to be hoed, I expect.”

“‘Tis not about plants that I was talking, girl!”

“No?”

“No, it’s Sir Bleeding Charles Millbank I was talking of, and don’t you try to dance yer way around it!”

“Sir Charles will grow tired of his games, Tinker. Until then I shall have to be more vigilant.”

“Vigilant and armed to the teeth! The man’s short a sheet, I don’t mind telling you.” Suddenly Tinker frowned. “I don’t suppose as how you’ve taken that highwayman into your head.”

“Highwayman?

“Aye, highwayman. I saw how you looked that night when you came back from the heath. And how you looked when you came back from town! So don’t go telling me you haven’t thought about him.”

“Dear Tinker, I wouldn’t try to convince you of anything because I could never succeed. You’ve stubbornness enough for ten men.”

“Which gives me half the stubbornness of you, miss,” came the gruff answer. “And if there was a more obstropulous female ever born, I have yet to meet her!”

“Come, let’s cry friends, Tinker. I’ve a free heart, tied neither to young Kenton nor to the dashing and dangerous Lord Blackwood. There, does that satisfy you?”

“Not by bleeding half, miss. For I can see by the sadness in your eyes that the blackguard’s already got to you. Aye, and don’t go trying to deny it.”

Silver felt a burning in her throat. Suddenly she had to talk to someone. “You’re right, Tinker, he was here last night. He — he came just after Sir Charles. And if he hadn’t come when he did…” She made a low, desperate sound.

“So that wretched excuse for English nobility did touch you! Why in the name of blessed heaven didn’t you tell me last night after Carlisle and his men left?”

“Because you’d only have taken your pistol and gone out after him. Then you’d be in Norwich gaol waiting to be hung.”

“Mayhap I would, but ‘twould be a mortal great pleasure to see that man dead first.”

“Hush, Tinker. He’s not worth your death!” Silver glared at her old servant. “I won’t have you swinging from the gallows over Millbank’s foul antics.”

The old man scrubbed at his grizzled face. “Reckon as how you’re right. Very well, ‘twill be no pistols at dawn.” He gave her a wicked grin. “But that’s not to say I might not fall into a good set of fisticuffs by moonlight. Now away with you. I’ll keep an eye on things tonight. Cromwell and this rifle will be all I need. Tomorrow we’ll see about getting help from some other town.”

Silver touched his shoulder lightly. “Be careful, my friend. Not that you would ever listen to anything I say.”

Tinker’s eyes took on their old twinkle. “Stubborn, am I? If so it’s only because I’ve grown worn out from delivering you and Bram from one scrape after another.”

“Don’t you think I know that, you dear man?”

Tinker made a gruff sound of protest, but his cheeks were pink with pleasure. “Aw, git on with you. Just trying to wrap me around your finger, that’s what you are.” He snorted. “Problem is, every time you manage to do just that!”

~ ~ ~

Night covered the lawns of Waldon Hall when Luc Delamere looked up from pulling on his polished boots. “Why don’t you go rob some fine, upstanding pillar of Norfolk society and stop bothering me?”

“Because I gave that life up ages ago, Master Luc.” Jonas Ferguson, a lean Scotsman with keen eyes, stared at the highwayman who was the scourge of Norfolk. “Which you should bloody well know, seeing as how your father was the one what made me change my ways.”

A small furry head emerged from beneath the rumpled bedclothes. Two clever eyes peered up at Luc, who lifted the sleek ball of fur to his chest. He stroked his squeaking pet, then sighed. “And just look where it got you, Jonas. Now you’re accomplice to the country’s most notorious highwayman and you have a price on your own head to boot.” His eyes narrowed as he studied the black silk mask on the bed. “How long has it been?”

“Since … that night?” Jonas said the words stiffly, as if he had trouble speaking of it even now.

That night. When his life might as well have ended. “Yes, that night.”

“Four years, I reckon.”

“You’re wrong. It’s been five.” Luc stroked the ferret’s silky pelt, his jaw going hard. “Five years, three months, and twenty-one days.”

Luc settled his pet back on the coverlet and pushed to his feet. In grim silence he reached for his shirt.

Outside the windows the moon drifted cool and mocking behind a waterfall of silver clouds.

“I’ll tell you again, Master Luc. Don’t go.”

“I’ve got to go. You of all people know that, Jonas. There’s too much at stake not to go.”

“Give it up, won’t you? Aye, give up this crazy life once and for all. Go back home to Swallow Hill where you belong, where all the Delameres belong. Where your people have been born and buried for six hundred years and more.”

Luc gave Jonas a sad smile. “I never realized you knew so much Delamere history, Jonas. But since you do, you’ll also recall that Delameres don’t cheat. They don’t lie. They don’t rob carriages or ride the heath by moonlight.” He slid the supple black shirt over broad shoulders, a shadow in a room filled with shadows. “They most certainly don’t turn traitor to their country.”

The old servant snorted. “Even if they was made to do it?”

“Not even then.” Luc’s lips hardened. “Even if their country did forget all about them. No, things like that just don’t happen to a Delamere.”

“But it happened to you,” Jonas said stoutly. “Aye, and Delamere blood runs blue through your veins. Nor was you doing anything to deserve it happening that way, Master Luc.”

The highwayman shrugged. “But it did happen, my friend. First Southold, then Rouen and Algiers. I can’t pretend that they didn’t. Nor can I forgive whoever was behind it.”

Luc caught up his cape from the scrolled mahogany bedpost. Muscles rippled across his back as the satin slid into place.

Luc’s eyes glinted, amber and catlike. He found his saddlebags and inspected the two pistols inside. “Did you know there was a Delamere at Agincourt? And another with Marlborough at the Battle of Blenheim in 1704?” The full lips curved in an uneven smile. “I can only wonder what they’d have to say about the heir to the dukedom of Devonham taking to the high toby. Probably the same thing my father would say — if he knew. Which he bloody well isn’t going to.”

“Tell him, Luc. Andrew Delamere’s a good man. Damn it, he’d understand. What’s more, he’d find a way to help you.”

“No.”

Flat.

Cold. As if he’d been over the reasons a thousand times before. “I can’t go back there, Jonas. Not until I’ve tracked down the man who did this to me. Maybe not even then. If you can’t accept that, you’d better leave.” Luc slung his satchel over his shoulder and strode toward the door. “I won’t be back till morning.”

Jonas shifted from foot to foot, looking angry and worried at the same time. “You expect me to be here to sew you together when you come back full of lead?”

Luc shrugged. “I expect nothing.”

“And who is it to be tonight, then? Lord Carlisle? Lord Claydon? Or will it be Sir Charles Millbank this time?”

Luc paused. “Millbank? Robbing that bloated bore would be a pleasure, to be sure. But alas, tonight I must pay a visit to the good Mr. Abercrombie.”

“The jeweler what lives in Kingsdon Cross? Are you out of your mind, boy? Do you mean to take up common shop breaking now?”

Luc studied the tip of his foil, glistening like liquid silver in the moonlight. “I have my reasons. Besides, you err greatly, my friend. There is nothing at all common about the Lord of Blackwood, I assure you. And if you do not believe me, then any number of enchanting ladies will vouch for the fact.”

Jonas scowled. “Females, maybe, but not ladies. And it’s common all the same,” the old man muttered. “But if you’re set on being stubborn as a stoat, then so be it. I wash my hands o’ you, Master Luc. Give my kind regards to Mr. Abercrombie, I’m sure. Provided you don’t get take up by an officer o’ the law on the way,” Jonas added darkly.

“Not a chance of it, my dear friend. Blackwood is invincible, don’t you know? Impervious to bullet and sword alike. No one and no thing can harm the man.”

Jonas snorted. “Common, just like I said. Otta be back at home. Otta be back at Swallow Hill where you belong, you damned fool boy!” He glared at Luc, shaking his head.

But Luc was already on the stairs, and the last thing he wanted to think about right now was his past. He shut his mind to memories of graceful green lawns and the sun-dappled walls of Swallow Hill, the Delamere family’s grand sixteenth-century home in western Norfolk. He shut his mind to the Devonham title he had been reared to inherit.

Now he had to focus on hard, cruel reality in the shape of a rare ring — a ring of beaten silver with inlaid emeralds worked in the shape of a fantastic animal.

It was a ring Luc had not seen for over five years, but he was not likely to forget it. The ring had been the last thing he’d seen before he was knocked unconscious, gagged and tied, then delivered, still unconscious, to the stinking hell of an English prison hulk where he was left to die.

But fate had intervened. He’d finally escaped from the prison ship and been picked up by a cruising French frigate. There he’d been fed, healed, and given his freedom of the ship. In return he had given his service willingly.

Which made him a traitor to his country. In a matter of months the jaded aristocrat became a hardened seaman with a savage hunger for revenge against the man who had seen him delivered him to a slow, agonizing death in that stinking prison ship. Against the men who had seen to it that he stayed, even after he was sane enough and lucid enough to protest that he was entirely innocent.

No one had even listened to him.

But sanity, Luc had soon discovered, was a relative thing. Innocence, too, was soon lost amid the unspeakable cruelty of a prison hulk, crammed two hundred to a deck in stormy seas.

Hope had lasted even less.

Now Luc lived only for revenge upon the man who had destroyed his life. If luck was with him, he would find the name of that man tonight.

But first he had an errand to attend to.

~  13  ~

From her bedroom window high under the thatched eaves, Silver watched darkness cover the hills. Somewhere over the trees a nightingale sang its first sad notes, while the moon climbed pale and proud over the rolling fields of lavender.

The boy is next.

It was up to Silver now. She pulled out her hastily sketched map of the route to the Green Man. One of the workers had told her how to find the seedy inn on the edge of the heath. He’d also told her it was just the sort of place where one could hire men for gold — and no questions asked.

Just the sort of place where four bullies could be hired to run an unarmed female, a boy and an old man off forty acres of lavender fields.

Silver glared down at her map. She’d go to the Green Man and find out who was trying to force her to leave. And then she’d simply deal with him.

All by herself. Her pistol should accomplish that nicely.

She didn’t need anyone else’s help.

Smugly, she slid the map onto a rosewood bookshelf by the window. As she reviewed her plans, she straightened a little silver-handled brush and a pair of celadon bowls filled with potpourri.

With a sigh she shrugged off her old linen shirt and stepped out of her threadbare breeches.

And then some instinct made her turn. She walked through a bar of moonlight, her body all silver and curves as she opened a drawer in the big oak armoire.

Her eyes were wistful as she pulled out a cloud-soft gown of white cambric.

It had been her mother’s. The neckline was ornamented with white embroidered roses and white ribbons clustered around the deeply gathered sleeves. Silver liked to wear the gown sometimes. It helped her to remember that she had once had a mother. That once she had been happy. That once there had been a family and teasing and mock arguments shared before a fire laden with teakettle and toasting bread.

She raised her arms, letting the wind kiss her skin while the fine scent of lavender and mint and bergamot drifted through the air.

Sighing, she sank onto her bed and drew the gown over her shoulders, then began to pull the pins from her hair. It fell about her shoulders, dense and dark except for the fine streak of white that ran back from her forehead.

Silver fingered the bright streak slowly. Once she had hated it, but now she wore it proudly. Now that white band stood for memories that she never wanted to forget, marking the day that she had learned of her father’s death.

If her memories failed, the streak of silver in her hair would always be there to remind her.

And she was glad of that.

She slid her brush through her hair, watching moonlight dance through the curtains, listening to the crickets hum in the lavender fields.

And as she did, she tried not to think about a shadow. About a legend. About a man whose name was uttered in whispers or not at all.

A man who might well be a murderer many times over.

She tried not to think about any of those things as she stared out the window, watching the curtains move slowly.

And then she saw him, real and no dream.

Dark shoulders. Black mask. Unyielding jaw.

The reflection filled her cheval glass. He stood by the window, tall and unmoving, one shadow too many in the silent room.

Silver caught back a sharp gasp. She spun about, her gown sliding off her shoulders.

Unnoticed, her brush clattered to the floor and pins scattered from the bed.

Her hand went to her breasts, tugging at fabric that suddenly seemed too sheer. At skin that suddenly seemed too hot — and yet far too cold.

“Sunbeam.” One word, it pierced straight to her soul. One name, it conjured up an eternity of hopes, an infinity of silly girlish dreams.

But Silver was no silly girl, not anymore.

She took a step back. “You.”

“I tried to stay away. I couldn’t.”

Silver’s hand rose to her throat. “You … watched.”

It was no question. She’d felt his dark gaze upon her. Maybe some part of her had always known he was there.

And welcomed him.

Her cheeks flushed crimson. Her chin rose in an angry slant. “You — you were there. You watched. So you saw me—”

“Beautiful.” He whispered the word. She could almost feel it touch her, drifting against her naked shoulders, her unbound hair.

“No, I’m not. I’d know if—”

“Beautiful,” he said. “Beautiful beyond any dream. Beyond permission. You deny a man his very peace.”

Her eyes widened. She watched him cross the room to stand behind her. The mirror reflected every move, white against black, woman before man.

His fingers slid into her hair. “I wanted to watch. I wanted to be like the moonlight, touching you everywhere. Damn my black soul to hell for it.”

She barely heard his curse. Her heart was too busy stumbling over the other images his words invoked. “But why? In Kingsdon Cross you acted as if you wanted me gone.”

“So I did. But then I was drunk. And tonight, oh, tonight I’m only drunk with the sight of you, Sunbeam. And since I’m stone-cold sober I tell myself I’m strong enough to be here. To come close to you like this.” He laughed darkly. “But sober I’m a thousand times more dangerous, little one. Because tonight I’m just a man. A hardhearted criminal on the scent of soft and easy prey.”

“You — shouldn’t have come.”

“Of course I shouldn’t. But I wanted to come. And Blackwood never denies himself anything that he wants,” he added harshly.

Too harshly? To convince her or himself? Silver thought. “But it’s too dangerous.”

“So it is. You’d better take that pistol on the table and use it.”

Silver made an impatient sound. “Not dangerous for me, but for you. Millbank might have someone out there watching.”

The amber eyes went bottomless beneath the mask. “Little fool,” he whispered. “The danger is for you, don’t you understand? From me. From what I’m feeling — and all the things I’m thinking of doing. Doesn’t that frighten you?”

Silver felt her throat grow hot and hollow. “Yes.”

“And so I should frighten you.”

Her hand rose, a pale line of denial. “Not, not you. It’s the way you make me feel that frightens me. I don’t understand it, not any of it.” She swallowed, forcing out the words. “It’s all — very strange.”

The highwayman cursed. “How have you grown up without anyone teaching you that you can’t be honest? You have to be cold and hard and hide the important things away in your heart.”

“Did that happen to you?”

“It happens to everyone,” the man in black said harshly. “But not to you.” His hand trailed over an auburn curl. “Somehow you have escaped that hard tutelage.”

Silver swallowed, trying to clear her dizzy thoughts. “You’d — better go. Someone might come. They’ll catch you and—” She fought down a small, lost sound.

“Ah, Sunbeam, they’ll have a hard time catching me, that I assure you.”

Her hands clenched at her chest, which seemed weighted down by cold, heavy stones. “Don’t joke about it!” Her voice broke and she covered it with anger. “I hate it, do you hear? And I hate you.”

“Of course,” he said slowly, his fingers moving through her hair, velvet over velvet. “Yes, I understand perfectly.”

“No, you don’t! You ride off at your ease and come back the same way. I don’t know who you are or anything about you! And all the while I can’t help thinking. Wondering. Worrying that they — that you—”

His arm went around her waist. His lips were in her hair. Silver shivered, assailed by emotions she’d never known before.

“No,” he said roughly. “They’ll never catch me. Have no fear of that. Murder me, perhaps, but never catch me,” he added, with a sardonic laugh.

“You think it’s all a joke?” Her throat tightened at the thought. “And what makes you think I’d care if they did catch you? I wouldn’t, you know! N-not even if they dragged you off in chains. Not even if they threw you into N-Norwich gaol.” She spun about. Her open hand struck his chest. “So go away. Go away and never come back!”

“If that’s what you want.” But he didn’t move.

“It is.” Her hand brushed crossly at her cheeks. “Just leave.”

He frowned down at her damp face.

“Go on! I’m not crying, you know!” She gave a defiant sniff. “This is not crying and these are not tears. I hate you, do you hear? You’re a common thief. A highway felon. A man with no scruples and n-no sense of honor.” The words tumbled out, ragged with pain. “You d-deserve to hang, just as they say!”

“All too true.”

“Don’t argue with me.”

The silver scar gleamed at Luc’s mouth. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Sunbeam.”

A shudder went through her. “Don’t agree with me either. I don’t want your charm or your promises or your smiles. And don’t joke. Never joke about death. It comes when you least expect it,” she said fiercely.

“You’re right. I’ll watch my words more carefully in the future.”

“You’ve got to go. It’s not safe here.”

“You’re right, it isn’t.”

“Then go. What if they followed you? What if they—”

“Soon.” His fingers searched her cheek and feathered over the full mouth he yearned to kiss. “Very soon…”

He tried not to look lower, where thin cambric hugged full, lush nipples.

He closed his eyes and drew in the delicate scent of lavender and roses, a scent uniquely her own. “You smell like a sweet, endless summer afternoon, Sunbeam. I can think of nothing else, damn it. All I see is your skin, your eyes. All I hear is your voice, low and breathless.” His fingers tightened in her hair. “Those things make me dream. And for a man like myself dreams are very dangerous things.”

He stared at their reflection in the cheval glass. His, hard and angry. Hers, pale and questioning.

And young. By all his oaths, far too young.

He had never been so young or innocent, Luc thought grimly. Not even as a mewling infant of two days.

So what was he to do about her? About the dangerous way she made him feel right now?

“Come away with me.” The words shocked him as much as her.

Her eyes widened, green flecks amid shimmering gold. “Why?”

Luc smiled faintly. Not where or when. All she asked was why, this volatile, vulnerable girl-woman with eyes of green and gold. She sliced through every bit of trivia right to the very heart of things.

For her, motive was all that mattered. The meaning. The long, sharp probe right into his heart.

Oh, she was rare, this woman. And somehow he had to protect her.

Even from himself.

“Why?” He traced the heartbreaking arch of her lower lip, feeling his muscles harden fiercely at the contact. “Because it matters. Because you matter. And it’s been far too long since anyone mattered to me like this.”

“Not good enough, highwayman.” Her eyes shimmered, changeable as the sea that washed over the Norfolk coast.

“Damn it, woman, don’t you see your danger? Can’t you see what I am?”

Danger jumped and pulsed around the man like marsh fire. It wrapped itself about the hard shoulders and danced in his amber eyes.

And Silver didn’t care.

She was lost. Maybe she’d been lost ever since that first moment when she’d stared deep into his eyes and fallen, body and soul, just as her old nanny had warned she would.

Don’t look into his eyes, my girl. One look into his eyes and you’ll be lost forever.

Maybe, just maybe, all those dark tales were true…

“Show me, highwayman. Show me what your danger is made of. Or is this more of your boasting?”

The scar at his lips danced. His eyes seemed to grow darker, pulling all light from the room. “You’re not afraid of me?”

She shook her head.

Luc laughed harshly. “Then you should be, innocent. And now I’ll show you why.”

~  14  ~

It was madness and folly.

Temptation and utter recklessness.

But Silver tilted her head back and stared into that hard, chiseled face, feeling her world tilt irrevocably.

Letting herself fall. Down, down so deep…

“You don’t know what sort of danger you’re courting, woman. It’s been too long. And what I’m feeling is too—” The black silk stretched taut as his jaw hardened. “You’re just a girl. And I — dear God, I’m too much a man. Too many hard dawns a man. You would do far better to forget you’d ever met me.”

His shoulders locked. Carefully he touched the curve of her cheek. “But, oh, you make me feel young again. I never thought I could. For that I’ll always thank you.” His touch was gentle as the moonlight spilling through the window.

“Thank me now.” Her words slid out in a tumble.

His fingers tightened, just as his whole body tightened at her answer. Desire slammed through him, hard and hot as an African sirocco.

Passion. The desire he’d thought he could bend to his will. But now he found he couldn’t.

How could he with her hair an auburn cloud beneath his fingers? With her body silver poetry against his chest? “You still don’t believe me, do you?” His eyes darkened. With a hard curse he pressed her back against the wall.

“Afraid I don’t.”

“Then you will,” he said grimly. He found her wrists and anchored them beside her head. Bone by bone he made their bodies lock, muscle to hungry muscle. “You’ll soon hate me.”

“Never,” she whispered.

Luc tried to ignore the hunger in her eyes. He ran his thumb over her wanting lips, watching desire haze her glorious green-gold eyes. “Do you want this, Sunbeam?”

She only shivered, her lips parting slightly. Her fingers shoved off his hat and combed through his dark hair.

Then Luc was the one who groaned as desire blurred his own gaze. His head bent. He tongued her lower lip, felt her quiver. His teeth scored her gently, then pulled the soft flesh into his mouth.

She was sweet ripe fruit. He could have her, then and there. He knew it. She would meet him with rare fire, her passion as swift and sharp as his own.

His hands tangled in the storm of her hair. His body found hers, all softness and warmth, her thin cambric gown no more than cobwebs between them. How much he wanted her!

He tugged her head back and let her feel his hunger, praying she would tense and pull away.

But she didn’t. And he was left to groan when she opened to him, every movement honest, untutored, rich with innocence.

In that moment seducer became seduced. Luc drowned in her textures, in her giving, barely able to rein in his need.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders. A moan broke from her mouth, locked against his.

More heat. Luc thought he would die of it. He had to stop. Right now. Before he did something they’d both regret.

She wasn’t made for mindless rutting. She wouldn’t be able to face herself after something cold and impersonal like that.

He had to stop before—

Very gently her tongue touched his.

His body screamed. He cursed the tide of desire that her touch aroused.

He wanted her now. Hard and fast, right against the wall, with her white thighs spread and wrapped around his waist. With her unbound hair spilling through his fingers and his name the only thing on her lips.

He was shoving up her gown before he knew it, filling his hands with her soft, ripe breasts. She gasped softly, then pushed against him.

Her nipples were already hard, tight and sweet like cherries against his callused palms.

He wondered how they would taste and knew he had to find out.

Because he was dying and only she could save him.

Only the feel of her, only the heat of her locked around him.

He arched her backward and slowly took one crimson peak between his teeth.

She moaned.

At the ragged sound Luc looked down, madness pounding in his head. His breath caught as he saw her silver thighs, the shadowed tangle, the pale curve of her breasts anchored in his hard hands.

In the end it was only that which saved her. Only the sight of her softness against his rough fingers.

His hands that had known too much cruelty and had meted out too much cruelty of their own.

He didn’t want that for her, Luc thought dimly, fighting his way up through the madness and the heat. For her he wanted only summer lavender and cool Norfolk nights. Only hot desire that built and built and built until—

“I can’t do this. Sunbeam. Not — to you.” He slid the fine cambric over her trembling curves, his eyes hard. “I’m the last man in the world who should be touching you like this.”

She blinked, hardly hearing.

“You don’t understand, do you?”

Her eyes were hazed, uncomprehending. She was too innocent to understand what fires he’d kindled.

But her body knew. And it screamed for a release.

Luc saw her tension, her blind wanting.

And he knew there was only one way to finish it. Cursing himself, cursing what he’d begun, he found her silken curls and pushed higher, into the tight wet sheath beyond.

Her breath caught in a soft, husky moan.

He laid his brow against her forehead, fighting his desire. “So sweet, Sunbeam. Tightness and heat everywhere I touch. Open to me. Let me feel all that sweetness.”

“I — I don’t understand.”

His fingers drove deeper, claiming and possessing, giving her the thing she hadn’t yet learned she needed.

And Luc was a master at passion — even if he was a wretched failure at love. His fingers shifted. He nudged past damp silk to tease the tight, hidden bud of her sensation.

Her head fell back. Her body arched. “Oh, no, I can’t! It’s too—”

Abruptly her eyes widened. Her hands dug into his back.

He saw her breath catch. Her eyes seemed to glow. He watched her shudder as passion crested through her like a bright flashing wave. Most of all he felt the sleek tremors where she sheathed his hard fingers.

Pain. He was certain he would die of it. But his triumph saved him.

He’d done it. Now she would understand. Now he could walk away and leave her, certain that next time she’d be more careful about making reckless offers to unknown men.

Yet the thought of her like this, yielding and beautiful, open to any other man, left Luc hard faced and scowling.

He was still trying to understand why when her eyes opened. He’d expected uncertainty and regret. Pain — even anger.

But nothing like the joy and unblinking honesty he saw. “Oh, Sunbeam, don’t. Don’t look at me like that.”

“I shouldn’t? Is it wrong?”

She slid her hands around his neck and sighed, moving closer. Luc frowned, fighting his way through a wracking wave of tenderness. “Not wrong. But dangerous, too dangerous for words.”

Cursing, he pressed his lips to her forehead and went very still, fighting his desire, fighting to stay sensible and responsible.

For once in his wretched life.

“I don’t understand.”

“No, I can see you don’t.” He sighed and tried to ignore the desire that still tightened his body. His chest was aching again and he propped one elbow against the wall, hoping the pain would ease.

Abruptly, she went stiff. “You’re in pain. Why didn’t you tell me?”

There it was again, that honesty that reached inside him and made him feel eighteen instead of the thousand years old that he was, gray and stooped with bitter experience.

“There was no need. Besides, I can barely feel it,” he lied coolly.

“You still should have told me.”

“Why?”

“Because I could look at it. I have oils. Lavender, rosemary…” Her voice was raw with worry.

The sound sent a devastating trail of warmth sneaking up through Luc.

Go now. Get away before you hurt her more.

“No need. I’ll be fine, I assure you.”

He was interrupted by a flutter at the curtains. Two sleek forms appeared, ears high, tails twitching. “What is it, beauties?”

The furry shapes skittered across the floor and raced up into his arms.

“W-what are those?”

“My ferrets. Beautiful, aren’t they? Smarter than most men I know.”

“F-ferrets?” Silver echoed breathlessly.

“Oh, not just any ferrets, Sunbeam. I make you the acquaintance of the two finest thieves this side of Newgate. Here is my lady Stand.” He pointed to a finely furred gray female. “And here you have my lord Deliver.” The second animal was black with piercing green eyes.

“Stand … and Deliver.” Silver laughed softly at the highwayman’s utter impudence.

“Alas, yes. I fear I am a weak man and the temptation was too hard to resist.”

And then Luc’s eyes narrowed as his pets began to squeak. He peered through the window. “It seems that my two friends have come to warn me we have company.”

“Out there?”

Luc nodded grimly.

“But who—”

“That, my sweet, is exactly what I mean to find out.”

She reached out, caught his hand. “It’s not safe. You cannot go out there!”

A faint smile curved his lips. “A few minutes ago that was exactly what you wanted me to do.”

Her lip trembled. “Not when you might find yourself walking into a trap.”

He touched her cheek, something dark and fleeting in his eyes. “I can take care of myself. It’s you you’d better think of.” He turned to the window and carefully pulled aside the curtain. His two small pets clung to his shoulder, silent and intent. “And I do believe I see our visitor. He looks to be alone.”

“But how will you get down?”

“By the good offices of your linden tree. The same way I got up.” He studied her for a moment, his jaw hard in the moonlight. “Don’t trust me, Silver St. Clair. Until this business of the threats is done, don’t trust anyone.”

“Wait! The seeds — you brought them back and I never thanked you.”

But he was already gone, swinging over the sill and dropping effortlessly to an overhanging branch.

Silver watched, forcing herself to stand stiff, to wait until his head disappeared. Finally the leaves stopped moving.

Outside all was silence.

And the hot tears spilled down against her checks at the knowledge of all she had gained — and all she had lost.

I called your mother Silver, too, did you know that, Susannah? There was a reason for it, but it was our secret. It may hold true for you as well, but I cannot know that. Someday you will discover it, if your heart is given to a man who loves you. I pray that it will be so.

Until then, choose carefully and well.

They are hidden here at Lavender Close, all the secrets that you need. I can write no more. You must find them for yourself.

~  15  ~

Sir Charles Millbank studied his mistress’s lush form, swathed in a cloud of diaphanous silk. “Come here to me, temptress.”

The Frenchwoman battered her kohl-rimmed eyelids and giggled. “Not yet, anglais. Me, I wish to drink more wine.”

The baronet frowned, red with exasperation, but turned to fill a glass for his unpredictable companion.

“Not the pewter, my Charles. The crystal, if you please.”

Millbank muttered a low oath as he moved to obey this newest demand.

“Eh bien, this one, she is very nice. I will drink me well of her.” Elegantly, Angélique tipped back the crystal goblet and let its contents spill down her throat. She managed to allow a speck to run onto her chin. “Quelle bêtise. I shall need a serviette, dear Charles,” she purred.

“No linen to touch your lips, hoyden. I’ll take the excess.” He bent across her and ran his tongue over the sherry. “Sweet. But not half so sweet as you are.” With a grunt the Englishman pulled into her arms and made to maneuver her into the elegant little chaise she had coerced from him on his last visit. The wood frame had come from Paris, and the embroidered silk all the way from China.

She gave him a calculated pout. “Not on my so elegant chaise, Charles. It is not at all convenable.” She saw the irritation sweep his face and immediately put on her most seductive smile. “Here, my silly one. On the nice settee before the window.” She patted an ample, if slightly fraying piece of furniture set before a curtained alcove that gave onto a second-story window above the main thoroughfare of Kingsdon Cross.

Nettled, Sir Charles did as directed. “I’ve been waiting half the night, Angélique. I begin to grow unamused with your games. I’m an important man, you know. A man with a vast amount of money.”

The blonde enchantress drew herself to her full, fluffy height of not quite five feet. “You overstep your place, monsieur. I am a courtesan of the highest rank. Such a woman deserves to be treated with a delicatesse that you do not possess. I only seek to teach you the arts of l’amour.” She cuffed him under the chin lightly to take the sting from her words. “But since you have been such a good boy tonight, I shall go to make myself more comfortable.” She gave him a melting look and then rose to her feet, at the same time sliding her white hands over her hips.

Sir Charles’s face turned a mottled red. He reached out for her, eager for the evening’s pleasures to begin, but was treated to naught but a teasing laugh.

“So impatient, are you? But not yet, my dear Charles.” The Frenchwoman tripped off into the adjoining room.

She was most careful to leave the door ajar, however, so her protector could see every tantalizing movement as she went about her disrobing. Every minute Millbank grew more heated.

“Angélique, are you not ready yet?”

Silken laughter greeted him. “A drink, I believe, mon amour. Your choice grows more excellent by the day.” Since the wine had been of Angélique’s own selection and commandeered at vast expense all the way from Bordeaux, this praise was patently unearned.

But this did not rob Sir Charles of any of his pleasure. He preened himself, tugging proudly at the front of his protruding waistcoat, and cleared his throat. “Of course, petite.” He pronounced the word laboriously, managing to sound English in spite of all his effort. After filling another glass, he made to carry it to Angélique.

“No, no, mon chou. You must place it there by the window. Me, I shall be but a moment more. You like this, non?” Since she was wearing little more than a skim of transparent organdy and two pearl earrings at that moment, Sir Charles most decidedly did like.

In fact, he liked so much that the vein at his forehead looked as if it would burst any second.

With unsteady fingers he set down Angélique’s drink and went back to refill his own.

And in that brief interval a hand slid from behind the curtain. Catching up Angélique’s drink, gloved fingers emptied it through the window, then returned it empty to its resting place.

The Frenchwoman sailed through the door and bent to look for her drink, then pouted with displeasure. “Charles, you wicked one. Why do you give me no wine?”

“Wine? Slap me if I didn’t just fill you one, Angélique. Put it right there, so I did!”

“Well, I see me a goblet of glass but no wine inside it, vraiement.”

Sir Charles shrugged, already more than a little fogged by the copious amount of wine he had consumed. Laboriously he refilled the goblet and set it by Angélique, who turned to study her carefully rouged face in the little mirror above the fireplace.

When she did, black-gloved fingers once again emptied the crystal, then returned it to its place.

The Frenchwoman looked down and stamped her feet. “She is one of your plaisanteries, no? Another of your English jokes?”

Sir Charles gaped at his mistress. “What the deuce are you talking about, Angel? Filled it up myself, I did!”

The Frenchwoman stamped her satin-shod foot again. “You know that I do not wish to be called by that word.”

“You mean Angel?”

“That word, exactement! You will serve me well not to use it no more.”

“Anymore,” the Englishman muttered, increasingly confused.

“Eh bien, so now you correct my English! I suppose I am not at all good enough for you. Me, Angélique, who have tasted the pleasures of Napoleon and the grand King Louis himself!” Her Gallic ire was rising with every word.

Sir Charles frowned. “Now, now, no need to put yourself into a taking, puss. I only meant—”

“That I am stupide! That I am the very hindquarters of a donkey, non?”

“But I said nothing of the sort, Angél — er, Angélique. I only meant—”

“Tiens, what you meant was of the most perfect clear. And me, I feel no more in the mood for company. So you will go. Now, before I throw this glass at you.”

Sir Charles blanched, recalling the cost of that particular goblet she was clutching so angrily in her white, perfumed fingers. “You mistake me, Angélique. Come, come, let us not quarrel. It was my fault, all my fault. I must have given you the wrong glass.” Seeing her begin to relent, he hastened to hand her another drink. “Let us forget this silly argument.”

His mistress sniffed. “What do you English know? Your weather is bad and your food is even worse. And everything here is of such a wildness! All I hear is of this Blackwood, a sauvage who races the highways, plundering innocent females and seizing whatever he wishes. It is affreux.”

“No more,” Sir Charles said smugly. “In a few more days Lord Blackwood will be gone forever and I will be the most famous man in Norfolk — perhaps even in England.”

His mistress looked unconvinced. She strode back into her boudoir. “Eh bien, now I must check my coiffure. The wind, he is blowing dreadful strong in here.”

“Wind?” Sir Charles by now had learned to mind his tongue around his fiery French temptress. “Yes — er, of course. Meanwhile here’s your wine. Have a sip and all will be right and tight again.” Shaking his head, he turned away to fill his own glass, then emptied half in a gulp.

Frenchwomen. If they weren’t so damned desirable, he’d have nothing to do with them, Millbank thought grimly. Next time he’d set himself up with some nice, biddable young thing from Yorkshire or Dorset. Someone who didn’t throw crystal or enact fiery scenes.

But not yet, he decided. Angélique knew how to do things with her hands, with her hot, scarlet lips, that drove him absolutely wild.

Yes, decidedly not yet, he thought, remembering all that had happened the last time he was in her bed. Hot with desire, he finished his glass and poured himself another.

Once again gloved fingers reached out and emptied Angélique’s goblet.

When Charles turned, Angélique was glaring at him, fire darkening her perfectly rouged cheeks. “Diable!” The blonde beauty shook her ringlets and stamped her little foot. “Me, I like these tricks not at all!”

The florid Englishman scowled at his utterly incomprehensible mistress, feeling his patience wear away. “Enough of these dramatics. I trust I need not remind you exactly who pays for that wine you consume so freely and that crystal you toss about in your tempers. Also that exceedingly expensive gown you have just spilled perfumed powder all over. Now cease this nonsense and come here to kiss your lord and master as you ought.”

“Lord? Master?” A stream of scalding French assailed his ears. In short order Sir Charles was condemned as the bastard son of a Marseilles pickpocket and a Rouen street prostitute, while his person was portrayed in terms most close to a four-legged ass.

The Englishman spat out an oath. “Enough, Angélique. It is your duty to receive me — to submit to me.” His voice grew cold with arrogance. “And you will do it here and now, do you hear me?”

“Hear you? I expect everyone in this stupid little village has heard you! Oh, comme tu es vulgaire!”

With that she spun about, hurled herself quivering with anger through the door to her boudoir, and slammed it shut.

The bolt slid home with a thump.

“Angélique, enough of this shameless disobedience! I’ll have no more of it, do you hear? Come out now or I’ll—”

At that moment broad shoulders encased in black silk eased from behind the curtained alcove. “Problems, Sir Charles? She is a firebrand, that one. You have all my sympathies.”

Millbank gasped and swung about. His hand went to his throat. “You! By God, is there no end to your effrontery?”

“None, I believe,” the Lord of Blackwood said comfortably, leaning back against a silk-covered wall. “But let me give you a little advice about women. It is best not to push them too hard, you know. A bit of sugar here, a soft caress there, and you’ll make much better headway than with a stream of curses.”

“I’ll give you advice! Aye, after I see you hang!”

The highwayman merely twirled his purloined goblet lazily, then emptied it. “A satisfactory wine. I would have preferred something with more character and more staying power, but perhaps this is best suited to your tastes and abilities.” He set the crystal down gently, his dark eyes never leaving Sir Charles’s mottled face.

And then, very slowly, his foil hissed from its sheath and rose to Millbank’s neck.

“But I think you show very poor judgment in the women you harass, my friend.”

“W-women?”

“Alas, I refer to Miss St. Clair.”

“S-Silver? What gives you the right to defend that damnable—” Abruptly, the foil’s point lodged against his throat.

“I don’t believe I heard that. I could not, could I, my so dear friend?”

“Er, n-no. That is, I—”

“Excellent. Now we shall begin again. Miss St. Clair is not to be further disturbed, do you understand me?”

A desperate nod.

“Not good enough, I’m afraid. Say the words.”

“Silver — not to be b-bothered.” Sir Charles was gasping as he spoke.

“And you will cease to visit her at Lavender Close Farm. Ever again.”

“Dash it, man, that’s—” Cold steel flicked lazily against his chin. “Er, that is, I won’t. No more. Lavender Close F-Farm,” he finished hoarsely.

“Very good. You are a man of tolerable sense, I see. And now, I shall trouble you only a moment longer and then you may return to your fetching mistress. You will have your hands full with that one, I think. But first, I’ll have your word that those shipments of copper pipes you’ve been holding up will miraculously be restored to Miss St. Clair tomorrow.”

“Shipments?” the baronet blustered. “Don’t know what in the devil you’re talking about. I’ve nothing to do with—”

Again razor-sharp steel played over Millbank’s person, this time settling low to brush the part of his anatomy that had been hard and clamoring for his mistress. “I suggest you think harder, my friend,” came the silken warning.

“Very well. Yes, I bloody well have been holding them up! Damned improper for the wench to be turning her hand to a common trade. My own sister-in-law! By God, the whole countryside’s laughing at me!”

“And they’ll laugh at you more if you should happen to have an accident, my dear Charles. An accident that deprives you of that part of your flaccid anatomy that is determined to seek its pleasure in Angélique’s bed this night.”

The Englishman blanched. “You — you wouldn’t!”

A slow smile played over the hard lips shadowed by the black mask. “Shall we find out? Here and now?”

Millbank turned the color of day-old oatmeal. “N-no, damn you!”

“Very well. Then I believe that Lavender Close Farm will hereafter be removed from your itinerary.”

After a moment the rotund peer gave a stiff nod.

“I don’t believe I heard that.”

“I shall p-pay no more visits to — to that woman.”

For a moment the highwayman’s eyes took on a dangerous glitter. “That woman? What exactly are you trying to say, my friend? If you have slurs to cast, then you’d best do it clearly so that you can be understood.”

Sir Charles, though a bully and a braggart, was no fool. “It was, er, nothing. None of my business, after all,” he added stiffly. “M’ wife’s sister. Her problem if she—” He caught himself as the highwayman’s blade inched against his neck. “Er, none of my business at all.”

“Exactly,” Blackwood said silkily. “And I suggest you remember that, Millbank. I have ears everywhere, you know. If I should happen to discover that your tongue has been wagging…” His sword flashed.

A fragment of white linen floated to the floor. There it lay, quivering in the wind.

“I trust we understand each other?”

“Er, q-quite.”

“Excellent. Now I have a curiosity to know where you acquired all that gold.”

“What gold?”

Blackwood pulled a fat purse from Millbank’s pocket and tossed it on the rug. “That gold.”

“Er — won it at the gaming tables. Yes, had a streak of luck, so I did.”

“But you haven’t been to the tables,” came the relentless silken voice. “Not tonight. Not last night either.”

Sir Charles began to sweat. “A p-private game, it was.”

“Indeed.” The highwayman’s foil rose.

Then he frowned. Voices were approaching down the hall. “Turn around,” he ordered the sweating baronet.

In one swift movement Blackwood tore a strip of satin from the damask curtains and tied it around Millbank’s eyes. “Now you will count. Up to five hundred, shall we say? And you will not move until you have finished. Is that clear?”

“Very.”

“I am delighted to hear it. You may begin.”

The Englishman began to count, his voice unsteady. After a few moments Blackwood inched into the alcove beside the open window. But not before he had relieved Millbank of half of his gold sovereigns. There were worthier causes that money would go to — starting with Silver St. Clair.

Millbank was at thirty-five when the highwayman slipped into the darkness. He was at ninety when Angélique opened the door of her boudoir. Her rouged lips pursed with surprise when she saw the curtains flapping loosely behind him.

“Charles? Whatever do you do there? And that cover over your eyes — it is more of your silly games, non?”

“Angélique? Is — is there anyone behind me? Anyone else in the room at all?”

“No, of course not. Only me. But why—”

“Then shut up, damn it, and come untie me,” Millbank ordered furiously.

~ ~ ~

“Damned fool whelp. Always were, always will be.” Jonas stared at the dark figure leaning unsteadily against the door. “What deviltry you been up to now, Master Luc?”

“Nothing for you to worry about, Jonas.” The man in black swayed slightly. “Just a bullet from one of Carlisle’s men tonight.” He stripped back his cloak, frowning.

“Not again! You’re bleeding like a pig, boy! What have you got for brains?” Jonas caught Luc as he began to sway. He stared angrily at the reckless figure who had been in his keeping since he was a lad of seven.

“Don’t know how to bend,” he muttered, tugging at the damp linen. “Don’t know how to do nothing but have yer own way. Aye, it’s a Delamere ye are, through and through. From one end of your stubborn head to the tips of your arrogant toes.”

“Delamere no more,” his half-conscious burden muttered. “Jus’ Black’od. Damned bloody highwayman. Wanted f’m Norwich to Nottingham. Ladies love me, don’ ye know?”

“Ladies, bosh. Light-skirts mebbe. Jes like yer father, ye are. Aye, full of fire and bother, old Andrew was. Till he met yer ma, that is. See if she didn’t turn him right round her little finger though.” The old servant studied the jagged wound he’d uncovered at his ward’s shoulder. “Wish the duchess was here now, damned if I don’t.”

Suddenly hard fingers caught at Jonas’s wrist. “Don’t tell ‘em. Can’t tell ‘em. I’ll bolt if ye do. Don’t think I won’t.”

“Hush yer mewling, Master Luc. They’ll be hearing nothing from Jonas Ferguson. I’ve held my tongue this long, and I reckon I can hold it awhile longer. But the day’ll come when they have to hear. And when it does, see if I don’t plant myself right down beside you so I can watch the fur fly, boy!”

Luc made an unsteady sound that was part gasp and part laugh. “Agreed.”

“Now shut your jabbering so I can have a go at that hunk of lead.”

As the candles danced, the old servant bared Luc’s wound, doused it liberally with brandy, then ran his knife through the candle flame.

Blade in hand, he frowned down at his unmoving ward.

He’d pulled the boy from his first riding accident. He’d picked him up when he’d fallen senseless from his first apple tree.

And he’d put him back together again after a year in the hold of an English prison ship.

Damned if he’d let the boy down now, Jonas vowed fiercely. “Gonna hurt, Master Luc. Reckon you know that.”

His charge, now a hard-muscled man of twenty-eight, cracked one blurring eye. “It always hurts, Jonas. Everything does, don’t y’ know?”

Jonas sighed. For Luc Delamere it had certainly been so. “Happen I’d best get it over with, then. Drink this down.”

Luc’s lips twisted, making his silver scar glint coolly. He tilted the bottle back, swallowing with difficulty. “A good vintage, Jonas. Make y’ m’ compliments. I await your pleasure…”

Jonas cursed softly. The blade fell. Steel scorched through tender skin.

But Lucien Delamere did not flinch, not even when the acrid smell of burning flesh filled the air. “Do y’ know, the French think they know how to flog — nothin’ c’mpared to the Dey’s old boy. Aye, Hamid knew how to strip off ev’ry inch of a man’s back, y’ know. Had a bloody passion for giving pain, that one.”

Gritting his teeth, Jonas probed through torn tissues until he found the ball of lead. “Found it,” he said gruffly. “Almost done now, boy.”

“No rush. Jus’ thinking about Hamid. Ever tell y’ about the time he found me trying to escape? Had me tied up and called for his special whip. Now that was pain…”

Luc blinked. The next moment his head dropped back against Jonas’s supporting shoulder. The old servant scowled as he pulled the bullet free.

“Sleep, boy. Damned if you haven’t known too much pain already.” Carefully he settled his unconscious charge against the clean white sheets and finished his work.

Jonas shook his head as he stood up and doused the candle. “Something tells me there’s more pain to come. Especially if you can’t get this mad idea of revenge out of that stubborn Delamere brain of yours.”

~ ~ ~

He awoke shaking, pale. Unsure of where he was. Just like all the other times.

His callused fingers pulled at cool linen, but he felt instead the rake of hard ropes and the bite of burning leather.

It could have been any one of a dozen places or a dozen savage memories.

Southold. Rouen. Algiers.

He didn’t know or care. In his dreams they all burned together, a red-orange blur of fury that singed everything it touched.

And so he fought. The way he had always fought before.

His arm swung out, knocking over pillows and the branch of candles long guttered beside the bed. The crash of metal rang through his head, shaking him from impossible memories.

England. Norfolk. Sweet dawns and velvet nights.

Home again.

Oh, God, if only it were true. If only he could go home again…

Luc Delamere sat up, blinking, his fingers in his long, dark hair.

Free — and yet never free again. His tortured memories would see to that.

~  16  ~

Tinker slept outside that night behind a tangle of berries that overlooked the only road from Kingsdon Cross. When he came back at dawn, he was dusty and tired and he sported a bruise over his right eye. He also looked very happy.

“Did you get them?” Bram launched out of his chair and hurtled toward him. “Did you tie them up and beat them within an inch of their lives?”

“When did you become so bloodthirsty, cub?”

Bram flushed, suddenly self-conscious, caught between the innocence of a child and the grave responsibilities of an adult.

Tinker ruffled his hair. “Not that I mind. You’re a help, young ‘un, and that’s a fact.” The old man’s eyes lit with dark humor as he recalled the night’s events. “Aye, I caught a couple trying to sneak into the drying room. Broke one of the fellow’s arms. Gave the other one a lump on the skull he won’t soon forget. If we’re lucky, that should be enough to scare them off for now.”

If we’re lucky. Silver studied Tinker’s eyes. They were cold, the color of fenland granite.

The coldness told her he didn’t think it would be enough.

Silver fought down a wave of despair.

“But we can’t count on that,” Tinker continued flatly. “So sit yourself closer, Master Bram. Let’s talk more about this idea of yours.”

~ ~ ~

They untethered Cromwell at three just as Bram suggested and finished rigging several traps an hour later. Now two ditches crisscrossed the field near the conservatory and several holes disguised by leaves dotted the path up to the house.

Silver studied their handiwork, trying to convince herself it would be enough. Finally she and Tinker went up to rest, knowing that they would need their strength for the night to come.

Bram, meanwhile, settled himself on the porch overlooking the path up through the valley. He was pale and Silver didn’t like him involved, but there was nowhere else for him to go. Their parents and uncle were dead. Lavender Close was all they had left.

“The boy’ll manage fine,” Tinker said when he saw Silver frowning. “Grown up a lot these last few days, he has. Reckon you should be proud of him.”

“I am. But—”

“No buts, Miss Silver. No choice neither. That boy’s all the help we have. I couldn’t get no other men from town. Most likely that braying ass Millbank has been stirring them up.” He sighed. “Now you go and get some rest. I’ll be sure to wake you before dusk.”

~ ~ ~

“Best be waking up, miss.”

Silver came awake with a jolt. Tinker was shaking her shoulder, looking grim. “What — what is it, Tinker?”

His eyes were cold, she noticed, and he had her father’s old musket slung over his shoulder. Would the thing even fire? she wondered. “What’s happened?”

“Bram saw someone sneaking up from the valley.”

Quickly Silver tugged on her boots over the breeches she had fallen asleep in. “Is Bram safe?”

“The boy’s just fine. And everything is ready,” Tinker added grimly. “It’s time to teach our friends a lesson that will keep them from ever coming back.”

Silver tugged on her hat and followed Tinker into the gathering twilight, praying that they could do just that.

~ ~ ~

Luc stood in the unused ballroom at Waldon Hall and watched a dust mote dance over the polished floor.

He was tired.

He was also confused. And this confusion was something new to him. In the five years since his capture he had set about his life with ruthless efficiency, every act and emotion dedicated to but one end.

Revenge. Sweet and full. Against the faceless strangers who had destroyed his life.

Only now, for the first time since that bitter night, Luc found it was not going to be easy. Instead of the stark tones of black and white, there were bits of gray and pastel emerging to soften his point of view.

Dangerous, damn it. Only by being strong could he do what had to be done. Only by being as ruthless and focused and inhuman as his enemies.

And so Luc had been.

Until one moonlit night on the heath when fate had tossed a russet-haired firebrand into his path. And then, sweet heavens, how everything had changed.

With every breath, with every look, she made him softer. She made him remember things he couldn’t risk remembering. Soft things, warm things. Half-forgotten things that were part of his old life.

Golden summer afternoons at Swallow Hill.

Warm, dancing candles in a room filled with laughter. He could almost see her in that room, laughing with his mother, teasing his hoydenish sister. She would be perfectly at home there. They would all adore her, especially his iron-willed grandmother.

Luc smashed his hand against the wall, feeling pain jolt through him. And he welcomed the pain as if it were a friend. Pain he knew well and could always endure.

But this other feeling, this quickening, this softness, this impossible burst of hope…

That was something Luc could not bear to feel again.

He studied his face in the mirror, seeing black hair and a single diamond gleaming amid the lace at his neck.

He saw the face of Lucien Delamere, heir to one of England’s grandest titles and richest estates. But the eyes that stared back at him were older than they should have been — schooled in pain no man should ever have known.

But he was a Delamere no more, Luc told himself, frowning. He could never go back to being that careless, rakehell aristocrat. He was only Blackwood, only a criminal wanted across the length and breadth of England. Now his one true home was the night.

~ ~ ~

“What in bleedin’ hell are you doing there, boy?” Arms crossed, Jonas Ferguson surveyed his charge with shocked concern.

Luc went on wrapping his muscled forearm, gritting his teeth against the pain. “I’m dressing for a masquerade ball, of course. I shall go as Napoleon and you shall be my Josephine. You’ll look exceedingly handsome in white satin, I think.”

“Ach, my lord, you’re an offense to my eyes. And you’re bleedin’ all over my fresh-washed floor!”

“Jonas,” Luc said sharply. “No titles.”

“Very well, my — er, Master Luc. Only, it don’t seem bloody proper, somehow, not when you’re by every right a marquess.”

“Not now, I’m not. Remember that, Jonas.” Luc gritted his teeth as he twisted the linen tight. “And my profusest apologies about the floor.”

“Bloody fool.”

“Did you say something, Jonas?”

“Pay no mind to me. Not that you ever do. My lord,” the reed-thin servant said defiantly.

Luc sighed. “I told you, no titles, Jonas. One slip could be fatal. It’s Blackwood now.”

“Outside, mebbe. But in here it’s ‘your lordship’ and that’s that.”

Luc finished wrapping the gauze around his throbbing shoulders and tore the end free with his teeth. The wound hurt like the devil, but it would have to do. Meanwhile, he wasn’t going to succeed in changing Jonas’s mind.

He gave a final look in the mirror. His black cape was immaculate. He looked every inch the dashing demon of the road.

Norfolk was full of men who would enjoy the celebrity of being waylaid by the notorious Blackwood, men so wealthy that they wouldn’t miss a few hundred pounds here or there. Many of them had extorted the money from others in the first place.

Yes, Luc had picked his targets carefully. First had come a venal financier who boasted of huge profits made from the obscene trade in human cargo out of Africa. Second had been a professional gamester who specialized in ruining naive young sprigs just come into their inheritance. Then two weeks ago Luc had run to ground a brazen bigamist from Dorset who had fleeced three wives of immense dowries, then left them penniless and disgraced.

The money from that night’s foray had gone back to the ladies in question, though none was ever told the name of her secret benefactor.

It was a dangerous game, yes, but Luc enjoyed the danger. He courted it, in fact. The desperate recklessness that sang through his blood helped him forget his bitterness.

But never for long.

Beyond him came the clang of metal. The Marquess of Dunwood and Hartingdale and heir to a dukedom smiled as Jonas tossed him a rapier of etched silver. “Dear me, aiding and abetting, are you, Jonas? I thought you didn’t approve of my little masquerades.”

“I don’t. Reckon you’ll get us both killed someday. But till then I’ll be stuck to you like a burr, see if I won’t. ‘Tis a blood oath I swore when you carried me from that stinking jail and I’ll be damned if I’ll break it now, no matter how pigheaded you are. You’ll be needing that foil, I reckon. And you’ll need your wits about you, too, for that magistrate Carlisle is no fool.”

Lucien raised the exquisite rapier carefully, savoring its perfect balance. “Don’t worry about me. It will take more than a boozy country officer of the peace to topple the Lord of Blackwood’s neat lay.” His hand settled on the servant’s shoulder.

“So you say, my lord. Me, I think I’ll bide my time and see.”

“Your confidence warms my heart.”

The old servant sniffed. “Crazy, that’s what it is. It’s a damned close game you’re playing, my lord, and I don’t like it.”

Luc offered him an elegant bow. “So little trust, my friend?”

“Aye, clever you always were, I won’t deny you that. But cleverness won’t carry you through this time. I wish we’d never come back here!”

“There was no choice, Jonas. This is where the trail led. I will find the owner of that ring, I assure you. And when I do—” He bit back an oath and turned toward the door.

“What if you don’t find him? What if all this talk of rings is just a hoax?”

“Then I’ll soon know that too,” Luc said grimly. “My criminal role affords me the perfect opportunity to find all I need to know.”

“Ought to be better ways,” Jonas said gruffly.

“But there aren’t, old friend.” Luc touched the sprig of lavender hidden inside his shirt next to his chest.

“Maybe cleverness is all I have left, Jonas. Maybe when hope and trust are gone, cleverness is all that anyone has.”

“Then go home, boy. Go back to Swallow Hill. Your ma would have you back in a second, if only you’d—”

“Out of the question. And we’ve had our very last discussion on this subject.”

“Damn it, boy, when will you listen to reason? Your arm and shoulder are fresh wounded, you stand the risk of being captured any moment, and still you insist on this harebrained notion of revenge?”

Luc raised his arm, flexing the muscles gingerly. “My arm will mend soon enough. But I will not go back to Swallow Hill, Jonas. I cannot after what has happened to me. I am not the same man who was dragged away. The Dey of Algiers saw to that.” He hefted the rapier and made a swift, angry thrust through the air. “Never, Jonas. Do not bring up the subject again.”

~ ~ ~

Tinker caught the first of them behind the drying shed armed with flint and cotton wadding, trying to set it ablaze. A neat right hook and a bruising crosscut sent the man spinning down onto a mound of verbena and drying violets, knocked out cold.

Bram, meanwhile, was keeping guard in a ledge above the workroom. When the door creaked open and a man in a coarse brown hood crept inside, Bram pushed a forty-pound sack of oats over his head.

That unwanted visitor went down instantly too.

But Silver wasn’t so lucky.

As she crouched in the shadows behind the conservatory, grimy fingers wrapped about her neck. “What’s this?” a hard voice growled.

Though her heart was hammering like church bells, she swung her foot toward the man’s shin.

The blow had absolutely no effect. Her captor only laughed as his beefy fingers tightened. The next minute Silver’s hands were jerked behind her. Even as she twisted, tough fingers gripped her throat.

Spots danced before her eyes. She tried to scream, but no sound came. Her lungs burned as her air was cut off. Hold on, she told herself desperately. Someone would come.

“Not like yer weren’t warned, woman.” As if from a great distance Silver heard the harsh voice drone on. “Only yerself t’ blame, ye bloody little fool.”

The earth began to spin. Too late, Silver thought dimly, her throat burning. Blindly, she scratched at her captor’s face.

He jerked her sideways and hurled her into a corner.

When she looked up, it was into the flat gray muzzle of a pistol.

“Aye, a real shame. Yer be a right tasty-looking piece an’ no mistake. Shoulda listened to my advice that first day I warned ye to leave.”

Silver backed toward the wall. Silently, she searched behind her, feeling a broken barrel stave, the coarse weave of an herb sack, and finally the thick handle of her mallet. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it would have to do.

Fingers trembling, she gripped the wood.

She was wondering how in heaven she would distract the brute long enough to club him when she heard shrill barking up the hill. A moment later a heavy body crashed through the dense underbrush.

Dear, stupid Cromwell.

Her attacker cursed. “What in the—”

It was all the time Silver needed. She lurched forward as ninety pounds of quivering muscle and dusty yellow fur exploded against her dumbstruck attacker. Then Bram appeared carrying a wooden casket, which he flung at the intruder’s knees.

Silver chopped down on the man’s gun hand with her mallet and sent his pistol flying.

Cromwell finished the job, knocking his prey to the ground and sinking his teeth into the wool at the man’s chest.

“Get ‘im off! Get the bleedin’ monster away from me afore he tears out my throat!”

It was all an act, of course. Cromwell would never do more than make a furious fuss, but Silver wasn’t about to tell her attacker that.

As she dusted off her hands and came shakily to her feet, she heard a rumble of appreciative laughter. A tall figure in black slid from the shadows between two hawthorn trees and lowered the pistol clutched in his gloved fingers.

“What a merciless trio you make, to be sure. When I heard the dog barking, I thought you might need some help.” He studied the terrified man shuddering beneath Cromwell’s paws. “It appears I was wrong.”

Silver blinked, watching the black mask dance and sway. “We can manage p-perfectly, thank you.”

“Oh, you can, can you?” The voice tensed. “Sunbeam?”

Silver shoved a cloud of auburn hair from her eyes as the ground swayed beneath her. She studied the black-clad face with fierce concentration. For some reason it wouldn’t stop dancing up and down.

And there was such a peculiar feeling in her knees.

“We’re fine, as you can see. There’s no need at all for you to involve yourself in our … in our” — she blinked and gave her head a shake—”concerns,” she finished unsteadily.

Then she pitched forward in a swirl of white linen and scattered lavender buds, right into the highwayman’s arms.

~  17  ~

It was not going to be a good night, Luc decided, looking down at the woman in his arms.

Just then a lanky figure with wild white hair lurched toward them. On his back was slung a heavy, rusted Brown Bess rifle twenty years out of date and an iron war flail that looked as if William of Normandy might have carried it at Hastings.

The rifle fell, leveled dead on Luc’s head. “Put her down, damn you!”

No, not a good night at all, Luc thought grimly.

The man strode closer. He had to be all of sixty years old, Luc saw.

“Drop that pistol and let go o’ the girl.”

“I think not.”

Cromwell barked.

Brandon blinked.

“Now, I tell ye! I just ran off three blackguards and I don’t mind shooting another!”

Luc had no intention of complying. But negotiation seemed advisable. “Perhaps we should talk about this.”

The rifle shook with fury. “Are ye deaf, man! Put the girl down!”

Luc eyed his wild-eyed adversary, wondering where the man had come by such an ill-chosen set of weapons. “No,” he said flatly.

“Then prepare to find yer head shot in two.”

At this point Bram shoved up his spectacles and peered at Luc. “I think you’re making a mistake. He’s not—”

“Just you stay away from him, Master Bram. He’s as deadly as he is clever. You get yourself over here and out of my range of fire.”

Bram. That meant he was Silver’s brother. Luc saw the same honesty and innocence in the boy’s eyes. Frowning, he turned back to the man with the rifle. “I doubt you’ll have any range of fire at all with that thing. The priming pan’s not closed and you’ve probably lost most of your powder. Besides that, you’ve forgotten to set your lock to full cock.”

“I knew that,” Tinker snapped. Muttering, he flipped the firing-pan cover closed, then cocked the lock.

“Stop, Tinker. He’s not one of them.”

“Who says?”

“I think he came to help.” Brandon stared at Luc, his eyes wide. “By Jupiter, you’re Blackwood, aren’t you? You’re the famous highwayman!”

“Infamous is more the word,” Tinker said crossly. “And what’s this about helping? Miss Silver told me you sent her about her business.”

Luc lowered his pistol. “I would be happy to explain everything, of course, but before we talk, I suggest we make certain there are no more of those swine at work!”

Tinker frowned, his shoulders stiff with suspicion. “No need. I ran ‘em all off — the ones these young ‘uns didn’t knock out cold, at least.”

In Luc’s arms Silver sighed and began to stir. Her hand sought Luc’s neck. Her thigh slid against his.

It felt good. Too good, Luc decided a moment later, feeling muscles clinch that ought not to. Feeling a hot swift ache that he hadn’t felt in weeks.

Maybe forever.

Silver sighed sleepily and snuggled closer, her cheek at his chest.

Luc tried to pretend he hadn’t noticed. Unfortunately, his body wasn’t listening.

When she slid her fingers across his chest, it didn’t make the pain in his groin feel any better.

“Tinker? Is that you?” Silver’s head rose sleepily.

“Bloody right it is, miss. But what you’re doing in that scoundrel’s arms is what I want to know!”

She tried to sit up, but Luc held her still, cradled with hard fingers against his chest. She gave an unsteady laugh. “Scoundrel? This scoundrel saved my life. Bram’s too.”

“Not at all,” Luc said lazily, smiling down at her. “As I recall, you and your brother did that very nicely all by yourselves.”

“Well, you would have saved us. If you’d arrived a few minutes earlier, that is.”

“A thousand pardons. I shall try to be more punctual next time.”

“There ain’t going to be no next time!” Tinker roared.

Silver smiled and curved her fingers over Luc’s cheek.

A simple touch. The sort of touch he’d felt a hundred times before. But this one slammed down his spine bone by bone and left his legs wobbling.

He cleared his throat. “Perhaps we’d better get you someplace more comfortable, Sunbeam.”

Silver sighed, resting her head in the warm V of skin at his neck. “Oh, but I’m entirely comfortable right here, I assure you.”

“Sunbeam?” Exasperated, Tinker dropped rifle and flail. “What in the devil?” He glared at the smiling pair. “Will one of you kindly tell me what is going on?”

Cromwell chose this moment to lumber off his captive, who lapsed into blessed unconsciousness. The great yellow sheepdog stared up at Luc and barked happily, thumping his tail against his captive’s face.

“You see, Tinker?” Silver said. “Even Cromwell likes him.”

“Allays said that dog had no brains.”

Luc couldn’t keep back a smile. “I mean you no harm. It’s, er, rather a long story,” he explained, trying to peel Silver away from his chest.

It didn’t work. She only nuzzled closer.

“Well, that’s just fine. ‘Cause I reckon I got all evening,” Tinker snapped. “And you, Miss Silver, just you get down and walk over here to me!”

“Don’t want to. If I do, I shall fall. Or turn dreadfully unwell. That horrible man threw me down and made me strike my head, you know.”

“I knew it! Let go of her, villain, before I—”

“Not him, Tinker,” Bram said quickly. “That one. The one Cromwell just scared senseless.”

“But what’s he doing here?” Tinker glowered at the highwayman.

Bram studied Luc’s black-clad form with obvious relish. “He heard all the noise and came to help.”

“Hmmmph. Came to rob us, more like. Or something even worse.”

“Not him.” Silver’s voice was muffled against Luc’s chest. “Always a gentleman.” Rather obscurely, she ended this comment with a sigh of regret.

“Now just you see here, Susannah St. Clair!”

“I much prefer Silver,” Luc said softly.

“I won’t have it, not a bit of it!” Tinker’s face was growing mottled. “First it’s highwaymen and then it’s ruffians of every sort. What mad scheme will you take into that head of yours next, girl?”

Silver gave a dramatic moan. “Oh, yes, I’m feeling vastly unwell.”

Luc grinned at Tinker. “Don’t mind her. She’s just feigning.”

“And how would the likes of yourself know that?”

Silver’s head rose. She studied Luc’s masked face with interest. “Yes, how would you? I thought I was doing a creditable job of it.”

“It was the moan.” Luc’s eyes twinkled, amber and gold behind the mask. “I believe it’s called protesting too much. And you’ve far too much color for someone who’s about to become, er, vastly unwell.”

Silver’s nose wrinkled. “Damn and blast.” She gave a shrug. “Still, it’s true enough that the ruffian threw me down into the corner. And now my head is pounding rather violently. Besides, I must be dreadfully heavy. You’d better put me down.”

Luc had no inclination to put his slender burden anywhere. Frowning, he brushed a curl from Silver’s cheek. Beneath it lay a long red welt where her head had struck a piece of wood.

He cursed harshly and had to fight a raw urge to run a blade through the man lying unconscious on the floor. A very sharp blade. After he’d kicked him maybe a dozen or so times first.

“Blast it, woman, why didn’t you tell me? It must hurt like the very devil, and here we are talking.” He looked at Tinker. “Where can I take her?”

The old servant’s mouth settled in a thin line. “Nowhere, if I can help it.”

“Good God, man, the woman’s hurt! I’d hardly make an attempt on her virtue now.”

Bram’s eyes opened with interest. “What’s ‘attempt on her virtue’ mean, Tinker?”

“None of your business, boy,” Tinker muttered darkly. “And there’s many as would try just that. How do I know you ain’t one of them, highwayman?”

Silver’s head appeared. “Yes, how do we know that?”

Luc pulled her head back against his shoulder. “Because I give you my word, that’s why.”

“Humph.” Tinker looked as suspicious as ever. Silver murmured something that sounded like “how very unfortunate.”

“She needs to rest,” Luc said tersely. “And as soon as she’s settled, I intend to go see if any more of those blackguards are hanging about.”

“How do we know you’re not one of them?” Tinker continued stubbornly. “Came at just the right time, after all. Too blasted right, if you ask me.”

“Are you one of them?” Silver asked interestedly.

“Hellion,” was Luc’s lazy reply.

“Can’t be.” Bram was eyeing them all with unholy glee. “Doesn’t make half a bit of sense. The man would hardly hurt himself.”

“Hurt?” Tinker’s brow furrowed.

“Hurt?” Silver’s head shot up. “What didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I’m not hurt, that’s why,” Luc said curtly. His shoulder was aching, of course, but not seriously. Thankfully, Jonas had bound it well. In fact, Luc decided he could carry this woman all night and never feel a bit of pain.

Other than the sweet, hot ache that was pooling through his thighs, of course. That sort of pain he was finding damned addictive, in fact.

Bram shook his head, ever the observant scientist. “Then why do you wince whenever her head scrapes your shoulder?”

“Just an old scratch.”

“Put me down!” Silver said breathlessly, struggling against Luc’s hard fingers. Her eyes closed for a second. “You shouldn’t — you mustn’t—”

“In my opinion my sister’s not feeling so well either,” Bram offered.

“What?” Tinker snapped to attention.

“It’s nothing. Just a — a headache.” Silver winced as Luc carefully explored her ribs. “And of course a bit of a bump at my side where that snake hit me with his stick.”

“Stick!” Luc and Tinker roared the word in one breath.

“Told you,” Bram said sagely. He was seated on an empty crate enjoying the hubbub vastly.

“Give her here,” Tinker snapped.

“The devil I will.” Luc’s mouth was set in a mulish line.

Bram decided it was time to take matters in hand. “Oh, give over, you two. Put her on the settee and she’ll be fine. But those men over there are going to be coming awake soon.”

Grimly, Luc settled Silver on a faded chintz-covered settee. As he did so his arm brushed her fingers.

Silver frowned down at the blood dotting her hand. “You really are hurt! Tinker, fetch me some rosemary water. Bram, I’ll need some lavender oil and clean gauze.”

But Luc had already pulled away and was busy securing the first intruder with a stout rope. “That will have to wait. First I mean to see these brutes put somewhere safe.” His hands moved with swift efficiency, as if he’d done this sort of thing often. “After that I’ve got a few questions I mean to ask them,” he added darkly.

“You do, do you? And just what business is it of yours?” Tinker demanded.

Luc stared at the welt on Silver’s forehead. “The day they did that, it became my business.”

After a long silence Tinker nodded. “Happen I’ll come along with you. Got a few questions of my own to ask.” A look passed between the two men, sharp and hard.

“Might be messy.” Luc’s eyes were measuring.

“Never minded a little bit of unpleasantness.”

“Nor do I,” Bram said excitedly, jumping to his feet. “When do we leave?”

“We don’t leave, young man.” Seeing the boy’s face turn mutinous, Luc softened the order. “You are needed here to protect things and keep an eye on your sister.”

After a long look at Luc’s unyielding amber eyes, Bram finally relented. “You’ll have all the fun!”

Silver sat up on the settee, her face pale but resolute. “No, Tinker. I won’t have it, do you hear? He’s hurt. Besides, it’s not his affair.”

“It is if he chooses to make it his affair.” A faint smile lurked at Tinker’s lips. “Best be at it, then.” He began to tug their unconscious intruder toward the door.

“I’ll take care of the two outside,” Luc said grimly.

“No! You’re hurt, you great bacon-brained lout. And I don’t recall asking for your help. Just — oh, just go away!”

Luc gave Silver a look that was part silk, part promise. Then he disappeared into the night, captive in tow.

“Bottle that look and we’d make a fortune,” Bram said thoughtfully.

“What look?”

“Don’t ask me. I’m just a boy, after all. Don’t know a whit about such things.”

Silver studied the darkness where the highwayman and Tinker had disappeared. “Men,” she said crossly. “Five minutes of talk and now you’re all thick as thieves.”

Behind her Cromwell thumped his tail.

“Et tu, Brute?” Silver muttered.

Bram tried to hide a grin.

“Not a word, do you understand?”

The boy merely spread his hands, smiling hugely. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Syl.”

~ ~ ~

“And now I’m thinking I’d like to know your intentions.”

Luc and Tinker moved up the hill, hefting their bound captives. Between them, rows of lavender gleamed ice-like in the moonlight. Luc maneuvered his unconscious burden past two shrubs and a hedge of roses, then stopped to catch a breath. “You know, for an old man you do remarkably well.”

“Ain’t half old yet. Just you remember that, cutthroat.” But there was an unmistakable gleam in Tinker’s eye. “Nor don’t you go trying to make me forget my question neither.”

Luc flexed his back, then gingerly did the same to his shoulder.

It hurt. No, it hurt like hell. But nothing that was serious. He knew serious when he felt it. Frowning, he studied the neat rows of lavender flanked by honeysuckle and white alba roses. “Nice acreage. Why would someone want to drive you away?”

“Any number of reasons, I expect. Our seeds, for one. They’re damned valuable now. Hardy, rot resistant and high producing. Aye, Bram’s been doing tests for two years now, and that boy’s a genius with plants.” Tinker looked at the highwayman. “And you still ain’t answered my question.”

“No, I haven’t, have I?” Luc gave him a slight smile. “Any other reasons you can think of?”

“Could be for the formula.”

“Formula?”

“For the perfume William St. Clair produced. Seemed like he blended a thousand flowers to make it. One of a kind, it was, with some peculiar sort of base that St. Clair never discussed with no one. No wonder, neither, because that perfume made him a rich man. Queen wore nothing else. Half the women in London wore it.”

“And he died without telling the secret to his own children?”

The old servant shrugged. “He was a suspicious sort when it came to his fragrances. Didn’t let no one into his workroom when he was making the final blend. When he died it was lost, all of it. Never found a trace.” Tinker hesitated.

“Go on.”

“Downy one, ain’t you?” Tinker laughed softly. “Not like him to lose nothing neither. The man was special careful about his business. I figured it to turn up sometime, but it never has.”

Luc frowned. “If it did, would you recognize it?”

“Not me. Young Master Bram would though. Got the nose, he has.”

“Nose? I don’t understand.”

“Skill at scents. Give the boy anything and he can tell you exactly what’s in it, from just one sniff. Aye, a rare sort of skill. Just like his father had before him.”

Luc frowned. “Why didn’t the boy just copy it?”

“Happen we tried. Did nothing else for a year. Got most of the ingredients but not the relative amounts. And one important thing was missing, some sort of element that St. Clair had discovered to make the scent last.” Tinker shook his head. “No matter what we tried, it just wasn’t the same.”

“I see. Is there anything else someone might want here?”

Tinker shrugged. “Land mebbe. Came down to Miss Silver after her father’s death. She’s to maintain the business until the boy’s of age and then it will be his. Odd sort of a will, as I recall.” Tinker’s eyes narrowed. “Said Miss Silver had to live on this land to keep it.”

“Very interesting.”

“Ain’t it just?”

“Anyone who might be angry about how things were settled after the father’s death? A cousin? Perhaps some unhappy creditors?”

Tinker sniffed. “No other relatives. Only that whey-faced Millbank and he don’t count.”

“Do you think he’s behind this?”

Tinker scratched his jaw. “The man’s a braying ass if ever I saw one, but if you’re asking me would he sanction murder, then I can’t rightly say I believe it.”

“Maybe we should try a few questions.” Luc stared down at the man before him, a hard look in his eyes.

“Fine by me. Do we break his arm or just snap a finger or two?” Tinker looked as if he’d relish the task.

Luc moved to the farther man. As he did so, a branch snagged his mask. He cursed softly, ran a finger beneath the fine silk to free it, then went still as the fabric came loose and pooled around his neck.

A chiseled nose and bronze skin gleamed in the moonlight. “I hope you’re a man who can keep a secret.”

For a long time Tinker merely stared at the highwayman. Something sharp and swift came and went in his old gray eyes. Then he nodded. “Happen I can if I want to. Or if I need to.”

“Good.” Luc looked down at the man at his feet. “I fancy I know a way we might avoid any extra unpleasantness.”

“Do you, now? And why am I not surprised to hear that?”

Luc’s eyes glittered. “A man picks up odd skills in my line of work.”

“Let’s be about it, then.”

As Luc moved through the moon-silvered bushes, through the night air rich with lavender and the sweetness of alba roses, he slanted a look at Tinker. “And about your question, my intentions are honorable. As honorable as they’ve ever been. There’s nothing between Silver and me,” he said grimly. “Nor will there ever be. She’s not the sort for my world and I’m not the sort for hers.”

Tinker nodded. But as they moved off into the night, hauling their burdens behind them through the rich, dark earth, the old man’s face looked as if he wasn’t so sure about that.

~  18  ~

“What’s keeping the two of them so long?” Silver paced the immaculate workroom. Lantern light gleamed warm and rich off the copper distilling oven and the polished oak floor. On the far wall moonlight slid through the tall windows.

“They’re busy, Syl. They’ve got work to do.” Bram, as usual, had his nose buried in a scientific treatise.

“They should have been back ages ago.” Silver turned and paced back the way she’d just come. “Not that I care. They’re both insufferable meddlers. I wouldn’t mind a whit if they never came back.”

Bram looked up, absorbing this wealth of new information about female behavior. In the past his sister had been unflaggingly cheerful, unfailingly practical. He had loved her, admired her, respected her, ever since he could remember.

And now in a matter of hours she was restless and impatient, showing lapses of thought and jagged bursts of emotion. Especially when the intriguing highwayman was about.

Most interesting, Bram decided. He would have to make a new entry in his notebook: Effects of Profound Emotion on the Adult Female. “I understand that he put a pistol ball through a fellow down in King’s Lynn. Robbed two jewelry establishments on the same night.”

Silver spun about, her face as pale as the moonlight ghosting through the windows. “He didn’t! I don’t believe it, not a word of it.” Her hands tensed at her waist. “It’s just talk. All odious talk!”

Repentant, Bram crossed over to put his arm about her shoulders. They were stiff and very cold. “Of course it is, Syl. Stupid of me to bring it up. He’s a devilish right sort of fellow if you ask me.”

“Do you think so, Bram?” Her eyes were wide, the color of the first spring rose shoots. “Do you really?”

“Haven’t a doubt of it,” the boy said cheerfully, patting his sister’s shoulders.

Yes, this whole business was all vastly interesting, Bram decided. He made a mental note to expand the entry in his notebook to an entire section.

~ ~ ~

Across the valley ghastly screams pierced the night air.

“Answer me, you dog! Exactly what I want to know or I’ll hit you again.”

Another moan.

“Do you want me to break the other arm too?”

A foot way from Luc, Tinker knelt on the ground, flanked by an opened door that led down to Lavender Close’s underground icehouse. A good place to store ice, it was also a good place to hold three men who might otherwise pose a security problem. Now only one man was aboveground, lying bound and gagged at Luc’s feet, still unconscious.

But it was Tinker who leaned close to the door and hurled more blood-curdling screams down into the darkness.

“Not bad,” Luc said, too softly for the men below to hear. “Especially not for a man so gone in years.”

“Not bad yourself, highwayman. But you’d best watch your tongue or I’ll show you just how old I am.”

“Noted.” Luc dropped a stone to the ground with a thunk. His voice rose in a dramatic shout. “Now are you going to talk, scum?”

Tinker groaned right on cue. “Don’t know nothing! Never told me nothing. Ask them what’s down there.” More groans. “They was the ones as hired me.”

“I think I shall do just that. But not until I’ve broken your other arm. Just for the fun of it.” This time the stone fell on a branch, producing a ghastly snap.

Tinker produced a very realistic shout of agony.

“Try not to bleed all over me, will you? Now I think I’ll go have a few words with your friends.”

Before Luc had set one foot on the stairs two voices shouted up from the darkness. “We’ll talk! Didn’t pay to get ourselves broken up in pieces. Tell yer whatever yer want to bloody know!”

Luc held up the lantern. He had replaced his mask and his mouth was hard beneath it. “Three questions. Who paid you? Why? And what exactly did he want done here?”

Scuffling sounds came from the darkness. “Didn’t see his face. Said as h-how he wanted them off, the girl and the boy. The old man too. Said he had something he had to do here. Don’t know why, Guv. He didn’t say and we didn’t ask.”

Luc made a clicking sound. “Not good enough, gentlemen.”

“It’s true, honest! Ain’t it, Mr. Harper?”

“All of it. Every bleedin’ word! I swear on m’ old mum’s heart.”

“If you ever had a mother.” Luc held up the lantern, and light cut through the darkness. As he did, another dramatic groan came from aboveground, punctuating the silence. Luc caught back a smile at Tinker’s enthusiasm. “How did he find you?”

“Across the fens. The Green Man, it were. Publican there knows us.”

“I’ll just bet he does,” Luc said grimly. “And how were you to contact this man afterward, when the job was done?”

“Same way. At the Green Man. He were to pay us our wages there.”

There was nothing more to be gotten from the villains, Luc decided. Whoever had hired them had been careful to cover his tracks. Frowning, he climbed up the steps and started to close the heavy door.

“What’re ye doing? Let us outter here! We told ye what yer wanted to know, didn’t we?”

“Ah, but maybe you’ll think of something more by the time I come back for you. If I come back for you.” Laughing harshly, Luc dropped the heavy wooden door back into place and slid the bolt home. In a few more hours he would come see if they’d “remembered” anything else. In the meantime he wanted them locked up somewhere safe. When the one on the ground woke up, he’d be put in with his friends.

Tinker gave Luc a hard look. “Happen I’ve a mind to visit the Green Man. Mebbe you’d care to come along.”

Luc stared out at the night. All was silent except for the soft sigh of the wind and the faint cry of a kestrel far across the valley. The air was lush with a dozen scents. He filled his lungs, picking out lavender, roses, and jasmine.

Every one made him think of Silver, of her white face and worried eyes, of the red welt at her forehead.

The small branch he’d been holding snapped cleanly beneath his fingers. “No, not yet. Tonight we’ll do best to keep watch here. There could be more like them on their way. I’ll go over to the Green Man tomorrow and have a little talk with the publican.”

“Why?” Tinker’s eyes were very sharp. “It’s not your affair, highwayman. Or do you have another name I should call you?”

“You can call me … Luc. And it might just be my real name.”

“Luc.” Tinker eased his mouth around the word. “Any last name to go with it?”

“I might be reckless, but I’m not yet a complete fool.” Luc’s lopsided smile softened the blow.

“Understandable, I suppose. Luc it is, then. But I’m still wanting to know why you’re taking such an interest in this affair.”

Luc took a slow lungful of air. “That fragrance, was it called Millefleurs?”

Tinker nodded.

“I remember it. My mother bought some once. It came in a crystal bottle with a lily on the top. A long time ago, but I still remember the scent. Sweet and honest and very beautiful. It reminds me of this place. And of Silver.”

Tinker studied the flower-decked hills, thinking about all the work that went into making even one bottle of fine fragrance. About all the hours of hoeing, watering, and weeding, followed by the toil of harvesting and distilling. Last of all came the blending of the final essential oils, which was the hardest part of all.

With the loss of William St. Clair’s priceless formula, that final step could never be completed.

“Aye, Millefleurs was that sort of scent. You could never forget it. That was William St. Clair’s genius.” He sighed. “Bloody shame it’s gone. Now are you going to tell me why?”

Luc stared out at the silvered fields, asking himself the same question. He took a long breath. “Maybe because that woman in the cottage is clean and fresh and bright, just like these fields of hers. Maybe because she makes me feel that way whenever I’m around her. Maybe because it’s the right thing to do.” He shrugged. “Hell if I know.”

“Obviously besotted,” Tinker muttered. But he was careful to say it low enough that Luc couldn’t hear.

The grizzled old servant was smiling broadly as the two men started up the trail to the wisteria-covered cottage overlooking the valley.

~ ~ ~

Silver sat on a sack of dried rosemary, fighting to stay awake. Bram was curled against her right shoulder, book forgotten and lost to the world. Without his spectacles he looked half his age.

Silver straightened, her eyes dark with worry and a hundred unasked questions as Luc and Tinker strode in.

“I’ll take the boy,” Tinker said softly. He looked back at Luc, then at Silver. “You two better get some rest.”

Silver didn’t move. Her hands were white fists against her brown breeches. Though she didn’t realize it, they were shaking.

Luc wanted to kneel before her and take those trembling fingers in his own, to touch her and kiss her and smooth her tumbled hair. But he didn’t.

He knew if he started touching her, he might not be able to stop.

So instead, he braced his shoulder against an elegant cast-iron column and started talking. There were things the stubborn woman needed to hear even if she didn’t want to hear them.

“Someone hired them to drive you away. They didn’t know who it was. But it’s serious, Sunbeam. And it’s not over yet.”

She raised her chin, a look of determination in her eyes. “We’re not leaving.”

“Tonight we succeeded, but there’ll be other men and other nights.” He studied her, his lips tight beneath the black mask. “Leave now. You and Bram. Tinker, too, if he’ll agree. I have a place, a safe place. With you out of danger I can concentrate on—”

“No.” It was a flat, hard sound.

“You have to. They’re serious, these men. There’s no way you and Tinker can possibly hold out here. Not without a small army, and that you don’t have. Come with me. Tonight.”

“No.” The word came more desperately now, as if it cost her a great deal to say.

“Blast it, woman, you have no other choice!”

“I do have a choice. And I’m not leaving.”

Something snapped inside Luc then. Maybe it was her white face or maybe it was the angry red welt on her forehead that pushed him over the edge. He strode over the polished floor, seized her hands, and pulled her to her feet, hard.

“You are going.”

“I am not. I am staying — we’re staying.” She spoke slowly and precisely, the way an adult speaks to a child.

“How can you? The whole idea is mad! It’s stubborn and reckless and — and impossible.” His fingers snagged a coil of auburn hair. “I should turn you over my knee, hellion. I should pick you up and haul you away here and now.”

Her eyes were dark with defiance. “Just t-try it.”

Luc felt a tremor go through her. By God, the woman was terrified and trying not to show it. With a curse he caught her shoulders. In spite of all his fine intentions he found himself leaning into her.

One touch and he was lost. He groaned as her soft thighs cradled his granite ones. Her scent drifted around him, all lavender and roses.

Damn it, he wanted her. Right there, pinned down against a sack of sun-dried herbs. With her eyes alight with passion as he eased all the way to forever inside her and made her moan his name.

But Luc wouldn’t give in to that lust. He’d ignored his desires before.

But never for a woman so rare as this, a voice whispered.

“You’re going.” Desire made his voice harsher than he had intended. “Get your things.”

“No. It will always be no. This is our land and our lavender and we are not leaving.”

Luc cursed harshly. “You’ve got to go, Sunbeam. I can’t protect you here.”

“That’s fine, because I don’t recall asking you to.” Silver tried to twist free. Her breast brushed his chest and sent a whole new set of muscles pounding in agonized awareness. Luc fought to keep his head clear.

Anger, that was the way. If he focused on that, maybe he wouldn’t want her so much. Ignoring the pain at his shoulder, he caught her up in his arms. “I’m taking you upstairs. There you are going to undress and get into bed. And in the morning you are going to leave this place. Do you understand?”

“No.” This time her eyes were luminous with what would soon be tears. “It’s all I have. It’s all we have. We can’t leave, don’t you see that? And if you try to make me go up there I’ll just come back down. Again and again and again.”

“What do you want to do, blast it?”

She took a little steadying breath. “I want to be out there.” She nodded toward the porch that ran along the front of the cottage with a commanding view of the whole valley. “I want to watch in case they come back. I want to help.”

She surely was one hell of a woman, Luc thought. Her eyes were heavy with sleep and she looked on the edge of exhaustion, but he knew she meant it. She probably would come right back down if he took her upstairs. And all he would have to show for his trouble would be a sore arm — and sorer ears.

Yes, she was a truly rare woman.

“Fine.” The word surprised Luc as much as it did Silver. He knew he was going to regret it. The only way he could let her stay was with him nearby to keep an eye on things, and that meant his own business wasn’t going to be completed tonight.

But looking into her sleepy green-gold eyes, Luc found he didn’t mind.

“I must be a sore travail to you,” Silver said softly, her face turned against his chest.

Sore travail? He could think of a lot of words for Silver St. Clair, but not those two. “You do have a thorough knack for being stubborn and irritating.” Luc smiled faintly. And damnably attractive. “But sore travail? No, I think not.”

“Truly? I’m very glad to hear it. Jessica — she was my older sister — always said I was Mama and Papa’s Cross to Bear. She said I’d drive them to an early grave. Maybe … I did.”

Luc felt a stab of anger at such cruelty, but decided now wasn’t the time for questions. “At the moment, I happen to be bearing you, cross and all. You don’t hear me complaining, do you?”

“It must be because you’re so amazingly strong.” Her head cocked. “Are all highwaymen this strong? It’s really quite … overwhelming.”

“I couldn’t say.” Luc decided she was never going to find out. No other highwayman was ever going to get near enough for her to find out.

“But I must be terribly heavy. And your arm — oh, dear, you shouldn’t be—”

“Be quiet, virago.”

“I shouldn’t. I absolutely shouldn’t.” Gently she touched his mask and the little scar above his lip. “How I wish you didn’t have to wear this.”

“So do I, Sunbeam.” Luc’s voice hardened. “So do I.”

Silver sighed as her head settled against his chest. It felt amazingly good there, Luc decided.

“You understand, don’t you? About why Lavender Close means so much to me. It’s Bram’s future and the only home that Tinker has. For me it’s — oh, it’s richness and memories. All I have left of my parents. Can you see why I have to stay?”

“I understand. But I still don’t like it,” he said grimly, carrying her out to the porch.

He started to argue, to say she’d have to leave at dawn, that he was a sheet short even to consider giving in on this.

And then Luc looked down.

Her auburn lashes fringed her pale cheeks. He realized she was already fast asleep, her hand tucked beneath his arm.

Women, he thought. But there was the hint of a grin on his lips as he sat down and eased her against his shoulder.

On the porch. Exactly as she’d wanted.

~  19  ~

The moon was a pale disk hanging over cut-paper trees when Tinker emerged from the cottage, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He took one look at Luc and shook his head. “Ah, to be young and reckless again. Has she wakened?”

“Quiet as a kitten, though I fancy her rib’s bothering her more than she admitted. She’s been rubbing it in her sleep.” Luc pointed to a damp strip of gauze at his side. “I cleaned her forehead, but — well, the other wound needs to be looked at.”

“And what about yours?”

“It’s of no importance.” Luc’s tone did not invite further questions.

“Ought to be tended, nevertheless.”

“Later.”

Tinker, used to the company of the two strong-willed St. Clairs and their father before them, snorted and went off in search of medical salves and fresh bandages. When he returned, his eyes carried a cool challenge.

Luc met it squarely. “Unnecessary, I assure you. I’ll be off soon enough. With dawn I expect your dangers here will end.” He smiled faintly. “And mine will increase.”

Tinker frowned down at the tall, black-clad figure, not about to be deterred. “Which arm is it?”

Luc gave a reluctant chuckle. “Damned hard-headed, aren’t you?”

“Aye, so I been told,” came the laconic answer. “Which arm?”

Without waking Silver, Luc sat forward and eased out of his jacket. He was not entirely surprised to see his forearm dark with blood.

“Oh, aye, a mere scratch indeed.” When Tinker worked Luc’s sleeve free, his breath caught. “Bloody fool!” Scowling, he began to unwrap the bloodstained length of gauze. Underneath, the skin was raised in a jagged wound. “Pistol ball?”

“So it was.”

“Sir Charles Millbank’s, by any chance?”

Luc studied the velvet sky and the stars blinking down like diamonds. His mother had worn diamonds like that once, set in golden clasps that gleamed against a blue satin gown.

He told himself not to think about that.

“I’m not entirely sure, but I doubt his aim is steady enough. More likely it was Lord Carlisle.”

Tinker harrumphed as he applied a liberal amount of cleansing rosemary vinegar, followed by a lavender oil liniment. “Don’t underestimate Millbank. He’s a scoundrel and a bully, and he finishes what he starts.” He studied his handiwork with satisfaction, then began to pack fresh gauze around the wound. “Don’t happen that you ever lived in London, did you?”

Luc frowned, wondering what the wily old fellow was getting at now. “Not for any length of time. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. Coulda sworn I knew a man who had the look of you.” Tinker’s keen dark eyes probed Luc’s face. “Lived in Berkeley Square, so he did.”

Luc stiffened. Damn it, the man knew. He knew.

The knowledge went in sharp and cold just below his ribs. He fought to sound casual. “No relatives in London that I know of. Must have been a case of bad eyesight. Either that or some relative of mine left a by-blow behind.”

Tinker finished wrapping the gauze, then sat back to stare at Luc. “Oh, I reckon it was no mistake. You see, I knew the man well. Worked for him for several months, so I did, when William St. Clair and I had a falling out. He insisted on firing me when he couldn’t pay me any more wages. Went down to London and a friend found me a place in Berkeley Square.” Tinker’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, I’d hardly forget my employer’s face, though I wasn’t in London very long. And the Duke of Devonham has a face that few would forget,” Tinker said softly, administering the coup de grace. “As few would forget his eldest son’s.”

“Damned coincidence,” Luc muttered, sitting forward stiffly and shoving his sleeve down into place. “Nothing more.”

Tinker went on as if Luc hadn’t spoken. “Aye, worked for the duke for three months, I did. A fair man with a heap of friends and a ready laugh. Right up to the day he shut himself up in his study, that is. I reckon it happened when his eldest son strolled out for an evening’s gaming and disappeared from the face of the earth. Fair to broke the old man’s heart, so it did.”

Luc’s hands froze, still and taut on the white cuff. “A touching tale, indeed. And now if you don’t mind, I’d better be—”

Rough hands caught his shoulder, holding him still. “Do you think I wouldn’t recognize a Delamere when I saw one?” Tinker said harshly. “Do you think I don’t know your father’s jaw and mouth when I set eyes on them? Lord, boy, you’re the very image of old Andrew!”

Luc’s head rose. He met Tinker’s look with hard eyes. “A mistake, my friend,” he said darkly. “A dangerous mistake best forgotten.”

Tinker looked down at the sleeping woman whose auburn hair spilled across Luc’s chest. “And what about her? What about the innocent heart you’re bound to break when you leave? What about her pain when she tries to tell herself it’s all for the best, that your worlds are too far apart to hope for anything more?”

Something raw and savage came and went in Luc’s face. He tried to tear his eyes from the silky curls, from the gently parted lips, from the streak of white at Silver’s brow.

And found he couldn’t.

The old man was right. Dear God, what about her? What would happen when he left, as he knew he must? Because if he stayed, it would be only a matter of time before his will broke and he came to her, desperate and reckless, with all the heat and fire that a man ever felt for a woman.

But Luc couldn’t let that happen. She was not for such as he, not for a man who had seen and done the things he had. Oh, he might permit himself the forbidden pleasure of a kiss or two, even a stolen touch, but nothing more. Once she was safe and Lavender Close was secure, then Luc would fade back into the night and out of her life like the heartless brigand that everyone said he was.

He had no other choice.

But somehow Luc had to convince this sharp-eyed, unbearably decent old man of that fact.

He angled his head back against the wall and studied the night sky. “The sky is different east of Gibraltar, did you know that? I grew to know that eastern sky well. For months it was my only companion. Beneath that sky I saw things I don’t care to remember — things I try daily to forget, but I must not. They are part of me now, and because of that there can never be anything between this woman and me. For that same reason the Duke of Devonham can never know that his eldest child did not die that night after being seized by four ruffians on a secluded street corner. Do you hear me?” The Marquess of Dunwood and Hartingdale, heir to the one of the oldest titles in England, stared at Tinker, his hands closed to fists.

“I’m surprised it didn’t take more than four of them to hold you,” the old man said softly. “Afterward your father sent men the length and breadth of England looking for you. Day after day he sent off letters, offering rewards to anyone could produce any sort of clue. And your mother, the duchess—”

“Stop it! I don’t want to hear. I don’t want to know, damn you! It’s all over. They may as well be dead to me!”

“But they aren’t dead. You can waste all your breath lying to me and to Silver and to everyone else, boy, but it won’t make a whit of difference where it counts — and that’s in your own heart.”

Luc’s mouth locked. A muscle stood sharply defined against his jaw. “You don’t know anything about it! You can’t even begin to know.”

“Why don’t you tell me?” came the soft answer.

Luc’s eyes closed. His fingers moved soft and slow through the warm satin of Silver’s hair.

Heaven. Right here and now.

Feeling her against him like this, soft and still. Hearing her smooth, even breathing. Waiting for her to wake up and blink, then flash that devastatingly beautiful smile at him.

But it was a heaven he could never enter.

Without a word, without opening his eyes, Luc eased his other arm from beneath Silver’s head and pushed back wool sleeve and white cuff.

The skin was stretched taut over rippling muscle. Two scars ran diagonal the whole width of his arm. Between them crouched a rampant figure, part lion and part eagle, worked in precious cinnabar dye. “Tell me what you see,” Luc said harshly.

“A strong arm. An arm with wounds. Some sort of tattoo.” Tinker bent closer. “Never seen the like of it before.”

Luc gave a mirthless laugh. “I don’t expect you have. Not the sort of thing you see in a Norfolk market town.” Luc’s voice hardened. “Yes, that’s a very special mark. A mark used only in the palace at Algiers. Only a member of the Dey’s personal guard may wear such a mark.” His fingers closed to fists. “And you have to kill a man to earn the honor.” He spat out the word honor from between gritted teeth.

“Sweet God above. You was in Algiers? In the Barbary Coast?” Tinker stared. “No wonder no one ever found you.”

“Not many Bow Street runners east of Gibraltar,” Luc said bitterly.

“But how — who—”

Luc sat looking down at Silver, his eyes hooded and unreadable. “You’ll have no more from me tonight, James Tinker,” he said softly. “I must go, for dawn will soon be upon us. No safe time for a highwayman to be abroad, as you well know.” He gave a reckless laugh, his eyes fixed on a strand of auburn hair that curled over his wrist. Then his face hardened. “Where shall I settle her?”

“Might as well take her up to her room.”

A hard look. “You trust me for that.”

“Aye, so I do. Woulda trusted you even before I knew you was a Delamere.”

There was a queer tightening in Luc’s chest. “She’ll not thank me in the morning for the service. Nor you, I think,” Luc said grimly.

Tinker only smiled. “Happen not. But then females is allays known to say one thing and think another altogether different.”

Luc blinked.

He tried to forget what Tinker had said as he carried the sleeping woman upstairs.

~ ~ ~

Her hand lay clasped about his neck when he laid her in her bed in a room soft with moonlight. Even then, she would not let go.

Luc had to uncurl her fingers one by one.

He stood a long time that way, studying her pale face, her hair strewn like gleaming burgundy over her flowing white shirt.

So beautiful. So courageous.

So young.

It would never do. She needed someone innocent. Someone who had never been tested by the harsher side of life. Someone unflaggingly secure and confident in his little world of piquet and hunting and a house in Berkeley Square for the Season.

The man Luc had been five years before.

The man Luc would never be again.

When he emerged, his face was expressionless.

Tinker studied him closely, one grizzled brow quirked. “You’ll be careful on the road tonight, highwayman?”

Luc shrugged. Slowly he slid his mask back in place. “Careful is not particularly high on my list. Still, for her, I might try.” He studied the rows of neatly tended flowers. “Before, you said you trusted me. But you’d best beware, James Tinker. I’m not even sure that I trust myself.”

The moon was already gone when he caught up his hat and vanished back into the lavender-rich night.

~ ~ ~

Far away in a magnificent house facing Berkeley Square, India Delamere sat up in bed, looking wistfully out at the night. She had just come home from her first ball and had just received her first offer of marriage from a most unexceptionable earl. She should, in short, have been glowing with happiness and entirely at peace with the world.

But she wasn’t.

Her eyes stung with tears.

Outside in the night a hackney clattered past with a noisy crack of hooves. A linkboy padded home through the shadows, light dancing from his swaying lantern.

The young woman started when a light tap came at the door. “Come in.”

A regal, white-haired lady frowned at her from the doorway. “What, still awake, gel? Too many beaus to dream of?”

“No, Grandmama. Nothing like that. It — it’s Luc.”

At that name the Duchess of Cranford stiffened. “Luc?” Her back went even straighter. “The boy is gone, India, as I’ve told you countless times before.”

“Then — then there’s no chance of a mistake? No chance that he might come strolling in one day, smiling lazily and dangling his silver cane as he was always used to do?” Her voice was wistful.

“I shouldn’t think it at all likely, my dear. Your brother is dead. It will be better for us all if we accept that fact.”

The red-haired beauty sat forward, her wrists tight to her knees. A tear streaked down her cheek, glistening in the light of the duchess’s single candle. “But I can’t forget him, Grandmama. I’ve tried but — but I could swear I feel him sometimes. At odd moments. It was always that way between us. Even as children at Swallow Hill, I knew when Luc had been thrown from his pony and he knew when I’d fallen from the old elm tree. And now” — her hands moved, gesturing at something real but not quite visible—”now, well, he’s alive. I know it, Grandmama. I can feel it.” Her eyes rose, hazed with tears. “And he is in great danger.”

She caught her grandmother’s hand and bit back a cry of pain. “Where is he? Blast you, Luc, where are you?”

~ ~ ~

Slowly the stars faded.

Above Lavender Close Farm the sky bled to navy and then gray. Finally streaks of crimson brightened the flat, tree-dark east.

Mist crept through the elms and oaks and hawthorns, over the sleeping streams, and through the little green valley.

Dense and white, the fog trailed everywhere. It silenced all, wind and bird and rich, dark earth. Nothing else moved. Nothing else even existed.

And for a few perfect hours the valley became a place of magic. Of joy. Of safety. A place where dreams could take tangible shape, as they did for all those sleeping there.

And all the while a solitary man sat watching on the hill above, hands buried deep in his pockets, eyes filled with a different kind of mist — and with the madness that comes from cruel memories.

~  20  ~

Sunlight was streaming over the lavender fields when the workroom door flew open with a bang. Silver stood outlined against a haze of purple buds, her hair a wild auburn tangle around her shoulders. “Why didn’t you wake me? It’s nearly noon!”

Tinker looked up from the bottle of rosemary oil he was capping. “Can’t you just say good-morning like anyone else? It’s a veritable hoyden you’ve become, girl, and no mistake.”

“But it’s so late. I should have been down here helping you.”

“Me and the boy are managing just fine,” the old servant said flatly. “No call to think you’ve got to do everything around here yourself. Need another batch of rosemary oil,” Tinker called over his shoulder. “And after that some more dried mint. Then this batch will be ready.”

Bram appeared from the neighboring room, dried lavender dusting his shoulder and a glass decanter hefted against his chest. “Right here, Tinker.” He peered over at his sister. “Oh, are you finally awake, Syl?” Without breaking stride he gave Tinker the decanter, then moved off in search of the other ingredients the old man had requested.

“Aye, managing just fine, we are. And the fragrance for that milliner in Norwich is nearly done too.”

“Oh.” Silver watched Tinker finish his task. “Then … I guess you don’t need me.”

“Not a whit,” Bram called cheerfully from next door. “Got the dried mint right here, Tinker.”

“But — that is, I suppose I should check that new potpourri blend. I’m not sure I liked the ginger we added.”

“All done,” Tinker said.

“All done?” Silver gnawed at her lower lip.

“Did it two hours ago. Bram changed the amounts, added some clove oil, and now they’re just fine. Nothing to it, in fact.”

It had taken her half a day to come up with that blend. “And you changed all of them?”

“Aye, all six dozen.”

Six dozen?

“Going up to the house,” Bram called. “Need a book.”

“Keep your eyes open. Fetch me some orris root while you’re at it.”

Silver stared at Tinker after Bram left. “You don’t think it’s over, do you?”

Tinker’s fingers stopped for a moment and then he shrugged. “He doesn’t. He’s been right about everything else so far. Probably right about this nastiness too.” There was no question who the he was.

Silver felt an odd tightening in her stomach. “Blackwood told you that?”

Tinker nodded. “Wants you to leave too.”

“I won’t. That’s final.” Silver picked up a glass decanter and held it up to the light, swirling the clear golden oil.

For some reason it reminded Silver of Blackwood’s eyes. Of the keen sweetness of his lips. She frowned, shoving aside the vessel. “Did he happen to say, well, anything else?”

“Anything about what?”

“Oh, I don’t know, about what happened here. Just … anything.”

Tinker studied her. “His name’s Luc, by the way. With a c. Thought you might like to know. And, no, I don’t reckon he did.”

“But how — that is, who—” Silver’s cheeks filled with color.

“He told me. Last night. Yes, we had a good bit of conversation last night.”

Silver felt a queer dizziness trail through her stomach. “I was in my own bed when I woke.”

Tinker sniffed and went back to work. “Passing strange, that. I reckon Master Luc must’ve carried you there.”

Silver’s hands tensed. “He did?”

“Aye.”

Silver found it difficult to breathe. “Oh.” And then her chin rose, small and defiant. “Well, I must say, I think it most improper of him. And of you, for letting him, Tinker.”

“Don’t reckon I coulda stopped the man even if I wanted to,” came the terse reply.

An odd burning, half pleasure and half pain, attacked Silver’s chest.

Tinker turned. “Don’t you have some sort of work to do, miss? Boy’s probably lost in one of his books. You may as well go fetch him afore he’s forgotten all about what I sent him up there for.” A slight smile curved his lips. “Unless you plan to stand there mooning through all the rest of the day.”

“Mooning! What makes you think—” Heat flooded Silver’s cheeks. “You insufferable man!” she muttered. “All of you are!”

~ ~ ~

She walked slowly through the fields of lavender and rosemary and honeysuckle, waiting for her flush to fade. Idly she noted which fields needed to be pruned and which to be watered. But all the while her thoughts were on a full, hard mouth crowned by a silver scar. On reckless amber eyes. On an unpredictable man she barely knew.

The man she loved.

With a gasp Silver went dead still in the middle of a lavender furrow, her face ghosting to gray and then sheet-white.

The knowledge had come unbidden, creeping in upon her while her mind was occupied with bud counts and root rot and how to stave off the next wave of intruders. How had this happened? How could she have lost all reason like this?

In love with a highwayman. A hardened, unfathomable felon notorious from Southampton to Peterborough.

No, it was impossible. It was unimaginable.

And yet it was true, Silver realized, chewing on her lip, one white hand to her hot cheek.

“What have I done?”

She sank down in a heap between two lavender bushes and drew in a long, ragged breath. There in the rich black earth she sat frozen, staring up at the wisteria-covered cottage while the sun poured down on her shoulders and the lavender wind combed through her hair.

Luc. Tinker had said that was his name — spelled with a c. A strange sort of name, to be sure. But then it suited him, for her Luc was a very strange sort of man.

Luc. Her Luc.

She was in love. With him. Silver let her breath trickle out, one hand fisted at her breast.

In blasted love with the blasted Lord of Blackwood, like a regiment of other silly females before her.

Damn and blast! How could she?

There was no hope for it, of course. She would just have to run the rascal right out of her mind.

And so she would — if only she could forget how it felt when he held her and made her blood sing with passion. If only she could forget the hunger in his eyes when she’d kissed him in the conservatory.

“Damn and bloody blast!” she muttered. Enough was enough. She had to get the man out of her thoughts and now!

Silver was still pondering how to manage it when a dense black cloud enveloped the cottage.

~  21  ~

Gasping, Silver ran for the stone steps leading to the house.

Bram would be in the study, no doubt, dark head bent forward, oblivious to the world as he scribbled in his well-worn notebook of his.

But there was no sign of the boy in the quiet, book-lined study at the front of the house. Nor in the little sitting room that he had commandeered for his working area.

“Bram!” Silver’s voice was raw with panic as heavy smoke churned up around her.

A sound came from the floor. Through the smoke Silver made out an unmoving shape. With a ragged cry she caught her brother’s arm and struggled toward the door.

He gave a racking cough as his eyes cracked opened. “So sorry, Syl.” Bram coughed painfully. “Tried t’ stop him but I never even knew what hit me.”

And then the boy shuddered and fell back into unconsciousness.

~ ~ ~

It wasn’t until Silver had carried Bram to safety and gone for water that Tinker came pounding up the path, breathless and pale with fear. “What afoot now?”

Silver slung a wooden bucket into his hand as she dashed her own bucket onto the flames licking the front porch. “No time — Bram’s safe out back. Must save — the cottage.”

Instantly Tinker swung into action. After checking on Bram for himself he set off for more water vessels.

Silver’s lungs were burning and her cheeks were coated with soot when Tinker reappeared, dragging a heavy copper tub. Together they wrestled the vessel toward the house.

For over an hour she and Tinker ran back and forth, not speaking. When the last flames were finally drowned, Silver sank down on the blackened porch, dragged in a choking breath, and dropped her chin onto sooty hands.

Only then did she see the words scrawled on the wall below the window.

This time’s only a warning.

Next time you’re ALL going to burn.

Trembling, Silver locked her hands beneath her knees to keep. All she could see was Bram’s face, pale and frightened, dark with soot.

Next time you’re ALL going to burn.

“N-not Bram.” Tears began to streak down her face. She bit her lip as Tinker gently brushed them away. “I am not crying.”

“Of course you’re not, miss. Thought never crossed my mind.”

“Well, I’m not, so don’t think I am.”

But it was too late for their simple schemes, too late to hope they’d escaped her enemies. She had saved Bram today, but what about next time and the time after that? Luc was right.

Silver knew then what she must do. She seized upon the idea with grim determination, driven by the reckless pride that had been the ruin of far too many St. Clairs. “Look after Bram, Tinker.”

“And just where do y’ think you’re going, miss? Covered with soot, you are, and your eyes barely able to see.”

“I — I must change. And there’s my face to clean…” She was talking more to herself than to him. “Then I must go out.”

“The only place you’re going is down to the drying shed with me, so you can scrub off some of that soot. And then you’ll hie yourself into a chair while I bandage those burned fingers of yours!”

Silver cocked her head, barely listening. “Fingers? Yes, I suppose you’re right. I’ll need gloves. I’d quite forgotten. It would never do for them to see how close they came to succeeding.”

“For who to see what? What’re you scheming on about now, miss? I know that look of yours. Seen it too many times afore to mistake it. Trouble, that’s what it means, trouble pure and simple. Now just you tell me—”

“Not now, Tinker.” Silver’s voice was utterly calm. Dangerously calm. “I must hurry. There is so little time.”

Then she disappeared up the narrow stairs to her bedroom.

~ ~ ~

When Silver pushed open the blackened door of the cottage thirty minutes later, the soot was gone from her cheeks and her blistered fingers were covered by fine doeskin gloves. She had waited until she was certain that Bram was resting comfortably and Tinker was standing guard. Only then did she slip outside.

She looked down at her gloves, frowning. How odd that she’d never worn them before. And how odd that now, at a desperate time like this, she should find them useful. She felt wild laughter build in her throat, but bit it back.

No time for that, she told herself sternly, smoothing down her skirt of ivory jaconet muslin. She was wearing her best gown — nearly her only gown. Its yards of fine fabric were caught at full sleeves and a froth of lace curved along the bodice. Ribbons of forest-green peeked from the sleeves, deepening the hue of her eyes.

Silver studied her image in a window dusted with ash.

Passable, she decided, twitching a ribbon straight at her sleeve. But what Silver did not see was that she looked far more than passable. With her cheeks flushed and her eyes flashing, she was a rare combination of innocence and passion. To any man she would have been a temptation. To a man who was already halfway in love with her, she would be a seduction beyond resisting.

But Silver had no thought of love or seduction. Her heart was hard as granite as she hurried down the path toward the stables, remembering her father’s words.

And she would do whatever was necessary to protect her brother’s life.

I am writing this to you, Susannah, because you have your mother’s curiosity and my damnable temper. It is not something I’m proud of bequeathing you, but I’m certain you’ll control yours better than I have done.

And I tell myself that it will take a bit of temper, a bit of grit, to complete the hard task I’m leaving you.

Find out who killed your mother, my Susannah. Find out why.

When you do, you’ll know who is standing out there in the night, watching me even now as I write.

I have tried and failed.

Now I leave the task to you…

Luc strode up to the workrooms with only one thought in mind: that he had to make Silver leave.

It was too dangerous for any of them to stay here longer. He needed time to trace who was behind the attacks — and why. Whether Silver liked it or not, she was going to leave. This very afternoon, if he could make her.

But when he swung open the polished oak door to the workroom Silver had vanished. Lavender fields, rose rows, and herb garden were empty, and a smoky haze drifted over the fields.

Then Luc saw the blackened walls of the cottage on top of the hill.

“What happened?” he growled to Tinker, who had appeared behind him.

“Those brutes set fire to the cottage, that’s what. Nearly killed Bram in the process. When I came down from checking on him, she was gone.”

Luc scowled, already envisioning a dozen deadly scenarios: Silver confronting Sir Charles Millbank. Silver in that damnable bordello. Silver being held and beaten by masked desperados—

He caught a hard breath. No good to jump to conclusions. “Did she say where she was going?”

“Could be Kingsdon Cross, since she was dressed in her only nice gown,” the old man said darkly.

“How could you have let her go, damn it?”

Tinker started to say something, then closed his mouth and shrugged. “Truth is, she snuck past me. I was just going down for my horse to follow her when you came. And as for letting the female go, when Miss Silver’s in one of her takings, there’s no reasoning with her about anything!”

Luc swore softly. “These men are dangerous. They’ll stop at nothing to have their way, you must see that now. As soon as I find her, we must make her go. Get them both packed and ready to leave this afternoon. Since there appears to be no other place, they can come to me. They’ll be safe with me, you have my word on it.”

Tinker gave him a measuring look. “Safe, aye, but from who?”

“From anyone who would try to harm them. Myself included,” Luc added grimly.

Tinker shoved a lavender sprig between his teeth and studied Luc. After a long moment he nodded. “Reckon I saw something else, highwayman. When she raced off in that gig of hers, she was headed away from the high road.”

“You mean she wasn’t headed for Kingsdon Cross? Then why did you tell me—”

“Because I’m still not sure I trust you. Not enough to risk Miss Silver’s life on it. But you’re two score years younger than I am, so I reckon I’ll have to trust you, and that’s why I’m telling you now. She went west. Over the hill and straight on past the meadow.”

West? There was nothing there but farm country and the fens and…

Luc’s face hardened. And the only road that led to the Green Man.

“I can see you’ve got the same idea I do. She’s storming off to that disreputable den of thieves in her finest dress.”

But these were not men to be argued with or threatened — not by a solitary woman. She was in serious danger.

~ ~ ~

All the way there Luc told himself he was a fool. Not even someone with Silver’s boundless stubbornness would dare to confront the lion in its den.

But when he reined in his horse outside the Green Man half an hour later, he saw Silver’s gig waiting outside the inn’s rickety front door.

A little boy with a grimy face was sitting on a crate nearby, minding her horse. He jumped up when he saw Luc’s imposing figure, black from head to toe, mask, hat, and shining boots. “You’re Blackwood, ain’t you?”

Luc laughed. “Maybe I am. Or maybe I’m mad King George.”

The boy smiled hugely. “Pooh. You looking for the angry lady?”

The angry lady! That fit Silver to perfection. “I expect I am.”

“She went in there.” The boy pointed inside. “Told her not to go into the Green Man, so I did. Not a place for no lady. Reckon she wouldn’t listen.”

Luc cursed softly. Not listen? That had to be Silver.

He felt fear tighten his throat as he slung his satchel over his shoulder and dropped from his horse.

What kind of mess had the woman tumbled into now?

~  22  ~

Luc took a quick glance about. No one had noticed him yet, and he would have the element of surprise in his favor.

Quickly, he pulled a small silver-butted pistol from his satchel and slid it beneath one cuff. He didn’t know what he would find inside, but he wasn’t going anywhere unarmed.

The Green Man hadn’t changed since his last visit. It was still a rickety two-story structure with worn steps that looked like they dated back to William’s time. A large taproom occupied the front with a private room to the left, and perhaps half a dozen bedrooms in the rear and upstairs. Peering through a grimy window, Luc saw the bald proprietor standing before a chipped counter, wiping beefy fingers on a soiled apron.

Luc pushed through the doorway. There he blinked and came to an abrupt halt, certain his eyes were failing him.

But they weren’t.

Silver was standing in the middle of the taproom decked out fine as fivepence, all frilled muslin and soft satin ribbons, looking for all the world as if she were off on a shopping tour of Regent Street. Nothing in her expression revealed fear over the fact that four of the ugliest villains in Norfolk were scowling down at her — and the pistol she held level.

Luc’s fists clenched. He realized the danger she was courting.

She didn’t notice his arrival, but the seven men in the room did. When the publican began to inch toward the back door, Luc pulled out his own pistol and aimed it carefully. “You’d do best to stay right where you are, my good man.”

Silver spun about. “You!”

“Surely you didn’t expect the magistrate,” Luc growled. “Get over here.”

Color washed through Silver’s cheeks. “Not until I’m finished.”

Luc’s fingers tightened on his gun. He watched a big man with a zigzag scar and no front teeth reach under the table. Very carefully Luc snagged the second pistol from beneath his cape. “Whatever you were doing is done,” he growled to Silver. “Start walking.”

She thrust her little parasol down on the table with a snap. “No.”

Toothless started to smile. Luc moved his second gun into clear view.

“This is hardly necessary,” Silver said curtly. “I am certain that these gentlemen—”

“Will slit your throat without a shred of remorse,” Luc finished flatly.

Silver snorted. “On the contrary, they were just answering a few questions for me. Weren’t you, gentlemen?” She turned about and treated the men to a comradely smile as she raised her pistol higher.

Toothless smiled back — only his smile was cold and very ugly.

“Now, woman! Before it’s too late.”

By then it was too late. The man with no front teeth shoved the heavy table forward. Cutlery and tankards went flying, and one heavy leg caught Silver’s knee, sending her reeling backward, her pistol gone.

Right into Toothless’s greasy fingers. The next moment a knife gleamed at her throat.

“Put down the barkers, guv.”

Luc bit back an oath. But with a knife leveled at Silver’s throat he had no choice but to comply. He dropped the pistol on the nearest table.

“Both of them. Less’n yer want the little lady’s dress to git soiled.”

A second later Luc’s other pistol hit the floor. His eyes didn’t leave the man’s face. And Luc didn’t like the determination and delight he saw there.

“Now move back against the wall, highwayman. Slow like.”

“You’ve got the knife,” Luc said, shrugging. He moved his arm slowly, making a great business of sliding the leather satchel from his shoulder.

Silver’s captor gave a grunt as Luc dropped the satchel on the table, then eased back, one broad shoulder propped against the wall.

Toothless scowled at the other men clustered at a greasy table nearby. “Get out,” he ordered.

They complied without a single protest. Somehow that worried Luc more than anything else.

“An’ now mebbe we’ll have us a little talk with Miss Lavender here.” The innkeeper joined Toothless in laughter at this bit of humor. “And then we’ll remove that bleedin’ mask o’ yours, highwayman. We’ve all been wondering who you are and now we’re going to find out.”

The innkeeper came strolling forward, all arrogance now that Luc was unarmed. “Reckon the gentry coves’ll relish the sight of you dangling from a noose. Me, too, since Lord Carlisle’s offering a hundred gold guineas for any information on Blackwood’s whereabouts. Nothing but proper civic duty to let him know, don’t you think, Amos? Who knows what he’ll offer if we bring him the highwayman in the flesh!”

“Mebbe,” the man named Amos said darkly. “An’ mebbe not.”

Silver looked at Luc. “I never thought they’d—”

“Shut up,” her captor growled. His knife pricked her neck.

Luc blocked out the sight. If he gave way to his fury, he’d never get them out of this. Instead he raised one booted foot against the chair beside him and studied his polished toe, as if he had no other concern in the world.

“Intriguing thought, my friend,” he said coolly. “Except for one small problem.”

“An’ what might that be, highwayman?”

“The fact that you’re not going to get out of this room alive,” Luc growled, his eyes very cold behind his black mask.

“Shut up,” Silver’s captor ordered. “Lessen yer want me to shut yer both up!” He darted an uneasy look at the sweating publican. “Go check the front door.”

His accomplice waddled off, looked outside, then swung back around. “No one out there but the boy.”

Amos laughed, then motioned toward Luc. “Tie him up.”

Abruptly the publican lost his grin. “Who, me?”

“Do it! Then we can send the boy over to fetch Millbank. He’s offered me two hundred pounds to find Blackwood.”

“Then we split the money!” the publican hissed. “We’re in this equal like, don’t forget.”

Out of the corner of his eye Luc noticed the flap of his satchel quiver. Seconds later a small, pointed nose appeared, followed by a sleek black body that twitched free and sank out of sight down one leg of the table.

“Who put you up to the raids on Lavender Close Farm?” Luc asked curtly.

“None of yer questions, highwayman.” Amos glared at his friend. “Tie him up and gag him, damn it!”

“What about the girl?” The landlord’s fingers twisted nervously in the greasy folds of his apron. “When he paid us, he didn’t tell us nothing about—”

“Shut up and do it.”

The innkeeper ducked behind the chipped counter and emerged holding a length of stout rope. Warily, he approached Luc.

“Paid you in advance, did he?” Luc said silkily. “Didn’t you wonder about that? Most men wait until the deed’s done before paying. But maybe your employer had his reasons. Maybe he means to see he gets his money back as soon you turn me over.” Out of the corner of his eye Luc saw his ferret slink along the base of the counter. “Oh, yes, my friends, I’d say it’s certain that you two are going to have a very nasty accident as soon as your business is settled.”

“Stow it, Blackwood,” Amos growled. “Ow, I’m scared proper, so I am, highwayman. Aye, can’t yer see my fingers trembling?” As he spoke he made a sharp gesture with his knife. It was more drama than real movement, but Luc heard Silver gasp as blood welled up on her neck.

Stay calm, Luc told himself harshly. Too soon and everything will be lost.

He raised his hands before him with exaggerated amiability. “Don’t let me interfere with your plans. I’ve got an afternoon to while away, and I wouldn’t dream of ruining your fun.”

This only made the publican frown all the harder. “Not in front, fool. Do you think I’m an out-and-out sapskull?”

“One never knows,” came Luc’s lazy reply.

“Turn around!”

Luc turned his shoulder to the landlord and stretched his arms out behind him. “Who has been offering you money to clear everyone off Lavender Close Farm?”

“None o’ your bloody business.”

“Whatever it is, it won’t be enough. You can’t enjoy money when you’re dead.”

“Hurry it up, can’t ye?” Amos shouted at the innkeeper.

The publican caught Luc’s wrists with a savage twist, lapped the rope around four times, and then pulled it into two hard knots.

They weren’t tight enough. Bram could have tied a better knot, Luc thought. But his captor wasn’t going to find that out quite yet. “Ow!” he thundered. “You don’t have to make it so bloody tight.”

The landlord laughed coldly. “Wait till Millbank gets you. Then you’ll be howling for real.”

Amos frowned. “Ain’t going to Carlisle or even to Millbank in the end, fool. There’s other as’ll pay more for him.”

Luc’s breath caught. Others? “And who might that be?” he asked calmly, even as he felt his heart begin to race. Who else was playing such a deep game here in the Norfolk countryside?

“Shut up! I reckon you’ll find that out soon enough!”

A shadow ghosted around the legs of the table, directly to Silver’s right. Tail flat, Luc’s pet ferret crept along the floor and disappeared beneath an adjoining chair.

“Now git his pistols,” Amos ordered.

The publican was sweating as he gathered up the nearest gun and studied its silver decoration. “Fancy this ‘un will fetch a tidy few guineas.”

Luc watched the man through slitted eyes as another knot sprang free beneath his fingers.

Meanwhile, Silver was frowning at him. Luc looked pointedly at the parasol lying on the table beside her.

Her eyes narrowed and she gave a tiny nod of assent.

As Luc eased down into a chair and stared at Silver’s captor out of the corner of his eye, he saw his pet slip around the table.

A moment later six inches of quivering muscle exploded into action. Eyes agleam, tail atwitch, the ferret bounded up Amos’s arm and locked a line of razor-sharp teeth on the man’s knife hand. At the same instant Silver broke away and seized her parasol, while Luc caught the stunned publican and wrenched his pistol free.

Amos was howling with pain.

The innkeeper was cursing.

And Silver was free, holding her parasol protectively before her chest.

Not bad for five seconds of work, Luc decided.

He whistled once, low and sharp. A gray ferret appeared from his satchel and darted over the dirt floor to Luc’s boot. There the creature stood a teeth-bared vigil atop Luc’s second pistol.

Luc motioned to Silver, who backed across the room with her parasol leveled. When she reached Luc’s side, he pulled her behind him. “I do believe it’s time to go. Come on, little ones.” At his order the two ferrets streaked across the room. “Well done. Now in you both go.”

After a round of inquisitive squeaking the larger black ferret disappeared into the satchel and was followed by his mate.

Smiling darkly, Luc moved toward the door.

“But what about them? Those snakes know something, I’m certain of it!”

“It will have to wait. I fancy we’ll be having company if we stay here any longer.”

“But—”

Luc cursed and gave Silver a little shove toward the door. They’d been lucky, but he wasn’t about to press his luck any further. “Go, woman!”

“But what about the fire they set, nearly killing Bram? And what about the man they said is after you? Don’t you want to find out who he is?”

Luc’s voice dropped to a hiss. “Any minute this place is going to be filled with friends of theirs. When that happens, I won’t be able to help you, damn it!”

Without a word Silver reached down, hiked up her muslin skirt, and pulled out an engraved brass hand-pistol from beneath a fetching lavender-colored garter. “I expect this will help.”

Luc blinked. He had known few women who could surprise him, but this one managed to do it again and again. “Sweet Lord above, Sunbeam.”

“You can run away if you wish to, but I won’t. We St. Clairs never run.” She frowned. “I’ll begin with the big one.” Her eyes were hard.

Muttering grimly, Luc wrenched her pistol free, dropped it into his satchel, then swung both satchel and Silver up over his shoulder.

“L-let me go!”

Luc paid no attention to either her hisses or her flailing feet. Satchel and kicking captive secure, he swung through the door of the Green Man and sprinted to his horse.

The grimy boy was still waiting, a blade of grass stuck between his teeth. His eyes went huge when he saw Luc and his various burdens. “Blackwood, that has to be who ye are! I knowed it right off! Reckon nobody else cud do the likes o’ that! Wait till m’ brother hears about this.”

“What about my horse?” Silver hissed. “And my gig?”

“You should have thought about that before you went careening off on such a harebrained scheme.”

Setting his teeth against the pain stabbing through his arm, Luc swung his horse about, with Silver still hoisted over his shoulder.

“We can’t go yet,” Silver said desperately. “Those men have the only clues.”

Luc shook his head. There was never a dull moment around Silver St. Clair. They crossed the street and then he pulled her forward and slid her onto his lap, his arm tight across her waist. He thought that she might thank him. Hell, he hoped she would kiss him, just the way she’d kissed him in the conservatory window.

In fact, his temperature rose ten degrees just thinking about it.

But she didn’t kiss him. What she did was send her neat, gloved fist into his jaw.

“What in the devil was that for, woman?”

“For dragging me out of that disreputable place!” Silver’s cheeks were high with color. “It was something I had to do.”

“What, get yourself killed? When are you going to face the fact that you’re in over your head with these men, Sunbeam?” Luc’s jaw was smarting from her left hook and his thigh was paining him even more, from the exquisite torture of her hips grinding against his. Struggling to concentrate, he stared down at her. “Why didn’t you leave a message for me in the oak, where I told you?”

“That might have taken hours! Meanwhile there was the cottage ruined and Bram — they almost—” Her voice broke.

Luc cupped her cheek. “I would have come. I would have helped you. Damn it, Silver, don’t you know I lo—”

Luc cut himself off, unable to believe what he’d been about to say. Unable to fathom the commitment he’d been about to make.

But it was undeniably true, he realized. He did love her. He’d loved her since the first moment he’d seen her, proud and afraid but trying not to show it, pounding over the heath in the dead of night. He’d fallen in love with the mutinous tilt to her chin, with the improbable eyes that shifted from green to gold with every change of emotion. He’d fallen in love with her fire, her stubbornness, her intelligence, and the way she cared for the little band she’d made her family.

Yes, damn it, he loved her. Loved her so hard, it burned like cannon shot. Loved her so much that it twisted him to pieces inside, making him forget all his old vows.

He couldn’t love her. He was a man with a bitter past and a hopeless future. To invite her to share that future was unthinkable.

His fingers tensed on her shoulders. “You can’t fight every battle by yourself.” He prayed she wouldn’t hear the hoarseness in his voice. “I’m your friend. You should damn well know by now that I’ll help you.”

Just then the man with the missing teeth staggered out of the Green Man. “There, he’s the one,” he shouted. “That’s Blackwood. Get him!”

Luc cursed. “Definitely time to leave.”

Suddenly Silver twisted. She triggered a shot from her pistol back toward the door of the Green Man.

But she was too late.

She screamed as a bullet whined through the air and slammed into her side.

~  23  ~

She was bleeding.

It was all Luc could think of as he cradled Silver against him and galloped east.

Only a few minutes before she’d been stiff with indignation, brave enough to pick off an attacker at fifty paces. Now she lay motionless, her ivory dress streaked with blood.

She groaned a little. “We — we did it. I got that bald snake with the gun, didn’t I?”

Luc recalled the man’s howls. If he weren’t so worried, he would have laughed. “Perfect shot, Sunbeam.”

“Tol’ you. Crack shot.” She gave a little gasp and Luc realized exactly how much pain she was in — and how much she was trying to hide it. “Never — talked about money. Have to pay you. Famous felon like Blackwood has to be paid…” Her voice wavered.

“Don’t talk, little fool.” Luc kneed the great black horse forward. “Just hold on. It’s not much longer.”

She smiled up at him in a vague sort of way. “Have almost thirty pounds put aside. Two shillings ha’penny of Bram’s too,” she added scrupulously.

“Forget the money.”

“What’s matter? My money — not good enough f’r you?” She was pale, so pale. Luc felt fear clutch at his heart.

“Don’t talk. Save your strength.”

She winced as he caught her close, and then her eyes closed.

“Hold on. Sunbeam,” he whispered.

And he knew he was talking to them both.

~ ~ ~

His black gelding ate up the miles, and Luc managed to get Silver into the house before she regained consciousness. He was just carrying her up to his room when Jonas’s angry voice cut him off.

“What’ve you done now, boy? Is it kidnapping you mean to try next?”

“This is … the woman I told you about, Jonas. The little fool saved my skin, then got hit herself. I had to bring her back here.”

“Dangerous, my lord. What if she tells someone?”

Luc’s face was grim as he settled Silver on his bed and slid his knife along her sleeve. “She won’t.” Her chemise was bright with fresh blood. “No, not my Silver. You could torture the woman for a week and she’d still spit at you.”

Jonas muttered darkly, but went off in search of gauze and hot water, tight lipped with disapproval.

Luc went to work on Silver’s chemise. The soft cambric slit easily beneath the blade of his knife.

He bit back an oath when he pulled the fabric away and saw her side covered with blood where a ball had burned between two ribs. Fortunately the lead had exited cleanly and the bones were untouched, as far as he could tell.

Luc let out the breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. Then he saw the fragment of cloth lodged against one rib. The cloth would have to go, or she’d never heal.

Luc prayed she’d stay under a little while longer.

He was rolling back his cuffs when Jonas padded in, armed with a pan of steaming water and a pile of folded white cloth. “You want me to have a look, m’ lord?”

Luc slid Silver’s dress closed, trying to ignore the smooth white curves and the tantalizing, blood-red crests. “I’ll do it,” he said hoarsely.

Jonas studied him for a long moment, then shrugged. “As you say, my lord.”

“We’ll need whisky, Jonas.”

“Right here. Gauze and water too.”

Luc’s jaw hardened as he uncapped the whisky bottle.

“She’s still unconscious! The woman can’t drink, my lord. Not in that state.”

“The whisky’s for me, Jonas,” Luc said grimly.

A flicker of humor cross the Scotsman’s eyes. “Is it, indeed? Never thought I’d live to see the day.”

“Well you have now, you ill-tempered wretch.” Luc took a long drink, then set the bottle down on the mahogany chest beside the bed. “You can leave us now.”

The old servant looked like he meant to say something, but he only turned, shaking his head.

Frowning, Luc took out his sharpest scissors and began.

~ ~ ~

Twenty minutes later it was done. The cloth fragment was gone, the wound was clean, and Silver was wrapped side to side in soft linen.

And Luc was shaking. Shaking as he never had in Rouen or even in the filth and stench of Algiers. The woman was a danger to herself. She didn’t know the meaning of fear, nor did she possess a scrap of common sense.

And the bloody awful part was that he loved her for it.

Luc slid a cover over his patient and turned to build up the fire laid against the day’s unseasonable cold. Staring into the dancing flames, he thought about duty and innocence. He thought about all he had been and all he’d become.

And he thought about the auburn-haired woman in his bed who had no place in this new world he’d made for himself.

But he had to repeat it again and again as the shadows lengthened and the wind hammered at the windows, carrying the tang of rain. Luc told himself it was only his imagination that he also smelled a hint of lavender in that chill air.

~ ~ ~

He was running again, running through the cold corridor of memories, when the rustle of bed linens woke him.

Lurching to his feet, Luc stared at shadows and the dying glint of embers in the grate.

No swords. No pistols. No hard-faced guards with whips.

Only in his mind, they lingered.

His hands shook slightly as he moved to the bed. Silver’s face was covered with fine beads of sweat and she was talking softly.

He smoothed a curl off her face. “It’s all right, Sunbeam. You’re on the mend. Just give in. Lie back and let someone help you for a change.”

He didn’t realize she’d heard until she moved restlessly. Her eyes opened. She blinked and studied him groggily. “Hurts…”

Luc knew she was delirious then. The stubborn woman never would have admitted such a thing if she were fully awake. “I’m sure it does. Move over here a bit. The sheets are tangled.” Carefully Luc pulled her against his chest and tugged a wad of linen from beneath her rib.

As he did, her chemise pooled open over his fingers. Her breast, full and pale, lay wedged against his arm.

Desire slammed through him.

He gritted his teeth and slid away from her, calling himself a thousand kinds of fool. But it didn’t help. He might cover that silken curve, but he couldn’t hide it. The sight was graven on his memory.

“Bram! Where is—”

“He’s fine, Sunbeam. The boy is safe.”

Silver seemed to shiver. She reached out and caught Luc’s hand. “Wind — cold coming. Must tell Tinker — cover the lavender.” Her eyes opened and she sat up, straining at his hand. “Must cover the lavender…”

Luc pushed her gently back down. “The lavender won’t be harmed. Rest now. Go back to sleep.”

Her eyes locked on his face, half delirious. Her hand rose to his cheek.

Only then did Luc remember he’d forgone his mask after entering Waldon Hall. So much for all his careful precautions.

“Luc,” she murmured, touching the scar above his lip. “Such a strange name.”

Tinker had a loose tongue, Luc thought.

“But — not disfigured.” Silver frowned. “Not at all. Beautiful.” Her fingers moved over the high cheekbones and along the ridge of his lower lip. “Just like in my dreams.”

And then her eyes closed. With a little sigh she fell back into dreams.

~ ~ ~

“What are you going to do now?” Jonas put down the tray he’d been carrying and scowled at Luc’s weary face.

“I’m going to clean up a bit and then I’m going to eat that very substantial meal you’ve brought me, Jonas.”

“Don’t be daft, Luc Delamere. You know exactly what I’m talking about and it ain’t food.”

Luc sighed. “I’m going to see her through this and then I’m going to send her back home where she belongs. After that I plan never to see the woman again. Does that satisfy you?”

“It’ll do for a start.” Jonas looked at the sleeping woman and shook his head. “The fever gone yet?” he asked softly.

“I can’t tell. She seems to be sleeping soundly, but who can say if it will last?” Luc ran a tired hand across his neck. “And all she worried about was her bloody lavender. Damnable female.” But his eyes were warm as he stared at Silver’s face.

“What about her family?”

“Only a brother — along with a dragon of a servant. You’d better go around and let them know she’s here.”

“Me?” Jonas squirmed uneasily. “What am I to tell them?”

Luc clasped the black-eyed Scotsman on the shoulder. “I doubt that words will do the job, my friend. I expect they’ll insist on coming back with you to see her for themselves.”

~ ~ ~

Dreams faded. Night slid back over the green hills and the neat rows of angelica and honeysuckle and dancing lavender.

Silver tossed about, then opened her eyes to the first slanting bars of dawn.

And gasped.

Curtains of emerald silk moire ran before a solid bank of mullioned windows. The bed coverings were gold satin bordered in green. Every wall was lined with prints, elegant and detailed scenes of fighting ships in high seas.

Then Silver saw the man standing at the window, one hand to the sill, the other clenched at his thigh.

Her highwayman. And for the first time he wasn’t wearing his mask.

As the dawn sun fell pale through the window she had her first real glimpse of him, of the chiseled jaw, of the slashing cheekbones above a mouth too full for peace or comfort.

And he was beautiful, just as she’d thought. Just as she’d whispered in her dreams. Only they hadn’t been dreams.

All the stories about him had been untrue.

His white shirt was open, revealing a bronze chest dusted with dark hair. Not a hint of a disfigurement was to be seen anywhere.

Silver moved slightly and pain tore at her ribs. The pain made her remember the rest, how she’d been shot as they fled the Green Man. After that he must have brought her here.

Her cheeks filled with color as she ran her hand beneath the blankets. Only linen gauze covered her aching side. Her dress was gone, and her chemise little more than fragments.

Dear God, had he—

He turned at her gasp. Light fell full over his hard, proud features.

Oh, beautiful, Silver thought dimly. Too beautiful for safety.

“You’re awake.”

She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t do anything but stare.

“Are you hungry?”

She shook her head stiffly.

“Thirsty?”

She shook her head again.

Luc’s dark brows knit. “Is the fever returning?”

Silver’s hands tightened on the white sheets. “You — you took off my clothes!”

Luc’s face settled into a lazy smile. “Only your dress. Besides, I saved your life. Is that all you have to say to me?”

“You — you don’t deny it, then? You brought me up here and then you—”

“I perceive that you are back to those uncontrollable manly passions. Put your fears to rest, woman. You’ve been unconscious for most of the night.” Luc’s eyes glittered. “And I never touch a woman who can’t share my passion inch for inch, Sunbeam.”

Her breath caught. “Oh.” Questions rushed to her lips, but she couldn’t bear asking them. “Has Bram—”

“I sent my man around to fetch them.”

“I see. I must be a great deal of trouble to you.”

“Not at all,” Luc said gruffly. He strode to the bed and without a word began to draw the covers away.

They snagged in Silver’s tense fingers. “What are you doing?”

“Looking at your side. It’s nearly time for those dressings to be changed.”

Her fingers locked tight over the white fabric. “Right now?”

“Right now.”

“But surely, that is, couldn’t you wait? Just this once?”

She couldn’t face him. Her cheeks were on fire and her breath was blocked.

“No, Sunbeam, I can’t,” Luc said very softly, moving her hands aside. “I’ve spent too much effort bringing you this far to see you backslide now.”

Swallowing, Silver looked away, out the window toward the woods.

But she felt his every movement, felt a knot pull free, felt the quick brush of his fingers and then the linen falling away.

Most of all she felt his strong hands gliding over her skin. Naked skin that trembled and ached, but not with her wound.

The ache Silver felt now was a blinding desire such as she had never known. She locked her lips, but still a little moan escaped.

“Did I hurt you? Damn, I’ll try to be more careful.” Luc’s voice was hoarse.

“No, it’s not — I’m perfectly—” She caught a ragged breath, her eyes fixed desperately on the curtains swaying in the dawn wind. Her skin was on fire where he touched her. Sweet heaven, her whole body was on fire. And in places she couldn’t begin to think about.

His arm tightened on her waist. “Don’t apologize,” Luc said harshly. “I expect I’m clumsy at this.” He muttered something beneath his breath, then jerked the coverlet up from her other side, covering her chest and unbound breasts.

Silver went very still as realization struck. He was just as overset by his feelings as she was. He, the Black Lord, hardened felon and seducer of females in three counties, found this intimate contact as unnerving as she did!

Somehow that thought restored some of Silver’s confidence. She took a long breath and turned to look at him.

His eyes were burning and his jaw was locked. He was concentrating fiercely, his movements quick and jerky.

She flinched as he brushed her rib.

“Sorry.” He swore softly, then tugged away the coverlet, unable to work around it.

A muscle flashed at his jaw when her body lay bared to him.

Mesmerized, Silver looked up, feeling the blaze of his eyes, feeling the hot tension of his fingers and the harshness of his breath. “Where am I?”

“My estate. You’ll be safe here.”

Silver looked about her, bothered by something about the room, but her head was spinning and she couldn’t quite concentrate. “Luc?”

He pulled away, his body stiff. “That’s — good enough, I think. Just one end left. You can tuck it up yourself. That way I won’t — hurt you.”

He shoved his fists behind his back and strode to the window.

Silver watched, wonder filling her face. “I’d rather you did it.”

“No, you don’t, Silver,” he said grimly.

“I trust you.”

“Then you’re a damned fool! Blackwood doesn’t start things he can’t finish.”

“But you’re not Blackwood. You’re Luc. A man of honor. A man who saved me from dying.”

She saw his shoulders tense. “Some people would say there are worse fates than dying, Sunbeam.”

“Some people are fools.”

He turned at that, his eyes unreadable. “Is there pain? I’ve laudanum if you need it.”

Silver shook her head. She wanted no more oblivion. All she wanted was to be here with him, awake and aware. Pain was a small price to pay for that. Her hand brushed his cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“About the scars.”

He went very still. “What scars?”

“On your face. I repeated that wretched tale about your gun exploding. It was all a silly lie, of course. You — you’re beautiful. How you must have laughed at me.”

“I didn’t laugh, Sunbeam. And I’m hardly beautiful.” Luc caught her hand and turned her palm to his lips. His mouth slid over her, hot and persuasive, until Silver felt her stomach pitch.

“Oh, dear. I do wish you would not touch me like that.”

“If I can’t touch other places, then I’ll have to settle for this,” he muttered darkly.

Silver straightened her shoulders, trying to ignore the insidious heat his lips kindled. “I want to know why you’ve brought me here.”

“Here? You mean, to my bed?” He laughed harshly. “The perfect scenario for seduction, is it not?”

“Where are you sleeping?”

Luc gestured to a Louis XIV settee near the window. “Right over there.”

Silver bit her lip. “It doesn’t look very comfortable.”

“It serves me well enough,” Luc said grimly, thinking of all the other places he’d slept in the last five years, from the grimy hammock on a French ship of war to the filth of the slave quarters in Algiers. “Oh, yes, the settee will be fine.”

“But it’s far too small for you.” Silver shoved away the covers. “I should sleep there. It will be much more suitable for me than—”

He was at her side in a second, his face thunderous. “Oh, no, you don’t, hellion. You will stay right in that bed until you’re well again!” Luc forced her back against the soft bedding. “Sparring with a half-delirious weakling is no fair sort of challenge.”

“Weakling?” Then Silver’s eyes took on an appreciative gleam. “You’re just trying to goad me. You’re insufferable, do you know that?”

“So I have been told.”

Silver’s head cocked. “Besides, I already knew this was your bed. It has your scent.” She sniffed delicately. “There is some sort of lemon soap here on the pillow, with just a hint of clove.” She smiled. “From a very expensive shop in Norwich, I believe. I wonder if they know they have a highwayman among their patrons? Ah, here’s a trace of tobacco.” She ran her hand over the pillow and scrunched it slightly. “A touch of brandy.” She drew the coverlet to her face. “Leather too. I expect that in your typical untidy male fashion you tossed a pair of breeches over the bed when you were changing. Am I right?”

Luc’s face told her it was just as she said. He shook his head and laughed ruefully. “A hundred years ago you’d have been burned at the stake for that kind of trick.”

“Pooh,” Silver scoffed. “That’s nothing compared to what Bram could do. He has the true St. Clair nose, you see. He could have told you a dozen more things than I did. But now it’s your turn.”

“My turn?”

“That’s what I said. Open the window.” When Luc didn’t move, she added, “Window. It’s that clear square thing on the wall.”

“I know perfectly well what a window is.”

“Then go and open it.”

Muttering, Luc crossed the room and threw open the glass. Silver closed her eyes. “Breathe,” she ordered. “Then tell me what you smell.” She heard the rush of his indrawn breath.

“I smell rain soon to come. A linden tree. Lilacs. And I expect that my servant’s been burning pine needles again, for I can smell the pine smoke on the wind.”

“Excellent.” Silver nodded. “What else?”

Luc frowned. “Roses from the gardens beyond the window, I think. A bit of honeysuckle. That’s all.”

“Oh, far from it,” Silver said, laughing softly. “That’s just the beginning. There are hyacinths. We use them often in our perfumes. Also you’ve violets growing near the wall, and I venture to say that down the hill you’ll find lilies of the valley just come into bloom.”

Luc looked out the window and shook his head in amazement. “You’re right. A witch and no mistake.”

“But I mustn’t forget the most important thing of all. I smell lavender. Oh, yes, very clearly lavender. Which means, highwayman, that this house of yours is near my own Lavender Close.”

“We have our own lavender bushes down in the garden.”

“Not that kind of lavender, you don’t. That particular species of lavender is grown in only two places. One is high on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean in southern Spain. The other is here in England at Lavender Close Farm, where my father brought the cuttings fifteen years ago.”

Luc shook his head. “I’m not sure anyone ought to have a nose that keen.”

“It can be a nuisance at times, I admit. Especially for Bram, whose sense is much sharper than mine.” Silver’s eyes narrowed. “And also at times like this when one smells a very wet sheepdog nearby.”

A hammering came below them, followed by a burst of anxious voices. Sharp barking echoed up the stairwell.

A moment later Cromwell, very wet and very muddy and very happy, dashed into the room and launched himself feet first upon the bed.

~  24  ~

In moments the room was filled with hectic noise. Cromwell barked, Tinker roared, and Bram blurted out a dozen eager questions.

Luc surveyed the chaos, watching Silver struggle to answer the hail of questions. When he saw her wince, he crossed his arms, frowning. “Silence!” he shouted.

Calm descended.

“You will speak slowly and in turn. Miss St. Clair has been wounded and she must not be disturbed.” Luc turned to the big yellow dog lolling at Silver’s side. “Down, you great hulking creature.” Cromwell barked, then fell to the carpet and thumped his tail happily against the rug.

“Bram, draw up a chair. You may speak to Silver first, but I shall only allow you five minutes. After that your sister must rest.”

Shoving his spectacles up on his nose, Bram slid into a chair next to the bed. “Oh, Syl, who’d have guessed that this old place would—”

Silver cut him off with a quick shake of her head.

Luc, meanwhile, felt Tinker’s worried gaze and motioned the old servant outside.

Once there, Luc pulled the door nearly closed and waited for Tinker to ask the questions that were deviling him.

“You found her at the Green Man, did you?”

Luc nodded grimly. “She was facing off a crew of ruffians. If I hadn’t come in when I did…” His voice trailed away.

“The girl’s got a St. Clair’s pride and a St. Clair’s stubbornness.” Tinker sighed. “You’ve my undying thanks for intervening when you did.”

Luc caught the man’s shoulder for a moment, then turned away to study the woman lying in his bed. He thought how very right she looked there. He thought about how wonderful it would be to wake and find her burnished hair spread across his pillow and her arms reaching out to him every morning.

His jaw hardened. “She’ll be going home as soon as this business is cleared up and not before, Tinker. Bram is staying too. Her wound isn’t very deep, thank God, but I’m not letting her take any more chances.”

It was a flat order. Luc desperately wanted this time with Silver. It was so little to last him the rest of his life. “I’ll take care of her. I’m familiar with this kind of surface wound.”

“But—”

“She’s staying here,” Luc said hoarsely, in a tone that brooked no argument. His hand tightened, then fell. He moved back into the room without a sound, his eyes on Silver’s face.

~ ~ ~

Tinker watched Luc go, his face hard with worry.

He was wondering if he should try to take Silver away when he heard a step behind him. A reed-slim man with a thatch of unruly black hair and keen dark eyes was coming up the stairs.

“So you’re the lady’s manservant, are you?”

Tinker nodded wordlessly.

“That’s one hell of a lot of muddy dog you brought bounding in here.”

“Oh, Cromwell’s no dog. He’s family, so he is.”

“Aye, they have that trick about them, don’t they?” Ferguson nodded. “Raised a few sheepdogs myself.” Abruptly he thrust his callused hand out to Tinker.

Tinker stared at the man for long moments before taking the outstretched hand. “James Tinker’s my name. And who would I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

“Jonas Ferguson. Been with his lordsh — er, here at the manor — for some fair time.”

“There’s no need to hide it. I saw through the boy from the first minute he took off that mask. Spitting image of his father, the Duke of Devonham, so he is. No one could mistake those Delamere cheekbones.”

“Delamere?” Jonas said sharply. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Stow it, man,” Tinker said flatly. “I know. He told me all about it last night.”

Jonas’s eyebrows rose. “He did? He’s never told anyone, not that I know of. What makes you so special?”

“Not me that’s special,” Tinker said meaningfully. “Her, more like. Aye, they’ve made a proper mess of things, those two young ‘uns. It’ll be up to us to bail them out, I’m thinking.”

The two men turned, their heads close together. They were already hatching their first scheme as they moved back down the stairs to the kitchen and the fine bottle of whisky Jonas had been saving for just such an occasion.

~ ~ ~

Luc stared at the two St. Clairs in silence. The boy could use some filling food and exercise. Luc decided fencing would be the very thing. He’d take the boy down that afternoon and show him a few basic paces.

Abruptly, Luc caught himself up short. What in heaven was he doing? The boy was not his concern. The St. Clairs’ problems were not his problems. It was all too easy to let himself believe they were, but in a few days their paths would separate for good.

Luc tried to tell himself he wanted it that way.

Bram swung around eagerly. “By Jove, it was all a hum, then! Not a single mark on that face, after all. I don’t know what fool put the tale about that he’s disfigured. The man’s features are as fine as any I’ve yet to see.”

“Yes, he does have a striking set of cheekbones, doesn’t he, Bram? And just look at the line of his nose.”

“Fearfully aquiline, if you ask me.”

Luc crossed his arms over his chest, frowning.

“Oh, pray, does our plain speaking disturb you?” Silver was all innocence.

“Not at all. Do go right ahead. I positively relish being treated like a piece of horseflesh at Tattersall’s.”

Bram smiled gravely. “You are joking. Deuced difficult to tell.”

Noticing the boy’s sudden flush, Luc realized that Bram hadn’t been teased enough — or not by the right people — in his young, bookish life. “True enough, stripling. It’s a bad habit of mine. But I think you’d better leave us. Your sister’s been plagued enough for one morning. Go find that dour-faced manservant of mine and see that he makes you two something to eat. After that I’ll teach you how to hold a foil, if you’ve a mind to try. I think it would do you good to put some muscle on those bones.”

“You would?” Bram’s eyes went huge with excitement. “With a real foil?”

Luc nodded. “Off with you. And take that filthy creature who passes for a dog with you.”

Cromwell gave a happy bark, aware that he was being spoken of, then padded off behind Bram.

“Tired?” Luc stood staring down at Silver.

“A little. It was wonderful to see them.”

“You should rest now. I’ll let them up again in a few hours.”

Silver’s lips curved. She ran her hand gently over Luc’s jaw. “What a dragon you are.”

At her touch Luc felt muscles harden throughout his body. “It takes a dragon to keep a hellion like you in line.”

“My poor dragon. How is your arm?”

“My arm is fine,” Luc said curtly. It was the touch of her fingers that was driving him mad.

“Truly? I could have Tinker bring some lavender oil and gentian water. It is wonderful for surface wounds.”

“My wound is fine, woman! Just close your mouth and rest.”

“Truly, oil of lavender would be the perfect thing. Or perhaps oil of thyme. It is a trifle strong, however, and—”

“Enough! Will you kindly cease this morbid fascination with my wounds?”

He looked genuinely angry, Silver thought. Probably it had been so long since someone had worried about him that he was uncomfortable. Still, the man needed looking after. He winced every time he sat down, a sure sign that his wound was far from healed. She decided to speak to that nice manservant she’d seen peeking into the room earlier. Perhaps between the two of them they could arrange something. “Very well, brigand. Whatever you say.”

“What, no arguments?”

“None at all.”

“I don’t trust you, Sunbeam. Not for a second. You gave in far too easily. What scheme are you planning now?”

Silver gave a dramatic sigh. “I fear that I am indeed a sore travail to you.”

“Rubbish.” Luc glared down at her. “And if I ever hear you speak such nonsense again, I’ll — I’ll do something drastic!”

“Very well,” Silver said, not the least bit frightened by this thundered threat. She settled herself back against Luc’s pillow, savoring the hint of citrus soap that clung to the cloth.

Yes, it was a lovely room. And it was furnished far more elegantly than she would have imagined.

She did not tell Luc why the room had seemed familiar. Instead, she closed her eyes, envisioning the walls without their fine new paper and furnishings. In her mind Silver saw how the room had looked the last time she had been here, dark with mildew, windowsills cracked and floors bare of rugs.

Then Waldon Hall had belonged to the St. Clair family. It had stood bare and skeletal, the furniture all sold, along with the paintings and silver, to meet the bills that had come to light after her father’s death.

No, there was no need to mention any of this to Luc. Silver decided it would only make him uncomfortable. And he shouldn’t be. He had restored the old house to all its former beauty.

Silver sighed as a wave of weariness swept over her. If only her father hadn’t died when he did. If only he had left a record of Millefleurs’ ingredients.

If only. If only…

She barely felt the fingers that smoothed the covers at her neck.

“Cold. Need to cover the lavender. Tell Tinker…”

But sleep took her before she could finish. And as she slipped away, Silver could have sworn she felt a hard hand brush her forehead.

~ ~ ~

“No, not that way, stripling. Like this. Keep your wrist steady.” Dressed in a white shirt and dove-gray breeches, Luc paced, foil in hand, at the center of Waldon Hall’s candlelit ballroom. “Let the foil rest lightly. Then breathe deep and feel its balance.”

Bram frowned, fingering the smooth metal hilt. His hand rose, and slashed the air experimentally.

“That’s it. Now again.” Luc watched the boy move, nodding. He was quick and agile, an apt pupil. In a few months he would be able to…

Luc bit back a curse. It was a fantasy.

Soon they would be gone.

Then Luc would dedicate himself to hardness once more, to anger and to the plan of revenge that had kept him alive for the last agonizing five years.

“Keep your eyes open. Lunge. Step, step, lunge. Damned good!” Luc finally pronounced as the sweaty but beaming boy fell back and mopped his brow. “No more today, I think. You’ve an aptness for the sport, young fellow. Your sister must engage you an instructor in town.”

Bram frowned; something wistful crossed his face. He looked away, settling the foil carefully back in its case. “Of course. I’m sure there must be someone,” he said softly.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. You are very kind to bother about a silly boy. It must be a damnable nuisance.”

Luc strode to the boy’s side and dropped beside him. His hand cupped Bram’s shoulder. “Not a nuisance. It’s just that — well, I’m no sort of a teacher. You’ll do much better with a professional. Someone trained in these things.”

Bram stared at him, his eyes dark. “Of course.”

But the disappointment in the boy’s face hit Luc squarely in the stomach. He wasn’t ready for the wave of guilt that came with it. Damn it, he was a highwayman. A notorious cutthroat! What business had the boy looking up at him with such patent hero worship in his eyes?

How soon it begins, Luc thought. How soon I start hurting them.

“Damn it, Bram, it’s not what you think. I — I can’t, don’t you see? It’s better for you not to be involved with me. Anything could happen. One night I might go out that door and never come back, do you understand? And if anyone connected me with you, it would go hard for all of you. After everything your sister’s been through, I don’t want to see her made unhappy.”

Bram nodded soberly. “I never thought of that.” He pulled off his spectacles and cleaned them carefully on his shirt. “I suppose that’s why you’re all huffish around Syl too.”

Luc stiffened. “I haven’t any notion what you’re talking about.”

Bram studied him for a moment, then slid his glasses back over his nose. “Of course there’s no reason for you to explain to me. I’m just a silly boy, after all. But I’ve seen the way you look at her. The way she looks at you too. When you’re not aware of it, at least.” The boy fingered the brass hinge on the foil case. “Just the same way Lord Easton looked at her last year. Said he was interested in some lavender water for his mother, but if you ask me, all the man wanted was to get my sister alone in the conservatory and paw her about.”

Luc’s jaw hardened. “What happened?”

Bram smiled. “A trump, my sister. Syl taught the man a lesson or two. When Easton finally wobbled out of the conservatory, his lip was bruised and his exquisite white cravat was all covered with peat. He ran off howling about how she’d assaulted him with a copper distilling pipe. In a very delicate part of his anatomy, you understand,” Bram added, with a fiendish smile. “And this was after she’d given him a perfect left hook. Taught her that myself, you know.”

“Just the thing to round out a gentlewoman’s education,” Luc said dryly.

“Exactly what I thought. Tinker didn’t see it that way, but what does he know?”

A lot more than the man let on, Luc decided. “And has Lord Easton come back to, er, paw your sister about since then?”

“Haven’t seen a trace of him. The bleater said he’d set his dogs on her if she came within a mile of his place. Which none of us would dream of doing, for the man’s an unappetizing specimen to be sure. He has deplorable manners and bad teeth. Uses some kind of appalling scent, a mixture of cinnamon and lilacs. Cinnamon and lilac for a man! It passes all bounds.”

Luc smiled slightly. “So you really do have the St. Clair nose. Silver told me. I couldn’t quite believe it.”

“Shall I prove it? I fancy you’ve just come back from the stables, because I can smell the oats you gave your horse. I can even smell the moss and pine needles you crushed beneath your boots on your way back.” Bram studied Luc for a moment. “She’s a devilish good sport, my sister. Not at all missish, you know. Never snaps at one, never tells a fellow to put away his clothes or get his head out of a book. Besides, she’s got deucedly fine legs.”

“She what?”

“Well, so she has. I heard Lord Easton say so just before he disappeared into the conservatory. Nor was he the only sprig to come up to Lavender Close to hang about my sister.”

“Are you setting yourself up as a matchmaker, boy?”

“Devil a bit,” Bram said cheerfully. “Just want to see my sister happy. And she hasn’t been, not really. Not for the longest time. She’s a great gun, of course. Never complains, not ever. But a fellow would have to be blind not to notice.” Abruptly, he jumped to his feet. “I’d best go see how she’s doing.”

At the door he turned. “Aren’t you coming?”

“I think not.” Regret lined Luc’s face as he stared down at his foils.

Shrugging, Bram went away humming loudly, too happy to notice.

~ ~ ~

Silver was staring out the window when Jonas knocked at the door and poked his head inside.

“Interested in some food?”

“Actually, I’m more interested in — in Luc. Tell me about him, Jonas.”

Jonas put down the tray he’d brought for Silver. “Always was a wild sort. Reckon that boy goes and gets himself shot the way normal folks go buy a new hat.”

“When did it happen?”

“Leaving your place, lest I’m mistaken. Said one of Carlisle’s men shot him.”

“The fool,” Silver said softly. “The doltish, idiotic, irresponsible—”

Jonas gave a short laugh. “Now there’s the truth! He barely made it home. Had to dig the ball out myself, so I should know.”

Silver looked around her at the beautiful room, at the watered silk walls, at the elegant prints of fighting ships. Hardly the domain of a typical highwayman.

What made a man take that kind of risk?

“He wasn’t always this way, miss. Nor was his life this sort of life. It could be very different for him. Aye, if only he’d let the past be forgotten. But he won’t. He just plain won’t.”

“Why not?”

Jonas shifted uncomfortably and stared down at the tray of food. “Not that I wouldn’t like to tell you, miss. Talking would be a relief. But I can’t. It’s his secret, you see.”

Silver felt her thoughts whirling with a thousand questions. “I know he cannot be a common criminal!”

Jonas took up a knife and began carving a loaf of bread in narrow, perfect pieces. “Oh, don’t be mistaking me, miss. Master Luc’s done his share of robberies. Had to if we was to survive, you understand. It was beans and water and not a feather to fly with when we got back.”

“Back from where?”

“There,” he said grimly, in a tone that warned Silver not to ask any more questions. Carefully the old servant placed several pieces of shaved ham and buttered bread onto a gleaming china plate. “Best that you eat. You’ll feel better for it.”

Barely mindful of what she was doing, Silver picked up a slice of bread. “Can you tell me nothing, then? I so want to understand. To help him, if I can.” She smiled sadly. “Though I’ve never met anyone who possessed such stubbornness.”

“Odd, but them’s the same words he used about you, miss.”

Silver made a startled sound, then began to smile. She felt her cheeks grow hot.

“No need for that. He’s a damned fine man and I’m thinking you’re a rare sort of lady. Luc’s had his pick, sure enough. Two widows. A countess. Even an encroaching duke’s daughter with a very taking sort of figure.” Jonas shook his head, smiling fondly. “But the boy wasn’t having any of ‘em.” He sighed and moved to the door. “Finish that bread, you hear? And there’d be no harm in your having a glass of that wine along with it.”

“I can see why he relies on you so much,” Silver said softly.

Jonas gave her a sudden smile. It made her think that one time he had smiled that way often.

Before something had happened, something terrible about that place he had spoken of.

Silver meant to find out exactly what.

~ ~ ~

It was that same raw need to understand that made Silver sit up several hours later when she heard voices drifting up from the courtyard.

Luc’s came deep and determined, Jonas’s sharp and irritated.

She made her way to the window and looked out. Luc stood bare chested, a white gauze strip wrapped around his chest. Nearby, Jonas was busy pouring water into a pewter basin.

“Be the death of you, so it will. Maybe I’ll be glad of it too! Nothing but an everlasting travail, that’s what you are! Ever since that midnight trip to town on a mission of love five years ago. Just look where that got you! Caught up by as foul a bunch of cutthroats as ever haunted the docks.”

Silver went very still as she realized she was listening to things not meant for her ears. But she did not draw back. Her need to understand Luc’s pain was too great for that.

Luc flung back his head and combed his fingers through his wet hair. “I couldn’t have managed without you, Jonas. You’ve been a thorn in my side, yet a true friend nevertheless. There, I’ve finally admitted it. Now would you kindly cease your incessant complaining?”

Jonas lifted the basin and squinted at his cocky charge. “Not until you give up this mad scheme of revenge.”

Luc’s voice hardened. “I think we’ve been over this piece of ground before, Jonas.”

Silver stared down at the two men. The sun was nearly gone and Luc’s bare shoulders glistened, full and bronze in the day’s last red light. But it wasn’t his hair or his muscled shoulders that kept her frozen, breathless at the window.

It was the jagged marks, ten inches long, that snaked across his back and down his sides. They were old and long healed, but their savagery still made Silver gag.

Dear, what had put them there?

She moved closer as Jonas began to speak.

“Aye, so we have. I thought it was madness then and I think it’s madness now. Give it up. Let the Admiralty find out who—”

“Enough, Jonas! There’s only one person who’ll ever get to the bottom of it and that’s me! When I think of all that happened, of the people left to rot over there — damn it, it’s the least I can do to see the system changed, don’t you understand?”

“All I understand is that you’re gonna get yourself killed, boy. And without a word to your mother and father so that they know you didn’t die like they thought you did.”

At that moment Jonas looked up.

He saw Silver at the window.

“What is it, Jonas?”

The servant hesitated, then shrugged. “Nothing. Thought I saw one of those ferrets climbing about, that’s all. Reckon I was wrong.”

But the servant’s eyes were thoughtful as he followed Luc inside.

~ ~ ~

She was still dazed when Bram came in and sank down in the chair beside her bed.

She barely listened to his exploits, nodding and seeming interested even while her thoughts were far away.

What could have left such marks on his back? And what was the revenge that Jonas was trying to talk him out of?

“Luc even let me use the foils. Said I was an apt student.” Bram’s eyes gleamed at the memory. “And you should see what he’s done to the ballroom, Syl. Looks ever so much better than when we lived here. Of course, I expect we hadn’t half the money to put into repairs that he does. But why didn’t you want me to mention it to him?”

“Because it would be bound to make him uncomfortable. After everything he’s done for us, I don’t want that for him.”

Bram frowned.

He had heard almost the same words from Luc only a few minutes before. Oh, yes, the two were in deep. Smelling of April and May, they were. The problem was, what was he going to do about it?

Silver struggled up to a seated position against the pillows Bram had piled behind her. “Did he … say if he was coming up later?”

“Don’t recall if he did. He’s a devilish busy man, you know. I had a glance at his study and it was chock full of correspondence, journals, and newspapers in all sorts of outlandish languages. Not at all the kind of study you’d expect a highwayman to have. Meanwhile, Tinker and that fellow Jonas have been thick as thieves. The two were drinking whisky down in the kitchen with their heads close, almost as if they were making some sort of secret plan.”

“I’m certain you must be imagining that,” Silver said. “The two have barely met. What could they possibly be planning?”

Bram shrugged. “There’s a lot of things I don’t seem to understand around here. One of them is why you look so sad right now.” The boy looked at his sister’s flushed cheeks. “Another thing is why Luc got so upset when I mentioned Lord Easton to him.”

“Bram, you didn’t!”

“So I did. Why shouldn’t I? No need for the man to think he’s the only one who’s ever been interested in you.”

The flush on Silver’s cheeks grew more pronounced.

“And if you ask me, the two of you are making a proper mull of it. Of course no one does ask me, seeing as how I’m just a lowly boy of twelve.”

Silver looked away. “It’s not that way, Bram. It’s just … well, I can’t quite explain it.”

She picked up the small hand mirror lying beside her on the bed and sighed. “What a fright I look. I’ll never get these tangles out of my hair, but I suppose I must try.”

She picked up the little silver-handled brush that Bram had brought over from Lavender Close. She winced as she tried to work her way through the mass of tangles. “Not that he would notice,” she muttered. “He never comes up here. Not anymore.”

Her eyes glinted with tears when she tossed the brush down on the bed. “Nor do I care. Who wants to spend time with a notorious highwayman? Who wants to be just another silly woman whose heart he’s broken?”

Frowning, Silver scrubbed at her cheek. Her side was burning and she had a pounding headache. But that wasn’t what was bothering her, not really.

The ache in her chest went far beyond physical suffering.

Oh, why didn’t the insufferable man come?

~ ~ ~

“Do you have everything?” Luc stared grimly at the wagon he and Tinker had been busy preparing for two hours. A pile of muskets lay in one corner, next to ropes and ammunition enough for a small army.

“I reckon I do,” Tinker said grimly. “Enough to keep the brutes off for one more night at least. All the same, I’m glad that Bram and Silver will be safe up here with you.”

“They’ll be safe,” Luc said darkly. “Just you take care of yourself, man. Jonas has arranged for half a dozen men to join you at Lavender Close for the next few nights. Ex-soldiers, I believe, so they should be of considerable help. I wish I could join you, but—”

“No need to explain. I like it just the way it is. We’re too beholden to you already. Now I best be off.”

Luc stood for a long time, watching the heavy wagon rattle off over the hill. Even when it vanished, he didn’t turn away. He felt a keen reluctance to go up to the candlelit room on the second floor.

It had all been so simple before. So clear cut. All anger and revenge, with no room for softness or regrets.

Now things were not nearly so simple.

His face was hard as he turned and made his way back inside.

He met Bram on the stairs.

“She’s been asking for you. Aren’t you going up to see her?”

“Not yet. That is, I have some correspondence to finish first. And then I have some maps to study…”

“Fine with me, of course, even if she is twisting and turning. Of course I tried to stop her from brushing her hair, but she wouldn’t listen. Said she’d never get the tangles out. Refused to let me help her.”

“The bloody little fool!”

Luc pounded up the stairs, a thunderous look on his face.

Bram watched him go, a smile spreading over his boyish features. Yes, his little scheme was moving nicely toward fruition.

~  25  ~

He pounded up the stairs and threw open her door.

Silver was propped against the pillows, her face pale with strain as she dug a brush through her tangled hair.

“What in the name of heaven do you think you’re doing?”

Silver glared at him mutinously, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I’m endeavoring to brush my hair. What does it look like?”

“Like you’re trying to split that wound open, that’s what!”

“How would you know? I’m certain you’re far too busy with all your felonious concerns to spare any time for me. And that’s exactly how I want it. What interest could a highwayman possibly hold for me?” Silver’s brush snagged in a particularly large tangle. She struggled to push it forward and gasped when the movement sent pain jarring through her side.

“Stop, you fool!” Luc stalked to the bed, and grabbed the brush from Silver’s fingers.

She glared at him, her shoulders stiff. “Go away. I don’t want you. Bram can help me.”

“Bram’s gone. I’m here now, and I’m the one who’s going to help you.”

“Why?” Her eyes were filled with anger and confusion. “I’m nothing but a bother to you. The sooner I get away from this house the better. Oh, leave me alone. Just leave me alone!” She twisted away, her eyes shut tightly.

Luc watched a single tear slip down onto her cheek. Something hard and cold twisted in his chest at the sight.

Don’t cry, Sunbeam, he thought. Don’t let me make you cry.

But he said nothing. His jaw locked as he eased down beside her and pulled her gently against his chest. Then he began to work the brush through the thick, gleaming length of her hair.

She didn’t move, not by a muscle. He could feel her angry tension where her stiff shoulders pressed against him.

“Why didn’t you tell me you used to live here?”

He heard her indrawn breath.

“Your man Tinker told Jonas. And you haven’t answered my question, Silver.”

She shrugged. “I thought it would make you uncomfortable.”

Luc frowned. “Uncomfortable?”

“That it used to be ours. You’d worry how it would make us feel to come back.”

Luc started to tell her it didn’t matter. That it would take a lot more than a little thing like that to make a notorious highwayman like him uncomfortable.

But it would have been a lie. He had a clear sense of just what she must feel in coming back to a house where she’d known happiness and love, only to lose both.

She was right. The thought left him vastly uncomfortable. “I’m very sorry.”

“You needn’t be. The house looks wonderful. Everything is much improved over what it was like when we … left.”

Luc heard the regret in her voice. In that moment he understood how deeply the wounds of her father’s death still cut. “You did what you could.”

“Perhaps, but it wasn’t enough. What use are all the good intentions in the world if you don’t succeed?”

Luc had no answer. It was a question he had asked himself all too often.

And then he heard the one question he didn’t want to hear, the one question he’d been trying to hide from himself.

“Why didn’t you come?”

His jaw tensed.

Because I was afraid to come.

Because I knew if I came, I wouldn’t be able to leave.

Because you’re young and decent and everything I’m not.

“I … was busy.”

“Sometimes you are a very bad liar, highwayman.” Silver’s eyes were dark with anger and pain. “If you want me gone, you have only to tell me.”

“It’s not that.”

“No? Then what?”

There was no answer, no answer safe enough to tell her, at least. So he simply pulled her back against him, letting the brush slide through the last tangles at her shoulder.

“I hate you, do you know that?” Her voice was ragged, unsteady.

“Of course you do, Sunbeam.”

“And I don’t like this either. I’m only letting you do it because — because I can’t manage by myself.”

“The only practical thing under the circumstances.” His voice was carefully matter-of-fact.

But she didn’t fool him for a second. She was very close to breaking at that moment.

And her vulnerability, more than anything else, proved to Luc that he had been right to stay away from her, that his presence would only bring her more pain.

She held herself stiff, her fingers locked on the coverlet, the whole time he worked at her hair. Luc thought he might have seen another tear roll down her cheek, but he couldn’t be certain.

One thing he did know. He had hurt her once.

And he had a sickening feeling that he’d hurt her yet again before she was well enough to leave Waldon Hall.

~ ~ ~

Two days passed. Bram kept Silver company, reading books from Luc’s well-stocked library and regaling her with tales of Cromwell’s antics in the kitchen. There had been only one other incident at Lavender Close, but thanks to the six extra men Luc had hired, Tinker and Jonas had driven the attackers off handily.

Tinker was flushed with victory now, his shoulders thrown back, his chest proud. Even Bram was a bit jealous, wishing he could have been there to see the villains routed.

Silver nodded and listened to the accounts, relieved that Tinker and the farm were safe. But her mind wasn’t entirely on the stories. Some part of her kept drifting away to a book-lined study where a hard-eyed man paced back and forth.

And still he did not come to her.

The wind had finally dropped and twilight was falling over Waldon Hall when Bram bade her a cheerful good-night and made his way off for another raid on Luc’s library.

The air through the window was rich with honeysuckle and mock orange. Silver knew she would never forget the smell, no more than she would the citrus scent of Luc’s soap and the hint of brandy and leather on his pillows.

Except for a dull ache in her side her wound was faring much better. Now there was really no reason for her to stay.

Except that she longed to, and that longing grew more dangerous with every breath she took.

For one wild moment she considered feigning a relapse or twisting about until the wound reopened. But Silver discarded the idea as unworthy. Her father had taught her that problems should be met squarely, and she would do just that.

Gritting her teeth, she eased to the edge of the bed and pushed to her feet. A dull ache shot through her rib as she caught up a shawl and lapped it tightly around her side. The pressure eased her pain, cushioning her movements.

Then Silver made her way to the door, determined to see Luc once before she had to leave.

~ ~ ~

He would be in the ballroom. Bram had told her that he went there to fence every evening.

Holding her candle high, Silver moved past the library, where Bram’s dark head was bent over a stack of books. She felt a stab of worry that she was unable to provide her brother with enough opportunities for his keen mind at Lavender Close.

Someday, Bram, she promised silently.

A bar of light fell from the door into the ballroom. Silently she moved closer.

She found Luc in a vast room lit by dancing candles. His shirt was thrown over a chair and his bronze torso gleamed in the candlelight, beaded with diamonds of sweat. He moved with the swift grace of a dancer — and all the lethal power of a panther. Again and again he jabbed, lashing at empty air, evading the thrusts of an unseen enemy.

Silver’s breath caught at the grace and power of his movements. The man was indeed a master. She understood now why Bram had been so awed after his lessons. And yet there was something dark about Luc’s concentration, something chilling about his fierce focus.

Once again, Silver realized just how little she knew about this man.

Without warning Luc reached low and sent a slashing blow upward to an unseen enemy’s heart. The move was executed with flawless skill, and with such ruthless fury that Silver gasped.

Luc spun about, foil raised. His eyes were iron hard and his face was blank, that of a stranger. For a moment Silver wondered if he even recognized her.

She stood frozen, one hand to her chest, thinking for a wild moment that he meant to run forward and impale her.

And then he frowned. His blade fell.

“This is madness, woman. What are you doing out of bed?”

“You didn’t come. I waited all day. Tinker changed the dressing and pronounced me on the mend, but he said you were too busy to see me. I don’t understand,” Silver said, her voice breaking. “Is my presence so abhorrent to you?”

She swayed slightly, her fingers pressed to the carved door frame.

Cursing, Luc strode to her side.

But Silver pushed him away, her chin high. “I can manage perfectly. I’ve been managing perfectly for years. Don’t think I need your help, highwayman. Don’t think I need anything from you, because I don’t. None of us do,” she said fiercely. “And when dawn comes tomorrow, we’ll be out your door and down your drive, gone from your life forever. Oh, no, we certainly wouldn’t want to disorder your perfect routine of felony! And I won’t look back.” Tears glittered on her cheeks. “Not even once!”

A muscle flashed at Luc’s jaw. “Of course you won’t, Sunbeam.”

“Don’t call me that.” Silver felt a burning in her throat. “Never again, do you hear?”

“If you wish.” His voice was like silk.

Too easy, Silver thought wildly. Too easy to love him. Too easy to need him. Too easy to want his arms around her, his lips locked hot and claiming over hers.

“I’ll admit that you’ve been kind to Bram,” she went on. “He worships you, in fact. And the fencing is the very thing for him. It was good of you to think of it.” Her voice tightened. “I’m afraid there are many things I’ve neglected in my brother’s care.”

“Nonsense. Bram is a fine lad and a credit to his name. His mind is sharp and well informed. As a matter of fact, he knows more about those books in my library than I do. He’s made me remember Latin phrases I’d sworn long forgotten.”

“Latin? Hardly the usual education for a highwayman.”

Luc cursed himself for his slip. She left him all at sea, this fiery woman with a girl’s innocence and a warrior’s courage.

Yes, the sooner she left Waldon Hall the better.

He shrugged. “The Latin was a whim of a distant relative.”

Silver stiffened. “More secrets? What a bother we must be to you. Very well, I shall ask Bram to cease plaguing you.”

“He’s not a bother, damn it! Nor are you, so just leave it.”

Silver’s eyes fell to the muscles tensed across the highwayman’s broad chest. As she watched, a single bead of moisture inched down over rippling skin and slid into a swirl of dark hair.

She yearned to touch it. She yearned to taste it. She yearned to be wrapped in those strong arms and feel his heart hammer against hers.

Impossible.

Silver forced her eyes closed, fighting the seductive fantasy.

It could never be. Only a fool could think it possible.

But in that moment Silver saw just how deeply her heart was given, for the image would not leave her.

And the pain of loss was nearly more than she could bear.

Gasping, she spun away. As she moved, her foot caught on the threshold, driving her sideways.

Luc caught her as she fell. “Enough! You’re going upstairs to bed, and there you’re going to stay, do you hear? Right up until the minute you leave. Even if I have to tie you in my bed to keep you there.”

~ ~ ~

All the way up the stairs Luc tried not to think about how light she was, how warm she was, how much he wanted her pressed against him like this forever.

Every step of the way he fought his feelings — and knew that he was failing. His face was unreadable as he set her gently back amid the lavender-scented sheets and lifted her hair from her cheek.

But when he would have pulled away to rise, Silver’s fingers slid about his neck and held him still.

Her face was mere inches from his. Her scent was a sweet torment in his lungs. And her soft, thrusting breasts…

“Don’t, Silver,” he said hoarsely.

“Why, Luc? Let me hear the words.”

“Because … I must go.”

Again he saw the consciousness in her eyes, the warmth of awareness that he had seen too many times before in the last few days. It was that flare of emotion which had kept Luc from her room, that and only that. Blackwood, the highwayman, was experienced enough to know exactly what such a look meant in a woman’s eyes.

Her fingers tightened. “Tell me why.”

He circled her wrists, feeling the fragile bones, the ragged pulse. “Why? Because I’m a criminal and a thief. Because I have no heart left and my word can’t be trusted. Because you shouldn’t be here.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Don’t paint impossible dreams, Sunbeam. I’m a man with a past more black than you can imagine. I warned you once not to trust me or let me into your heart. I’ll only bring you pain.”

“I’m not so fragile!”

His eyes blazed amber. “Perhaps it’s my own strength I fear for.”

“So you will turn me away, just like that? Without any explanation?”

“I have no choice.”

She stared at him, her eyes fierce. “I warn you, I don’t mean to make it easy for you. I’ll leave you with a thousand images to haunt you. Whenever you smell lavender on a woman’s skin or honeysuckle in a spring wind, you’ll think of me. You’ll remember how close I was, here like this, in your bed.” Silver’s fingers slid to his neck and drew him down slowly.

Closer. Ever closer.

Luc’s blood hammered. “Don’t do this, Silver.”

“Yes. Now, right now. Because above all, you’re going to remember this…”

Her lips softened. She pulled him to her and let her mouth move over his.

She was not experienced. She didn’t know how to hide the quiver in her hands or the tremble in her lips.

But, oh, God, she didn’t need to know. Luc could feel the drumming of her heart, just as wild as his own.

And her heart was a lover’s heart and her hands were a lover’s hands, so experience was unnecessary. She simply let him feel her wanting him. She was warm beneath him, infinitely pliant. The soft little sounds she made challenged him to press closer and taste all that sweet yielding.

“Stop, Sunbeam.” His blood was on fire. Luc knew in a few more moments he wouldn’t have the strength to turn back. “Don’t do this.”

“Yes,” she whispered, her hands sliding down and circling his ribs. Then she moved again, parting cloth and finding his magnificent, thrusting heat. “Now.” Sighing, she traced the hot length of him.

Luc groaned. He stared deep into her eyes, drinking in the sight of her. He wished that he had strength enough to stop her; he wished that he was all the things she thought he was. “You crazy fool.”

“You’re the fool. How could anyone not want this?”

“Why? This is why, Silver,” he whispered fiercely.

And then he drove her back against the pillow, mouth hard to hers while he gave her the wet thrust of his tongue. His hand fell around the curve of her breast. In one impatient movement she was bared to him, her nipple rising taut to his callused palm.

He taught her need then. With the practiced art of a master he tugged the budded crest and showed her how her blood could burn and her skin could flame with demands unmet.

“Do you feel me now? Do you understand what I’ll do to you?”

His hand jerked away the coverlet and opened over her belly, then inched down to the silken delta at her thighs, the sight of her by candlelight a perfect, erotic male dream. “And here, do you feel me here? Do you want me here, Silver? Are you hot and wet with wanting me?”

She twisted against him, lost in fire, lost in longing.

Lost in love.

“I want you, Luc. Let me feel you. You touched me once before and made my blood sing. Now I would do the same to you,” she whispered.

Her words tore the breath from his lungs. “What does it take to frighten you?”

“The thought of losing you. The thought of never knowing this.” Her eyes sought his, deep pools of longing. “Let me feel you, Luc. Let me … love you. Just once.”

“Don’t call it love, damn it. You don’t even know who I am!”

“Then tell me.” Her eyes were caught somewhere between green and gold, cloudy with passion. “No, show me.”

The husky timbre of her voice cut right through him, shaking every last fiber of his resolve. Her soft fingers, touching his manhood with genuine, artless delight, left him blind with hunger. He would die if he didn’t find his way deep inside her.

But he didn’t.

Because Algiers had taught Lucien Delamere lessons no man should ever have to learn.

So instead of cupping her soft hips and driving into all the sleek, wet heat she offered, he twisted free of her hands and stared at her, his face fire and copper in the candlelight. “Show you? Very well, so I will. Look hard, Miss St. Clair. Look your fill and begin to understand why you shouldn’t have come here — and why you must never come here again.”

He turned about, his arms locked over his chest until the muscles on his back were stretched hard and tight.

And Silver saw in shocking clarity all the pale scars she’d only glimpsed dimly from the window.

They rippled over his back, fighting their way across the proud muscles like angry dragons.

Silver caught back a little moan, feeling the bite of those scars as if they pierced her own skin. “No…” She reached out, unable to face the thought of the pain he’d borne, unable to imagine who had put such marks upon him.

“They marked me, you see. I am one of the Dey’s select guard. I have access to his court and even to his harem. Only a few men hold that privilege, I assure you.”

“Luc, don’t.”

He laughed roughly. “Still not enough? Then perhaps this will convince you.” His jaw tensed as he twisted the first two buttons of his breeches free. Dove-gray wool pooled low, settling into folds that revealed the wedge of an iron-hard stomach.

And just above the opened breeches, two more fine lines of silver splayed out in neat rows.

“That’s the punishment for disobedience in the bagnio, Silver. In Algeria they have men who specialize in use of the whip. It is their greatest pleasure, in fact, and they are true masters. Each strike takes a little more skin, making it that much harder for the wound to heal.” His voice hardened. “Making you wonder if it wouldn’t be better just to let go…”

His fingers tightened as if at some dark memory, and then he jerked his breeches back to his waist. “I have killed men, Silver. I have seen them die at my feet and I have not blinked an eye. And I have been forced to do things…”

His eyes went hard and unreadable.

“So never ask me again why. Just go away from me and never look back. Because if you look back I might be following you. And next time, dear God, I might not be strong enough to turn away.”

The candle guttered.

Shadows twitched across the moire walls.

Luc strode from the room and flung the door closed behind him.

~ ~ ~

He went to his study. Usually it lulled him, the sight of all those leather volumes heavy with the wisdom of centuries.

But tonight the books only mocked him.

He straightened a pile of correspondence. He added water to a miniature potted rose in one curtained window. He brushed a speck of dust from the head of an exquisite Egyptian malachite sculpture of a cat.

And then he prepared himself to die.

~ ~ ~

Afterward, Luc was never certain how he came to be there. An hour later his hand was on her door without his conscious intent.

And she was there before him, all silver and softness in the moonlight, all hope and magic to a man who had forgotten such things could actually exist.

Scent drifted toward him. Lavender, rose, and sage.

Her scent.

What would he do after she was gone? How would he start to make himself hard again?

Right now he wanted heat, not cold. He wanted her heat, wrapped all around him, her softness pressed to his pounding need.

He almost moved then, almost forgot his promise and went to her. But at the final moment when sanity came near to breaking, when sweat touched his brow and his body ached with hunger, something stopped him.

It was the feel of metal, cold and smooth beneath his fingers.

The pistol was wedged in the satchel slung over his black cloak. It was the pistol he’d shot men with. The same pistol he might have to use tonight.

Luc went very still, thinking about his past, sickened by all he’d seen and done. With the cold, clear light of reason he knew he could never cross the million invisible miles that stretched between them.

He might as well have been dead to her.

He took one last look, finding a deep, wordless joy in her peace. And then he swept up his cloak and hat and went out in search of death or revenge.

Whichever came first.

~ ~ ~

Far away in a London ballroom, a woman stood surrounded by eager admirers. Light flashed off shimmering jewels and gleaming silk.

But India Delamere had no interest in beaus or dancing. Abruptly she turned away from her swains and flung herself out into the night beyond the laughter and the crowded ballroom.

“India? Whatever is the matter with you, gel?”

When the girl turned, her face was streaked with tears. “Luc’s in danger, Grandmama. Oh, I feel it so clearly this time. And here I am, wasting my hours in empty gaiety when I should be looking for him.”

The Duchess of Cranford gripped her granddaughter’s shoulder. “Nonsense. Everything that can be done has been done. Your brother is gone! The best thing you can do is get on with your life.”

“You’re wrong,” India said softly, her eyes fixed on the night. On something that only she could see. “He’s not dead. And somehow, somewhere, I’m going to find him, I swear it.”

~ ~ ~

Gasping, Silver shot upright in bed, her eyes dark with terror. She saw nothing to make her frightened. The room was silent, the candle long guttered.

But terror knotted around her heart like a rope of gleaming black silk.

Luc was in danger; she could feel it clearly.

With trembling fingers she shoved back her hair and pushed to her feet. She understood so much about him now. She knew why he shunned his feelings and pushed everyone away. How would she ever forget the sight of the scars he carried on his back? Her heart twisted at the memory of those cold, cruel marks.

And now he was throwing himself into more danger.

Somehow she had to stop him.

She was turning toward the door when Bram rushed in, his face white.

“Have you seen him?”

“Luc? No, I haven’t. But—”

“I had hoped I was wrong and he was still here with you.” The boy tugged at his hair. “I was reading in the library and lost to the world, or I would have tried to stop him.”

“Bram, you’re not making sense. Tell me what’s happened!”

“It’s Luc. He’s ridden out, swathed to the teeth in black,” the boy said grimly. “He had a satchel over one arm and a rifle slung behind his saddle.” He looked at Silver, his eyes anxious. “And he wasn’t riding slow or careful, Syl. He crashed off through the shrubbery like a man possessed, as if he didn’t care who noticed.”

Silver remembered how he’d looked when he’d left her, his eyes hard and unreadable, his voice rough with hopelessness.

So never again ask me why. Just go away from me and never look back.

The fool. The stubborn, reckless fool!

Silver fumbled for a candle, trying to stay calm, trying not to think of him huddled on some rise overlooking the grim stretch of the Norfolk road. “I expect he’s gone out to rob a coach, Bram. It’s his livelihood, after all, as he’s so fond of telling both of us.”

The boy stared at her, his face lined with shock. “Don’t you care? What if he doesn’t come back? What if he dies out there on the heath!”

“I care,” Silver said softly. “I care far too much. But there’s nothing we can do.” Her eyes were bleak. “Gather your things. We’re going back to Lavender Close.”

~  26  ~

Black night.

Black trees.

Black highway snaking over endless hills.

Each one suited Luc’s fancy. He was in a wild mood, with a mind for desolation as he spurred his great horse over the ridge that overlooked the Norfolk road.

At the crown of the hill he opened his satchel and checked his pistols, all the time trying not to think about Silver’s face as he’d left her.

It was best this way. Best for both of them.

Don’t ever look back, a hard voice warned.

From the far side of the rise came the hollow clip-clop of hooves. A moment later Jonas’s face broke through the gloom.

“Shouldn’t otta be here,” the rangy servant said harshly. “Not you. Not me. If I had half a grain of sense, I’d turn tail right now.” He glared at Luc. “But I reckon I don’t. So what’s the lay tonight, Blackwood?”

Luc sat back in his saddle. “They’ll be coming from the south. He’s a rich merchant from Yarmouth and he’ll be traveling with all his money beneath the seat of the carriage, so I’m informed. One guard riding in the back, and two pistols inside hidden in the wall.”

Jonas shook his head. “I don’t like the smell of it. Too easy. What call has a man like that, wealthy as Croesus, to carry his guineas about with him? There’s a bad smell to it, if you ask me. It has all the feel of a trap.”

Something cold crept up Luc’s spine, but he ignored it. “You must be getting too old for this line of work, Jonas. Next thing I know, you’ll be seeing spirits out there in the darkness.”

“Aye, so I will, Luc Delamere. Spirits of highwaymen who died before their time,” the Scotsman added grimly.

A faint veil of mist swirled about the heath as Luc eased his mask up over his face. From the far side of the hill came the muffled thunder of horses, eight in a team and moving fast. Luc let his fingers play over the reins, while excitement pounded through him.

A heavily loaded traveling carriage burst into view.

“Our merchant, I believe,” Luc said darkly. “And one man riding guard, just as we were told. My information has been correct so far.”

Behind him Jonas snorted. “Too pat, that’s what I’m saying.”

Luc laughed softly, trying to ignore a prickling sense of warning at his neck. “You begin to grumble like an old woman, Jonas. Pull up your mask and draw your pistol. Aye, it’s midnight and time for Blackwood to ride the heath once more!”

Mist drifted in white waves around the boulders that Luc had rolled into the middle of the road some minutes before. They would be invisible to the coachman until he was nearly upon them.

Only minutes to go, Luc thought. Again he felt the prick at his neck, an instinct that something was not as it should be.

He bit back a curse, telling himself he was becoming as cowardly as Jonas. He was not about to turn back, however. His merchant was too well suited to be plucked. The man had stopped in every town between Norwich and King’s Lynn, bragging of the wealth he’d made as a dealer in black flesh, one of the cursed backers of the slave trade.

Luc had tasted the horrors of slavery firsthand and this was one man he’d take a personal delight in robbing!

Barely twenty feet from the boulders the coachman saw his danger and raised a shout. Mist swirled around Luc’s horse as he charged down to the still pitching coach, his gun leveled.

With terse efficiency Jonas motioned the guard down from the back of the coach and onto the ground.

At the same time Luc approached the window of the carriage. “Out of the coach, traveler!” he ordered gruffly. “And make it fast, lest you keep the Lord of Blackwood waiting!”

The door creaked open. A tall figure wrapped in a greatcoat slipped from the gloom. His throat was covered by a thick muffler and his face nearly hidden beneath a hat.

“I am desolate to disturb your peace, friend, but it’s my domain you invade and I must exact a toll.”

The traveler shrugged and stepped down calmly.

“What, no protests? No signs of alarm?”

The man pulled back his coat, revealing broad shoulders and powerful thighs. Were it not for the fashionable cut of his clothing, Luc might have thought the fellow a pugilist of some sort.

He frowned, his uneasiness increasing. “How many other passengers do you carry?”

No answer. The merchant merely shrugged and crossed his arms atop his chest.

Luc glanced around, checking to be sure there were no outriders set to appear from the hill behind them. But the night was silent except for the sigh of the wind and the lonely cry of a hawk somewhere in the darkness.

Luc looked up at the coachman. “Throw down the weapon beside you!” The coachman cursed but did as he was told. A heavy musket cracked to the ground, making the horses dance skittishly.

Luc felt the merchant’s eyes bore into his. He didn’t like the intensity of that gaze. There was something about it…

Warily Luc slipped to the ground and made his way to the door of the coach. But he wasn’t careful enough.

While he was still three feet from his goal, the traveler’s greatcoat flew to the ground and before Luc knew it a booted foot had crashed into his wrist and sent his pistol flying. Cursing, he jumped back and wrenched his rapier from its sheath. The merchant fell into a half-crouch, his face hidden in the shadow of the carriage.

Luc’s eyes narrowed. There it was again, the sense of something not as it should be.

“That was a grave mistake, my friend,” he growled. “One more move and you’ll feel the bite of my steel between your ribs.”

The merchant only laughed. Again his foot slashed out. This time Luc barely managed to jump clear. Throwing himself low and to the left, he twisted, then pushed forward with a vicious thrust that left his blade at the merchant’s heart.

But instead of the impassioned pleas that Luc expected, his victim merely threw off hat and muffler and laughed. “An exhilarating match, to be sure. But surely you wouldn’t hurt an old friend, would you?”

That voice!

Luc’s eyes went wide with shock as he recognized the strange cadence that spoke of long years in the East. Memory came flooding back to Luc with a rush, memories of other bouts beneath a Mediterranean moon while the deck of a square-rigger pitched beneath them.

“Connor? Connor MacKinnon? Lord, is it really you?”

“None other,” the traveler said. His broad shoulders and great height stood revealed for a moment as the moon slid from behind the clouds. “And I’ve come many miles in search of the notorious rogue known as Blackwood.”

“It seems you’ve found him, you villain. So all that talk of ten bags of gold hidden beneath the seat was just a hum?”

“I fear so,” the blonde-haired MacKinnon said smoothly. “What the devil was I to do? After your brief, tantalizing message in London, I had no way to reach you, so the simplest route was to let your greed bring you to me. I fashioned the story of a merchant flush with riches and hoped it would draw Blackwood from his lair. I’m delighted to see that it has.”

Then the giant’s voice fell. “But I have news, something that couldn’t await your leisurely return to London. We must talk.”

Luc frowned. “The heath is no place for conversation. Too many other highwaymen follow in my footsteps, I fear. Jonas,” he called, “send the coachman and guard about their business. Our traveler will have no more need of them this night.”

In a few minutes the men were gone, only too happy to clamber back aboard the carriage and gallop into the mist.

“As reckless as ever, I see,” Luc said to his friend. “Don’t you know I might have run you through?”

“Not before I broke your arm, highwayman. Or perhaps smashed a leg or two.”

“Ah, yes, those Oriental arts of yours. Damned useful on occasion, but not against my polished steel.”

Connor MacKinnon merely smiled. “Someday we’ll put it to the test. But for now we’d best be on our way. I wouldn’t fancy explaining this conversation to a passing magistrate.”

Luc laughed. “Nor would I. We’ll head west, but you’ll have to walk. My horse won’t bear the weight of both of us. You always were a great, hulking brute of a man, Connor MacKinnon.”

“Walking will be a pleasure, but running even better. And I’ll keep pace with that horse of yours!” With that he set off on an easy lope over the mist-wrapped hills.

Luc shook his head. The man was an enigma, to be sure. He always seemed to appear when least expected and most needed. He had trained in the secret martial arts of the Shao-lin in China, it was whispered, one of the few foreigners ever to receive admittance. There was also talk of years of physical training in the vast mountains to the far west of China.

When asked directly, MacKinnon only smiled, never affirming or denying the rumors.

Luc owed him his life, there was no question about that. He had managed to fight his way out of the Dey’s palace at Algiers, but he wouldn’t have gotten far, not with Jonas’s half-delirious form slung over his shoulder.

But MacKinnon had seen him coming and swept him inside his wagon filled with Chinese spices and tea, which he was conveying into the Dey’s palace.

It had been a hair-raising two hours, with Luc and Jonas hidden beneath a mound of coarse canvas while the Dey’s men inspected their merchandise. Then MacKinnon had seen them out to safety, not once but three times that day, for when the Dey discovered that his prized ferenghi slave was missing, he had turned out the whole city to find him.

But it hadn’t helped. By then Luc was in the harbor, safely hidden aboard one of the ships in Connor’s fleet.

Yes, the man was an enigma. He relished being where one least expected him. Luc shook his head as Connor’s dark form disappeared at a lope over the hill. The man might very well beat him to Waldon Hall yet.

~ ~ ~

Silver’s wound throbbed slightly as she climbed down from the gig she and Bram had borrowed. The rows of lavender glowed pale and luminous in the moonlight, and she filled her lungs with the clean, fresh scent, struck anew by the beauty of Lavender Close.

But the sight of the neat flowering fields and the borders of alba and damask roses did not bring Silver the peace they usually did. Tonight there was an emptiness inside her, a pain and restlessness that Silver knew she could never escape.

Bram touched her shoulder. “Syl, are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

She had, of course. She’d seen the long and empty days that stretched before her. She’d seen the pain and the restlessness that would be hers as she lived her life with nothing but ashes in her heart. “I — I’m fine, Bram,” she answered, trying not to think about a man with amber eyes. She squared her shoulders and started up the hill. “Let’s go find Tinker, shall we? I want to know just how much damage the villains have done since I’ve been gone.”

He came again today.

He asked a great many questions and even placed a sizable order for perfume. He seemed most sincere. Yes, he was very good.

But I don’t trust him.

God help me, I don’t trust anyone anymore. Not since the letters began coming every day.

They’ve threatened the farm and they’ve threatened me. Now they’re threatening my children.

Dear Susannah, if you read this, know that that is why I sent you and Bram off to stay with your Uncle Archibald. It wasn’t what you thought. It was only because I wanted to protect you.

And I will protect you. Somehow I must. Even though the money’s nearly gone now…

~  27  ~

“So what draws you to the heath at midnight, risking a slit throat to find Norfolk’s most dangerous highwayman?”

Connor’s face was bathed with a faint sheen of sweat. He and Luc had just spent a fierce half hour in swordplay, neither sparing the other although Luc wasn’t up to his usual form with his wound still on the mend.

Now they stood in the open doors to the veranda, looking out over the dark lawns of Waldon Hall. “News,” Connor said. “News that could not wait for your return to London.”

Luc swept back his long black hair, feeling tension grip him. He tried to forget the loneliness that had stabbed him since he had returned with Connor from the heath and discovered that Silver had gone, taking Bram with her.

It was no business of his, Luc told himself. He had warned her she should leave. In fact, he had ordered her to go.

But Luc found that her departure left him desolate, no matter how hard he tried to deny his feelings. And as Silver had promised, he was plagued by memories: her in his bed, her lips opening to his, the scent of lavender on her skin.

He knew those memories would be with him always.

But he scowled, willing everything else from his mind, and steeled himself to carry out the oath he had sworn in Algiers. Honor demanded no less.

He looked at the friend who had saved his life that day almost two years before. “You work fast. I sent my message to you only last week. What have you managed to find out?”

“You were right. There is a traitor hidden in the Admiralty. I wormed it out of a friend of mine who sits on the Navy Board. I once performed a trifling service for him, and the fellow was happy to answer a few questions.”

“A trifling service.” Luc smiled grimly. “Saved his life, more like, knowing you, MacKinnon. No, I don’t mean to pry. I only want to know what you’ve uncovered.”

“Someone is indeed passing information to the Dey of Algeria, just as you suspected. But the network is much broader than you thought. Through the Dey the information is carried to all the other Barbary principalities in Tunis and Morocco, from the Straits of Gibraltar to the Gulf of Sirte. It must be this man who ordered you delivered to a Navy prison ship and eventually saw you turned over to the Corsairs. The man is damned thorough too. He notes sailing dates, travel routes, and ports of call. Most monstrous of all are the detailed passenger lists the villain provides to the pirates. He gives them everything, including detailed descriptions of the passengers, probable jewels and wealth hidden on each person. He even suggests exactly how much ransom can be extracted for every prisoner. A Select Committee has been formed to investigate the matter, so I’m told.”

Luc barely heard the last words. Rage was washing over him in icy waves. He’d suspected this treachery, of course. He’d lived, breathed, and slept with the suspicion for five years now, through the angry sweltering nights and the grim days of torture.

He’d finally given in to the Dey’s demands as Jonas lay dying from fever, his body wasted away to bones and paper-thin skin.

Only then had Luc agreed to instruct a select group of the Dey’s personal guard in the art of the sword. In recognition of his services Luc was offered the hated tattoo that now marked his forearm. But Jonas was spared.

It was in the heat of that night that Luc had made a vow to see the whole system of piracy destroyed, and along with it whoever was secretly providing information from Admiralty records back in London.

Now that his suspicions were confirmed, only one fact remained to be given. “Who?” Luc demanded hoarsely. “Who is it?”

“Ah, there’s the rub.” Connor MacKinnon watched his friend from beneath hooded eyes. He saw Luc’s tension and the rage that burned from his gold-and-amber eyes. “My sources tell me the Admiralty is searching for the traitor, but so far to no avail. He is very clever, our little fish. It scarcely helps that so many renegade European sailors have risen to high rank in the Corsair fleet. As rais they captain their own vessels and even dare to attack their native coasts. And any one of those renegades may move back and forth, communicating with our traitor hidden in London.”

“Damn them all! Is there no clue to the spy’s identity?”

“None. The Admiralty has its own problems, you must understand. They’re under attack for corruption, waste, and monumental extravagance. Understandably, they are loath to air their dirty linen in public — not until they are sure of the traitor’s identity.”

“Which means I’m no closer to an answer than before!” Luc slammed his fist into the damask-covered wall, cursing harshly.

“Not quite.” Connor MacKinnon angled his broad shoulders against the open door and studied his friend. “It happens that I have a list of the most likely candidates here in my pocket. They are all men who’ve made a great deal of money in the last two years — money that cannot be legally accounted for.”

“But how did you find out—”

“It is my business to have sources wherever my ships put into ports of call, my friend. In Genoa and Venice, in Marseilles and, yes, even in Algeria, I know the bankers who manage the private accounts. I think you’ll find the list very interesting, for my sources have confirmed that several of those hidden accounts belong to Admiralty men.”

Luc smiled darkly. “How much did this information cost you, MacKinnon?”

His friend shrugged.

“Damn it, Conn, how can I ever repay you?” Luc spread his hands. “My house, my estates, they’re all yours. Everything you see is yours, if only I can find the bastard who sold me into slavery — and continues to sell more poor devils there every day.”

Luc’s friend pursed his lips. “A nice enough place, I’ll warrant. Your offer intrigues me. I don’t suppose you’d care to throw in Swallow Hill as well.”

Luc stiffened. “We shall not talk of that, I think. Friend you are and friend you have been, even to saving Jonas and me from death, but Swallow Hill is done, Connor. That life is closed to me. I caution you to remember that.”

Luc’s friend, the possessor of a fleet of trading ships that cruised to every navigable spot on the globe, merely laughed, in no way affronted by this harsh speech. “Oh, I’m quaking in my boots, Lord Dunwood. I’m quaking well and truly!”

“Knave. And it’s not Lord Dunwood! Not anymore.”

“So you say,” Connor said calmly. “For myself, I’ll hear no more about payment. I’d rather know what secrets you are hiding. Everywhere I go I hear nothing but talk of the great Blackwood’s exploits upon the high road — and in a hundred bedchambers as well. I particularly seem to recall accounts of a turbulent exchange that took place outside the Green Man. Have you now been reduced to kidnapping your bed partners?”

Luc cursed. “So that tale is being told, is it? Blast, I’d hoped she could escape it.”

“She?” Connor let the question linger delicately.

“A neighbor. She owns the lavender fields that border Waldon Hall. A damnable, tempestuous virago of a woman.”

“I can see how vexing you find her,” MacKinnon said coolly. “But can that be Millefleurs I smell hanging about this room? I could swear it was, except that the perfume has been unavailable for several years now, more’s the pity. Any number of women would be extremely appreciative to a man who could find them a bottle.” His eyes glinted with lazy wickedness.

“It is Millefleurs. Miss St. Clair’s father designed the scent, but took the formula to the grave with him. I believe that Silver now has the only remaining bottle.”

“Silver? An intriguing name. And this woman — cross eyed, no doubt? Clinging and bad tempered?”

“I only wish she were,” Luc muttered. “No, your information’s wrong in that. Silver St. Clair is a pure sweep of summer sunlight, brave and laughing and a very spitfire.”

Connor’s eyes narrowed. So his friend had finally fallen, had he? Well, well, this posed any number of intriguing possibilities. Did the woman know she held his heart?

Perhaps more important, did the man know?

He decided to involve himself in the lovers’ affairs, whether Luc liked it or not. The scarred survivor of Algiers deserved to find happiness. “You intrigue me, my friend. May I be allowed to pay my respects to the lovely lady?”

Luc’s fingers tightened for the barest space of an instant, and then he shrugged. “She is hardly my claim. A neighbor only. If you choose to pursue her, it is no affair of mine. I expect she has far too much sense to fall for your honeyed lies, however.”

“Ah, but obstacles make the chase so much more pleasant.”

Luc turned away abruptly, his face hard.

So that was indeed how the wind blew, Connor thought. Yes, the two definitely required his good offices. Fortunately, he had a week to spare before his trading ventures called him back to the Orient.

He rather fancied himself in the role of matchmaker, Connor found. “And when shall I have the pleasure of meeting this paragon?”

“Tomorrow. The next day. It is of no consequence to me. I do not mean to accompany you. I must concentrate on finding my traitor and seeing the last breath of life squeezed from his lying throat.”

“Where do we start?”

Luc’s gaze jerked to his friend’s face. “We?”

“I believe that’s what I said.” There was steel in Connor’s stance, beneath the easy posture he affected.

“Damn you, MacKinnon. Don’t you recognize a rebuff when you hear one?”

“I have always had a problem with my ears. Insults and snubs seem to roll right off me.”

“You’re sure? It may run very dangerous before we’re done. The man is a master of deceit.”

“Quite sure, you fool.”

“Then I’ll thank you for your help. I can use those Oriental fighting skills of yours, especially that devilish way you have of jabbing with your foot in total silence. First I’ll want to look at that list of yours. Then I fancy we’ll pay a visit to Kingsdon Cross. There’s an old mill I have an urge to break into.”

Above the trees the first red fingers of dawn were streaking across the eastern sky. Luc stared at them with savage determination.

“It sounds vastly intriguing. When do we leave?”

“Too late to start now. We’ll leave by moonlight. I’ve a plan of the building. I suspect some of the dispatches are concealed there.”

“But if you know the place, you must know its owner.”

“Unfortunately not. The man has some sort of secret entrance, since he is never seen coming or going. But I shall soon have him, I guarantee you that.”

Connor smiled faintly. “How very resourceful you are.”

“Blackwood tries.” Luc made him an elegant bow. “One has a reputation to uphold, after all.”

“A reputation that grows by the hour. I begin to understand why. Very well, what about another bout before we retire?”

Luc made a crooked smile. He tried not to think about the pain he’d seen in Silver’s eyes before he left. He tried not to remember the heat of her mouth, the silken beauty of her breasts beneath his aching fingers.

Might as well try not to breathe.

He raised his foil. “I await your pleasure, braggart.”

Their blades met, engaged. The clang of fine steel rang through the ballroom.

As dawn stole over the lawns and through Waldon Hall’s broad windows, Luc was careful to force the pain from his face.

At least he thought he was.

But Connor MacKinnon was not fooled for a moment.

~ ~ ~

Sir Charles Millbank cursed furiously, tugging at his vest as he stared down at the brandy puddled beneath his glass.

Damn it, it was nearly dawn! Why did the man always keep him waiting?

But he knew why.

To make him sweat, the baronet thought angrily. To make his fear grow and grow, until he groveled.

Through the smoky haze of the Green Man’s rear rooms, the baronet saw a tall figure approach. Millbank’s heart began to hammer as he saw the glint of gold at the man’s ear.

The cloaked visitor moved in utter silence. He towered over the table and did not seat himself. “What news have you brought me, Englishman? You have taken my gold and now I expect full payment.”

“Er, I’m close. Very close. I have nearly uncovered Blackwood’s hideout.”

“Nearly? “

Sir Charles’s face reddened. “One day more should do the trick. If not, the St. Clair chit will be my lure.” He sat up straighter as thoughts of Silver’s face, pleading in his captivity, brought him a measure of courage. “She’ll bring him to me, damn her. And then I shall drag him to you, just as I’ve promised.”

The foreigner smiled thinly. “I trust, for your sake, ferenghi, that you do. I show no mercy to those who betray me.”

Millbank cleared his throat, fidgeting beneath that cold gaze. He tried not to stare at the odd ring on the man’s fingers. It was an animal figure, and the emeralds in the eyes had to be worth a king’s ransom. Hoping to escape the man’s displeasure, he changed the topic. “But why Blackwood? What do you want with this highwayman?”

“Because it suits my mood, I shall tell you. The man was once in my custody, but he escaped. He is the only man who has ever done that.” The dark eyes hardened. “The only man who still lives, that is. But he will pay for his betrayal. Before I’m done, he will beg me for the pleasure of dying.”

The Englishman shuddered. “Er, quite. Well, I’d best be going. I’ve plans to lay before nightfall, you understand.”

His employer smiled coldly. “Lay them well. But beware, Englishman. I make a dangerous enemy. It would be a pity if I had to make you taste my vengeance.” He waved his hand abruptly. “Now leave me and be gone to your work.”

Millbank did not wait for further encouragement. White faced, he stumbled to his feet and fairly ran from the smoky room.

~  28  ~

The sun was high by the time Silver woke from a restless sleep. Her wound pained her a little, but her energy was nearly restored. She tugged on her work clothes and a shawl and made her way to the flower fields.

There she took off her shoes and paced through the warm rich furrows, praying they would give her peace as they always had before. But this time they did not relieve her fear.

They certainly didn’t help her forget the anger and despair on Luc’s face when he strode from her room at Waldon Hall.

Two hours made no difference, nor did ten. Twilight found her just as restless and unsettled as she had been at her return that dawn.

Worse yet, there was next to nothing for her to do. Their attackers had been repelled, thanks to Tinker’s vigilance and the help of the men Luc had hired. Tinker and Bram had inspected the drying lavender and finished a load of sachets for the select hotel at King’s Lynn. They’d even filled a tedious order for lavender soap and restorative oils from the palace itself.

Silver smiled. They had finished without her help, right down to polishing each bar to a fine sheen. Now Silver felt like a relic on her own farm. And with time on her hands her thoughts kept drifting back to a man with amber-and-gold eyes. Had he made his way home to Waldon Hall, his pockets jingling with gold, or had one of the magistrate’s men dropped him to the ground with a musketball between the eyes? She couldn’t bear to think about it. She forced her thoughts back to Lavender Close. In the urgency of the last days she’d had no time to spare for her father’s journal, but now she took it from its hiding place beneath the conservatory floor. There were still a dozen entries left to read. She would study them outside on the hill her father loved best. Perhaps they would hold the key to his death.

It was your birthday tonight, Susannah. How much you looked like your mother in your joy. After you had gone to bed, I sat above the lavender fields watching the moon sweep down in waves of silver.

The twelfth night of the fifth month.

An important date, one whose significance is vast. So consider this well, my daughter. If you love my farm, if you love my fields, the meaning will eventually grow clear to you. I dare not say more in case this journal should fall into unfriendly hands.

If not and you now read these words, Susannah, remember your birthday. Think well.

The answer will come to you.

Silver sighed and let the journal fall closed on her lap. Dropping her head against the rough trunk of the oak tree behind her, she stared up into the night sky.

The twelfth day of the fifth month.

What could it possibly mean? Her birthday, yes, but what significance beyond that? She shook her head. Had her father’s wits wandered at the end of his life? Had he simply grown melancholy, convinced that every shadow was an enemy? She found she could not believe it.

In the night silence Silver sat on the hill where her father must have sat long years before, looking over his beloved lavender beneath a sky full of stars. But there were no clues or revelations hidden there. All Silver could see were three rows of new cuttings, which now lay withered and brown. Even in the older lavender beds she made out a few sickly plants scattered here and there. She would have to ask Bram to inspect them tomorrow. If it was the root disease, every one would have to go. Otherwise, they would risk the loss of all their fields, for the root sickness spread with terrible speed.

Frowning, Silver broke off a leaf of rose geranium, twined it around a sprig of lavender, and tucked the two through a buttonhole at her bodice.

Then she brushed off her skirts and pushed to her feet.

She would find no more answers here tonight.

~ ~ ~

Tinker was waiting for her when she made her way back to the cottage. “Did you see him?”

“Him?”

“The highwayman, of course. He’s been sitting beneath that oak tree on the hill for an hour and more. I thought it was more of those brutes come to carry out their deviltry, but it wasn’t. When I went up to check, I saw it was Luc. He was just staring up at the sky.”

Silver felt a twisting sensation in her chest. “I expect he enjoys the smell of lavender. Or perhaps he merely likes the sight of the sky at night.”

Tinker snorted. “He’s got a night sky of his own, back over the hill at Waldon Hall. No, I reckon the man is just about as cabbage-headed as someone else whose name I could mention.” The old servant shrugged. “No need to frown at me, Silver St. Clair. It’s none of my affair if the pair of you choose to go mooning about. No, it’s none of my affair at all!”

With that the old man stalked down to the storeroom, mumbling loudly to himself with every step.

~ ~ ~

Bram caught up with her five minutes later. “Did you see him?” he asked eagerly.

Silver sighed. “No, I did not see him, although I seem to be given a report every five minutes, first by Tinker, now by you.”

“But what is Luc doing up there? He’s been sitting beneath that tree for over an hour.”

“I expect he likes the view.”

Bram shoved the spectacles higher on his nose. “If you ask me, the man is mad. In fact the pair of you are! If this is the way grownups act, I am not all certain I want to grow up. Perhaps if I am lucky I never shall.” Then he, too, turned and stalked off to his room, leaving Silver alone with her curiosity.

Finally that curiosity overcame her.

Her eyes sought out the great oak on the crest of the hill. After a moment she saw him, just where Tinker had said he was, atop the rise that offered a clear view of the whole farm.

What was the man doing up there? What gave him the right to come bothering her, especially after he’d practically ordered her away from Waldon Hall?

Her shoulders stiffened. She would throw him off her land, that’s what! Then she would forget him. Cloak, hat, and silver fencing foil, she’d put them out of her mind once and for all. And it would happen now.

~ ~ ~

But Silver’s heart was pounding as she stalked to the top of the hill. There were so many things she wanted to say to him, and so many questions she needed to ask. Yet he rebuffed her at every step. She gnawed her lip, studying his silhouette as he sat beside a hedge of honeysuckle, his back propped against the ancient oak.

Before Silver could speak, he raised one hand. “No, don’t tell me,” he said, his voice low and rough. “It’s the mistress of the manor come to order me away. But how do I know who she is?”

Silver heard him draw a deep breath.

“Because here’s the hint of lavender that clings to her like a spring wind. And here’s the scent of roses to add a trace of sweetness. She wears a Kashmir shawl. How do I know? From the dusky smell of patchouli, which the Indian scarves are always packed in.”

His knees were drawn up before him. He stared up at the sky and did not turn to look at her. “Don’t you mean to rate my skill?”

Silver glared down at him, her hands on her hips. “You’ve been drinking!”

“Not much, Sunbeam. Not enough to matter, at least. Certainly not enough to help me forget. But can’t a man drink his way to rack and ruin in peace? First that bad-tempered servant of yours comes pestering me, and then your scapegrace brother. Who’ll y’ send next, Cromwell?”

“Perhaps I shall! You can talk well together, one dog to another!”

But when Silver saw the tension in his shoulders, she felt her anger melt. “Of course they came to check,” she said softly. “They care about you.”

“Don’t want ‘em to,” Luc said hoarsely. “Not a whit. People who care about me … get hurt.”

Tears pressed at Silver’s eyes. She sank down beside him on the ground. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“That wretched bottle you’ve been drinking from.”

“Don’t know what the devil y’re talking about.”

She reached past him, searching in the darkness. Her arm brushed his shoulder. Her hip brushed his thigh.

Luc went dead still. “Bad idea, Sunbeam. Damned bad idea.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Not made of stone. Drunk as a lord, in fact. Not a fit companion. Not tonight.”

“Because you slur your words? You told me that you always slurred your words.”

“I lied,” Luc said grimly. “Now you’d better go.”

Silver ignored him. She found the bottle and pulled it from his fingers. After studying it for a moment she raised it to her own lips.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m finding out what it feels like to drink oneself to rack and ruin,” she said calmly. The brandy burned pleasantly down her throat. “It feels rather nice, actually.”

“Over my dead body, you will!”

She took another drink.

“Give me that!”

Silver turned away, clutching the bottle between her hands. “In a minute, perhaps. You hardly need it. You’ve drunk enough for a month of Sundays already.” Resolutely she took another drink, then settled herself back against the grass with one hand behind her head.

Luc frowned down at her. “I don’t think I like this. Why don’t you just leave?”

“Can’t a woman be left to drink herself to rack and ruin in peace?”

Luc muttered darkly. “No need for you to. You’ve got friends, family. Life of excitement before you.”

“Maybe … that’s not enough for me.” Silver was amazed at her own boldness. Perhaps the brandy had something to do with it or perhaps it was simply the burning pain in her heart that could no longer be denied.

Sitting up, she took another drink, a substantial one this time, before Luc managed to wrestle the bottle away from her.

“Enough of that, hellion. Not used to the stuff. It’ll make your head swim.”

“It already has. I find the feeling rather pleasant.” Sighing, Silver lay back and slid open a button at her bodice. “I didn’t realize it was so warm, however.” She frowned at the sky. “And why are the stars dancing about like that?”

“Not dancing about.” Luc squinted upward. “Least, I don’t think they are.” He looked at Silver and shook his head. “Too much brandy, my girl. That’s what it is.”

Silver shrugged. “They look rather nice moving in those funny little circles.” She leaned toward Luc. Her hand rose to his cheek. “So do you, highwayman,” she said softly.

She felt the muscles clench at his jaw.

“Shouldn’t be here, Sunbeam. Tinker would have my hide.”

“Tinker told me you were up here. So did Bram. In fact, they both thought me heartless for not coming up sooner.”

“Better heartless that heartbroken,” Luc said harshly. “I’m no good for you. Not even good for myself.” He stared out over the dark hills. “I went after the man who sent me to Algiers tonight, did you know that? Followed him over the marshes to the old mill near Kingsdon Cross. I nearly had him, too, but I was a second too slow and he slipped away. And do you know why I was too slow?” Luc didn’t wait for her answer, fists clenched against his knees. “I was too slow because I smelled the scent of honeysuckle and it made me think of you, damn it. It made me remember, just as you said it would. And I can’t afford that, Silver. I can’t be anything but strong and cold and cruel right now. Not without breaking a vow I made to myself five years ago.”

He came up on one knee, his face hard. “That’s why I’m leaving now. Because of me, not because of you. I want you to understand that.”

“But — the brandy? How will you make your way back?”

Luc laughed grimly. “Oh, I’m not drunk. That was just a lie to send you running. Silly, of course. I should have known that nothing would frighten you away.”

“How curious,” Silver said softly, “because I’m not drunk either.” Her hand moved lower, freeing the second button at her bodice. “Not in the slightest…”

Luc’s eyes locked on her hand, on the lacy white fabric that swayed in the wind, on the faint V of skin that shimmered beneath. “Don’t, Sunbeam.”

A third button slid free.

Luc’s breath was a strangled groan in his throat. “Damn it, Silver, don’t. I’m not made of stone, after all.”

“I pray that you are not. From what I’ve felt of you, you’re all fire and velvet,” she said huskily.

Heat slammed through Luc at her words. He had to leave. He had to be hard. He had to forget her — all for her own good.

But he couldn’t move. Paralyzed, he watched her fingers slide to a fourth button. “Is it possible,” Luc said hoarsely, “that you are trying to seduce me, Susannah St. Clair?”

“I devoutly hope so.” Silver’s eyes were tremulous in the soft moonlight. “Am I … succeeding, highwayman?”

Too well, Luc thought desperately, as his manhood strained hotly in a fresh wave of heat. Far too well.

“Not in the slightest,” he growled, praying she wouldn’t hear the hoarseness that proved the lie of his words. “Blackwood’s far too hardened a sinner to fall for such simple tricks.”

Luc saw a tremor run through her and it left him bleeding inside. But he could not afford to be kind. She would thank him for it later, when she had a rich, titled husband and a brood of auburn-haired children playing at her feet.

The thought left Luc cold.

“But maybe it’s not Blackwood I’m seducing,” Silver whispered. “Maybe it’s you, the quiet man who hides his pain deep. The man whose honor makes him feign dishonor.” Her voice broke. “It’s you I want, Luc. Not an image. Not a dream. Just you. Why can’t you understand that?”

Behind him Luc heard the wind rush over the lavender fields and skitter through the rose borders. The sound was echoed in Silver’s low sigh.

And he knew he was betrayed. Woman, wind, and the beauty of the night conspired against him the moment Silver sat up.

White lace fluttered free, baring the ivory curve of her breast to his fevered gaze.

He fought it, he fought her, but he was losing to all that softness and silken honesty.

He decided there was only one way to stop her.

He freed his shirt, his eyes hard on her face. Frightening her was his only hope. “It will hurt you, Silver. Perhaps a great deal. It always hurts the first time.”

“Oh, this is hardly my first,” she said huskily. “I’ve had dozens — yes, scores of men.”

His lip twitched slightly. “Scores, have you?”

“At least. I’m thoroughly, shall we say, broken in. No need to fear hurting me.”

“I see.” Luc’s eyes were unreadable as he slid his hand across the entrancing curves revealed at her lacy bodice. “And they touched you here? Like this?”

Silver gasped as he found the crest of her, already taut and hungry for him. “Of course.”

“And … you liked it? When they touched you like this?”

“It was pleasant enough, I suppose.”

His fingers splayed open and his lips closed over her, pulling wetly.

“Luc!”

“Yes?” He studied her from hooded eyes. “That was also pleasant, I take it?”

Silver swallowed audibly. “Yes. Pleasant, rather…”

Luc toyed with the hungry curves, brushing her with his tongue until she squirmed restlessly beneath him. “And all those scores of men, they did this to you as well?”

“I — of course.” Silver gasped. “All the time.”

“I see,” Luc said darkly. In one lazy movement he caught the full froth of her skirts and tugged them upward.

“What are you doing?”

“What every man does when he pleasures a woman. Surely, being a woman of such vast experience, you must realize that.”

Silver bit her lip. “Well — that is, of course I knew. It’s merely that you surprised me. It was your hands. They are very — big, you know.”

“‘Tis not only my hands that are big, Sunbeam,” Luc said darkly. “But you know all about that, being familiar with those ‘uncontrollable manly passions,’ as you are.”

He didn’t mean to spare her, not for a second. He couldn’t or he’d fail. He trailed his hands over the soft line of her thighs, seeking the heat at her delta.

She bit back a cry when he found her.

But he ignored her breathy moans, he ignored her restless movements, slowly parting the sleek skin that welcomed his intimate caress.

“Look at me,” Luc rasped. “I’m a turncoat, Silver. I’m a traitor to my country, to my name, and to my own heart. Look at me and tell me how it feels to be loved by a traitor. Maybe that will make you change your mind.”

~  29  ~

Silver didn’t answer. Dear Lord, she couldn’t answer, not with this fire inside her and desire streaking through her in great dark waves.

He was a traitor?

She caught a sharp breath.

“I — don’t believe it.”

Luc laughed grimly. “You will.” He shoved the lace from her other breast, coaxing it roughly with tongue and teeth.

Silver arched against him. Her rib throbbed, but she was too far lost in pleasure to care. She refused to believe he was a traitor!

At the same time she couldn’t tell him the truth. If he knew that he was indeed the first man to touch her so, he’d surely stop. That honor he said he lacked would keep him from her, and then she’d never know the beauty of his touch.

But Silver nearly blurted out the truth when Luc’s thumb eased through her silken curls.

“Frightened, my sweet? Good, for I mean to frighten you.”

Frightened? Not that. But she was feeling most peculiar. The heat. The brandy. The drumming in her blood.

And the man. Oh, yes, the man most of all.

He had her heart, caught well and truly now. And that secret, too, she must keep from him. He wouldn’t want her love nor any other tender feelings.

So Silver locked back the words, hid her heart. “Should I be frightened?”

“You should,” Luc said grimly. “It’s the highwayman you’ve caught tonight, here in your spell. Not the gentleman, not the cool cavalier, but the hardened scoundrel who owes allegiance to no one. Now are you afraid?”

“No.” Silver ran her hand beneath Luc’s shirt and found the faint ridge of the scars at his back. “Not of you. Not of these. They are warrior’s marks, tokens of honor. Why should they frighten me?”

Luc’s eyes closed. No, nothing would frighten her. He should have known.

“Is the pain to come soon?”

Only for me, Luc thought, knowing he could not carry this charade through to its end.

So close. One swift thrust and she would be his, tight and wet and clinging. She’d welcome him, he knew. He’d felt her pleasure once and knew she would grip him sweetly when he came to her.

He bit back a curse, feeling sweat bead his brow.

Not her. He couldn’t do it, not to this woman.

But he couldn’t pull away, not before he’d felt her sweet fire once more. He eased inside her, feeling her tremble against his fingers as he stroked her carefully.

“Oh, Luc, how can I—”

She rose against him then, her eyes dim, her face flushed, her whole body given to the pleasure he’d brought pounding through her.

So beautiful, Luc thought. He could hold her this way forever, with her little husky cries ringing in his ears. In her honesty and giving he felt free, the years swept clean, and for a moment it was almost as if the torments of Algiers had never happened.

At the sight of her, at the hot, tight tug of her, he felt his control shatter. Never before had he known such need — and such bitter regret.

For Algiers did exist. He had killed men and ignored his conscience. He had had to for survival. And then had come the women. Too young, they’d been. Far too small. When the Dey had seen Luc’s size, he’d cackled and ordered his ferenghi prisoner to a coupling that would punish the women for their disobedience.

And after the whippings Luc had finally complied.

To survive he had done what the Dey had ordered. Now he was a traitor to his country and himself. Nothing could change that.

“Not Luc,” he said grimly. “‘Tis the highwayman you face tonight, and Blackwood’s not a man to play for small stakes. I’ve had to kill men, Silver. I’ve had to take women, even if it hurt them. Too much — too much you don’t even want to know.” Abruptly he pushed to his feet.

“Luc? Where are you going?”

“Home. Where I should have stayed. Anywhere that’s far away from you.”

Silver blinked. “You can’t.”

“Don’t try to stop me. My mind’s made up.”

And then a click came behind him. Luc turned and saw a pistol glinting in the moonlight. “Damn it, what do you mean to do with that?”

“I mean to see the tables turned, felon.” Silver’s eyes slid half closed. “We’ll start with your boots. Take them off,” she ordered curtly.

A vein pulsed at Luc’s temple. “Damned if I will.”

“Suit yourself.” Silver lowered the gun between Luc’s feet. “My aim might not be entirely reliable just now, I warn you. You are a most potent and distracting lover.”

Luc tried to ignore the moonlight playing over her pale curves and how hot and tight she’d felt. “Let it be, Silver. If I stay, if I do the things I want to do, it will only bring you pain.”

The pistol rose higher. “Don’t make me count, highwayman. If I have to count, my aim may grow even worse.”

Luc twisted. In a blur of black he found his rapier, wrenched it high, then brought the point to hover over her throat. “Bloody little fool! Do you think I’d set foot abroad without a weapon of my own?”

Silver lay before him, lips parted, eyes alive with emerald fire. At her breast white lace fluttered in the soft wind, teasing her naked skin. “Perhaps it is that very … blade of yours I seek, highwayman.”

Desire rode Luc at her words. She was fearless. She was incorrigible. She was—

Beautiful. Heartrendingly innocent. A woman to test the mettle of a saint.

And Luc was certainly no saint.

He fell to one knee beside her, his foil still raised a hair’s breadth from her neck. His mouth hardened as he tugged her pistol from her fingers and flung it to the grass. “And now, my lady, what new scheme will you attempt? You have no weapons left to defeat me.”

“I have but one weapon left, my lord highwayman.” Silver rose slowly, her eyes fixed on Luc’s face. Her hands moved to the last button at her bodice. “Shall I show it to you now?”

“Don’t, Silver.” Luc’s voice was rough with need. “There are things you don’t know — vast dangers that you risk…”

But still she rose.

Luc’s foil retreated before her steady advance. Only inches away from him she stopped, her fingers on the last button.

And then that, too, was freed.

Her hand slid to his bared chest. Her fingers parted, sliding lower. Luc groaned to feel her breasts thrusting against him.

“I can feel your heart. It races as wildly as mine does, highwayman. Does the rest of you feel so hot and hard?”

Luc groaned, caught broadside in a swell of pleasure at her touch. His fingers clenched. Ethics, scruples, and honor fled.

It was night. She was heaven. And he was far too much a man.

His head fell. He found the curve of her and drank deeply. “You can’t know what you’re doing,” he grated, burying his hands in her hair. It would end badly, but suddenly Luc didn’t care. He had no strength for anything but the joy she was teaching him.

“But I do know.” Her eyes shimmering, Silver caught his head and planted little kisses along his collarbone.

And as Luc looked into her shimmering eyes, he realized exactly what he’d been missing all these years.

Heart.

Somewhere in the dark, hot hours in Algiers he’d lost that. And without a heart colors were flat and time was dull, with no purpose.

He drank in the sight of Silver and knew that she was his only real chance at surviving, for her heart was real and true enough for two. It flashed like morning’s first light, exquisite with all the textures of dreams and hopes that Luc had forgotten how to feel.

Heart.

Such a simple thing. Such a useless thing, in the narrow, businesslike eyes of money makers and empire builders.

But Luc Delamere knew they were all wrong.

Heart was everything. It was end and beginning. Without it life had no taste, no scent, and no purpose.

He thought of his first sight of her, terrified yet ferocious as she faced him upon the heath. He thought of the light in her eyes and the throaty way she laughed.

And he knew that if this woman couldn’t help him find his heart, nobody could.

It was wrong, but he couldn’t help himself. Just once he had to feel her beneath him. To taste the swift tug of her passion…

He pushed to his feet. With his foil he caught the ties at her skirt and sliced them neatly.

Lace and muslin whispered to a creamy pool against the dark grass.

Luc’s breath caught. “Sunbeam, you’ve got weapons you can’t imagine. Right now they stop my breath and tear out my very heart.” He watched her tongue skim her lips. “And I think you’ve been practicing all your life,” he growled.

He eyed her well-licked lips. Whatever he had been thinking vanished in a rush of raw sensation as she pulled his face down to hers.

Her lips parted wide. They sent new waves of torment to Luc’s groin. “Halt, woman. In a second you’ll be teaching me.”

But it was too late. She already was.

She had turned the tables neatly, slanting her head and running her tongue across the curve of his lips.

Groaning, he caught her against him. Their tongues met and he felt his control shatter. He’d loved her from the first second he’d seen her, her eyes huge with fear and an equal determination to hide it.

He felt his rapier pulled free. The next moment its point pricked his chest.

“And now, rogue, I’ll have you at my bidding.” Blade steady, Silver reached to the buttons straining at his breeches. “Off with these.”

The touch of her fingers was agony. Luc bit back a curse. “You’re bold for such an innocent. Perhaps the highwayman needs to teach you a lesson in humility.”

Silver’s lips curved. “He is welcome to try.” Her fingers slid over the straining buttons.

“No more,” he growled. “You’re tempting fate.”

“Sometimes it is very … pleasant to tempt fate. Fate is so very big, after all. So very warm. I can almost feel it pulsing right here at my fingers. Fate, that is,” Silver purred.

At her challenge Luc’s manhood rose, straining hotly. “It’s not only fate you’ll taste tonight, hellion.”

Silver’s eyelids dropped, delicately veiling her eyes. “I sincerely hope so.” And then in one reckless movement she found him. Slowly she traced the hot length of him, staring in patent wonder. “You are … so large. In fact, I cannot possibly see how—”

Luc gave her no time for confusion to turn to fear. He caught the rapier and sent it flying. “You will not need that blade tonight. I have a far better one.” He pulled her beneath him, pinning her to the soft grass. “Too late for fear, my beauty. You’ve roused the highwayman this night, and the highwayman will not be gainsaid.” His head fell. He tongued the rose-red tips furled and aching for his touch.

Her back arched. “Oh, Luc. It is heaven. Sweetest heaven.”

“Am I to assume that you like this? Being kissed this way?”

She shuddered. “It is far too urgent to be comfortable.” Her eyes opened, dark with confusion. “Do people do this often?”

Luc smiled faintly. “As often as possible, Sunbeam. When one is in love, of course.”

A grave nod. “In love. I … see.”

He knew she didn’t. He knew she was wondering how many other times before he’d thought himself in love. And she was wondering just how many other women there had been.

“The answer is never, Sunbeam. Never have I felt like this nor even close.” His thumb moved roughly over the outline of one dusky nipple. “You seem surprised. I take it your many lovers never touched you so.”

Color flared over Silver’s cheeks. She swung her palm against his wrist and knocked his arm away.

“Anger? Ah, but you told me you were — let me get it right — well broken in.”

Silver squirmed wildly, her cheeks aflame. “They did! Every single one! You simply — took me by surprise, that’s all.”

“I’m glad to hear it. But now you’re right where I want you. And a highwayman always takes advantage of his prize.”

He caught up a handful of lavender sprigs, his eyes burning.

Purple buds went raining across her heated skin. “And I have a pressing urge to taste your lavender.”

Silver’s breath caught as he bent toward her. His face was burned to deepest gold. His mouth was hard. His nose was proud, with a bit too much arrogance.

It was a warrior’s face. A brigand’s face.

The face of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and took it.

Right now Silver had the dizzy feeling that she was the only thing in the world that this highwayman wanted. If so, she had no more strength to deny him.

“Soft and fine, Sunbeam. Your taste is as sweet as your lavender.”

Silver made a breathless sound as his lips met the curve of her shoulder, then her rib, and then the lower swell of her breast.

He moved carefully, leisurely, tonguing every inch of her like the lazy connoisseur he was.

Her need grew to a fury. She was breathless in a second, wild in five, and clinging blindly at ten.

But he did not hurry. Smiling darkly, he broached the shadowed triangle at her thighs. He ignored her husky cry, sliding the fragrant petals back and forth across her hungry skin.

“No, Luc! That is, surely not there—”

And then her breath tore free. He found her, circled her, stroked her wetly. Ever deeper he swept, understanding her body better than she did, drawing the fire far inside her.

She cried out wildly. Overhead the starlit sky seemed to spin and sway. “Luc, I can’t—”

“You can, my love. And now you will. It is the highwayman’s command.” He laughed darkly, showing her that indeed she could, again and again, while his hard arms held her granite-safe inside the storm.

The world went dark. Light and form were sucked away like beach sand caught before a rising wave. And then the great tide struck.

Her back bowed. Her body tensed. Pleasure slammed through her, full and rich and heavy. She gave a breathy cry of wonder, flung into glinting currents, her nails digging at Luc’s shoulders. And as she did, Silver felt him drive his mark upon the curve of skin caught between his teeth and hungry tongue.

She exploded to a second crest of pleasure.

Luc laughed huskily, his hands slow and soothing as he watched her drift back to him.

When finally she could speak — when her body took on solid form once more — Silver’s eyes opened, all emerald and smoke in the aftermath of her passion.

She pushed to one shoulder, a faint grin on her beautiful mouth. “Is that perhaps a felon’s brand you’ve laid upon me, rogue?”

His eyes were wickedness itself. “A lover’s brand, more like. Do you dislike it greatly?”

For answer Silver pulled him down to her.

She couldn’t let the bloody man think that he knew everything.

Her lips sought his. Skimming, tugging, she turned the highwayman’s own skills against him.

By the time she was done, he was iron jawed, white faced, the pain at his groin nigh to unbearable. “I rather think we may count your lessons complete, spitfire,” Luc growled.

“Not yet…” She bent her head. With her hair a russet veil, she nipped his neck and planted a love mark of her own against his bronzed skin. “There. How does it feel to wear my brand?”

The throbbing in Luc’s blood became a savage thunder. “Most arousing, my lady.” His hands slid lower, curved around her hips. He drew her closer, his hungry blade wedged against her silken curls. “And I’ll wear anything else you choose to offer me.”

Silver smiled, a thing of aching beauty. “Will you?” She twisted, fitting herself to the awesome length of him. “Even this?”

Her scent was rose and lavender and the fit was perfect — as close to heaven as Luc had ever thought to rise.

But he found out he was wrong when Silver brought him yet another inch inside her.

“Slow, my love,” Luc grated, his face taut with the effort to stay still. “You are very small, and I don’t want to hurt you this first time.”

Silver’s eyes widened. “You knew? But—”

“Of course I knew, Sunbeam. One touch of you, so tight and small, belied all your boasting.”

Her cheeks reddened. “Then why—”

Luc couldn’t bear another word. Not when she was hot and lush as honey against him. “Hush, beauty. No more talk, or not with words. Listen to me — with your body. Talk back to me just the same. Shout at me. Growl at me. Whisper hot and slow to me. Let me hear what all those sweet curves have to say.” His voice broke, hoarse with his effort at control. Every muscle throbbed, screaming at him to forget subtlety. To pin her down and impale her, fast and deep and fierce, then ride her to his own release.

But he didn’t.

Luc had waited far too long to rush through this moment. Were it possible, he’d make it last forever.

But waiting was definitely not going to be easy.

Especially when the woman was reckless, with wild, carnal ideas of her own. She pressed against him, taking him deeper.

“Damn it, Silver, you can’t. You shouldn’t.” Luc’s jaws locked as she sank another hot, velvet inch around him. “I don’t think I can bear it…”

He found out that he could, of course. Even though his breath was ragged and his body was sheened with sweat, he loved every second of her silken torment. She pressed against him, all warmth and light and life, a magical being sprung from his deepest dreams.

And when Luc felt a faint tremor snake through her, he smiled crookedly. Even if he could wait, he wasn’t sure that she could.

Her eyes were closed. Her pulse was racing. And she was struggling to bring him even closer.

But he couldn’t go any closer. Not yet. The fragile barrier lay stretched between them.

Luc eased his big hands around Silver’s hips, holding her still. “Listen to me. Sunbeam. I’m deep, as deep as I can go, love. Not without hurting you.”

Luc wasn’t sure she heard him. “Silver?”

Her hands dug into his shoulders. She twisted restlessly.

“Silver, listen. It’s not going to be the way you think it is.”

One eye opened. “Is that a promise — or a warning?”

“A bit of both, I think. And I’m sorry. I wish it weren’t.”

She shivered. Her body moved longingly against his, wanting all of him.

“Tell me now. Sunbeam. It won’t be easy, but I’ll stop. Now, if you want it. But not later. Oh, God, not later…”

She shuddered. “Now, Luc.” Her body whispered, teased, pleaded. Luc groaned as he read the meaning she was too lost to voice in words.

He eased from her, wishing he could make it different for her and knowing he couldn’t.

Fast. It had to be fast.

In one swift surge he laid her bare. Driving deep and hard, he pierced the fragile membrane of her maidenhood. He cursed as he felt her stiffen and though she would have squirmed away, he held her still, knowing movement would only add to her discomfort.

His fingers splayed open. He closed his eyes, fighting the urge to move, to drive, to fill her deep and fast. But he waited, only held her, only let her come to accept the size and heat of him inside her.

Her eyes opened. She swallowed. “Blast you,” she said raggedly. “If it feels like this, why do you call it pleasure? And why were those women smiling like well-fed cats at that bloody house of assignation?”

He couldn’t hide a smile. “You’ll see, sweeting.”

“No, I won’t!” She squirmed, trying to push him away. “That hurt! And none of this makes any sense at all.”

Luc smiled lazily. “But it will make sense, my sweet. Because it won’t ever feel like that again. Not for you. And I’m going to prove it to you now.”

Silver pursed her lips, staring down at their locked bodies, clearly unconvinced.

At her measuring glance Luc felt his muscles leap and pulse inside her.

“Oh.” Silver’s voice was shocked. “How did you do that?”

“I really have little choice in the matter, temptress. You do that to me. You’re more potent than any witch’s brew.”

She frowned, her eyes dark with confusion. “Then — there’s more? It wasn’t over when you did — well, that?”

Luc had to fight back a laugh. Or it might have been a groan. He was too far gone to know. He would never have a moment’s peace with Susannah St. Clair, but neither would he know a second of boredom.

He found he liked the idea. Immensely.

“Oh, there’s a great deal more. Shall I show you now?” As he spoke, Luc eased his fingers between them, teasing past the silken curls to find the hidden bud of nerves beneath.

She gasped.

“It starts here, my love. With this. And with this.” When he felt her open, Luc moved against her, fingers slow. His thighs tensed, sliding deeper as the tender skin parted to sheathe him.

And there was nothing between them this time. Only heat. Only skin like wet silk. Only endless, howling pleasure.

He was dying, he thought. Any second his heart would give way and he’d gasp out his last breath, in extremis.

But he had his heart back. He felt it beating; he knew its sure heat and steady hunger. She had done that, and truly, there was only one way he could reward her.

He moved again, much deeper. “No more protests?”

Silver’s cheeks were faintly flushed. “That was … rather nice.”

“Rather? Is that all you have to say? I wager you’ll like this even more.” He braced his arms and gave her his whole length, one long, perfect jolt of heat.

Her eyes widened, locked to his. “Most … encouraging,” she managed.

“I’m vastly thankful.” He eased back, smiling when she resisted, groaning when her woman’s muscles tensed to hold him still. “And I’m only too pleased to demonstrate how … thankful I can be.”

He did.

She urged him on.

It was heaven.

They reached out, clung and strained, there against the green grass. Breaths wild, they took and gave in matching measure, their bodies sheened with heat beneath the dancing wind.

An owl whooshed through the roses. The moon floated over swaying fields of lavender.

They never even noticed, heart to heart, passion-blind, love-lost.

Silver buried her fingers deep in Luc’s hair. “Take me, Luc,” she whispered. “Take me now. Take me fast and deep, anywhere you want to go.”

She offered him the shimmering depths of her soul then.

He offered her the mysteries of his, troubled dreams, dark deeds, and all.

She smiled and took all he had to give her.

Her face was innocent; her thighs moved with luscious, wanton abandon. The combination nearly killed him.

“Then so I shall, my heart,” Luc growled, pinning her to the damp earth, driving hard and deep and fast.

She rose against him, clenched him fiercely, their bodies stretched in a silken counterpoint of passion.

His forehead fell to hers. He shuddered when he heard her cry out his name and convulse around him. In that instant he drove inside her, deep, so deep, claiming her, needing her, filling her with his hot, potent seed.

She wrapped her legs around him, taking all, holding firm, her body convulsed in pleasure anew.

And her eyes, Luc could have sworn, flashed solid silver at the crest of her passion.

~ ~ ~

Down the hill Tinker threw his arm over Bram’s shoulders. “Told you she’d go up to him.”

“And I told you she wouldn’t come back down if she did.” Bram frowned suddenly. Beside him Cromwell gave an expectant bark. “But what are they doing up there, Tinker?”

The old man’s eyes seemed to narrow on the high fields. He smiled faintly, then spun Bram about and set out for the path to the cottage. “That’s quite enough questions for you tonight, boy. Off to bed with you. And take that great flea-bitten creature with you.”

Cromwell thumped his tail happily, hearing his name mentioned.

“Come along, Cromwell. No one seems to want us about.” Bram sighed, stroking the sheepdog’s head.

It was really most peculiar how adults behaved, snapping one minute and beaming the next. Perhaps this stuff of growing up was going to be more tricky than he’d thought.

~  30  ~

“Why didn’t you say good-bye?”

They lay entwined, Silver’s hair an auburn cloud across Luc’s chest, her hands nestled in his.

“Because my wound was better.” Silver touched his face gently. “And you’d made it very clear that you wanted me gone.”

“It was the last thing I wanted, but there seemed no other choice,” Luc said grimly. “You know I have nothing to offer you, Sunbeam.”

“I need nothing more than this.” Silver traced the faint scar above Luc’s full, sensual lip. “You helped me save Lavender Close. What more could I ask of you?”

The scent of late spring was all around them, clinging to the growing flowers and newly turned earth as Silver pushed Luc down onto the soft grass.

He retaliated by planting tiny, heated kisses over her shoulders and neck until she wanted to scream with pleasure. But there were questions that had to be asked first. “Tell me about this man you were following, Luc.” She toyed with a strand of his hair, her eyes thoughtful.

Luc frowned. “Later.”

“Now.”

“First pistols, then rapiers, now orders. Very well, hellion, I shall tell you.” He stared down at her, his eyes hard. “I must find this man. I’ve tasted hell because of him. He sent me and countless others to Algiers without a shred of remorse and when I escaped, I vowed that he would send no others to such a fate. I must see this done, Silver. Otherwise it will always haunt me.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to betray a vow. At least now I can understand why you take such terrible risks. But where will you start?”

“By the old mill. I suspect it’s some sort of meeting place. Not that I know who is involved yet.” He cupped her cheek. “I have more reason than ever to find this man and see my task complete. When that’s done, I can finally start to live again. To breathe again. To think about having a future.”

Silver closed her eyes, knowing the awful danger before him. If he was caught, the penalty would be hanging.

Silver refused to let that happen.

But she didn’t tell Luc that, of course. She only slid closer and ran her hand along the faint scars along his back, smiling when she felt him shudder.

Now was for silent vows and forging impossible dreams. Now was for lovers who had stolen joy from the very jaws of fate.

“And what of you, Susannah St. Clair? Do you mean to tell me what put this here?” As he spoke, Luc stroked the white hair at Silver’s forehead.

“It happened when my father died.” She swallowed, needing to tell him some of what she had discovered. “Only, he didn’t die. He was murdered. Before his death he wrote in his journal that men were pursuing him, men evil enough to want him dead because he refused to help them. And I’m afraid they finally succeeded.”

“My sweet love,” Luc whispered, pressing his lips to the pale strands. “No more tears,” he said roughly. “Only joy, my heart.” Silver’s breath caught as he found her and claimed her, and her desire was as sharp as his when their bodies met. Tumbling over the soft grass, thigh to thigh, they kissed in reckless haste and swept to a breathless, searing release.

Even when they slept Luc held her close, locked against him, one hand molding her hip.

And while the moon sailed the Norfolk night and the roses danced amid ghostly banks of honeysuckle, a nightingale seemed to sing just for them.

~ ~ ~

“Where will you start?”

Overhead dawn was streaking the eastern sky. Silver lay with her head in Luc’s lap, while he sat against the ancient oak.

He deliberately chose to misunderstand her question. “I believe I’ll count the freckles here on your shoulder.”

Silver tugged on his hair. “Be serious, Luc.”

“I am. It’s no easy task in this half-light, I assure you.”

“Insufferable man! Tell me. I’ll worry far more if you don’t.”

Luc felt the now familiar heat begin to pound through him. His body hardened, desperate for her again even after the long hours he’d spent in her arms. “Very well,” he said, his eyes searching her worried face. “I won’t lie to you. There will be danger. And I’ll need documents to prove my suspicions.”

“But the risks…”

“You’re my greatest risk, woman. First pistols and then rapiers. Whatever is proper English womanhood coming to?”

“I’m serious, Luc. Let me help. I can go where you can’t. I can—”

“Out of the question. I want you well away from this,” he growled. Then he told her briefly about the old mill and his belief that it had a hidden entrance. He had to find out its secrets.

Silver bit back a protest. She knew that on this point he would never bend.

“Never fear, my love. I’ll be back.” Luc traced the pale, moon-sheened outline of her hip. “Meanwhile, I have the very thing to keep your mind on happier subjects.”

She managed a smile. “Do you indeed, rogue? Or is this just more of a highwayman’s bravado?”

“For that remark you’ll pay, my beauty.” He caught her beneath him. His eyes aglint with gold, he tongued the satin of her belly. “Not bravado, my sweet. Just a warning. I’m bound for treasure tonight, and I’ll find it at all cost. No matter what obstacles lie before me,” he added darkly.

Her locked fingers lay in his path. He nudged them free, then made his way to his shadowed goal.

“Your eyes are most fascinating, my lady. Their color, changeable always, seems to suit your mood. At the moment of your passion they almost seem to go silver. Something,” he said hoarsely, “that I have had occasion to observe several times now.”

Silver flushed. “You needn’t remind me of my shameless behavior.”

“Not shameless, but entrancing. An impossible challenge. A man finds himself dreaming of all the ways he will put that flash of silver in your eyes again.”

And then he did just that.

Silver cried out as he found the heart of her and brought the sweet, fierce fire deep inside her. Her fingers clenched in the cool, dark grass and her toes burrowed into the rich, sweet earth.

While the fire still burned, while her heart still raced the heavens, he came to her with all his steel and need.

She didn’t think twice.

She didn’t look back.

She only caught him close, denying him nothing as she matched him in his fierce pleasure.

~ ~ ~

When the sun crept over the eastern hills, Luc finally pulled away and helped her dress. Even then his hands lingered on her gown, on her shawl, on her glowing cheeks and burnished hair.

But night was gone. The sun was up and prying eyes might be watching. It was no safe time for a highwayman to be abroad.

As she watched him go, Silver formed a reckless resolve.

~ ~ ~

“Bram, wake up!” Light was streaming through the cottage window as Silver shook the sleeping figure half burrowed beneath his blankets.

She would not change her mind. She could not let Luc take such reckless risks. She would have to save him. Men might talk of their vaunted honor, but what good was honor to a dead man?

And to the woman who loved him?

No, let the men talk of honor; it was the women who would keep the world running smoothly.

“Wake up, sleepyhead, we have work to do.”

A pair of emerald-green eyes peered owlishly from beneath the bedclothes. “Syl, is that you? Blast, it’s barely dawn.”

“Don’t I know it,” Silver said. For a moment there was a husky catch in her voice. “But we have work to do. Come, up with you. Aren’t you the one who is always telling me I’m too coldhearted to that highwayman you idolize?”

“You mean Blackwood?”

“None other.”

Young Brandon sat up abruptly. “He’s not taken, is he? Good Lord, Syl, the magistrate and his men haven’t run him to ground, have they?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Silver tossed her brother his boots. “But he will be, if we don’t help him. The man is too reckless by half.” But tenderness edged through her voice.

“I don’t understand.” Bram’s voice was muffled as he tugged on his clothes. “How are we to help him?” The boy’s head appeared from his shirt. “Are we to accompany him on a midnight foray upon the heath, armed to the teeth while we help him hold up a carriage? That would be capital fun!”

Silver shook her head, laughing. “It’s bloodthirsty you’ve become, Brandon St. Clair! Too much time spent around the highwayman and that dour servant of his. No, of course we’re not going to accompany Luc upon the heath. We have something far more important to do.” Silver’s eyes narrowed for a moment as she remembered Luc’s explanation of his aborted midnight search at the old mill. “He’s been looking for information, Bram, something about the man who was involved in his kidnapping five years ago. You and I are going to find that information for him,” Silver finished tersely.

Bram’s smile wavered. “Does Luc know about this?”

“Of course he doesn’t. That’s the whole point. If the man insists on traipsing from one end of Norfolk to the other, he’s bound to be captured.” Silver crossed her arms atop her chest. “Our job is to find the man and bring Luc the information he so desperately needs.”

Bram did not look quite so confident as Silver when he grabbed up his jacket and followed her out the door.

~ ~ ~

The old white mill was just where Luc had told Silver, beside the turning of the creek where it flowed south to Kingsdon Cross. The building was half covered by willows that skirted the stream. There appeared to be no sign of life at this early hour.

“That’s it?” Bram said, scoffing. “Looks like nothing but a silly old mill to me.” The boy shoved his glasses up on his nose, frowning at the path rising before the house, half hidden between steep hedgerows. It looked far too normal, far too mundane, for the swashbuckling scenario he had been imagining. “You must have got the location wrong, Syl.”

“No, that’s the place. See, there’s the elm tree cut in half by lightning just where Luc said it would be.” Silver gnawed at her lip for a moment, feeling a chill at her neck. “Luc told me he thought a traitor was using this place for a lair. He almost caught the man too.”

“What happened?”

Silver flushed, unwilling to tell Bram that Luc had failed because he’d been distracted — distracted by memories of her. “The man was too clever. He must have had a secret exit.”

“What’s our plan?” her brother said eagerly. “Maybe we should break down the door and drag the villain out. Or should we set fire to the place and smoke him out?”

Silver gave her brother’s hair a tug. “What a villain you’ve become! We do neither. We wait. And we watch both entrances. Our job is to find the man’s identity and discover any documents he might be carrying. Then as he’s leaving we shall simply divest him of those documents.”

“We will, will we?” Bram gave his sister an appreciative look. “And how are we to do that?”

Silver raised the hem of her riding skirt. Bram grinned down at the little pistol tucked inside her half boot. “Very persuasive, Syl. Which side shall I take?”

“The front, I think. I’ll watch the rear, overlooking the river. I suspect he might have a secret entrance there. If so, the fellow could try to make his way to a boat moored downstream.” Silver frowned. She wished they might have brought Tinker along to help, but she knew he never would have permitted the St. Clairs to face such danger.

So it was up to her to keep Bram safe.

Her brother, meanwhile, had nothing but delight for the plan. “Capital, Syl! We’ll manage perfectly by ourselves!”

~ ~ ~

The morning passed, but there was absolutely no sign of activity in the little white mill. Three boats made their way down the river and several riders crossed the narrow bridge to the south. About noon a farmer thundered by with a wagonful of corn bound for King’s Lynn, but there was still no sign of movement in the mill.

A little before noon Bram made his way through the woods to the spot where Silver sat watching the back of the house. “You sure this is the right place, Syl?”

“I’m sure,” she said grimly. “Luc described it without question. And the man’s probably in there right now.” She gnawed at her lower lip. “He’ll have to come out sometime.”

“No problem with me,” Bram said cheerfully. “It will save me from distilling that new batch of lavender with Tinker. I only wish we had brought something for lunch.”

Silver was just about to direct him to the pigeon pies wrapped in muslin inside her saddlebags, when a tiny door eased open at the base of the mill. A man appeared above the narrow steps that led down to the peaceful stream. Quickly, she pulled Bram back beneath the covering foliage of a willow tree. “Do you see him?”

“I see,” her brother said softly.

As they watched, breathless, a figure in a drab cloak edged slowly down the steps with a heavy miller’s sack clutched beneath one arm. The steps where he stood were half hidden behind a crumbling brick foundation. In the dead of night or with any hint of mist clinging to the river, the man would have been invisible.

It was no wonder Luc had missed him, Silver thought.

A moment later a boat pulled silently out of the reeds along the far shore. A man in a dark brown jacket and moleskin trousers bent to the oars.

Silver caught back a gasp.

There was something very familiar about the man at the oars. The set of his shoulders and the color of his trousers left a cold feeling in her stomach.

Unless she was mistaken, he was the leader of the band who had terrorized her at Lavender Close.

Silver’s eyes hardened as she watched the boat draw up to the steps. The other man tossed his sack aboard, then climbed in clumsily.

“What do we do now, Syl?” Bram’s voice was hoarse with excitement.

“I believe that we shall follow them.”

~ ~ ~

At that same moment nearly ten miles away Luc Delamere stood glaring at a sleepy-eyed James Tinker.

“What do you mean, she isn’t bloody here?” he thundered.

“Just what I said,” the old servant snapped. “Reckon she must’ve dodged out just afore dawn. Aye, and it’s surprised I am that she had any strength left to move, seeing how busy she was making herself with some other person last night in the lavender fields on the hillside.”

Luc bit back a curse, flushing slightly. So the old servant knew about that, did he? Of course, a fellow couldn’t hope for a shred of secrecy. Not at Lavender Close Farm!

He’d left Silver as the sun rose, far sooner than he wanted to, but he had business at Waldon Hall and plans to lay with Connor MacKinnon. Who’d have thought the reckless female would sneak off as soon as his back was turned?

Luc ran through all the places where he might find her. There was the gaming hall in Kingsdon Cross or even the bordello. He shuddered to think of what deviltry she might be about there.

Sweet heaven, she might even have gone back to the Green Man!

One thing was certain, Luc decided. When he did find her, he was going to flay her tender little backside. He would shake some sense into her. A little healthy terror might not be such a bad thing if it kept her safe and in one piece.

Luc was just coming to this resolve when a cough at his shoulder made him turn. He scowled at his towering friend. “James Tinker, meet Connor MacKinnon,” he said curtly.

“Another one of your highway friends?” the old servant asked. “He’s got the look of a thief about him, so I’m thinking.”

The blonde-haired MacKinnon threw back his head and laughed, the sound booming like thunder from his broad chest.

“Some of his business competitors would no doubt call him a thief,” Luc said dryly. “As the man has saved my hide more than once, I suppose I can’t be too hard on him.”

But as Luc looked out over the flower fields, watching lavender and early-morning mist run together in a shimmering haze of purple, his smile faded. “I expect I’ll have to go drag the female back.”

“It’s you or myself,” the old servant said grimly. “I’m afraid I don’t seem to have done too well at keeping her safe.”

“You’ve done the best you can, Tinker. I’ll go. You stay and keep an eye on things here. This time, however, I mean to see that the female stays put,” Luc said darkly. “Even if I have to marry her to do it.”

Tinker’s lips twitched. “Good luck, your lordship,” he said. “I’ve tried for over ten years to make her listen to me and have had no luck.” His eyes narrowed. “Then again, mebbe you’ll be more lucky, seeing as how you’re a man what has special charms with the ladies.”

“With this lady I do,” Luc said darkly. “Whether she’s realized it or not.”

At his side Connor MacKinnon listened thoughtfully. So there was a woman at the heart of the business, was there? Hardly surprising, considering Luc’s vast experience at seduction. But this woman sounded different. And marriage? This was not at all like Luc.

At least not the Luc Delamere that Connor used to know.

A slow smile swept over MacKinnon’s face as he contemplated the thought of Lucien Delamere, once the ton’s most eligible bachelor and most hardened flirt, leg-shackled and heart-bound at last.

The woman must be a rare jewel indeed! Connor found he couldn’t wait to meet her.

There was no hiding the mischief in his eyes as he followed his friend to their horses.

~  31  ~

The sun climbed higher.

Silver and Bram followed the stream for miles. While the oarsman bent to his work, the passenger remained huddled in the rear of the boat.

Sunlight slanted through the willows as the two riders moved north in pursuit, careful to keep well back out of sight. In their caution they nearly let the boat escape once when it slid into a side stream that veered east.

Bram’s stomach was growling loudly now. The bit of shaved ham and pigeon pie had disappeared long ago.

“It can’t be much farther,” the boy said, frowning at the rushing water. “This stream will soon run into the broader flow of the Ouse. And beyond that lies King’s Lynn.”

“I expect it’s King’s Lynn that the villain’s headed for, Bram.”

Her brother sighed. “You don’t suppose — well, that we should send a message to Luc and let him know where we are?”

“Not a bit of it,” Silver said firmly. “We will manage perfectly well by ourselves without that man galloping about risking life and limb in our pursuit.”

“Yes, I rather think we will,” her brother said, cheered by Silver’s confidence. “I only wish we could stop to eat.”

It was well into the afternoon when they crossed the little stone bridge that lead into Lynn, as the locals called the bustling market town on the banks of the Ouse. As Silver cantered along Bridge Street, she made out the spires of St. Nicholas church towering high above her.

They crossed several crowded streets and passed a row of warehouses clustered along the river, struggling to keep their quarry in sight. Finally, near a tall timber-framed warehouse overhanging the water, they saw the little boat glide into a shadowed anchorage. Silver and Bram watched the unknown traveler make his way up a rickety set of steps and disappear into a passageway that led up to the warehouse.

“Did you see him?” Bram asked eagerly. “Went right into that warehouse, he did. We’ve got him now. The only question is, what do we do next?”

Silver surveyed the lower sweep of the river. Several coal boats rocked at anchor, awaiting more cargo before putting out into the Wash. Nearby, a dozen or so urchins were busy splashing in the water with noisy gaiety. Her eyes began to gleam. “I think I have an idea, Bram. Wait here.”

~ ~ ~

Fifteen minutes later the horses were stabled on a side street and Bram and Silver were making their way into the heart of Lynn to look for a respectable place to eat.

It had been accomplished more easily than Silver thought possible. She had had a word with the leader of the band of ragamuffin boys playing in the river and offered them two crowns to keep watch on the warehouse. Should their traveler emerge, the boys were to come fetch Silver immediately.

As Silver soon discovered, the boys knew that particular warehouse well. Havey cavey goings on there, the leader confided. Boats going in and out at all hours of day and night with men who didn’t talk English and kept their faces covered while they plied the oars.

And as for their traveler in the boat, the boys gave her better information still. After creeping through a broken window, they had overheard the intelligence that the man’s transportation would not be ready for an hour.

Oh, and wasn’t there much shouting and arguing at that news, the boy had gleefully relayed. But it was all to no avail. The man would just have to wait.

“Which means, mum, that you and your brother have a whole hour to stroll about. Go on with you then. We’ll keep an eye on your friend and the warehouse right proper. Besides, the pair o’ you look peaked. Have a speck to eat over on King Street or try the shops just past the Guildhall,” the urchin urged with a hint of local pride. “Their cakes are proper smashing.”

With their plucky comrade’s assurances to call them at the first sign of activity. Silver and Bram had left.

The sun shone down from a cloudless sky as they strolled past the fine shops on King Street. Bram still looked worried, however. “Are you sure we ought to, Syl? We don’t want the villain to escape, after all.”

“We have to eat,” Silver said practically. “And I have a feeling that that young man and his friends will do a far better job of watching the river than we could. It’s practically their home. They must know every bend and narrow and any number of ways in and out, while we would stick out like a regiment of cavalry in a churchyard.”

“I expect you’re right,” Bram said finally. If the truth be told, he was regretting a chance to trade stories with the hardy band of street boys. Still, he was hungry. And Silver did need someone to keep an eye on her.

Suddenly his eyes widened. “Say, that looks a fine sort of place across the street. May we stop, Syl? Just for a moment or two?”

Silver stared ruefully at her dust-stained skirt, but there was nothing to be done about that. She smoothed down her hair and straightened her riding jacket, then offered her arm to Bram. “It’s sounds lovely to me. Lead on.”

And it was a good decision, because after tea and cakes they both felt much better equipped to deal with the villainous stranger back in the warehouse.

Silver kept a close eye on the clock in the square. After eating, they still had forty-five minutes left, and they decided to have a look around the bustling shops in the shadow of the Duke’s Head Hotel.

The streets were especially crowded today, so their young river friends had said. It seemed that the Prince Regent and a very select party were passing through Lynn on the way to a week of hunting at a nearby estate. Silver felt a prick of regret as she admired the women in bright dresses of sprig muslin, sarsenet, and sheerest tulle set off with gay ribbons and feathers.

As the fashionable ladies streamed past her, Silver was made uncomfortably aware of just how outmoded her own riding costume was. But she didn’t mean to let that bother her. Raising her chin, she moved through the crowds, ignoring the faint sneers that were directed at her as a simple country bumpkin.

And Silver was determined to enjoy the time in the lovely little market town with its elegant sprawl of streets. The boys at the river had assured her that if the traveler left sooner than expected, they would send someone to alert her. So there was no reason to feel a prickle of uneasiness at her neck, Silver told herself sternly.

Yet feel it she did, again and again, as she and Bram walked along the cobbled lanes.

Bram looked anxiously at his sister. “Do you have the feeling that someone is following us, Syl?”

Silver hid a frown. This was precisely what she had been feeling, but she didn’t want to alarm her brother. “Someone? Hundreds, surely.”

“No, Syl.” The crease between Bram’s eyes grew deeper. “I mean one person in particular. With eyes only on us. I’ve felt it ever since we turned onto King Street.”

“I’m sure you must be mistaken, my love,” Silver said with a confidence she did not feel. “I expect it’s because we’re not used to these crowds.”

Once again Silver felt a prickle at her neck. Turning swiftly, she scanned the street behind her.

Strangers, one and all, each one intent on his business. Not a single set of eyes showed any interest in Silver or her brother.

But Silver couldn’t shake the notion that they were being watched.

Fortunately her brother was distracted at that moment by a glittering array of cut-crystal bottles displayed in a shop advertising select perfumes and pomades from every corner of the world.

“Let’s look in, shall we?” Bram urged. “Just to see what they carry and how it compares with our products.”

Silver nodded and a few moments later they were in the middle of a very select establishment, rubbing elbows with elegant society ladies and a crowd of very dashing gentlemen.

Bram, however, had eyes only for the fragile crystal decanters. Immediately he set about exercising his singular gift, the gift passed down from his father and his father before him. Moving from bottle to bottle, he sniffed slightly, measuring the true contents against the advertised ones.

His frown showed his opinion of the exquisitely lettered placards that purported to list the various rare and expensive ingredients.

Silver, meanwhile, was called upon to advise two young women on a choice of scents. Hiding a smile, she assured one of them that “oakmoss, sandalwood, and vetiver were too heavy for the heat of summer” and the other that her selection of musk and tuberose was unsuitable for a lady of her delicacy and youth.

A few moments later, she was not quite certain how, Silver found herself consulted by a portly gentleman in a severely elegant black frock coat and an immaculate gray damask waistcoat.

His eyes seemed to twinkle when she asked whom he was buying for. “My, er, sister. Yes, it’s a gift for my sister. What would you suggest?”

“This would be a great deal too forceful, I’m afraid. A woman of taste always prefers something with subtlety,” Silver explained, echoing the same sentiments that had made her father a master perfumer twenty years earlier. When the distinguished stranger moved away a few minutes later, eyes still twinkling, he held three scents that Silver assured him would be precisely the thing for his sister.

Brandon, meanwhile, was drawing a crowd as he moved about, appraising bottle after bottle. “Bergamot, tuberose, and ambergris?” He took a careful sniff. “Nothing but lemon and rosewater here — and a very inferior sort at that.” Frowning, the boy moved to the next display, which featured a satin box of lavender sprigs tied in purple ribbons. “‘Royal lavender, fit for a queen,’“ he read, then sniffed the nearby bottle. “Lavender, do they call this? Why it’s nothing but cheapest spike oil that grows wild on the French hillside! Not even carefully distilled at that. Won’t carry for an hour without losing all its body. Why, Father used to say that—”

“Not lavender?” A quiet and very cultured voice came close at Silver’s shoulder. “Pray excuse my rudeness in intruding, but I could not help overhearing the boy over there — your brother, I think? — discussing this perfume. He seems to have a wonderful ability to judge the contents.”

Silver turned and found an imperious old woman studying her keenly. “I beg your pardon. I fear we are being very rude. It’s just that perfume is a kind of passion for us. It was our father’s love, and he raised us to care about it, too, you see. My brother becomes dreadfully angry when he finds people being, well, misled.”

“Misled?” The old woman chuckled. “Hoodwinked is the word for it. I’ve always suspected that Holcombe was fleecing his customers shamelessly, and I’m delighted to discover that I’m right.”

“Oh, I’m certain the owner doesn’t mean to,” Silver said quickly. “It’s simply that ingredients can vary. What one buys in August can be most sadly disappointing in November, you see.”

The old woman laughed and shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t see, my dear. I begin to suspect that my education has been seriously lacking. I really must prevail upon you for some advice.”

“Oh, I couldn’t.” Silver suddenly realized that half the eyes in the shop were turned upon her. “That is, I don’t even know—”

“The Duchess of Cranford,” came the prompt reply.

Silver answered with a graceful curtsy, flushing slightly, very much aware of her dusty skirts and windblown hair. “Susannah St. Clair,” she said softly.

Fragile fingers met hers. “I beg you won’t be formal with me. I need a scent for my granddaughter, you see. It is for a very special evening, and I require something quite exceptional.”

Silver was captivated. How could she resist such a request, which put all her skill and experience to the test? She studied the duchess for a moment, gnawing at her lip. “Would you describe her? It is always best to have an image in mind.”

The duchess smiled. “She is rather taller than I am, with titian hair and fine blue eyes.”

“She is active? Spends a great deal of time outside? Activity may affect a scent,” Silver explained artlessly, already lost in cataloging the various suitable possibilities.

“Very active. Sometimes I positively despair of keeping her in one place more than a second or two.”

Without warning a young woman in sprig muslin and teal-blue ribbons appeared at the duchess’s side. “Here you are, Grandmama. I began to think you’d tired and gone out to the carriage.”

“Tired? I?” The old woman patted her granddaughter’s gloved fingers. “Not so sickly as that yet, my dear. But you must meet my friend, Miss St. Clair. She was just about to advise me on a scent for you.”

The girl studied Silver with laughing eyes that were very fine indeed. But there was something else about her, some shadow of sadness or betrayed hopes that caught at Silver’s sensitive heart. “I am afraid you must think it a dreadful impertinence.”

“Not in the least. I have no nose for scents. In fact my brother always said—” Abruptly she paused. Once again Silver saw pain darken her face.

But she laughed quickly and gave a little shrug. “Do let me hear your choice, Miss St. Clair. If your skills are even half those of that young man over there, I am certain I shall be delighted, for he has already managed to charm the Prince Regent and half of the town along with him.”

Silver swallowed. “The P-Prince?”

“But of course,” her companion answered. “Nor did he seem unhappy with the advice that you gave him.”

Silver felt her knees begin to shake. She had been calmly advising the Prince Regent on gifts for his sister? Did he even have a sister? And if not, then who—

Her face flamed. The Duchess of Cranford laughed delightedly and patted Silver’s hand. “Buying for a lady, was he? Probably told you it was for his sister. Never mind, my dear. I’m certain your choice was the most elegant one that his current object of desire will ever receive. But do go on. I am quite avid to see what selection you will make for my India.”

Silver’s eyes widened. “India?”

“An outrageous name, ain’t it?” The duchess eyed her vibrant granddaughter. “But it suits her all the same, for she’s an outrageous sort of gel.”

“You put me to the blush, Grandmama.” But the red-haired India did not look at all discomfited. “And if I am outrageous, it is only because I learned every bit of it from you.”

At this moment the store’s proprietor emerged from the rear of the shop, his arms laden with bundles. In seconds he realized that the atmosphere had changed and an air of tense expectation now gripped the elegant shop.

Instantly he bustled toward Bram, who was innocently chatting with England’s leading man of fashion. The Prince Regent waved the proprietor away with one imperious flick of his fingers.

Next the man then bore down upon the duchess and her young charge.

The regal old woman stared down at him through her lorgnette. “We are managing perfectly, Holcombe. You may leave us. We shall summon you when we have completed our selections.”

“Of course, Your Grace. But—”

“Not now, Holcombe.” The duchess looked expectantly at Silver. “Well, my dear? You were about to make a suggestion, I believe.”

Silver found herself intrigued by the keen-eyed old lady and her vibrant granddaughter, whose face wore a sadness far beyond her years. They almost seemed familiar to Silver, although that was impossible. Since her father’s death Silver had left Kingsdon Cross only rarely.

Abruptly the perfume blend came to her. “I have it! It will answer wonderfully, I think. A hint of moss like a cool summer dawn. A touch of damask rose for sweetness. A bit of clove for strength and clarity. And, yes, I think a trace of cedarwood would do well for purity. Together a blend that is sweet but still distinguished. This one will be close, I think.” She held out a small flagon and waited, breathless.

India clapped her hands in delight! “But you are a magician, Miss St. Clair! It is perfect. How can you know me so well after only a few moments?”

Silver blushed. “You are very kind. It is simply a skill I have, nothing more.”

“Bosh,” the Duchess of Cranford said flatly. “You’ve caught my granddaughter to perfection. You are a positive treasure.” Her keen eyes took on a speculative twinkle. “I presume I was correct and you are not married, my dear?”

India, by now well used to her grandmother’s matchmaking, merely smiled. Silver was left tongue tied, however. “Your Grace — that is, I hardly know how to answer.”

“Why, yes or no, my dear?”

“Er, no, I’m not, but—”

“Delightful! Then I positively must insist that you accompany us to tea while we consider your future more closely.” The duchess eyed Silver’s outdated riding costume and half boots thoughtfully. “From the provinces, are you, gel? No need to be ashamed of it, you know.”

Silver’s chin rose and anger glinted in her eyes. All her fierce St. Clair pride surged to the fore. “You are very kind, Your Grace, but I can hardly suppose my petty affairs to be of any interest to you.”

But the duchess merely laughed, in no way put out. “If that was meant as a setdown, you’re out of luck, my dear. I’m as thick skinned as an Egyptian crocodile, and I’ve been snubbed too many times to feel a thing.”

Silver blinked, utterly beyond knowing how to respond to such blunt good humor. She decided that her own answer should be blunt in turn. “You are right, Your Grace, it was meant as a snub. Though I am ‘from the provinces,’ as you put it, I am far from considering myself a country mouse. My brother and I go on quite well here. I am a woman of independence and I see no reason to have my life unsettled by marriage.”

“Capital!” the duchess exclaimed, striking the floor with her ivory-handled cane. “This grows better and better. A woman of beauty and spirit who refuses to consider marriage! It will add the most delicious challenge. Now let me see, there is Augustus Warburton. Only a baronet, of course, but he has considerable holdings in the Shires, I’m told.”

“Your Grace, you quite mistake me if you think that—”

“No? Very well, I agree completely. Warburton has an unpleasant squint, as I recall. But what of Lord Townshende? An earl, you know, and accounted to be quite handsome.” The duchess looked at her granddaughter, who was barely restraining her laughter. “What do you think, India?”

The red-haired beauty shook her head. “I think, Grandmama, that you are entirely shameless. You’ve upset Miss St. Clair with your whirlwind ways. She’ll think us all fit for Bedlam if you don’t cease.”

Indeed, Silver did think the old woman interfering beyond permission. But she sensed that her interference was meant with the best of intentions, and so she bit back a cutting retort.

The duchess eyed her keenly. “Is that true, gel? Do you think me blunt beyond permission?”

Silver felt a smile sneak across her lips. “Blunt? Entirely so.” An enchanting dimple peeked out at her cheek. “But not beyond permission, perhaps.”

The duchess stamped the floor in triumph. “There, you see, India? A gel of spirit and wit, just as I said. She must come with us and drink a dish of tea. We were just bound for Minton’s tearooms when—”

Suddenly Silver remembered their errand. She looked about her in dismay, fearing it was past the hour.

India saw her urgency and laid a gloved hand on her sleeve. “Perhaps Miss St. Clair is already engaged, Grandmama. We must not presume upon her time, I think. Not on such short acquaintance.”

“Oh, no, it is not like that! You are kind to invite us, but we must be somewhere by two o’clock.” Silver saw her brother deep in conversation with the Prince Regent, who was now being treated to a display of Bram’s botanical specimens, right down to the crumpled pair of eagle feathers and the stuffed dormouse.

“I’m afraid we must decline, Your Grace. My brother and I have an appointment, and we must on no account be late.” As if on cue the little ormolu clock on the counter began to chime. “Oh no, surely it cannot be two o’clock already! We must go! Thank you again but — indeed, some other time, perhaps!” Silver made a curtsy, then rushed forward and seized Bram’s hand just as he was on the point of offering up his three-legged Norfolk toad for the Prince Regent’s bemused inspection.

“A thousand pardons, Your Majesty. My brother is devoted to botany, you understand. If you will graciously excuse us, we must be on our way.”

The portly prince was disposed by some rare innocence about this bewitching young woman to be the urbane and kindly cavalier. “Cinderella at midnight, eh? Well, I’m devilish sorry to see you go. Your brother has just been offering me some valuable suggestions for my, er, sister.”

Silver felt her cheeks flame. “You are too kind.” She caught Bram’s hand and tugged him toward the door. “It is nearly two o’clock!” she hissed. “We must hurry!”

~  32  ~

Bram’s face was flushed with unaccustomed praise when he and Silver made their way from the shop. “Sorry, Syl. That fellow was devilish hard to escape.”

“I shouldn’t wonder at it,” Silver said wryly. “That fellow was the Prince Regent.”

“Well, I’ll be spit.” Bram’s eyes went very wide. “I’m glad I didn’t know it at the time. I wouldn’t have been able to force a word out.”

They rushed into the street just as the great clock above the Guild Hall clanged out the changing of the hour. At that moment the leader of the street boys, with hair still damp and river mud clinging to his boots, came charging toward them. “There you are,” he gasped. “There’s been a change, mum. The bloke what went into the warehouse is sneaking out with a carriageful of ale barrels. Making straight this way, he was. Don’t wonder if he turns up the street any second.”

Silver gnawed at her lip. What was she to do now, trapped here in the middle of bustling Lynn with the Prince Regent and his entourage mere steps away? Carefully, she slid her pistol from her half boot and hid it in her reticule, where it would be closer at hand. “You’re sure he is coming this way?”

Her young and very muddy friend nodded enthusiastically. “No doubt about it. Only one other road and the bridge is out there.”

“Very well,” Silver said. She dropped her voice as a society matron and her giggling daughter minced past. “Did you have a close look at him? Could you see his greatcoat?”

“Sure did, miss. Hanging proper funny it was, with the pockets both full.”

Silver nodded thoughtfully. If the documents Luc was looking for were so valuable, the man would certainly carry them on his person. In the greatcoat, no doubt. “It is the things in the man’s coat we need. Will you and your friends help us? There are two extra guineas in it if you will.” She handed the boy two coins.

His young eyes glittered with excitement. “We’d go and march against that devilish Frenchman himself for two guineas, miss. Aye, we’re with you. You’re a right one, sure enough.”

Silver held out her hand. “It’s agreed, then.” After they shook, Silver looked up, shading her eyes. “He’ll come around the corner over there, I think. What we need is a diversion.”

“Just you leave that to me an’ my mates.”

Silver smiled wickedly. “It will make a shocking commotion, I’m afraid.”

“Not a doubt of it,” the boy agreed gamely. “The prince and his chums ain’t like to have seen nothing like it.”

~ ~ ~

So it was that half a dozen small boys were loitering about the main street when a well-filled farm dray thundered around a corner and made its way to the center of town. At their leader’s nod the boys leapt from their posts and raced toward their target.

Silver nodded at Bram. “Here I go,” she whispered tensely. “Wish me luck.”

Her brother caught her hand. “Why can’t I go, Syl? It’s too dangerous. What if he doesn’t stop?”

But Silver was already in the street. She wouldn’t consider letting Bram face this.

The wagon picked up speed. Two street boys were already clinging to its back and Silver saw another two run up and catch the sides.

Just as planned, her brother shouted a warning. Then he gestured wildly to the man on the wagon seat. “Rein in your horses, fool! Can’t you see that there’s a woman out there!”

But the horses thundered on, dust and gravel thrown up in smoking clouds.

Out of the corner of her eye Silver saw the Duchess of Cranford and her granddaughter move out of the select perfumer’s establishment. Beside them stood the smiling Prince Regent with a lady of fashion on either arm.

If she was going to die, at least she would do it in style, Silver thought wryly. Her death would be witnessed by the Regent and half of London society at once.

She heard the coachman curse and shout a warning, but even then he did not slow his team. The man from the boat was sitting beside him. Silver couldn’t make out his face, for it was hidden beneath a drooping hat, his greatcoat collar turned up around his cheeks.

Silver’s heart began to pound. Closer, ever closer the horses raced while she prayed that the boys remembered their agreed-upon tasks.

With a harsh crack the back of the wagon dropped open and the first of six ale barrels went crashing to the ground. They had remembered, Silver thought. Now the rest was up to her and Bram.

Her eyes locked on the vehicle’s single passenger. She saw him shove his hand into his pocket, fingers tense. Yes, the documents were there. They had to be.

Everything happened at once after that. Silver heard the duchess scream. Dimly she saw India Delamere throw up her hand in shocked warning as the Prince Regent pointed toward the racing horses.

But all this was secondary in Silver’s mind. Her main focus was on the man in the drab gray coat. She could feel him staring at her, his eyes cold and tight and angry. Turning slowly, she faced the churning wagon, one hand raised dramatically to her chest.

“Get out of the way!” the driver thundered.

His passenger leaned close and gestured. A whip cracked over the horses’ heads. In horror Silver heard the driver shout. “Can’t stop! Going to run you down if you don’t bloody get out of my way!”

Damned if you will, Silver thought furiously. Jerking open her reticule, she pulled out her little pistol and leveled it dead at the driver’s chest.

At that moment the leader of the street boys launched himself upon the passenger’s neck. As agreed upon, he tore off the man’s hat, then went to work upon his greatcoat, tugging it down over his shoulders. Snarling, the passenger clawed at his unwelcome visitor, but to no avail. The boy only laughed and danced about him, small and agile as a monkey.

Silver saw it all dimly, as if in a trance. The wagon was thirty feet away now and closing fast.

The driver cursed, swerving to avoid a pile of rubble in the street. Silver took a step backward.

The passenger would sweep past only inches from her. She prayed she could reach his pocket in time.

Meanwhile, the urchin danced about the seat, jabbing at the passenger’s chest. Reaching deep, he tugged something from one pocket and tossed it across to Bram.

One pocket empty, Silver thought. Only one more to go. The man in the greatcoat was fighting, his chin sunk low to his chest. Silver still couldn’t get a glimpse of him.

And then it was too late.

The carriage thundered past. She leapt back only seconds before the great wooden wheels hammered over the cobbled street exactly where she had been standing.

But her sharp movement cost her dearly, for she slammed into a row of stacked wooden crates. She felt a tearing pain at her side and gasped. Before her the street swayed and then tipped dizzily to one side.

There was chaos.

Screams echoed over the crack of exploding barrels. But Silver barely heard. Gasping, she caught her side and pitched to the street, blinded by a wave of pain.

~ ~ ~

Ten miles away, Luc Delamere sat aside his prancing black gelding and scowled down at the sandy earth. “They headed south. There were just the two of them. What could they be doing in that direction? All they’ll find there is more heath and then the fens.”

Beside him Connor MacKinnon hid a smile. “I’m vastly sorry to contradict you, my friend, but they are headed north. The prints you are looking at must be at least three days old. If Silver and her brother came this way, then the prints would be fresh. Rather like these, I imagine.”

Frowning, Luc followed Connor’s fingers to a line of newly made prints in the sandy earth. His friend was right, of course.

And that only added to Luc’s bad humor. “I suppose you are right. But don’t let it go to your head, you great lumbering beast.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Connor said calmly. “It is not your fault your eyes aren’t working, you poor besotted fool.”

“Who’s besotted and who’s a fool?” Luc growled, glaring at his companion.

“You’ll not hear a word from me,” MacKinnon turned his horse to the north. “No, not a word. None of my business if you choose to fall in love. None at all.”

~  33  ~

The world swam back around Silver.

It came slowly, in little flashes and jolts that left her head feeling like the inside of a hammered drum. When she slid open one eye, she saw she was propped against an upturned ale barrel at the edge of the street. Bram knelt next to her, looking very worried.

Silver tried to smile at him and didn’t quite succeed. “Did you see him? Did you — get his likeness?”

Bram smiled, though the smile did not extend to his anxious eyes. “Every detail, Syl. Thin face, haughty nose, and stubborn mouth. I’ve got rather a skill at portraits, I think.”

As he spoke, Bram held up his notebook. Two mangled eagle feathers, a dried piece of moss, and a mouse tail fell out of the book onto Silver’s lap. Just as Bram had promised, a man’s face had been quickly sketched on the well-worn pages, every detail clear and precise.

Silver squeezed her brother’s hand, inordinately pleased with their success in spite of the bells that were clanging painfully inside her head. “Capital job, my love. And the street boys, did they manage their tasks as well?”

Bram glanced around at the milling crowd and lowered his voice. “Well enough. Now lie still and be quiet, Syl. You’ve taken a fearful drubbing. That monster would have run you down, I’m sure of it, but the Prince Regent was in a furious taking and said he meant to call the militia out.”

“And — the man riding? What of him?”

“In all the uproar the bounder managed to escape, blast his foul heart.”

Silver frowned, trying to listen, but his voice suddenly seemed high pitched and ragged. There was a fearful aching in her chest that extended down to her side. “And the — the documents, Bram? What about them?”

“Right here in my pocket,” her brother whispered. “But we can’t talk now. The duchess is coming back and the Prince Regent is with her. They seem fascinated by the boys from the river.”

With a sigh Silver sat back. “Give — extra crown — to each of them,” she muttered. Then her eyes closed and she slipped back into the darkness.

~ ~ ~

When next she woke, Silver found herself braced against a mound of pillows with the sound of hoofbeats ringing in her ears. At least she thought it was hoofbeats and not the drumming of her heart. She opened her eyes and felt warm fingers press hers.

“Finally awake, my dear?” It was the imperious voice of the Duchess of Cranford. “You gave us quite a turn out there on the street. I don’t ever think I’ve seen Prinny half so worried. But I don’t mean to be wearying you with chitchat. It’s rest you need, gel, and it’s rest you’re going to get.”

“But—” Silver tried to sit up. “Bram! Where is my brother?”

“Safe with India and Ian, her brother. I’ve kidnapped the two of you, you see. We’re bound for our estate, where you are going to rest until I’m sure you’ve recovered.”

Silver wavered between fury at the old woman’s high-handedness and tears at her concern. She suspected the feeling wasn’t unusual. Anyone in the path of the Duchess of Cranford probably felt like a target for a runaway carriage.

Silver gave a slightly unsteady smile. “Most abominably high handed, Your Grace, although I can’t say I relished lying in that dusty street with a hundred curious faces peering down at me.”

The duchess’s eyes narrowed. “And that business you spoke of?”

Silver thought of the documents hidden in her pocket. “Satisfactorily concluded. But we really must not—”

“Hush. It’s all been decided.”

“I cannot stay. There are … matters my brother and I must attend to. And Bram—”

The duchess maneuvered Silver back against the soft pillows. “ — is fine. He’s riding ahead and at this very moment is no doubt busy regaling Ian and India with stories of the curious wildlife of Norfolk and the feeding habits of gray rats.”

Silver smiled faintly. “A repellant child, I’m afraid. He was always collecting shells or grass or some animal or other. But he has become a seasoned naturalist.”

“He’s also kept us well entertained. India, most of all, and I’m very thankful for it. She hasn’t been herself lately, not since—” The duchess’s voice broke off. She looked out at the passing landscape. For a moment sadness darkened her face. “But I am rambling again, my dear. You must excuse me. It is the one prerogative of old age. Lie back now and close your eyes. We shall be at Swallow Hill in less than an hour.”

~ ~ ~

As the duchess had surmised, at that moment Bram was comfortably mounted on a gentle-tempered roan, where he was entertaining his two companions with an embroidered account of the encounter at King’s Lynn. “A real group of bruisers, so they were. Only half my age and better fighters, every one of them.”

“Thank heaven for it,” India Delamere said worriedly. “If that young boy hadn’t managed to distract the villain at the reins, your sister might not be alive right now. You’ll think me unforgivably inquisitive, but whatever possessed her to stand in front of that carriage in such a way? She seems a most stubborn and independent woman, but I confess I don’t understand it.”

Bram coughed uncomfortably. “The fact is — I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”

The rider on Bram’s left gave a low laugh. Ian Delamere, Viscount Dunwood, had just returned from Spain, where he served as one of Wellington’s aides. He looked at his sister. “Give over, India. The boy has warned us off the subject and it won’t do to be prying.”

Bram flushed. “No, it’s nothing like that. Blast, how rude you must think me after all your kindness.”

“Not kindness. Not a bit of it,” the tall soldier said easily. “Grandmama has an insatiable appetite for matchmaking and in your sister she has discovered a prize candidate. It’s brutal self-interest with her, I assure you.”

India shook her head, laughing. “You are the most dreadful cad, Ian! What will young Brandon think of us?”

The boy in question shot an admiring glance at the beautiful woman riding beside him. “I expect he’ll think that he’s vastly lucky to have made your acquaintance,” he mumbled, his flush growing more pronounced by the second.

Seeing his embarrassment, India kindly looked away, giving the boy time to recover. Ian helpfully launched into a complicated account of the night that the regimental mascot, a large and rather bad-tempered bear, managed to make his way into Wellington’s tent while the great man was fast asleep. The countryside slipped by, lush and green and beautiful.

The three were fast friends by the time Ian reached his rousing conclusion, which reflected none too happily on his own part in the affair.

~ ~ ~

“What manner of chaos has erupted here?”

Luc stood in the middle of King Street, staring at the ale barrels scattered around a now-empty farm wagon. Under Connor’s expert eye they had followed the trail of fresh prints into the center of King’s Lynn.

Connor looked thoughtful. “I’ve heard any number of wild tales, everything from talk of a French invasion to an assassin attempting to kill the Prince Regent. Damned if I can make heads or tails of it, Luc. The only consistent thread seems to be the slip of a country girl who stood in the street with a pistol in her hand and foiled the attack.”

At those words Luc felt a queer sinking sensation in his chest.

A slip of a country girl with a pistol in her hand? Luc knew only one female to whom those words could apply. But surely it couldn’t be. He would find her admiring shop windows down the street, or taking tea beside the elegant Guildhall.

Certainly not foiling an assassin’s bullet.

At least Luc hoped so.

~ ~ ~

Something was bothering Bram.

In fact, it had been bothering him all afternoon. It had to do with the man beside him, broad shouldered and strong handed, with eyes of coolest gray. Frowning, Bram darted another searching glance at India’s brother.

The tall, sleepy-eyed soldier, however, was a man who missed very little. “You look troubled, Brandon. Have I done something to give you a disgust of me already?”

“Not a bit of it. It’s just — well, you’ve the look of someone I know. Or at least I think you have. But I can’t for the life of me say who it is.”

Ian Delamere shrugged his broad shoulders. “It seems that I have that sort of face. It happened often in Spain. It can be a deucedly unpleasant experience.”

“Oh, Ian,” India cried, “never tell me you were mistaken for a horse thief or a traitor!”

For a moment there was a hardness in her brother’s eyes, but it disappeared so fast that Bram thought he might have imagined it.

Except for the tension in the man’s hands at his reins.

“No, not a horse thief, India. Acquit me of that, if you please. And do stop being so troublesome. There is nothing a fellow hates more than an inquisitive female, I assure you.”

“Oh, you’ve wounded me mortally!” India’s hands clutched dramatically at her chest, even as her shining eyes showed that she was in no way wounded. “A hit, a palpable hit. I daresay I shall languish in a swoon and never recover.”

Her brother looked across at her, tenderness in his eyes. “Harridan.”

“Scoundrel,” his sister answered promptly.

Riding between them, Bram hid a smile, wondering about this most unusual family that he’d crossed paths with.

~ ~ ~

Silver opened her eyes and made a slight, tentative movement. She was heartened to discover that the pounding in her head had abated. Now there was only a faint ache at her temples. As she struggled to sit up, the duchess moved to help her.

“Feeling more the thing, are you, my dear? In good time, too, for Swallow Hill is just over the hill.”

“You are very kind, Your Grace. We are complete strangers, after all. I cannot think this proper somehow.”

“Poppycock,” the duchess snapped. “I haven’t had so much fun in months, not since the day I…” Her eyes took on a speculative gleam. “But that’s a story for another day. Now come and look. You can see the top of the house from here.”

Pulling back the curtain at the window, Silver looked out onto a shining emerald valley crisscrossed by darker lines of oaks and hedgerows.

Then her breath caught.

Swallow Hill was not a house one would soon forget — or perhaps ever forget. It rose from the green curve of the hillside, a tangle of turrets and wildly twisting chimneys worked in warm pink granite. Large oriel windows dominated the south face and a topiary garden marched along the west. There was nothing regular about the house, no symmetry or order in its clustered wings.

And yet in its very vitality there was a matchless beauty to the house, the clear expression of a vigorous family who had flourished here for generations.

“Well, what do you think? Not to the current Palladian taste. Perhaps you’ll find it ugly.”

“Ugly?” Silver said breathlessly. “Why, I think it the most beautiful house I have ever seen.”

The duchess’s eyes twinkled. She sat back, clutching her silver cane between her fragile fingers. “You’ve a quick wit about you. I’ll say that for you.”

“But it’s true. The house is not at all orderly. The windows are of different sizes and the wings lack symmetry. But somehow it all works. One doesn’t notice the differences because of the overwhelming power of the place.”

The duchess nodded, looking out at the lush green hills and the magnificent stone house set within them. “Very well said, Miss St. Clair. You’ve an understanding that goes much beyond your age, I think.” Her eyes seemed to glitter with moisture as she patted Silver’s hand. Then she straightened her shoulders. “The first thing we’ll do is pack you off to rest. After that I must have that old quack, Sir Reginald, look in upon you.”

“Oh, no.” Silver shook her head. “I wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Nonsense, girl. Unless I’m badly mistaken, you’ve a wound at your side along with that blow to your head. Maybe you’ll tell me about it and maybe you won’t, but one thing I do know: You aren’t fit to be racing around the countryside. Not anywhere. Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. So if it’s family you’re worried about, I shall be delighted to send a footman with a message to put them at their ease. When you’re feeling more the thing, you can write a note yourself.”

Silver studied the duchess’s face with a mix of irritation and warmth. “You really are the most abominably managing woman, Your Grace.”

“So I have been told,” the duchess said happily, in no way offended. “It is rather a principle with me, you understand.”

Silver shook her head, laughing softly as the carriage came to a creaking halt before the mellow walls of Swallow Hill.

~ ~ ~

The duchess led the way to a magnificent yellow sitting room whose floor-to-ceiling French doors opened to green lawns. After Silver was comfortable, the imperious old woman excused herself. As soon as she had gone, Silver sat up and brushed away the cover the duchess had left around her. “Bram, where is the notebook?”

The boy smiled and patted his pocket.

“What about the things that were in that man’s greatcoat? I can’t find my cloak!”

“All safe, Syl, don’t worry. I took them out while everyone was busy helping you inside. It was a rolled-up document of some sort, but I can’t make heads or tails of it. There are only rows of numbers without any sort of pattern.”

Silver frowned. “Numbers? That’s all?”

“Afraid so. But maybe—”

At that moment the door opened; India and Ian peered in. Bram shot Silver a warning glance.

“Are we disturbing you?” India asked.

“ — not a bit.”

“ — of course we are.”

Silver and Ian spoke at the same moment. Then all four broke into laughter.

“We thought we’d check on you while Grandmama went to rouse the servants. We weren’t expected for another two days, you understand, and they will have been taking a much-needed rest. I’m afraid she can be the most veritable dragon when the spirit takes her. But then,” India added, “I expect you have already noticed that.”

“On the contrary. I think your grandmother is extremely generous.”

“So you’re a diplomat too.” Ian nodded approvingly. “We could have used you over in Spain. Wellington had no patience for such things and was constantly sending our allies stomping off in a fury.”

“You were fighting in the Peninsula?” Silver found she couldn’t take her eyes from Ian’s face. There was something about him — something nearly familiar, though she could not say what.

Ian nodded. “For two years.”

“I hope you were not wounded.”

“Nothing significant.”

“Don’t mind Ian,” India said confidingly. “He never reveals anything of any significance. I’m afraid all that spying has gone to his head.”

Ian smiled and the hardness about his eyes disappeared. But Silver was certain she hadn’t imagined it and could only wonder what had left him with bitter memories.

A minute later the door opened and the duchess ushered in a butler carrying a silver tray.

“This table will be fine, Jeffers.” The duchess indicated a beautiful rosewood Chippendale table at Silver’s feet. Soon they were seated around India, who was dispensing cups of a fine, small-leaved amber souchong and Cook’s special buttery-soft walnut cake. Bram was on his third wedge when he looked up to find India and Ian smiling at him.

His cheeks flamed. He dropped his last piece as if burned.

“Please don’t stop,” India said quickly. “It was terribly rude of us, I know, but it is so wonderful to see a young person with all your energy.”

Bram shoved his glasses uncertainly up on his nose, then helped himself to the last slice.

“I would like you to meet my parents,” India said to Silver, “but I’m afraid they’re on an extended visit to Italy. Father is in his antiquities phase again, you see. No doubt from Venice they will be off to Athens and Cairo. Grandmama, meanwhile, has bravely volunteered to fill the breach and squire me about London until they return. I keep telling her that I’ll never take at the marriage mart and no gentleman will possibly come up to scratch.”

“Not when they find out you can box, shoot and use a foil better than most men,” her brother said helpfully.

The Duchess of Cranford snorted. “I wish you will stop using that horrid cant language, young lady. It is most unbecoming.”

“Is it truly? I expect I’ll have to stop spending so much time around my brothers, in that case.”

An abrupt silence fell over the room. The duchess’s fingers tightened on her cane and Ian’s mouth tensed. India’s face went pale.

Silver felt the tension gripping the three of them and wondered at it. Bram, however, busy with his cake, hadn’t noticed the sudden change. “Brothers?” he said blithely. “Do you have another brother besides Ian?”

India gasped. Her teacup of bone china slid from her fingers and crashed to the floor, where it shattered into a thousand pieces.

After a moment of frozen embarrassment everyone seemed to move at once. Ian fetched a napkin to clean the tea from his sister’s skirts. The duchess patted India’s hand. Bram bent down, red faced, and began to collect the fallen porcelain fragments.

“Please don’t do that, Brandon.” India frowned at the stiffness in the boy’s shoulders. “It is not at all necessary.” She touched his shoulders gently.

When Bram looked up, he saw that her eyes were full of tears.

“I’m most dreadfully sorry if I — I upset you.”

“It is no fault of yours, truly.” India came slowly to her feet. Suddenly she looked very tired. “If you will excuse me, I think I’ll go to my room. I believe the trip was more tiring than I realized.”

With her chin held high India walked from the room. A moment later the duchess went after her.

“I said something, didn’t I?” Bram bit his lip. “And it’s my fault that she left.”

Ian cleared his throat. “Nonsense. It was not your fault. Sit down, won’t you? I think I’d better explain.”

Bram returned to his seat next to Silver. The tall soldier paced about for a moment, his hands clenched behind his back. When he turned, his face was very hard. “You see, we do have another brother. At least we did have one, seven years India’s senior and five years mine. He was … beloved by all who knew him.” Ian’s voice tightened. For a moment it seemed that he could not continue.

“You said he was? Did … something happen to him?” Silver asked softly.

At her question Ian seemed to rouse himself from his bitter memories. “I’m afraid so. He disappeared some years ago. Our parents sent Bow Street runners and a score of investigators the length and breadth of England, even to the Continent, but not a trace was ever found.” He sighed and dropped his hands to the back of an elegant Louis XIV chaise. “We believe he must have been set on by a gang of footpads and—” His eyes turned bleak for a moment. “It’s been hard on all of us, but perhaps worst on India. The two of them were very close, you see. It was almost as if they had some sort of mental bond between them.”

As he spoke Silver felt a tightening in her chest. A faint whine seemed to echo through the room until she found it harder and harder to concentrate on what Ian was saying.

He disappeared some years ago.

Never found … never found…

Over and over the grim words echoed in her head.

“It was unforgivable,” Bram said, looking miserable. “I should never have asked the question in such a ham-handed way.” He shoved his fists in his pocket, very glum. As he did so, he dislodged the notebook that had been lying on the settee next to him.

In a graceful motion Ian bent to retrieve it.

The well-thumbed pages flipped open, revealing Bram’s deft sketches of local flora and fauna, botanical oddities, the growth cycles of various native herbs and an array of lavender species.

And finally a freehand sketch of a man’s face, made several days earlier.

A man with glinting eyes, slashing cheekbones, and a faint scar above his full, sensual lips.

Ian froze, his eyes locked on the picture. Silver saw a tremor run through him. He looked up slowly, a storm of conflicting emotions on his handsome face. Disbelief, confusion, anger — all were written there as he stared at Bram. “Is it possible that you’ve seen him? Is he still alive?”

The whine in Silver’s head grew deafening. Her throat tightened. She tried to push to her feet, only to find her legs wouldn’t support her. “That man — he is your brother?”

Ian nodded grimly.

“Luc,” she whispered. Wonderingly. Furiously. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Ian’s fingers clenched as if he were fighting the miracle of the news he had just been given. “My brother. Lucien Reede Tiberius Fitzgerald Delamere, Marquess of Dunwood and Hartingdale.” He stared at the sketch, his fingers gently tracing the careful features in turn, drinking in the sight of them. “He disappeared on the way to his club. We never saw him again.” Ian’s fingers tightened on the notebook. “Not until now.”

He looked at Bram and Silver. His gray eyes were no longer sleepy but very hard. “And now you will tell me exactly what you two are doing with my brother’s picture in that book.”

Silver heard no more. The room began to spin about her.

Her hands locked at her chest.

Luc, oh, Luc, you fool! How much you gave away for honor. And how very much they all love you.

For it changed everything, of course. The elder son of the Duke of Devonham was entirely above her touch, whether he chose to play at being a highwayman or not. There could be no question about anything between them now.

It was over, all over.

With that harsh knowledge crashing through her mind, Silver swayed. She barely noticed the creamy blossoms on the priceless Persian carpet rushing up to meet her.

~  34  ~

Her first impression, when clarity returned, was utter pandemonium.

Voices rang out around her, chairs scraped back and forth, and footsteps hammered in the hallway.

Silver pressed her hands against her head, fighting back waves of pain as memory returned. Luc…

Now she knew the rest of his name.

Lucien Delamere.

Marquess of Dunwood and Hartingdale.

Sweet heaven, he was the heir to the dukedom of Devonham!

She opened her eyes to see Ian’s anxious face floating above her. He patted her hand, smiling ruefully. “I hope you will forgive me, Miss St. Clair. It was a damnable thing for me to say. My only defense is that I couldn’t believe — I couldn’t understand. For five years we’ve searched for some trace of him. And then this…”

He looked out the window. “I think we had all given up except India. And then in an instant, to see his face staring back at me, so plain upon the page like that — well, it gave me a nasty turn.”

Silver swallowed back tears, realizing what had seemed so familiar about him. It was the pride in the high cheekbones, the sensual tilt to his full lower lip. Now that she knew he was Luc’s brother, the resemblance seemed so obvious she wondered how she had missed it before.

“There’s no need to explain,” she said softly. “It must have been a terrible shock to you.”

“That’s no excuse for my appalling rudeness. I hope you and your brother will forgive me.”

“Well, I wouldn’t.” Silver looked up to see the duchess standing behind Ian. Her eyes were glinting with unshed tears. “You’ve the manners of an ape, Ian. Now off with you. Both of you men. I wish to have a few words with Miss St. Clair. Alone.”

Ian did not move, studying Silver’s face and looking deep into her eyes, as if to read things that she could not or would not put in words. After a moment he nodded slightly, then pushed to his feet. “Very well. I expect Master Brandon might like a look at the conservatory.” He smiled conspiratorially at Silver’s brother. “We have rather an impressive orangery here at Swallow Hill. Would you care to have a tour of our steam pipes?”

Bram nodded, torn between ecstasy and a residual pang of embarrassment. “Would I! You’d need a carriage and a team of eight horses to tear me away.”

“Then we’ll be off.” Ian and his grandmother exchanged a short, significant look before Ian steered Bram from the room.

The duchess sat down beside Silver. Her back was very straight, and her hands moved restlessly on her cane, before finally going still. “So you love him, do you?”

The directness of the question stole Silver’s breath. She felt her cheeks flame. Was it so obvious? Did she wear her heart on her sleeve for all to see?

She looked down, her eyes locked on the smoky teal expanse of the carpet. “It’s very complicated, Your Grace.”

“Love is always complicated, my dear,” the old woman said softly. “What about that aggravating grandson of mine? Does he love you too?”

A faint smile played over Silver’s lips. “He has gone to great lengths to assure me that he does, Your Grace.”

“If so, then it’s the first time the boy’s shown a shred of common sense.” She reached out and brushed her fragile fingers over Silver’s. “From the moment I saw you and your brother standing there in that shop, I knew you were special. Almost — yes, almost as if I felt Luc calling out to me.”

She brushed at her eyes and then cleared her throat quickly. “So he’s really alive. How did the rascal look? Was he well? Did he ever speak of us? And why did he never try to contact us?”

Silver’s fingers twisted in her lap. Where was she to start? Luc had chosen not to tell his family of his fate, for reasons only he knew, and this was not her secret to confide.

The story would have to come from Luc himself, in his own time and in his own way.

“He is alive, Your Grace. And he is well.”

“And?” The duchess’s fingers tightened on her cane. “Where is he, blast it! Why does he stay away from us?”

“I — I fear I cannot tell you more than this. I believe Luc has his own reasons for not contacting you, and the whole story of his … experiences must come from his own lips.”

The duchess’s mouth thinned with anger. Silver waited for a bruising setdown.

And then the old woman sighed. “Vexing creature! But I can see why he loves you, my dear. You’re as stubborn as a stoat and with a sense of honor as nicely refined as Luc’s. Yes, it’s a perfect match you’ll make him. And I have no doubt that you’ll lead my grandson a very merry chase indeed.” Her eyes twinkled for a moment. “If you haven’t already.”

The duchess touched Silver’s face. The old woman saw the love and longing there. She saw also the anxiety. “So he’s in danger, is he?”

Silver nodded.

“And he’s been in danger.”

Again Silver nodded.

“If only we’d known.” She shook her head. “But I won’t ask more, if you feel you cannot tell me. Just let me know what I may do to help. We all stand ready, at any moment, to assist him and you in any way that we can.”

“I must go back to Kingsdon Cross. My brother and I have a message to carry to Luc as soon as possible. I would ask the use of a fast traveling carriage to take me there.”

“I’ll have orders sent around to the stables,” the duchess said without the slightest hesitation. “But you cannot leave yet.” She filled another cup of tea and handed it to Silver. “Drink this. And then I mean to see you eat some shaved ham and another slice of that walnut cake before I’ll even consider letting you out of my custody.”

Silver’s lips curved. “What terrible servitude.” Her eyes darkened. “All of you are far too kind.”

“Nonsense,” the duchess said, rapping the floor with her cane. “The day has turned out monstrous pleasant. And why? All because of you and that brother of yours, Miss St. Clair. Luc is found. It’s we that should be thanking you, for indeed I can’t remember when I’ve had even half so much excitement.”

~ ~ ~

“She did what?”

Luc stood in a shadowed alley off the main street of King’s Lynn. His face was tight with anger as he glared at Connor MacKinnon and the small street boy beside him.

“The boy just told you, Luc.”

“So I did, guv.” The urchin seemed in no way frightened by Luc’s bellowed question. “Dead steady, she was. Stood right out in the street. Didn’t move, not by an inch. She just leveled her pistol at the bloke in the farm wagon hurtling straight toward her. He near to run her down, he did. But he couldn’t, not with me hanging on his neck,” the boy ended proudly.

“But why?” Luc drove his fingers irritably through his hair. “What possessed her to such an act of madness?”

The boy’s eyes narrowed. “Said the man in the wagon was some sort of traitor and had information she needed.”

Understanding dawned in Luc’s eyes. “She didn’t wait. She bloody came after him herself,” he said wonderingly.

“After whom?” Connor demanded.

“Never mind.” Luc studied the street urchin. “And those gentry coves you spoke of, they took her off in a carriage, you say?” His voice hardened. “To a place called … Swallow Hill?”

“Aye, there was a passel of ‘em gathered round her. Even the blooming prince hisself was there. Taking her to what they decided,” the boy announced cheerfully. “Said it was no more than an hour’s ride east, and that she needed to rest. Sorry to see her go, I was. She was a damned proper sort of female.”

Luc clamped a hard hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’re a good lad. I have no doubt that you saved her life.”

The boy’s face reddened from this praise, and his eyes widened as Luc slid three gold pieces into his grimy fingers. It was more blunt than the little fellow had seen in all his ten years.

“Anything else I can do for you, guv, all you gotta do is tell me. I’m entire at your disposal, so I am.”

“There might be one thing.” Luc stared out at the crowded street, thinking hard. “That warehouse you were watching — I’d like for you and your friends to keep an eye on it while I’m gone. I’ll be sending someone soon, but meanwhile I’ll need to know everyone who goes in and out and exactly what they are carrying. Can you manage that, do you think?”

“Manage it?” The boy snorted. “You can already consider it bleeding done, guv.”

The urchin scampered off, excitement in every line of his wiry body, while Luc stood unmoving, staring at the street.

“What do we do next?” Connor asked.

“It seems that Silver and Bram have already set about doing my work for me. I’ll have to go after her. To Swallow Hill.” Luc cursed. “I wanted it finished, Connor. I wanted it ended smooth and sharp and forever, so I wouldn’t cause my family any more pain.” His hands clenched to fists.

The heir to one of England’s oldest titles and a legacy that included three castles, five lesser estates, half a million acres in England and Scotland, and one of the finest art collections on the face of the earth looked numbly at his friend. “How can I possibly go back? You know what happened in Algiers, Conn. You know the things that happened to me there and the things that I was forced to do to keep Jonas and myself alive. How can I possibly face them again after that?”

“You simply take one foot and put it down in front of the other. And you keep doing it, even though it hurts, even though the pain builds until you think you’re going to die of it. You just keep putting that one foot in front of the other and before you know it the hard part is over and you’re finally where you want to be.”

Luc’s dark brow slanted up. “Are you speaking from personal experience, Connor MacKinnon?”

“Aye,” the great broad-shouldered man said. “We all have our secrets, Luc. The fact is, our secrets make us what we are.”

~ ~ ~

Despite the anxious protests of the duchess, India, and Ian, Silver refused to be deterred from leaving for Kingsdon Cross.

“But you’re pale as a bedsheet, girl,” the duchess said irritably. “I don’t know what’s so important that you have to go racing off like this.”

But Silver wanted to break the news of this meeting to Luc in person. There was also the urgency about the documents they’d stolen in King’s Lynn. Even though the rows of numbers made no sense to her and Bram, she hoped this would turn out to be exactly what Luc was looking for.

Silver turned at the foot of the steps and swept a last lingering look over the gleaming walls of Swallow Hill. She would remember this house always, she knew. She was just about to climb into the carriage when she heard the scuffle of feet behind her.

“When do we leave?” her brother asked eagerly.

“Not we, I. You are staying here to rest.”

“And let you have all the fun by yourself?”

Perhaps he was right, Silver thought. Other than being a little pale he didn’t look any worse for his adventure. He wasn’t wheezing and he didn’t seem overtired.

She was still gnawing at her lip, trying to decide what was best to do when her brother took matters into his own hands. Reaching up, he shoved her into the carriage, jumped up behind her, and jerked the door closed.

Outside on the drive the duchess stood unmoving, her hands tensed on her cane. “Come back to us,” she said huskily. “Come back to Swallow Hill. And please — bring Luc with you,” she finished.

Silver nodded, feeling tears press at her eyes.

And then Bram was calling to the coachman and the horses were straining and Silver was on her way, racing down the gravel drive toward home.

As the green hills rushed past, Silver thought of Luc’s danger. She thought of evil men. And from there her thoughts turned to her father’s last journal entry, made the day before his death. Pain gripped at her throat as she remembered the hastily scrawled letters, so unlike her father’s usual elegant script.

He had been harried. He had been in fear for his life.

They were coming for him and he’d known it…

There is no more time.

They’ve finally seen through my tricks. The last shipment just came in, and I’ve delayed them as long as I can, but now they insist on examining it for themselves.

Remember me, my dearest Silver. Remember the summer sun on the lavender and the sigh of the wind through our roses. Remember the good things and not how it all changed at the end.

They’ll be here soon, but I can play this bitter game no longer. I grow tired, sorely tired. Tonight I thought I saw my dear Sarah again. She stood beside the honeysuckle and beckoned to me, smiling just as she always did.

I knew then that it was my time.

So I will not fight them when they come. You and Bram are safe with Archibald and good, honest Tinker. I pray that they will keep you so until you discover these words.

A noise.

They’re coming.

No more time.

My dear girl, kiss Bram for me. Know always that I love you…

Silver stared out at the blurred landscape, shoving tears from her eyes.

Bram watched her anxiously. “What is it, Syl? Is it something about Luc?”

“It’s nothing, love. We’ll soon be home. Then everything will be fine.” And I’ll find them, Father. I’ll find out why. And I’ll see that they don’t win this time! But I have to save someone I love first.

~ ~ ~

Ian Delamere’s eyes narrowed on the racing carriage.

“What’s wrong, Ian?” his sister asked. “You look like a dog with a flea.”

“I won’t stand for any granddaughter of mine talking in such an uncouth manner,” the duchess said, shooting India an irritated look.

Since India knew her grandmother’s irritation had as much to do with Silver’s leaving as anything she had said, the girl merely smiled. “Oh, pooh, Grandmama. It’s true and you know it. Ian’s been looking cross as a crab ever since he heard about Luc. And I don’t see why, for it’s the most wonderful news imaginable. I don’t care what he’s done or where he’s been. I don’t even care that he hasn’t come to us sooner. All I want is to have him back.”

“Well, boy?” The duchess looked at Ian. “Perhaps you’d better explain yourself.”

The tall cavalry officer nudged a bit of gravel about with the beautifully polished toe of one boot. “Did you happen to see the other sketch in that notebook of young Brandon’s?”

The duchess frowned. “No.”

“Well, I did,” Ian said tautly. “I’d recognize that long face and arrogant mouth anywhere. It was Damian Renwick. And what I want to know is how Luc has gotten himself involved with such a scoundrel as Renwick.”

India’s eyes widened. “This Renwick is not quite a nice person?”

Her brother snorted. “You might well say that!”

“It is all most wonderfully confusing, is it not?” India said happily. “But I think I’d better go change into something more practical.” She looked down at her elegant silk skirts with distaste.

“Not into any more of your brother’s breeches, you won’t, young lady!” The Duchess of Cranford’s eyes flashed. “Your mother and father might be away in Venice, but you’re under my authority now and you’ll please remember that. When I say no riding breeches, I mean just that.”

“I know you mean it, Grandmama.” India’s beautiful eyes flashed. “But I’m afraid I also mean it. Besides,” she added. “I have a feeling I’m going to need more practical dress.” She shot a significant glance at her brother, who was still staring down the drive. “Are you coming back in to finish your tea, Ian?”

“In a moment. I have to send a message to London first.”

“Do you know something else about this man Renwick, Ian?” The duchess was careful to delay her question until India had disappeared.

“His breeding is impeccable, but for all that there’s something not quite right about the fellow. I heard talk about him over in the Peninsula, and while one hears a great deal of talk, this seemed to have a grain of truth to it. The man is devilishly shady, in fact.”

“And you believe that Luc is somehow involved?”

“I cannot say, Grandmama. I simply have a bad feeling about all this.”

What Ian didn’t tell his grandmother was that he had had that sort of feeling only twice before in his life. Once had been just before he’d been ambushed and nearly killed in a mountain pass high in Spain. The other time had been just before he’d learned that his beloved older brother had vanished without a trace.

Ian was far too experienced a soldier to ignore these flashes of intuition. He decided to send off a query to an old military friend of his in London and see what he could find out about Lord Renwick.

It would have helped matters, of course, if Silver St. Clair had divulged Luc’s whereabouts.

“Shall I follow her, Grandmama? It would be fast work for me to run the rascal to ground.”

The duchess sighed. “No, she was most adamant. It’s a point of honor with her — and with him, too, I suspect. But if Luc feels he cannot trust his own family, then what hope is there?” She took Ian’s arm. “Let us wait a day or two. I believe Miss St. Clair will come to us if she can. Or she will send Luc himself.”

If he’s able to come, Ian thought grimly, wondering just what sort of damnable coil his dashing brother had gotten himself into this time.

~ ~ ~

They were just sitting down to an early dinner when a disturbance in the drive caught their attention. The duchess looked up in amazement a few minutes later as their white-haired butler burst into the dining room, his ancient, stooped body all atwitch.

“It’s him,” Jeffers cried, white eyebrows awry. “Out there. Right — right now!” The servant looked overwhelmed.

“Jeffers, have you been drinking again?” the duchess asked coldly.

“I most certainly have not, Your Grace. But I soon shall be. Oh, yes, we all shall be!” With this obscure utterance the butler flung open the door to the dining room.

A tall cloaked figure strode to the door. His boots were mud spattered, and his shoulders stooped with the strain of travel.

But there was no mistaking those fierce cheekbones or the sensual tilt to his full lips.

India was the first to find her voice. She stood swaying, one hand to her breast, blue eyes huge against her white face. “You’ve come!” she cried. “Oh, Luc, you great stupid man, you’ve finally come home to us!”

~ ~ ~

Hidden behind a row of towering willows, the stranger watched the coach race down the drive. An hour later he watched a single rider gallop toward the great house that dominated the valley.

He stared after the mounted rider, his fists locked, his dark eyes burning. He thought about the endless floggings he’d had to bear after his British prisoner’s escape. He thought about the jeers, the abuse, the disgrace.

But no more.

“Soon, ferenghi, you will be mine. Then there will be only happiness. My honor will be whole once more, and all my estates returned to me. But for you, my enemy, there will be no happiness.” The gold ornament glinted at his ear, bright against his wind-burned skin. “Laugh now, Englishman. For when I have you in my hands again, you will know nothing but tears. There will be no rest from the hell I bring you then.”

Yes, the trap was set.

The noose was drawn.

Soon the captain of the Dey’s elite personal guard would know the sweet, sweet taste of revenge.

~  35  ~

He stood in the doorway, looking out over the room.

Nothing had changed.

The mullioned windows still gleamed like diamonds and the priceless old carpets still lay jewel-like in the pooled sunlight.

Swallow Hill.

This was his inheritance and he had denied it. This was his family and he had turned his back on them.

And now, despite all Luc’s vows, he was back. He knew that his return brought danger to them all, for there were men who would never relent until he was returned to them in captivity.

But he didn’t think of that now. All he could think of was the pain on his sister’s face and the shock on his brother’s.

“India,” he said softly. “You have grown up to be a true beauty. You blind my sight.”

His sister flung herself across the room and into his strong arms. He caught her shoulders and held her tight. She had never been far from his heart in all those years of desperation, the old bond still linking them somehow. Luc wondered just how much she’d felt of his own pain over those years.

As if in answer her head rose. Her eyes were full of tears. “I knew,” she said raggedly. “I knew you were alive — but in danger, gravest danger all the while. They told me not to hope, not to wait, but I knew they were wrong.”

Luc bent and planted a soft kiss against her titian hair. “You were right, my dear. Although it might have been better if you had given up just like everyone else.”

“Never,” she said fiercely, her fingers locked on his.

And then Ian was beside them, shocked and happy and utterly confused. “You buffle-brained cabbagehead,” he growled. “Where have you been for five years? Even for a hardened reprobate like you, that’s a little too long for a card game.”

Luc took a long, harsh breath, assailed by dark memories. “It’s a long story, Ian, and I’m tired from traveling. Good Lord, but you’ve grown. No need to ask how you’ve been keeping yourself, for it shows in the size of your shoulders.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “The Peninsula?”

Ian nodded. “Ninety-fifth Foot.”

“How long?”

“Two years next month.”

A look passed between them. “Then I’m certain we’ll have much to speak of, little brother.” There was a hint of irony in Luc’s voice, for in truth Ian was only an inch shorter than Luc was.

“And what of me?” The Duchess of Cranford launched herself into the fray, her fragile hands clenched very tightly on her cane. “Well, you brute? Have you nothing to say to your grandmother?”

Luc released his siblings and moved toward the fragile old woman whose eyes were flashing imperiously at him. “Only that you look ravishing, Grandmama. And not a single day older than when I last saw you. Your gown is by Madame Grès, is it not? Extremely fetching. I see you have not lost your exquisite taste.”

“Rapscallion,” his grandmother said, her voice unsteady with tears. “But you’ll not talk your way around me this time. It’s answers I want! What the devil do you mean staying away and putting us through such torment?”

Ian rested one his arm on Luc’s shoulder. “I’m sure he’ll tell us in his own good time, Grandmama.”

Luc smiled wryly at his “little” brother. “Fighting my battles for me now, are you, Ian? I can remember when it was just the opposite.”

“You look like you can fight your own battles quite well,” Ian said frankly.

“And … Father? Mama? Tell me how they fare.”

“Quite well. Father is off in search of antiquities again and Mama insisted on going along to keep an eye on him.”

Luc’s breath hissed free in a sigh of relief. “I can’t quite believe it.” He passed a hand over his brow.

“We’ve all changed,” Ian said softly. “But come, you’ve half the dust of Norfolk on your boots. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. I’ll send Jeffers up with a tray.”

“Humph,” the duchess said. “The boy is not entitled to anything. Not after the deceit he’s worked on us!”

Luc shook his head. “You always were a dragon, Grandmama. I can still remember the time you caught me climbing the great oak beyond the meadow. I had purloined Father’s dueling pistol and was fending off a whole band of ravening savages, as I recall. I can still feel the mark of your bruises upon my backside.”

“No more than you deserved, boy. That dueling pistol was passed down through six generations of Delameres, and I barely managed to catch it before it fell into the pond.”

Luc’s eyes twinkled. “You always did have excellent reflexes. I suspect that you still do.”

“Just try me, boy.”

Luc opened his arms. After a moment she crumpled against him, her fragile form dwarfed by his. Luc circled her shoulders carefully, feeling how much she had changed in five years. There were new lines about her eyes and she was terribly frail.

The five years had affected all of them, Luc realized. It wasn’t only he who had suffered, and maybe the other kinds of pain were just as keen as what he had known. But for better or for worse it was over now. He was home again, the worst of the bridges crossed.

Whether he would stay, he did not know. For now this was enough.

He patted his grandmother’s shoulder and felt her pull back to look up at him. Her head barely reached the bottom of his chest.

“I’m not crying,” she said fiercely, even as tears streamed down her cheeks. “I never cry. Especially not for a ham-handed ingrate like you.”

“Of course you don’t, my dear.” Luc smiled inwardly, thinking of another woman who had used similar words and stolen his heart. “Well, where is she?”

A light of mischief entered the duchess’s eyes. “She?”

“Don’t toy with me, Grandmama. I want to know where Silver St. Clair is.”

“St. Clair?” The duchess made a great business of studying Ian and India. “Do you recall that name, my dears?”

Luc’s brother and sister were wise enough to stay out of this particular skirmish.

“Grandmama.” There was a clear threat in Luc’s tone.

“Oh, yes, I believe I recall the name now. A charming girl — a trifle headstrong, but then I never hold that against anyone. She was here, along with that ingenious brother of hers. Reminded me of your father at a similar age. Only, he was mad about antiquities, of course.”

“Grandmama!”

“Don’t growl at me, you great bear! I’m not in the least frightened by your threats. And that lovely young woman of yours is not here. She left, as it happens.”

“She did what?”

India, smiling hugely, threw one arm around her brother. “She is really quite lovely, Luc. But tell me, have you had the Dream?”

Luc’s face took on a faint tinge of red. “Dream? I don’t know what you’re talking about, India.”

“Of course you do, you great looby. The Delamere Dream. The dream all Delameres have the night after they meet their true love. Mother told us that the spirit of the first Delamere ancestor on English soil was betrayed in love and died most unhappily. Don’t you remember? Because of his unhappiness he always appears in a dream to alert his descendants that they have just met the one who will be the love of their life. That way they won’t make the same mistake that he did.”

Luc’s flush had grown more noticeable. “I don’t know anything about such nonsense.”

“Of course you do. You’re blushing like a schoolboy! Can’t you see it, Ian?”

The gray-eyed soldier took pity on his brother and gave India’s hair a playful tug. “No, I can’t, minx. It’s just your imagination, that’s all.”

“It is not! Oh, you wretched men all stick together. Grandmama, you see it, don’t you?”

The Duchess of Cranford pursued her lips, studying her eldest grandchild. She was not going to let the boy off the hook yet. “Perhaps.”

“Blast it, Grandmama, where did she go?”

“Miss St. Clair went back to Kingsdon Cross.”

“She did what?”

“Really, my love, you are starting to repeat yourself. Miss St. Clair insisted on leaving as soon as she could. She told me she had important information for you.”

“How long ago did she leave?”

“Two hours, I expect.”

“The reckless little fool.” A frown hardened Luc’s face. “I must go.”

The duchess began to protest, but Ian touched her arm. “Luc knows what he has to do, Grandmama. I think you’d best ask Cook to pack a satchel of food for him to take on the road.”

“Humph.” The duchess glared at Luc. “I suppose I must. But you’d better not stay away from us for another five years, you rascal!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” But Luc’s smile did not quite extend to his eyes. His thoughts were already before him, racing along the road to Kingsdon Cross.

“There’s one other thing you should know.” Ian’s voice was low. “Miss St. Clair’s brother had a notebook with him. Among other things it had a sketch of you in it, which is how we managed to connect you with the pair. But there was another drawing in the book.” Ian’s eyes hardened. “Damian Renwick’s.”

Luc cursed.

“I suspect it had something to do with the incident in King’s Lynn when we saw the farm wagon nearly run them down.”

“Renwick, drive a farm wagon?” Luc shook his head. “Not bloody likely.”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more than that. It was over by the time we found her, and the man had fled. Perhaps I should have pushed the pair harder for information, but I confess that I was not thinking quite clearly when I found the notebook.” Ian studied Luc. “You see, I had just realized that my older brother was not dead, as I’d long supposed him to be.”

Luc’s mouth hardened. “I … am dreadfully sorry. For all of you. But I’m not saying I wouldn’t do the same thing over again. There are reasons, Ian, things that I still need to think through.”

“There is no need to explain,” Ian said gruffly. “I’m sure you had the best of reasons for doing what you did. Only next time try not to underestimate your family, you great fool.”

India rose and put her hand on Luc’s cheek. “But there’s not going to be a next time. Surely, there isn’t, Luc.”

“I sincerely hope not, my dear.” Luc’s voice was grim even as he tried to reassure her. “But I must warn you that since the first moment of meeting Miss Silver St. Clair, my life seems to have slid entirely out of my control.”

~ ~ ~

Luc thought about those words again and again on the long, dusty trip from Swallow Hill south to Kingsdon Cross. They weren’t true, of course. He did have control. But Silver had shattered so many of his old beliefs, turned his life topsy-turvy and his heart inside out, that sometimes he felt out of control.

But he wouldn’t give up the feeling for the world, Luc decided. And he was going to do whatever it took to protect the incorrigible female from any further danger.

Whether she liked it or not.

~ ~ ~

Luc’s boots were streaked with mud and his face lined with weariness when he raced up the sloping hill to Lavender Close three hours later. He slid from the saddle and made his way directly to the conservatory workrooms. When he came to the threshold, he felt something cold and malevolent brush over his spine.

Shelves were tossed in a sprawl, tables overturned, and plants scattered everywhere. Dirt lined the floor and water lay in puddles along one wall.

Fear gripped him. “Silver?”

A groan came from behind a potted pine.

Tinker!

Luc strode to the far wall and found Bram sitting with one arm braced around the old servant, who was pasty faced and had blood dripping from his forehead. “Can you talk? Tell me what happened, Tinker.”

“There was — three of them,” the old man rasped. “They came from behind while I was cleaning that blasted distilling pot. Looking for something, they were, and it wasn’t any bloody flowers, I can tell you that. Knocked me out cold after they tore through everything in here. After that I don’t remember nothing. Master Bram only found me a little while ago.”

“But Silver — where is Silver?” Luc’s voice was tight with impatience.

It was Bram who answered. He pointed to Silver’s desk. “A note was lying there when we came in. She picked it up, then gasped. After that she ran out. Nothing I could say would stop her. I didn’t know what else to do and then — then Tinker woke up, and he was mumbling, all covered with blood and…”

“Don’t worry,” Luc said reassuringly. He saw the terrible guilt in the boy’s eyes. “No one can stop Silver when she’s got an idea fixed in her head. But I’d better have a look at that note you spoke of.” Luc found the piece of crumpled vellum and studied its scrawled contents.

My dearest Silver,

I need your help.

I found something — something unbelievable. Something about the secret of your father’s death. Come to me at the old mill before sunset.

Luc

Luc’s fingers tightened.

His name, but not his writing. Yet how would Silver know that?

He felt fear bloom like an ugly weed inside him. When he strode from the room a moment later, his face was hard as granite.

~  36  ~

Waves slapping on water.

The distant cry of seabirds.

A plunk as oars dipped and swished.

Dizzily Silver opened her eyes to darkness. They had caught her as she raced along the hedgerow before the old mill. Of course, Luc hadn’t been there. She had cursed herself for a naive fool the minute she saw them. Luc would never have summoned her to a place of danger like the mill. Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner? And why hadn’t she asked for help from his family?

But it was too late now, Silver thought. She was trussed like a chicken, flung into the back of what felt like a rowboat making its way by darkness. She heard muttered voices nearby and the slap of oars. Without warning hard hands yanked her up into the air and bound her inside a coarse sack.

Nausea churned through her stomach. Back and forth she swayed and pitched, hanging from the shoulder of her captor. She heard a door creak open and wood scrape over stone, and then she was thrown down upon a cold, hard floor. A blade pierced the coarse burlap.

The next moment Silver stared up, half blinded, into the corona of a candle.

“Welcome, my dear.”

Blinking, Silver pushed to her feet and glared at the man before her. A single gold ring glinted at his ear and his black eyes were hard in a walnut face.

“Who in the devil are you?” Silver snapped, though her feet were so wobbly she could barely stand.

The man threw back his head and laughed. “What, no fear? Excellent. I find that most amusing in a female.”

“Well, you surely won’t like it in me,” Silver hissed, kicking out with her foot. She missed him, however, and his response was to wrap a length of silken cord around her hands, binding them in front of her.

“There, that’s much better,” he snarled. “That should take some of the fight out of you.”

“Don’t bloody count on it,” Silver snapped. “Who are you?”

The man crossed his arms and stared at her, his eyes hooded. “By all means, let me introduce myself. I am Hamid bin Salim, the head of the Dey of Algiers’ Select Guard. And because I have been so honest with you, I think it is time you answered a few questions for me, Englishwoman.”

“When it snows in July!”

“A tigress to be sure,” her captor said softly, “but I wonder if you will be so very fierce in a few minutes.”

Silver’s heart began to pound. They couldn’t have Bram, could they? She felt her knees go weak at the thought of her brother paying the price for her recklessness, but she wasn’t about to show that she was frightened. “I doubt it,” she said acidly.

“How very unpleasant you English women are,” her captor mused, shaking his head. “Our women are much more compliant.”

“Thanks to whips and brutes like you,” Silver muttered.

Her captor merely smiled at her.

“What do you want from me?” she demanded.

“It’s very simple, really. First I want your father’s records. Miss St. Clair, including his notebook and all his reports. Then I want the shipment of gold that I hid in his last crates of lavender, sent from the Mediterranean on the day before his death.”

Silver’s hands clenched. Suddenly another piece of the puzzle fell into place. This was one of the men who had been hounding her father, demanding his participation in some illicit scheme.

But she hid her emotions. “I know nothing about any gold shipment, you snake. I went through my father’s papers very carefully after his death and I found no gold, I can assure you. But you must know that already, since you’ve searched the workrooms.”

“Oh, yes, we searched and found nothing, my dear Miss St. Clair. But only a fool would leave such wealth lying about where any stranger might find it. And you, my dear, are very far from being a fool, I think.” Hamid’s eyes did not leave Silver’s face as he pulled a jeweled dagger from his pocket. Its blade was polished and curved, a lethal sweep of silver. He smiled as he lodged the point against her throat. “And now I believe it is time for some answers, ferenghi. Where did your father hide the gold?”

“There wasn’t any gold, as I’ve already told you! If there had been, don’t you think I would have used it?”

The Barbary corsair shrugged. “If you are as wise as I think you are, using it would be the last thing you’d do. We have had men watching Lavender Close for a long time now, of course. You would have known that.”

Silver glared at Hamid. “Let me go. I have nothing of yours!”

The Corsair smiled coldly. “Oh, but you do, Miss St. Clair. You have nearly one thousand pounds in gold.”

“You lie!”

“Not at all. They were hidden amid the cuttings and potted plants of your father’s last two shipments.”

“There is no gold, I tell you!”

“How unfortunate that you choose to be stubborn like your father.” He studied her over steepled fingers. “And how unfortunate for me that the men who were sent to deal with your father were such fools.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your lies grow thin, ferenghi. I shall refresh your memory. When your father continued to be unhelpful, men were sent to kidnap him. His business travels and his shipments made an irresistible disguise for our true purposes, you see. He could not be allowed to refuse our offers,” Hamid said coldly.

“But he did refuse! He would never have anything to do with sea slime like you!” Silver countered, her eyes flashing.

“Oh, he would have, my dear. After a few weeks of our consummate brand of torture he would have agreed to anything I asked.” Hamid laughed softly. “Unfortunately, the men who were sent to capture your beloved father took the wrong man. They are men of the desert, after all, and in your wretched English fog they grew confused, taking a younger man wearing a red carnation instead of your father in his red rose.”

“Luc,” Silver said, wonderingly, as the mystery finally came clear. Her father had often worn a red rose. Luc’s mistake was simply to be nearby in his red carnation.

“Yes, they took the so dashing Marquess of Dunwood instead of your father. By the time the mistake was discovered, it was too late. The captive had been held out of all contact for almost a year, under express order of our friends in London. They did not care to have him telling the world what he had learned, you understand. When we realized the mistake, we sent more men after your father. Alas, he still would not agree to our requests. Retribution was swift and absolute.”

“Scum.” Silver hissed. “You killed him!”

“Of course I did. Death is the penalty for all who betray the Dey.”

The questions that had tormented Silver for five long years came exploding from her lips. “Why did you choose my father? He knew nothing of your affairs. He had nothing to do with any of this!”

“Because he was the perfect means for us to ship our gold into England. Well hidden in the dirt of seedlings he had collected from his far-flung journeys, it would escape all detection.”

Silver had to marvel at the brilliance of the scheme.

“No one would think of sifting through rows of potted plants, or bags of herbs. Every year our shipments of gold increased. Our friends in London, grew more and more worried that their connection with us would be discovered, so they required foolproof disguise of our payments. The use of your father’s shipments was their idea.”

“Who?” Silver hissed. “Who planned it?”

“Lord Renwick, of course. The man whom you and your clever brother nearly captured in King’s Lynn. Yes, you have been very resourceful, Miss St. Clair. Even when we sent men to frighten you from your land, you did not budge.” He stared at her for a moment, his eyes narrowing. “You almost tempt me to take you back for my own pleasure. It would be an interesting challenge to tame a woman like you.” For a moment his blade played along her neck. “Most exciting,” he murmured, as the point fell to rest just atop her heart.

“I’ll never yield to you, no more than my father would. You’d have to kill me first.”

“That, alas, is a distinct possibility. And I believe you are quite correct. You would not be an amiable addition to my harem. You would only add discord. So we will arrange this matter simply. You will turn over your father’s journals and my gold and I will kill you quickly without any excess pain.”

Silver glared at him. “This has been a delightful discussion, but there is one slight problem. I have no idea where this supposed gold is hidden, or even if there ever was any gold.”

The corsair’s blade pressed insistently against her heart and Silver winced.

“You doubt that I am serious, ferenghi? But perhaps this will convince you.” Hamid whirled about and clapped his hands sharply. From the shadows at the far wall two figures loomed into view. Silver recognized one of them as the man who had bent to the oars in the boat she and Bram had followed to King’s Lynn. But the second?

Her blood went cold. Between them the two men carried another. A man who was slumped over, unconscious.

“No,” Silver breathed, horrified. “Not Luc…”

“But of course, my dear. When your Englishman escaped me, I was made to pay most dearly. I mean to taste my revenge now.”

Silver spun about, her eyes flashing. “Slime! You are the one who whipped him so cruelly!” She tugged wildly on the rope at her wrists.

The pirate’s cold eyes studied her. “Very true. And I mean to whip him again, right now. I trust you will enjoy it.” He nodded his head. One of the men tossed a bucket of water into Luc’s face. Half delirious, Luc sputtered and lurched upright, struggling against their grip.

“Tie him,” Hamid said tautly. When the command was obeyed, he shoved Silver into the corner and moved toward Luc. From a table near the wall he lifted a whip braided with leather and strung with discs of steel. He held it out to his grinning compatriot. “You may begin.”

Luc twisted at his bonds. “What do you want, Hamid?”

“I want, ferenghi, to watch you suffer; to watch you gasp and cry out, begging for my compassion — which, of course, I will not give you.” Hamid seated himself in a chair and began to eat a pressed cake layered with date paste. “As you suffer, I expect that your woman’s tongue will miraculously be loosened, and my search will be over. And now we shall begin.” He nodded to the man beside Luc.

The whip flew down, digging across Luc’s back and raking up lines of blood.

Silver gasped and flung herself at the corsair. His fist cracked against her jaw and sent her to the floor. Hamid did not even look up as he struck her, his eyes intent on Luc.

For a second time the whip cracked down. Desperately Silver looked about her and saw Luc’s satchel dropped in one corner. Saying a silent prayer, she edged forward and worked open the clasps, trying not to think about the cruel slap of the leather whip on Luc’s back.

The satchel came free. With the knife she found inside, she cut her hands free.

Two slender forms appeared at the opening, their eyes keen. “Go,” Silver ordered softly. The ferrets looked at her for a moment, tails bristling. Slowly they crept out, sniffing at the air.

Again the whip found its mark. Silver shuddered, searching deeper, but found no pistols, only a coiled length of rope. This she gripped tightly and then turned. Lit by the glare of a single dancing candle, Hamid sat before Luc, smiling as he finished off his cake and watched blood pour from the back of his hated English enemy.

The two ferrets were on their way, Silver saw. That gave her only moments to create the diversion they would need.

She moved in silence, her fingers clenched on the rope. The moment Luc’s pets neared his guards, she inched behind Hamid and jerked the rope down over his neck.

He was on his feet in an instant, and his strength was more than she could imagine. Cursing, he seized the rope and twisted about, nearly wrenching Silver’s shoulder from its socket. Tears burned at her eyes. She fought to keep her grip, but the pirate’s strength was too great. With a twist of his massive hands he tore away the makeshift noose and circled her neck.

Lights exploded behind Silver’s eyes. Her throat felt crushed and there was a roaring in her ears. Dimly she heard Luc’s shout and then the muffled thump of falling bodies.

But everything seemed to come as if from a great distance, set far apart from her and the roaring that churned through her head.

Dizzily she saw the candle flicker on the table. Gritting her teeth, she managed a last burst of energy. She launched out with her foot and caught the edge of the candle, sending it spiraling to the floor.

Instantly the room was plunged in darkness.

Somehow Silver managed to stay upright, kicking and twisting at the lethal hands she could no longer see. Behind her came shouts and the sound of wild scuffling and she smiled, knowing the ferrets were about their work. She only prayed that they had been in time.

And then abruptly Silver was free, the fingers gone from her throat.

Hamid’s voice boomed out in the darkness. “You have no hope of escaping, Englishman. Cease your puny efforts and yield to me. Then perhaps I may show mercy to your woman by making her death swift and clean, rather than the slow agony I plan for you.”

Gritting her teeth against the pain in her throat, Silver moved on until she felt the wall. Orders boomed out in a harsh foreign tongue and boots hammered over wood. From somewhere to her right came a high-pitched squeak and a man’s sharp curse as one of the ferrets found its prey. Silver waited tensely, praying that Luc had somehow managed to work his way free.

A moment later she felt the warm brush of fur at her cheek and the weight of a small body. A soft tail brushed against her neck. Silver cradled the ferret and waited, her pulse hammering in her ears.

With every heartbeat the waiting grew harder. Each second became an agony. She was just about to take matters into her own hands and go in search of Luc, when callused fingers slid around her wrists. She started to cry out, but a hand blocked her mouth. Silver smelled the familiar scent of lemon and leather with just a hint of brandy.

Luc’s scent.

Warm lips brushed her ear. “Don’t move,” he whispered.

Abruptly a pistol barked in the darkness and a bullet whined past Silver’s left shoulder. She felt Luc tense behind her as he pulled her down toward the floor, another shot hissed by, only inches away.

Luc cursed. Another shot exploded past them.

“Stay close!” he whispered. “We’re going out.”

But before they could move, flint hissed and light filled the room. Silver blinked. Too late she saw the glint of a golden earring. Too late she saw hard lips curl into a cruel smile.

And then she was jerked backward, caught in hard fingers, while Hamid’s laughter rang in her ears.

“You’ve lost, Englishman. You cannot hope to win against me. And now I shall take your woman to my ship and teach her the reward for such betrayal. You will be able to hear her screams from here, I think.” He shouted an order to his subordinate, who moved toward Luc, a pistol trained on Luc’s head.

Silver fought and twisted to no avail. She was dragged down the stairway and shoved down into a waiting boat. And this time there was no hope of escape.

Two of Hamid’s well-armed sailors sat grinning in the bow.

~  37  ~

“That should do it quite nicely, I think.” Ian Delamere looked down at the sailor sprawled on the deck of the Corsair sloop. Beside him India brushed the dust off her hands, having just dispatched another sailor to a similar fate.

The count of captives now ranged to twenty.

Ian smiled tightly in the dancing moonlight as he studied his ragged army. Connor MacKinnon had gone to look for rope. Bram and Tinker were just coming up from depositing two more bound and gagged captives in the hold.

All in all it had been a most successful raid. The foreign sloop, anchored in a bend of the river, was now theirs and all the crew dispatched to captivity.

Ian had not been entirely surprised when a rider had raced up the drive to Swallow Hill only an hour after Luc’s departure. Jonas Ferguson had been watching for Luc’s return and when Luc had not arrived, he had summoned Connor MacKinnon. Together they had gone looking for the headstrong Delamere.

Connor had picked up Luc’s prints not far from Waldon Hall, prints that showed one horse surrounded by a half dozen more. The tracks led north to an isolated stretch of river not far from where the Ouse spilled into the cold North Sea.

There they had found the Corsair ship rocking at anchor.

Connor had gone to Swallow Hill for help, but he hadn’t expected quite such an enthusiastic turn out. Even India and the duchess had demanded to join the rescue effort.

They had each played a part in the attack on the hidden sloop. The duchess had waited in a carriage on the bank with two primed pistols beside her, just in case any of the villains tried to make their way ashore.

“What do we do now?” Bram asked anxiously. “They should be coming out soon.”

Ian watched the tumbledown warehouse. His eyes narrowed as he saw two figures sway down the rickety rear steps toward a waiting rowboat. The shifting reflection of the moonlight on the water made it difficult to see clearly.

“That’s Silver!” Bram said sharply.

Ian frowned. “And I believe they are headed out here.”

Suddenly another figure burst onto the stairwell overlooking the river. A pistol rang out. Ian cursed as he saw his brother fall.

But there was no time. The boat was moving ever closer.

India’s fingers tensed on her rifle. “It’s under two hundred yards, Ian. I could pick the man off from here.”

“We dare not risk it, India, for all that you’re a crack shot. Unless I am mistaken the brute has a pistol trained on Miss St. Clair’s back.”

“But what about Luc?”

“We’ll go for him as soon as Miss St. Clair is safe. You must know that he would expect that of us.”

India muttered angrily. “But we can’t just sit here and let that man escape!”

“Escape is not what I had in mind,” the tall cavalry officer said grimly. “We’ll give our nasty friend a surprise as he boards his boat.” He turned about quickly. “Help me secure the rest of these men below. Then this is what we’ll need to do next.”

~ ~ ~

Silver stared at her captor, fury flashing in her eyes. “You’ll never get away with this, you worm! You’ll have to turn away some time and the second you do, I’ll make you pay for what you did to Luc.”

“Cease your empty threats, Englishwoman.” Hamid gave Silver’s hair a savage twist. “You no longer amuse me. Once you are returned to my cabin, I will teach you proper respect for a man.”

Silver glowered at him. Someone would learn proper respect, but it bloody well wouldn’t be her!

She tried not to think about the gunshot and the sound of Luc’s body dropping. He would come to her somehow, she knew he would. Until then she had to concentrate on outwitting this cursed snake. To do that she needed time.

“What if my memory has returned?” she asked coolly. “Perhaps I have recalled where my father buried that gold after all.”

Her captor’s eyes narrowed. “Your timing is most unfortunate, Miss St. Clair. But none of this matters, for you will soon reveal everything I need. Then I will send my men to take control of the treasure. All your attempts at cleverness cannot change that.”

The little boat pulled alongside the sloop. Cursing darkly, Hamid seized Silver’s and shoved her up the narrow gangway in front of him. She stumbled forward, moving as slowly as she could, wincing when she felt his dagger prick her back.

The deck was silent. She glanced quickly about and saw only shadows.

No crew.

The thought cheered her vastly.

Behind her Hamid shouted a string of orders, but no answering voices came from the deck. Muttering savagely, the pirate pulled her across to the bow. Out of the corner of her eye Silver saw a hint of movement and for the briefest of instants she caught a glimpse of hair that appeared to be titian.

Her heart lurched. A wild stab of hope surged through her.

Again the faint movement came, and this time Silver was certain that she saw India Delamere crouched behind a row of thick wooden tea crates.

She gnawed on her lip, thinking furiously. If only she had her pistol! But the brutes had tossed it away and that meant she was left with only her wits.

Silver was just considering how best to provoke her captor into carelessness when a second boat slapped against the hull. A moment later Sir Charles Millbank labored up the gangplank, his round face red with exertion.

“I’ve come for my money, just as you promised, Hamid. You have your highwayman now, so I’ll take my payment and the girl and be on my way.”

Millbank was involved? Silver’s mouth went tight with fury. And the arrogant cur thought she was his?

Hamid only laughed. “Did you truly think it would be so easy, Englishman? Alas, how very naive you are. You’ll have no money from me today — or ever. As for the girl, she is mine. We sail in one hour, with the change of the tide.”

Millbank cursed. “You can’t, damn it. You promised me!”

“What is a promise to a man such as you? Nothing — less than nothing. You were simply a second recourse if my own attempts failed. Then all would have been blamed on you, Englishman. Our activities here are far too important to be threatened by discovery. But as you can see, I did not fail. I have the St. Clair female and soon I shall have all the rest of what I came for — along with the Marquess of Dunwood.”

“Dunwood?” Millbank frowned. “You mean Luc Delamere? What’s he got to do with this? Disappeared five years ago, so I heard.”

“And returned too,” Hamid said curtly. “At which time he usurped the dashing role of the highwayman named Blackwood.”

“Impossible! I don’t believe it!”

“It is not necessary that you believe it, fool. It is not necessary that you do anything but die, for you cannot be allowed to speak of any of this.”

Millbank reached into his pocket, his eyes desperate. “I think not! And the woman is mine, do you hear? I wanted her first, before you or anyone else.” He pulled a pistol from his waistcoat and clutched it between his hands. “She’s coming with me or I’ll shoot you, do you hear?”

“How very troublesome you are,” Silver’s captor said softly.

His eyes hard with fury, Millbank circled the mainsail mast. He ducked beneath a swaying lantern and skirted the edge of a twelve-pounder cannon lashed down to the deck. “I’m entitled to the girl, damn you. And to that money.”

“The man’s quite right, you know, Hamid.” A new figure appeared at the gangplank. His smooth, slender fingers cradled a very fine mahogany-butted percussion rifle, and on his finger glinted a beaten silver ring in the shape of a fantastic animal. “And by rights that gold hidden at Lavender Close is mine, payment for services rendered. I mean to have it, you know. You can do with the girl what you want — after she’s told me where the gold is hidden, of course.”

Hamid smiled thinly. “That is your gravest fault, Englishman. You and the others have grown far too greedy. It has worried the Dey for some time now, since your greed makes you most unreliable — even to us, your own partners. I fear that means we must dispense with your services.”

“Say what you like, Hamid, but you and the rest of your thieving kind need me. And pay me you will, just as long as I continue to supply you with the names of your miserable victims. So you see, Millbank,” the thin-faced man said coolly, “the woman is mine, by right of prior claim. I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble over her and her father in the last seven years. He was surprisingly difficult and so was she. Not even when I sent six men to frighten her would she leave her dusty fields.”

Silver’s breath caught. So this was the man behind the attacks on Lavender Close!

But Millbank was already moving, his pistol trembling between his fingers. “Stay back! She is mine, only mine. I’ve waited and watched and damn you, I’ll not lose her now!”

“An interesting dilemma, to be sure,” the new arrival sneered, holding his rifle steady at Hamid’s head. “Millbank wants to auction off the woman’s lovely body to his intriguingly depraved little club. I imagine he also covets her father’s precious formula for Millefleurs. Hamid, meanwhile, yearns to teach her the joys of enslavement and utter submission in a Barbary harem. And I, you ask? I simply want some answers. Yes, a problem fit for Solomon himself.” The Englishman smiled faintly. “But I believe I have the solution. We shall simply divide her among us, as Solomon would have done with the contested child. I shall take Miss St. Clair’s head and you, Millbank, shall take her delectable body. Unfortunately, Hamid, that leaves very little left for you — even considering your rather loathsome fetishes.”

At this jeering speech Hamid’s eyes went flat with rage. “You are very quick with your insults, Renwick, and for this you will die. As you should have died five years ago when you bungled the capture of William St. Clair and took the Marquess of Dunwood instead!”

Renwick.

Silver’s eyes widened as she recognized the long, thin face and haughty, sneering lips — the features she had seen in the last sketch in Bram’s notebook.

Lord Damian Renwick, Ian had called him.

By whatever name he was called, he would always be but one thing to Silver: the man who had murdered her father and mother.

Bitter rage exploded through her. This man had harrowed her father through those long months, driving him to question his own sanity and then murdering him with cold-blooded deliberation.

He would pay for that and everything else.

Silver drove her elbow into her captor’s stomach and threw her body sideways. Rage gave her the power of three women as she flung off Hamid’s arm, grabbed up a glass-paned lantern, and hurled it into Renwick’s sneering face.

Around her the deck seemed to explode with movement. Flames shot out from the shattered lantern. India Delamere, crouched behind the tea crate, put a rifle ball into Millbank’s arm and sent him screaming to the deck. Ian Delamere launched himself upon Damian Renwick, who was already staggering from Silver’s well-aimed missile.

Silver backed toward the port railing, stalked by Hamid. The pirate held a pistol clenched in his fingers.

“You have many friends, Englishwoman. It has made my plans fare badly from the very start. How fortunate for us that your father did not have the same.” He moved in chilling silence, skirting a waist-high coil of rope and folded canvas, his eyes never leaving Silver’s face. “Renwick was a fool. So was Sir Charles Millbank. But you, I think, are not, and your bravery is most surprising. Which means, of course, that you must be brought to submission, for no mere woman can be allowed to thwart me.”

Torn sails flapped around them. Silver caught the smell of tar and salt and sodden timber.

And then she caught another smell.

Faint it was, but unmistakable.

The hint of citrus. The tang of tobacco and brandy and fine, aged leather.

She saw him then, his eyes dark hollows of savage determination as he strained his way up the anchor cable. His shirt was gone and his back was crossed by bloody welts.

But his smile was as cocky as it had ever been — and his highwayman’s face was every bit as dangerously handsome.

Silver swallowed, fighting to keep the wild joy from her eyes. She turned to Hamid and smiled, inching backward to bring him astern so that Luc would be out of his line of sight. “Do you really think I’ll give in so easily? You’ll never have my secrets, just as you could not have my father’s. They will stay buried at Lavender Close forever.” Her lips curled. “Unless you want to dig up every inch of ground.”

Luc was at the railing now, his body edging toward the deck. Silver kept moving backward. “Not that I understand why my father’s records can be so important to you.”

“Foolish woman. Your father had a list of the network of our friends in London, men who were very well paid to provide us with names of ships and sailing dates and ports of call. Men like Renwick, who could be made to perform whatever services we required. Such a list cannot be allowed to come out — especially not now, when many in your country would like to send a punitive force against our coast.”

“But you’ve just told me,” Silver snapped.

Hamid’s thin lips curved as he raised his pistol. “Of course. Because you, are about to die.”

A shadow hurtled over the deck. Hamid staggered. Their enforced inactivity at an end, Ian and India ran toward Luc.

But he had no need for their assistance. Revenge came very sweet after long years of torment, and he took a primitive delight in watching Hamid’s jaw shatter beneath his fist.

Two left hooks and a punishing fist to the stomach finished the job.

It was all over. The pirate gasped and fell panting to the deck, blood gushing from his jaw.

Luc swayed as he stared down at the man he had lived only to hate — the man he had in the sights of his pistol now.

His finger tightened. His eyes hardened as the muzzle leveled at Hamid’s throat.

“Fire, ferenghi,” the pirate spat. “Do me this honor. And know that I shall meet you in hell soon enough.”

A muscle flashed at Luc’s jaw.

Slowly his pistol fell.

It was over. Hatred would only keep him chained to the old nightmares. Once, he would have killed Hamid. But now…

“You have one unpleasant stop before you depart for hell, Hamid, and I doubt you’ll care very much for the inside of an English gaol. I’m certain that the English prisoners won’t care at all for you.”

Luc wiped away a trickle of blood, then smiled as Ian threw an arm around his shoulders. “My thanks, little brother. You are as resourceful as always. And you,” he said, smiling at India, “are unnervingly good with that rifle, minx.”

His sister merely smiled. “I learned it all from my chucklehead of a brother.” India shot a thoughtful look at Silver, who was leaning against the stern, her fingers locked on the wooden rail. “But I think that we have work to do. Let’s get this piece of dog meat below with the others, shall we, Ian?”

Silver heard none of this. Her eyes were only for Luc, for the pallor of his face and the blood at his shoulders.

For the man she loved more than her life.

A little broken sound came from her throat. “You’re — safe,” she said raggedly.

“So I am, Sunbeam. But I wouldn’t be — not without your heart and wit and sweet courage.” Slowly Luc moved toward her. “Marry me, Silver. Share my days. Haunt my nights. Make me laugh and swear and shout. I want to see your eyes go silver in your passion. I want to drink your laughter and watch you bear our children.”

Pain tore through Silver’s heart. He was everything she’d ever wanted, her every innocent dream of dashing valor.

And yet she knew it could never be.

Fear — and the certain knowledge of the unbridgeable gap between the firstborn son of a duke and the nearly penniless daughter of a mere perfume merchant — made her stiffen and draw back. “I … can’t.”

Luc’s eyes narrowed. “No? And why is that?” he asked softly.

Very dangerously.

Silver inched away from him. “Because — you lied to me. You let me think you were a common outlaw!” she said desperately.

“I might have managed to say more if you’d stopped trying to rescue me every five minutes!”

Silver’s voice rose. “You never tried to tell me. Not once!”

“Which only makes us fair, hellion,” Luc answered grimly. “Because you never told me about Waldon Hall!” His eyes hardened. He stalked closer.

“Stay back! I won’t marry you, do you hear me? Go and find some other naive female to cozen. You must have dozens of them littered about the countryside!”

“Oh, thousands of them, I should think.” Luc’s lips curved in a silken smile. “But none half so intriguing as you, termagant. Now stop yelling and tell me you’ll marry me.”

“No.”

“Very well, you leave me no choice.” With one fluid lunge he seized Silver’s shoulders and hauled her against him. His mouth slid down over hers, hard and hot and hungry.

She twisted, desperate to escape his embrace, desperate to ignore how perfect his lips felt on hers.

And all she wanted was to pull him close and kiss her way slowly over every inch of his splendid body.

Silver muttered angrily. It was positively lowering that this man managed to produce such ungovernable passions in her. “I won’t have you.”

Luc stared down at her, confused. Slowly realization dawned. “It’s because of my title, isn’t it? Because you don’t feel bloody good enough for me.”

Silver shrugged. “We’re different, that’s all. Our lives have no place together.”

“Indeed?” Luc smiled, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Then I shall have to continue my life of felony, won’t I? Only in a more reckless way this time, prowling from dawn to dusk for any coach that I can find. Taking all sorts of risks.”

“No, you can’t! I didn’t mean—”

This time he cut her off completely, lips crushed to hers until the world seemed to sway quite deliciously beneath her feet.

At the far end of the deck a shout went up from Luc’s dusty little army. The ferrets squeaked. Cromwell barked happily, his dusty tail thumping on the deck.

“Welcome to the family, Miss St. Clair.” Ian Delamere crossed his arms, grinning. “Try to keep him in line for us, won’t you?”

Luc glared at his brother. When Connor moved closer to Silver and kissed her hand with lazy bravado, Luc’s glare grew even more pronounced. “That will be quite enough, MacKinnon,” he warned.

His friend merely laughed and bowed to Silver. “A true pleasure to meet you, Miss St. Clair. Welcome to Bedlam.”

From her vantage point near the railing the Duchess of Cranford watched the young people laugh. She stood a little apart, looking very pleased with the situation. Yes, everything had been resolved for Luc quite as well as she had hoped. He was safe, and Silver would make him a happy man.

And now she would have to do some serious planning about that hoyden India!

EPILOGUE

“It is done. At least I think it is.”

The Marchioness of Dunwood and Hartingdale frowned down at the half-finished watercolor painting on an easel overlooking the Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore. Venice was spread out before her like a string of jewels, glorious in a summer haze of azure and gold.

Silver cocked her head, toying absently with her gown of ecru lace. “What do you think of my painting so far?”

Behind her Luc smiled lazily. He came to his feet and stood looking over her shoulder at the half-finished watercolor, enjoying the way heat had already begun to knife through his body. “Hmmmm.” That would goad her. It always did.

“Hmmmm? Is that all you have to say?” Silver gnawed at her lip.

Luc felt a dozen muscles leap to painful awareness at that unconsciously sensual gesture. She had a speck of red paint on her cheek. It made her look about twelve years old.

Twelve going on thirty, in truth. In Luc’s eyes she had all of a child’s limitless zest for life — and a woman’s ineffable beauty.

“Oh, it’s no good. I can’t work. How can I, with the thought of the fete your parents insist on holding in honor of our wedding?”

“Don’t worry, sweeting.” Luc smiled lazily. “It will only be my family — and six hundred of their nearest friends.”

“I can’t, Luc,” Silver said desperately, glancing at the elaborately engraved invitation beside her paintbox. “I won’t know how to act or what to wear. This is all too new.”

“Wear this.” His eyes glinting , Luc pulled a slender box from his pocket. Inside a superb forty-carat emerald glinted on a strand of pink pearls.

Silver’s breath caught. “Oh, Luc. But I couldn’t!”

“You must, my dear. It is yours as my wife. The Star of Ceylon is always given to the wife of the eldest son. I have heard it said that there was once a mate to this emerald, a fabulous ruby of forty-six flawless carats stolen from the eyes of an ancient statue. But there was a curse upon the stone, so my father’s father sent a man to return it to the village from which it had been taken.” Luc’s eyes hardened. “Alas, the man was never heard from again. We have often wondered what happened to the Eye of Shiva. But I will bore you with family history no more. Only one favor do I ask. Wear Millefleurs for me tonight, my love.”

Silver smiled, thinking of the bottle of Millefleurs on her dressing table at the palazzo. Soon there would be more, distilled from the flowers of the precious lavender seeds Luc had restored to her that night at Lavender Close. And those particular flowers would be only for their children and their children’s children, an undying sign of their love carried down for generations.

“Of course,” she whispered.

“And when the party is over,” Luc said softly, “wear nothing else but Millefleurs.”

Silver’s breath caught the way it always did when he showed his love so clearly. She was blessed, she knew. And she swore that she would make him happy. If only it weren’t for the vast array of people his parents were assembling this evening! “But, Luc, I won’t know what to say.”

“Talk to them about perfume. You’ll enchant them the same way you did the Prince Regent. He’ll be there, too, by the way.”

Silver sighed. “Oh, very well. I suppose I shall manage.” She frowned down at her painting. “Do you think there is too much red?”

No answer.

“Well?”

“Hmmmmm,” Luc said, sliding his arm around her waist. She smelled like bergamot and hyacinths and oakmoss today.

He drew in the smell of her and her unbridled energy, thanking God again for the strange twist of fate that had brought them together three months before. She smelled like Norfolk in spring. Like the Bois de Boulogne in June. Like Tuscany in autumn.

And that was where he was going to take her.

To watch her paint. To watch her light up with the beauty around her.

All in good time, of course.

Now, however, Luc was a man with a mission.

His hands slid slowly over the satin ribbon above her waist. “Too much color, I think. Too hot. Too … red.” His fingers eased higher, brushing the fullness that began just above her ribs.

“Too … red?” Silver’s voice grew breathy.

Luc liked that. He needed to know that she was feeling everything that he was. “I’m afraid so.” His fingers glided feather light over nipples already budded hard. “Very nice. But I’m afraid too full.”

Silver spun around, her green-gold eyes full of outrage. “Too full! But last night you said—”

Luc’s grin was all innocence. “The roofs, my love. They are out of proportion to the piazza. Just a bit.”

Silver frowned and turned back to the luminous scene before her. “It was difficult to get the perspective. And all that wine your parents forced upon me at lunch certainly didn’t help.”

“They love you and wish you to be happy, Sunbeam. You can’t begrudge them their caring.”

“No, of course I don’t.” Silver’s head cocked as she studied the distant line of the Piazza San Marco, shimmering in the afternoon sun. “What about Millbank? I notice that you have refused to discuss what happened to him?”

“So I have.” Luc smiled grimly, thinking about the arrangements that had been made for Silver’s attackers. Sir Charles Millbank had been packed off to the Indies, where he would remain for the rest of his days. Hamid would spend the rest of his life cursing the damp stone walls of an English prison cell. Lord Renwick, too, had received a most fitting end. He had been shipped off to the Dey of Algiers as a captive, to remain forever unransomed in the same squalid quarters where Luc had been held.

The Lord of Blackwood, too, had faded out of sight. As easily as Luc had usurped the role, so had he put it behind him.

Yes, all in all there was a wonderful justice to how things had ended. But Luc did not intend to upset Silver with the details. Otherwise, soft-hearted as she was, she’d probably ask for lenience toward her old enemies.

And that Luc would never permit.

“Your family have all been so wonderful. Ian has promised to teach me how to follow tracks in the forest and India has promised to give me one of her favorite rifles.”

“Bloodthirsty female.” Luc smiled. “You’re much alike. Indeed, if anyone gives you even a cross look tonight, pull out that little pistol of yours and shoot ‘em.”

“Do be serious, Luc.”

“I’m trying, Sunbeam, but you make it very difficult,” he said huskily. “And you haven’t yet said what my grandmother gave you.”

“The duchess?” Silver stopped, her cheeks turning a faint pink.

“What is the incorrigible old woman up to now, my heart?”

“I’m afraid it’s rather … private.” Silver gnawed her lip. “Something she means to give me. To — to sleep in.”

Luc felt his lower body fill, harden, ache. Lord, she was impossible. And Lord, but he did love her.

His fingers moved higher in search of heat and satin skin. A moment later he found both. Unconsciously Silver’s head slid back, braced against Luc’s shoulder.

“Are they what you expected?” Her voice was throaty. “The — the roofs, that is.”

Luc’s smile grew dark. He palmed her ivory softness and warm curves. One tiny button at her bodice slipped free. “I’m not sure what I expected.” He eased between satin and cambric, taking more of her. “I’ve seen so many already, you know.”

Silver spun about, color hectic in her cheeks, eyes ablaze. “Lucien Tiberius Delamere, unhand me this second!”

“Roofs, that is,” her husband said hoarsely. His eyes were hot with passion.

But they also held a vast, uncharted universe of love. For a woman he’d never thought to find.

“Y-you scoundrel. You snake. You — you—”

“Besotted fool? Lovesick oaf?”

“Are you?” It was but a breath of sound. “Truly, Luc? I thought I was the only one.”

“I’m far beyond rescue or salvation, my love.”

Another button slid free. Silver shivered as Luc’s hands moved deeper, cupping all of her.

“You have freckles, did you know?”

“How very unhandsome of you to point it out!”

“Nonsense, my love. They are most enchanting. Seventy-four at last count, if I don’t include that little half-circle on your nose. Which would be a pity, since it’s quite enchanting. And then there is the carrot-colored smudge on your upper lip.”

Lord, Luc got hard just thinking about it.

But he meant to protect every one of them.

“I expect it’s the sun. Oh, Luc, it is so lovely here.”

Silver sighed, her back curved against his chest. She watched a gondola drift along the canal. “Don’t forget, we have an appointment to see a man about some lavender seedlings tomorrow.”

Luc muttered beneath his breath.

“What, my love? I don’t think I heard that.”

He hadn’t meant her to. “I said, I hope it won’t cause us as much trouble as the last lavender shipment did.”

“Nonsense. What are a few mice?”

“A few! Two hundred at least. Cromwell nearly had apoplexy when they jumped out of the cases and the ferrets were up that oak tree for a week.”

Silver laughed softly. “I shall be much more strict tomorrow. Between us we shall inspect every inch of the farm and be certain there are no mice about.”

Luc snorted.

“Besides, you can’t be angry at the mice. It was because of them that I finally understood my father’s message about where to look for the gold. If the mice hadn’t come and sent Cromwell racing through those bushes, I never would have realized the pattern he left for me in the lavender.”

“It was quite ingenious, I grant you. And all centered around the twelfth shrub in the fifth row, just like the numbers in your birthday.”

Silver turned and nuzzled Luc’s neck. “In the diary he told me to remember my birthday, but I didn’t understand — not until I saw the circle of dying lavender. He must have purposely laid in a dozen sick plants, knowing they would turn brown in a year or so. I never noticed the pattern until I watched Cromwell that day with the mice. And to think, it was all right there: the gold, the oilskin bag with his journals. Even the Millefleurs formula. It was almost — oh, I know this sounds strange but…”

“What, love?”

“Almost as if I could hear his voice urging me on and feel his hand brush my shoulder.”

Somewhere over the water church bells chimed. Silver shivered. Turning, she slid closer to Luc.

He winced.

“Is your back bothering you?”

“It’s nothing. My parents have invited us to stop by this afternoon, by the way.”

Silver’s eyes shimmered.

“Shall we … be late?” Luc whispered.

“We shouldn’t. It would be most improper.” But her hands slid slowly to his waist. “They’ll think me a shameless hoyden for keeping you away.”

“They’ll think only that you’ve made their son very, very happy, Sunbeam.”

“But your back, Luc.”

“Has nothing that won’t feel a great deal better for having you touch it, my love.”

Tenderly Silver kissed the scar above his lips. “Touching is something I’m very good at, highwayman. Shall I … touch you now?”

Luc groaned as she pushed aside his shirt. Holding her close, he slid down against the warm, rich earth, breathing in the smell of pine needles and rosemary while a swallow darted through the sky overhead. “Touch me, Sunbeam. Never stop touching me…”

“So I shall, highwayman.”

She came to him then, all silk and scent and heated skin. Luc made her laugh and gasp and sigh.

And as he did, he knew that his heart was healed at last.

With Silver’s arms around him, he was truly home.

~ ~ ~

The sun melted down like a Tintoretto landscape, setting the Canal of San Marco aflame in a fury of red and peach. Gold touched the rooftops of the Doge’s Palace; gold brushed the Piazza San Marco and the spires of St. Mark’s Cathedral. The rest of the world seemed very far away as the light ebbed to silver and azure, then finally to luminous indigo above the softly laughing lovers.

And as night stole close and covered Venice, the moon was full.

The wind was high.

All in all, it was a perfect night for love.

The Dangerous Delameres’ adventures continue in the sequel, Come the Dawn, available now. Find it and other of Christina’s books at:
http://www.amazon.com/Christina-Skye/e/B000AQ764M

Steel Magnolia Press is publishing more of Christina’s backlist in new digital editions! Sign up for Fresh Leaves, the SMP monthly newsletter, to find out when new books are released, most at special introductory prices:
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Author’s Note

What pure, unadulterated fun it has been to introduce Luc and Silver to you!

As you know by now, a Delamere never does anything by half. Probably that’s why they’re so much fun to write about. And if you are looking for further exploits of this delightful and eccentric family, I hope you will read India’s poignant story in Come the Dawn next.

Hints?

All I’ll say is watch out for the prophetic “Delamere Dream.”

Now for a glimpse of the history that came into play in the writing of this book. What better place to begin than with highwaymen, those dashing figures of English legends, songs and folk fiction? Although there are few reliable references before the seventeenth century, we know that by Elizabethan times highwaymen were held in fairly high regard, amateurs and professionals alike. Hidden beneath mask and black cape, they thundered over heath and hill echoing their cry of “stand and deliver!” Soon chapbooks and penny dreadfuls resounded with epic tales of their gallantry and bravado. Whether fact supports these legends is a very different matter.

Shakespeare found it so. Highwaymen received favorable treatment in several of his plays, and he even went so far as to propose the character of “the honest thief.” After the English Civil War, Royalist supporters found their cause lost. With a steep price on their heads, they took to the high road as a last recourse, and they brought a higher code of honor and conduct to the trade.

Few men could have possessed the courtesy of the famous Captain Hind, the gallantry of Claude Duval, or the reckless bravado of Dick Turpin. But their legend continued…

It was a dangerous life, to be sure. For the crime of highway robbery there was but one sentence: hanging at the Triple Tree at Tyburn. These executions became a highlight of metropolitan life and were invariably a macabre social event, thronged with crowds of rich and poor alike. Their popularity continued right up until the last English public execution took place in 1868.

But the age of the highwayman had begun to wane long before this. The first major obstacle came with the founding of a well-armed patrol in the form of London’s Bow Street Runners, who were constables attached to the Bow Street magistracy, which sat in Covent Garden. Clever, daring veterans of the fight against crime, these handpicked men were viewed with alarm by the felons of the metropolitan underworld.

And they came none too soon.

By 1750 crime in London had reached outrageous proportions. Highwaymen rode the streets in broad daylight. Robbers forced their way into homes and emptied their contents unresisted. That brilliant commentator of the age, Horace Walpole, remarked that it was safer to go to the aid of Gibraltar than it was to roam the London streets.

Why were there no police to halt this growing onslaught of crime? Largely because the English opposed the establishment of a full-time, professional police force, fearing it would restrict civil liberties, as it had done in France when officers came under the sway of political agendas.

But the tide of crime began to change in 1753. In that year the novelist Henry Fielding became police magistrate at Bow Street and established his Flying Squad. When Henry died in 1754, his position was assumed by his blind half-brother, John, who greatly expanded the scope of the force, established the practice of keeping detailed police records, set up regular patrols, and created a group of select investigating officers known as Runners.

In short, Bow Street became the Scotland Yard of its time.

Sir Robert Peel’s establishment of a full-time municipal police force in 1822 dealt the final blow. The last recorded sighting of a highwayman at work took place in 1831.

Nevertheless, their legend lives on. We must have our heroes, after all, no matter how illogical the choice.

And now to a very different and much less admired population of criminals. The pirates of Africa’s Barbary Coast plagued travelers as early as the sixteenth century. In brutal raids these lawless sailors ravaged the Mediterranean and all its coasts, working from bases in the port city-states of Morocco, Tunis, Algiers, and Tripoli. Ransom of slaves soon became the cornerstone of their national economy and it is estimated that between 1520 and 1660 some 500,000 to 600,000 slaves were sold in the markets of Algiers alone. The captives came from all over Europe: France, Scandinavia, Russia, Germany, Portugal, Spain, and the British Isles. They represented every class and profession of society, but only the wealthy or exalted could hope for ransom. The rest remained slaves for the rest of their days.

As soon as a ship was boarded, the corsairs immediately set about making a detailed record of crew, passengers, and cargo. Next came the process of assessing each passenger’s status, determined by speech, demeanor, dress — and the presence of calluses or the lack of them. There was a significant reason for this close scrutiny, of course.

Higher status meant higher ransom.

In Algiers, the Dey had legal right to twelve percent of all revenues from the ransom of captives. Luckless travelers who could not meet their ransom were auctioned as slaves. The long negotiations for their terms of release were carried out through resident European consuls, merchant intermediaries, or orders of monks who specialized in the exchange of Christian slaves. The negotiations could stretch on for years as each side jockeyed for favorable terms. During this time captives were closely guarded and usually held in irons.

Escape was dangerous, if not impossible. Even if a prisoner made his way to the harbor and swam to an anchored European ship, his own countrymen often refused to intervene, since this would bring serious reprisals for all shipping in the area.

A failed escape meant beatings, mutilation, or even execution as a deterrent to other captives with similar hopes. Cervantes, once a slave himself before being ransomed, wrote of the misery of that life, which he called “hell in the living world.” It is easy to imagine that an aristocratic captive such as Luc Delamere would have found it nearly impossible to adjust to his old style of life after escaping the horrors of captivity. For a detailed look at the Barbary system and Algiers in particular, see John B. Wolfe’s comprehensive and readable book, The Barbary Coast (New York: W.W. Norton, 1979).

The twisted economic and political loyalties of the age were made even more complicated by England’s fight against Napoleon. Supplies forwarded from Algiers were essential to the strength of Wellington’s forces in Spain, and the English were especially eager to marshal all possible allies in their fight. In 1796, in an effort to curry favor, the Royal Navy presented the Dey of Algiers with a French ship which had recently been captured. Subsequently all of the French crew were given over into captivity.

Yet when Tripoli made demands for tribute from the fledgling American nation, Thomas Jefferson thundered his famous “millions for defense, not one cent for tribute.” (It should be pointed out that the U.S. did continue to pay tribute to Tunis and Algiers, however.) In 1815 Stephen Decatur met and defeated the Algerian navy. As a result, American shipping was thereafter given free passage by the Algerian corsairs without payment of tribute — something which provoked the English to fury.

But the reign of piracy continued. In 1829 a number of French sailors were massacred and their heads publicly displayed. The Dey of Algiers offered a reward of a hundred dollars per severed head. Furious, the French sent an expedition overland to march upon the city, which soon surrendered.

The result? In three weeks the French achieved what other powers had failed to accomplish in three hundred years. The Dey and his entourage were exiled, the government toppled, and a French governor appointed. Algiers became a de facto French possession and the age of the corsairs was ended.

But now to more pleasant subjects.

Like lavender.

The very name drifts through our memory, synonymous with freshness and a crisp, almost aristocratic sweetness. A fitting scent for a heroine as vibrant and decisive as Silver St. Clair.

The Greeks had already written about the use of lavender as a medicine by the first century AD, and Roman soldiers were entitled to a ration of lavender every day while on march.

Lavender was a key ingredient in the original “Cologne water,” distilled in the eighteenth century by an Italian living in Cologne. Napoleon himself used hundreds of bottles of this scent every year, taking it with him on every campaign. Lavender water was very popular for its tonic and restorative properties, as well as for its ability to deter insects. Lavender was also used in ammoniated salts to restore ladies from the frequent fainting fits brought about by tightly laced corsets. (Ah, the rigors of high fashion.)

As the craze for lavender grew, this valuable perfume oil was called into service for a whole range of products, from shampoo to brilliantine, perfume, talc, soap, and bath salts. The best variety of perfume-quality oil came from true lavender species such as L. augustifolia, rather than wild lavender, which contains a large proportion of camphor.

Modern chemistry has shown that folk claims for the benefits of lavender may not be far wrong. Upon analysis many traditional perfume oils have been shown to be strongly germicidal and antibacterial. Oil of thyme, for example, has twelve times the germicidal potency of carbolic acid, while lavender has almost five. Other oils are curative of everything from fungus to dermatitis and food poisoning.

No wonder the Romans tossed bunches of lavender into their communal baths.

Dry weather, light, well-drained soil, and careful farming practices have always been key to the success of the lavender harvest. Large tracts of shrubs were particularly susceptible to disease, which devastated most of the English lavender crop at Mitcham in the mid-nineteenth century. The malady was at first credited to “poisonous influences of the flower’s excessive aroma,” but botanists proved later that the problem was a parasitic fungus, spread by the use of infected cuttings or by scraping diseased roots and transmitting the fungus to nearby plants.

A first cutting required seven years to reach full growth. After the mature blooms were harvested, they were steam distilled and their oil, like fine wine, was stored in a cool and dark location to mature, usually for one year.

Today the English lavender tradition continues at Norfolk Lavender Limited, a hundred-acre family enterprise founded in 1932 on a site near Heacham in northwest Norfolk. Only local flowers and highest grade perfume oil are selected for Norfolk Lavender’s use. For more information about their distinctive and wonderfully traditional fragrance products, visit their website: www.norfolk-lavender.co.uk.

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If you would like to receive my current newsletter, please visit www.christinaskye.com and sign up for contests, recipes and research curiosities. You can also stay up to date with new characters and upcoming books. I will be including a recipe for lavender/rose potpourri as well as a list of the ingredients to make your own version of Silver’s Millefleurs fragrance!

Your comments are valuable to me and I would love to hear your thoughts about this incorrigible family of Delameres.

Meanwhile, I wish you lavender mornings and jasmine nights.

Happy reading!

Christina Skye

About the Author

Christina Skye is the New York Times bestselling author of thirty-three books. She is a pushover for Harris tweed, Scottish cashmere, Chinese dumplings, French macarons and dark chocolate.

Not necessarily in that order.

A classically trained China scholar with over two million books in print, she has appeared on national television programs including ABC Worldwide News, Travel News Network, the Arthur Frommer show, Geraldo, Voice of America, Looking East, and Good Morning, Arizona.

Christina loves being a writer and savors quirky historical research. Most of her first drafts are written by hand, while her white Siamese helps with the “editing.” While she writes, she usually has her knitting right beside her. But don’t expect speed. “The sheer pleasure of colors and texture running through my fingers helps me concentrate on the mystery of my characters taking shape before my eyes. Researching a period draws me into a sense of place, and then knitting pulls me to a quiet place where a story can unfold at its deepest level. It’s my best writing tool.”

Visit her online at christinaskye.com for a glimpse into new books, strange research tidbits, great recipes and some of her all-time favorite knitting patterns.

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If you enjoyed this work, please leave a review to help other readers decide if it’s a story they too would like to read. A couple of sentences are all you need to write. Thank you!

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Ebooks by Christina Skye available now or coming soon to Amazon (from Steel Magnolia Press)

Regency Romances

Come the Night, Book 1 of The Dangerous Delameres

Come the Dawn, Book 2 of The Dangerous Delameres

Defiant Captive

The Black Rose

East of Forever

Victorian Romance

The Ruby

Paranormal Romances
(Draycott Abbey Series)

Hour of the Rose

Bride of the Mist

Key to Forever

The Perfect Gift

Fallen

Christmas at Draycott Abbey

http://www.amazon.com/Christina-Skye/e/B000AQ764M

Contents

PROLOGUE

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EPILOGUE

Author’s Note

About the Author