Praise for the novels of
CANDACE CAMP

“Camp has again produced a fast-paced plot brimming with lively conflict among family, lovers and enemies.”

—Publishers Weekly on A Dangerous Man

“Romance, humor, adventure, Incan treasure, dreams, murder, psychics—the latest addition to Camp’s Mad Moreland series has it all.”

—Booklist on An Unexpected Pleasure

“Entertaining, well-written Victorian romantic mystery.”

—The Best Reviews on An Unexpected Pleasure

“A smart, fun-filled romp.”

—Publishers Weekly on Impetuous

“Camp brings the dark Victorian world to life. Her strong characters and perfect pacing keep you turning the pages of this chilling mystery.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Winterset

“From its delicious beginning to its satisfying ending, [Mesmerized] offers a double helping of romance.”

—Booklist

No Other Love
Candace Camp

www.millsandboon.co.uk

No Other Love

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

1789

HELEN BENT OVER THE SMALL BOY in the bed. He looked so small and helpless that it tore at her heart. His hair clung in damp ringlets to his head. He lay still, almost unmoving, his eyes closed, extraordinarily long dark lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. The only sign of life was the faint movement of the sheet as his chest rose and fell. Moments earlier he had been mumbling in his sleep, tossing and turning in the grip of a high fever. Now he lay still as death.

Helen brushed the wet strands of hair back from his forehead. Don’t let him die. Please, not now. She had known him only two days, but already she could not bear to let him go.

Mr. Fuquay had arrived at the inn two nights ago in a post chaise with, oddly, this sick child inside. She knew Fuquay, of course. He had stayed at the village inn before, when Richard Montford had come with friends to visit his cousin, Lord Chilton, the Earl of Exmoor. It was whispered in the village that the Earl despised Richard Montford and would not allow him to stay at Tidings, the grand seat of the Montford family. Only now, of course, the old man was dead, and Richard Montford was the new Earl. It had seemed peculiar that Fuquay had come to the inn and not to Tidings.

It had seemed even more peculiar when she saw that he had two children with him. He had come to the door of the public room and motioned to her. She had cast a quick glance toward the tavern owner, then slipped out the door after Fuquay. He was an odd young man, handsome but very gaunt, with a peculiarly soft, almost dazed, look in his eyes most of the time. One of the other girls said that he was an opium eater, and perhaps that was true. But he had been kind and gentle to her, and it hadn’t taken much persuasion on his part to induce Helen to warm his bed while he was at the inn. He had been generous, too, and she remembered him fondly.

He had taken her to the carriage and opened it, showing her two sleeping children inside. A girl, hidden in bonnet and coat, was curled up against the opposite wall. Across from her, on the opposite seat, lay a boy, wrapped in a blanket. His face was flushed and bathed in sweat, his body visibly trembling.

“Can you take care of him, Helen?” Fuquay had asked, fidgeting. “He’s in a bad way. He won’t last long, that’s clear. But I can’t just—no matter what he wants—”

He had paused at the end of this vague speech and gazed pleadingly into her eyes. He took a gold coin out of his pocket and pressed it into her hand. “I’ll make it worth your while. Just stay with him and see him through to the end. You will do that, won’t you?”

“What’s the matter with him?” Helen had asked, unable to pull her eyes away from the small form. He had been so beautiful, so small and vulnerable.

Fuquay had shaken his head. “A fever. He’s done for, but I can’t—well, he ought to die in a bed, at least. Will you do it?”

Of course she had agreed. She had fallen in love with the child as soon as she set eyes on him. She had never been able to conceive—despite many opportunities—and she had always ached for a child, a secret, sorrowful desire that the other tavern girls had scoffed at. “You’re lucky, you are,” they had said, “never havin’ to worry about gettin’ in trouble.”

And now here was this lovely child being handed to her, a gift, it seemed, from heaven. She had climbed into the carriage without delay, not asking any of the dozens of questions that tumbled about in her mind. Gentlemen didn’t take to one prying into their affairs.

She had directed him toward her grandmother’s cottage, for she had no intention of letting her precious gift die. If anyone could save the lad, it would be Granny Rose. It was a long drive, for Granny lived in a secluded cottage on the edge of Buckminster land, and Helen had had to walk the last part of the journey, carrying the boy in her arms, for there was no drivable road leading to Granny’s cottage. Mr. Fuquay had let her out and handed her the boy with a profusion of thanks, but she had hardly paid any attention to him. Her thoughts were all on the boy and getting him to her grandmother.

Helen glanced up now and over at her grandmother. Granny Rose, as she was known to most of the local populace, was a short, rounded dumpling of a woman. Twinkling blue eyes looked out of a face so wrinkled and brown it resembled a dried apple. Despite her merry, almost comical appearance, she was a wise and highly regarded woman among the local people. She knew herbs and healing wisdom, and when Helen had staggered in, carrying the feverish boy, she had known just what to do.

For two days now she and Helen had been caring for him, dosing him with Granny’s decoctions, sponging his flaming body down with cool rags, and forcing little sips of water and soup through his parched lips. The fever had racked his body until Helen had cried for him, and it seemed with every struggling breath he took, Helen loved him more.

“Is he—” She stopped, her throat closing on the words. He looked so frightfully still and pale.

But Granny shook her head, a smile beginning to curve her lips. “No. I think he’s past it. The fever’s broken.”

“Really?” Helen put her palm against the boy’s cheek. It was true; he was definitely not as hot as he had been minutes before.

“What are you going to do with him?” Granny asked quietly, watching her granddaughter’s face. “He’s Quality, you know.”

Helen nodded. That much was obvious. His fevered mutterings had been in the perfect tones of the upper class, and the clothes that he wore, though dirty and drenched in sweat, were of the finest cut and materials.

“I know. But he’s mine,” Helen added, setting her jaw. “We saved him, and he belongs to me now. I won’t let them have him. Besides…”

She hesitated, not certain whether she wanted to admit to her shrewd grandmother what else she suspected about the child. She thought she knew who he was, but if her vague suspicions were correct, it might very well mean the boy’s life if she revealed that he had survived. If she was wrong…well, then, she had no idea who the lad was, and it would not be her fault if she could not restore him to his proper family.

Either way, she told herself, the best thing to do was to remain silent.

“Besides what?” Granny Rose asked, her bright eyes boring into her granddaughter’s.

“I don’t know who he is. Where would we take him? And I—I don’t think they want him to live.”

“And what will you say if they ask you what happened to him?”

“Why, that he died, of course, just as they thought he would, and I buried him in the woods where none would ever see it.”

The older woman said nothing, merely nodded, and did not mention the matter of the boy’s return again. She, too, Helen thought, had fallen under the sick child’s spell.

After the fever broke, the boy gradually grew better, until at last his eyelids fluttered open and he looked up at Helen with dark brown eyes.

“Who are you?” he whispered hoarsely.

Helen took his little hand in hers and replied, “I am your new mother, Gil.”

“Mama?” he repeated vaguely, his eyes clouded, giving the word an inflection on the last syllable.

“Yes. Mama,” Helen repeated firmly, stressing the first syllable.

“Oh. I don’t—” His eyes teared up. “I can’t remember—I’m scared!”

“Of course you are.” Helen sat down beside him on the bed, taking him into her arms. “Of course you are. You have been very sick. But I’m here, and so is Granny Rose, and we are going to take care of you.”

He held on to her tightly as tears rolled down his cheeks. “Mama…”

“Yes, dear. I’m right here. Always.”

CHAPTER ONE

1815

THE CARRIAGE WAS DRAWING CLOSER to Exmoor’s estate, and the thought filled Nicola with dread. Why had she ever agreed to visit her sister here? With every passing mile, Nicola wished more and more that she had not. She would have much preferred staying in London and helping Marianne and Penelope with their wedding plans. But Deborah had looked so unhappy and frail, even afraid, and Nicola had not been able to deny her plea. Deborah was, after all, her younger sister, and Nicola loved her. It was only her marriage to the Earl of Exmoor that had caused the bitterness and estrangement between them.

Nicola sighed and shifted on her seat. She hated to think of the quarrels that had followed Deborah’s announcement that she was going to marry Richard. Nicola had done her best to dissuade her, but Deborah had been determinedly blind to Richard’s faults. When Nicola had pointed out that only months before Richard had been pursuing her, Deborah had lashed out that Nicola was just jealous and unable to accept that a man might want Deborah instead of herself. After that, Nicola had given up trying, and for the past nine years, she and her sister had seen each other only occasionally. Nicola had refused to enter the Earl’s house, and Deborah had grown more and more reclusive, rarely traveling to London or even venturing out of her house.

But when Nicola had seen Deborah last month at their cousin Bucky’s house party, Deborah had begged Nicola to come stay with her through her fourth pregnancy. She had miscarried three times in her marriage, never managing to provide the Earl with a son, and she was terrified of losing this child, too. Looking into her haunted eyes, Nicola had been unable to refuse, no matter how much she hated the thought of living under the same roof with Richard Montford, even for a few months.

Deborah, of course, could not understand Nicola’s hatred for the man. But Nicola could not escape the fact that every time she looked at Richard, she was reminded that he had ruined her life. That he had killed the only man she had ever loved.

The carriage lurched through a pothole, throwing Nicola across the seat and jarring her from her head down to her toes. She straightened herself, grimacing. It served her right, she thought, for not stopping for the night an hour ago, but insisting on going on through the dark. Little as she liked the thought of being at Tidings, she had wanted to get the journey over with, and they were only two hours from their destination. Impatience, she had been reminded often enough, was one of her besetting sins.

At that moment a shot boomed out, perilously close to the carriage, and Nicola jumped, her heart beginning to race in her chest.

“Halt!” a voice cried, and the carriage lumbered to a stop.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” a male voice drawled in an amused tone. His accent, curiously, was that of the upper class. “You, dear friend, have only one blunderbuss, whereas we have six assorted firearms aimed at your heart.”

Nicola realized, in some shock, that the carriage had been stopped by a highwayman—several of them, in fact, from what the man had said. It had been a common enough occurrence years ago in the outlying areas around London, but the practice had died down in recent years, and it was even more unusual so far from the City. Certainly such a thing had never happened to Nicola.

There followed a moment of silence, then the same man continued. “Excellent decision. You are a wise man. Now, I suggest that you hand your gun down to my man there—very slowly and, of course, the business end pointed up.”

Carefully, Nicola lifted the edge of the curtain covering the window closest to her and peered out. It was a dark night, with only a quarter moon, a good night, she supposed, for men who operated in secrecy and furtiveness. The groom beside the coachman was handing down his blunderbuss from his seat high atop the carriage. A man on horseback reached up from below and took the firearm, tucking his own pistol into the waistband of his trousers and raising the newly acquired blunderbuss to train it on the driver and his assistant.

Several men ringed the carriage, all of them on horseback and holding pistols. Each of the men was dressed all in black, and, on their dark horses, they seemed to melt into the night, only the bits of metal on guns and bridles catching the faint light of the moon and the carriage lamps. Most sinister of all, every one of the men wore a black mask across the upper half of his face. Nicola drew an involuntary breath at the ominous tableau.

One of the men turned his head sharply at the sound, his eyes going straight to where Nicola sat. She dropped the curtain, her heart pounding.

“Well, now,” the cultured voice said cheerfully. “A curious passenger.” A certain note of satisfaction entered his voice, and he continued, “Ah, the Earl’s crest, I see. Can I have been so fortunate as to have encountered the Earl of Exmoor himself? Step out, sir, if you please, so that we may see you better.”

The man who had seen her was obviously the leader, and Nicola knew that he had noticed the family coat of arms drawn in gilt on the door. No doubt he was pleased to have stopped someone wealthy. She only hoped that he did not intend to seize her and hold her for ransom, assuming that the Earl of Exmoor would pay a great deal for his passenger’s return. Under her breath, she cursed Richard’s insistence on sending his carriage for her. A plain post chaise would have been a far better vehicle, upon reflection.

Drawing a calming breath, Nicola turned the handle of the door and opened it, stepping out with what she hoped was cool aplomb. She thought of her friend Alexandra’s American habit of carrying a small pistol in her reticule. Everyone had looked askance at her for it, but right at this moment, it seemed a remarkably good idea.

She paused on the step of the carriage, standing ramrod straight, and looked at the leader with a steady gaze. She was determined not to appear cowed. The man on horseback stiffened and muttered a curse.

“Well done,” Nicola said with icy sarcasm. “You have managed to capture an unarmed woman.”

“No woman is unarmed,” the man returned, his mouth quirking up into a smile. He dismounted in a smooth muscular sweep and stepped forward, making a formal bow to Nicola.

The man was tall and well-built in his dark clothes, a figure of power and even grace. Watching him, Nicola felt an unaccustomed quiver dart through her. Most of his face was covered with a soft dark mask, only the square jaw and chin visible, and a neat black goatee and mustache further disguised those features. But there was no way to conceal the clean-cut, compelling lines of his face—or the wide, firm mouth, now curved in a mocking smile. White, even teeth flashed in the darkness as he straightened and moved toward her, reaching up to help her down. His black-gloved hand closed around hers, neatly pulling her the last step down to the ground. He continued to hold her hand for a moment, his eyes boring into hers.

Nicola raised one eyebrow disdainfully. “Let me go.”

“Oh, I will, my lady, I will.”

In the dark night, his eyes were utterly black—soulless eyes, Nicola thought a little breathlessly. She could not tear her own gaze away from them. His hand tightened fractionally on hers. Then he released her.

“But you must pay a toll first, for passing through my lands.”

“Your lands?” Nicola curled her hands into fists, struggling to keep her voice cool and slightly amused despite the strange torrent of sensations that was rushing through her. She made a show of glancing around. “But I thought we were on Exmoor property.”

“In a legal sense.”

“What other sense is there?”

“One of right. Does not the land belong to those who live upon it?”

“A radical notion. And you, I take it, claim to be the representative of ‘the people’?”

He gave an expressive shrug of his shoulders, a more genuine smile parting his lips. “Who better?”

“Most of the people I know who live upon this land would not consider a thief a proper representative of themselves.”

“You wound me, my lady. I had hoped we could be…civil.” There was a faint caressing note in his low voice.

Once again something stirred in Nicola’s abdomen, shocking her. “It is difficult to be civil when one is being threatened.”

“Threatened?” He raised his hands in a gesture betokening innocence. “My lady, you shock me. I have made no threat to you.”

“It is implicit, is it not, in stopping my carriage and demanding money?” She glanced around significantly at the men waiting silently on horseback, watching their exchange. “Why else are these men pointing guns at us?”

One of the men let out a soft grunt. “I am afraid she has you there, my friend.”

This voice, too, came in the crisp accents of the upper class, and Nicola glanced in his direction, surprised. “What is this?” she asked, suddenly suspicious. “A group of town swells on a lark?”

The man who had just spoken chuckled, but the man before her said grimly, “No, my lady, it is no lark. It is business. So let us get down to it. Your purse, please.”

“Of course.” Nicola jerked open the drawstrings of her reticule and held it open to him.

He reached inside and deftly withdrew the leather money purse, gently bouncing it in his palm as if to measure its weight. “Ah, you do not travel lightly. A bonus for me.”

“I suppose you want my jewelry, too,” Nicola snapped, pulling off her gloves to reveal the two simple silver rings that adorned her fingers. If she exposed such valuables, he would not go searching for anything hidden. And she could not let him take the token she wore on a chain beneath her dress. It was worth very little, of course—except to her—but this obnoxious fellow would probably take it just to spite her.

“I am afraid I wear no bracelets or necklaces,” she continued. “I rarely travel wearing jewelry.”

“Mmm. I find it is usually carried on a journey rather than worn,” he said, his tone amused, and made a gesture toward the carriage. Two of the men dismounted and swarmed up on the roof of the carriage, jumping down triumphantly a moment later, carrying Nicola’s traveling jewel case and a small square strongbox, which they proceeded to stow on their mounts.

Nicola hid her relief at the thief’s acceptance of her statement. He stripped off his own gloves and took her hand in one of his, and Nicola jumped at the contact. His hand was hard and warm, and as he slid the rings from her fingers with his other hand, her breath caught in her throat.

She glanced up and found him looking down at her enigmatically, the faintly jeering expression gone from his mouth, his eyes black and fathomless. Nicola jerked her hand from his.

“Now,” she said bitingly, “if you are finished, I would like to be on my way.”

“No. I am not quite finished,” he replied. “There is one more item I would steal from you.”

Nicola raised her brows questioningly. His hands gripped her shoulders, and she sucked in a startled breath. A dark flame flashed to life in his eyes, and he pulled her to him, his mouth coming down on hers.

Nicola stiffened in outrage. His lips moved against hers, soft and seductive, searing her with their heat. Involuntarily, she went limp, her body suddenly hot and liquid. Wild, turbulent emotions bubbled through her, surprising and disturbing her as much as his insolent action had. Nicola was a beautiful woman, with a petite but curvaceous body, thick pale-gold hair and wide, dark-lashed eyes. She was accustomed to men being attracted to her, even to their making improper advances. But she was not accustomed to feeling such a response herself.

He released her as abruptly as he had seized her. His eyes flashed in the darkness, and Nicola was certain he had been aware of the way she had melted inside. Hot anger surged through her, and she reached up and slapped him sharply.

Everyone went still and silent around them, frozen in a tableau. Nicola faced him, certain that he would punish her for what she had done, but too furious to care. The man gazed at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

Finally he drawled, “My lady.” Then, sketching a bow toward her, he turned and fluidly remounted his horse. He wheeled and vanished into the darkness, followed by his men.

Nicola watched him leave. Her lips burned from his kiss, and every nerve in her body seemed to be standing on end. Anger roiled inside her, making her tremble. The problem was, she didn’t know whether she was more furious at the highwayman because the wretch had had the audacity to kiss her—or at herself for the way she has responded to his kiss.

“DAMN HIS IMPUDENCE!” The Earl of Exmoor slammed his fist down onto the closest thing to him, a small table of knickknacks that shook and rattled at the blow. He was a tall man, as all the Montfords were, and looked younger than his nearly fifty years. His hair was brown, graying at the temples, and his sharp features were generally considered adequately handsome. Today, however, they were distorted with rage.

Predictably, he had been furious when Nicola arrived and told him of the highwaymen waylaying her carriage. He had been striding up and down the length of the drawing room for the past few minutes, his face red and fists knotted. His wife, Deborah, had watched him with pale-faced anxiety, Nicola with a poorly suppressed dislike.

“Attacking my very own carriage!” Richard continued, disbelief warring with rage. “The effrontery of the man!”

“I would say that effrontery is something that man is not lacking,” Nicola pointed out with cool amusement.

The Earl ignored her. “I’ll have the coachman’s head for this.”

“It was not his fault,” Nicola pointed out. “They had dragged a cut tree across the road. He could hardly have ruined his horses on it, even if the horses had not balked.”

“What about the groom?” Richard swung around, pinning her with his piercing gaze. “I specifically put him up there beside the coachman with a gun to ward off such an attack. But he not only didn’t fire a shot, he gave them his weapon!”

“I don’t know what else you could expect. There were at least six men surrounding the coach. If he had fired it, both he and the coachman would have been dead in an instant. And then where would I have been? It would scarcely be doing their duty to leave me stranded and unprotected in the middle of the road, would it?”

Richard snorted. “Lot of protection they were.”

“Well, I am here and unharmed, with nothing worse lost than a few jewels and some coins.”

“I must say,” her brother-in-law said resentfully, “you seem rather blasé about the whole affair.”

“I am happy to be alive. For a few moments there, I was certain that I would be killed.”

“Yes. Thank heavens you got here safe and well,” Deborah put in, reaching out a hand to her sister.

Nicola moved nearer to Deborah and closed her own hand around Deborah’s.

The Earl regarded the two women sourly. “Well, I am glad that you can regard it so lightly. But it is something I cannot ignore. It is a blatant insult to me.”

“Oh, really, Richard! I am the one who was attacked!”

“You were traveling under my protection. It is a slap in my face. That blackguard is as good as saying that my protection is worthless. He clearly did it to humiliate me.” He smiled grimly. “Well, this time the chap will find out that he has gone too far. I won’t rest until I have his head on a pike. Thank heavens I had already sent for a Bow Street Runner. As soon as he gets here, I’ll set him on this. Then that scoundrel will learn that he has been tweaking the wrong man.”

It was typical, Nicola thought, that Richard would be much more concerned over the presumed insult to himself than he would be over his passenger’s safety. She glanced at her sister, wondering if Deborah was still so blinded by love for the man that she did not see how cold and self-centered he was.

But, looking at Deborah’s pinched, pale face, Nicola quickly dropped all thoughts of Richard or of the attack. “Enough of this talk,” she said crisply, going to her sister. “Deborah is obviously tired and needs to go to bed.”

Her sister cast a grateful smile in her direction, though she demurred, “No, I am all right, really.”

“Nonsense. It is quite clear that you are dead on your feet. Come along, I will take you up. Richard,” Nicola said, casting him a perfunctory nod, “if you will excuse us…?”

Richard bowed back, barely sparing a glance for his wife. “Of course. I need to go out to question the coachman. Good night, Deborah. Nicola.” He hesitated, then added with a wry twist of his mouth, “We are pleased to have you visit. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

He left the room, and Nicola took her sister’s arm and helped her up from her chair. They began to walk to the stairs. Deborah cast an anxious look toward the front door, through which Richard had disappeared.

“I do hope Richard will not be too harsh on the coachman. I—he would not be unkind normally, of course. It is just that this highwayman has him so upset.”

“I could see that.”

“It is because the man plagues Richard, you see. He—I know it sounds odd, but he seems to particularly delight in stealing from Richard. Tenants’ payments, the shipments to and from the mines—I cannot tell you how many times those wagons have been stopped. Even in broad daylight. It is as if he were thumbing his nose at Richard.”

“It makes sense. Richard is the largest landowner around here. It would stand to reason that much of the money the man takes would be from him.”

“Oh, he stops other things—other carriages, the mail coach sometimes. But it is Richard who has been hit the hardest. It has cut deeply into his profits from the tin mines. Richard has been nearly beside himself. I think what bothers him the most is that ‘The Gentleman,’ as they call him, has evaded capture so easily. He comes out of nowhere and then melts back into the night. Richard has sent men out looking for his hiding place, but they have found nothing. He has put extra guards on the wagons and his carriage, but it doesn’t stop him, just as it didn’t tonight. And no one will come forward with any information about him. Even the miners and farmers who work for Exmoor claim to have no knowledge of the man. Do you think that is possible?”

“I don’t know. It does seem somewhat unlikely that no one would know anything about him.”

“Usually the people in the village seem to know about everything. Richard says they are deceiving him. Hiding the man’s whereabouts from him. For some odd reason, the highwayman seems to almost be some sort of hero to the local people.”

Having seen the fit of rage that Richard had pitched about the theft and the way he had blamed first the coachman, then the guard, Nicola could well believe that Richard’s employees and tenants told him little. She had never seen Richard be anything but arrogant, even with his peers. With those he considered his inferiors, he was doubtless far worse. She suspected that the people around here were probably secretly pleased that the highwayman was harassing the Earl of Exmoor.

“What do you know about this highwayman?” Nicola asked, trying to keep her voice casual. “He seems an odd sort to be a thief. He spoke as well as you or I. And so did one of the other men.”

Deborah nodded. “That is why they call him The Gentleman.” They had reached the top of the stairs, and Deborah paused for a moment to catch her breath. “That and his manners. He is reputed to be invariably polite, especially to ladies, and it is said that he has not harmed anyone that he has stopped. He stopped the vicar once at night when he was going to the side of a dying man, and he didn’t take a farthing from him, just apologized for stopping him when he saw who he was—and sent him on his way.”

“Indeed.” Nicola did not tell her that the man’s behavior toward her tonight could scarcely be characterized as polite. Not, of course, that he had actually harmed her, but that kiss…well, it had been an insult, an effrontery.

“No one knows where he came from,” Deborah added. “He started only a few months ago.”

“It seems an odd place to choose. Thieves usually operate closer to London or on a main thoroughfare, not out in the country. How do you suppose he came to this pass? Do you think he really was gently born? A son who disgraced his family and was disowned?”

“Or a wastrel who squandered his fortune,” Deborah offered. “That is the theory that the vicar’s wife proposes. Or perhaps he was merely someone who was well-educated but poor, a tutor or a fencing master, or someone of that sort.”

“A tutor?” Nicola couldn’t suppress a giggle. “A history scholar who takes to the highways?”

Deborah grinned, too. “That does seem a little absurd. Richard says that he is merely a ‘damned actor’ who has learned how to ape his betters.” She sighed. “And perhaps he is. No doubt we make him seem a more romantic figure than he is.”

“No doubt.” Nicola remembered the touch of his hand on hers, the searing pressure of his lips, and a shiver ran through her.

“I am sorry.” Deborah, holding her arm, felt the faint tremor, and she turned toward her, frowning in concern. “I should not be speaking so lightly of him when you have just had such a dreadful experience. It must have been awful.”

Nicola smiled. “I am all right. No doubt you remember that I am not a very sensitive woman. I rarely have the vapors.”

“But meeting a ruthless criminal would cause even you to feel some qualms, no doubt. Let us not speak of it any longer.”

Deborah had come to a stop outside a door, and now she turned the knob. “This is your room. Mine is right next door.” She motioned to the next door down the hall. “I hope you like it,” she continued. “If there is anything that you need, just let me know.”

The room beyond the door was spacious and well furnished, with two sets of windows upon the back wall, the heavy drapes now drawn to close out the night. A fire had been banked in the fireplace, and an oil lamp burned low on the bedside table. A maid was running a warming pan between the sheets as they came in, and she curtsied and left the room.

“It’s lovely,” Nicola said, looking around the room.

Deborah smiled. “I am so glad you like it. It has quite a lovely view during the day—the garden below and the moor rising in the distance.”

“I am sure it is beautiful.”

“Come see my room,” Deborah urged, taking her hand and leading her out of the bedroom and down the hall.

Deborah’s bedroom turned out to be quite similar to the room she had allotted to Nicola—spacious and attractive, it was a very feminine room, full of ruffles and frills, with no sign of masculine occupancy anywhere, not even a pair of men’s boots against the wall or a shaving stand. It did not surprise Nicola that the Earl and his Countess had separate sleeping quarters; it was quite common among the aristocracy. However, it did strike Nicola as a trifle odd that there was no sign of even Richard’s occasional presence.

Nicola glanced at her sister, who was happily talking about her plans to put the baby’s crib beside her bed and a cot for the nurse in the dressing room once the baby was born. She wondered if Deborah still loved Richard as she had when she married him, or if she had come over the years to see him for what he really was.

Deborah sighed, still looking at the spot where the baby’s crib would stand, and Nicola could see the fear and sorrow mingling in her face. No doubt she was remembering the other babies whom she had hoped to place there.

“I am sure it will be a wonderful arrangement,” Nicola said quickly, going to her sister and putting her arm around Deborah’s shoulders. “And the baby will love it.”

“Really?”

Nicola knew that her sister was actually asking for reassurance that this baby would not meet the fate that its siblings had. So Nicola smiled at Deborah, putting every ounce of confidence she possessed into her expression. “Of course. You’ll see. Now, you must not worry. That will not help the baby at all.”

“I know. That is what everyone says. But it is so hard when—”

“Naturally. But rest assured that I am here, and I will help you. If there are problems with running the household or anything else, I will take care of them. You know what a bossy soul I am.”

Her sister smiled and relaxed a little against Nicola, and Nicola knew that the ingrained habit of a younger sister to depend on an older one had worked its magic.

“It is so wonderful to have you here,” Deborah said, and there was such a sad, yearning look on her face that Nicola felt guilty that she had avoided visiting her for so long. “I—I know you and I disagreed on—a number of things. But we can put that behind us now, can’t we?”

“Of course we can.” Nicola knew that it had never been her differences with Deborah that had kept her out of this house. It was Richard—and the things that he had done ten years ago. “Let us not worry about that. All that need concern us is your health.”

“I am tired,” Deborah admitted. “I seem to have so little energy these days. And the morning sickness is much worse this time.” She brightened, smiling at her sister. “But the doctor says that is a good sign, that it means this is a healthy baby, not like the others.”

“Doubtless he is right,” Nicola replied, even though she personally thought doctors were often woefully ignorant. It was one of her many opinions that made others in London Society term her “eccentric”—or worse. “And I am sure he told you that you needed to get plenty of rest, as well, didn’t he?”

Deborah agreed, smiling. “Yes.”

“Then let me ring for your maid to help you undress so that you can go to bed.”

“But I want to hear all about Cousin Bucky’s engagement!” Deborah protested.

“We shall have ample time for that tomorrow. I promise I will tell you all about it—and Lord Lambeth’s, too.”

“Indeed? He is marrying, as well?” Deborah’s eyes widened with interest. “But who? I thought he was a confirmed bachelor.”

“I suppose it only takes the right woman,” Nicola replied. “But it is far too long a tale for now. I will tell you all about it tomorrow.”

With a rather tired smile, Deborah agreed. Nicola gave her a peck on the cheek and left the room, going down the hall to the room Deborah had prepared for her. She closed the door behind her with a sigh and looked around the pleasant room. The glow of the lamp was welcoming, but it could not dispel the chill in her heart.

She hated it here. She wished she were miles away, back in London, in the life she had built for herself there. In London she was content. She had her charity work with the poverty-stricken women of the East End, the kitchen that dispensed food and clothes for those bitterly in need. There was the social round that she kept up with when and if it pleased her, the little flirtations that no one took seriously, the intellectual discussions at her small, intimate dinners. Even the arguments over her causes with various members of her social set were a bracing part of her life. She was useful and busy, and there were the pleasures of the opera and theater to be enjoyed.

But here…here she felt unsettled. She hated being in this house with Richard. And there had been that dreadful confrontation with the highwayman…that kiss….

Nicola shook her head as if to clear it. It was so stupid to be thinking about that kiss; she would not do it.

She walked to the window and parted the heavy drapes, peering out into the dark night. The trees and shrubbery of the garden were dark shapes in the moonless night. Nicola closed her eyes and leaned her head against the cool window as a sharp yearning pierced her, so fierce she almost cried out. Oh, Gil!

It had happened like this before, a swift, unexpected pain in her chest, as if the wound were brand-new, not years old, and when it did, she would ache for Gil with a sorrow that threatened to smother her. But it had not happened for a long time now; it had, after all, been ten years, and usually when she thought of Gil it was in a sweet, sad way, a remembrance of his smile or his laugh, or the way he walked, that made her smile as much as it made her sigh with regret. But this—this yearning that swept over her—was bitter and painful, cutting into her almost as it had ten years ago.

The thought of him had kept popping into her mind all evening. As her carriage had pulled into the yard, she had remembered suddenly the first time she had seen him. It had been here at Tidings, as she and the rest of a large party had returned from a hunt. He had come up to her horse, reaching up to help her down, and she had looked down at him, taking in with a jolt his handsome face and laughing black eyes, the thick shock of dark hair that tumbled across his forehead. Her heart had been lost to him at that moment, though she had fought it for a while.

Thoughts of him had kept intruding all through her talk with Richard and later with Deborah. Now that she was alone, she could not hold them back. Memories came flooding in. She supposed it was because she was here at Tidings, where she had first met him, or perhaps it was being around Richard, whom she had done her best to avoid for ten years. Whatever it was, her heart ached with a pain and hunger that she knew would never die, only recede now and then until the next time they welled up.

With a half sob, she left the window and threw herself down on the bed. She turned on her side, gazing into the glowing red coals of the fireplace, and, curling up like a child, she gave herself up to thoughts of him….

CHAPTER TWO

1805

NICOLA WAS SIXTEEN WHEN SHE MOVED to Dartmoor with her mother and younger sister, Deborah. Her father had died, and while he had left them well-provided for, the estate upon which they had lived was entailed and passed automatically, along with the title, to a second cousin. The cousin had politely offered to let them continue to live at home with him, his wife and their brood. He had little feeling for them, but it would have looked bad for him to do otherwise. However, Lady Falcourt, who had as little liking for him as he did for her, and even less liking for his efficient, energetic wife and noisy pack of children, declined his offer with equal politeness and removed herself and her children to the house of her sister, Lady Buckminster.

Lord Buckminster, her nephew, familiarly known as Bucky, was a friendly, easygoing sort who welcomed them to stay as long as they wished. Nicola, frankly, found herself happier at Buckminster than she had ever been at home. While she mourned her father, he had been a distant sort of parent who spent most of his time in London. Lady Falcourt was given to various illnesses, and so, from an early age, much of the decision-making for the household had fallen upon Nicola.

But here at Buckminster, Lady Buckminster’s housekeeper was a supremely competent woman who ran the household with little more than a vague nod of approval from Lady Buckminster. Lady Buckminster’s abiding passion was horses, and as long as she was not inconvenienced or distracted from her riding and breeding and hunts, she paid little attention to the house or to the behavior of anyone in it. Freed from a governess for the first time, with the weight of household management off her shoulders, and under Lady Buckminster’s less-than-watchful eye, Nicola found herself more or less on her own, free to do as she wished.

Therefore, she spent most of her time riding about the countryside, meeting the people who lived there. From childhood, Nicola had always felt at ease among the servants and tenants of her father’s estate. Her mother had usually been feeling too “invalidish” to spend much time with an active youngster, and Nicola had received the bulk of her love from their nurse and had returned it with all the enthusiasm of her nature. Her “family” had grown over the years to include most of the other servants, from the lowliest groom or upstairs maid all the way to the imposing figure of Cook, who ruled the kitchen with an iron hand.

It was Cook who had inspired her interest in herbs, explaining to her the properties of each herb or spice she put into the food, while Nicola sat on a high stool beside her, watching with great interest. It was the healing properties of the herbs that most appealed to Nicola, and before long Cook was teaching her to grow herbs in a garden, as well as identify and pick them in the wild. She had learned how to dry them, mix them, how to make tinctures and salves and folk remedies of all sorts. Nicola had broadened her knowledge as she grew older by reading and experimenting, and by the time she was fourteen, she was called upon to cure this illness or that almost as much as Cook herself.

It had cost her a good many tears to leave behind the servants when they moved to Buckminster. However, once there, she quickly began making friends wherever she went.

The only problem in her new existence came in the form of the Earl of Exmoor. As the only other member of the aristocracy in the area, he was invariably present on any social occasion, and given the looser restrictions of country life, Nicola, though only seventeen, was usually often included in those events, as well. She was undeniably the belle of the area, sought after by the vicar’s pimply son, down from Oxford, as well as the Squire’s son and his frequently visiting friends. She didn’t mind such boys and their usually awkward attempts at flirtations. The Earl was another matter altogether. Mature and sophisticated, he courted her with all the smoothness of an accomplished rake. Without appearing in any way overbold in the eyes of her mother or Lady Buckminster or any of the older ladies present, he managed to find numerous opportunities to touch her in some way, and he talked to her in a low, silky way, with unmistakable gazes of passion, that both irritated and alarmed Nicola.

She had no interest in the man. However, to her mother, as to most of the world, he seemed a marvelous catch. “Goodness, Nicola,” she responded when Nicola protested her inviting him on some outing, “I would think you would be flattered by his attentions. He is quite a catch, you know. Splendid family, the Montfords—wealth, a title. Why, you’re even friends with his cousin—what is that mousy little girl’s name?”

“Penelope,” Nicola replied through gritted teeth. “And she’s not mousy, merely quiet. Yes, I like Penelope, and her grandmother, too, but that has no bearing on how I feel about Exmoor. I don’t like him. I don’t like the way he looks at me or talks to me.”

“Oh, my dear,” her mother replied with a chuckle. “You’re simply too used to callow youths.”

“Well, I prefer callow youths to an old man!” Nicola flared.

“Really, Nicola, the way you talk…The Earl isn’t old. He’s in the prime of his life.”

“He must be close to forty! And I am only seventeen, in case you have forgotten.”

“Please, dear, there is no need for you to be rude,” Lady Falcourt said with a martyred sigh. “He is in his late thirties, but that’s scarcely too old to marry. Many men are quite a bit older than their wives. Your father, for instance, was sixteen years older than I.”

Nicola bit her lip to hold back the sharp retort that sprang to them. It had been clear to everyone that her father had married her mother for her youthful beauty and then had found her a dead bore once the infatuation had worn off. That was why he had spent most of his time in London.

“It doesn’t matter” was all she said. “I have no wish to marry anyone. I don’t plan to marry for a good many years yet, certainly not until I find someone I love. Grandmama left me a pleasant portion so that I would not have to marry at all if I didn’t want to.”

Lady Falcourt gasped and sank back weakly against her chair. “I don’t know where you get these radical notions.”

“Yes, you do. From Grandmama.” Her grandmother had been an outspoken and independent woman who had always looked somewhat askance at the fluttery, vapid woman who was her daughter. Her grandmother had been forced by family pressure into a loveless marriage, and she had made certain that none of her own three daughters had been compelled to do the same. She had often spoken to Nicola about following her own heart, and when she died, she left both her and Deborah sizable enough inheritances that they would be able to live independently if they chose to.

“Yes. And you get them from your aunt Drusilla, as well,” Lady Falcourt agreed darkly. Her sister Drusilla had never married, but had lived with their mother in London, where she maintained a social salon of great note and wit. Lady Falcourt understood her even less than the horse-mad Adelaide, Lady Buckminster. “Drusilla is no one to pattern your life after. A spinster…no children to brighten her days, no husband to look after or home to keep.”

Nicola sighed. This was a favorite theme of her mother’s, even though Nicola had rarely seen her mother lift a finger to organize the household or raise a child. “I have no intention of not marrying, Mama. However, it will be when and to whom I want. And that certainly will not be now or to Lord Exmoor.”

Still, there was little way to avoid the man unless she wanted to become a social recluse. He was bound to be at any local party or dinner; having an earl in one’s house was considered a feather in any matron’s cap, even one as supposedly unworldly as the vicar’s wife. Worse, her mother insisted on accepting any invitation he sent their way.

So it was that Nicola attended the hunt at Tidings, the Exmoor estate, and trotted into the yard, flushed from the activity, her hair coming loose in little tendrils around her face. As the Exmoor grooms rushed out to take the reins of the horses, Nicola looked down and found herself staring into one of the handsomest faces she had ever seen.

He was larger than most of the grooms, taller and leanly muscled. Dark, mischievous eyes gazed out from his tanned face, framed by a mop of thick black hair. A smile widened his mobile mouth as he gazed up at Nicola. Nicola stared back, feeling rather the way she had the time she fell out of the oak tree when she was little, as if the world had somehow stopped and she was floating free from it, as if her lungs no longer worked, but her heart was skittering double time.

He reached up his hands toward her, black eyes dancing. “Help you down, miss?”

She could not answer, simply pulled her foot from the stirrup and twisted off the sidesaddle, leaning down to him. His hands grasped her waist, lifting her down effortlessly, and she braced her hands on his shoulders to steady herself. She could feel the heat of his body beneath the rough woolen shirt, the hard stretch of bone and muscle. For an instant they were close, his face so near hers she could see the thick, dark fringe of lashes that shadowed his eyes. Then she was on the ground, and in the next instant, the Earl was there, stepping around the groom to take her arm and lead her into the house.

Nicola scarcely heard a word he said—nor much of any of the rest of the conversation through the hearty post-hunt brunch. Her thoughts were on the groom. She wanted to know his name, but she could think of no way to inquire about him that would not sound exceedingly strange. And even if she could have phrased it acceptably, she knew that it was doubtful that anyone would know who he was, even the Earl, who employed him. Servants might as well have been part of the furniture to most people of her social set, she knew, and though they knew the name of the most important ones—the butler, the housekeeper, their personal maid or valet—it was rare that they knew the names of the multitudinous footmen, maids and grooms. So she was forced to leave later without having learned anything of use to her.

After that, her mother no longer had any difficulty in persuading her to attend a function at Tidings. When her mother suggested they pay a thank-you call the following day, she acquiesced without a murmur, causing her mother to glance at her oddly. The next week she agreed to attend a small dinner party at the Earl’s house, and when he suggested a picnic up on the moor, leaving from his house, she smiled and agreed that the idea sounded lovely.

But despite all her efforts to be at Tidings—which had cost her a great deal of inner squirming—she did not catch even a glimpse of the groom. She surmised that he was not important enough in the line of command in the stable to be allowed to interact directly with guests unless there were such a large number present that they needed all the grooms, such as at the hunt.

She told herself that it was foolish to be so interested in the man. She had, after all, seen him only for a moment, and just because she had had that odd response, it did not mean that he was anyone special or significant. It could have been just some odd physical twinge, indicative of nothing.

She could not even have said what she hoped to accomplish by seeing the man again. All she knew was that she was restless and unsettled, that she had to see him.

Oddly enough, it was not at Tidings that she came face-to-face with him again two weeks later. It was at Granny Rose’s cottage.

Not long after she had moved to Buckminster, when she had administered a tonic to one of the upstairs maids for a head cold and given a salve to the gardener to ease the pain of his reddened knuckles, people had begun to tell her about an old woman in the area. Everyone called her Granny Rose, though Nicola surmised that no one was actually related to her. She was known throughout the countryside for her remedies. There were even those who superstitiously considered her a witch. It was said that she knew more about plants and their medicinal properties than anyone, and for miles around, people had long relied on her potions to ease the pain of childbirth or protect a wound from infection. Even the old Lord Buckminster himself, who had suffered terribly from the gout, had availed himself of her remedies to ease the disease.

Nicola immediately wanted to meet the woman, and after some cajoling, she got one of the maids to lead her through the woods to the woman’s cottage, nestled in a pleasant spot sheltered by a group of trees cupped like a hand around the little house. It was a small structure of wattle and daub, with a thatched roof, and so overgrown with ivy along one side that in summer it almost blended in with the green trees behind it. A small garden of herbs grew beside the house, tinging the air with scent.

Granny herself seemed almost as ancient as the house, her skin creased and browned like a withered old apple, and her hair a pure snow white. But her eyes were merry and younger than she appeared, and her smile, though gaptoothed, was so warm that one had to respond to it in kind.

Nicola took to the old woman at once, and Granny Rose had an equal affinity for Nicola. Nicola was soon riding over to the little cottage frequently, where Granny taught her far more about herbs and medicinal plants than Cook had ever known—although it took her a little time to understand Granny’s thick Dartmoor accent. Nicola helped her with her garden of herbs and plants and walked with her in the woods, where Granny searched for wild plants, pointing them out to Nicola and explaining all their uses and dangers. She taught her how to decoct her potions, how to dry and cook and steep and grind, what proportions to use. Nicola diligently wrote down each step of her recipes, adding them to her collection. Granny, who told her that her own daughter had never been interested in learning her secrets, was happy to entrust them to Nicola to use and preserve.

Granny was wise in many other ways, too, and Nicola often stayed to chat with her over a cup of fragrant tea. She had told her about her father and his death, about her mother, even about the persistent pursuit of the Earl of Exmoor. Granny frowned at this and shook her head.

“A bad ‘un, that ‘un. Ye best be stayin’ away from him,” she said grimly.

“Bad?” Nicola looked at her, faintly surprised. Though she had not liked the Earl, she had not attributed it to any sense of evil in the man. “But no one has said that he has done anything wrong.”

“Mayhap they don’t know it,” Granny pointed out, with a sage nod of her head. “Mayhap he’s good at hiding it from his own sort. But them that works fer him, they see, and they know. There’s no kindness in the man.”

“Well, I shan’t be marrying him,” Nicola assured her. “No matter what Mother thinks.”

After that conversation, she was a little embarrassed to tell Granny that she had gone against her own judgment and had been to Tidings as frequently as she had been able to the past two weeks. Besides, she found herself reluctant to reveal her desire to see the groom again. Granny would no doubt find it as odd as any of the people in her own class would; ladies did not mingle with grooms, even ladies as pleasant and down-to-earth as Nicola. Moreover, Nicola found herself reluctant to share anything about the feeling that had swept over her; it was something she had hugged to herself for two weeks.

As they drank their tea, Nicola noticed that Granny Rose kept glancing out the window with some frequency, and finally she realized that her mentor seemed to be waiting for someone. So Nicola drank a last sip of her tea and rose, taking her leave. Granny smiled and patted her arm, and Nicola thought with a faint sense of hurt that Granny was happy for her to go. She told herself that Granny’s visitor was probably someone who did not wish to be seen visiting the local medicine woman, which also meant that it was probably some member of the local gentry whom Nicola would recognize. The thought made her feel a little bit better.

She slipped out the front door and started down the path, then stopped abruptly when she realized that there was a man standing beside her horse, running his hand down the animal’s neck and talking to it in a low voice. He turned at the sound of the door closing, and his brows sailed upward in surprise.

Nicola simply stood, stunned into a breathless silence. The man looking back at her was the groom from Tidings. He was dressed in his Sunday best today, though he had taken off the dark jacket and had it slung over his shoulder. His shirt was white against his browned skin and open at the throat, the sleeves rolled up against the heat of the day.

He smiled now, the same cocky grin that he had worn the other day, as he sauntered toward her. “Well, now, if it isn’t the lady. And what would such a high-born creature be doing coming out of Granny Rose’s cottage?”

He stopped only a foot away from her and looked down at her, one eyebrow arching in amusement. His eyes were as dark as she remembered them, the dimple in his cheek just as deep. Nicola suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

She lifted her chin a little. She was not about to let him know that he had a drastic effect on her. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“They usually send their maids…unless, of course, they’re seeking a remedy for something they can’t let anyone know about.”

Nicola’s eyes widened as she realized his implication, and she drew a sharp breath at his audacity. She was about to let fly with a withering retort when he laughed and made a sweeping bow.

“But of course that could not be the case with a young lady as innocent and beautiful as yourself,” he continued in a light voice, blurred by the local accent. “Ye’d have no need of beauty creams or love potions, obviously. Half the men in Dartmoor must already be at your feet.”

“And you obviously have no need of any charm yourself,” Nicola replied, unable to keep from smiling. “You are already too smooth by half.”

He let out an exaggerated sigh of relief, his black eyes dancing. “Whew. I’m glad to hear ye say so. Me gran’d have me ears if I offended one of her customers.”

“Your gran?” Nicola asked, intrigued. “Do you mean to say she really is your grandmother?”

He nodded. “Me mother’s grandmother.”

“I’m surprised I’ve never seen you before,” Nicola commented.

“I live at the stables, you see, at Tidings. ‘Tis part of me job. I visit Gran every Sunday, on me day off.”

“I see.”

There was a moment’s pause, during which Nicola realized that she had nothing to stand here talking to this young man about. Desperately she searched for something to say to prolong the moment.

“Ma and I lived in Twyndel,” he said suddenly. “But last year, when she died, I moved back to be near Gran. She’s gettin’ on, ye see.”

“I am not from the area, either,” Nicola volunteered. “We are staying with my aunt, Lady Buckminster.”

“Ah.” The grin returned. “We had a right interestin’ talk, Lady Buckminster and me, about her mare.”

“I am sure it was,” Nicola said with a chuckle. “My aunt is not prone to talk of anything else. Had you not taken good enough care of her?”

“You wound me, miss.” He put on a pained air. “She’d injured her fetlock, so Lady Buckminster came to the stables to leave the mare, as we were nearer than Buckminster. I put one of Gran’s salves on it, and the mare was right as rain the next day when she came to see about it. ‘Twas the salve she was wanting to talk about.”

“Oh. Well…” Nicola glanced around. She could think of no reason to linger, yet she wanted very much to stay right here, talking to him. “I suppose I should be leaving.”

Was that a flash of disappointment in his eyes? “Oh. Yes. Of course.”

Nicola began to walk toward her horse, her steps lagging. He strolled along with her.

“Do you…come here often?” he asked casually.

Nicola glanced at him. There was nothing casual about the intense interest in his eyes. “Yes. I am interested in herbs and remedies. Your grandmother has very kindly taught me a great deal. I come here to learn and to purchase supplies from her. She has let me have a corner of her garden for my own.”

He looked at her in surprise. “You are growing them yourself?”

“Why, yes. I dry and grind and mix them, as well,” Nicola responded tartly. “I realize that you think I am a useless, shallow slip of a girl, but I do have interests outside of my dress and my hair.”

He had the grace to redden a little beneath his tan. “Indeed, miss, I did not think you useless and shallow. It is just a little unusual.”

“If you knew me, you would find that I am a little unusual.”

He smiled. “I could already tell that. Not many ladies would stand about chatting with grooms.”

“Mmm. My mother tells me I am deplorably egalitarian,” Nicola agreed lightly.

They had reached her horse, and Nicola turned to him. “Well. Goodbye, then. I—it was nice to see you again.”

“Thank you.” He paused, then said quickly, “I come to visit Gran every Sunday.”

“Do you?” Nicola’s heart began to pound a little harder in her chest. He was telling her that he wanted to see her again, wasn’t he? “I—uh—” She had to pause and clear her throat, which seemed suddenly swollen. “Then perhaps I will see you here again.”

She ended her statement on an upward note, sneaking a glance up at him. To her explosive relief, he grinned.

“Perhaps you will,” he agreed. “Let me help you up.” He nodded toward the horse.

Then, to Nicola’s surprise, instead of cupping his hands to give her a leg up, he placed his hands on either side of her waist and lifted her to her saddle. He stepped back, looking up at her. Nicola took up her reins in trembling fingers. She could feel the imprint of his fingers against her flesh, as if they had burned into her.

“I—I don’t know your name,” she said softly.

“It’s Gil, miss. Gil Martin.”

“Don’t call me ‘miss,’” Nicola said quickly, something in her rebelling against the subservience in this common form of address from servants.

“All right,” he said slowly, watching her. “What should I call you, then?”

“My name is Nicola Falcourt.”

The smile that crept across his face this time held none of its former amusement, only a kind of heat that stirred Nicola’s blood. “All right. Nicola.”

HE WAS THERE AT GRANNY ROSE’S the following Sunday when Nicola arrived. Nicola saw the faint consternation on Granny’s face when she opened the door to find Nicola on the step, as well as the uneasy way she glanced over at her grandson. Though she and Granny talked easily enough together, as equals, she supposed that Granny must be uncertain about her being thrown together with a servant.

Gil rose from his seat at the table, his eyes intent on Nicola’s face. Nicola looked at him, and a wave of heat washed through her, so fierce that she blushed with embarrassment.

She sat down at the table with Gil and Granny Rose, and Granny politely offered her a cup of tea. The three of them sat and drank tea together, their conversation awkward and stilted. But later, he walked her halfway home, strolling along beside her as she led her horse by its reins. They talked about any and everything, from Granny Rose and her home medicines to Nicola’s father to a foal that had been born two days ago at the Tidings stables. Nicola found herself telling him things she had never told anyone before, even her sister Deborah, her innermost feelings and thoughts. When at last they reached the point where he must turn off for Tidings, they hesitated, unwilling to part.

“Will ye be comin’ to the main house this Friday, then?” he asked, glancing at her, then away. “His lordship’s dance, I mean.”

“What?” Nicola was looking at him, watching the play of the sun on his crow-black hair and fighting the sudden urge she felt to reach up and sift her fingers through it. It took a moment for his words to register. “Oh. Yes.”

She grimaced. She no longer had any desire to go to Tidings now that she had found Gil. But she could hardly tell her mother that, so she had had to accept the invitation.

Gil looked away, seemingly studying intently a rock on the ground at his feet. “The others are sayin’ that he’s sweet on ye.”

“Exmoor?”

He nodded. “’Tis common gossip about the house.”

Nicola sighed. “He seems to be.”

“And you?” He looked up abruptly, his dark eyes boring into hers. “What do ye feel for the man?”

“The Earl?” Nicola asked in some astonishment. “Why, nothing. What would I feel?”

“There’s those sayin’ ye’ll be acceptin’ him.”

“Never.”

Gil relaxed a little. “Well, then…that’s all right.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Gil smiled faintly. “Never mind. I’d best be going. Almost anyone could happen by.”

He hesitated, his eyes going to her mouth, and for a brief, dizzying moment Nicola thought that he meant to kiss her.

But then he swung away, moving swiftly down the track toward Tidings, turning back once to raise his hand in a farewell wave. Nicola watched him go, her insides in a turmoil. Had he wanted to kiss her? Had she wanted him to? When he had asked her if she was attending the Earl’s ball on Friday, she had felt an instant’s leap of hope, a vision of his leading her onto the floor in a waltz, before she had realized how foolish that idea was. If she saw him, it would certainly not be on the dance floor, but in the drive in front of the house, helping with the horses and carriages. That was the last thing she wanted, she thought, after this afternoon—to see him in the context of servant, with her the guest, and with Exmoor, her mother and all the others around.

Nicola turned and led her horse to a low stile, where she could climb up and remount him. She scrambled up and turned the gelding toward home, sunk in her thoughts. She had never felt this way before, so confused and torn and giddy. She had wanted Gil to kiss her; she was too honest to deny that fact, at least to herself. She had wanted to taste his lips, and she wished with all her heart that he could be one of the local swains at the Earl’s ball, that she could twirl around the floor in his arms, swooping and turning to the grand strains of a waltz.

But she was no fool. However well she might get along with the servants and the villagers, however much she might think that the common folk she knew were as good as or better than her fellow aristocrats, she also knew that the gulf between her and a stable boy was vast—even unbridgeable. There could be no future for them—nor, if she was honest, could there be much present, either. What could they possibly have except a few afternoons together like this? What could happen except that both their hearts could be broken?

Her thoughts brought her to tears, and she knew that she was already halfway to falling in love with Gil. It would be foolish, disastrous, she told herself. She could not go on in this headstrong, impulsive way.

By the time she reached home, she had made up her mind that she would not go to Granny Rose’s next Sunday, however much she wanted to. It would be better all around if she did not let anything develop between them.

NICOLA MAINTAINED HER RESOLVE all week. She tried everything she could think of to get out of going to the Earl’s ball, but her mother was adamant, and Nicola realized that nothing short of a serious illness was going to be enough for her mother to let her stay home. Deborah, a year younger and not yet allowed to go to adult parties, offered to take Nicola’s place, then retired to sulk in her room when her mother told her shortly not to be silly.

Finally Nicola agreed to go, telling herself that it was unlikely that she would even see Gil, let alone come face-to-face with him. Yet she found herself, unreasonably, taking special precautions with her dress and hair. She was aware of a drop of disappointment in her stomach when their carriage pulled up in front of the house and a footman came to open the door. A quick glance around showed her no sign of any groom, only footmen leaping to open carriage doors and help the passengers down.

Nicola went inside, telling herself that it was all for the best. It would be kinder for both of them if she did not see him.

The party itself was the usual fare here in the country—a few guests of the Earl’s down from London, the local gentry, dazzled at rubbing elbows with the sophisticated members of the Ton, and the Buckminsters, Lady Falcourt and herself. Lady Buckminster, of course, was soon engrossed in a deep discussion of bloodlines with an equally horse-mad fellow who made up one of the party rusticating at Tidings. Dutifully Nicola danced the opening quadrille with the Squire, and as it was a long dance and the Squire not much of a conversationalist, it was a rather boring half hour. Exmoor claimed her first waltz, and she acquiesced; she could hardly refuse the host. She could see her mother’s eyes gleaming, for it was a distinct honor and an indication of interest on his part.

Her dance card was soon full, but rather than enjoying the evening, Nicola was acutely bored. The men from the city seemed pretentious and condescending, the local boys unusually callow and tongue-tied. She wished she were back home with Deborah, playing some silly child’s game or reading a novel. As the evening progressed, the room grew stifling, despite the open windows, and Nicola seized the excuse of the heat to slip out onto the terrace.

She made her way quietly into the side garden, hoping that her mother had not noticed her escape, and popped around the corner of a hedge so that she was out of sight of the terrace. She could still hear the music from the ballroom, even though she could no longer see the house, and she hummed as she strolled along, the moonlight strong enough to navigate the beaten dirt path.

At a crossroads, she turned toward the right. A man spoke from behind her, “Wrong way, miss.”

Nicola gasped and whirled around, her heart beating rapidly. Gil stood a few feet away from her in the middle of the path she would have taken if she had turned left instead. “Gil.”

She could not keep the note of pleasure from her voice. “I didn’t expect to see you,” she continued, starting slowly toward him.

“Ye’ll break my heart,” he teased. “I was thinkin’ ye were out here lookin’ for me.”

“I had no idea you’d be here,” Nicola responded, choosing not to notice that she had not denied the idea.

“Surely you didn’t think I’d let the evening go by without seein’ ye.”

“I didn’t know.”

Less than a foot away from him, she stopped. The moonlight silvered his face, throwing his long-lashed eyes into shadow. He smiled, showing even white teeth, and it occurred to Nicola that there wasn’t a man at the ball who could compare to him in looks. He was dressed in his best, black hair combed back, and there was a gleam in his dark eyes that set her pulse pounding.

“We shouldn’t be here,” she said breathlessly, looking up into his eyes. “Someone might come out at any minute.”

His lips curved. “We’re safe here.”

The orchestra inside struck up a waltz, and Gil swept a grand bow to her. “Would you care to dance, my lady?”

Nicola giggled. It was wonderfully, delightfully absurd. She bent deep in a curtsey. “I would love to, sir.”

He held out his hand, and she took it, and he pulled her into his arms. She did not know how he had learned to waltz; it was a dance of the aristocracy, with most of the common folk being content with jigs and country dances. But he followed the steps correctly, if a little clumsily, and somehow moving in his arms was much more wonderful than dancing with any other man, no matter how skillfully he waltzed. Nicola laughed with sheer pleasure as they swooped and dipped across the lawn, dodging flowers and bushes and twirling around hedges.

A lively country dance followed, and by the time it was over, the two of them collapsed on the nearest stone bench, out of breath and laughing with the sheer pleasure of the moment.

“You know, my gran warned me away from you,” Gil said lightly.

“Warned you?” Nicola turned to look at him, surprised and a little hurt. “But why? Granny Rose—I mean, I thought she liked me.”

“Oh, she does. She says you’re a wonderful young lady—smart and good and eager to learn.”

“Then why? I don’t understand….”

“She says we don’t belong together. It’s dangerous, moving outside your class like that…wanting something—or someone—you can never have.”

“But who is to say that you can’t have it?” Nicola protested.

At her words, something sparked deep in his eyes, something hot and primitive. He crooked his finger and put it under her chin, tilting up her face to his. Nicola’s breath caught in her throat. She knew that she ought to flee, but nothing could have made her leave this spot at that moment. His face loomed closer, and then his lips were touching hers, soft at first, then harder and deeper. His hands settled on her shoulders, steadying her more than holding her, but it was Nicola who moved closer, curling her fingers into his jacket, pressing up into him, astounded by the pleasure of his mouth.

At her response, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into him, and his mouth claimed hers. They clung together, lost in the moonlit night, heat mingling with heat, bodies alive with sensations, hearts pounding so loudly they could not distinguish one from the other. It was a moment that seemed to hang in eternity, endlessly breathtaking.

At last Gil raised his head and looked into her eyes, his own dark orbs flaming. And Nicola knew at that moment that none of the conventions mattered—nor their stations in life or their families’ wishes or Society’s shocked exclamations. There was only one man in the world for her.

“I love you,” Nicola breathed.

CHAPTER THREE

1815

TEARS GLITTERED IN NICOLA’S EYES, turning the coals of the fire into a red, wavering curtain. She would never love like that again.

She sat up, wiping the tears from her eyes in quick, almost angry gestures. It seemed unfair that that old pain should come sweeping in on her like this, slashing through her chest, reminding her of her loss as if it were a fresh wound, as if Gil had died only last week instead of ten years ago.

After all, she was content with her life now. She had accepted the fact that for her there would be no wedding day, no children, no growing old together. That part of her life was over, even if she was only twenty-seven years old. She had moved on. She had developed things in her life that were pleasing to her. She helped women in the East End; she gave them some hope, she thought. She matched wits with others at her eccentric aunt’s salon. She danced at parties and went to the opera and flirted when she felt like it with certain men to whom she knew it meant no more than it did to her.

Her life was full—or full enough, she reasoned. There were other women who had less than she, aristocratic women who had married as they were expected to and lived in loveless unions with nothing to interest them except clothes and gossip. There was her own sister, for instance, tied to a man like the Earl of Exmoor, miserably childless and panicked by fear that she would once again miscarry.

Better by far the life she had. Nicola swallowed hard and stood up from the bed, straightening her dress. She was foolish to wallow in her old grief, she told herself sternly, going to the dresser and pulling open drawers until she found where the maid had stowed her nightdress. She laid the gown out on the bed and began to undo the buttons of her dress.

No more thinking about her lost love. No more feeling sorry for herself. It was an isolated instance, she reasoned, brought on by being back here at the place where it had all happened. But she had grieved for Gil for ten years; she had long ago gone through the dark pit of despair and come out without losing her sanity or her life. She had learned to live the life that had been given to her. And she was not going to let herself be overwhelmed by old grief just because she was at Tidings.

On that firm note, she slipped out of her clothes, neatly laying them aside over the chair, and pulled on her nightgown. Extinguishing the oil lamp on the small bedside table, she climbed into bed and settled under the covers. But even though she determinedly shut her eyes, it was a long time before sleep crept over her, and when it did, tear tracks stained her cheeks.

“ISN’T IT A LOVELY MORNING?” DEBORAH asked, setting down her teacup and gazing happily around her at the small garden. “I am so glad that you suggested taking tea out here.”

It was midmorning, and she and her sister were sitting in the little garden beside the house, sheltered on one side by the looming house and on two others by an outside wall. It was a mild winter’s day and pleasantly warm in the small area. Winds did not reach here, and though in the afternoon it was cast deep in shadows, in the morning, the sun shone brightly in it. Two stone benches had been placed here long ago for enjoyment of the sheltered location, and a small fountain and delicate green bushes enlivened the area.

Nicola smiled at her sister. Deborah looked much better this morning. Obviously she had had a good night’s rest—more than Nicola herself could say—and just being out of the house had brought a little bloom to her cheeks. Nicola was glad that she had suggested coming out here to have their cup of tea while they chatted.

“Yes,” she agreed. “It is pleasant. I am so happy to see you looking well.”

Deborah grinned. “Not as happy as I. It is wonderful having you here. Now…” She leaned forward, eyes alight with curiosity. “You must tell me all the gossip from the City. Mama wrote me that that plain little Penelope Castlereigh has caught our cousin Bucky. Is that true? And is Lord Lambeth really marrying an adventuress?”

Nicola made a face. “That certainly sounds like Mother’s version of events.”

After Gil’s death, ten years ago, Nicola had left the area, unable to bear the constant heartbreak of living where she and Gil had loved. She had moved to London to live with her aunt, and her mother, angry with her at the time for having turned down Lord Exmoor’s offer, had been happy to let her go. But after Deborah had married the Earl, Lady Falcourt had relocated to the City herself, where she had insisted that Nicola come to live with her. Anything else “looked odd,” she explained. Nicola suspected that it was simply that she wanted someone to listen to her recitals of her many illnesses and their symptoms, and to offer her the appropriate sympathy and errand-running. She had resisted for some time, much preferring life with her forward-thinking aunt, but at last she had given in to her mother’s tears and whinings, as was usually the case, and had moved into her mother’s house.

While Nicola ran the household, her mother rested, kept up a voluminous amount of correspondence with people all over the country, and received the calls of her numerous middle-aged female acquaintances. As a result, though her mother rarely left the house, she knew all the gossip about everyone in Society—not only in London but in the whole of England.

“The truth is, Bucky simply woke up to Penelope’s wonderful qualities.” Nicola grinned, adding, “However, Marianne and I helped to lay a little trap.”

“Marianne? Oh! The beautiful red-haired woman at Bucky’s party?”

About a month earlier, Nicola had come with a number of other guests to her cousin’s estate for a house party. Among them had been Penelope Castlereigh, a distant cousin of the Earl of Exmoor, as well as Nicola, Lord Lambeth, and a beautiful woman named Marianne Cotterwood, whom Bucky at that time had been pursuing. Deborah had attended the ball Lord Buckminster had given during the weeklong house party and had met the guests, even though she had left early due to her “delicate condition.” She had, therefore, missed the tumultuous conclusion to the party, which had included a kidnapping and shooting.

Nicola looked at her sister, wondering how much of the story she had heard from Richard. Nicola suspected that Deborah’s husband did not tell her everything, especially any events that might reflect badly on him.

“Yes. That is Marianne.”

“Isn’t she the one whom Lambeth is marrying?”

Nicola nodded. “Yes, but she is not an adventuress, as Mother said.”

“Then who is she? Tell me about her. I had never seen her before—or even heard of her.”

“No one had, until Bucky tumbled knee-deep in love with her. It is quite a tale.” Nicola looked at her sister’s bright eyes and rising color and decided that a bit of gossip was doing her a world of good. “I met her only a week or two before Bucky brought everyone down to his estate for the party. The fact of the matter is, she is the whole reason that Bucky even had the party. He was quite enamored of her. Bucky and Penelope met her at a crush of Lady Batterslee’s, and Bucky urged me to invite her to a soiree Mother and I had the next week. Of course, I did; I was dying of curiosity to see who this ‘Mrs. Cotterwood’ was. Bucky could talk of nothing but her. I liked her immediately, but I was a little concerned because Bucky was so head-over-heels.

“Frankly, I was a trifle worried, too, that she might be an adventuress,” Nicola continued. “Besides, I knew how much Penelope loved Bucky, and I kept hoping that someday he would wake up and realize what a treasure he had right there in front of him. So I was quite prepared to dislike Mrs. Cotterwood. But once I met her, I couldn’t help liking her, just as Penelope did. Marianne had no interest in Bucky. In fact, she is the one who came up with a delightful scheme that cooled Bucky’s fever for her and threw him right into Penelope’s arms.” Nicola smiled at the memory. “I wish you could have seen her performance.

Whenever Marianne was around him, she played the most shallow, self-centered creature in existence, making sure always to leave him with Penelope for comfort and advice. Eventually, even Bucky saw that he was pining after the wrong woman. And Lord Lambeth, as you know, won Marianne’s hand.”

“When are Bucky and Penelope to be married?”

“Soon. They are going to be married here in the village church in a month. It seemed only right, what with an alliance between a Buckminster and a Montford.” The Montfords, the family to which the Earl of Exmoor belonged, and Lord Buckminster’s family were the noble clans of the area.

“That’s true. Penelope’s mother was a Montford,” Deborah mused. “I sometimes forget that Lady Ursula and her mother are Richard’s cousins. We see them so rarely.”

Nicola carefully made no comment. It was a well-known fact that Penelope’s grandmother, the Dowager Countess of Exmoor, had little liking for the man who had inherited the title when her own husband died. Though the Countess sometimes wintered in the Dower House, which was also in the area, Nicola doubted that she called on or received the Earl of Exmoor.

“The Countess is in her element, let me tell you,” Nicola continued, sliding past the subject. “Preparing the whole thing as if it were an army going to battle. She and Penelope and Marianne will be driving up to the Dower House in a couple of weeks to oversee the preparations. I can hardly wait for you to get a chance to talk to Marianne.”

“But I cannot imagine Lady Ursula letting anyone else arrange Penelope’s wedding,” Deborah protested, mentioning Penelope’s overbearing mother. “And do you mean that the Countess is taking on Marianne’s wedding, also?”

“Even Lady Ursula will back down in the face of money. The Countess knew that Penelope would not get the wedding she wanted if Lady Ursula was in charge of it. So Lady Exmoor told Ursula that she would pay for the entire cost of her granddaughters’ weddings—but she made it clear that her word was the one that would be final in all matters. You know what a skinflint Penelope’s mother can be. She gave in—though you may be sure that she does her best to try to run the thing, anyway. As for Marianne’s wedding—well, that is the most fantastical thing of all. I wonder that Richard hasn’t told you about it.”

“Richard? But why would he? Men have little interest in nuptials, I find.”

“Yes, but I would think he has quite a bit of interest in Marianne. You see, it turns out that she is Lady Exmoor’s granddaughter, too—Richard’s cousin.”

“What!” Deborah stared at Nicola, her jaw dropping. “You’re joking!”

“Not a bit.” Nicola shook her head. “She had been lost to the family for years. That is why no one knew her. But she is one of Lord Chilton’s children.”

“Lord Chilton? The Countess’s son? But he—didn’t he and all his family die years and years ago? I mean, that is why Richard inherited the earldom, is it not? Otherwise Chilton would have been Earl after the old Earl died.”

“That is what everyone has believed all these years.” Nicola shrugged eloquently. “But it turned out that the children escaped. It was only Lord Chilton and his wife who died.”

“But…this is fantastical! How could Lady Exmoor not know? What happened to them?”

Nicola knew that she was treading on shaky ground here. She could hardly tell Deborah what the Countess believed had happened without bringing Richard into it. And she could not bring herself to tell her sister, especially in the condition she was in right now, what a thorough blackguard her husband really was.

“I, uh, I’m not exactly sure about all the details,” Nicola hedged. “But apparently the children were rescued by a friend of Lady Chilton’s, an American.”

“I see. Then she took them to the United States?”

“Yes, one of them. The boy, John, died of a fever he contracted on the journey. But the other, Marianne, uh, wound up in an orphanage.”

Nicola knew that Penelope and her grandmother believed that it was Richard who was responsible for the fates of both the children. When the children had been brought to London by Lady Chilton’s friend, she had turned them over to the Countess’s companion, a woman named Willa, because the Countess was prostrate with grief, believing her son’s entire family dead—and all this right on the heels of her own husband’s recent death. But Willa had confessed on her deathbed that she had given the children to Richard. She had been enamored of Richard and knew that the little boy John was the rightful heir to the title and estate of the late Earl, and that Richard had inherited only because Chilton and his son were both believed to be dead. Richard had then hidden the children away, sending the boy no one knew where, though Willa said that he had died not long after, and giving the little girl to one of his henchmen to get rid of. The man had put her into an orphanage.

“No! Oh, how awful! You mean, all these years, she didn’t know who she was?”

Nicola nodded. “This all came out a few months ago when the baby, the one taken to the United States, came here to visit and the Countess met her. It so happens that she looks exactly like her mother, and the Countess knew she must be a relation. Eventually it emerged that she was Alexandra, the youngest of Chilton’s children. After they were reunited, they set out to find Marianne.”

“How exciting! This is like a novel.”

“Yes. It even had a romance. Alexandra fell in love with Lord Thorpe, and they were married. The Bow Street Runner they hired finally tracked down Marianne—at Bucky’s party.”

“Was that when that awful man was killed? Richard told me about that, how the man was threatening one of the guests with a gun and Richard had to save her by shooting him?”

“Yes,” Nicola replied dryly. “He was threatening Marianne. The man who was killed had…had something to do with Marianne’s being placed in the orphanage.”

“The villain! Well, I am glad Richard shot him. It—it sounded so awful. I was very glad Richard had already sent me home earlier in the carriage.”

“It was awful,” Nicola agreed shortly, biting back the words she longed to say—that she suspected that it had been Richard’s own neck he was trying to save, not Marianne’s. “But even then, none of us knew, you see, why he had tried to kill Marianne. It seemed utterly senseless. Then the Bow Street Runner arrived the next day and revealed who Marianne was.”

“My!” Deborah’s eyes widened in wonderment. “How could Richard not have told me! Men are so silly sometimes. They think the dullest things are fascinating and then forget to even mention really exciting things.”

“The Dowager Countess has been happier than I have seen her in years,” Nicola went on. “She and Alexandra are ecstatic at being reunited with Marianne, and of course it was a dream come true for Marianne, finding her real family after all these years.”

“I should think so. What a wonderful story! And to end with a double wedding…” Deborah released a sigh of happiness. “I can hardly wait until they come to the Dower House and I can meet them. I—I see so few people here.”

“You should get out more,” Nicola urged. “You should come to London with Richard instead of staying here, rusticating.”

Deborah looked at her, her face falling into a look of sadness, and Nicola thought that she was about to say something, but at that moment a male voice came from behind them. “That is what I keep telling her. Perhaps she will listen more to a sister than to a husband.”

The two women turned around to see the Earl strolling along the dirt path toward them, smiling. He was followed by another man, a stocky, plainly dressed individual whose face looked as though it had never been visited by a smile.

“Richard!” Deborah smiled. “I didn’t realize you were there.”

“Hello, Richard,” Nicola greeted him coolly. She could never see him without thinking of Gil’s death, and though he had said it was an accident, she held him responsible. Now that she had learned from Penelope about the wicked things he had done, she was even more certain that he was a man driven by evil.

“I came out here to introduce my new employee to you. Ladies, this is the Bow Street Runner I told you I had hired. His name is George Stone. Mr. Stone, my wife, Lady Exmoor, and her sister, Miss Falcourt.”

“Milady. Miss.” Stone’s smile seemed carved out of granite, and he offered them a stiff little bow. He was not a tall man, but he was powerfully built, with a thick chest and arms that made his jacket fit him poorly.

“Mr. Stone wants to speak with you about the incident last night, Nicola,” Richard added. “He needs all the information you can give him to help capture this blackguard.”

“I am afraid I cannot tell him very much,” Nicola replied blandly. Little as she liked the highwayman, she had no good feeling about Mr. Stone, either, and she liked the Earl least of all. She found that she was not much inclined to aid Mr. Stone in finding the man who was tweaking Richard’s nose.

“You saw him, miss,” Stone said stolidly. “Surely you can tell me something about him.”

Nicola turned her most aristocratic gaze on the man, raising her eyebrows slightly as if amazed to find that someone such as he had dared to address her. “It was dark,” she said dismissively. “And he wore a mask. I cannot imagine what I could tell you about him.”

“What size man was he?”

“He was on a horse, Mr. Stone. How could I tell his height?”

“The coachman says he dismounted, miss, that he was standing in front of you part of the time. He says as how you slapped the man, miss.”

“Indeed, I did. I have no stomach for impertinence,” Nicola snapped, casting the man a significant look.

“I’m sure not, miss, but what I’m saying is, you must have gotten some idea of how tall he was then.”

Nicola sighed. “I suppose he was average height. Average build.”

“The groom says he was a large man, miss.”

“I presume he would seem so to the groom,” Nicola replied. “Jamie is a rather small man.” Her eyes flickered significantly to the top of the Runner’s head, indicating without saying anything that she found Mr. Stone rather lacking in inches, also.

“Yes, miss, I noticed.” Stone’s face turned even more expressionless, if that was possible. “Were there any distinguishing marks on the man? Anything about his clothing or his manner or his walk?”

“He spoke like a gentleman,” Nicola offered, knowing that this fact was already well-known. “As for his manner, his walk—I am sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Stone, but I was in fear for my life at the time, and I am afraid I did not notice many details.”

“Yes, miss. Thank you.” Stone sketched a rough bow toward Nicola, then turned to Richard, saying, “I shall look into the matter further, sir.”

Richard watched the man walk away, then turned toward Nicola. Raising his brows, he said lightly, “You seemed a trifle obstructive, dear sister-in-law.”

“Obstructive? Don’t be absurd, Exmoor. I don’t like Mr. Stone. I found him impertinent. But I told him all I know. The highwayman was dressed all in dark clothes, as were his men. They wore masks, and their horses were dark-colored, with no marks. They seemed to have put a great deal of effort into making themselves as unidentifiable as possible. Besides, as I said, I was in fear for my life.”

“You, my dear Nicola? I don’t believe you have ever been in fear of anything.”

“What nonsense. Of course I have. Just ask your wife. She will tell you I have an absolute abhorrence of rats.” She paused, then added, “Especially the two-legged variety.”

Her gaze remained steadily on Richard’s face. He allowed a thin smile to touch his lips. “Of course. Well, ladies, shall we go inside? I believe it is almost time for luncheon. Perhaps afterward we can have a pleasant visit. I am rather free for the day.”

“I’m sorry,” Nicola said quickly. She had no desire to be stuck in her brother-in-law’s company all afternoon. “I have already made plans to go down to the village.”

“Visiting the peasants again?” Richard asked sardonically. “Don’t you find such nobility of soul rather wearing?”

“It is not nobility of soul. I enjoy the local people. They welcomed me when we moved here, and I shall never forget how kind they were to me.”

“What else would they be? You were Buckminster’s cousin.”

“I don’t mean they were polite and afraid to offend me, Richard. I am talking about real warmth and liking. That cannot be forced or caused by fear.”

“I must confess, I find your affinity for the lower classes rather odd. But I do trust that you will partake of luncheon with us before you set out.”

“Of course.” Nicola bared her teeth in a smile.

Richard returned one that was equally false. “Splendid.” He pivoted toward his wife, offering her his arm. “Come, my dear. Let us go in.”

Deborah rose and took his arm, and they started toward the house. Nicola, with a sigh, fell into step after them. She had known it would be difficult to live in the same house with Richard—she had acceded to her sister’s wishes only because Deborah seemed so desperate—but she was realizing that it was going to be even more difficult than she had thought.

She made it through the noon meal by talking little and smiling frequently, doing her best to tune out Richard’s conversation and face. Afterward, she went upstairs and got her kit of remedies, a bag that contained the salves and tonics for which she was most frequently asked. A few weeks ago, when she had been at Buckminster for her cousin’s party, she had been besieged by requests for healing remedies when she visited Bucky’s tenants and the villagers. Since Granny Rose had died, they had suffered without her wisdom and care, and they had turned to Nicola as her student to help them out. She had made certain to bring all her supplies with her this time, anticipating their requests.

With her kit strapped onto the back of her horse, and after firmly refusing the accompaniment of one of the grooms, Nicola left Tidings, taking the back trail through the fields. It was a little more difficult riding, but it cut at least a mile from the journey, and Nicola had always been at home on a horse. Of course, in London she had to be content with a morning’s ride along Rotten Row, but when in the country, as now, she loved to ride.

She breathed deeply, pulling in the fresh air, so different from the City, and felt the tensions of dealing with Richard ease from her shoulders and back. She didn’t know how she was going to get through the following months with Richard. Every time she saw him, she felt as if a serpent had crossed her path. Yet she could hardly leave. Deborah had been so pathetically eager for Nicola to come stay with her, and Nicola had seen this morning how much better Deborah felt with her here. She could not desert her sister in her hour of need. She wished that she could take Deborah back to London with her, but that was clearly impossible, even if Exmoor would have allowed it. Given Deborah’s condition and her past history of miscarriage, a jolting two-day journey would be the worst thing for her.

But such worries gradually melted away as she trotted through the countryside, taking the occasional low stone wall with ease. By the time her mount approached a fence, she and the horse had grown accustomed to each other, and they soared over it. Exhilarated, Nicola emerged onto a lane lined with trees and dappled with winter sunshine. She paused, looking up the lane toward the right. If she went left, she would reach the village sooner. To the right lay the road to the top of Lydford Gorge, where Lady Falls poured down in a torrent. If she went to Lady Falls, she could then take a different path to the village. It would add perhaps an hour to her ride, but she would still have ample time to visit. Of course, there was no reason to go there….

Nicola turned to the right, urging her horse back to a trot. She had to see Lady Falls again. She realized now that it had been in the back of her mind when she had decided to visit the village; after her thoughts the evening before, she knew she could not rest until she had seen the Falls again.

She hardly noticed the countryside now as she rode; the bold upthrusts of rocky tors might have been the green grass of Hyde Park for all the attention she paid to them. All her concentration was on the place to which she was riding.

After a time, she came to the narrow River Lyd and followed it to the spot where it tumbled suddenly down into Lydford Gorge. Her pace slowed, and her heart began to pound. She had not been here since the day after Gil’s death, so many years ago. She dreaded seeing it again. A few weeks ago, at Bucky’s house party, she had accompanied the rest of the group on a picnic to Lydford Gorge below, and even that, looking up at the Falls from the gorge, had filled her with an almost unbearable sorrow. This, she knew, would be worse—to stand at the top of the Falls, in that spot so filled with beautiful and painful memories—yet she had to do it. She could not rest until she had.

She heard the roar of water, faint at first, then growing louder. At last, ahead of her, she saw the idyllic spot where she and Gil had often met during those magical few weeks of love—the tumble of rocks and the greenery growing rampant at the edge of the water, the delicate mist rising from the Falls, creating a dancing rainbow of colors in the air.

Nicola pulled up her horse and dismounted, leading it the last few yards. Finally, close to the edge, the mist from the tumbling spray caressing her face, she stopped and looked around, her heart swelling with emotion.

It was here that she and Gil had often met after the dance at Tidings. They had sat beneath the shade of the trees a few yards from the Falls, and they had talked and kissed, making plans for their future. They would go to America, they said, when Nicola reached eighteen and could marry as she chose. There, Gil had heard, people did not care about one’s birth and a man could make his way on his own merits. He had given her a ring, a heavy, simple man’s ring that was, he said, the only inheritance he had. His mother had given it to him before she died, saying it was his father’s, but she would not tell him more than that. It was their betrothal ring, and Nicola wore it on a chain, hidden beneath her dress.

Nicola closed her eyes, yearning sweeping through her. She remembered sitting on the ground, leaning back against Gil’s chest, his arms wrapped around her from behind, enfolding her with love, and the memory was so real it was a fresh stab of pain.

“Oh, Gil!” The words tore from her in a sob, drowned by the rush of water.

She had never felt so alive as she had in his arms. His kisses had been like fire, and his caresses had awakened sensations in her that she had never dreamed existed. They had lain beneath the tree, kissing and stroking each other, exploring their eager, youthful passion until they were almost frenzied with desire, yet always Gil had pulled back finally. He refused to dishonor her, he said; no matter how difficult it was, they would wait until she was his bride.

Nicola had wanted to continue, arguing with him that she did not care, teasing him with her mouth and body. That last day, she remembered, she had unbuttoned her bodice and pulled the sides apart, glorying in the heavy-lidded, greedy way Gil stared at her, his breath rasping in his throat.

“Don’t you want me?” she had whispered.

“Sweet heaven, girl, you’re killing me” had been his husky answer, and he had reached out and cupped one breast, his thumb brushing her nipple and making it harden eagerly. “Don’t you know I want ye more than life itself?”

His dark eyes were lit with an inner flame. He moved his hand across her chest, pausing to touch the ring that lay nestled between her breasts. “To see you…to see my ring there, warmed by your flesh—knowing that ye are mine and I’m yours…”

“Then take me,” Nicola had said boldly, covering his hand with hers, her eyes glowing up at him. “Make love to me. I want to feel you, to know—”

“No! I won’t be plantin’ my seed in ye and ye not bearin’ my name. It’s what happened to my mother, and I will not put that shame on ye. Or on my child.”

He had bent and lightly touched his lips to her pink nipple. “Now cover up, girl, before ye drive me to distraction.”

“And if I won’t?” Nicola had asked saucily, leaning back on her elbows, her eyes filled with challenge.

“Well, then, I’ll just have to make ye, won’t I?” He had reached for her.

At that moment a roar had split the air, sounding even over the rush of the water, and Nicola and Gil had whirled around to see the Earl of Exmoor standing only a few feet away from them, his face thunderous.

Gil scrambled to his feet, but Richard reached him before he was completely upright and swung his fist, connectedly solidly with Gil’s jaw and sending him tumbling backward. He turned toward Nicola, and his eyes dropped down to her open bodice, and he stopped as if struck. “What is that? A ring?”

“Yes. Gil gave it to me,” Nicola told him, rising and pulling the sides of her bodice together to hide her breasts. “I am going to marry him.”

“Marry? Marry a groom?” Before she realized what he was doing, Richard reached out and grabbed the ring, snapping the thin chain that held it. He held the ring up, looking at it for a long moment, then murmured, “I’ll be damned….”

“Give that back!” Nicola cried. “That’s mine! How dare you interfere?”

With a great roar of rage, Richard hurled the ring toward the Falls. “You’ll never marry him!”

Nicola shrieked and ran after the ring, stopping helplessly at the edge. Behind her, Gil got up and rushed at Richard, crashing into him, and the two men fell to the ground. Nicola stared down at the tumbling water, spilling down the side of the cliff to crash into the gorge below and rush onward. Gil’s ring was gone. She could never hope to find it again. She whirled, angry words on her lips, then stopped at the sight of the two men locked in a silent, furious struggle.

She’d seen two men fight before. Once, when she was young, two of the grooms had squared off in the yard, and one of them had knocked the other down before Nicola’s governess hustled her back inside. But that angry exchange scarcely resembled this intense battle. The two men rolled across the ground, punching and grappling, silent except for an occasional grunt or atavistic growl.

“Stop it! Gil! Exmoor!” Nicola realized that she might as well have been speaking to herself for all the good it did.

The men inched perilously close to the edge of the Falls, so close that the mist from the spewing water enveloped them. Nicola started toward them, shouting of the danger. At that instant, the edge of the cliff beside the Falls began to crumble. Nicola froze, a shriek tearing out of her lungs, watching in horror as the men’s feet were suddenly dangling in air. Realizing what was happening, Gil and Exmoor crawled toward safety. But the ground gave way beneath Gil’s legs, the rocks and earth flowing from beneath him almost like a river, and he slid backward, his hands scrabbling for purchase.

“Gil!”

Richard, who had reached stable ground, turned around as Gil slid slowly over the lip of the cliff, the spray from the Falls beside him rising around him like a cloud. Richard crawled over to the edge and peered over it.

“Hold on, I’ll help you!” he shouted, reaching one arm over the side.

Nicola prayed frantically as she watched. The muscles in the earl’s back bunched, and she could see his shoulder move. Then there was a brief cry, and Richard went limp, his arm still dangling over the side.

Nicola’s stomach fell to her feet, and she sat down hard, her knees suddenly too watery to support her. She could not speak. Slowly Richard edged back from the cliff and rose to his feet, turning around.

“I am sorry,” he told her. “He couldn’t hold on. I tried, but he slipped out of my grasp. He is gone.”

CHAPTER FOUR

NICOLA TURNED AWAY FROM THE FALLS, her eyes blinded with tears. The memory of that day ten years ago was as clear as if it had happened yesterday. She could still remember the sick, empty feeling in the pit of her stomach as she sat there, staring numbly at the cliff’s edge. Shock and disbelief had swamped her. Her heart was already stricken with grief, but her mind could not yet grasp the facts. Gil couldn’t be dead!

Then a new thought had entered her mind, and she had jumped to her feet, shaky but filled with hope. “Maybe he didn’t die! Maybe he’s down at the bottom of the gorge—hurt!”

“Impossible. He could not have survived the fall. You know the rocks around there.”

“But there is water, too! He could have fallen into the water.”

“No. You must not go down there. It would be too horrible a sight.”

But she had ignored Richard, running to her horse and clambering onto it to ride down and around to the entrance of the gorge. Once she reached the mouth of the gorge, she rode back up its length to Lady Falls. It was the only way to get to the area below them; the walls of the gorge were too precipitate beside the Falls. But it took an inordinately long time, and by the time she reached the spot below the cliff where Gil had fallen, it was late afternoon, and the high walls of the gorge cast deep shadows all around the pool where the waterfall emptied.

There was no body on the rocks or ground, though she and Richard, who had insisted on accompanying her, had searched all over, clambering over rocks. Nor could she see Gil’s body in the pool, dug deep by years of erosion.

“Nicola…let me take you home. This is fruitless. Surely you can see that. His body is either at the bottom of the pool or it was swept downriver. In either case, the boy is long since dead. If the fall didn’t kill him, he surely drowned. Please…”

“He’s not dead!” she had shrieked. “He’s not! I know it! I would feel it if he were. He’s alive! He fell into the water and must have been swept down the river, but he could still be alive. He just got out farther downriver.”

They rode back through the gorge at a much slower pace than they had taken coming in, searching the narrow river and its banks for sign of a man. There was no sign of him. It was almost dark by the time they reached the mouth of the gorge, and Nicola had allowed Richard to escort her home. “I am sorry,” he had said as he helped her down from her horse at Buckminster. “I was angry, yes, but you must know that I never meant him to die.”

Nicola had nodded numbly.

“I tried to save him. You saw that. But our hands were wet, and we couldn’t hold on. He slipped out of my grasp.” When Nicola said nothing, he went on. “I will send for the magistrate and tell him what happened. Don’t worry. I will make sure that your reputation isn’t harmed by it. We cannot let anyone know that you were out there with a groom.”

“I don’t care about my reputation!” Nicola had snapped. “And he’s not dead! I know it.”

“Of course.”

He had spoken quietly to her mother, who later insisted that Nicola drink some nasty tonic that a doctor had given her. Nicola had then gone to her bedroom, certain that she would never be able to sleep, but wanting some blessed solitude while she waited out the long, dark night. She had been surprised to find that she went to sleep almost immediately, and the next day, when she woke up, it was almost noon. She realized then that her mother must have given her some of her laudanum, doubtless on the Earl’s suggestion.

Shaking off her grogginess, Nicola had ridden back to the gorge and searched it from one end to the other in the daylight. But there was no sign of Gil. She went back home, hoping that there had been some word from Gil that he was all right, but there had been no message for her. She refused her mother’s tonic that evening and as a consequence spent a long, restless night, remembering each detail of Gil’s plunge off the cliff and repeating to herself all the reasons why Gil might still be alive. He was young and healthy, and obviously he had fallen into the water instead of onto the hard rocks. The pool was deep, so he would not have hit the bottom. And he had told her that he was a strong swimmer. He had to have survived. He had to.

But as the days passed and no word had come from Gil, the knowledge that he must be dead had weighed more and more heavily upon her. If he were alive, she knew that he would have contacted her somehow. She had managed to think of reasons why he might have delayed contacting her—he was delirious, perhaps, or lying unconscious somewhere, or had broken his arm so that he could not write. But as time went by, even those gloomy hopes faded.

Day after day she had waited, and no message had ever come. Nicola knew then that Gil was indeed dead. She had sunk into depression, not eating, not sleeping, refusing some days even to get out of bed.

The magistrate had come and asked her a few gentle questions, and she had told him that yes, the Earl had reached down to grab Gil, but he had slipped out of Richard’s grasp, that yes, it had been an accident. She had realized after a time that the magistrate believed that Nicola and Richard had been out for a ride together, with Gil along to take care of the horses. She had started to protest, but then she realized that it didn’t really matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

One day, two weeks later, her aunt had come for a visit and swept Nicola back to London with her. At first Nicola had not wanted to go, still clinging to a faint, desperate hope that one day Gil would get in touch with her. But her aunt had refused to take no for an answer, and Nicola had realized finally that she could not continue to stay here, soaking in her misery, surrounded by all the places and things that reminded her of Gil and their brief love.

She had taken one last ride up to Lady Falls to say her farewell to Gil. She had stood for a long time at the edge of the Falls, looking out over the green gorge, then down, following the silver spray of water to where it splashed into the gorge below. Finally, she turned away, and as she did so, a flash of gold just below the rim of the gorge caught her eye. She looked again, her eyes focusing on the small, thorny bush that grew out of the cliffside less than a foot below the edge. She spotted the wink of gold again, and she dropped down onto her knees at the edge of the cliff, her heart beginning to pound. There, caught in the thorny foliage, was the ring Gil had given her. When Richard had torn it from her neck and tossed it away, it must have fallen into this bush and caught. It had been here for all these weeks, just waiting for her!

Almost sick at the thought that she had almost missed the ring, Nicola lay down flat on the ground and inched forward, reaching down over the edge of the cliff until she could reach the little bush. Her fingers closed around the ring, and she wriggled backward, clutching it in her hand. This much, at least, she had of Gil; she would always have it.

She had pocketed the ring, her heart less heavy than before, and had ridden back to Buckminster. The next day she had gone to London with her aunt.

NICOLA TURNED AND WALKED AWAY from the Falls, her hand going unconsciously to her pocket, where the ring lay. It had been her habit through the years to wear the ring hidden from the eyes of others on a long chain underneath her dress, except when she wore a dress, as she did today, that would have revealed the ring. At first it had served as a kind of talisman, a reminder of Gil that comforted and strengthened her, helped her through the worst days of sorrow and pain. Now she had worn it so long that it had become almost second nature, something she rarely thought about.

Leading her horse to a rock, she mounted and rode away from the Falls. She turned toward the village, riding cross-country until she reached the country lane that led to the village from the south. She stopped at the vicarage first, politely calling on the vicar’s wife. But she kept her visit short, know that the amiable, gentle vicar’s wife would have no answers to any of the questions she was filled with.

As she was leaving, the housekeeper came around the side of the house to intercept her. It seemed that the cook had come down with catarrh, and the scullery maid had a bad case of chilblains. Nicola went around to the side door and gave the cook a tonic containing hyssop and elder flowers, and the maid a small tin of arnica cream.

“Yer a sweet girl, Miss Falcourt, and that’s the God’s truth,” the housekeeper said, smiling broadly. “Me sister Em told me how you cured the itchin’ on her feet for her last month, and I told Cook as soon as I saw ye this afternoon that ye’d do the same for her.”

“Your sister Em?” Nicola asked. “Are you Mrs. Potson’s sister?”

Nicola wouldn’t have thought it possible that the woman’s smile could broaden any more, but it did. “That’s right! Ain’t you the downy one?”

“How is your sister?”

“Feeling pretty well these days, though she gets down in her back sometimes, but that comes from lifting too much. I tell her, time and time again, to let that girl of hers do more of the work, but she lets that Sally twist her round her little finger, she does. Ah, well…” She shrugged expressively. “There’s no tellin’ her.”

Nicola smiled. She wouldn’t have thought anyone could twist the redoubtable Mrs. Potson around her finger. She certainly ran her large, quiet husband and the rest of the household, as far as Nicola could see.

Her first stop after the vicarage was the inn. It was owned by Jasper Hinton, a man as thin and small as his wife was tall and large. They were unalike in most every other way, as well, he being a nearly silent man with more liking for numbers than for people, and his wife Lydia a gregarious soul who would rather talk than eat—and it was obvious that she enjoyed her food a good deal. The inn and adjoining tavern were a natural location for local gossip and news, and Lydia’s consuming interest in people and everything they were doing made it even more of an information center.

It would also be a natural place to rest and drink something refreshing after her ride—and there was always a serving girl or ostler or scullery maid who was ill and in need of one of her remedies.

When she turned into the yard, Nicola was greeted with a great roar of delight from the head ostler, who hurried across the yard, shoving one of the boys out of his way so that he could help Nicola down himself. “Miss Falcourt! I heard you was up at Tidings these days, but I didn’t believe it. Not there, I says, never known her to go there, and she were here at Buckminster only a month ago.”

“I know. But I came back to visit my sister.”

“That’s good of ye. Here, Jem, come take the lady’s horse—and rub him down good, I’m tellin’ ye. I’ll be checkin’ to see how ye’ve done.” He handed the reins of Nicola’s horse over to the youngster he’d shoved aside and walked with Nicola toward the door of the inn. “How is your sister? She’s a good lady, though we don’t see her much.”

“No. I am afraid Deborah doesn’t get out a lot.” Nor had Deborah ever had the same interest in the common people that Nicola had had, though she was offhandedly kind and reasonable with the servants. “How is your eye, Malcolm?”

The older man looked immensely pleased. “Now, isn’t that just like ye to remember a little thing like that? It’s fine now, thanks to that salve you give me. Worked like a charm, it did.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“There’s no one with your touch with cures, miss—not now that Granny Rose is gone, God rest her soul.”

“I’m afraid I will never know as much as she did.”

The ostler nodded. “She were that good. Why, she could walk through the woods and name every flower and plant in it—and what you could use it for. Learned it from her mam, and her mam from hers before that, and so on. They were always healin’ women.”

They reached the front door, the end of the ostler’s domain, and he bade Nicola a cheerful goodbye, turning back to the yard and bellowing an order at one of his hapless charges. Nicola smiled and went into the inn. Lydia Hinton was already hurrying down the hall toward her, wiping her hands on her apron, her face wreathed in smiles.

“Miss Falcourt! Bless the day! I never thought to see you back so soon. When that chit Susan told me you were in the yard, I didn’t believe her. Come into the private parlor and rest.”

Mrs. Hinton believed in the proper order of things, and she would have been horrified to have sat down with Nicola in the kitchen for a good gossip. A young lady belonged in the private parlor, and she would never think of sitting down with Nicola until Nicola let her bring her food and drink—and then only if Nicola insisted on her doing so. So they went through their usual ritual, with Mrs. Hinton helping her off with her cloak, bringing her tea and cakes, and not making a move toward a chair at the table until Nicola asked her to join her and overrode her first refusal. Then, at last, as they had both known she would, Lydia settled down in the chair opposite Nicola for a cup of tea and a nice hour of gossip.

There were the usual amenities to be observed first—Nicola inquired about Mr. Hinton and their children, and the workers at the inn, listening with interest to the other bits of local gossip that Lydia found of particular importance—before Nicola could get down to the question that burned in her mind. But at last there was a pause in the conversation as Lydia sat back in her chair and took a sip of tea.

Nicola set down her own cup and asked casually, “And what of this highwayman, Mrs. Hinton?”

“Highwayman?” Lydia repeated innocently, and Nicola could almost see her mind racing behind her carefully blank eyes.

“Yes. The highwayman,” Nicola repeated a bit wryly. “He stopped my carriage last night, you know.”

“No!” Mrs. Hinton set down her cup with a clatter, looking genuinely shocked. “Now, he hadn’t ought to have done that, Miss Falcourt. Not to you. I mean, it’s one thing when it’s his—” She stopped abruptly, then added lamely, “Well, there’s no call to be stopping a lady like yerself.”

Nicola smiled faintly. “If you are worrying that I might tell the Earl anything you say to me, you needn’t. Exmoor and I are not on the best of terms.”

“It’s clear you haven’t visited them before all these years…” Lydia admitted. “But blood is thicker than water, they say—”

“Exmoor and I share no blood!” Nicola snapped, her gray eyes suddenly silver with emotion. “My sister’s foolish decision to marry the man does not bind me to him in any way. I think you know me well enough to know that I have no interest in hurting anyone. Did I ask how young Harry got shotgun pellets in his thigh last month when it was clear as day that he must have been poaching? Did I tell Lord Buckminster or his gamekeeper that I had given him salve after his father had dug out the pellets and left him with a raging infection? I did not. I put it on and bound him up and never said a word to anyone. And Bucky is my dear cousin—if I did not tell him, you can be sure I would never reveal anything detrimental to Lord Exmoor, whom I despise.”

Lydia flushed. “It’s that sorry I am, miss. I know you wouldn’t be tellin’ on anyone. It was just, well, you know, you are livin’ at Tidings now, and your sister is his lady.”

“I know.” Nicola smiled at her. She understood the woman’s innate distrust of a member of the aristocracy. No matter how well one might get along with the common people, there was always the possibility that, when it came to something important, one would revert, would come down on the side of one’s “own kind.” “But I’ll tell you this: even though he robbed me, I did not give a good description of him to the Bow Street Runner.”

“Runner!” the other cried, alarmed.

Nicola nodded. “Yes. The Earl has hired a Runner to investigate the highwayman and his gang. His name is Stone, and I talked to him this morning. He looks a hard man. I did not like him.”

The other woman shook her head. “The Gentleman shouldn’t be taking such risks. I knew he’d go too far one day and his lordship would go after him. The Earl’s not a man to be crossin’, is what I say.”

“No doubt you are right about that,” Nicola agreed. “You sound as if—do you know this man? Have you met him?”

Lydia shifted in her chair, looking uneasy. “I don’t know him, exactly. I’ve, uh, well, he’s known around here.”

“I don’t understand.”

Lydia sighed, then straightened, looking Nicola in the eye. “He is liked, miss, that’s what I’m sayin’. He’s done things for people. He helps them out.”

“You mean gives them money?”

Lydia nodded. “Aye, he does. You know Ernest Macken, miss. He’s got a wife and five little ones, and he’s worked in the tin mines all his life. Well, he come up sick and couldn’t go to work for weeks. His lordship let him go, and he owns the house they live in, too, miss, and he was ready to turn them out ‘cause they couldn’t keep up the rent with Ernest not workin’. But one night they hear a thump at the door, and Jenny, she gets up and goes to the door, and there’s a sack lyin’ there, and when she looks inside, it’s got coins in it. Enough to pay their rent for six months and buy food and clothes, too.”

“And it was the highwayman who gave it to them? How do they know?”

“Who else? There’s none around here that has that much money to hand, except for the Earl or the Squire or Lord Buckminster, and none of them were riding about at night droppin’ off sacks of coin.”

“No, I am sure you are right.”

“It has happened to others, too. Some more, some less. Faith Burkitt, when her man died? His lordship would have turned her out, too. She got money at her door, too, but she got a look at the man when he left it, and she said he was dressed all in black, with a mask on his face.”

“He is a sort of Robin Hood?”

Lydia nodded vigorously. “That’s how people round here feel, miss. He helps them out, which is more than you can say for anyone else, and he hurts the Earl only, and there’s none as would cry over that.”

“No, I am sure not. I would not imagine that Exmoor is a good landlord or employer.” As the Earl of Exmoor, Richard had inherited not only tin mines but a good deal of the land in the area, both farms and much of the village, as well.

Lydia made a face. “The old Earl wasn’t a bad sort, and they say his father before him was the same. But when the new Earl came in…” She shook her head gloomily. “The wages at the mines are a sin, and that’s God’s own truth, miss. Not long after he got hold of them, he cut the wages. Says they weren’t makin’ enough profit. It was enough profit for the old Earl, now, wasn’t it? Then he raises the rent that the mine workers who live in his houses have to pay. It’s hard enough on the farmers, especially when they have a bad year, but what about the miners? He’s payin’ them less, and they’re havin’ to pay him more. It’s a sin, that’s what it is.”

“Yes, it is,” Nicola agreed. It was this sort of inequity that filled her with righteous indignation and had fueled her venture into charitable projects in the East End. It had also gotten her into enough arguments with others at parties that she was generally termed a radical and a bluestocking by her peers. “It is not surprising that the people have no qualms about his being robbed. Lady Exmoor told me it was mostly his wagons that were preyed upon by the brigands.”

Lydia nodded. “Aye. Oh, a carriage now and then that’s traveling through. But not local people much. Once he stopped the doctor when he was driving in his new gig to see a patient, and when he saw who it was, he just waved him on, didn’t take a cent from him.”

“He sounds like a saint.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s not that, miss. He’s a man, after all, and I’ve never met many of them that were saints. But he’s after the Earl only—there’s no mistakin’ that.”

“I wonder why.”

“Why? After what the Earl’s done? Who better?”

“I’m sure that is true, but thieves are not usually so selective. It sounds as if he has something against the Earl personally. Is he from around here?”

Lydia shook her head. “No. He moved in a few months ago. At first there was just him and the men that came with him, but after a while, some others joined him.”

“You mean local men?”

Lydia nodded, her gaze measuring.

“Oh, dear.” Nicola frowned. “I am afraid of what might happen to them. The Earl is dead set on catching him. Now with the Runner trying to find him…”

“I wouldn’t worry too much, miss. ‘The Gentleman’ is a slick one. There’s none that know where he lives. The local men meet him at a certain place, but that ain’t where he and the outsiders stay. There’s four of them, and they live someplace hidden. He’s never told a soul.”

“What—what is he like?” Nicola looked down at her cup as she spoke, turning it idly.

“Like? I’m not sure, miss. I’ve never seen him but the once.” She edged closer and lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “One night Ste—that is to say, a man comes to the inn, and he won’t speak to anybody but me Jasper, so Jasper goes down there, and I gets up to see what’s what. So I creeps down to the landing, and I’m sittin’ there in the dark on the stairs, where no one can see me. Well, Ste—this man—says to Jasper that he needs a tot of whiskey for someone outside. It was rainin’ and blowin’ something fierce, not a fit night out for man nor beast. So me Jasper says why can’t the man come inside, it’s a sight dryer, and he says he just can’t, and finally Jasper goes and pours a glass of whiskey. Then I hears the sound of boots and spurs on the stones outside, and the next thing you know, this man steps into the doorway. I next to keeled over with terror, I’ll tell you!”

Mrs. Hinton pantomimed her shock, one hand going to her chest, her eyes widening and her mouth dropping open. “He was a big man, like to fill the doorway, towering over me Jasper and this other man. And he’s dressed all in black, he is, from his head to his toes, and he’s even wearing a black mask over the top half of his face. Well, I knew who he was, of course, as soon as I saw him, and I was that scared for Jasper, because, well, no matter what everybody said about him, you just never know, do you? Then in this elegant voice, he says, ‘Thank you, sir, I won’t trouble you to bring this outside on such a stormy night as this.’ And he took the glass from him and knocked it back—and paid him with a gold coin! I nearly fell off the stairs when I saw that. Then he bids a very polite farewell to Jasper and turns to go, but as he turns, he says, not even looking over at me, ‘And good night to you, too, Mrs. Hinton.’ I couldn’t believe it! He’d spotted me in that little bit of time, but neither of the other two had caught sight of me the whole time they were standing there.”

“So you’ve never seen his face? Has anyone?”

“Not me, miss. Some of the girls in the village say that he’s handsome, but they’re just silly romantic chits. I dare swear they’ve never seen him even in a mask, let alone without it. He stays to himself, he does. I don’t know anyone who knows anything about him—not even where he comes from.”

Nicola was sure that if Mrs. Hinton didn’t know anything, then no one did. “I wonder if he is really a gentleman,” she mused. “He certainly sounded it.”

“His hands aren’t those of a gentleman,” Lydia said decisively, shaking her head. “I saw ’em when he pulled off his gloves to take his drink. They’re big and callused and scarred—the hands of a man who’s worked all his life. Not even a gentleman who rides without his gloves has hands like that.”

“Then how did he learn to speak like that?”

The other woman shrugged. “He’s a mystery, Miss Falcourt, and that’s a fact. Personally, I think he likes it that way. He don’t want people to know about him.”

“Mmm. I suppose that the less anyone knows about him, the less likely anyone would be able to turn him in.”

“Oh, won’t no one turn him in, miss, I’ll tell you that. He’s a hero here.”

“Even if Exmoor offers a reward?” Nicola asked. “There is always someone in a town willing to talk then. I’ll venture that it won’t be long before Richard turns to that. He is determined to capture him. He takes the man’s acts as a personal affront.”

“Well, be that as it may, he’ll have a hard time catchin’ that one. And anyone who does turn him in better watch his backside around here.”

“I hope you’re right. I should hate for any of the locals who ride with him to be caught. It would mean hanging for them, you know.”

“Aye, I know.” Mrs. Hinton looked somber for a moment, but then her ready smile was back. “But they won’t get caught. I’m tellin’ you, he’s canny.”

Having exhausted Mrs. Hinton’s store of knowledge on the subject of the mysterious highwayman, Nicola turned their conversation to other matters. Finally, Mrs. Hinton rose, saying that she’d taken up enough of Nicola’s time.

“But, if you don’t mind, miss,” she asked, knowing the answer as well as Nicola did, “some of the girls complain about their ‘time of the month,’ and Granny Rose used to give them something that fixed them right up. Would you be knowing the recipe?”

“I do indeed. I brought some with me, if you’ll have someone fetch my bag from my horse.”

“Of course, miss. You’re a good woman, if you don’t mind my bein’ so bold as to say that. Granny Rose would be proud of you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hinton. That makes me very pleased.”

So for the rest of the afternoon Nicola stayed in the private parlor of the inn, listening to the ills of first the servants, then various other townspeople who had heard that she was there and dropped in to seek her help. She dispensed advice and remedies, and when she did not have the decoction that she thought would best cure an ill, she made a note of it and promised to send something to them the next day. Several people came for loved ones who were ill at home, and these Nicola accompanied back to their houses to see the patients and take note of their symptoms herself.

The afternoon lengthened, then died away, and it was growing dark when she turned away from Tom Jeffers’s house, where she had gone to see his mother, who lay frail and shriveled in her bed, slowly drifting away from life. Nicola had known at once that there was nothing she could do for the woman except give her a tonic to ease the pain the old woman was suffering.

She walked back down the street toward the inn to retrieve her horse, but before she reached it, she saw a man’s figure hurrying down a side street toward her, and instinctively she knew that he came for her.

“Miss! Miss!” he gasped, short of breath. “Wait! Don’t go.”

She stopped, letting him catch up to her. “Why, Frank.” She smiled at the man, whom she recognized now as the husband of one of the former housemaids at Buckminster. The couple had been married five years now and had four children. “How are you?”

“Not good, Miss Falcourt, not good.” He stopped, breathing heavily. “I’m sorry, miss. We just heard you was here. It’s the baby—he’s sick. He don’t sound good, like he can hardly breathe. Lucy was up all night with him, but he just keeps getting worse. Can you come? Lucy fair brightened up when she heard you was here. ‘The young lady can fix him,’ she says. Can you, miss?”

“I’ll come, of course.” She smiled, hiding the sinking sensation in her stomach. She didn’t have Lucy’s touching faith in her skills. She knew that illness in children was worse; they were so small, so fragile. A fever that an adult might endure could carry a child off.

She followed the man to his cottage, where he ushered her into the low-ceilinged room. It was dim inside, lit only by a guttering tallow candle and the fire, which provided heat for the house, as well. A woman sat on a stool before the fire, a small child about two years old wrapped in a blanket in her arms. She rocked back and forth, crooning tunelessly. When she saw Nicola enter the door, she jumped to her feet, a smile spreading tremulously across her face. “Miss Nicola! Oh, thank you!”

Tears began to fall from her eyes, and she hurried forward, holding the child up for Nicola to see. “You’ll help him, won’t you, miss? You won’t let him die!”

“I will do my best. Now, what’s the matter with him?” Her question was almost unnecessary, for it was easy to see the flush of fever on his cheeks, and as Lucy handed him over to Nicola, he coughed, a harsh, deep, barking sound.

“It sounds like the croup, Lucy. I think he will be all right. We just need to keep that little throat from closing up on him. Put some water on to boil, will you?”

Lucy nodded wordlessly and went right to work. Nicola sent the father for a small blanket, while she paced up and down, holding the child and murmuring soothing noises as he continued to cough. When the water was steaming, she had Lucy pour it into a bowl and put it on the table. Then, forming a small tent with the blanket, she sat down and held the child so that his head was under the tent. As the child breathed in the steamy air, his cough began to quiet, then subsided.

Lucy began to cry again, mopping away her tears with the corner of her apron. “Oh, miss, I knew you could help him.”

Nicola smiled. “Just do this when he gets an attack. The steam opens up his throat so he can breathe better. Put warm poultices on his feet tonight. I’ll give you a bag of wild plum bark for you to make him tea. Give it to him several times a day.”

Lucy nodded fervently, repeating “yes, miss, oh, yes, miss” like a magic incantation. When the baby’s cough had died away, she took the child and put him tenderly to bed, then returned to Nicola so she could demonstrate how to make the hot poultices for his feet. Lastly, Nicola dipped out a small amount of dried bark into a sack and handed it to her.

“I shall send you more if you need it. I have given out all the rest of it this afternoon, but I can get more when I get back to Tidings. So let me know. Any time he has another coughing fit, you be sure to put him under the tent with steam.”

“Oh, I will, miss, I will. Lord love you, miss.” She grabbed Nicola’s hand and would have kissed it had Nicola not pulled her hand away and given Lucy a hug instead.

“Send for me if something happens,” Nicola told her. “Promise me.”

“I will. I promise.”

After several more protracted thank-yous from Lucy and her husband, Nicola managed to leave. Frank insisted on walking her back to the inn’s stable, just to make sure she was safe, for it was late in the evening by the time Nicola finished.

The ostler at the inn seemed equally troubled at the idea of a lady riding back to Tidings in the dark evening, but Nicola brushed aside his offer of an escort. She knew that no one who lived around here would do her harm, nor was she afraid of the legends of fire-breathing hounds and ghostly carriages that kept most local people firmly inside their houses after dark. There was the highwayman, of course. The thought of him sent a strange chill down her spine. But, she reasoned, he would not bother with such paltry game as a lone female rider. It was a trifle chilly, but her cloak would keep her warm.

She left the village, letting her mare pick her way, for the sliver of new moon provided little light. It was a cloudless evening, and the stars were already shining brightly in the sky. Nicola rode along, letting her thoughts drift as she contemplated the dark velvet sky. She felt tired, but satisfied. It was always rewarding to be able to help someone, especially when it was a child’s life at stake. Lucy’s baby, she thought, would recover, though it might take a while for the illness to run its course.

Ahead of her a copse of trees lay beside the road, and as she neared it, a man on horseback rode out from the shadows beneath the trees. Nicola sucked in her breath, her heart beginning to pound, and pulled back automatically on her reins, stopping her horse.

The man rode toward her without haste, and Nicola watched him, her mouth dry. He was dressed all in black, and under his hat his face was unnaturally dark. She knew without a doubt that it was the highwayman. So she had been wrong. He would stoop to accost a lone woman. Her hands tightened on the reins as she debated whether to turn and flee toward the village, but she could not bear to play the coward in front of this man. Besides, she reminded herself practically, his horse looked powerful, and she suspected that he would catch up with her if she did run. Better to stand and face the danger. That had always been her way.

She waited, chin lifting unconsciously. The man stopped a few feet from her and swept off his hat, bowing to her. A smile played on his lips. “Well, my lady. A bit dangerous for you to be out this late, isn’t it? Alone? In the dark?”

CHAPTER FIVE

NICOLA KEPT HER VOICE EVEN AS SHE replied, “I haven’t been afraid of the dark since I was a child.”

“Nevertheless, I think I should escort you home. We would not want any harm to befall you while you were out playing Lady Bountiful, now would we?”

“Since you are the only person around here who would harm me, I see little point in your escort.”

“I? Wish you harm? You wound me.” His teeth flashed white in the dimness.

“What else would you call stopping my carriage and robbing me at gunpoint?” Nicola responded tartly.

“But I offered no harm to your person. Surely you realize that.”

Nicola shot him a hard look. “You forced yourself upon me.”

“Forced myself!” He began to laugh. “My dear lady, stealing one little kiss is hardly ‘forcing myself upon you.’ Besides, I believe you paid me back well enough for that.” He rubbed his cheek ruefully. “You pack quite a wallop.”

“What nonsense. I didn’t hurt you.”

“Oh, but you did. Imagine my wounded pride after you gave me such a setdown—and in front of all my men, too.”

“Is that why you are here? To exact revenge on me? To salve your pride?”

“You are an exceedingly suspicious woman. I thought I had established that I was not here to harm you but to make sure that you get home safely.”

“Oh, yes. Silly of me to think otherwise.”

Nicola glanced sideways at him. He looked the personification of wickedness and danger, masked and dressed all in black, yet the way her pulse quickened was not entirely due to fear—there was a strange sort of excitement coursing through her, as well, a tingling, eager feeling that unnerved Nicola even as she relished it. She felt quite sure that this was not the kind of reaction she should have to a man like this. His height and the breadth of his shoulders, even the husky rumble of his voice, should inspire fear, not this unfamiliar heat deep in her loins.

As if he could sense the direction of her thoughts, the highwayman turned toward her and smiled—a slow, almost taunting smile.

“Who are you?” Nicola asked abruptly, seeking a subject, any subject, that would break the thrum of sensual tension his smile set off.

“Do you really expect me to tell you that?”

“It seems absurd to call you nothing. It would be better to have a name to put to your face—or, I should say, your lack thereof.”

A brief dip of his head and a wry smile acknowledged her thrust. “God help us, a clever woman.”

“No doubt you prefer a foolish one.”

“Oh, no, my lady, not a foolish one. Indeed, you are to my liking, wit, temper and all. I am a man who likes to live on the edge, you see.” He paused, then added, “One could say the same for you.”

“Nonsense. I am sure the edge would be much too uncomfortable for me.”

“Ah, yes, you are such a conventional—one might even say timid—sort. Running about the countryside alone on horseback after dark.”

“Being in a carriage with a driver and groom did not exactly help me last night, did it? I would say I am as well off on my own. And no one around here would harm me, anyway—present company excepted, of course.”

“I believe that most women would have elected to stay indoors today—and especially this evening—if they had had such a harrowing experience as being stopped by a highwayman last night.”

“I presumed a highwayman would not bother with a solitary horseback rider, particularly one who is not on the main road…if anything hereabouts could be considered a main road. You know, it strikes me as a little odd that an accomplished thief such as yourself would be roaming about the wilds of Dartmoor. One would think that the London area would be a much more profitable place—Blackheath Moor, for instance.”

“Ah, but the days of Dick Turpin are dead now. Blackheath Moor is no longer a healthy place for those of my profession.”

“Still…Dartmoor? How many carriages do you stop a week?”

“You are concerned for my welfare. I am touched. However, you need not worry. We manage to get by.”

Nicola grimaced. “You persist in misunderstanding me. I have no concern for your welfare. I merely wonder why you would choose such an out-of-the-way place as this for your thievery.”

“Less opportunity, perhaps, but also less chance of getting caught. And the mines provide a steady stream of cash and goods being transported.”

“One might almost think that you have a personal vendetta against the Earl of Exmoor.”

“I? How could anyone carry a grudge against such a pleasant man as the Earl of Exmoor? So kind to his workers, so understanding with his tenants.”

“I realize that he is an easy target. It is difficult to feel sympathy for the usurer when he is robbed, too. Still, it is theft, pure and simple. And when you are caught, you will hang just as readily as if you had stolen from a saint. Nor, I think, will you be quite such a hero to the local inhabitants when some of their own men are hanged with you.”

“Ah, but that makes the assumption that we shall be caught. I do not intend for that to happen.”

“I am sure few criminals do,” Nicola retorted. “But they are nabbed, anyway. You will be, too.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“How can you be so full of yourself as to think anything else? You delight in tweaking Richard’s nose. You think he will not come after you? He is a very powerful and wealthy man.”

“Let him come after me,” her companion said, his voice rich with satisfaction. “I would delight in meeting him.”

“You think he will come after you personally? Don’t be absurd. Men like Richard hire other men to do their dirty work. It is they who will hunt you and your men down like dogs. But he has hired them. He doesn’t mind the cost. You have insulted him, practically dared him to stop you. It is infuriating enough to him that you have been stealing his money. Last night, when you stopped his own carriage, it was like rubbing his nose in it. He won’t rest until you are swinging from a gibbet. He has already hired a Bow Street Runner.”

“Has he indeed?” His voice was thoughtful.

“Yes. I met him this morning. His name is Stone, and he looks to be a man to live up to his name.”

“Well. That makes the game more interesting. Still, I think I can hold my own against a Bow Street Runner.”

“Don’t you understand? Richard will not stop. Maybe you can handle this Runner—elude him, kill him, whatever you plan to do. But it will not end with Stone. If he fails, Richard will hire more. He will put out rewards for your capture. Someone, sometime, will betray you for the money, no matter how highly the people around here regard you. He will put guards on his wagons.”

“He already has.” The highwayman’s teeth flashed whitely in the dark. “Yet still I have come away with the strongboxes.”

“Then he will hire more—and ones who are not terribly concerned about killing a man over a strongbox. Why won’t you see? Richard Montford is not a man to cross! He is willing to do anything to protect his possessions.”

“I am sure he is. No doubt you are one of his prize possessions.”

“I?” Nicola swiveled sharply to glare at him. “How dare you! I am no man’s possession.”

“No? I dare swear your husband would look at it differently.”

“He would not,” Nicola retorted sharply. “If he did, he would not be my husband, I can assure you.”

“I would not have thought the sort of man you would marry would be so…advanced in his views.”

“The sort of man I would marry? How would you know anything about the sort of man I would marry? You don’t know me at all.”

“I know you are the sister of the Countess of Exmoor,” he replied. “The cousin of Lord Buckminster. A woman firmly entrenched in the aristocracy. A woman of name and beauty…therefore one who doubtless made an excellent marriage. I had thought you were the Countess of Exmoor.”

“I? Married to Richard? Hardly. That is my sister.”

“So my men told me. But I would assume that you made an equally advantageous marriage—even better. Perhaps a duke? Have I erred in calling you ‘my lady’? Should it have been ‘your grace’?”

“Neither.” Nicola bit off the word. I am Miss Falcourt.”

The highwayman glanced at her sharply. “You are not married?”

“No, I am not. It is hardly so astonishing. There are women who do not marry.”

“Rare for a woman of your beauty and background. That is the purpose of a lady’s life, is it not? To marry for alliance? To gain the best position she can, given her natural assets?”

“You make marriage sound like a business proposition.”

“Is it not?” he answered, his voice cold and sharp as a knife. “A noblewoman is the same as any prostitute, selling her wares to the highest bidder. The only difference is that the buyer pays with a wedding ring instead of coins of the realm.”

Nicola’s hands clenched her reins tightly, and she felt again the compelling urge to slap this man, but she struggled to control herself. “You, sir, are a fool. It is your prerogative, of course, but I do not have to stay and listen to you. Good day.”

She started to dig her heels into her horse, but the man lashed out with one hand and grabbed her upper arm tightly, holding her in place. “I’m no fool, Miss Falcourt. I was once, but no longer. I found out what motivates a woman to choose a husband, and it is not love or even desire. I know whereof I speak.”

“You know nothing. You only think you know. Obviously some woman disappointed you, but only a fool would paint all women with the same brush.”

“Not all women. Noblewomen. I know many a common woman whose heart is large and warm. But a lady’s heart is a cold, hard stone.”

“Then a lady’s heart must be something like your mind,” Nicola shot back.

Much to her surprise, the man laughed. “A fair shot, my—I mean, Miss Falcourt.” He released her arm, and their mounts started forward again.

“You are utterly infuriating.”

“Indeed, I have been told that.”

“I must say, I wonder why you should choose to ride along with me, despising noblewomen as you do.”

“Once a man understands what they are about, he can partake of—” his eyes slid appreciatively down her body, leaving little doubt as to the underlying meaning of his words “—the pleasure of her company without being so foolhardy as to lose his heart. Or his head.”

“That is typical of a man—noble or low. ‘Tis not the same for a woman.”

He let out a bark of laughter again, but this time it had little amusement in it. “Women would have us think so.”

“Oh, and I suppose that you know better than I how a woman feels or thinks?”

“I am more honest about it.”

“Your arrogance is astonishing.”

“It isn’t arrogance to speak the truth. Women like to pretend that they feel no desire unless their heart is engaged, that they marry for love, not wealth or position. The truth is that they marry for well-calculated reasons, and their passion can burn quite hot without the spark of love.”

“Then I must be an odd woman indeed, for it is not that way with me.”

“You lie through your pearly white teeth,” her companion responded without heat.

“How dare you imply that—”

“I imply nothing. I say it outright. You are not speaking the truth, and you know it. Do you feel love for me?”

Nicola quirked an eyebrow at him. “Hardly.”

“Yet last night you responded to my kiss with passion.”

“What nonsense.” Nicola could hear the lack of conviction in her own voice.

“You and I both know that it is not.” He reached out and grasped her bridle, pulling her horse to a halt with his. He leaned toward her, his face unnervingly blank, half-covered as it was with a mask, in contrast to the hot spark in his eyes. “I kissed you, and you kissed me back, even though you did not love me—indeed, were not even acquainted with me. You did not even know my name, yet your lips quivered and melted beneath mine.”

“A man’s capacity for self-deception is boundless.” Nicola’s stomach fluttered, though she strove to keep her tone cool and unconcerned. “I slapped you, if you will remember, yet you term that response passionate? Passionately angry, perhaps.”

His hand curled around her wrist as he held her still, staring straight into her eyes. “How much of that anger was at me—and how much at yourself?”

Nicola could not conceal the shiver that shook her at his touch. “You presume too much.”

“I presume no more than you feel.” He leaned even closer to her, his face only inches from hers. Nicola wanted to look away, to pull her arm from his grasp, yet she could not. She could only gaze back at him, exerting all her will to keep her eyes steady and cool.

“No.”

“Kiss me, then, and tell me you feel no passion. No desire. Show me how only love moves your body.”

“I do not wish to kiss you,” Nicola protested, knowing as she did so that she was lying. A strange heat flooded her insides even as her hands turned freezing, and all she could think about was his mouth, exposed beneath his half-mask, the bottom lip full and eminently kissable, hinting at passionate delights. She remembered how his mouth had felt against hers, and deep down she knew that she wanted to feel it again.

He smiled in a knowing way, and in the next instant, his mouth met hers. It was just as it had been the night before: his lips were warm and velvety, searing her with heat and a strange, shivery delight. She could not conceal the long shudder of pleasure that ran through her, and he made a sound of satisfaction deep in his throat at her response. His arm went around her tightly, lifting her from her saddle onto his horse in front of him. He wrapped his arms around her, pressing her into his chest, as his mouth continued to conquer hers. Nicola leaned against him quiescently, a trifle stunned by her own response.

She had told herself that last night had been a fluke, that she had kissed him with a fervor that had been somehow born of that time and place and would never happen again. But she had been fooling herself, she knew now. This kiss touched her like fire, too, a strange fire that both consumed and fed her, that made her burn not only where his lips touched her but deep inside herself, as well. It was both wonderful and frightening, magical in its effect. Nicola felt a stranger to herself, yet she could not bring herself to want to return to the woman she knew.

Her arms went up and encircled his neck, and his kiss deepened, all lightness and mockery vanished in the flaming heat of passion. His lips dug into hers, opening her mouth to him, and his hand came up to anchor itself in her hair, holding her captive to his marauding lips and tongue. But she had no desire to escape him, only to taste more and more of the delight his mouth offered. She pressed her lips against his, her tongue meeting his in a delicate, sensual dance. She felt the shudder of his response as he let out a long, yearning sigh, and it stoked the fires of her passion even more.